Apache Flame Read Free Page B

away his pay as soon as he earned it so that there was never
enough money for new clothes, and sometimes not even enough to buy food.
    Things had gotten a little better when Mitch turned
thirteen. When he hadn’t been at school, which he hated, or out hunting in
hopes of putting food on the table, Mitch had worked a couple hours a day at
the saloon, emptying spittoons, washing bar glasses, sweeping the raw plank
floor, unloading cases of whiskey from the back of the supply wagon that had
come through town every month or so. He had learned to play poker when other
kids his age were playing catch, downed his first shot of whiskey when the
other kids were still drinking milk.
    Hat pulled low to shield his face from the drizzling rain,
he dismounted and made his way to the flat rock that jutted out over the creek.
It looked smaller, he thought, remembering the warm summer days he had spent on
that rock, basking in the sun with Alisha.
    Alisha. A hard knot formed in his gut when he thought of her
married to a worm like Smithfield. He recalled the day he had stolen Alisha’s
lunch, the smug look on Smithfield’s face when he stood in front of the class
while old man Fontaine punished him. The tears in Alisha’s eyes. He wondered if
she still lived in town. She and Smithfield probably had three or four kids by
now, he mused, surprised that the thought of her having another man’s children
could still cause him pain.
    Smithfield! Of all the men she might have married, why had
she chosen Roger? He recalled the day the two of them had come to blows. It had
been a long time coming, fueled by a mutual dislike, by snide remarks on both
sides, by threats and taunts and dares. It had all come to a head one day after
school when Smithfield called Mitch’s mother red trash in front of Alisha and a
half dozen other boys. It had been the last straw. He had laid into Smithfield
like a fox after a chicken. Surprisingly, Smithfield managed to give about as
good as he got until Mitch broke his nose. At the sight of blood flowing down
Smithfield’s face, one of the boys had run for old man Fontaine, who came out
and broke up the fight.
    Smithfield had been chastised by old man Fontaine. Mitch had
been expelled for a week. He would have quit school then and there, but his
mother had insisted he go back.
    Mitch peered through the tangled berry vines that screened
the rock from the path. He could just barely see the roof of the Faraday house.
He had never told Alisha, but he’d snuck into her house one Sunday morning when
her family was at church. It had been easy enough, since Reverend Faraday would
no more think of locking his front door any more than he’d think of locking his
church.
    Mitch’s family had still been living in that tar paper shack
at the time and Mitch had been mightily impressed as he wandered through the
Faraday house.
    The furniture had been clean, not stained with spilt liquor.
There had been colorful rugs on the floor, lacy white doilies on the tables,
photographs on the mantle and on the wall.
    He had swiped an apple out of the kitchen, then gone
upstairs, curious to see ‘Lisha’s room. It had been just as he imagined, all
done in pink and white, with a ruffled coverlet on the bed and a rag rug on the
floor. A shelf held books. A porcelain doll sat in a small rocking chair in one
corner.
    Standing on the rock, his hands shoved deep into his
pockets, Mitch turned and faced the north. The sprawling ranch house that his
father had won in an all-night poker game the year Mitch turned twelve stood at
the far end of town atop a lofty rise. The old man had moved them into it, but
Mitch’s mother had refused to stay there. After a few months, she had packed
her meager belongings and gone back to her own people. Mitch had wanted to go
with her, but the old man had refused to let him go. He had never figured out
why his father wouldn’t let him leave. Finally, he’d decided it was just his
father’s way of proving who was