Crooked Hills Read Free Page A

said. “You remember your Aunt Mary, don’t you?”
    “Look how big you are!” Aunt Mary hugged each of us in turn and looked us over from head to toe, almost like she couldn’t believe we were real. “Charlie, you’re growing into a fine young man.”
    I felt my cheeks redden. All the attention embarrassed me.
    Beside me, Alex drew in a sharp breath. His eyes grew as big as saucers. I followed his terrified gaze and swallowed my chewing gum when I saw what bothered him so.
    A man emerged from behind the shed. He was broad-shouldered, and his arms were corded with thick muscles. He wore a pair of dirty overalls and heavy work boots. He didn’t say a word as he stomped our way.
    And he held a bloody axe in his hand!

CHAPTER FOUR
    CRIMSON DROPLETS OOZED AND DRIPPED from the blade, plopping onto the big man’s boots and rolling down the dirt-caked leather to the ground below. His thick fingers flexed on the axe handle. He walked right up to us, each heavy footstep like a peel of thunder, and I thought we were goners for sure.
    But instead of whacking us over the heads, the man smiled broadly. It was one of the most welcoming, friendly smiles I’d ever seen, not as wide as Aunt Mary’s, but warm and full of good cheer. I couldn’t help but grin back at him.
    “How’re y’all doing?” He looked at my little brother and me. “Y’all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    I was so focused on the bloody axe that I’d failed to recognize the man as my own Uncle Shorty!
    He stuck out his hand—the one not holding the axe—and we shook. I could tell he was strong, but he didn’t grasp my fingers so hard it hurt. I tried my best to return a firm handshake. He ruffled Alex’s hair and hugged my mom with one arm around her neck.
    Shorty. The name didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t necessarily tall, but he wasn’t short, either, and he looked like he could lift the old rusty tractor all by himself if he ever set his mind to it.
    “What on earth are you doing with that?” Mom peered at the gore-covered axe.
    Aunt Mary rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, he’s just trying to make a dramatic entrance.”
    Mom laughed. “Sounds like the Shorty I remember.”
    “I’ll have you know I’m getting supper ready for our guests.” Uncle Shorty winked at her. Then he looked at Alex and me. He smacked the handle of the axe in the palm of his hand. “What do you say, boys? Want to give me a hand?”
    When it came to cooking, I couldn’t even make toast without burning it. And I sure didn’t know how Uncle Shorty could be whipping up a meal behind a rickety old shed. Maybe he was barbecuing, but I didn’t see or smell smoke. And what was with the axe?
    “I’ll help,” I said.
    “Me too,” said Alex.
    One thing about us Ward brothers—we were curious, sometimes too much for our own good. Mom said we inherited the trait from our dad, and that suited me just fine.
    Already chatting away, Mom and Aunt Mary went inside while Alex and I went with our uncle. Behind the shed was the massive stump of a tree that must have been cut down long ago. I knew you could tell how old a tree was by counting rings on the stump. But I wouldn’t have wanted to start counting the rings of this tree. I’d surely lose track. Suffice it to say, it was old—as old as the hills. Numerous cuts crisscrossed on the stump, and a little blood spread across the scarred wood. Next to the stump lay dozens of puffy white feathers and a dead chicken. Another chicken—this one alive—clucked at us from a small wooden cage in the shadow of the shed. The bird’s head bobbed this way and that as it watched us.
    “What are you going to do?” Alex asked, his eyes growing big and round again.
    “Hold this for me, and I’ll show you.” Uncle Shorty offered the axe, but Alex took a step back. I took the axe, careful not to let my fingers touch the drying blood. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I knew my uncle used the ancient tree stump as a