hunkered down behind a big tree. The more the men drank, the louder they talked. The cuss words flew, too bad to repeat. If you're a poet of profanity, most likely you can imagine them for yourself.
When it was good and dark, a tall, skinny man with a face as flat as a shovel said, "Are we going to kill him or just leave him here to die on his own?"
For a second, I thought the man meant me, but before I gave myself away by begging for mercy, I realized some poor soul was lying on the ground on the other side of the fire. It was him they were talking about, not me.
The leader laughed the nastiest laugh I ever heard. "We got his money, his horse, and his gold watch. He ain't worth a bullet now."
"Don't forget he seen our faces, Roscoe," Shovel Face said. "If we don't kill him, he's bound to head straight for the sheriffs office. We're worth a lot of reward money."
Roscoe pulled out a pistol and looked at it like he was studying what to do. While he was deciding, he took a couple more swigs from a jug of whiskey.
Shovel Face started waving his pistol. "I swear if you don't kill him, I will. I ain't ready for the hanging tree." While he spoke, he listed to one side like gravity was pulling hard in that direction.
The third outlaw, a runty, bowlegged man with a bald head, was sitting on the ground watching. He'd look from Roscoe to Shovel Face and back again to Roscoe just like he was at a tennis game. Every now and then he hiccuped so hard his whole body shook. Then he'd giggle real high like a nervous girl.
Strangest of all, the man lying on the ground never said a word. Maybe he was asleep. I hoped he was. That way he wouldn't know when they shot him.
"If there's going to be any killing, I'm the one to do it." Roscoe pointed the gun at his chest, for emphasis I guess, and almost shot himself.
Staggering over to the man on the ground, he nudged him with his boot. "You got any last words, Featherbone?"
I leaned forward, hoping to see the doomed man's face, but it was too dark. I heard his answer, though.
"I wouldn't waste my precious breath on an ignorant lout such as yourself," he said.
Though the words he spoke were brave, Mr. Featherbone's voice quavered, making him sound like a boy playing a game of bluff with the school bully.
Roscoe scowled most fiercely and swore a long string of curses, most of them having to do with Mr. Featherbone's cheating ways. Then he aimed right at the poor man and pulled the trigger. The gun made a terrible sound, flashing fire and smoke. Mr. Featherbone cried out like the rabbit Little Homer once shot, a shrill, terrible sound I knew I'd recall to my dying day.
Forgetting myself, I screamed and hid my face, but the outlaws were too busy shouting and swearing to hear anything but themselves. Jumping on their horses, they galloped off into the dark, passing so close to my hiding place they nearly trampled me. They were riding so fast that Roscoe's old felt hat blew off. But he didn't stop to reclaim it.
For a long time Caesar and I stayed where we were, listening to the sound of the horses fade away into the night. When the woods were quiet again, I picked up Roscoe's hat, thinking it would make me look even more like a boy. Then I crawled a little closer to the campsite and peered through the bushes. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, but I could still smell the stew. It seemed
being witness to a killing hadn't taken away my appetite.
The trouble was, I had to walk past Mr. Featherbone to get to the stew. Till then the only dead person I'd ever seen was my poor, dear mama, and she'd been laid out neat and tidy in a coffin in the parlor. She'd gone peaceful, slipping out of her body as quiet as a butterfly leaving its cocoon. I was sad almost to dying myself, but I wasn't any more scared of Mama dead than I'd been scared of her alive.
Mr. Featherbone was a different case altogether. There hadn't been anything peaceful about his passing. From what I could tell, he'd been
When it was good and dark, a tall, skinny man with a face as flat as a shovel said, "Are we going to kill him or just leave him here to die on his own?"
For a second, I thought the man meant me, but before I gave myself away by begging for mercy, I realized some poor soul was lying on the ground on the other side of the fire. It was him they were talking about, not me.
The leader laughed the nastiest laugh I ever heard. "We got his money, his horse, and his gold watch. He ain't worth a bullet now."
"Don't forget he seen our faces, Roscoe," Shovel Face said. "If we don't kill him, he's bound to head straight for the sheriffs office. We're worth a lot of reward money."
Roscoe pulled out a pistol and looked at it like he was studying what to do. While he was deciding, he took a couple more swigs from a jug of whiskey.
Shovel Face started waving his pistol. "I swear if you don't kill him, I will. I ain't ready for the hanging tree." While he spoke, he listed to one side like gravity was pulling hard in that direction.
The third outlaw, a runty, bowlegged man with a bald head, was sitting on the ground watching. He'd look from Roscoe to Shovel Face and back again to Roscoe just like he was at a tennis game. Every now and then he hiccuped so hard his whole body shook. Then he'd giggle real high like a nervous girl.
Strangest of all, the man lying on the ground never said a word. Maybe he was asleep. I hoped he was. That way he wouldn't know when they shot him.
"If there's going to be any killing, I'm the one to do it." Roscoe pointed the gun at his chest, for emphasis I guess, and almost shot himself.
Staggering over to the man on the ground, he nudged him with his boot. "You got any last words, Featherbone?"
I leaned forward, hoping to see the doomed man's face, but it was too dark. I heard his answer, though.
"I wouldn't waste my precious breath on an ignorant lout such as yourself," he said.
Though the words he spoke were brave, Mr. Featherbone's voice quavered, making him sound like a boy playing a game of bluff with the school bully.
Roscoe scowled most fiercely and swore a long string of curses, most of them having to do with Mr. Featherbone's cheating ways. Then he aimed right at the poor man and pulled the trigger. The gun made a terrible sound, flashing fire and smoke. Mr. Featherbone cried out like the rabbit Little Homer once shot, a shrill, terrible sound I knew I'd recall to my dying day.
Forgetting myself, I screamed and hid my face, but the outlaws were too busy shouting and swearing to hear anything but themselves. Jumping on their horses, they galloped off into the dark, passing so close to my hiding place they nearly trampled me. They were riding so fast that Roscoe's old felt hat blew off. But he didn't stop to reclaim it.
For a long time Caesar and I stayed where we were, listening to the sound of the horses fade away into the night. When the woods were quiet again, I picked up Roscoe's hat, thinking it would make me look even more like a boy. Then I crawled a little closer to the campsite and peered through the bushes. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, but I could still smell the stew. It seemed
being witness to a killing hadn't taken away my appetite.
The trouble was, I had to walk past Mr. Featherbone to get to the stew. Till then the only dead person I'd ever seen was my poor, dear mama, and she'd been laid out neat and tidy in a coffin in the parlor. She'd gone peaceful, slipping out of her body as quiet as a butterfly leaving its cocoon. I was sad almost to dying myself, but I wasn't any more scared of Mama dead than I'd been scared of her alive.
Mr. Featherbone was a different case altogether. There hadn't been anything peaceful about his passing. From what I could tell, he'd been
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