blown out of himself like a fish when you throw a stick of dynamite in a pond. If ever a dying man had left a vengeful spirit behind, it would be Mr. Featherbone.
My empty stomach growled louder than ever, though. Desperate with hunger, I crept toward the fire, keeping my eyes on the stew pot so as not to see anything else. I bent down to get it, thinking I'd run as fast as I could once I had it in my hand. But just before I touched it, cold fingers wrapped around my ankle and a voice whispered, "For the Lord's sake, help me."
4
F OR THE FIRST TIME IN MY WHOLE LIFE I understood what people mean when they say their blood runs cold. Here I was just twelve years old, and a dead man had a hold of my ankle. I was frozen to the ground. Couldn't move. Couldn't cry out. Even Caesar seemed scared senseless. Didn't bark or growl. Just stood there with his tail between his legs, whimpering.
The dead man groaned, but he didn't let loose of me. "Help me, please," he whispered again.
I swallowed hard and looked down at Mr. Featherbone. His face was mighty pale, and there was a powerful lot of blood dabbling his shirt, but he wasn't dead. What's more, he didn't appear to be more than seventeen years old. A boy, that's all he was. Curly haired, kind of thin, and delicate featured. What Aunt Mabel would call refined. Maybe even handsome.
Why, there was nothing to be scared of after all, except the blood—which was more than enough to make a squeamish girl like Millicent faint. Not me, though. Even before I became a boy, I wasn't the swooning type.
I knelt beside Featherbone. "I don't know a thing about bullet wounds," I admitted. "But if you tell me what to do, I'll help you. For surely you don't deserve to die."
He grimaced. "First bind my arm to stop the bleeding. Use the handkerchief in my coat pocket. Then clean the wound. There's a kettle of water by the fire."
Following his directions, I knotted the handkerchief around his left arm as tight as I dared and then washed the blood away. The poor fellow clenched his teeth, but every now and then a little moan slid out between them. I knew I was hurting him, but he made me keep on.
When I'd done all I could, Featherbone told me to go ahead and eat. Lying there on the ground, he looked pale but determined. The set of his jaw told me he didn't give up easy. He'd die when he was ready, I figured, and not one second before.
Taking care to give Caesar half, I gobbled the stew. The meat was tough and stringy, and the vegetables were mush, but I'd had fancy dinners at Aunt Mabel's table that I'd enjoyed far less.
When he'd eaten his share, Caesar gave a big
sigh of pure contentment and lay down by the fire. In no time he was sound asleep. But not me. I sat there, watching the flames flicker and thinking my own thoughts.
After a while, I glanced at Featherbone. He'd been so quiet I was afraid he might have upped and died on me after all. But he was wide awake, eyeing me with enough curiosity to kill a cat.
"A raggedy boy and a shaggy old dog," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you most certainly saved my life."
"My name is Elijah." I drew out the syllables to savor the sound. "Elijah Yates."
"Elijah
what?
" Featherbone jerked upright and stared at me as if I'd just uttered the most terrible swear word ever invented.
"Elijah
Bates,
" I hollered, shocked to realize I'd said "Yates" instead of "Bates." "Bates, Bates, Bates. My name's Elijah
Bates.
"
Featherbone sighed and lay back. "Pardon me for startling you, but I could have sworn you said
Yates.
Thank the Lord you didn't. If there's one name in this world I despise, it's Yates."
I looked at him, alarmed by the hatred he was packing into my real name. "Did someone called Yates cause you grief?" I asked timidly.
"A dirty coward by that vile name shot my father in the back and left him to die in the street."
I drew in my breath so hard I almost choked. It
was a lucky thing I'd corrected myself and
My empty stomach growled louder than ever, though. Desperate with hunger, I crept toward the fire, keeping my eyes on the stew pot so as not to see anything else. I bent down to get it, thinking I'd run as fast as I could once I had it in my hand. But just before I touched it, cold fingers wrapped around my ankle and a voice whispered, "For the Lord's sake, help me."
4
F OR THE FIRST TIME IN MY WHOLE LIFE I understood what people mean when they say their blood runs cold. Here I was just twelve years old, and a dead man had a hold of my ankle. I was frozen to the ground. Couldn't move. Couldn't cry out. Even Caesar seemed scared senseless. Didn't bark or growl. Just stood there with his tail between his legs, whimpering.
The dead man groaned, but he didn't let loose of me. "Help me, please," he whispered again.
I swallowed hard and looked down at Mr. Featherbone. His face was mighty pale, and there was a powerful lot of blood dabbling his shirt, but he wasn't dead. What's more, he didn't appear to be more than seventeen years old. A boy, that's all he was. Curly haired, kind of thin, and delicate featured. What Aunt Mabel would call refined. Maybe even handsome.
Why, there was nothing to be scared of after all, except the blood—which was more than enough to make a squeamish girl like Millicent faint. Not me, though. Even before I became a boy, I wasn't the swooning type.
I knelt beside Featherbone. "I don't know a thing about bullet wounds," I admitted. "But if you tell me what to do, I'll help you. For surely you don't deserve to die."
He grimaced. "First bind my arm to stop the bleeding. Use the handkerchief in my coat pocket. Then clean the wound. There's a kettle of water by the fire."
Following his directions, I knotted the handkerchief around his left arm as tight as I dared and then washed the blood away. The poor fellow clenched his teeth, but every now and then a little moan slid out between them. I knew I was hurting him, but he made me keep on.
When I'd done all I could, Featherbone told me to go ahead and eat. Lying there on the ground, he looked pale but determined. The set of his jaw told me he didn't give up easy. He'd die when he was ready, I figured, and not one second before.
Taking care to give Caesar half, I gobbled the stew. The meat was tough and stringy, and the vegetables were mush, but I'd had fancy dinners at Aunt Mabel's table that I'd enjoyed far less.
When he'd eaten his share, Caesar gave a big
sigh of pure contentment and lay down by the fire. In no time he was sound asleep. But not me. I sat there, watching the flames flicker and thinking my own thoughts.
After a while, I glanced at Featherbone. He'd been so quiet I was afraid he might have upped and died on me after all. But he was wide awake, eyeing me with enough curiosity to kill a cat.
"A raggedy boy and a shaggy old dog," he said. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you most certainly saved my life."
"My name is Elijah." I drew out the syllables to savor the sound. "Elijah Yates."
"Elijah
what?
" Featherbone jerked upright and stared at me as if I'd just uttered the most terrible swear word ever invented.
"Elijah
Bates,
" I hollered, shocked to realize I'd said "Yates" instead of "Bates." "Bates, Bates, Bates. My name's Elijah
Bates.
"
Featherbone sighed and lay back. "Pardon me for startling you, but I could have sworn you said
Yates.
Thank the Lord you didn't. If there's one name in this world I despise, it's Yates."
I looked at him, alarmed by the hatred he was packing into my real name. "Did someone called Yates cause you grief?" I asked timidly.
"A dirty coward by that vile name shot my father in the back and left him to die in the street."
I drew in my breath so hard I almost choked. It
was a lucky thing I'd corrected myself and
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