Through Darkest America-Extended Version Read Free Page A

board sidewalks with his father. Papa seemed to know everybody. Howie noticed, too, that most of the men had to look up a little when they spoke to him. He walked close on his father's heels so everyone would be sure and know he belonged with this giant of a man with long yellow hair tied at the neck in leather and eyes that were sometimes blue and sometimes the lightest of gray.

Chapter Three

    I f there was a bow, or a set of metal arrowheads, or a bone- steel knife in Bluevale that Howie and his father hadn't seen, he decided it wasn't worth looking for. Papa told him, with a broad wink that said this was not information to be shared with anyone else—meaning his mother—that after the meat market, tomorrow there just might be some extra coppers that could go for a few dozen arrowheads, or maybe even that bluebone belt knife Howie said fit his hand like it was made to lie there.
    In late afternoon there were contests on the edge of town—archery shoots at wooden targets and the axe throw at a white circle on a big oak. Howie's father said it seemed fair enough if a man wanted to pay good money to show off in front of everyone he knew—or make a fool of himself, as the case might be—but as far as he was concerned these were things a man was supposed to know anyway, and it didn't matter much if someone else knew he could do ' em or not.
    Howie wanted to tell his mother all he'd seen in town, but he sensed right away it wasn't a good time for that. You could tell when she had something on her mind; and when she did, it was best to go about your business until whatever it was had run its course.
    Howie's father knew the signs, too. And usually what caused them. It was an important something this time, Howie knew, because Carolee was left in his charge while Papa and his mother walked a ways toward the river to talk.
    Howie was worried. He was twelve and figured a lot of things out for himself, even when they were things he wasn't supposed to think about at all. This had something to do with the fair, he knew—which his mother hadn't wanted to come to in the first place. And it had a lot to do with what his mother had said on the barge the day before. About Colonel Jacob. Though what that could be, he couldn't say.
    A small knot grew in his stomach and stayed there until Papa and his mother got back. They were gone an uncommonly long time and every minute gave him the chance to think about maybe not getting to see the rest of the fair— which was the very best part. There was The Gardens, where you ate without cooking anything yourself. People just brought things right to you, whatever you wanted. And then the parade, with government soldiers and real horses. Besides that, there'd be pictures from Silver Island pasted up by the Courthouse. You might even recognize someone you knew, who'd gone there. People from all over won all the time and it might be someone from Bluevale or a farm right next to your own.
    Howie decided that if his mother made Papa take them home and they missed everything he'd never say anything to her again no matter what. He took that back right away, though, and told God he hadn't meant it, and not to write it down anywhere.

    The Gardens was a special place, built for the duration of the fair. There was an open tract across from the Courthouse, between Holdern's Market and the Metalsmith's . The land had been scraped and graveled, and wooden picnic benches set about. A string of colored lanterns added soft light, and there was usually a fiddler or two on hand for the diners.
    Papa ordered for everyone. There was a fair cut of meat, charcoaled in the open, generous helpings of potatoes and greens, and a cold fruit punch that had been iced in barrels in the river.
    "Seems a waste to pay good money for what you get at home," Howie's mother said wistfully.
    Papa stiffened slightly, and his fork paused just an instant. Then he shoved the bite of meat into his mouth and chewed it savagely. Howie busied