Big Wheat by Richard A. Thompson Read Free Book Online

shivers.
    He took a drink of icy water from his canteen and felt the chill return. It damn sure wasn’t hot coffee. But unfortunately, he did not have a full mess kit or anything to heat water in, even had he had any coffee grounds.
    “That’s probably why they call it, ‘living rough,’” he said out loud.
    His brother would have laughed at that, he thought, and it was good that he thought it. Since Rob would never laugh again in the real world, it was important that Charlie carry the image inside himself, give it a tiny life there. That was one of the many things his father would seek to deny him, and he was damned if he was going to let that happen.
    He lowered his crude pack from the tree branch where it had spent the night, secure from raccoons and bears. Charlie had never seen a bear and wouldn’t know what to do if he did, but he had seen too many coons for his taste and had on occasion shot a few. He unrolled the pack carefully, since it still contained a half dozen fresh eggs, lovingly packed in soft cloth. He laid them out on the grass for the time being and cut several thick slices of bacon from the slab he carried in waxed paper left over from the sandwiches his mother had given him. These he spread on the inside face of the square-nosed shovel with the broken handle, the one item he had with him that he could be accused of stealing from his father. That, too, might have made his brother laugh. He tossed a few rocks into the fire that was now nicely roaring, for later cooking supports, then held the shovel over the fire and waited for the bacon to start sizzling. When it puckered and curled and smelled almost irresistible, he used his bayonet to turn it over. Then he settled back to let the rashers crisp up, sitting down on a large round rock and taking another swig of the cold water.
    “You need some coffee with that.”
    He almost dropped his shovel into the fire.
    “Relax, white boy. We quit making war on you people a long time ago.” A large man drifted into the firelight, dressed in dark leather and canvas and a crumpled hat that might have started its life as a Stetson. He had coal black pigtails and a necklace made of bones and beads. Charlie had no idea if the fact that he was an Indian should alarm him or not. His father despised Indians, but what didn’t he despise? That was almost a recommendation.
    “Hello, there. I didn’t hear you come up.”
    “Of course you didn’t. You’re not supposed to hear Indians come up. That’s unless they’re bent out of shape, of course. They’re bent out of shape a lot these days.”
    Charlie hadn’t heard that term before, but he assumed it meant drunk. He couldn’t think of anything to say about it, so he changed the subject. “I got plenty of bacon, if you want some, and some fresh eggs, too.”
    “You need coffee.”
    “You said that already.”
    “That’s because it’s true.”
    “It’s also just too damn bad. I don’t have any coffee, and if I did have, I don’t have anything to brew it in.”
    “You want some?”
    “Are you serious? I’d kill for a cup of coffee. You got some?”
    “You got any tobacco to trade?”
    “No.”
    “Dogshit. You need a lot of help, you know that? But you offered to share what you have, so I guess I can afford to spot you some good will.” He raised one finger in a gesture that said, “Wait here.” As if Charlie were going to go anywhere while the bacon was cooking. The Indian disappeared outside the circle of the firelight. A short time later, still without making a sound, he returned with a blue-enameled coffee pot, two matching cups, and a cloth bag, presumably containing coffee grounds. He put the pot, which apparently already had water in it, onto some of the rocks Charlie had laid in the fire.
    “I’m Injun Joe,” he said, solemnly extending his hand.
    “Now I think you’re trying to shit me up a pound,” said Charlie. “Nobody has a name like that.”
    “Except in the mind of Mark