King of Spades by Frederick Manfred Read Free Book Online

“Didn’t you hear our mountain lion out howling again last night, Ma?”
    Kitty wasn’t sure. “I hope you aren’t leading the boy astray with all that talk about guns and such.” She took a bite of egg yolk. It ran yellow off her fork. “I just don’t like guns.”
    â€œYou really are going to take the day off then today, Dad?”
    â€œOf course. A promise is a promise.”
    Kitty shook her head. “I don’t know. Any time your father wakes up with a smile on his face as big as a small wave on a lake I begin to worry.”
    Magnus took a last sip of coffee. He put up his napkin in its ring. “Can’t a doctor spend a little time with his family just like anybody else?” Magnus then got to his feet and went around to Kitty’s side of the table and placed his hands affectionately on her shoulders. It was like in the old days, almost.
    But when Magnus leaned down to kiss her, Kitty ducked away and his kiss fell on her light-brown hair instead.
    Magnus still smiled down at her. “Don’t begrudge me those lovely Indian lips of yours now, doll. They’re like cut rubies.”
    â€œHmf.”
    Roddy got up from the table too. “C’mon, Dad, let’s go.”
    Together the two men of the house went out back and got the guns from the lean-to, Magnus his pistol and Roddy the double-barreled shotgun.
    They carefully wiped off the oil. They polished the wood stock on the shotgun to a shining rosy brown. They filled their pockets with a supply of shells.
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    They sauntered out the new Military Road going west. It crossed several dry coulees. In places iron wheels had cut the black earth deep enough to lay bare its clay flesh.
    The road skirted the foot of the north bluffs on their right. High above them leafless trees pricked against the skies like crowds of stick figures.
    On their left, meadows fell away in varying slopes between the road and the Missouri. The meadows lay sweet with the year’s last clover balls. Bees moved like loops of syrup, slowly, from ball to ball. A tangle of wild roses, belled with hips the color of ripe apples, ringed a buffalo wallow.
    Magnus and Roddy dipped through an ancient riverbed, and then suddenly were in among the giant cottonwoods.
    The cottonwoods loomed immense, their tops like high-thrown flukes of sporting whales. Sunlight moved under them in varying puffs.
    Sweet grass underfoot, cropped short by the buffalo, gleamed a deep green. The last flies of the year rose out of the grass for a wondering bite. Across the river purplish-green waves moved across a slough of ripgut grass.
    Magnus selected a fallen cottonwood limb as the target. Its bark was mostly peeled off, leaving a bone-dry bole. It had numerous little knots which made for excellent bull’s-eyes.
    Roddy shot well. He aimed instinctively and on the rise. He more squeezed than pulled the trigger. He took the kick of the double-barreled shotgun through the back leg where it rested lightly on the ground.
    â€œSon you have only one fault that I can see.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Dad?” The two barrels of Roddy’s gun gleamed iridescent blues and greens.
    â€œIt’s the way you handle your gun between shots.”
    Roddy’s lower lip showed pink for a moment.
    â€œSon, there’s one thing you must always remember. Always. And you must never forget it. Just a touch on the trigger, on purpose or accidentally, and off she goes.”
    â€œI wasn’t pointing it at anybody.”
    â€œYou twice had it pointed at me. With your finger still in the trigger guard. Once you even had it pointed at your own foot.”
    Roddy’s green eyes darkened.
    â€œIt’s all right. But watch it.”
    â€œNnn.”
    Magnus thought he’d better counter what he’d said with something pleasant. “Maybe this fall you can enter the town turkey shoot.”
    At that Roddy brightened. “Boy, Dad, if