On The Wings of Heroes by Richard Peck Read Free Book Online Page A

roof,” Scooter said, but the skeleton of it was there, like a ribby old umbrella. Scooter turned the latch, and the front door jumped off the car and smacked the dust of the floor. Then we were sitting on the front seats, leather oozing stuffing.
    Scooter was behind the big wood steering wheel. The metal pedals stood high enough for his feet. Mine dangled because there wasn’t much floor on my side. We sat there, pretending the missing motor was turning over, firing back through the tailpipe. Scooter geared down with the missing shift. We were two sports from another time, barreling down country roads, free as air, old enough to drive.
    â€œThere wasn’t even a war then,” Scooter said.
    From the regulation canteens on our web belts we drank the last of our water. A breeze drifted through. It was breezier than a cane-bottom chair, as Mrs. Hiser would say. I dozed.
    The barn turned into a covered bridge, also rickety, and we were thundering through it in our brand-new Pan American straight from the dealership. It was the days of yore, and the President of the United States was . . .
    â€œWarren G. Harding,” Scooter mumbled out of his own daydream. He reached to squeeze the invisible bulb on the missing horn. “Beep, beep,” he sang out.
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    Soon after that, an explosion about busted my eardrums. Hail rattled the roof from a clear blue sky. Scooter peeled out of his side. I slid off my seat. We thought about rolling under the car, like school air raids. This could be the real thing.
    â€œScram!” Scooter yelled. “The barn could be coming down.” And true, it was raining roofing.
    We cut out, then pulled up short. A black shape stood in the barn door against the sunlight. The figure held a shotgun.
    I may have screamed. Scooter did.
    The hail on the roof had been buckshot out of the gun. I’d never been so scared, and dying this far behind the lines didn’t seem fair.
    â€œWell anyway you’re not tramps,” the figure said.
    Our eyes adjusted. It was a dried-up woman with a face like a walnut. She’d lowered her blunderbuss. Had that just been a warning shot? The gun hung broken open in the crook of her wrinkled arm, like she’d been out hunting. Her skirt tails were in her boots. What century were we in?
    â€œBut boys in a barn are trouble enough,” she said. “Start toward me.”
    My heart lurched, and I had to follow, keeping even with Scooter. “It was that Beep Beep of yours that gave us away,” I muttered to him. His web belt was way bigger than Scooter’s waist. It worked down over his knees as we walked, closer and closer to this old woman and the barrels on that shotgun, still smoking.
    â€œSmoking?” she said. “Cornsilk in a dry barn?”
    â€œN-n-no,” we said.
    â€œWhat’s in those canteens?” she inquired. “Home brew? Rot gut? Corn liquor?”
    â€œN-n-no,” we said.
    Scooter’s belt wound down to his ankles, and his canteen settled in the dust.
    â€œTown boys,” she noticed. “What’s your business in my barn?”
    Scooter found his tongue. I’d left mine somewhere. “We’re collecting milkweed for the war effort,” he piped.
    â€œDid you find much milkweed growing inside my barn?” She wore tortoiseshell spectacles, old as the car. Her magnified gaze crackled through them.
    â€œWe like your old automobile,” Scooter said in a small voice.
    â€œAnd you just make yourselves at home on other people’s property?”
    We pretty much did. We’d been in and out of other people’s attics and basements all summer long, scouting for scrap. We didn’t mention it.
    â€œUp to the house.” She nodded toward it. Scooter stepped out of his belt, and then we were on the porch, out of the sun—and options. A slop jar, covered, stood on the floor. The screen wire on the door billowed out.
    â€œInside,” she