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

said, parking her shotgun against the house, which was some relief.
    Inside, hogs wouldn’t have come as a surprise. But it was mostly stacks of books. Shelves with more books ran across the top of a closed door to another room. A kerosene lamp stood on a big table with a stack of newspapers and Time magazines. She’d been eating her lunch at one end, on oilcloth, when she heard intruders in her barn.
    â€œYou. The talker,” she said to Scooter. “What’s your name?”
    If she got our names, our gooses were cooked. “Scott W. Tomlinson,” Scooter said. “Ma’am.”
    â€œAnd what do they call you ?” She swiveled on a bony hip. Her dress was a feed sack.
    â€œ. . . Davy.”
    â€œBowman?” she said, but how did she know? Was she a witch? She looked it. Who was she?
    â€œI am Eulalia Titus. Miss.”
    â€œPleased to meet you,” we lied softly.
    She sent Scooter around the back of her house. She had a jar of something cooling down her well and told him to bring it. “And watch where you step. Snakes.”
    Scooter scooted. I could feel myself turning pale because of snakes in the vicinity.
    â€œYou better sit down,” Miss Eulalia Titus said. “You may have had a touch of the sun.”
    She’d been reading a new book by Ernie Pyle, the great war correspondent. “You thought I was too far back in the sticks to know there’s a war on,” she said. So she read minds.
    Scooter came back with a jar of buttermilk. Miss Titus poured out three cheese glasses. It was barely cool, and I hated buttermilk.
    â€œI suppose you two are used to iceboxes,” she remarked.
    Actually, we were used to refrigerators.
    The three of us fit around the end of the table. Miss Titus was small and stringy, though of course she could blow you away. Scooter’s elbows were nowhere near the oilcloth, so he was minding his manners. A screen-wire dome among the books covered a tall cake with butter icing.
    We three were knee to knee. Miss Titus had a little mustache. “Just so you know,” she said, “that cake took two weeks’ sugar ration.”
    â€œSixteen ounces,” Scooter said.
    She gave him a look. “You’re the sharpest tool in the shed, aren’t you?”
    He looked modest. Also, he had a buttermilk mustache. Miss Titus’s was real.
    â€œHe’s the smartest kid in our grade,” I said, which was true.
    Miss Titus stood up to cut three slices out of the cake. It was layer.
    â€œWhere’s mine?”
    A terrible voice came out of nowhere, or the grave.
    â€œI said where’s mine?”
    Scooter froze. Every hair on my head stood up. If I’d had hair anywhere else, it would have stood up too. That voice was scarier than the gunfire, and where had it come from?
    â€œAll right, Mama!” Miss Titus pushed back from the table.
    Mama? Miss Titus was the oldest woman in the United States. And she had a mama? Scooter smacked his forehead.
    Miss Titus pushed a door open. Looking back at us, she said, “You think I’m mean.”
    We fidgeted. From the other room a voice like a crow cawing said, “Is it store-bought cake or homemade? Because I like store-bought.”
    Miss Titus sighed.
    â€œWho’s out there?” the voice demanded.
    â€œTwo owlhoots I cornered in the barn, Mama.”
    â€œWhat do they want?”
    â€œThey say they’re collecting milkweed, but I think they’re trying to steal Papa’s automobile.” Miss Titus looked back at us over her spectacles.
    â€œMilkweed’s a weed,” came the aged voice, “and the auto’s junk. Send them in here.”
    Oh no. Hadn’t we been punished enough? Miss Titus pointed at us. We stumbled over and peered around the door. The other room was mostly bed, with a black-walnut headboard to the ceiling.
    In that bed was a woman that time had forgot. She had a face like the Grand Canyon. She