Peter Loon by Van Reid Read Free Book Online Page A

and such a creature’s good office was rendered unnecessary.
    About mid-morning they stopped on a hill, where the recent windfall of an old scratch pine had opened a bit of sky and let sunlight onto a patch of ground, which was thick and soft with needles. Mars dragged the litter a few yards away, where some moss took his fancy. They had water and Peter passed around the last of his hard biscuits. He was just tasting one himself, when it occurred to him that his father had cooked them and that he would never taste anything from his father’s hand in this life again. His heart was suddenly leaden and his breath came with difficulty.
    The woodsmen had relaxed their guard against Peter by this time; Manasseh Cutts had wavered first of all, but Crispin Moss, when he dropped his wariness, did so wholeheartedly. The bigger fellow had found his voice and was telling them about a bobcat he once met while stepping out of a privy. Peter hardly heard the tale. The biscuit seemed dry and without flavor.
    Parson Leach leaned forward with his leather water bottle and offered it to him, saying, “That’ll do you good.”
    Peter wondered what the preacher could know about his thoughts, but thanked the man.
    â€œHe was chasing a bird,” said Crispin Moss, “like a kitten, and I promise you, that bird was having fun with him.”
    The mention of the bird made Peter oddly conscious of the chirps and chatter in the woods about them. The first sip of water did more than slake his thirst; it lent savor to the bit of biscuit in his mouth. He took another sip, then another morsel and the weight in his chest seemed to lift just a little.
    Something else was said about birds, and Crispin Moss asked them “Have you ever seen this?” then cupping one hand in the other, he put them to his lips and made an odd sound, as if he were kissing the back of his fist. His eyes shone like a child’s as he flashed his gaze along the tops of the surrounding trees.
    Almost immediately there was a change in the quality of birdsound; the birds nearabouts grew excited, then louder, as they approached Crispin Moss and increased in number. Chickadees and sparrows and redpoles flitted in from the surrounding hills and groves.
    A trio of chickadees behind and above the woodsman’s big head looked so humanly curious that Peter almost laughed aloud. Crispin continued to make the kissing noise at the back of his hand and the birds were further emboldened. Several dropped onto the ground and hopped among the men, cocking their heads from side to side, flicking their tails in the pools of sunlight. When Crispin did leave off the noise the creatures stayed for a moment or two, looking startled to find themselves there before retreating to the nearby trees. From these safe heights, they set up a chorus of scolds and slowly dispersed into the forest and returned to their previous concerns.
    â€œI’ve seen an Indian do that,” said Manasseh Cutts, who was the first to stand.
    â€œI learned it from an Indian,” returned Crispin Moss. He seemed pleased with the trick. “Just a little fellow; hardly came to my belt.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have to be very little,” said the parson.
    The conversation was continued on foot, with Crispin Moss leading the way. Peter hardly felt rested; accustomed as he was to long hours tending field or cutting wood, he was not used to walking such distances and though he was a hard muscled lad, his feet and shanks were beginning to flag beneath him. But Parson Leach asked Peter to tell them about his father, and the young man forgot his sore muscles and his fatigue as he recalled Silas Loon to his companions.
    They rounded Haskell Hill to the east, and from another height found a plain view over the northeastern settlement of Balltown and the lake known as Great Bay.
    â€œ There’s a place we should ask after your uncle,” suggested Parson Leach.
    The woodsmen loathed to