The Americans Are Coming by Herb Curtis Read Free Book Online Page B

a black-forested field, a mere reflection of the azure. Dew drops imprisoned the azure.
    “The noise is coming from down by the brook,” whispered Shadrack.
    “Fire the gun! You might scare it off, if it’s a cougar.” Dryfly whispered back, spying for the first time since he dropped it, the flashlight. He knelt and picked it up. He pushed the button. The bulb was blown.
    “Won’t it work?” asked Shad, musing over Dryfly’s suggestion to shoot the gun.
    “The bulb’s blowed,” said Dryfly.
    “Do you think a shot would do it?”
    BARMP-BARMP! BEEP-BEEP! BARMP! continued the noise in the forest.
    “It can’t hurt!” said Dryfly.
    Shad pointed the rifle at the sky. “I hope it’s a cougar! I hope it’s a cougar, I hope it’s a cougar . . .” he chanted to himself. “I hope it runs away when I shoot, runs when I shoot, runs when I shoot . . .” He could have been memorizing a poem. “Oh God, make it run. I’ll be good and go to church and everything,” he prayed.
    BARMP-BARMP-BARMP! BAR-AR-AR-ARMP!
    POW! went the rifle. Silence and the smell of gunsmoke.
    *
    Lindon Tucker never installed electricity in his house, but he had a battery radio. Lindon Tucker lived with his mother and an old tomcat called Cat. When Lindon called Cat in at night, he called, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”
    “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” called Lindon.
    “Meow,” went Cat and zipped through the kitchen door into the dimly lit room, meowed as it scanned the dark corners for mice, then jumped onto the cot behind the kitchen range.
    Lindon closed the door and went back to his rocking chair.
    Everyone in Brennen Siding figured that Lindon kept his lamps turned low to save on kerosene. He may have kept the volume of his battery radio equally as low to save on batteries. Lindon Tucker wasted nothing. When he shopped at Bernie Hanley’s store, Lindon saved every inch of twine from the parcels; he also saved the brown paper. He saved the aluminum foil from the inside of tobacco packages and the remains of used wooden matches.
    Lindon Tucker picked his teeth with the remains of used wooden matches.
    Lindon Tucker’s mother sat with her ear not more than six inches from the radio speaker.
    From the CKMR station in Newcastle, Brother Duffy was busily condemning sinners. CKMR, the community voice of the Miramichi.
    Hayshaker’s Hoedown
at 7:00 p.m. News, sports and weather followed by the marine weather forecast with its Brown’s, LeHavres and Fundy Coasts, came on at 7:30. The exotic names mentioned in the marine forecast, the sound effects – ships’ bells and fog horns – were soothing, like poetry, to Lindon. At 8:30 some heathen Catholic thing came on, which Lindon always turned off. He’d turn the radio back on at 9:00, set the dial at 550 and listen to the
Saturday Night Jamboree
on CFNB.
    “The jamboree was better than usual tonight,” thought Lindon. “Freddy McKenna, Freddy McKenna, that blind lad, Freddy McKenna was on it tonight. They claim he plays his giddar turned up on his lap.”
    At 10:00 p.m., Lindon had to oblige his mother and shift the dial back to CKMR for a Bible-thumping half hour of Oral Roberts.
    Lindon didn’t mind the preaching. At least it kept his mother from complaining for a half hour.
    Clara, Lindon’s mother, was eighty years old and hadn’t been sick for forty years. The gift of health didn’t keep her from complaining, however. Lindon was subjected to her complaining day in and day out, her voice whining and whimpering even when she was talking about it being a nice day.
    “Bless us and save us,” she whined. “Yes, yes, Lord. Dear Jesus!”
    When Oral Roberts said “Hallelujah!” for the last time and went off the air, Clara leaned back in her chair and squinted her eyes to see Lindon. Her eyesight was good, but the lamp was turned down to a mere glow.
    “My toe’s botherin’ me, Lindon. You think a person could git cancer in a toe? Some claim ya kin, some claim ya can’t. You kin git