The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman Read Free Book Online

cross the bridge to gather up more blankets from the other side of the creek, but all of the corpses were covered, and John felt enervated from the effort and the mental strain. He had never seen a dead person before, and to have seen so many, all at once, was very nearly overwhelming.
    Ben pulled up in the wagon, turning it around so that it faced back toward the ridge. He set the brake and climbed down. He looked at all the blankets, so still, so final. A light breeze lifted the corner of one blanket and it flapped like a loose shutter. Jays quarreled with shrill screeches over by the campfire that John and Ben put out by pouring water and sand over it. Chunks of kindling and cut logs lay scattered nearby as if some great beast had run through the camp and knocked them askew.
    â€œTough job, Johnny,” Ben said. “But you done it. You ready to go up? I’ll throw in some shovels and we can start loading.”
    â€œYeah, I guess. I think we ought to get our guns first. Just in case. Don’t you?”
    â€œI reckon they didn’t take anything with ’em but the gold. Seen my rifle anywhere?”
    John shook his head.
    â€œI didn’t look,” he said and now started scanning the barren ground where their tents had once stood. There was so much debris, no single item stood out. There were kegs and wooden canteens, lanterns, hatchets, various other tools, tins and airtights, clothing, utensils, pots, pans, a torn flour sack, another of beans, an open coffee tin, nails, hammers.
    Together, Ben and John poked through the scattered goods, finding scissors, needles and threads, yarn, bolts of cloth, odd pieces of leather, an awl, Alice’s wooden toys, a couple of small dolls she liked, all kinds of things that tore at John’s heartstrings and made him sick to his stomach.
    Wrapped in an old army blanket that was moth-eaten and faded to a whitish gray, John found his father’s Winchester ’73, a .30-caliber lever action that shone like a crow’s wing in the yellow sunlight. There were two boxes of cartridges inside, as well. The blanket had been beneath an overturned cot. The scabbard, John knew, was up at the log barn they had built the summer before, locked up in the tack room with the saddles, bridles, hackamores, and halters they had carried all the way from Arkansas so long ago.
    â€œI found my rifle, Johnny,” Ben said, holding up his heavy Henry Yellow Boy, its bluing all mottled and the brass shining like pure gold. “They didn’t see it, likely, under a pile of empty flour sacks I been meaning to make me some shirts from bye and bye.”
    â€œWe can gather all the guns later,” John said. “I’m sure they’re all here under all this stuff.”
    â€œYou get your pistol? Your poke?”
    â€œNo, not yet.”
    â€œMaybe you should.”
    â€œI don’t have a holster for it yet.”
    â€œLee had him a holster. Made it hisself over the winter. He was going to buy him a Colt the next trip down the mountain over to Pueblo.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know where it is,” John said, his voice sounding dull and faraway to himself.
    â€œGet the pistol and we can look for the holster later.”
    John drew in a deep breath, held it for a long moment. There was no need for secrecy anymore. He would not have to hide his poke nor his pistol from anyone. There wasn’t anyone to hide these things from. It was still hard to imagine they were all gone. But they were. He looked over at the blankets and his eyes fisted shut as the tears started to well up again. Would he ever stop crying? Not this day. There was still the burying to do. And that would be hard. Hard as anything he’d ever had to do. Little Alice. His ma. His pa. All of his friends, and Ben’s brother, his mother’s brother.
    â€œI got the rifle,” John said, opening his eyes. “I’ll get the pistol later. Ain’t nobody goin’