The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman Read Free Book Online Page A

to find it.” He said the last sentence almost belligerently, as if challenging Ben. But Ben had no interest in his poke or his pistol. He knew that. It was just that he had to give up the only secret he had and he wasn’t quite ready to do that yet. He would dig up the box later. He knew right where it was.
    He heard the clank of shovels striking the bed of the wagon. He saw Ben put his Yellow Boy under the seat, heard the swish of the mules’ tails as they swatted flies, saw their ears twitch, heard one paw the ground with its hoof. The creek swished against its banks in a whispery undertone and he heard the flap of a jay’s wings as it braked for a landing nearby.
    â€œWe got eleven to carry, Johnny. Want to take your folks, my brother, and your uncle with the first load, then come back for the others?”
    In a fog of unbearable grief, John answered.
    â€œYeah, Ben, that would be fine. Let’s just do it.”
    Ben’s eyes squinted at John’s unnatural tone of voice. He looked at John, his eyes hard as agates, an unspoken question flitting in their depths.
    John felt something hardening in him, something that had not been there before. He didn’t know what it was, but he had an indication when he began to see the faces of the outlaws again when he looked up at the green trees and the blue sky and the white puffs of clouds floating in a serene sea high above the earth. He saw their faces and felt that same something tighten in him. It wasn’t hatred, exactly, it was something beyond that simple explosive emotion.
    It was more like resolve, or determination, or something that had no name as yet.
    He didn’t know what to call that hard thing growing in him, but he knew what it was steeling him up for, all right.
    He was going to hunt down Ollie and the others, one by one, if necessary. He was going to hunt them down and kill them the same way they had killed his family and all of the good men now lying dead under those breeze-ruffled blankets.
    And each one, he vowed, was going to know why his life was being taken.
    He walked to the front of the wagon and lay the Winchester and the cartridge boxes next to the Henry.
    He knew then what that hardness was that was forming and growing inside of him.
    It was the gun, the six-gun, the beautiful Colt his father had given him. It was the gun.
    The gun that he would ever live by, henceforth.

6
    A PAIR OF BLUE-WINGED TEALS FLEW UP THE CREEK ON whistling wings. A chipmunk ventured down to the campsite seeking crumbs, its caramel stripes rippling on its furry coat as it stopped, sat up, then crept forward again, its bright eyes glittering, tail flicking with nervous twitches. A small cloud passed over the sun as John and Ben lifted the body of Clare Savage onto the wagon bed. John had folded her arms across her chest after he removed the blanket.
    He pushed a lock of her hair away from her face, and something lodged in his throat, shut his breath off for a moment. He closed his eyes and sighed.
    Next, they loaded little Alice, placing her next to the body of her mother. Her arms were folded the same way. John did this with each body, his father Dan’s, his uncle Donny’s, Ben’s brother, Lee. The cloud slid away and sunlight sprayed John’s taut features with sudden light that illuminated the grim cast to his expression, as he and Ben covered the bodies with blankets. Ben pulled down the brim of his hat to shade his eyes from the sudden glare.
    Ben’s facial expression was no less grim than John’s as he gently closed the tailgate. A jay berated the chipmunk with a stream of avian invective. The chipmunk barked a series of raspy bleats as it picked up a small piece of biscuit, sat up straight, holding the crumb in its tiny hands. It began to nibble on the crumb, tail flicking back and forth like a bristling metronome.
    â€œTake your seat, Johnny,” Ben said.
    John didn’t answer. He walked to the front of