Bent Road - Lori Roy [32]
The prairie dog that Ian shot lies at the base of the mound, which, according to Ian, means he grazed it. A direct hit would blow the animal a foot in the air. Ian said it was best when that happened. Best for who, Daniel thinks, as the prairie dog starts to chirp—slow steady chirps as it drops down onto all fours. His stubby tail flicks in sets of three.
“Ready.” Ian waddles a few feet closer, close enough that Daniel smells his moldy clothes and new leather boots, but the prairie dog won’t smell him because Ian made sure they were downwind.
“Whoever said that about Ray, you tell them I don’t care,” Daniel says, pressing his cheek against the gun until it digs into his cheekbone and his eyes water. “I don’t give one good God damn.” Then he jabs his elbows into ground that is recently plowed and soft. Squinting through his right eye, he bites the inside of his cheek and tilts the barrel until the tip lines up in the sight.
“Don’t talk. Take a deep breath, hold it, then fire.”
The prairie dog crawls down the mound and begins to drag the injured one toward the hole.
“Not one good God damn bit,” Daniel whispers.
“You got to be quick,” Ian says, close enough that Daniel smells his breath. Slowly, Ian lifts his hands and covers both ears. “Now.”
Daniel tightens his index finger, the trigger softening under the pressure. He inhales and squeezes his shoulder blades until his neck muscles ache and his lungs burn. The trigger collapses, and the gun fires. The prairie dog shoots up into the air and lands a few feet away. The chirping is gone.
“Got him,” Ian shouts. He stumbles as he tries to stand, so stays put instead. “Now we have to wait. They’ll be back. Be back for sure.”
Peering through the rifle’s sight, Daniel scans the field until he sees the dead prairie dog lying in the grass. Ian says prairie dogs are bad for the fields. He says they’re rodents and that there will be lots more in the spring. Baby ones by June. They’re the hardest to get. They don’t come out like the others. Daniel drops the barrel of the rifle, flips the safety and pushes up on his knees.
“I’m not waiting around for another stupid prairie dog.”
Being careful to step over the winter wheat, Daniel stands and walks toward home. Behind him, Ian stumbles with his old rhythm, the one he had before he got his new boots. God damn, Daniel hates that sound.
“Slow down,” Ian calls out.
Holding the rifle at his side instead of over his shoulder, Daniel takes long steps toward home and doesn’t look back.
Chapter 9
Trying to outrun the cold air that follows them onto the porch, Celia hustles everyone through the back door. Evie darts left, squeezes between Elaine and the doorframe and slips in front of Ruth.
“Sorry,” she says, tripping over Ruth, and the two of them stumble into the kitchen.
“Evie.” Celia grabs Evie’s collar before she falls face-first on the kitchen floor. In a quieter voice, she says, “You be careful of Aunt Ruth. And mind yourself. We have company.”
Celia pulls off her coat and tips her forehead toward Father Flannery, who sits at the head of the table. Arthur sits at the other end, and Reesa has taken a seat in between.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Father,” Celia says. “We lost track of time.”
Evie steps up to Father Flannery, extends her hand the way she and Celia practiced in the living room the night before and says, “Hello, Father Flannery.”
Father Flannery pushes back from the table, his knees falling open to make room for the belly that hangs between them. He takes the tips of Evie’s fingers in both hands. “Fine day to see you, Miss Eve.”
“I’m Evie in our house, Father. Eve is only for Grandma Reesa’s house. And church.”
Father Flannery studies Evie over the top of his glasses. The tip of his nose and chin are still red from the cold. He finally nods and drops Evie’s hands. “Your hair is cut,” he says to Ruth.
“Yes.” Ruth touches the ends of her new shorter hair and smiles up at Elaine. When she looks