Bent Road - Lori Roy [51]
“Yes, sir. A snake. I understand, sir.”
After eating two biscuits dipped in maple syrup, something Mama would never let him do, Daniel follows Ian and four of his brothers outside. His gut hurts, maybe because Mrs. Bucher’s biscuits were soggy in the middle, or maybe because he can still feel Uncle Ray’s hand squeezing his arm, or maybe because he isn’t as good a shot as Ian says he is. Before they left the kitchen, Mrs. Bucher said they had only a half hour because everyone needed to wash up before church. She said the whole mess of them was a sorry sight, so a half hour and no more. Daniel pulls his coat closed and, slapping his leather gloves together, thinks that if the older boys go first there won’t be time for him. Mrs. Bucher will call them inside and Daniel will shrug and say, “Maybe next time.” Walking toward the barn, four Bucher brothers leading the way, Daniel wishes he had never seen Uncle Ray and that Ian hadn’t told his brothers that Daniel is such a great shot—a good shot maybe, good for a city kid, but great means better than everyone else, better than every other brother.
“Who goes first?” Daniel whispers to Ian.
One of the brothers, the smallest, walks ahead of the group and lines up three cans on the top rung of the wooden fence that runs between the house and the barn. The wind blows down one of the cans. He kicks it aside, slaps his bare hands on his thighs and shouts, “All ready. Fire it up.”
Ian nudges Daniel forward.
“Me?” Daniel says. “You want me to go first?”
“Sure,” one of the brothers says.
The two oldest brothers didn’t bother following everyone outside. Instead, they are watching from the porch. “Hurry up with it, already,” one of them shouts.
“Here,” says the brother who’s two years ahead of Daniel in school. He hands Daniel a rifle. “You use a .22, right? This is a good one. Got a nice straight sight.”
“Yeah, Daniel,” Ian says. “Show them. Show them what a great shot you are.”
Pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the ground, Daniel takes the rifle. The morning air is cold and wet, making his neck and arms stiff. He squints into the sun rising above the bank of trees on the east side of the house, shakes out his hands and bends and straightens his fingers. “Sure, I’ll go first,” he says. “Those cans over there?”
“Yeah,” says Ian. “Get them both.”
Daniel brings the rifle up to his shoulder, rests his cheek against the cold wood, and with one eye closed, his breath held tight in his lungs, his feet square under his shoulders, he fires, flips the bolt action and fires again. Both cans fly off the railing.
“Got them,” Ian shouts.
“Na,” says the youngest brother and the one with the loudest mouth. “The wind knocked them off.”
“That wasn’t the wind,” Ian says. “Daniel got them both. Clean shots.”
“Na, just the wind,” another brother says.
“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel says, flips on the safety and hands the rifle back to the brother who gave it to him.
“It was the wind,” a brother shouts from the porch.
“I’ll show you,” Ian says, limping toward the spot where the two cans landed.
A few of the brothers laugh and mimic Ian’s awkward gait, while the brother holding the rifle takes aim like he’s going to shoot Ian.
“Told you,” Ian shouts, holding up the cans. “Clean shots both.”
The brother holding the rifle lowers it. “Okay,” he says. “So maybe you are a good shot.”
Ian limps back to Daniel’s side. “Told you so.”
The same brother says, “Maybe good enough to go hunting with us.”
All of the brothers nod, including Ian.
“Pheasant. They’re open season right now,” the brother says. “So are quail. Or you might get yourself a prairie chicken.”
“Sure,” Daniel says, remembering the prairie dog’s head that he blew off and the body he left behind. “I mean, not today, because it’s church.”
“Na, next time you come over. In a few weeks maybe,” the same brother says. “What do you think, Ian? Maybe when we get a warm snap, so you’re not so stiff.”
“I’m not stiff. I’ll go anytime.”
The brother laughs. “Yeah, well, in a few weeks. Next time you’re over. We’ll all go hunting.