The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [80]
Finally he pulled that arm free of me, and I fell to the ground, my feet gone from beneath me, and I was on my back, Jeb reared up above me, above him those stars, and then he came down, Thigpen now with a hand to the inside of his coat and fumbling, Jeb’s hooves an inch from my legs, and here was the glint of moonlight off the steel of another gun, him leaning toward me, his good arm raised, the one I pulled slack at his side like a man’s arm hanging from a pickup window: dead, hanging.
He brought the gun up, the horse still scared, jangled up and dancing, aware of his hooves too close to me, Thigpen jostled and trying to get a bead.
It didn’t matter. The gun, these stars, the ground beneath me.
Huger Dillard. Bastard son of a blind uncle and a mother who figured she could run from whatever truth of her life the trailer at Hungry Neck reminded her of every day.
Me. The truth of what I reminded her of every day.
Me. Nobody.
“Go ahead,” I said up to Thigpen, and I meant it.
“My pleasure,” Thigpen said, and smiled again, the gun out at me hard and straight.
“Yah!” Unc shouted from the other side of him, and I heard a hard slap, saw Jeb rear up again, Thigpen lose his balance again, then Jeb charge off and away.
“Yah!” Unc shouted again there in the dark, his head turned to the sound of hoofbeats away from us, and I turned, saw Thigpen in his saddle, facing us, the gun up, the dead arm still slack at his side, the reins given up for him bent on killing us rather than gain control of the horse.
He was aiming at Unc.
And Unc had to know this, had to know Thigpen would go first for him, no matter the horse was at a full gallop away from us, and no matter Unc was blind.
But Unc only stood there, hands to his hips, like he was waiting to get hit. Like there was nothing left for him but this.
He was my father.
I stood and rushed him, tackled him flat out and heard the pistol fire, heard the split of sound the bullet made into the log, heard another shot and another, me rolling with Unc and rolling in the brush of this clearing.
Then came a hard and heavy chunk of sound, sharp and cold, with it and inside it a cry out of Thigpen, a shriek of pain, and I looked up, saw the horse already swallowed by the woods, saw, too, the live-oak branch he must’ve passed under, that sharp piece of sound Thigpen slamming into it, turned in his saddle and firing on us.
I lay back down, still holding Unc, him and me both breathing hard. All I could hear now was a horse galloping away from us.
I pushed him away, pushed him, heard him whisper, “Huger,” and then I was on my knees, looking back where Jeb’s sounds grew fainter and fainter.
Only then did I feel the wet on my face, feel the tears coming out of me and streaming now, my breaths too quick in and out, and I knew I was crying, and that I needed to kill this man, Tommy Thigpen, and that I had to get away from Unc and away from Mom.
Unc was beside me, breathing hard. He took my arm, whispered, “We have to go. We have to get Eugenie and go.”
I shook him off, swallowed down a breath and turned, stepped away from him.
He looked for me, his head weaving like it did when he wasn’t sure what might happen next, or who it was coming near to him.
Here were those white marble eyes, small pieces of moonlight in his face and in the dark.
Who was he?
He put his hand up, whispered, “Huger?”
What did this word father mean?
The horse’s gallop was gone now, the night sounds back: treetops moving in the wind up there.
But then, beneath that sound, came Mom’s crying, and I looked to the log, saw she hadn’t come out.
Unc turned to the sound, too, looked back to me. He said,