Across a War-Tossed Sea by L.M. Elliott Page A

do so love Indian words. They are ever so much more interesting sounding than our British names, and I think it is brilliant to call men ‘braves’ instead of ‘boys’ or ‘lads.’ I wish I could meet a REAL Indian, though, one wearing an eagle feather and carrying a tomahawk like Tonto.
    I hope you are well. Are you safe?
    Your loving son,
    Wesley Bishop

Chapter Eleven
    â€œF reddy knows how. Why can’t you show me?”
    â€œâ€™Tisn’t mine, Wes,” Charles whispered irritably, holding a shotgun just out of his little brother’s reach. “That’s why.”
    They stood in the back porch mudroom with the Ratcliff boys, pulling on their coats and boots at five A.M . Despite the early hour, the boys chattered happily about going hunting. Mr. Ratcliff was letting them make some pocket money by hunting wild turkeys and quail off Curles Neck to sell for Thanksgiving dinners. Most Richmond city residents wouldn’t be able to find traditional turkey to buy because farm-raised domestic ones were mostly being sent to troops overseas or on military bases in the United States. The Ratcliffs had a good stash of birdshot left even though shotgun shells were rationed. Mr. Ratcliff was a crack shot, able to take down crows sitting in trees with a .22 rifle. So the boys were hoping to make a bundle of cash to use for buying Christmas presents for one another.
    The twins were chanting, “Turkey, turkey.” They didn’t seem to mind that they and Wesley had been relegated to manning the dogs and carrying the kill.
    Wesley, on the other hand, was mortified to be lumped in with seven-year-olds. “I’m big enough to hold a shotgun, you know,” Wesley whispered back.
    â€œLook, Wes, a gun is dangerous,” Charles answered. “You shouldn’t handle it unless you’ve been taught. Like Bobby’s taught me.”
    Despite their lowered voices, Ron overheard. “It’s not like your stupid set of toy six-shooters, old chum,” he sniped. “What’s that game you still play? Cowboys and Indians?”
    The twins stopped chanting. Johnny looked like he actually might be interested in a Wild West game. But Jamie mimicked Ron’s sneer.
    Wesley felt his face flame up in embarrassment. Charles sighed. Wesley knew what Charles’s raised eyebrows meant: Come on, Wes, stand up for yourself so I don’t have to this time.
    But Mrs. Ratcliff interrupted the tense moment. “Boys,” she called from the kitchen, “come get your bag lunches. Don’t want to get hungry out there on Turkey Bend, do you?”
    Propping their guns beside the screened door, Bobby, Charles, and Ron shooed the twins inside and entered the kitchen behind them. Wesley lingered. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and picked up the shotgun Bobby had lent Charles.
    It was heavy and cold, just a foot shy of being as tall as he was. Wesley hoisted the gun, resting the wooden butt against his shoulder. He struggled to balance it, gripping the well-oiled wooden body that supported the long steel barrel. The steel ring that encircled the trigger was oddly elegant and beckoned Wesley to wrap his fingers through it. He looked into the gun’s small sight. Imagining he was a movie cowboy hiding in rocks from marauding Apaches, Wesley slowly pulled back the gun’s hammer as if ready to shoot.
    Oh, right, better make sure the safety latch is on, Wesley cautioned himself. Still holding the gun up—aimed, cocked, and ready to fire, with his finger on the trigger—he slid his thumb up and down until it found the small safety lever. Not really knowing which direction was on, which off, he pushed it. As he did, he bobbled the gun a bit, his finger tightening on the trigger.
    KABLAM!
    The shotgun roared. The kickback threw Wesley backward against the wall.
    â€œGawd Almighty!”
    â€œWhat the blazes?”
    â€œHell’s