Faraway Places by Tom Spanbauer

sights; he was looking down the barrel at him, at Endicott’s round, bald head. A bull’s-eye. My father was talking but I couldn’t hear the words, so I ducked down and ran through the brush, up to a big weeping willow. I hid behind it.
    â€œThe next shot is between your eyes, Mr. Big Shot, unless you get those dogs inside,” I heard my father say in his drunken voice.
    Harold P. Endicott looked at his hellhounds, that whistle dangling from his neck. Their ears were perked up and they stared at their master without moving a muscle, not one.
    â€œAnd don’t try anything funny. I know all about how you like to kill people with those dogs of yours. Just killed you a Bannock squaw, didn’t you?” my father said.
    Old Endicott got real stiff, as stiff as his dogs; then he stood up fast and my father cocked the .25-20 and shot it, hitting the stone wall behind Endicott. Pieces of stone sprayed out and Endicott sat back down. Those hellhounds didn’t flinch, but you could tell they were slobbering to kill.
    â€œDon’t press me, you crooked son of a bitch!” my father said. “I’ve killed me a bunch of people in my time and I sure as hell can kill one more if it’s you!”
    Harold P. Endicott snapped his fingers and stood up, slow this time, walked to the back door and opened it, never turning his back on my father’s gun. He closed the door behind the dogs after they filed inside, one by one.
    I heard my father say, “Pull the door tight and lock it!”
    I ran around to the front of the house because I knew the front door was going to be open, and sure enough it was. I ran to the door, Old Glory there snapping loud above me, and I pulledthe front door closed just as the first of the dogs got to it, murder only inches away.
    I leaned up against the house for a while, so much sky in my lungs I thought I was going to float away, but then I ran to the back again, hoping there weren’t any other doors or windows open too. When I got back to the back of the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
    My father had taken his suit jacket off and was rolling up his shirt sleeves. He had his chest puffed out and was muttering something, rolling up his sleeves.
    â€œA fair fight,” my father said. “Like a man,” my father said.
    â€œWhere’s the gun?” I said, but my father didn’t hear me. Harold P. Endicott didn’t hear me either; the rain had started down hard.
    Harold P. Endicott took his hat off and took a few steps, his whistle bouncing against his chest. He and my father squared off, fists out in front of them. Endicott hit my father in the mouth and my father went flying like my mother had when my father hit her earlier that night. Endicott laughed and took a step back. My father sat in the wet grass, shaking his head and holding his jaw. Then my father stood up and Endicott hit him again, but my father didn’t go down this time. My father came back with a punch in Endicott’s mouth, then one in Endicott’s big stomach. Then my father kicked him between the legs and Endicott doubled up, his nose bleeding, and held himself down there. I let out a cheer but I don’t think either of them heard; the rain was coming down loud as the river.
    My father dropped his arms and looked up into the sky like it was the first time that he realized that it was raining. He put his face into the rain the way my mother had stood herself into that wind the night of the chinook. As my father was looking up, Endicott hit him in the stomach, hard, swinging his arm into my father like a baseball bat. My father went sprawling out onto the grass, spread-eagled. He was out like a light, KO’d. Endicott kicked my father in the stomach the way I’d seen him kick thatwoman Sugar Babe. My father let out an awful sound—a sound like water going down the drain. After that, he didn’t move.
    It was then I saw it, the .25-20. It was