The Daredevils by Gary Amdahl Page A

shivering in the ridiculous details of a political melodrama he could only just barely stand imagining, while some of Captain Keogh’s horsemen twits dug small holes out in the field and Amelia—to his great surprise on herfavorite horse, Jolly—barrel-raced around them. Drinking wine one glass after another, he dozed off, and woke to cheering. A horse and rider went thundering past, the rider hanging off one side of his mount and snatching something from the ground and hauling himself back upright in the saddle. There had been a strange sound and a spray of dirt. Another horse and rider appeared at the far end of the field. They galloped past and again the rider hung off low to the ground like an Indian, snatched something that made a small explosion, and rode off shaking his prize. “What are they doing?” he mumbled. Father shaded his eyes and looked down at him. He was insubstantial in the overpowering light. Charles repeated the question, sitting up dizzily and shading his eyes too.
    â€œYou know very well what they’re doing,” said Father. “It’s traditional amongst cavaliers,” he said. “An exercise in . . . in . . .”
    â€œWhat is?” Charles asked, standing unsteadily. “What is an exercise in what?”
    Charles looked over at Sir Edwin and told him that chickens had been buried up to their necks. Horsemen rode by and snapped their heads off.
    â€œAh,” said Sir Edwin.
    â€œThis isn’t a war they’re preparing for,” Charles went on equably, “it’s a joke. It’s pitiful, really.”
    â€œIf you can’t enjoy the day, why don’t you go home,” suggested Father. “And shave. You look like a bum. A drunken bum.”
    Cheers from the far end of the field made their way down the field as another rider charged toward another chicken. People were shouting now and laughing. Charles could see heads turning up and down the field. He lay back down and closed his eyes to the sun, lids burning blood-red and luminous, brain hot in a cold head and reeling. He put his hands over his eyes just as Mother softly exclaimed that, oh, it was Amelia. And there she was, Charles’s mad saint sister like an Amazon Godiva, long chestnut hair in streamers behind her, hanging low and bounding off Jolly’s flank, his spotted coat brilliant in the intense sunlight, his great crazy head nodding rhythmically as he charged. Knowing it was a chicken buried there, he now sawit, its ridiculous startled head straining upward, jerking left and right as it fought off both sleepiness and fear, and then gone, appearing before Charles and Sir Edwin dripping in Amelia’s glove in much less time than Charles thought possible, Jolly reined up in front of the family, Amelia laughing hysterically, laughing and laughing and laughing, infectious but frightening, Mother and Reverend Ruggles both rising to steady her, laughing a little themselves too, helplessly, but wanting to calm her before something happened. But it was too late and Charles knew it. She flung the bloody scrap of chicken head at Sir Edwin. It landed on Charles’s stomach. After a moment, he daintily plucked it up and laid it aside. Then he stood and removed his vest and listened to Amelia sputter and whinny, his little brothers shriek with pleasure, and Mother say to Father that that was it, that was enough, it was too much, we’ve got to get everybody out of here.
    Later, at the house, Charles found himself standing rather forlornly with Mother and Father.
    â€œAmelia wants to hurt me too,” said Father. “I don’t understand why.”
    â€œYou’ve got no business lecturing Charles, then, William, now do you?”
    â€œCharles and Amelia are two quite distinct matters,” said Father.
    Mother spoke as soothingly as she always did, but took Father very much by surprise. The Spring Park Water Company scandal came and went, and for the