The Indifference of Tumbleweed by Rebecca Tope

could pluck it, the dismemberment a simple matter, the taste a favourite with us all, and its death achieved with a single well-aimed rock. Small wonder, then, that every hunting party would return with a dozen or more of the plump creatures, dangling limply from a string. I once counted thirty-two shared amongst five men and boys.
    Mr Tennant did not involve himself in such activities. As the weeks passed he grew more kinglike in his role as party leader. His beard grew longer and whiter, his voice more imperious. His daughters-in-law were treated as if they were his slaves and his grandchildren were wary of him. He would order his large rocking chair to be brought down from the wagon and placed on as flat a piece of ground as could be found. There he would sit, with a pipe, watching us all as he gently rocked. It should have been comical, out in the wildness of the plains, to see a man behave as if in a city house, but it was far from amusing. He would cast loud judgements on those he observed, not so much a king as a god, I thought. ‘That’s a good boy, that Abel is.’ Or, ‘What does that fool Jude think he’s doing now? The brains of a jackass and a lot less useful.’ But when I heard him say, ‘The half-breed’s getting a sight too familiar. A man like that needs to know his rightful place,’ I found myself thrilling to an anger I had hardly known before. I had to turn away and lower my head to prevent myself from making an injudicious response. The injustice was too stark to ignore. Mr Fields had never once been impertinent or sharp with anyone in the party. He was dogged and diligent beyond any of the others. Because his equipment was old and unreliable, he was forced to spend far more time on repairs than anyone else. I had seen his hands blistered and bleeding after a long evening spent stitching unyielding leather harness that had frayed and split yet again. Because he had lower stocks of food than the others, he had greater need to hunt down birds, rabbits, groundhogs – anything his wife could add to the pot.
    So when the maligned man emerged from the woodland with a large turkey on his back, I was quick to scent trouble as Mr Tennant spotted him from his throne.
    â€˜The villein brings tribute to his master, I see,’ he said, with no hint of jocularity.
    Mr Fields was slow to realise that he was being addressed. The heavy bird, with the shaft of the arrow that killed it still protruding from its breast, was tilting his slight frame a little. He shifted it, and took several more steps towards his wagon.
    â€˜Fields!’ Mr Tennant suddenly shouted, far more loudly than necessary. ‘Is it your intention to share your game with the rest of us?’
    Now the hunter stopped, his head pulled down and forward, in a posture of belligerence. ‘You mean the turkey, sir?’
    â€˜Indeed I do. A good meaty bird, I see.’
    â€˜I intend it for my family, sir. My wife in particular is weak after her trouble, and one of our lads has a stomach sickness. It is my own kill, sir. I see no obligation whatever to part with it.’
    â€˜Tribute, man. Regard it as a tribute.’
    â€˜Under what regulation, sir? I am aware of no such provision in the agreement.’
    Mr Tennant now had the attention of almost everyone in the party. Murmurs came from several directions. Mr Fields looked around for support and received it most plainly from my father.
    â€˜Tennant – what are you saying?’ he asked. ‘Where has this come from?’
    Mr Tennant puffed out his chest, seemingly unconcerned. ‘I simply presumed that since I am burdened with the responsibility of decisions, the security of some dozens of souls resting on my shoulders, I could reasonably expect some modest contributions towards my requirements, when a clear surplus existed.’
    â€˜Nonsense,’ said my father. ‘Sheer nonsense. I should remind you, sir, that this land is