The Pure: Book Three of the Oz Chronicles by R.W. Ridley Page B

could only describe it as carefully. He had no intention of hurting
Bobby.
    “‘What’s so special about, Bobby?’ I
asked.
    “‘Must’ve heard he does cartwheels,’
Jerry said. This drew a series of chuckles from Carl’s group, which did not
please him at all.
    “‘Don’t know what they want with him,’
Carl said. ‘Don’t care. I just want to put an arrow through the thing’s head
before he decides to call his friends again.
    “‘You can’t. You might hit Bobby.’
    “‘Not my biggest concern right now,’
Carl said. ‘I just want to keep a herd of these big uglies from knowing our
little community’s location.’
    “‘But...’
    “The Bashir raised its head in
preparation to let out another bugle call. Carl pulled back on the string of
his bow and instructed his soldiers to do the same.
    “‘Wait, wait, wait,’ I said ‘Don’t...’
    “Before I could finish, the Bashir let
out a garbled bark. I turned to see it fall face first to the ground. An arrow
was sticking out of its ear.
    “On the top of the hill, still standing
where she was when we entered the little arena, Madison lowered her bow.
    “‘Ease off, men,’ Carl barked. ‘Nice
shot, Maddy.’ He pulled out a large hunting knife and approached the Bashir.
‘That didn’t go as planned,’ he said kneeling down.
    “‘You had a plan?’ I asked.
    “‘Of sorts,’ he said as he jammed the
knife in the Bashir’s arrow-free ear making a sickening, slicing sound.
    “‘What was your plan?’
    “‘Maybe they were more like expectations
than a plan.’ He pulled the knife out and cleaned the blade on his pant leg.
    “‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What were your
expectations?’
    “‘That the Bashir would pound you into
raw meat.’
    “I swallowed hard.
    “‘Don’t take it personal,’ he said.
‘That’s the way these things usually go, but for some reason the Bashir took a
keen interest in Mr. Cartwheel.’
    “Little Bobby examined the dead Bashir
with great interest. He was fascinated by it. More so than I think I had ever
seen him.
    “‘Well,’ I said, ‘I once heard that
animals go after the weakest in the group.’
    “Carl laughed. ‘Son, to the Bashir we’re
all the weakest. And just because this thing isn’t human doesn’t make it an
animal. No, sir, there’s something more to it than that. The Bashir wanted
Bobby. That sound it made. He was telling all his friends he found something...
maybe something they’ve been looking for.’
    “Bobby tapped Carl on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me, Mr. Carl, but can I have the claw?’
    “Carl looked at him perplexed. ‘What
claw?’
    “‘The Bashir’s claw. I need it.’
    “Carl shook his head. ‘Bashir’s don’t
have claws, Bobby.’ He returned to our conversation. ‘I’m not so sure it was a
good idea bringing you all into our camp.’
    “‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘We didn’t
exactly come here by our own free will.’
    “‘Well, you’re here now so I can’t let
you leave...’
    “‘Yes they do,” Little Bobby said.
    “‘What?’ Carl barked.
    “‘Have a claw.’ Bobby leaned down and
picked up the Bashir’s heavy arm. ‘See,’ he grunted. There was a pouch on the
underside of the wrist. Bobby pushed the tough fleshy hide beneath the pouch
and a razor-sharp claw shot out like a switchblade.
    “‘I’ll be a...’ Carl started as he
leaned in to examine the claw. He peered up at Little Bobby. ‘How did you know
it was there?’
    “‘That’s where it’s supposed to be,’
Little Bobby answered.
    “‘What does that mean?’ Carl asked.
    “Bobby shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can I
have it?’
    “Carl nodded and slit the pouch open
with his hunting knife. With some effort, he cut through the Bashir’s arm and
removed the claw. He handed it to Little Bobby.
    “‘Thanks,’ Little Bobby said. ‘This will
help a lot.’
    “Carl stared at Bobby for several
seconds. ‘I don’t like this.’ He turned to the punk I had knocked out