expression registered concern.
âTwisted my blamed ankle chasinâ after that otherân. He got clean away.â
âI thought I heard someone yelling, like he was hurt.â
âThat could have been me. Could have been him. I think I nicked him.â
âGet a good look at him?â John asked.
âNo. He lit a shuck. Ran like a scared rabbit. I twisted my ankle and had to give up on him. What you got here?â
Ben looked down at Luke and swore under his breath.
âGod, Johnny, whatâre you doing to him?â
âWaiting.â
âWaiting for what?â
âHeâheâs waitinâ for me to die, the bastard,â Luke said, a malevolent glare in his narrowed eyes. âTorturinâ me. You shoot me, mister. Iâm done for.â
Ben lifted his rifle.
John put a hand on the barrel and pushed it down.
âNo,â John said. âIâm going to tell Luke here about my family.â
âWhat?â Ben said.
âFind yourself a seat under a tree. Get off that ankle.â
Ben hobbled to a pine, rested against it, and slid to the ground. He laid the Henry across his lap, pushed his hat back off his forehead.
John squatted next to Luke, holding the pistol up so the wounded man could see it, see that it was cocked, see that his finger was just a breath away from the trigger.
âYou killed my little sister, Luke. You or one of your ugly friends. She wasnât but ten years old. Her name was Alice. She had the prettiest hair, golden hair, like spun honey.â
âI didnât kill that kid,â Luke said.
âShut up, Luke,â John said amiably, his eyes glittering like the eyes of the mad, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey.
âShe played with dolls, made up little stories about them, and she pretended that they were real people. They were her friends and she made tea for them and mudpies and fed them like a mother spoon-feeds a real baby.â
âDonât,â Luke said, a pleading note in his voice.
There was a sound like an empty barrel rolling across the floor of a cavernous room. Thunder rolling across the skies, the sound pushing through thick black clouds like an immense voice shouting through layers of cotton. And the sound died away, leaving a hush behind, and a darker darkness.
âShe had the prettiest laugh, Luke. She said her dolls made her laugh. And she would draw pictures of them on paper and show her pictures to them, and sometimes it seemed so real, I thought her dolls were laughing with her. She found a little bird once, down in Arkansas, and it had a broken wing. She took that bird and put in a little box and told her dollies to help her take care of it. She put medicine on its wing and one of her dolls was a nurse and she had that little birdie hopping around in no time. Thatâs how kind she was. Thatâs how she treated Godâs creatures. When the bird got well and flew away, Alice just laughed and laughed, and she told her dolls how much they had helped that poor bird.â
âStop,â Luke croaked. âNo more. Please. Iâm dyinâ.â
âAlice is already dead, Luke. She was shot to pieces by you and your men. I buried her with her favorite doll. Theyâre both in the cold ground. And you ainât even goinâ to get that, you miserable sonofabitch. Youâre going to feed the wolves and the worms.â
Luke gasped for air. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.
Ben sat there, aghast at what John was doing.
None of them heard the man creeping up on them. Pete Rutter had heard the voices. He had circled around, slowly and carefully, so that he had a clear view of the three men. Now he stared dumbstruck at the three of them through a pair of binoculars. He was close enough to hear what they were saying, but he knew he could not be seen. He watched and he listened.
Then he saw the pistol in Johnâs hand. His jaw dropped as he
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