Indian Boy
03-07-2010, 07:35 PM
The Last Grave
Part I
They stood clustered around the fresh grave, the look of grief and devastation crawling down their faces in the cold dripping rain. Mama’s eyes were red and swollen with sorrow. She couldn’t tell whether the trees that engulfed them were pine or willows, dead or alive. Clinging to her sides were the little ones, their bodies wet and shivering in the autumn wind, their raw minds too young and dumb to understand the gravity of the loss, the eternity of death.
Papa’s dark hair was soaked to his head. His beard was black and he was a tall and proud man, but in that moment he was far too ashamed to look any of his children in their eyes for fear that they would remember the visible pain and vulnerability within his own. After a while he could not bare to witness that wet mound of dirt any longer, knowing all too well what lie beneath. He turned and stepped away from the grave leaving Mama and the little ones behind. Then he fixed his saddened gaze upon the dolorous grey sky above and let the rain fall down upon his face. How could God could have allowed such a dreadful thing to happen, he wondered.
When they withdrew from the cemetery they moved together, arm in arm, heads down as they past along through countless rows of tilted grave stones that sprung from the ground like the weeds that tangled around them. The family went out past the foot-high wooden fence and walked along the path through the woods. When they returned home to the farmhouse a deep silence settled in among them for a long time. That night the only sound came from the crackle of the fire and the children’s footsteps when they shuffled off in search of their beds.
The following afternoon brought more of the cold rain. The little girl in the brown dress stepped out onto the front porch.
What’s wrong with Mama? She said. How come she ain’t talkin no more?
Papa was sitting in his rocking chair. He pulled his attention from the dense pine woods that sat just beyond the clearing and motioned for the little girl to come and sit upon his lap. When she sat she stared up at his long nose with big eyes of innocence.
Leave Mama alone, sweety. Mama’s sick.
She got the pox?
No. I reckon it ain’t that bad, it ain’t the pox. It’s something else. But just leave Mama alone all the same. Ok?
Ok. I’ll leave Mama be so she gits better. Papa?
Yes.
Will Mama ever be better agin?
Papa was silent.
Papa?
Yes?
Will it ever stop rainin?
Papa turned his head, stared back out to the day. He could smell the pine trees in his head. He could hear the rain dropping through the branches down into the black puddles below.
I don’t think so.
Two days past. Then Mr. Granger appeared from out of the woods. He came onto the muddy pit that had now become the front of the farm house. The big raindrops splashed off his pink head. He wore tattered overalls and his face was wrinkly and long and covered in catfish whiskers. He waved a dawdling hand up at Papa on the porch.
Hello Jeb. May I come up?
Papa was very still and very silent in his chair. Then he nodded.
The wooden steps creaked with age as Mr. Granger’s heavy boots clopped upon them one at a time until he stood next to Papa on the porch. Both men remained silent for a while, each of them staring out at the wetness, not wanting to break the quiet that had come to be.
Finally Mr. Granger scratched at his head, then spoke. Jeb, I am sorry. So, so sorry. Wasn’t supposed to be like that. Wasn’t supposed to happen. God knows that.
Please don’t, said Papa. Please don’t speak of God in this house ever again.
Mr. Granger nodded.
Hmmm. Alright, Jeb. I understand. But surely you gotta understand one thing. What happened, well, it was an accident. Wasn’t nuthin could be done.
I told you that mutt was dangerous, Mr. Granger. I told you to keep that thing locked up after I watched it tear apart that fox last spring, had its neck in its jaws, rent it to pieces right in front of my eyes. I told you to keep that mutt locked up.
I know, Jeb. But there wasn’t no way to know my Buck was gonna do what he done, not to yer boy. Ain’t nobody coulda known that. Otherwise—
I knowed, said Papa, his voice now hard and angry. I knowed and I told you, but you didn’t do nuthin. You let that mutt roam around here, slobbering and growling and flashing its teeth at anything that came across its path. And now my little boy is dead. He’s in pieces in a box in the ground. His red insides were ripped out of him just like that fox and that mutt of yers is what done it.
Mr. Granger’s head sunk low and he stared down at his boots and sighed out loud. Softly he pushed his hand across his forehead and sighed again. He had nothing to say.
Papa was stern. I’m gonna git me my gun and I’m gonna come over to yer house before nightfall and I’m gonna shoot that dog in the head, Granger.
Mr. Granger’s head popped back up.
Now hold on, Jeb. What’s done is done and I know that’s a terrible thing. But ain’t nuthin gonna bring yer boy back. Killin my Buck ain’t gonna solve nuthin. I got him all chained up now, nice and tight. He ain’t gonna hurt nobody no more.
I’m gonna kill him, Granger. It’s only right.
Now Jeb, I don’t think that killing my Buck is gonna make anything right. That dog didn’t know what it was doing was wrong. It was only right by him. You know my boys love that mutt more than anything. No point in upsettin my boys. So punishing the dog ain’t the right thing to—
I’m gonna kill that mutt.
Now Mr. Granger straightened himself up. His voice grew serious and direct.
Now I’m tellin you, Jeb, right here, right now, that you ain’t to harm my dog. You here? What happened was an accident. A terrible thing and I’m here apologizing for that because that’s only right. And I got no problem offerin you couple of hogs, maybe my mule to make up for what’s been done. But my Buck ain’t gonna hurt nobody no more. I got’em chained up good and tight as a nigger, so you just leave the dog be. You just leave him be. You here me?
When Papa stood from his chair he was much taller than Mr. Granger. And when Papa shoved his finger down into the little man’s face, Mr. Granger cowered away back towards the stairs.
Papa said, Granger, I’m a kill that filthy mutt. And if you open yer mouth and say one more word otherwise, or you say one more word about tradin me some ugly hogs to make up for what’s been done to my boy, I’m a git my gun right this second and I’m gonna blow a hole the size of Tennessee in you.
Mr. Granger’s face went pale as he pattered his way down the creaky steps until he was standing back down in the mud. You leave my dog alone, Jeb! You just leave him be!
Then he turned and ran off disappearing into the woods.
The heavy darkness had fallen over the countryside when Papa left the home headed towards the Granger farm, his long rifle leading the way through the woods. The pines were huge and formidable shadows all around him. All was silent in the night save for the snapping of twigs and branches beneath his boots, the sounds of the rain.
Papa slogged through the muddy pits, one sinking step after another, then up and over a small hill he climbed and all along he could not stop his mind from picturing his little boy’s grave. He could not stop the agony from burning tearful pain in his mind.
Soon he crested another hill, one slightly steeper than the first but he did not falter or stumble. Atop the hill he came upon an old fallen pine tree, rotted and wet and this is where Papa sat and looked down into the shallow valley below, down at the soundless farmhouse that hid in the shadows in a hushed slumber of innocence. He sat there for a long time submerged in the night, permitting the cold rain to seep into his bones.
Time passed by.
It wasn’t long before the sky’s darkness faded to a lighter grey and somewhere in that cold predawn hour a rooster sounded down near the farmhouse, followed quickly by another. Papa lifted his sullen woes as he waited quietly in the rain. Soon Papa spotted the old mutt loafing around in front of the farm, sniffing his way around the chicken coops, searching for scraps. Papa stood from the tree and pressed his rifle hard to his shoulder and descended the hill into the valley. When he reached the bottom of the hill the old mutt noticed him and growled. Papa’s mind flashed back. He remembered seeing the dainty body of his little boy, torn open and shredded, red and stringy, stuffed into the maw of that mongrel beast as it whipped its head from left to right and rent his little boy to pieces. He could still hear the terrible high pitched squealing that rang from the boy’s throat before the silence of death set in, before he was able to kick the dog and tear away the remains of his boy.
Now the mutt’s eyes were yellow and madly vicious, its coat was straggly grey, sopping wet with rain and mud. As Papa stepped forward the mutt lifted its lips, flashed its teeth and growled louder. It prepared to launch itself at Papa.
The rifle shot rang out and echoed off into the morning valley. The long snout on the mutt’s face was blown sheer off and warm blood poured out of its face as its body leaned over and dropped down splashing into a cold muddy puddle. Papa stared down at the mangled carcass for only a moment. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then he turned and slowly walked back up the hill.
Later that afternoon Papa was rocking in his chair on the front porch, listening to his children laughing and playing in the house, when Mr. Granger emerged from edge of the woods. His eyes were mad and now he had a rifle of his own. His three filthy boys were with him, all dressed in overalls and armed with rifles themselves. They came towards the farmhouse step by step like hardened soldiers with eyes of vengeance ready for battle.
Papa reached for his own rifle and stood.
Mr. Granger shouted, I told you to leave my Buck be you son *****! Now I’m a gonna do what’s right by me.
That him, Paw? asked one of the Granger boys before spitting. That the man who done kilt my doag?
Uh huh. Thas him son.
The little dirtball of a Granger boy snarled and lifted his rifle and took aim at Papa. He spit again. This is for my Buck.
The boy pulled the trigger but the shot hit wide left of Papa who quickly returned fire at the Granger family. The Grangers plopped down onto their haunches and fired shots back. The afternoon opened with roars of rifle shots.
Papa dove to the floorboards and took cover behind the porch railing as several shots rang out and wood chips flew off the house into the air like sparks as the bullets shattered into the house. The little girl in the brown dress appeared on the front porch smothering her ears with her palms.
Papa, what’s all that shootin goin on out—
A shot echoed and the little girl’s chest exploded with blood, her body flung back against the wooden frame of the house as if struck by an unseen locomotive, then she dropped flat faced upon the porch. Her arms were sprawled out to her sides awkwardly. She was dreadfully still.
One of the Granger boy’s hollered out, I got’er! I got one Paw!
The shooting ceased. Papa’s jaw dropped, his eyes opened to shock, and he wailed out as he crawled on his hands and knees to his lifeless little girl. He lifted her bloodiness into his arms, let the blood soak him, and rocked her and wept.
The Granger’s were back on their feet reloading their rifles when Papa’s son suddenly emerged from the doorway in a full dauntless leap onto the porch. The rifle he toted was bigger than he was but still Papa had taught him how to shoot all the same. The small boy pulled the trigger and one of the Granger boys faces blew off in a splatter of blood and he dropped his own rifle and fell sideways dead. The other Granger’s instantly returned fire and Papa could only watch in horror, mouth agape with disbelief as his small boy was blown to pieces just three feet from him in the doorway.
Papa closed his eyes at the butchery that was unfolding on his property. He was at a loss for what to do. Go to his dead son? Leave him be? His tears came cold as he embraced the bundle of death that was now within his arms. He would have given his own life for even a trickle of a whimper from her but she simply was no longer. When he placed her down upon the porch the bloody limpness of the arms and head were enough to drive Papa to the verge of madness. Papa gritted his teeth, stood up and fired. The second shot hit its mark. Granger's kneecap shot off from the rest of his leg and the injured man screamed in excruciating pain before he dropped to the ground.
Paw! Paw! Yer hit! cried his two sons as they each seized a hold of their father’s shoulders and they dragged him through the mud back towards the edge of the woods, all along Granger was crying and shouting back at Papa in between wails of pain.
This ain’t over, Jeb! Ahhhh! I’m gonna git you for what you done to my boy! Ahhhhh! I’m gonna fix you good!
When Papa placed the two bloodied children in front of Mama she could only stare at the grisly sight before her and blink her eyelids.
After a long time she said, those are not my babies. Those are dolls.
Then she walked over and sat in front of the fire and let the flames warm her skin and she said no more.
Shortly before nightfall Papa had his last living son help him dig the graves at the cemetery. The soil was soft and muddy and it did not take them very long. When they were finished digging Papa handed his shovel to his boy and the boy took it. Then Papa carefully placed each of the small bodies within the muddy pits.
Forgive me, said Papa softly, for not putting you in wooden boxes. But I am too weary and too broken for such things.
Once the little girl had been laid Papa clambered his way out of the grave. When he was out he could do nothing but drop in the mud, down on his knees, sink his head into the wet earth, and weep in darkness. He no longer cared that his son saw his pain, he no longer cared for anything.
Bury them, Papa sobbed weakly and then all he heard was the swift sounds of the shovel scooping the mud behind him.
What we gonna do now, Papa? Asked the boy on the way back to the farmhouse. We gonna go get them old rotten Grangers for what they done?
Papa was silent in thought.
How about that Granger boy out in front of our yard? continued the boy. The one with the blown off face. We gonna just leave his body be? Critters’n and coons’ll be at’em come nightfall.
Papa nodded his head. Let the coons eat.
The boy was deep asleep when Papa shook him awake.
Wake up son. Wake up. Time to go.
After a moment the boy opened his eyes and sat up in the blackness. Where we goin Papa?
You know where. Now get up. Meet me out front. And bring that rifle I give ye last month. And be sure to kiss yer mother before you come out.
When the boy came out of the front door the first thing he noticed was that the rain had finally stopped. The second thing he noticed was that Papa had been correct. The Granger boy’s body looked like it’d been chewed on by a hundred wild animals since nightfall. The Granger boy’s overalls had been torn away in several places and his dead white skin had teeth marks and blood on nearly every square inch of his body. Papa stood over the half eaten corpse holding his rifle. There was a look drawn about his countenance, a look of almost satisfaction.
You ready son?
The boy pulled his glare from the body and stared up at his Papa and nodded.
Then they turned and entered the woods.
Part I
They stood clustered around the fresh grave, the look of grief and devastation crawling down their faces in the cold dripping rain. Mama’s eyes were red and swollen with sorrow. She couldn’t tell whether the trees that engulfed them were pine or willows, dead or alive. Clinging to her sides were the little ones, their bodies wet and shivering in the autumn wind, their raw minds too young and dumb to understand the gravity of the loss, the eternity of death.
Papa’s dark hair was soaked to his head. His beard was black and he was a tall and proud man, but in that moment he was far too ashamed to look any of his children in their eyes for fear that they would remember the visible pain and vulnerability within his own. After a while he could not bare to witness that wet mound of dirt any longer, knowing all too well what lie beneath. He turned and stepped away from the grave leaving Mama and the little ones behind. Then he fixed his saddened gaze upon the dolorous grey sky above and let the rain fall down upon his face. How could God could have allowed such a dreadful thing to happen, he wondered.
When they withdrew from the cemetery they moved together, arm in arm, heads down as they past along through countless rows of tilted grave stones that sprung from the ground like the weeds that tangled around them. The family went out past the foot-high wooden fence and walked along the path through the woods. When they returned home to the farmhouse a deep silence settled in among them for a long time. That night the only sound came from the crackle of the fire and the children’s footsteps when they shuffled off in search of their beds.
The following afternoon brought more of the cold rain. The little girl in the brown dress stepped out onto the front porch.
What’s wrong with Mama? She said. How come she ain’t talkin no more?
Papa was sitting in his rocking chair. He pulled his attention from the dense pine woods that sat just beyond the clearing and motioned for the little girl to come and sit upon his lap. When she sat she stared up at his long nose with big eyes of innocence.
Leave Mama alone, sweety. Mama’s sick.
She got the pox?
No. I reckon it ain’t that bad, it ain’t the pox. It’s something else. But just leave Mama alone all the same. Ok?
Ok. I’ll leave Mama be so she gits better. Papa?
Yes.
Will Mama ever be better agin?
Papa was silent.
Papa?
Yes?
Will it ever stop rainin?
Papa turned his head, stared back out to the day. He could smell the pine trees in his head. He could hear the rain dropping through the branches down into the black puddles below.
I don’t think so.
Two days past. Then Mr. Granger appeared from out of the woods. He came onto the muddy pit that had now become the front of the farm house. The big raindrops splashed off his pink head. He wore tattered overalls and his face was wrinkly and long and covered in catfish whiskers. He waved a dawdling hand up at Papa on the porch.
Hello Jeb. May I come up?
Papa was very still and very silent in his chair. Then he nodded.
The wooden steps creaked with age as Mr. Granger’s heavy boots clopped upon them one at a time until he stood next to Papa on the porch. Both men remained silent for a while, each of them staring out at the wetness, not wanting to break the quiet that had come to be.
Finally Mr. Granger scratched at his head, then spoke. Jeb, I am sorry. So, so sorry. Wasn’t supposed to be like that. Wasn’t supposed to happen. God knows that.
Please don’t, said Papa. Please don’t speak of God in this house ever again.
Mr. Granger nodded.
Hmmm. Alright, Jeb. I understand. But surely you gotta understand one thing. What happened, well, it was an accident. Wasn’t nuthin could be done.
I told you that mutt was dangerous, Mr. Granger. I told you to keep that thing locked up after I watched it tear apart that fox last spring, had its neck in its jaws, rent it to pieces right in front of my eyes. I told you to keep that mutt locked up.
I know, Jeb. But there wasn’t no way to know my Buck was gonna do what he done, not to yer boy. Ain’t nobody coulda known that. Otherwise—
I knowed, said Papa, his voice now hard and angry. I knowed and I told you, but you didn’t do nuthin. You let that mutt roam around here, slobbering and growling and flashing its teeth at anything that came across its path. And now my little boy is dead. He’s in pieces in a box in the ground. His red insides were ripped out of him just like that fox and that mutt of yers is what done it.
Mr. Granger’s head sunk low and he stared down at his boots and sighed out loud. Softly he pushed his hand across his forehead and sighed again. He had nothing to say.
Papa was stern. I’m gonna git me my gun and I’m gonna come over to yer house before nightfall and I’m gonna shoot that dog in the head, Granger.
Mr. Granger’s head popped back up.
Now hold on, Jeb. What’s done is done and I know that’s a terrible thing. But ain’t nuthin gonna bring yer boy back. Killin my Buck ain’t gonna solve nuthin. I got him all chained up now, nice and tight. He ain’t gonna hurt nobody no more.
I’m gonna kill him, Granger. It’s only right.
Now Jeb, I don’t think that killing my Buck is gonna make anything right. That dog didn’t know what it was doing was wrong. It was only right by him. You know my boys love that mutt more than anything. No point in upsettin my boys. So punishing the dog ain’t the right thing to—
I’m gonna kill that mutt.
Now Mr. Granger straightened himself up. His voice grew serious and direct.
Now I’m tellin you, Jeb, right here, right now, that you ain’t to harm my dog. You here? What happened was an accident. A terrible thing and I’m here apologizing for that because that’s only right. And I got no problem offerin you couple of hogs, maybe my mule to make up for what’s been done. But my Buck ain’t gonna hurt nobody no more. I got’em chained up good and tight as a nigger, so you just leave the dog be. You just leave him be. You here me?
When Papa stood from his chair he was much taller than Mr. Granger. And when Papa shoved his finger down into the little man’s face, Mr. Granger cowered away back towards the stairs.
Papa said, Granger, I’m a kill that filthy mutt. And if you open yer mouth and say one more word otherwise, or you say one more word about tradin me some ugly hogs to make up for what’s been done to my boy, I’m a git my gun right this second and I’m gonna blow a hole the size of Tennessee in you.
Mr. Granger’s face went pale as he pattered his way down the creaky steps until he was standing back down in the mud. You leave my dog alone, Jeb! You just leave him be!
Then he turned and ran off disappearing into the woods.
The heavy darkness had fallen over the countryside when Papa left the home headed towards the Granger farm, his long rifle leading the way through the woods. The pines were huge and formidable shadows all around him. All was silent in the night save for the snapping of twigs and branches beneath his boots, the sounds of the rain.
Papa slogged through the muddy pits, one sinking step after another, then up and over a small hill he climbed and all along he could not stop his mind from picturing his little boy’s grave. He could not stop the agony from burning tearful pain in his mind.
Soon he crested another hill, one slightly steeper than the first but he did not falter or stumble. Atop the hill he came upon an old fallen pine tree, rotted and wet and this is where Papa sat and looked down into the shallow valley below, down at the soundless farmhouse that hid in the shadows in a hushed slumber of innocence. He sat there for a long time submerged in the night, permitting the cold rain to seep into his bones.
Time passed by.
It wasn’t long before the sky’s darkness faded to a lighter grey and somewhere in that cold predawn hour a rooster sounded down near the farmhouse, followed quickly by another. Papa lifted his sullen woes as he waited quietly in the rain. Soon Papa spotted the old mutt loafing around in front of the farm, sniffing his way around the chicken coops, searching for scraps. Papa stood from the tree and pressed his rifle hard to his shoulder and descended the hill into the valley. When he reached the bottom of the hill the old mutt noticed him and growled. Papa’s mind flashed back. He remembered seeing the dainty body of his little boy, torn open and shredded, red and stringy, stuffed into the maw of that mongrel beast as it whipped its head from left to right and rent his little boy to pieces. He could still hear the terrible high pitched squealing that rang from the boy’s throat before the silence of death set in, before he was able to kick the dog and tear away the remains of his boy.
Now the mutt’s eyes were yellow and madly vicious, its coat was straggly grey, sopping wet with rain and mud. As Papa stepped forward the mutt lifted its lips, flashed its teeth and growled louder. It prepared to launch itself at Papa.
The rifle shot rang out and echoed off into the morning valley. The long snout on the mutt’s face was blown sheer off and warm blood poured out of its face as its body leaned over and dropped down splashing into a cold muddy puddle. Papa stared down at the mangled carcass for only a moment. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then he turned and slowly walked back up the hill.
Later that afternoon Papa was rocking in his chair on the front porch, listening to his children laughing and playing in the house, when Mr. Granger emerged from edge of the woods. His eyes were mad and now he had a rifle of his own. His three filthy boys were with him, all dressed in overalls and armed with rifles themselves. They came towards the farmhouse step by step like hardened soldiers with eyes of vengeance ready for battle.
Papa reached for his own rifle and stood.
Mr. Granger shouted, I told you to leave my Buck be you son *****! Now I’m a gonna do what’s right by me.
That him, Paw? asked one of the Granger boys before spitting. That the man who done kilt my doag?
Uh huh. Thas him son.
The little dirtball of a Granger boy snarled and lifted his rifle and took aim at Papa. He spit again. This is for my Buck.
The boy pulled the trigger but the shot hit wide left of Papa who quickly returned fire at the Granger family. The Grangers plopped down onto their haunches and fired shots back. The afternoon opened with roars of rifle shots.
Papa dove to the floorboards and took cover behind the porch railing as several shots rang out and wood chips flew off the house into the air like sparks as the bullets shattered into the house. The little girl in the brown dress appeared on the front porch smothering her ears with her palms.
Papa, what’s all that shootin goin on out—
A shot echoed and the little girl’s chest exploded with blood, her body flung back against the wooden frame of the house as if struck by an unseen locomotive, then she dropped flat faced upon the porch. Her arms were sprawled out to her sides awkwardly. She was dreadfully still.
One of the Granger boy’s hollered out, I got’er! I got one Paw!
The shooting ceased. Papa’s jaw dropped, his eyes opened to shock, and he wailed out as he crawled on his hands and knees to his lifeless little girl. He lifted her bloodiness into his arms, let the blood soak him, and rocked her and wept.
The Granger’s were back on their feet reloading their rifles when Papa’s son suddenly emerged from the doorway in a full dauntless leap onto the porch. The rifle he toted was bigger than he was but still Papa had taught him how to shoot all the same. The small boy pulled the trigger and one of the Granger boys faces blew off in a splatter of blood and he dropped his own rifle and fell sideways dead. The other Granger’s instantly returned fire and Papa could only watch in horror, mouth agape with disbelief as his small boy was blown to pieces just three feet from him in the doorway.
Papa closed his eyes at the butchery that was unfolding on his property. He was at a loss for what to do. Go to his dead son? Leave him be? His tears came cold as he embraced the bundle of death that was now within his arms. He would have given his own life for even a trickle of a whimper from her but she simply was no longer. When he placed her down upon the porch the bloody limpness of the arms and head were enough to drive Papa to the verge of madness. Papa gritted his teeth, stood up and fired. The second shot hit its mark. Granger's kneecap shot off from the rest of his leg and the injured man screamed in excruciating pain before he dropped to the ground.
Paw! Paw! Yer hit! cried his two sons as they each seized a hold of their father’s shoulders and they dragged him through the mud back towards the edge of the woods, all along Granger was crying and shouting back at Papa in between wails of pain.
This ain’t over, Jeb! Ahhhh! I’m gonna git you for what you done to my boy! Ahhhhh! I’m gonna fix you good!
When Papa placed the two bloodied children in front of Mama she could only stare at the grisly sight before her and blink her eyelids.
After a long time she said, those are not my babies. Those are dolls.
Then she walked over and sat in front of the fire and let the flames warm her skin and she said no more.
Shortly before nightfall Papa had his last living son help him dig the graves at the cemetery. The soil was soft and muddy and it did not take them very long. When they were finished digging Papa handed his shovel to his boy and the boy took it. Then Papa carefully placed each of the small bodies within the muddy pits.
Forgive me, said Papa softly, for not putting you in wooden boxes. But I am too weary and too broken for such things.
Once the little girl had been laid Papa clambered his way out of the grave. When he was out he could do nothing but drop in the mud, down on his knees, sink his head into the wet earth, and weep in darkness. He no longer cared that his son saw his pain, he no longer cared for anything.
Bury them, Papa sobbed weakly and then all he heard was the swift sounds of the shovel scooping the mud behind him.
What we gonna do now, Papa? Asked the boy on the way back to the farmhouse. We gonna go get them old rotten Grangers for what they done?
Papa was silent in thought.
How about that Granger boy out in front of our yard? continued the boy. The one with the blown off face. We gonna just leave his body be? Critters’n and coons’ll be at’em come nightfall.
Papa nodded his head. Let the coons eat.
The boy was deep asleep when Papa shook him awake.
Wake up son. Wake up. Time to go.
After a moment the boy opened his eyes and sat up in the blackness. Where we goin Papa?
You know where. Now get up. Meet me out front. And bring that rifle I give ye last month. And be sure to kiss yer mother before you come out.
When the boy came out of the front door the first thing he noticed was that the rain had finally stopped. The second thing he noticed was that Papa had been correct. The Granger boy’s body looked like it’d been chewed on by a hundred wild animals since nightfall. The Granger boy’s overalls had been torn away in several places and his dead white skin had teeth marks and blood on nearly every square inch of his body. Papa stood over the half eaten corpse holding his rifle. There was a look drawn about his countenance, a look of almost satisfaction.
You ready son?
The boy pulled his glare from the body and stared up at his Papa and nodded.
Then they turned and entered the woods.