Hedge of Thorns: Harmonica
By mid-afternoon, I’ve reached the meadow where I’d found the mule. Sitting on a sun-warmed rock, I eat half of my remaining biscuits and treat myself to a long drink. Before the fire, this two-track was a somewhat direct route toward my property. Even though I’d come to it by a different angle earlier today, sticking to the trail now should be quicker.
A second camp in the exposed burn zone isn’t appealing. I press on, following elk tracks out of the meadow and south. Whatever pushed the animal into the hostile terrain isn’t obvious.
The breeze carries roasted meat aroma. I swallow hard, and draw my bow. From behind a blackened cluster of five tree trunks, staggers a large scorched elk, a coyote pack chivvying its heels. I nock an arrow, and take the animal down. Firing the Sig Sauer, I rush forward, and the coyotes scatter while I cut my arrow from the carcass.
Then I withdraw. If the elk kill satisfies them, they’ll leave me alone. It’s too far to drag a carcass home without drawing attention.
Come nightfall, the moon should be almost full. I keep hiking, until standing at the top of one ridge, I spot healthy trees. Healthy trees, and a bright campfire. Who would be so reckless?
I change direction despite the lure of finding cover for my own campsite. Entering the woods to the camper’s left as well as upwind, my tension eases a bit. When the last peg is driven in to secure my blind, the breeze dies. Mosquitoes swarm in. Dad’s hat is ineffective at keeping them off my face, so I add more green plants to my small fire.
The moon’s edge crests the ridge and I hear harmonica music.
Big moon, bright moon…Bobby played that from my piano lesson book, years ago. I leave my camp and ease through the undergrowth, pistol in hand. The camper bends forward to stir the pot on his fire, and the silhouette is Bobby’s.
I crack a twig. He turns toward me, scowling, until I reach the edge of the firelight.
“Where’ve you been, Bobby?”
“Patrolling. I’m a Sharpshooter now.”
A woman in Glenoma had mentioned a band of men who were steadily reducing the number of cannibals.
“I believed you were dead.” My voice is steadier than I expected.
“Not yet.”
“Is someone hunting you?”
“No, Jill.”
He called me by my name. “In the morning, why not come home with me for a while?”
“I’ll think about it. Did you use all the .38 ammo? I need it.”
“No, there are six boxes on your shelf.”
He grunts.
Under the circumstances, it’s the most I can expect. I slip away to my camp.
Hedge of Thorns: Harmonica is an episode of a serialized short story that posts on Friday.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
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