Hedge of Thorns: Crate
The stars were fading when Bobby’s mules, tethered out behind the garden, chose to bray.
“Shut up, stupid animals,” I said as I added fuel to the fire.
Upstairs, Bobby stamped into his boots and clomped toward the ladder. He descended, stalking out the front door, and allowing that to slam behind him.
I turn up the wick on the kerosene lamp and light it. There’s a covered bowl on the work surface, and I lift the plate away. Tumble had boiled some potatoes. They’re not exactly travel food, but sliced and fried they’ll make a tasty breakfast. I scoop some goose fat into the frying pan, and set the cast iron over the heat. Cutting the potatoes into the fat takes little time. They’ll crisp up well.
On an impulse, I add fat to another pan, and slice onion into that. While the onions cook, I dice bits of smoked bear and elk meat, and drop them in with the onions. Giving the mixture a quick stir, I also check the potatoes.
The door to Grandpa’s room creaks open. Step-thump. Step-thump.
“Good morning, Tumble.”
“ ’Morning, Mercy. May I brew myself some willow tea?”
“Go ahead. I suggest you make a kettle-full to have some for the journey. Grandpa’s canteen is in the bottom left drawer of the dresser. You may take that.”
It means another restocking expedition after they’ve gone, but I may be able to hunt during the same trip.
Tumble sets to work. Soon the medicine kettle is steaming, and the regular one, too.
I flip the potato slices, and give the onion and meat mix another stir. Bobby is still outside. Setting the onions and meat away from the heat, I glance through the window.
Bobby has been arranging the load on his pack animal’s saddle frame. One crate is set aside. He hefts it and strides toward the porch.
I hurry to open the front door. Bobby brushes past me, and drops the burden just inside the doorway of the main room.
“I’m leaving this with you for now,” he says. “A group of Sharpshooters will be by to pick it up, one of these days.”
Just what I need. More responsibility, and a visit by a bunch of strangers. “I suppose you told them exactly how to find this place.” I don’t keep the disgust out of my voice.
“Sure. What’s the problem? They’re good guys.”
“The problem? I don’t want them anywhere near here, and especially not in the cabin. I suggest you take that thing, whatever it is, back outside, and stuff it under the hawthorns. Nothing will tamper with it there.”
He ignores me, and sniffs. “Something sure smells good. He make it?”
“No, Mercy did,” Tumble says.
I’m not in the mood for even the slightest compliment. In fact, I might dish the food into only two portions. “Get that crate outside my wall, and then you can have some breakfast.”
Bobby smirks, and looks at Tumble as if asking for back up.
Tumble shakes his head. “Do as she asks, Mr. Turpin.”
The front door is still open. Bobby grunts, retrieves the crate from the front room, and says, “Open the gate for me, Humbolt?”
Tumble makes his way out, and opens the gate for Bobby.
I dish the food into three equal portions, and bring the plates to the table.
Hedge of Thorns: Crate is a segment of a serialized short story that posts on Fridays.
Find other serialized stories here.
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