Hedge of Thorns: Departure
There’s a scraping sound, then Bobby gives a couple of yelps and combines my name with an obscenity. I didn’t expect better behavior from my brother, but it’s going to cost him. I scoop part of the piled food from Bobby’s plate to Tumble’s.
When the men come in, my brother is mopping a long scratch on his left cheek with a blue bandanna. Tumble pours his cooled willow bark tea into the mug he’s been using, and takes his place at the table, where I’d set his portion of breakfast.
Bobby opens the cider cupboard and pulls out the partial jug I’d left there. “What’s with this, Jill? There’s not enough here to trade for anything.”
He scans the room, trying to pick out what I might have bought during his absence. “Or have you developed a taste for the stuff?”
“You know as well as I do that willow bark tea needs a chaser,” I say, and fill two more mugs with strong black tea. “Sit down. I’m hungry, if you’re not, and breakfast is getting cold.”
Neither he nor his Sharpshooters will get a drop of cider, if I have my way.
Bobby wolfs his food, as though he hasn’t had a full meal in weeks.
“You been doing more harmonica playing than hunting, Bobby? Or have you been out in the desert?” He doesn’t seem to have lost his impulsive streak. It couldn’t be a good Sharpshooter trait. Was he prospering with them?
Tumble sets aside his fork. “This breakfast is delicious, Mercy. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shoving his empty plate across the table, my brother leans back. “Enough small talk, Humbolt. Get your stuff, and let’s hit the road.” Bobby steps outside, and I see him heave the pack frame onto the taller bay mule, and lead the animal to the stump where I chop firewood.
Tumble shakes his head slightly, then goes to Grandpa’s room. He returns more slowly, with his belongings slung over his shoulders, and carrying Grandpa’s canteen.
“I will be sure to return this to you,” he says, as he pours the ruby-red medicine from the kettle, not losing a drop.
The partially full cider jug is still on the floor. I pick it up.
Tumble rolls his shoulders, settling his load, before tapping his way to the door with both canes.
I follow, as he swings himself down from the porch, and approaches the mule. More nimbly than I expect, he maneuvers from the ground to the top of the stump, and from there, settles himself on the mule’s back as though the pack frame is a saddle.
Tumble hooks his canes through the ropes securing other items to the front of the frame, then suspends Grandpa’s canteen from the rear frame near his hip. I lash the jug in position there.
Bobby’s saddle creaks as he swings up onto the gray mule. He rides up, and grabs the lead rope of the pack mule. “See ya,” he mutters as he turns both animals toward the open gate. Tumble waves.
“Good bye.”
Hedge of Thorns: Departure is part of a serialized story that appears on Fridays.
Find my other serialized stories here.
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