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around the campfire
The mouse population was down, the gelding was more calm than ever before, and Eustace didn’t feel so lonely. Every night, while he dreamed of living the good life in Texas, Buttercup slept on the bed. When Sunday morning came, Eustace was up before dawn. While Buttercup roamed around the cabin playing with an old sock he’d given her for a toy, making various cat sounds, he checked his gun and strapped on his belt. After making sure the kitten had food and water, he locked the cabin door behind him and went to the hay barn to saddle up. He and the horse weren’t a hundred feet down the trail when he saw Yardbird and her two offspring trailing along behind. “Get home,” he yelled. “Go on!” Ignoring him, they continued along the trail, sniffing at the spring grass, pouncing on a fly. He figured they’d turn back once he outran ’em. Spurring his horse down the road, he left the cats in a cloud of dust. He shouldn’t have stopped at the mile corner. He shouldn’t have looked back. Three dark specks were visible on the dusky morning road. In the clean, clear air, he could hear their meow. What if they didn’t turn back? He figured there was little chance Yardbird would get lost. But what about her kittens? The black one had a touch of ringworm and seemed a little shaky the last couple days. He looked up at the brightening sky. What if a hungry hawk came along? He planned to be back to the cabin before noon. He touched the gun in his holster. What if something happened to him? He wasn’t used to thinking about anybody else. What would happen to Buttercup if he didn’t get back? Dammit. Reluctantly, but knowing it was for the best, he turned back to the cabin. When he rode past Yardbird, she didn’t act like she noticed him. Little snob. But she was right there when he got back to the hay barn.
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Late that night, Eustace woke from a deep sleep. The gelding was restless, and Buttercup wasn’t on the bed. Plenty of moonlight poured through the window. Chancing a peek outside from the safety of his bed, he couldn’t see anything but the wide open hills with their familiar shadows. The horse neighed again. Yardbird ran from the barn to the privy and back again. Something had spooked them. With Buttercup tearing up circles around the cook stove, he pulled on his trousers and took his Colt down from its
peg. Quiet as he could, he crept outside, the Colt surprisingly shaky in his sweaty grip. “Hold on,” he told himself. “Hold on there.” What was wrong with him? Trembling like a kitten for no good reason. At this rate it was a good thing he hadn’t tried robbing the bank. Then he saw Yardbird back at the privy, crouched low, shoving her paw under the door, milking her claws on the old cedar wood. He froze. Somebody was inside. As he worked to calm his breathing and stay still, a groan came from the other side of the outhouse door. It was a low sound, a gurgling noise. Not necessarily a man. But what else? Yardbird meowed and stitched a bounding path up and down around the little shack. “C’mon out of there. Whoever you are, you’re trespassing.” No answer. Yardbird ran to him, circled around his legs. “Don’t you worry. I’m here.” Careful to keep his gun aimed straight at the outhouse door, he bent down and picked up the cat in his left arm. She purred and rubbed her ears against the buckle of his suspender. Whoever their visitor was, he was being awful quiet. Or awful cagey. “Get on out here, or I’ll come in after you.” The normal night noise of the hills abruptly stopped. No crickets. No spring peepers. Silence. Maybe he’d try again. He let Yardbird jump to the ground, started to speak, and came face-to-face with an old friend as Dan Granger shoved his way through the privy door, a thundering sixgun in hand. Eustace fell to the left, landing on his shoulder in a newgrown patch of thistle, while Dan stumbled forward pulling the trigger again and again, slamming shot after shot into the gray moonlit sod before landing on his face. Eustace was up in a hurry, finger on the trigger, but it was already over. Dan Granger was spent as his weapon, a lifeless husk collecting the settling dust. Yardbird meowed with curiosity. “I don’t know. This here fella used to be my friend.” Yardbird answered like she understood. She stayed with him as he turned the body over to face the sky with unseeing eyes. Dan’s shirt was soaked through with blood. “Been shot.” But not by him. “Meow,” Yardbird said.