Joxie.
Joxie nodded. “You’re lucky, then. Some mothers don’t seem to bother much with their little ones. They can’t tolerate the burden. They need to be out and about. They still want to be single ladies.”
The chapel had mice. Every once in a while, a foolish one darted across the wooden floor. Conga became a huntress. One night as she was drowsing, the strong smell of rat filled the loft. The hairy brute slithered alongside the boards, and nibbled on the stack of paper cats. Its red eyes stared into Conga’s amber ones.
Conga swelled bigger than a cushion stuck full of pins. The claws on her soft paws snuck out of their sheaths. She sucked in a growl.
The rat kept coming. It sidled forward boldly, hugging the wood, scraping the floor with its oily tail, baring its yellow teeth. It had taken on a cat before and won. A meal of new kittens was worth the risk.
Conga didn’t wait for it. She sprang through the air, hernails ready. The rat met her thrust with a savage lunge of his own. Fur flew. A scream tore through the dark loft.
In the morning when Billy arrived, the kittens were nursing. Conga surveyed the boy placidly. The red nick on her ear glistened. As soon as he saw the blood, Billy took a careful look over the chapel, upstairs and down. He found the big rat laid open on the altar. “Conga,” he said after he had buried the body, “I guess you’ve got some jungle left in you.”
Later, Billy told Luke about the rat. And Luke found some talk of his own.
“Snowflake is getting big,” he confided. “Her babies are due soon. When the time comes, Joxie’s going to advertise. If I’m lucky, she’ll find homes for the kittens. Then I’ll have that cat fixed, stop her from having any more.”
They were both quiet for a while before Luke spoke up again. “I’ll help you with your kittens, too. If and when you want. I mean” — he said the last bit in an offhand way — “I mean, we’re friends.”
Billy nodded. He’d think on things for a bit. Soon August would be over. School would start. So far everything was working out.
Course he didn’t reckon on a smokin’ gun.
EIGHTEEN
J ohnny Close on Haven Street pulled the gun from the cabinet. His folks were out for the day, and he had a friend to impress. It was an air gun, decked out in army greens. The trigger was made of shiny chrome.
“I got it for Christmas,” he bragged. “It came with cans of air. The air’s already pumped up, so the gun packs real muscle.”
His friend Paul Lacy picked it up. “Wow! You’re lucky. My folks won’t buy me a gun.” He put the weapon up to his eye and pretended to shoot at a poster. “Bam. Bam!” he shouted. “You ever get anything with it?”
Johnny took the gun back. “Nah. But I’ve been down to Lucky’s Shooting Range over in Culversome. I bet I could knock out a squirrel easy.”
The two of them talked about guns for a while. They talked about hunting. Finally Paul said, “Your folks are out. Let’s go find us some game.”
Johnny wasn’t so sure about that. His mother would be hopping mad if she discovered that he’d taken the gun from the cabinet. He shook his head. “The guy in the next house has already picked off the squirrels around here.”
His friend didn’t let up. “I never figured you for a ‘fraidy-cat. Maybe you don’t know how to shoot. You probably never took that gun out. It’s probably not even yours.” He made for the door.
“It’s mine, all right,” Johnny said. “And I can shoot just fine. What have you got in mind?”
Paul turned around. “My dad’s a contractor,” he said. He sounded eager. “The city has hired him to clean up the yard behind that dumpy little church on Main Street. There’s a cat colony out the back of it. His bulldozer is gonna flatten all those cats. My dad says that the city will round them up soon anyway. Let’s pick off a few of the strays right now. It’ll save my dad some trouble.”
Johnny hesitated.
Joxie nodded. “You’re lucky, then. Some mothers don’t seem to bother much with their little ones. They can’t tolerate the burden. They need to be out and about. They still want to be single ladies.”
The chapel had mice. Every once in a while, a foolish one darted across the wooden floor. Conga became a huntress. One night as she was drowsing, the strong smell of rat filled the loft. The hairy brute slithered alongside the boards, and nibbled on the stack of paper cats. Its red eyes stared into Conga’s amber ones.
Conga swelled bigger than a cushion stuck full of pins. The claws on her soft paws snuck out of their sheaths. She sucked in a growl.
The rat kept coming. It sidled forward boldly, hugging the wood, scraping the floor with its oily tail, baring its yellow teeth. It had taken on a cat before and won. A meal of new kittens was worth the risk.
Conga didn’t wait for it. She sprang through the air, hernails ready. The rat met her thrust with a savage lunge of his own. Fur flew. A scream tore through the dark loft.
In the morning when Billy arrived, the kittens were nursing. Conga surveyed the boy placidly. The red nick on her ear glistened. As soon as he saw the blood, Billy took a careful look over the chapel, upstairs and down. He found the big rat laid open on the altar. “Conga,” he said after he had buried the body, “I guess you’ve got some jungle left in you.”
Later, Billy told Luke about the rat. And Luke found some talk of his own.
“Snowflake is getting big,” he confided. “Her babies are due soon. When the time comes, Joxie’s going to advertise. If I’m lucky, she’ll find homes for the kittens. Then I’ll have that cat fixed, stop her from having any more.”
They were both quiet for a while before Luke spoke up again. “I’ll help you with your kittens, too. If and when you want. I mean” — he said the last bit in an offhand way — “I mean, we’re friends.”
Billy nodded. He’d think on things for a bit. Soon August would be over. School would start. So far everything was working out.
Course he didn’t reckon on a smokin’ gun.
EIGHTEEN
J ohnny Close on Haven Street pulled the gun from the cabinet. His folks were out for the day, and he had a friend to impress. It was an air gun, decked out in army greens. The trigger was made of shiny chrome.
“I got it for Christmas,” he bragged. “It came with cans of air. The air’s already pumped up, so the gun packs real muscle.”
His friend Paul Lacy picked it up. “Wow! You’re lucky. My folks won’t buy me a gun.” He put the weapon up to his eye and pretended to shoot at a poster. “Bam. Bam!” he shouted. “You ever get anything with it?”
Johnny took the gun back. “Nah. But I’ve been down to Lucky’s Shooting Range over in Culversome. I bet I could knock out a squirrel easy.”
The two of them talked about guns for a while. They talked about hunting. Finally Paul said, “Your folks are out. Let’s go find us some game.”
Johnny wasn’t so sure about that. His mother would be hopping mad if she discovered that he’d taken the gun from the cabinet. He shook his head. “The guy in the next house has already picked off the squirrels around here.”
His friend didn’t let up. “I never figured you for a ‘fraidy-cat. Maybe you don’t know how to shoot. You probably never took that gun out. It’s probably not even yours.” He made for the door.
“It’s mine, all right,” Johnny said. “And I can shoot just fine. What have you got in mind?”
Paul turned around. “My dad’s a contractor,” he said. He sounded eager. “The city has hired him to clean up the yard behind that dumpy little church on Main Street. There’s a cat colony out the back of it. His bulldozer is gonna flatten all those cats. My dad says that the city will round them up soon anyway. Let’s pick off a few of the strays right now. It’ll save my dad some trouble.”
Johnny hesitated.
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