Read Online The Savage Boy by Nick Cole - Free Book Online

Presley’s voice. You would say it was fool’s business. That’s what you would say.
    He waited, listening to the rush of the water in the river.
    He looked upriver, his eyes falling on the small, steep, conical mountain.
    You would say that.
    Ain’t nothin’ but a thang, Boy. Mind over matter. You don’t mind, it don’t matter.
    You would say that also.
    You got to kill that bear, Boy. No two ways about it.

 
    15
    T HAT MORNING HE collected three long poles of fresh wood that wouldn’t snap. Working with his knife he sharpened the ends into stakes, hardening them in the fire until the tips were black.
    By noon he’d fed Horse, who ate little of the fire-dried grass the Boy had placed before him. He sat by the fire putting a fresh edge on the steel tomahawk Sergeant Presley had given him. Its bright finish was a thing made in the past, never to be seen again. Often, when they had encountered strangers, he’d seen their eyes fall to it, wanting it for their own.
    Laying aside the sharpened tomahawk, he gave the knife an edge. They’d made these knives at the Cotter family forge. Sergeant Presley’s knife lay wrapped within a bundle the Boy had carried away from the grave on the side of the road surrounded by the wild corn that had seemed to grow everywhere; a bundle the Boy had no desire to open.
    You might need it for this one, Boy.
    But the Boy couldn’t see what an extra knife might do for him. He knew if his plan was a “no go” and he found himself down to his own knife, there wouldn’t be much hope left in an extra knife.
    That’s right Boy, work smarter, not harder. Knife work is hard work.
    Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that.
    The last thing the Boy would need for his plan would be what was left of the precious parachute cord. There was less than thirty feet of it now. As a child, the Boy had always been fascinated by the large coil; amazed at it, as he always was of the things from Before. There had been so much of the parachute cord, it had once seemed endless, always coiled about Sergeant Presley’s shoulder to hip as they walked. One time Sergeant Presley had even made a knotted section of it for him to play with, muttering, “Merry Christmas,” as he’d handed it to the Boy on that long-ago winter day. Years passed, and traps and snares and other bits that could no longer be salvaged had reduced the large coil to less than thirty feet.
    The Boy withdrew the last of it from his pack.
    I don’t want to use even this, but if I have to I will.
    He thought of the bear.
    He’d seen bears killed. The Cotter family hunted them for sport and meat. He’d followed one hunting party and watched them run down a small, fast black bear that was more interested in getting away than fighting. In the end, it had played dead until they’d put a bolt under its left shoulder blade.
    They had seen big bears in the Rockies. Most of them had kept their distance, or charged, only to veer off. Horse was good for scaring things away. Once Horse went up on his hind legs, most animals knew he wasn’t interested in running.
    He looked at Horse.
    Are you dying too? Like Sergeant Presley?
    He patted the big brown belly; Horse stirred only slightly.
    “I’m going to clear out a place for us to hole up in through the rest of winter.” Then, “I’ll be back.”
    He went down to the river and speared another of the broken-wine-bottle trout. Gutting and filleting the trout, he laid its body out on planks of charred wood over the embers of the fire.
    After eating the fish he collected his gear, shouldering the three heavy poles and placing the thin coil of rope over his head to hang down from his neck.
    Everything was moving too fast.
    He could feel the tomahawk hanging from his belt, the knife in its sheath at his back.
    What am I missing?
    Mind over matter, Boy.
    You don’t mind, it don’t matter.
    H E CLIMBED THE conical hill, hauling himself up its snow-covered granite ledges. He avoided any pines that grew out