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Authors: Robert F. Jones
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released the trigger. She would remember to cock it next time. Some Diana she was proving to be. Thank God, no one was watching. She pressed on, her knee-length boots—the ones she’d worn to muck out the barn at home—admirably silent in the dry prairie grass.
Farther ahead, in the last of the day’s light, she stopped again. Something ahead, up on the far slope? A hundred yards away, maybe a bit more.
Something brown, no, tan. Tan and white.
She watched it until her eyes began to slip out of focus, then looked away and tried to catch its outline from the corner of her gaze, as Otto had taught her.
Ja, definitely something there! A Rehbock ? No, not a deer, not in this dry place. It stood stock-still against the hillside.
An antelope?
Yes.
She suddenly saw the erect black horns, hooked backward in semicircles at the tops, and the big triangular prongs lower down, pointing almost directly at her. She began to raise the rifle . . .
The antelope bounded away, twisting and leaping in the same fluid motion toward the top of the hill. The rifle was up, hammer cocked. She whistled sharply. Just as the buck hit the crest of the hill he halted, turning to peer at her over his shoulder. He was outlined perfectly, as if cut from cardboard, black against the paler sky. She held the sights on the white patch behind his shoulder and squeezed . . .
W hack!
For an instant she lost the pronghorn in the rifle’s recoil, the gout of white gunsmoke. When it cleared he wasn’t there.
Did I miss? O lieber Gott, bitte—nicht! Let him be there, please! Ich bin klein, mein Herz ist rein . . .
Then she saw the antelope’s hind leg sticking up at an angle, outlined against the sky, shuddering slightly. Her heart was shuddering, too, thudding in her throat. She was very happy. She levered another round into the chamber, seeing the empty cartridge case spin off into the grass. Better retrieve it—Otto says we must reload all our shell cases. No gun shops on the prairie. She groped in the grass, found it by its heat with her fingers, and stuck the warm brass casing between her breasts, where the poison capsule had rested earlier in the day. Then she hiked up the slope to gut her antelope . . .
She was nearly finished, concentrating intently on the work, when Tom Shields spoke quietly not far behind her.
“Don’t shoot, Mr. Dousmann. It’s just your sister and me. She killed a nice little prongbuck for our supper.”
Jenny spun around. Tom Shields was ten feet behind her, a rifle in his hands. Her eyes jumped to Otto, skylighted on another ridge across the draw, the Sharps at his shoulder. He put it up and came striding toward them, his boot heels angry in the dry grass. When he reached her, she saw his face was stiff, bone white behind the black mustache.
“Jennchen,” he said, quietly and in German so that Tom Shields could not overhear what he said, “das war ja dumm. Stupid. You must never ever do that again without telling me first. I heard your shot. It was not the sound of a buffalo rifle. The Hostiles shoot lighter calibers, rifles like yours. Hearing it, I thought you were under attack. Maybe dead. Or worse, taken. I ran back to the camp. You were gone. Tom was gone. I followed your tracks down this way, saw you in the dark, and Tom behind you. In this light I could not recognize you. I was just about to shoot when he spoke. Gott sei Dank! But you must never do that again to me. Das war wannsinnig, stumpfdumm .”
Only much later, when her shame had burned away, did Jenny realize that Tom Shields must have shadowed her all the way.
W HEN THEY FINISHED supper—broiled antelope tenderloin, potato dumplings, soldier beans stewed in molasses, and hot black coffee—Otto and Jenny turned in. They unrolled their blankets in the spring wagon. Tom Shields took his rifle and walked out to check on the livestock. He brought along a bait of oats in his hat crown and went from one horse to the other, giving them each a
Farther ahead, in the last of the day’s light, she stopped again. Something ahead, up on the far slope? A hundred yards away, maybe a bit more.
Something brown, no, tan. Tan and white.
She watched it until her eyes began to slip out of focus, then looked away and tried to catch its outline from the corner of her gaze, as Otto had taught her.
Ja, definitely something there! A Rehbock ? No, not a deer, not in this dry place. It stood stock-still against the hillside.
An antelope?
Yes.
She suddenly saw the erect black horns, hooked backward in semicircles at the tops, and the big triangular prongs lower down, pointing almost directly at her. She began to raise the rifle . . .
The antelope bounded away, twisting and leaping in the same fluid motion toward the top of the hill. The rifle was up, hammer cocked. She whistled sharply. Just as the buck hit the crest of the hill he halted, turning to peer at her over his shoulder. He was outlined perfectly, as if cut from cardboard, black against the paler sky. She held the sights on the white patch behind his shoulder and squeezed . . .
W hack!
For an instant she lost the pronghorn in the rifle’s recoil, the gout of white gunsmoke. When it cleared he wasn’t there.
Did I miss? O lieber Gott, bitte—nicht! Let him be there, please! Ich bin klein, mein Herz ist rein . . .
Then she saw the antelope’s hind leg sticking up at an angle, outlined against the sky, shuddering slightly. Her heart was shuddering, too, thudding in her throat. She was very happy. She levered another round into the chamber, seeing the empty cartridge case spin off into the grass. Better retrieve it—Otto says we must reload all our shell cases. No gun shops on the prairie. She groped in the grass, found it by its heat with her fingers, and stuck the warm brass casing between her breasts, where the poison capsule had rested earlier in the day. Then she hiked up the slope to gut her antelope . . .
She was nearly finished, concentrating intently on the work, when Tom Shields spoke quietly not far behind her.
“Don’t shoot, Mr. Dousmann. It’s just your sister and me. She killed a nice little prongbuck for our supper.”
Jenny spun around. Tom Shields was ten feet behind her, a rifle in his hands. Her eyes jumped to Otto, skylighted on another ridge across the draw, the Sharps at his shoulder. He put it up and came striding toward them, his boot heels angry in the dry grass. When he reached her, she saw his face was stiff, bone white behind the black mustache.
“Jennchen,” he said, quietly and in German so that Tom Shields could not overhear what he said, “das war ja dumm. Stupid. You must never ever do that again without telling me first. I heard your shot. It was not the sound of a buffalo rifle. The Hostiles shoot lighter calibers, rifles like yours. Hearing it, I thought you were under attack. Maybe dead. Or worse, taken. I ran back to the camp. You were gone. Tom was gone. I followed your tracks down this way, saw you in the dark, and Tom behind you. In this light I could not recognize you. I was just about to shoot when he spoke. Gott sei Dank! But you must never do that again to me. Das war wannsinnig, stumpfdumm .”
Only much later, when her shame had burned away, did Jenny realize that Tom Shields must have shadowed her all the way.
W HEN THEY FINISHED supper—broiled antelope tenderloin, potato dumplings, soldier beans stewed in molasses, and hot black coffee—Otto and Jenny turned in. They unrolled their blankets in the spring wagon. Tom Shields took his rifle and walked out to check on the livestock. He brought along a bait of oats in his hat crown and went from one horse to the other, giving them each a
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