Read Online Wild Life by Cynthia DeFelice - Free Book Online Page A

stood by Dan. Everybody was giving a big, cheesy smile to the picture-taker, who Erik figured had been his mom.
    As he studied the pictures, a fierce longing rose inside him. It was as if a lot of things he’d read and dreamed about and half imagined suddenly came into focus. He wanted to be the boy in those photographs, or to be like him, at least. In the photos Erik saw everything he had tried to explain to his mother about wanting to go hunting, plus something else he hadn’t understood at the time: how a big part of the experience was sharing it with a dog.
    Erik had listened to Patrick and his dad talking about what a great dog Hot Spots was, and how amazing she was at finding birds. But he hadn’t actually hunted with her. Looking at Dan and Elvis, he imagined them in the field, working together, combining their skill and knowledge and instincts in the hunt. He wanted to have that experience, with Quill.
    Along with all these thoughts and feelings, the photos raised even more questions about Big Darrell. It was impossible to believe that the casually affectionate man smiling in the pictures, with his arm around Elvis and Dan, was the same stern, grim-faced person Erik had met. The one who didn’t hunt, who seemed to hate kids—well, Erik, anyway—the one who had said, “What’s that dog doing in here?” And “Didn’t I say no more dogs ?” And “The dog goes.”
    It didn’t make sense. With a sigh, Erik retied the twine around the box. As he reached up to return it to the shelf, he caught a glimpse of something leaning against the back wall of the closet. Pushing the hanging clothing to the side, he bent down and pulled out a twelve-gauge, semiautomatic shotgun.
    â€œWow,” he murmured.
    He recognized the gun immediately as the same one Dan had been holding in the photographs. Stacked against the rear wall of the closet were several boxes of shotgun shells.
    Quill, who had been sitting in a patch of sunlight by the window, came over and sniffed the gun with interest.
    â€œYou know what this is, don’t you, Quill?” Erik asked.
    He didn’t think Oma would leave a loaded gun around the house, but he checked it to be sure. Pointing the muzzle toward the floor and keeping his fingers well away from the trigger, he pulled back the bolt. No cartridge popped out of the chamber, but he pulled the bolt a couple more times to make sure there weren’t any shells in the magazine, either.
    He noticed a metal plate on the wooden stock, engraved with a scene of a man standing, gun to his shoulder, over a dog on point. The dog stood with its tail straight out, front paw lifted, staring with great focus at a pheasant that was hiding in the brush. The dog looked an awful lot like Quill. Whoever the artist was, he was really good. Erik could almost see the dog quivering with contained excitement.
    Quill watched him as he hefted the gun, testing the length and weight of it. It felt good. He liked the smell of gun oil and the faint odor of gunpowder that clung to it. He lifted it to his shoulder, and was sighting down the barrel when the phone rang.
    He froze for a moment. A rush of guilt flooded through him, guilt at being caught snooping in Dan’s room and handling Dan’s gun. He felt this even as he realized it was silly: whoever was on the phone couldn’t see him.
    The guilt passed, followed by dread. He was pretty sure he knew who was calling. He forced himself to set the gun down and walk to Oma and Big Darrell’s room.
    When he picked up the receiver, Dr. Bob’s voice boomed, “Erik, good news! I found the dog’s owner.”

11
    Erik’s heart leaped, then sank as Dr. Bob continued talking.
    â€œIt’s a fella by the name of Mike Duvochin. He lives down near Bismarck. He brought some of his dogs up this way last weekend to hunt sharp-tails, just the way I figured. And this pup took off on him. Says he called and