didn’t kill him first.
He crawled on his belly, using his elbows and knees for propulsion, toward the tree on his left. When she came for him, he wanted something at his back. He heard a rustling of pine needles coming from the dark on his right. She wasn’t even trying to maintain silence, so sure was she of the kill. Well, he had news for her, he wasn’t going to be so easy. She was so used to others, who turned and ran, that she was getting careless. He would use that to his advantage.
The wolf howled again, sending terror to the creatures of the night and shivers through his body. He moved toward the tree and scooted up against it. He crouched low, with his knees bent and his buttocks and back pressed firmly into the rough bark. He wished he had his gun, but he’d battled her without a gun before and he’d survived.
The wolf growled, telegraphing him of the pending attack. So unwolf like, he thought, but she could be arrogant. He heard the quick even patter of paws on pine needles. Her leg was healed. She would guard it better this time.
He had to make an instant decision. She could see in the dark, so she knew about the tree at his back. She wouldn’t come straight at him, at the last instant she’d veer to the left or right and leap with open jaws from about ten feet away. She’d want to grab his head, clamping down on it as she passed. The sheer force of her moving thrusting weight would break his neck.
Left or right, he thought, choose wrong and die, choose right and maybe he had a chance. He chose left, and turned holding the knife in front of himself with both hands, arms outstretched and elbows locked. He had only one chance and if he guessed right he’d have a surprise for her, if he guessed wrong she’d snap his neck and feast on his carcass.
He kept himself low and jumped forward, using his bent legs like pistons. He let out a war cry as he felt the knife sink into the soft underbelly of the wolf that went sailing over his head.
She howled in pain, a wail shrill and angry. A wail that would keep the dead in their graves and make the living wish they were lying beside them. He laughed as she scooted off into the dark.
She hadn’t expected a silver blade.
Chapter Seven
Arty was three blocks from home, pedaling into the dark with a rack full of papers, when he heard the familiar sound of his father blasting away on the horn. Six in the morning and most of the town still asleep, but his father didn’t care. He stiffened his heart and his right leg and pushed back on the brake, no sense pretending he didn’t hear.
At first he thought his father had discovered that he snuck out last night, but he shelved that thought as quickly as it came. He wouldn’t be coming after him in the truck if he was pissed. When his dad was pissed he couldn’t sleep till he hit something. He would have been waiting up if he knew Arty hadn’t been at home last night, belt in hand, and Arty would have felt its sting way before he would have folded paper one.
He put the kickstand down and rubbed his hands together against the cold. The pickup backfired as Bill Gibson downshifted and the tires chirped when his dad popped the clutch. Bill Gibson was never easy on anything or anyone, not clutches, wives-Arty’s mom was his dad’s fourth wife-or his son.
The pickup drew closer and Arty saw the shotgun in the gunrack behind his father. So he was going shooting today. That explained why he was up so early, but not why he had come chasing after him. It couldn’t be good, nothing his father ever did was good.
“ Hey, son,” Bill Gibson said.
“ Yeah, Dad?” Arty tensed. His father never called him son. It was almost friendly.
“ Can you give me some money? I’m a little flat and I need some shells.” Arty recognized the lie immediately. His father was too cheap to buy shells and he was too lazy to load his own. He had Arty do it, but Arty wasn’t about to mention it, because it would be like calling him a liar and that couldn’t be good.
“ How much?” It wasn’t fair. They had an unwritten rule. Arty’s paper route money was his. He bought his own clothes and paid for his own lunches at school. None of the other kids had to do that. He needed his money.
“ Twenty bucks.” His father had opened the door of the truck and the dome light came on, illuminating a two day stubble and a wicked mean look in his eyes. Arty shuddered as his father stepped down, spitting a cigarette in the street. He wanted to tell him no, but he knew the consequences and didn’t want to suffer them, especially not on the street at the beginning of his route.
“ That’s gonna leave me real short, Dad,” Arty said. He had three hundred and sixty dollars hidden in an envelope, taped behind his top dresser drawer, but he was hoping he would never have to use it, because he was saving up to run away.
“ I’ll pay you back,” Bill Gibson said, yawning and acting like he meant it, but Arty knew he’d never see the twenty again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He sighed and took out the money, four fives and three ones.
“ Here you go, Dad.” He separated the fives from the ones and handed them toward his father.
“ That all you got?”
“ I had to pay for the new tires for the bike. I gave Mr. Wilkes the money yesterday, right after I got paid.”
“ Damn.”
“ But you said you only wanted twenty.”
“ I lied.” His father snatched the remaining three dollars from his other hand.
“ How am I gonna pay for lunch?”
“ Not my problem, boy.” Bill Gibson turned away from his son. He climbed back into the truck, settled behind the wheel, slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck, then popped a cigarette into his mouth.
Arty watched till the truck turned the corner at the end of the block and he was worried. If his father started taking his money on a regular basis, he would have to raid his stash, something he didn’t want to do. He would have to run away much sooner than he’d planned.
“ Arty and Carolina sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Arty heard the voice singing out of tune and turned to see Brad Peters coming up the walk behind them, wearing a black leather jacket over a white tee shirt. He hated that song. Why couldn’t Brad leave them alone?
“ Hurry,” Arty said, “he can’t bother us once we get inside.” He took her by the elbow and started pushing her at a faster pace toward the safety of the school doors. The last thing he wanted was trouble with Brad.
He wanted to look behind to see if Brad had sped up, but he continued on, like he hadn’t heard the bully behind. Sometimes that worked with his father, especially if he’d been drinking. But sometimes it only made him madder, and those were the times when he really lit into him.
“ K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Brad repeated, too loud to be ignored, but they were almost to the steps and Arty decided to risk a glance behind to see how close he was. Turning his head, he saw that Brad was too far to catch them before they were inside the school and he felt a surge of warm relief. Now he could only hope that someone else would irritate Brad enough during the school day to take his mind off of whatever mischief he had planned for him.
“ Look!” Carolina grabbed onto Arty’s arm and pointed. “There!” Arty faced back forward, looked up and sighed, then stopped. In front of them, barring their way up the concrete steps, were Brad’s shadows, Ray Harpine and Steve Kerr, both dressed in Levi’s and white tee shirts, the standard uniform of Brad’s small gang. Only Brad wore the black leather mantel of leadership.
Arty’s first impulse was to run, but he was too fat and too slow and besides he would never leave Carolina alone. Even if the bullies would never hurt a girl, he couldn’t leave her. He quivered, but he stood his ground. They might tease him, but they would never thump him right in front of the school. That was too close to trouble, even for Brad.
