Little Sure Shot - Tapa blanda

Acerca del autor

Matt Ralphs has worked in publishing as an editor and writer for many years. He writes fiction and non-fiction books, with a focus on history and the darker side of myths and folklore. He lives in England on a canal boat called Nostromo.

Fragmento. © Reproducción autorizada. Todos los derechos reservados.

I’m alone among the trees. The air is cool and full of forest smells: tree sap, thyme and oleander sage. My time slaving for the Wolves has made my body strong; I can hold Pa’s rifle steady from the shoulder for ages before my aim drops.
   My mind’s changed too, but in ways harder to explain. Some days I feel hopeful for the future, and believe that because I survived the Wolves, I can survive anything. But when nightmares throw me into the snow with a pair of prowling, yellow-eyed wolves, I cannot always stifle the scream when I wake. I guess some scars run deeper than the ones on my skin.
   I still work at the Infirmary (Mr Edington’s put me in charge of the dairy herd and every morning I make sure every child has a tot of milk) but so long as I do my chores, I’m allowed to come and go, trap and hunt whenever I choose. It’s a freedom I’ve never experienced, and I cherish it.
   I was worried I might have lost the knack for hunting after so long without practice, but it came back pretty quick. Why, just today I’ve filled my bag with half a dozen quail and a couple of grouse. I guess that’s enough, so I shoulder my rifle, make my way out of the trees and onto the road to Greenville.
   Hearing Ma’s voice in my head, I smooth down my dress, wipe the mud from my boots and straighten my hat before I hit Main Street. I stop and peer at some pheasants hanging from a rack in the window of Katzenberger’s General Store. Well now, there’s an idea . . .
   A bell tinkles as I open the door and stride up to the man behind the counter. A flicker of surprise passes over his moustachioed face when he sees my rifle. ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ he says, removing the toothpick from his mouth. ‘Fine day, ain’t it?’
   ‘It sure is.’
   ‘That’s a fearsome looking iron you got there. That your pa’s?’
   ‘Sure ain’t. Not any more. This is mine.’
   ‘Huh,’ he says, and there’s that flicker of surprise again. ‘So, you looking to sell it? I’ll give you a fair price.’
  ‘Sell my rifle?’ I laugh. ‘I can’t imagine anything compelling me to do such a foolhardy thing.’
   ‘Oh, well . . . So what can I do for you, Miss . . . ?’
   ‘Miss Annie Mosey, and I have some business to discuss with Mr Katzenberger. He around?’
   ‘Business, eh? Well, you’re in luck, because I am Mr Charles Katzenberger, owner and operator of this establishment. And, Miss Mosey, I am all ears.’
   I jerk my thumb towards the window. ‘Who supplies your game?’
   ‘Local hunters, backwoods folk. Anyone who can aim and shoot and’s in need of a dollar or two.’
   ‘They all use shotguns, I bet.’ ‘Sure they do.’
   ‘And riddle these fine birds with buckshot.’
   Mr Katzenberger shrugs. ‘I guess.’
   ‘Leaving your paying customers to pick the lead out their mouths as they eat.’
   ‘Folk expect that. These birds gotta be killed with something, and a shotgun’ll get the job done as good as anything else.’
   ‘Respectfully, Mr Katzenberger, I disagree. A rifle is superior when hunting game for the pot. All you need do after the kill is remove a single bullet, leaving nothing behind but prime, unspoiled meat.’
   Mr Katzenberger leans both elbows on the counter. ‘But none of them backwoods boys use a rifle.’
   ‘But I do.’ I grin and plonk my (slightly bloody) catch bag onto the counter. ‘Go ahead – take a look.’
   Frowning, Mr Katzenberger opens the bag and peers inside. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He pulls out a quail and examines the single bullet hole just below the neck. ‘There must be half a dozen birds in here . . .’   
   ‘Now you see why I don’t want to sell my rifle.’
   He stares at me. ‘This . . . This is your haul? You shot all these birds?’
   I nod, relishing his surprise.
   ‘You bagged ’em with that old muzzle-loader you got there?’
   ‘Yes, sir.’
   ‘And may I enquire just how’d you got to be so afly with a firearm?’
   ‘My pa taught me, and he taught me well.’
   Mr Katzenberger laughs and shakes his head. ‘You’ll have to forgive a coarse man his vernacular, Miss Mosey, but I’ll be god-damned.’ He spreads his hands wide. ‘So, what’s your proposal?’
   ‘That I supply you with the finest game the forests of Darke County have to oœer, and you pay me a fair price in return.’ I tap my catch bag. ‘Rifle-shot, remember. So I’d politely ask for a lick more pay than you give those shotguntotin’ backwoods boys.’
   Mr Katzenberger chuckles. ‘You know, this morning I had no reason to think that this day would be any diœerent to another. And then a girl no bigger than a corn nubbin comes in here with a gun taller’n she is, the biggest bag of birds I’ve ever seen, and a shrewd mind for business.’ He points his toothpick at me. ‘You know, you might just be the most surprising young woman who’s ever walked into my store.’
   ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
   ‘You should.’ He holds out his hand. ‘You got yourself a deal, Miss Mosey.’
   Five minutes later I’m back on Main Street, holding onto the cash in my pocket and the joy in my heart. I’ve gotten myself an income!