Gun Play at Cross Creek by Bill Dugan

might think him drunk. She offered no help. When he started for the door, he glanced back at her, but she was still at the table, her hands folded on the rough wood. Her face was empty.
    Chewing at his lower lip, he stepped all the way to the door, looked back again, and, when she hadn’t moved, accepted that he was on his own. He opened the screen door, his hand shaking as he extended it, and again when he let it go as he passed through.
    A brace of partridge tied by the feet lay on the porch, and a shotgun leaned against the wall.
    He saw the boy then, not a boy really, but not quite a man yet, loosening the cinch on a big chestnut mare. Tom, he thought, I have to remember to call him Tom, not Tommy.
    Tom hadn’t heard him or, if he did, paid no attention. He finished removing the saddle, tucked it up on his shoulder, and lugged it to the stable. Morgan stood there poised above the top step of the porch, wondering whether he should go to meet the boy or stay where he was. As hostile as Kate had seemed, he felt somehow comforted knowing she was just a few feet away.
    The boy appeared in the doorway and seemed to notice Morgan for the first time. He stopped, one foot suspended for a brief second. When it touched down, all movement ceased. The boy had become a statue. Morgan was amazed. Looking at the boy, even at that distance, he had the sensation of looking in an old mirror, seeing an image older even than the boy himself. They were spitting images.
    Morgan tilted his head back and cocked it to one side. Tom did the same, screwing up his face to peer through the glare of the late morning sun. The similarity was overwhelming. Morgan had the sensation of watching himself as a young man. If only he had known then what he knew now.
    Tom finally started to move. He walked slowly, his eyes still screwed tight, more in puzzlement now than an effort to see more sharply. Morgan was afraid to move. When Tom reached the bottom step, Morgan pushed his hat back so the boy could see him more easily.
    â€œSomething I can do for you, mister?” Tom asked.
    â€œNo.” It was Katie who answered. The screen door squeaked as she pushed it open, and Morgan was aware of her stepping near him, not too close, but close enough.
    Tom looked puzzled. “What’s going on, Mom?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask him?” Kate said.
    Tom looked more confused than ever now. And he was getting angry. “Somebody better tell me what’s going on, dammit.”
    Morgan twisted his head to loosen the knots at the base of his skull. “Maybe we better take a walk, son.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œJust bear with me.”
    â€œGo ahead, Tommy,” Kate said. Morgan heard the diminutive and turned to look at her sharply. What was she trying to do, he wondered.
    â€œSomeplace you like, some special place, maybe, out there?” Morgan gestured vaguely with his hand.
    Tom, still mystified, turned to look as if Morgan were indicating some particular place. He shrugged. “Not really,” he said.
    â€œFine, then let’s just walk.” Not knowing what else to do, Morgan stepped down off the porch and headed across the yard. He was nearly to the gate before Tom caught up to him.
    They walked side by side to the creek, and when Morgan stepped down off the bridge to the bank, Tom stopped. Morgan turned to see what was wrong.
    â€œWhy are we doing this?” Tom asked. “I know who you are.”
    â€œNo you don’t. You think you do, but what you know is what your mother wanted you to know. That’s only one part of me.”
    â€œI can think for myself.”
    â€œBut do you?”
    â€œDamn right!”
    Morgan nodded. “So why don’t you tell me what you think, then?”
    â€œYou don’t want to know.”
    â€œI’m askin’, ain’t I?”
    â€œNo. Not really. You came here to make yourself feel better, maybe. Maybe because you think you have some