Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel by Kim Heacox

hand thinking it’s a young man’s nature to have an adversary.
    Charlie turned off his machine and motioned the others to do the same. “Hey, James,” he said. “You got time to talk?”
    James shifted his weight but said nothing.
    “The troopers are asking a lot of questions and I’ve been answering them,” Charlie said. “We’ve all been answering them, haven’t we, fellas?” He looked at his buddies, who nodded. Tommy’s nod lacked enthusiasm, Keb thought. But it was a good beginning. Charlie added, “I’m sorry about what happened. We all are. It’s a bum deal for you, and it was an accident. It really was.”
    Again, no comment from James.
    “It would have been cool to see you make it in the NBA,” Charlie said. He sounded so sincere, looked sincere too, with his open face and expressive eyes and winning smile. Remember Custer? Uncle Austin used to say. He had a winning smile and long golden hair and didn’t smoke or cuss or drink; he loved the opera and classical music, adored his wife, spoke sincerely, and shot Indians.
    “Anyway,” Charlie said, “my brother Tommy has something to say to you.”
    By now Tommy had dismounted his machine and was standing next to it, but didn’t look at all comfortable. Keb thought he might catch on fire from the friction eating away at him. A wounded moment limped by. Keb had to get his shoes off. He tried to swallow. Everything was too hot and dry. How long since it had rained? Keb loved the rain. From his position behind James, near the truck, he watched the Lakers jersey kid circle to his left. The kid was lean and small, but something in the way he moved said it didn’t matter.
    Tommy said to James, “Just before the logs rolled, I heard something break, a D-ring, I think.”
    James stared at him.
    “You might have set the choker wrong,” Tommy added.
    “I set it right,” James said, his hand shaking on his cane. “You were the crew boss, Charlie. You made the decision to skid the logs and not high-lead them.”
    “That has nothing to do with it.”
    “That has everything to do with it.”
    “Read the Alaska Forest Practices Act. Skid logging and cutting in the buffer strip are completely legal.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I know so.”
    The Lakers jersey kid kept circling, aiming to outflank Charlie and Tommy and the others.
    “Stop right there,” Charlie yelled, pointing a finger at him. The kid stopped.
    A hot wind blew up then, like a breath, crazy as it sounds, but that’s how Old Keb felt it, as a parched, dry sigh that whipped up dust and grit, and brought people’s hands to their eyes. It funneled through the open cab of the truck where a raven feather lifted off the seat and sailed out the cab window and onto the ground. Keb alone saw it, from where he stood behind James. As quickly as the wind arose, it died.
    Keb reached down and picked it up.
    “Hey, Keb,” Charlie said, “I didn’t see you back there.”
    Keb nodded. He had nothing to say.
    “It’s time for you to leave, all of you,” Gracie said as she wiped the dust from her eyes.
    Charlie had more to say, Keb could tell, but Sheriff Stuart Ewing roared up in his Jeep Grand Cherokee and parked next to the only puddle that three weeks of sunny weather had failed to vanquish. Coated with pollen and dust, it lay concealed until Stuart opened the door and stepped right into it. Kaploosh. “Everybody stay where you are,” he said in his best sheriff voice. He kicked his feet dry and strode forward on skinny legs.
    A train of vehicles followed, the rusty, dented cars and trucks of coastal Alaska. ATVs too, bringing a small-town theater of eager onlookers keen on any conflict. Coach Nicks was there, and Dag Nystad, and Truman, Helen, Myrtle, Little Mac, and several of James’s friends from the high school basketball team. Coach Nicks said, “Go home, Charlie. All of you, go home.”
    Sheriff Ewing said, “I’ll handle this, Coach.” Problem was, he wasn’t a sheriff.