popped and sizzled all around him. He glanced up at his brother, Artemis, and said, "How you coming with them biscuits, dreamy-eyes?"
Although Artemis hated the name, any nickname in fact, he grinned at his older brother and continued pounding his fists into the sticky dough. "Can't tell for sure, Billy. You know I ain't got much know-how when it comes to cooking, but I think they could use some more flour."
"There's that word again: think. What have I told you about that, Artie-boy? If'n I wanted you to go thinking on your own, I'd have told you to do it."
"Sorry."
"I'll just bet you are." Billy stacked the steaks, one on top of another to make room in the skillet for the biscuits, and then snatched the bowl out of his brother's hands. As he spooned the dough into the hot grease, he sighed and said, "I guess you went and forgot about that cowlick sticking straight up on the top of your head, huh, boy?"
Artemis dropped his chin to his chest. "I ain't forgot."
"Then maybe you forgot why it's there." When the kid didn't comment, he offered a reminder. "It's your own personal dunce cap, a kind of natural signal that lets the rest of us normal folks in on the fact that you ain't quite all there. A built-in dunce cap for a dunce." He laughed, and then as he thought about it, laughed some more.
Artemis laughed, too, as always, wanting desperately to fit in with the gang, even at his own expense. Besides, Billy was right about the cowlick. It did look like a dunce cap, and he was a little bit slow. Not that Artemis had been born with any kind of abnormality, including the cowlick. His wheat-brown hair, straight as string, had always combed down nice, even without the benefit of Pa's bear grease. Until the accident, anyway.
It had happened on the day of his eighth birthday when he went out to give the Doolittles' best brood mare, Irish, a little extra feed. He'd dumped a generous portion of flax and grain mixed with sweet molasses into her crib, and then started to return to the house. That was when he noticed a spot of blood on her right rear fetlock. He had bent down to pick her hoof up from the bedding straw, but it wasn't until he came to that he remembered that Irish didn't allow anyone to touch her while she was eating.
The result of that error was a crescent-shaped scar about the size of a horseshoe near the crown at the back of his head; a stubborn cowlick which rose up from the peak of that crescent like a flag; and a mind that wasn't endowed with nearly as much common sense as it would have been otherwise. Hence the nicknames: "Artie-boy," "dreamy-eyes," "dummy," on occasion; and of course, continual references to the "dunce cap" shaft of hair.
The names hurt, especially coming from his last living brother, but he always laughed along with him, sometimes louder than anyone else. If he didn't laugh, Artemis was afraid, one day he'd lose control and do the one thing he really wanted to do. And that was cry.
A gang member named Tate, who was sitting at the edge of the cliff, brought a spyglass to his eye. "Rider coming in," he said loud enough for all to hear. "It's Tubbs."
"Well, it's about time." Billy turned the biscuits and then covered the pan with a huge, oversized lid. "I'm so hungry I could eat a skunk. Wave him over."
Artemis perked up immediately. Of all the gang members, including his own brother, Tubbs was the one he liked best. Although he couldn't exactly say that the man was nice to him, Tubbs was the only one who never made jokes about his shortcomings, and usually didn't even laugh when the others did. He was the best friend Artemis had ever had.
After Tubbs left his horse, as well as the stray sorrel he'd come across in Mancos Valley, in the care of another member of the six-man gang, Shorty, he hiked up to the site of the ruins. He strolled into camp, tossed a sack of supplies in through the open doorway of one of the block dwellings, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the inside of his
Although Artemis hated the name, any nickname in fact, he grinned at his older brother and continued pounding his fists into the sticky dough. "Can't tell for sure, Billy. You know I ain't got much know-how when it comes to cooking, but I think they could use some more flour."
"There's that word again: think. What have I told you about that, Artie-boy? If'n I wanted you to go thinking on your own, I'd have told you to do it."
"Sorry."
"I'll just bet you are." Billy stacked the steaks, one on top of another to make room in the skillet for the biscuits, and then snatched the bowl out of his brother's hands. As he spooned the dough into the hot grease, he sighed and said, "I guess you went and forgot about that cowlick sticking straight up on the top of your head, huh, boy?"
Artemis dropped his chin to his chest. "I ain't forgot."
"Then maybe you forgot why it's there." When the kid didn't comment, he offered a reminder. "It's your own personal dunce cap, a kind of natural signal that lets the rest of us normal folks in on the fact that you ain't quite all there. A built-in dunce cap for a dunce." He laughed, and then as he thought about it, laughed some more.
Artemis laughed, too, as always, wanting desperately to fit in with the gang, even at his own expense. Besides, Billy was right about the cowlick. It did look like a dunce cap, and he was a little bit slow. Not that Artemis had been born with any kind of abnormality, including the cowlick. His wheat-brown hair, straight as string, had always combed down nice, even without the benefit of Pa's bear grease. Until the accident, anyway.
It had happened on the day of his eighth birthday when he went out to give the Doolittles' best brood mare, Irish, a little extra feed. He'd dumped a generous portion of flax and grain mixed with sweet molasses into her crib, and then started to return to the house. That was when he noticed a spot of blood on her right rear fetlock. He had bent down to pick her hoof up from the bedding straw, but it wasn't until he came to that he remembered that Irish didn't allow anyone to touch her while she was eating.
The result of that error was a crescent-shaped scar about the size of a horseshoe near the crown at the back of his head; a stubborn cowlick which rose up from the peak of that crescent like a flag; and a mind that wasn't endowed with nearly as much common sense as it would have been otherwise. Hence the nicknames: "Artie-boy," "dreamy-eyes," "dummy," on occasion; and of course, continual references to the "dunce cap" shaft of hair.
The names hurt, especially coming from his last living brother, but he always laughed along with him, sometimes louder than anyone else. If he didn't laugh, Artemis was afraid, one day he'd lose control and do the one thing he really wanted to do. And that was cry.
A gang member named Tate, who was sitting at the edge of the cliff, brought a spyglass to his eye. "Rider coming in," he said loud enough for all to hear. "It's Tubbs."
"Well, it's about time." Billy turned the biscuits and then covered the pan with a huge, oversized lid. "I'm so hungry I could eat a skunk. Wave him over."
Artemis perked up immediately. Of all the gang members, including his own brother, Tubbs was the one he liked best. Although he couldn't exactly say that the man was nice to him, Tubbs was the only one who never made jokes about his shortcomings, and usually didn't even laugh when the others did. He was the best friend Artemis had ever had.
After Tubbs left his horse, as well as the stray sorrel he'd come across in Mancos Valley, in the care of another member of the six-man gang, Shorty, he hiked up to the site of the ruins. He strolled into camp, tossed a sack of supplies in through the open doorway of one of the block dwellings, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the inside of his
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