The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman

trees, its head moving robotically from side to side as it hunted field mice or conies, and its shrill cry pierced the silence like a referee’s whistle, the sound torn to shreds by the high wind that floated him on cushions of air.
    Ben headed the wagon toward the barn and corral on the near side of the meadow.
    â€œPick up the dynamite, caps, and fuses,” he said laconically. “Got ’em set out.”
    John nodded, caught up in the beauty and grandeur of the land, the sky, the towering mountains silhouetted against a blue, cloud-flecked horizon high above timberline.
    He slipped his gloves on and helped Ben load the half-full box of dynamite. Ben placed a box of caps and a fuse coil under the seat next to their rifles, then climbed back up on his perch. John hauled himself up, and after he sat down, the wagon rolled toward the other side of the vale, just off the foot of the bottom end.
    The two men were silent as they crossed the small creek, splashing through its amber-gold waters, and pulled up next to a copse of spruce and fir trees. Beyond, John knew, there was an open place of shade and serenity, an untouched garden amid the tall pines.
    Ben reined the mules to a halt, after twisting the wagon into a half turn, and set the brake.
    â€œThis the place you had in mind, Johnny?”
    John nodded.
    â€œFigured. Nice place.”
    â€œLet’s do it,” John said, that hard, cold place in him darkening, getting colder, harder as those terrible images of men shooting down his family and friends in ice-laced blood. The precision of it. No missed shots. No ricochets. No wild bullets flying in space. Every shot hitting home, drawing blood, smashing bone and flesh, crushing beating hearts, tearing up lungs and windpipes, blowing black holes in faces and bodies. The horror of it emblazed on his mind like painted figures on the cave walls of his mind, as vivid as if it had all happened seconds ago, as if it were still happening.
    â€œI’ll lay it all out,” Ben said. “You cut me a dozen sticks. Don’t touch your forehead with them gloves.”
    John took the box of dynamite from the wagon. He drew the knife from its sheath, knelt down and began to gently saw through each stick, cutting each one exactly in half until he had twenty-four half sticks laid out in a neat row. A small gray bird flitted in the brush just outside the glade, chirping as it landed on each new branch. John saw it out of the corner of his eye, and then it was gone, like some ghost bird, leaving only a gnawing silence as if some silent thing was eating at the far fringes of his mind.
    â€œBring ’em over, Johnny.”
    John scooped up the sticks, carried them in his arms over to where Ben had shoveled twenty-four depressions in the earth. There was the smell of moss and pinesap, the aromatic fragrance of spruce and fir, the delicate scent of a lone blue columbine just catching the sun at the edge of the meadow like some small and forlorn orchid sprouted for just that moment.
    â€œI’ll cap ’em and bury ’em. You bring me that coil of fuse in the wagon.”
    â€œThe explosion’s going to ruin this place, Ben.”
    â€œNo. Not the way I’ll do it. We’ll still have some digging to do. Not much, I hope.”
    John went back to the wagon and got the length of fuse, carried it to where Ben was kneeling in the shade of the trees. Ben buried each stick deep so that only the very top was visible. He carefully pushed a cap into the center of the sawdust mixture. John watched him. He knew that the caps were dangerous. If one went off while Ben was pushing it down into the dynamite it would blow his hand and arm off, a grisly thing to contemplate just then.
    When Ben was finished, he measured the fuse, counting off seconds in his mind. Shadows shifted in the glade, appearing and disappearing, stroking the grass like shadowy fingers, pulling away, then pushing back over soft green