The Savage Gun by Jory Sherman Page B

quail and the eerie whistle of a young bull elk.
    It was late afternoon when the two men finished burying all the dead. Neither had eaten all day, but neither did they hunger for food as they finished tamping down the mounds of dirt that formed a single grave for eleven people.
    â€œDo you want to say a prayer, Johnny?” Ben asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you want me to say one?”
    â€œIt don’t make no difference to me. They can’t hear you.”
    There was that hardness in John, Ben thought. Getting harder all the time.
    â€œI thought the prayer was for God,” he said.
    â€œI already prayed in my mind, Ben. I don’t need to hear no words.”
    John had become almost primitive in his speech, Ben thought. Laconic. Like his namesake, a savage.
    â€œAll right, Johnny. I’ll just say this, and be done with it.”
    Ben cleared his throat and took off his hat. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
    â€œLord, take these good people into your Heaven. They done nobody no harm. Take care of ’em. Amen.”
    â€œGood enough,” John said.
    Large, white billowing clouds rose from behind the snowcapped peaks, wafting slowly toward the prairie. They cast shadows across the meadow, towering high in the heavens, all fluffy and serene, looking soft as eiderdown, peaceful as a quiet summer afternoon. The two men put their shovels into the wagon and climbed in. They drove to the barn and unhitched the mules, grained them, and turned them onto the pasture with hobbles on their front legs.
    Neither man spoke as they walked down the road toward the deserted and desolate camp. Their rifles rested flat on their shoulders, balanced there as if on fulcrums. John carried a box of .30-caliber cartridges in his left hand, his knife and scabbard in his right.
    The sun disappeared behind the high snow of the thunderheads and a pair of doves whiffled past on whirring wings, twisting and turning in the air like feathered darts. They were mourning doves, the most gentle of birds, he thought. Ben looked at them as they winged past. John did not.
    Ben sighed. Worry lines furrowed his forehead.
    As the twig is bent, he thought, so grows the tree.
    John’s shoulders drooped. Ben thought he looked like an old man at that moment.
    He hoped that John would also turn out to be a wise man, young or old.

7
    THUNDERHEADS LINED THE SKY: GREAT, TOWERING WHITE BEHEMOTHS stretching from north to south, east to west, blotting out the sun, casting a giant shadow over the land. The creek waters turned from amber and gold and silver to a sullen murkiness of dark umber and coal black, running fleet with somber waters.
    â€œI’ll rig us up one of these tents,” Ben said. “Clear up some of this mess. You want to build us a fire? We need to cook some grub.”
    â€œSure,” John said, laying his rifle down on a rock higher up the slope above the campsite. He walked to the fire ring and held his hand over it to see if there were any coals left. There was no heat, only charred wood and ashes. He began to pick up the scattered sticks of kindling that lay strewn from the place where they had been stacked.
    Ben walked some yards away to a tent that had not been spattered with blood. He gathered up the poles, pulled the top of the tent up and propped it with first one pole, then the other. He pulled the tent tight, and then searched for a hammer to drive in the stakes to give the tent its shape and stability.
    A small flock of green-winged teals streaked low over the creek, heading south along its winding course. They flared out of formation when they saw the two men, then quickly rejoined their mates, their wings keening like silver whistles as they knifed through the air and became like mere whispers heard in passing.
    John built a pyramid of sticks, started shaving one with his knife, flicking the dry chips into the base of the cone. When he was finished, he walked over to Ben.
    â€œBorrow your