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Benny set the snares with a loving, hungry
attention. Right now even one of those oily, noisy starlings would taste good.
“Better be something else,” he muttered in a low
voice and moistened some crumbs and lint he had found in his pocket. He spat
them into his hand and wiped his mouth before rolling them into a ball. This
was pressed with a gentle caress onto the trigger of the snare.
He backed out of the thicket and returned to a dry
camp. As warm as the days were, the nights were still chilling and damp.
Swelling poplar buds and the inner bark of the tree
provided a meal of sorts, but nothing remotely like that his 'wolf' was
demanding. Benny rolled up in his blanket, a 'new' flannel bought at a poverty
shop to replace the one given to the Longs' granddaughter, Kreesha Garcia, and
scowled. It was going to be a long night.
About the time the sun touched the horizon to the
east he was awakened by a squawk and the thrashing of wings. Benny sprang from
his bed and rushed to the snare before some enterprising fox got lucky and
snagged his bird.
Benny plowed through the underbrush and let loose a
whoop of joy. He wanted meat; he got meat. Quail, two of them still fluttered
on the ground, neatly beheaded by the piano wire.
He collected them and his snare, and thrust himself
back to camp. Later, he decided, he'd come back and make apologies to
Eagle-Woman for the kill, and sprinkle a little tobacco over the ground to
purify it.
“Smoke?” Cindy sniffed the air. A delicate frown
creased the skin between her eyes. She motioned to the man who was her
personal guard today. He nodded and pointed in silence at the location he
thought the fire might be. His horse started forward at a slow pace, angling
away from where he had indicated.
She drew back. More raiders. To Cindy they were
people who lived only for self-gratification. They camped on her lands, abused
it, and shot her game and her horses. She reached for her talkie to call the
sheriff, then pulled her hand back from the saddle horn. Maybe a few skulls in
the trees would be better for future reference.
Benny's 'wolf' sniffed in greedy anticipation at the
pair of quail impaled on green branches. Food. Real food. Not rabbit food. It
growled and forced the saliva to pool in Benny's mouth.
Mm, good eatin', Grey-Wolf Rider. Mm-
With a sudden change it cramped and nipped in fear. Wary!,
Dark-Rider. Badbadbad. Something was coming that Benny's nasal
passages recognized from the few particles of odor lost amid all the other
scents crowding in.
Not knowing what made him do it, only that he had
to, Benny looked with regret at the sizzling birds and moved away into the
brush. He paused to listen for unusual noises. There, a faint thump. The sound
of brush dragging along a heavy body. His listening intensified.
A heart pounding . . . he scowled and almost gave a
sheepish grin.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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