James had left it with its throat slit just the morning before. She’d got to be three hundred pounds and would be just enough to stretch through the winger if they supplemented with possum and venison. But that would be leaving his children’s hunger to fate, something he’d yet to do even in this Depression.
But now it was all gone.
It’d snowed overnight, and blood left an incriminating trail through the east part of the woods, a way he never walked if he had a choice.
He knew the wide circle of fifty acres he and his ancestors had carved out of the mountains, knew it well and good. That’s how he knew to leave that side alone, and everyone who lived on the other side of it too.
It was called Patterson Flats, and inhabited by a family who’d been there since creation more than likely. They survived on hatred of their neighbors and thieving from them too. And all this meant was he knew where to look.
He went back in the house for his shotgun. Glory was still at the stove making a breakfast of biscuits, gravy, and fried potatoes. The children still slept.
“Somebody took the hog,” he said as he loaded two shells in the gun. He added to more to the front pocket of his canvas coat.
Glory knew well who somebody meant. “Maybe we can make do,” she said as she wiped her hands on a flour sack dish towel. “Parsons said there’s been a lot more deer around this year. Fifteen on the ridge just last week.”
He turned towards the front window, staring out at where the hog had hung in the now-empty oak tree. He wished it so, that he didn’t have to go. He felt the same as he did as a child, walking to the outhouse as a child, after his brother Clyde had filled him full of tales of boogers and haints. Fear-full and shaking.
“You know we can’t,” he said. He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead where her brows were knit together in worry.
“Wait,” she said. She grabbed a smooth round nut from the windowsill and slid it into his pocket. A buckeye. He smiled.
“I’ll see you round dinner time,” he said.
He walked through the side yeard to the barn to grab the sled. He knew if he did get the hog back he’d have to haul it somehow.
He set out on the trail of blood, crossing into the shadow of the trees, gloom soon closing around him.
Don’t you never answer your name at night, Clyde had told him once. That’s how the skinwalkers will get ya.
James had shivered and moved closer to the fireplace.
You just be glad we ain’t outside right now. They’d come right out of them woods fast as a storm breeze. He’d paused then as feigned thoughtfulness took over his features. Now, I have heard of them coming down the chimney.
James shook himself out of the reverie. He couldn’t afford to leave the present. He was coming up on Patterson Flats now.
Three clapboard houses formed a triangle in the clearing, facing each other across a bald, bare yard with dirt packed hard as a jail yard.
He looked for smoke coming out of the chimneys. Just one fire appeared to be lit. He hoped it meant only one of the brothers was home.
He walked towards that house, aiming to knock, when he saw one of the brothers around back. Amos, the oldest. His hair had gone gray and scraggly and he was missing his left eye. His nose tipped up at the end, leaving him looking feral and ready to snap his jaws around your neck.
He was at work over the hog, carving it up, blood circled around him.
“Amos,” James said.
He looked up at him, his concentration tightening into a mask of fury. “Why the hell are you here?”
“Seems you got something of mine.”
Amos had gotten both of the legs off and was working on the belly now. “Ain’t yours.”
James pulled back the hammer on the shotgun.
The wild man laughed at the sound. “What you gonna do?”
Something in Amos’ face made him think of Clyde. How he’d pushed him out of the hay loft. How he’d laughed when James had found his beagle drowned in the pond.
James raised the gun and swung the stock hard, connecting with Amos’ jaw. The man screamed in agony.
“You gonna pack it up for me or should I do it myself?” He bent down and loaded the haunches and part of the midsection on the sled. He worked quickly as the man bent over and held his jaw, spitting and cussing. He didn’t know how much time he’d have before the brothers got back.
“Maybe I’ll keep one of your daughters too,” Amos leered
Anger filled James’ bones and turned them to iron. “Lay a hand on any more bodies, and it’s yours that’ll feed us through the winter.”
“Guess you are tougher than I thought,” Amos said. He paled as he recognized violence equaled and met.
“I’ll leave you the rest,” James said as he gestured to the hog.
“We’re even,” Amos said. “Or maybe we’re not.” His eyes glinted yellow in the setting sun.
James turned and began the trek back, dragging the sled of meat behind him. At least if he didn’t make it through the winter, his girls would.
