Free Haints Stay by Colin Winnette Page A

got to do your best to keep this thing civil. I won’t have Mary waking up
     with nightmares for weeks to come.”
    â€œSorry,” said Bird.
    â€œSorry ?” said Martha. “Sorry what ?”
    â€œDon’t mess with him, Martha. He’s telling a story.”
    â€œSorry for… saying what I said,” said Bird.
    â€œShe wants you to say ma’am,” said Mary.
    â€œI’d like a bit of respect at the dinner table, is all,”
     said Martha.
    â€œDon’t mess with the boy,” said John.
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” said Bird.
    â€œThank you, Bud,” said Martha.
    â€œBird,” said Bird.
    â€œThank you, young one.”
    Â 
    The top-hatted man was named Jim. The other riders had made it
     clear enough, in spite of their efforts to hide it. Brooke was keeping quiet now,
     learning what he could from their scattered conversation, and mulling over the news
     they’d delivered what felt like half a day before. They were deep in the country,
     deep in the desert. It was cold. Brooke could see his breath. The stars were out and
     the moon was bright enough to reflect the edges of the enormous rocks articulating
     the wide expanse in either direction. They were following a thin stream, headed for
     the arc where two large rocks met. If he was lucky, they would camp and maybe he
     would see Sugar. If he was unlucky, they were going to bury him in the hollows.
    â€œJim,” said Brooke.
    The man turned to him, but did not answer.
    â€œHow did you know about Sugar ?”
    â€œIt’s plain as day, rat.”
    â€œI’d like you to be kinder,” said Brooke. “I’ve never condescended to
     you. I’m only asking for basic human treatment. I’m not asking for pardon.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what you’re asking for,” said Jim, “or what you’re not
     asking for. It’s us who’s running things, bloodhound. We’ll handle you how we see
     fit.”
    The carriage lurched to a halt then and the driver leapt
     from his perch.
    â€œGet your guns,” he whispered.
    â€œWhat’s happened ?” cried one of the men.
    â€œShut it or I’ll shut it for you,” said the driver.
    â€œPut him in the bench,” said Jim, signaling to the men on either side of
     Brooke.
    They lifted him, opened the seat beneath them, and before he could
     protest with more than a jerk of his bound wrists, he was bent over the mouth of the
     opened bench and stuffed into a curled-up position. Then he was sealed off. It was
     all darkness. He pushed against the wood above him. It bowed outward but did not
     open or burst.
    He heard voices then. He heard hooves and the crack of a rifle. He heard
     yelling, more gunfire. Every sound was amplified by the rocks rising up around them.
     It echoed out like the first battle of creation. Like life was forming right there
     in the opening of that hollow.
    Then there were bodies on the wagon. It rocked and Brooke slid an inch
     one way and then an inch back the other. There was the clinking of metal clasps,
     sacks dragged and dropped. It was a robbery, or they were abandoning him. Everything
     was flying off the wagon and the men were crawling around on it like spiders,
     looking for anything and everything to take with them.
    â€œNo passenger,” said a voice.
    â€œAs he thought then,” said another.
    After only a few moments, the wagon went still and he heard the thuds of
     boots on sand and then the hoof-falls of horses fading into the distance. He pushed
     against the wood above him. It bowed again, loosed a little light this time,
     revealing the unfinished edges of the box around him. A bit of sand slipped in andstung his eyes. He turned his body, pushed with his knees, and
     was able to get the lid up about an inch or so. He kept at it. With knees and bound
     hands, then his forehead, he pushed against the lid and bowed it