Free Sharpshooter by Chris Lynch Page A

corporal,” I say.
    â€œYou just calm those red eyes of yours right down now, brave. Understand me? It would be a shame to waste all of this on your first and last day out, right?”
    â€œRight, corporal.”
    What I had, in fact, missed there was that we were going up the trail in twos, and I was to be paired with Lightfoot, while Parrish and Arguello would head up about ninety seconds in front of us.
    We stand there, guns raised, eyes left-right-left, like marching, as the first two begin the slow, sweeping walk up the trail.
    â€œOkay,” Lightfoot says, “on we go.”
    The trail itself looks like it is built for a couple of bikes riding side by side, or maybe a little Japanese car. As Lightfoot and I walk, we can’t quite reach out our hands and touch, but we can do it with our guns. We won’t try it, though.
    But it is close enough for whispering.
    â€œSo, what are you?” he says to me. I stare at him, wondering if he just has nothing real to say or if he is slowly rolling out the longest conversational time filler he can think of.
    â€œI’m an American,” I say.
    â€œGreat,” he says, “but I mean more specifically. Like, you’re a Catholic, obviously, from the doohickey around your neck….”
    â€œScapular,” I whisper-snap. “It’s called a scapular, and I got it from my mother as I was headed off to here.”
    â€œThat’s nice. Most of The People, though, they don’t go with the Catholic thing.”
    â€œWhat people ?”
    Up ahead, Parrish whirls around like a big, angry, armed ballet dancer. He mimes shush , then points at me with a bit of aggression.
    â€œThe People, man,” Lightfoot says with a knowing smile. “What’s your tribe?”
    Now I really go goggle-eyed at him. I even crane my neck in his direction. He mimes eyes front by pointing two fingers at his own eyes, then pointing them up the road.
    â€œWow,” I say. “I mean, that’s pretty impressive. I don’t even know how much Indian blood I’ve —”
    â€œOne quarter.”
    I open my mouth wide to give him a double wow , but he cuts me off.
    â€œI was just kidding that time. But I see you got something in you somewhere. Tribe?”
    I sigh, thinking about my dad’s scattershot enthusiasm for the whole deal.
    â€œMy dad says Sioux, but —”
    â€œPfshht” is the noise that comes out of Lightfoot. It is not a noise of agreement.
    â€œYou are East Coast. I would guess Iroquois, but I could be wrong. Not as wrong as your father, of course … no offense.”
    â€œNo offense. Somewhere right now my mom is laughing over this.”
    Both Parrish and Arguello stop suddenly and turn toward us, their guns raised. They stand facing into bushes as we catch up.
    When we get there, we can see what has caught their attention. About twelve feet off to the left of the small path, at the end of an even smaller path, is a mound. It is only slightly raised, but it seems different from the surrounding ground and a bit too carefully arranged. Lightfoot and I stand guard as the two of them advance. I draw my pistol and watch the road behind us while Lightfoot watches ahead.
    There is about five minutes of digging before they indicate they have something. They dig faster now, a little less cautiously, until they get to the big metal drum and open it …
    â€¦ to find it empty. Parrish curses, and we come in to have a look.
    The side of the drum has been pried open and emptied, the remaining shell lying there opened like it is laughing at us. We waste about another two minutes staring before we trudge back out to the trail to start all over again.
    The day goes mostly like that — a slow, methodical creeping through a hostile jungle where we do not encounter one other human being. As the hours pass and we edge farther out into the nothing, a strange combination of boredom and increasing fear