Free Wilderness Run by Maria Hummel Page B

slightly from his approach, but he did not rear up.
    As Addison led Furlough out of the water, his soaked wool trousers sagged against his legs, but his jaunty cap was dry and intact. The soldier finally allowed a sliver of a grin to spread across his face.
    â€œHe needs to be fussed over and given some oats, if you got ’em,” he said to Davey. He reached out slowly and combed the stallion’s wet shoulder with his hand. Furlough’s muscles flickered, but the horse did not pull away.
    â€œOats,” said Davey admiringly. The two of them faded into horse talk, appraising Furlough’s still-shaking body, and Laurence jogged up the pasture to greet Pike. The boy’s face was tipped skyward, his cap nearly sliding off. His nostrils flared as he breathed.
    â€œDid you see that?” Laurence shouted needlessly, thrilled that he had witnessed something worth recounting to the others. He was already formulating the story in his mind. “A pond, a rope, a knife, and a tree, he promised Davey. I heard him.”
    â€œDon’t look up,” Pike said without lowering his chin a fraction. His arms were still dangling over the high rail.
    Ignoring this advice, Laurence cranked his head skyward, saw a trio of buzzards circling above the pond, their wings extended, motionless.
    â€œI told you not to look up,” Pike said reprovingly. “Now you’re stuck like me. It’s bad luck to look away before they flap.”
    â€œIt’s just a bunch of birds, Pike,” said Laurence, disgusted. But he kept his eyes on the dark shapes as they spiraled higher and higher, climbing an invisible stair. The wings did not move.
    â€œSuperstition,” he added, still watching. The buzzards spun so high, he could barely make them out. His neck began to ache. The sun was a hot white hole, and it pulled a trickle of sweat down his temple. He blinked. He could no longer see the buzzards and was about to say so, when Pike spoke.
    â€œWe have an uncle on my ma’s side who works for the Lindseys.” He said the name as if it didn’t belong to Laurence, but to some distant people he had never met. “Uncle Johnny used to come over some nights and tell us stories about people who lived rich like that, in great big houses with a hunnerd windows—”
    â€œHardly a hundred.” Laurence was glad they could not look at each other. His sweat-soaked collar clung to his neck.
    â€œAnd Gilbert, he used to say he was gonna have a big house with a cook and servants to do the washing and—”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me before?” asked Laurence, interrupting him. “About Johnny.”
    â€œGilbert asked me not to,” said Pike. “He doesn’t want Uncle Johnny to know a Lindsey whipped him in a fight.”
    Laurence snorted. The black specks descended, taking shape again.
    â€œWhat kind of stories did Johnny tell?” he demanded. “Did he say he shot an innocent man?”
    â€œHe said he once had to fire at a runaway nigger because Daniel Lindsey asked him and then later he was punished for it.”
    â€œThat’s a lie,” Laurence said to the sky.
    â€œHe was punished,” Pike insisted. “He said it was all the same—no matter what he did that day, it would have been the wrong thing, and they would have punished him for it because they couldn’t blame themselves.”
    â€œHe’s a liar,” retorted Laurence. “He’s a drunk and a thief and a liar. Everybody knows that about Johnny Mulcane.”
    Pike did not answer this time, although Laurence heard the rail fence creak and Pike’s feet thump the ground. The birds were dropping down fast, as if the spiral of air that lifted them had reversed course. Their wings were still rigid. Laurence tried to imagine Johnny Mulcane, but he couldn’t see his face, only the edge of his boot as he stood on the roof, sweeping snow down on the