Free Preacher's Boy by Katherine Paterson Page B

knotting the kerchief, pulling the ends tight with her rough little hands. The nails were bitten, rimmed in black. By this time the man had come into the cabin, dragging behind him a burlap bag. He reached for the bundle with his free hand. It, too, was raw and red with filthy nails. I couldn't help but think of my father's strong, clean hands.
    "What you doin' back here agin?" he asked. He was close enough now for me to see the dark red of his nose and the broken blue veins cobwebbing his face.
    "This was—is—my cabin."
    "We'll believe that when we see your bill of sale." Vile hawked and spit on the dirt floor like a hanger-on in the livery stable. I'd never seen a girl with such a dirty face. Her whole visible body was a strange shade of gray. She saw my look, snuffled, then wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "You can stop staring. Or didn't your momma tell you no manners?"
    I could feel the red start at the roots of my hair. "My ma—"
    "Git!" the man said, as though I was a stray dog.
    "I didn't mean no harm. Really." I wiped my sweaty palms down the sides of my britches. "Look, if you need a better place to stay or—or anything—my pa's the preacher at the Congregational church—he'd be glad to-"
    "We do jest fine, Mr. Prissy Preacher Pants," Vile said. "Jest fine. You heard what Paw said. Git."
    "But what will you eat? There ain't nothing here."
    The man's eyes shifted sidewise. So that was it. They were stealing food. I couldn't be too self-righteous on that score. Me and Willie often took apples and butternuts—all the fellows did. But more for sport, not to keep from starving. Besides, it was only the fifth of July. There's not much ripe this early in Vermont.
    At that moment the burlap bag that the man was dragging behind him gave out a loud
bwraaaak.
    I forgot to be scared. "I'll be snackered," I said. "You got a chicken in there."
    As though to answer me, the bag began to hop about and holler.
    They closed ranks in front of the suddenly lively sack. It jumped and squawked to a fare-thee-well.
    I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.
    "Hush up!" I couldn't tell if the girl's command was for me or the chicken.
    "How'd you get past Webster's dogs?" I asked.
    Her eyes narrowed. I had the upper hand now. "You ain't thinking to tell on us?"
    "Naw. I ain't no snitch." Then, to assure them—and myself?—whose side I was on: "Want some carrots and a potato or two to cook with it?"
    The girl was still giving me the suspicious eye, but the man pitched the kerchief-wrapped bundle into the corner and gave me a nod. "Vile, go fetch us some water. The boy may be some use to us after all." He turned and gave me what I could only figure out was his idea of a friendly smile. "Name's Zeb," he said, holding out his big dirty paw.
    I gave him my hand. Somehow I couldn't make myself give him my name as well, so I rechristened
myself on the spot. "Fred," I said, quickly disentangling from his handshake. But I liked my new name. I always thought I should have been named Fred.
    "Fred here will fetch the roots"—he gave me his smarmy smile—"while I remove the squawk from this here bird." With that he reached into the sack, grabbed the chicken by its neck, and twirled it around and around over his head like a lasso in a Wild West Show.
    My mouth fell open wide as a bear cave, in awe or horror, I couldn't say which. "I reckon you don't need me to bring the ax, then," I said faintly.
    "Not hardly," he said. His laugh showed me a mouthful of missing and rotting teeth.
    I took to my heels and skedaddled down the hill. The winter vegetables, what was left of them, were down in the root cellar. It seemed strange to be stealing something that Ma would have gladly given me had I asked. But asking would mean explanations, and explanations would mean giving away the whereabouts of me and Willie's hideaway and the fact that two of the world's most needy thieves were tucked away up there.
    I'm not sure