Hi everyone. I’m back blogging and re-discovering the fun. Last week I opened the new year with a snippet from a boys-to-men adventure story I’m writing, currently tagged with the McCallister 1866 identifier. I don’t have a title yet and haven’t decided where this story ends. Yes, I’m exploring, just like my characters. *cheeky grin* This week I’m continuing last week’s lines.
The McCallisters 1866
Charlie’s Kiowa side prevailed, guarding the kid as he gathered cards he’d laid out in poker hands on the attic floor, shoving them in his pocket before returning to the window.
“Pretty rough exit, Sam,” he warned his cousin, pointing at the jagged nail heads left in the wood.
The younger boy nodded, laid his shirt across the ragged sill, then twisted until he levered his lanky frame through the opening.
Once the youngest McCallister was freed, Charlie led the way off the roof, stopping first by the porch for Sam to drink deep from the canteen and wet his shirt in the rain barrel. Then they tracked shadows through the ranch yard to join Rob behind the barn. They all understood if the old man heard any ruckus outside, he’d blast his shotgun into the darkness and hope he killed whatever he couldn’t see.
“I should end the old bastard while he sleeps,” Charlie said grimly, fingering the scar on his cheek.
“His time’s comin’,” Rob muttered.
“Well let it come then,” Sam snarled, giving into the hatred gnawing at all their bones.
Charlie figured his own expression was just as bleak as Rob and Sam’s as they all contemplated killing their grandfather, Jonas McCallister.
A Few More Lines
“At least there’s no broken bones,” Sam said grinning and pulling on his wet shirt.
“—this time,” Rob muttered after inspecting his brother.
As Charlie watched, Sam rubbed the white patch of hair on the forehead of his horse affectionately, his anger noticeably draining away. Of course, it wasn’t the first time Sam had suffered the wrath of Jonas and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. As Charlie well knew, living through each experience was the challenge.
“Present company and a deck of cards excluded, you’re my best buddy, aren’t ya, horse,” Sam crooned, ignoring his stirrup to swing into the saddle in one lithe move.
Relieved there was no permanent damage, Charlie motioned Rob to mount up and the cousins walked their rides single file from the area, making an effort to be quiet.
“What now?” Robert asked after they were far enough from the ranch buildings to speak out loud.
“I’m going to see a witch. Thought you two might like to tag along.” Charlie’s answer changed the mood, sparking a hoot and a “hell yeah,” from Sam.
“And where would this tag-along take us?” Charlie could hear Rob’s ever present caution in his question.
“The Territory,” Charlie answered, knowing that sixteen-year-old Rob didn’t fret about his own hide but saw it as his job to keep fifteen-year-old Sam from harm. Being seventeen summers, himself, Charlie understood as their elder, it was his responsibility to keep both cousins safe.
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Have a great week!
Hello everyone. I’ve been working in the 19th century for the past year, and decided it was time to re-emerge. Wow, it’s 2021. I hope you are all filled with new ideas and a fresh page to write them on. Having said that, I’m sharing a snippet from a boys-to-men historical adventure I’ve been working in. No title yet.
The McCallisters 1866
Charlie Wolf took great satisfaction in leaving no evidence of his visits when he slipped on-and-off the ranch. It was late afternoon, almost dusk, when he skulked around the horse corral, using the shadows to reach the first outbuilding. Once inside, he climbed to the loft and crawled higher into the cupola. From his vantage point, he viewed the house through the louvered slats covering the high, glassless window.
When the lamps across the ranch yard had all been extinguished for the night, Charlie traded his barn perch for the ranch porch, using the water barrel at the corner of the building to boost himself onto the roof.
He listened, waiting until he heard the devil’s snores cutting through the otherwise silent house before moving again. His goal was the open, second-story window—the raised sash a signal the old man would never recognize as anything more than an attempt to cool the room.
Seeing the silent welcome they’d devised in the past gave Charlie an unexpected jolt of pleasure. Aside from his mother, the two boys who lived in the house were the only white people Charlie called friends. He eased inside and faced Rob, who stood tensely, staring at the window.
A Few More Lines
“I’m glad you came tonight but it’s not a good time to get caught. The old man‘s on a rant.” Rob whispered.
“Jonas went for his whip and Sam holed up in the attic.”
“I’ll get him. You take the porch route down and be ready with horses.” Charlie eased back outside.
“Take this, he’ll need it.” Rob thrust a canteen at him as Charlie crawled up the slanted roof and stopped at the attic window which wasn’t much more than a skylight.
It didn’t seem big enough for him to get through. He squinted trying to see into the darkness. If it was as hot inside the third story room as it had been in the barn cupola, the younger McCallister might have passed out by now.
Cautiously, Charlie scratched on the window, replicating the sound a stray branch might make against a pane of glass. A cover blanketing the window came down and a candle replaced the darkness as Sam stared out at him. When Charlie motioned him to open the window, Sam shook his head and pointed at the sash, mouthing the words, “Nailed shut.”
Hatred surged through Charlie. He took out his knife, wishing he could visit the beast snoring below and slit his throat. Instead, he slid the point of the blade between the soft wood of the frame and the window sash, patiently working each nail loose until Sam could get his fingers beneath to help pull it open.
A blast of heat escaping the airless room struck Charlie’s face when they finally pushed the glass to the top. Sweat glistened on Sam and he used his shirt to wipe it off.
“Water.” Charlie pushed the canteen into his cousin’s hands. In spite of the cut on Sam’s mouth and the bruise on his forehead, it appeared he’d escaped one of Jonas’s severe beatings.
The younger boy wet his face and lips before taking a long drink. Then he grinned at Charlie and drawled, “Bout time someone came to play.”
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