This is from the last chapter of the book:
“Look-it what I found,” Little Orive
declared holding up a jar of amber colored liquid.
“Hey, that’s uncle Benny’s personal
stash. He won’t favor you getting’ into it,” Woodrow said. “You leave it be
now, ya hear? He’ll skin you alive. He won’t care if you are kin.”
Little Orvie put the jar back in place,
but T.W. was always the adventurous one and so he opened it and took a sniff of
the liquid. Little Orvie stuck his nose over the lip of the jar. T.W. handed it
to him and with a quick jerk of his chin he indicated that he should try some
of it. Little Orvie cut his eyes to Woodrow who was sacked out. Only his boots
could be seen and his feet looked like he was asleep.
“We could dip our beaks in every jar
here and refill them with water. This shit’s so strong it might improve it,”
T.W. whispered.
Little Orvie tipped the jar to his lips
and took a swallow. Sweat broke out on his face―the wildcat whiskey that his
uncle used to cut the beer taking his breath away. His eyes bulged and his face
became a contorted mask from the burning effects of the liquor. He clamped his
eyes shut, furrowing his brow to fight back the headache that came on him.
“Purty good stuff, huh?” T.W. said grinning.
“He’s flavored it with apricot,” Little
Orvie said.
T.W. tipped the jar back and took a big
drink and repeated the same contorted antics that his brother went through. The
two men snorted and giggled. Before they knew it, the jar was near empty and they
were both roaring drunk.
Now into their second jar, the boys
settled back and smoked. Little Orvie pulled a tarpaulin off their uncle’s
still and was looking it over when T.W. made the comment that he should try
riding the buffalo since it was so tame. Little Orvie was hesitant but with sufficient
prodding, he was persuaded to sit on it while it was hemmed in the stall.
“What’ll I hold on to?” Little Orvie
asked.
“Shit, just pile on and grab hold a-his
horns, that’s what I’d do,” T.W. said.
“Well then whyn’t you just go ahead on
and do it then if you’re so brave?” Little Orvie said.
T.W. stifled a laugh. “Cause I ain’t
near as drunk as you are,” he whispered.
“Well, all right, then,” Little Orvie
said and he went to the stall and climb it. Standing above the buffalo, he lost
his courage and tried to back down.
“Shit,” I knowed you wouldn’t do it,”
T.W. taunted.
“I’ll show you,” Little Orvie declared
and tossed his burning cigarette to the side. It landed in the wooden crate
that held the jars of choc packed in hay. The dried material went up fast, but
they did not notice it because Little Orvie let out a loud Indian hoop and holler
when he threw himself onto the buffalo’s hump.
The buffalo bellowed and fought to get
away, but it was hemmed in so all it could do was buck in place. T.W. jumped to
his feet to go the aid off his brother who lost his grip and slipped down into
the stall. He screamed for help and Woodrow sat up in a start. Unaware that the
barn was now on fire, T.W. struggled to open the gate to the stall, but it was wired
shut to keep the buffalo in. The horses were screaming with fear and fought
against their tethers. The barn filled with smoke as Woodrow went to set the
horses free.
“Open the god damn barn door, T.W.”
Woodrow yelled out.
T.W. left the stall where Little
Orvie was being stomped to death and ran for the barn door. Woodrow untied the
panicked horses and they reared and charged for the door, too. At that same
moment, the buffalo busted through the stall gate and charged through the frightened
horses and was on top of T.W. before he could unlatch the barn door. The
buffalo hit him head on and pushed T.W. through the splintered door followed by
the horses thundering over him.
Woodrow staggered out of the smoke and
fire dragging Little Orvie by the arm. Now engulfed in flames that dripped from
the roof like water, the three boys lay on the ground wondering why they were
still alive.
“You alive, Little Orvie?” Woodrow said
and then he coughed.
“It’s hard to breathe,” gasped Little
Orvie.
“Probably a broke rib or two,” Woodrow
said. “How ‘bout you T.W.?”
“I’m okay,” he said sitting up. “Skint
up some.”
Woodrow could tell T.W.’s shoulder was
dislocated because it hung lower than the other one. Also, his left ear was
hanging off his head by a piece of skin. Most of his clothes were torn off and
he was covered in scrapes and cuts.
“Yeah, you look fine to me,” Woodrow
said and then he looked back at the burning, smoking rubble that once was their
uncle’s barn. “Boy’s we best head for the hills. Uncle Benny’ll be gunnin’ for
us for sure now.”
“Let’s not tell him we did it,” T.W.
said.
“You was always the smart one,” Woodrow
said. “I’ll see if I can run down the horses and then get us to a doc.”
“What about the buffalo?” T.W. said.
Woodrow laughed and waved his a hand at
his brother as he limped away following the tracks left by the fleeing horses.
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