First Blood by Rawlin Cash

Author:Rawlin Cash [Cash, Rawlin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rawlin Cash
Published: 2019-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

Six

Hunter wrapped the rifle in his father’s coat and hitchhiked west for two days until he was in the town of Alliance, Nebraska. The man who dropped him off told him it was the home of Carhenge, a full-scale replica of Stonehenge that was made of old cars. To Hunter it seemed like a quiet farming town in the plains where no one would ever come looking for him. It had a couple of churches, a post office, and an old furniture store on Main Street called Royal’s.

There was a restaurant and he walked up to it. It was three days since he’d left Sherman’s farm and he’d barely eaten or slept. He took a seat at the counter and picked up the newspaper. It was the first chance he’d had to look at one but there was nothing in it about the shootings. He supposed a Nebraskan newspaper wasn’t overly concerned about a shooting in Oklahoma.

The waitress was a lady in her forties with a kind smile and curly hair.

She came up to him and said, “What can I get you, honey?”

“I’ll take the meatloaf and a cup of coffee.”

“You want fries or mashed potatoes with that?”

“Fries. And gravy.”

She nodded and Hunter almost fell asleep before the food arrived. His coffee had gone cold but he drank it anyway. He ate every bite of his food and when the waitress asked if he wanted dessert he had to force himself to say no.

She brought him the bill and he left enough to cover it and then went outside and walked the length of Main Street out of town. He got as far as the wheat fields and found a tree to lie under. It was an enormous tree, one of the largest he’d ever seen in his life. If someone told him it was five hundred years old he’d have believed them.

He’d intended to keep traveling west but when he woke at dawn the next morning, damp and cold, all he could think about was the meatloaf at that diner.

He saw the sign at the edge of town saying where he was but he didn’t have any idea where that was on a map. He was 830 miles almost directly north of his grandfather’s farm in El Paso. He’d drifted more north than west while he hitchhiked but it didn’t really matter.

He got back to the diner and the same waitress as the night before was there.

“You again?” she said.

Hunter wanted to smile at her but his face wouldn’t do it. He sat at the counter and ordered pancakes with bacon. The place was bustling, everyone knew each other, the waitress was nice to him, but Hunter kept to himself.

He was thinking about Sherman, but mostly he thought about the man he’d killed. Maybe the man wasn’t as bad as he’d seemed. Maybe Sherman owed him a legitimate debt. Maybe he was just trying to collect what was his.

But then he remembered the three of them getting out of the car, all armed, shooting Sherman’s dog.

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