Little Sure Shot by Matt Ralphs

Author:Matt Ralphs [Ralphs, Matt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Andersen Digital
Published: 2020-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

28

Betsy stood patiently all night as I drifted in and out of sleep. Bouts of shivering took hold of me as the hours before daylight dragged by.

I slip to the ground when the dawn sun shines through the cracks in the walls and crouch on the floor to gather my strength. My head’s heavy, my thoughts slow. Feels like my brains have frozen.

The cold bites straightaway, so I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and hop from one bare foot to the other. Icicles hang from the ceiling, the walls are white with frost, and my and Betsy’s breath comes out as fog. I creep to the door, rubbing some life into my arms, and peek outside.

All’s quiet and covered in snow so bright it hurts my eyes. There’s the forest track leading away from this place – this place that nearly became my grave. In the other direction lies the house and Mrs Wolf. I must hurry.

‘You saved me last night, Betsy,’ I say as I stroke her neck. ‘Thank you. Now I need your help again. You fancy a ride into town?’ She snorts and gives me a gentle head-bump. I put the blanket over her back and attach the reins. I ain’t strong enough to lift the saddle so I’ll have to ride bareback, but I reckon I’ve had enough practice on Maple to make the trip.

I need to get indoors, but the front door’s locked and it might be hours before she ventures outside. So I grab a hammer and chisel from a tool rack and open the stable door.

‘All right, Betsy,’ I whisper, ‘wait here till I get back.’

Then I’m off towards the house, heart pounding and ready for the fight. I skirt around the edge til I reach his workshop window. It’s frozen up, so I get to work with the hammer and chisel, tap-tap-tapping and chip-chip-chipping the ice away around the whole frame. Every noise shreds my already tattered nerves, but all I can do is pray neither Mrs Wolf nor Eliza hears it and wakes up.

I work as fast as I can, as the cold seeps into my flesh and it gets harder to hold the tools. Once done, I wedge the chisel into a gap at the bottom and lever the window open (wincing at every scrape and squeal) just far enough for me to slip through.

I take a few dollars from the money jar then poke my head out the door. All I hear is a steady drip of water from the pump in the kitchen. Good. She must still be in bed, utterly uncaring of my deadly plight in the cold. Wishing my teeth would stop chattering, I dash up to my room, put on my warmest clothes then wrap the precious photograph, thread box and turkey in a blanket and put them in my bag.

I’m ready, and all I need do is slip out the front door, mount Betsy and get the heck out of here. Then it’s into town, onto a train and home to Greenville.

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