The next morning Jack followed Laura out of the bedroom and Boots met them standing in the kitchen.
“Yous feeling better this morning?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Jack said.
“Well, all right then. You can come with me and help me get some grub.”
Jack looked at Laura quizzically as he started after the old man, who was already out the door. “I should get something to eat first.”
“I got some here for you,” Boots replied, tapping a bag slumped over his shoulder. “And there be some breakfast on the table for you, Laura.”
“All right,” she answered. “You two have fun.”
What a way to wake up, Jack thought. Not only was he following behind Grizzly Adams, but he got sent off by low-budget sarcasm.
Out on the porch, Boots grabbed a shotgun that was leaning next to a stool and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Walking west into the desert, five steps behind Boots, Jack watched the swaying of the gun barrel over the old man’s shoulder. The rhythm of the walk mixed with the intensity of the shotgun drove any remnants of the sleep hangover out of Jack’s head.
He had figured last night in the dark that he could take Boots if the old man charged him with an axe. A shotgun changed the equation. They walked on, with the sun at their back and their shadows shortening with each step. The western hills loomed large, but unapproachable.
“You ever kill anything, Jack?”
“What’s that?”
“Kill anything . . . you ever kill anything before?”
“No.”
Boots stopped and turned. “Came pretty close though, didn’t you?” The chew in the old man’s mouth dripped from his lip onto his beard as an evil grin stretched across his face. He wiped his arm across his mouth and the smirk was gone.
Jack’s eyes lowered to the dirt at his feet. Boots turned and kept walking.
“Really ain’t that hard. Just point at what you want dead, and bam!”
“That easy, huh?”
“Yeah, that easy.”
They walked on for half an hour in silence.
Boots spit on the ground as he stopped. They came up to a small gulley that ran perpendicular to their path. Jack could see a worn foot trail that led to the bottom of the dried-up creek bed, and he followed Boots slowly down the ridge. To the north end of the crevice was a small patch of foliage, and Boots sat there staring at it.
“Why don’t you walk down there and scare up some birds, Jack.”
“W-w-what?”
“Flush ’em out, and I’ll kill ’em quick.”
Jack looked north up the creek bed, at the shrubs about fifty yards ahead. He couldn’t process what was being asked of him. “You w-want me to walk down there?”
“Ain’t hard, Jack. Just walk down there and they’ll get spooked, fly up, and bam.”
The idea of walking with his back to a crazy man with a shotgun did not sit well. Arguing with a man with a shotgun wasn’t a good idea either. Jack slowly started walking backward with his eyes glued on Boots, and the gun.
“Come on, Jack, what you think I’m going to do? Shoot you?”
Jack suppressed the stutter that was inching toward his lips. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“Naw. If I wanted you dead, I’d not bother with you in the first place. Sure ain’t going to waste a shell on you.”
Jack backed up a couple more steps, moving slowly down the creek bed. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Sure does . . . you just have to trust me. Now turn around and get down there. It’s going to get real hot here if we stand around all day.”
Turning, Jack felt the sweat begin to leak out of every pore of his body. He forced his legs to move, as the exhaustion of the past several days mixed with the fear in his mind. One step, then another, looking at the ground for snakes and bugs, imagining Boots behind him with the gun trained on his back. With each step, he was sure he would hear a blast, then the punch of lead ripping between his shoulder blades. It seemed logical, a perfect place to off someone, down below the desert floor, out of sight of any living creature. Another step. He looked up and still saw his destination as if through a tunnel. The rock walls terminating in a small patch of brown and green. A cozy spot to die. Another step.
Suddenly he heard commotion ahead. Screeching and chirping, a covey of quail shot out of the shrubbery and raced up over his head. He dropped down as he heard the shotgun go off behind him. A second blast soon followed.
Lying on the rock, Jack heard footsteps approach. He sprung to his feet and checked his body manically for bullet holes and open wounds. There were none. As his pulse slowed back to normal, Jack watched as Boots picked up two birds off the valley floor and walked over to him.
“Good job, Jack. This should do us.”
Jack stared back at Boots, panic and anger filling his body.
“You should see yourself. About jumped out of your skin. Haha, you thought I was really going to shoot you, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Sure did. Let me tell you something. If I was ever going to do that, I’ll do it to your face. Deal?”
Jack continued to brush himself off, trying to rub some manliness into his composure.
“Let’s be going . . . getting a bit hot out here.”