by Rawlin Cash
Jack Hunter
First Blood
Rawlin Cash
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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One
Hunter woke before dawn and went to check the dog. She was lying by the hearth but the fire had gone out. Still no pups.
He put his hand on her.
“You’re cold, girl.”
He went outside to cut wood. When he got back his grandfather was up.
“That bitch still lying there like a whore?”
“I think she’s sick.”
His grandfather ignored him.
“Maybe we should go to the vet,” Hunter said.
“If I need help spending my money, I’ll let you know.”
Hunter said nothing.
“Get her out to the barn today,” his grandfather said. “The last thing I need is a mess of blood on the floor.”
Hunter piled the wood in the hearth and got the fire going. Then he sat at the table and waited for his grandfather to get away from the stove. His grandfather had made coffee and stood by the pot drinking it and looking out the window.
“Deer were out there again last night,” his grandfather said.
Hunter nodded.
His grandfather lit a cigarette and went back to his room. Hunter got up and poured himself a cup of the coffee, then sat back down at the table and watched the dog. The pups would be there any day. The dog was a mongrel, there was nothing valuable about the pups, but Hunter was excited.
His grandfather came back out and said, “I’ll be at Jefferson’s again today.”
He’d put on his overalls and was looking for his keys.
“They’re on the tv,” Hunter said.
His grandfather grabbed them and left, slamming the door behind him.
Hunter sighed. It was Christmas Day. He looked at the dog. He’d hoped she’d have the pups today but it didn’t look like she would. He got her some water and put it next to her. He stroked her head between her ears. She whimpered.
“You’ll be all right,” Hunter said.
He searched the refrigerator and found some ham. He fried it with canola oil and salt and ate it with bread for breakfast. Then he got dressed and went outside to feed the animals and get through his other chores. He went back into the house at around noon and checked on the dog.
She was still by the fire but seemed to be doing a little better. The water was gone.
He thought maybe she’d eat and poured some milk into the dish. He broke bread into small pieces and put it in the milk.
He ate some of the bread himself and looked at the clock. He had a few hours before his grandfather came back. He’d put the dog in the barn as late as possible. It was warmer in the house.
If his grandfather went back out drinking in the evening, he’d bring her back inside for a few more hours.
He went to the closet and gathered some old blankets and brought them out to the barn. He went up to the loft and made a bed for the dog.
There was an old chest at the far end of the loft and it caught his eye. It had always been there, he was used to looking past it, but something made him want to look inside. It was locked but the wood was old and it was easy to pry the steel ring out of it. He swung open the lid.
Inside was old family stuff. Old black and white photos from Germany. There was one of his grandfather as a little boy sitting on his father’s knee. The father was in a military uniform. The year was 1944. There were a lot of other photos from the War. Hunter’s great-grandfather had been a government official. There was a photo of him standing in front of the town hall in Ansbach, Southern Germany. He was wearing his uniform and Hunter could see a set of gallows in the background.
He looked through all the photos for anything of his own father but there was nothing. It was like his father had never existed.
Hunter had lived with his grandfather since birth. His father and mother were both dead and his father had fallen out with the grandfather at some point, but he’d have thought there’d be a photo. There was none.
As far as he could tell, the only proof his father had ever lived was the Winchester Model 70 bolt action rifle he had under his bed, chambered in a thirty-aught-six, and an old coat that his grandfather told him he could wear but that was too large.
He pulled the documents out of the trunk and found the military uniform from the photos folded up beneath them. There was a pair of black boots too, and a flag. He took out the flag and unrolled it.
It was red with a white circle and a black swastika at the center. The Nazi flag. Hunter knew what a Nazi was. He paid attention in history class. He knew his grandfather’s father was German. What he hadn’t known was that there was a trunk full of Nazi memorabilia in the loft of his barn.
Beneath the flag were badges, pins, metal swastikas, and a belt buckle with the Imperial Eagle, or Reichsadler, of the Third Reich.
Hunter picked up each item and examined it.
He picked up a brass pin. It was about two inches in diameter with the eagle clutching a swastika in its talons and some words in German written around the edge. He looked closely at it before putting it in his pocket.
He went back to the house. He was going to get the dog and bring it to the barn but his grandfather was already there.
“I told you to get this bitch out of here,” he said.
It was early in the day but the old man had been already drinking.
“I’ll take her now.”
He bent down to lift the dog but she was heavy and she struggled awkwardly. She was in pain. She pissed all over Hunter’s arms.
“That whore,” the old man said.
Hunter was bent over, trying to gather the dog in his arms, and at first he didn’t realize what the old man did next.
The realization dawned on him gradually, in stages.
His grandfather had drawn back his foot. Then he kicked the dog in the stomach, very hard. She let out a squeal like a human child and Hunter dropped her.
His grandfather turned to leave.
“Get that piss cleaned up before I get back,” he said.
He slammed the door and took off in his truck down the driveway. Hunter carried the dog out to the barn but he could feel her dying in his arms.
He got her out to the barn and up to the loft. He sat with her for an hour. The puppies came out dead and then she died too. He buried them all behind the barn and then went to his room and pulled out the Winchester rifle. His grandfather had given it to him when he was very young and had made the mistake of teaching him how to use it. He brought it to his grandfather’s office and opened the desk drawer where he knew the thirty-aught-six cartridges were kept. He loaded the gun and then went back to the living room. He was hungry but there was nothing to eat so he made more coffee and got the fire going again. He sat by the fire on his grandfather’s rocker with the rifle across his lap, sipping the coffee.
When his grandfather got home, he burst through the front door and stumbled in the hallway. He was drunk. Hunter knew he would be. He waited for him to enter the living room and had the rifle drawn and pointing at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” his grandfather said.
Hunter looked at the man, the man who’d raised him, the man who’d taught him pretty much all he knew. For the first five years of his life, his grandfather was the only human being Hunter had ever spoken to. The old man kept him a secret because of complications with Child Services. The authorities had
no record of Hunter’s birth and the old man figured it was easier to keep it that way. By the time he enrolled Hunter in school, a year later than he should have, he’d had custody of the child so long it was too late for the state to step in.
Hunter didn’t hold any of that against the old man. They were blood. He appreciated that the old man did what he’d had to to keep his own blood in the house.
Even with all the things that had happened in that house, things that should never happen to any child, in any house, Hunter couldn’t bring himself to ever leave.
Until today.
“What are these?” Hunter said, indicating the Nazi memorabilia on the coffee table in front of him.
The old man looked at the pieces, the pins and badges and buckles of a world that was gone forever, and a look of pure hatred, of rage, came across his face.
“You know what those are,” he spat.
“What are they doing in our barn?”
The old man shook his head. “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?”
Hunter cocked the rifle.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you’re better than me? You think you’re better than your own blood?” the old man spat.
“I just want to know why we have them,” Hunter said.
“I’ll tell you why, you snot-nosed little piece of shit. I was born in this house, and when I was your age, I went into the barn and I found them. You were born in the same house, and now you’ve gone into the barn and found them. You’re no better than anyone else.”
“They were your father’s,” Hunter said.
“You snot-nosed little piece of shit,” the old man said, rushing at Hunter.
Hunter got a shot off but it was too late. His grandfather was already swiping the rifle aside. The shot hit a faded old black and white family portrait on the wall. The glass shattered. The grandfather pushed the gun back and the stock smashed Hunter’s mouth. He spat blood. The old man gave him a backhand across the face and was on top of him, pummeling him. The rocker tipped over backwards and smashed. The old man kept hitting Hunter in the face and when the time came for it to stop, when Hunter stopped fighting back, stopped even defending himself, the old man didn’t stop. He kept punching the kid’s face until the thought crossed his mind that maybe he’d killed him. Maybe he’d permanently disfigured him. Maybe he’d gone too far.
He pulled himself up to his feet, looked down at his grandson, and spat on him.
When Hunter woke up he had no idea how much time had passed. He didn’t know if it was still Christmas. He didn’t know where the old man was.
He took the rifle, his father’s coat, and his grandfather’s keys and wallet. He drove the pickup to the El Paso greyhound station but there was a police car parked outside so he drove down West Overland to the train station.
He parked outside the train station and looked around. The place was empty. Deserted. There were lights on inside the station but everywhere else was dark. Hunter went through his grandfather’s wallet and took out the cash. Then he put the wallet in the glovebox. He went into the train station but the attendant told him there was no passenger service until the next day at three-thirty.
“I saw trains rolling out of town on my way here,” Hunter said.
“Union Pacific,” the guard said. “Those are freight trains. You’re only options here are to wait for the Sunset Limited or the Texas Eagle.”
Hunter went back to the truck and drove along Interstate 10 to the massive Union Pacific rail yard on Durazno Avenue. He put the keys with the wallet in the glovebox and left the truck.
He walked across the street to a store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a bag of jerky.
Then he went into the rail yard through a hole in the fence. There were dozens of trains and he chose one at random. He sat in a boxcar and waited. After about thirty minutes the train started moving. It went back and forth a little on the track while it sorted itself out, then started out east.
He lit a cigarette and pulled from his pocket a metal eagle clutching a swastika in its talons. He looked at it and promised he would never see his grandfather again.
Two
The night was cold and Hunter slept fitfully. At dawn he did jumping jacks to get his blood flowing and then opened the doors of the boxcar and let the air rush in. The train traveled at about thirty miles per hour and stopped often. Hunter sat in the doorway with his feet over the edge and watched the sun break the horizon. He ate some of the jerky and lit a cigarette. The land was similar to what he was used to. The sky was the same. It ran the gamut from light blue to pink with scraps of cloud in it.
They passed a pack of wild dogs and Hunter whistled at them. They paid no mind.
A jackrabbit ran along the track in the same direction as the train and kept pace.
At Abilene, the train stopped and workers came onto the track. Hunter hopped down and walked across the rail yard to the platform.
“Hey,” the foreman said.
Hunter rose his arm and walked toward the man. The man stood and took him in, the over-sized coat, the rifle.
“You come in on the El Paso train?” the man said.
“Yes, sir,” Hunter said.
“You ain’t sticking around here, I take it?”
Hunter looked around the rail yard. There wasn’t much to stay for. A few warehouses that looked like they’d been abandoned decades ago, a brick office with windows on one side boarded with plywood.
He shrugged.
“I cain’t let you back on the trains.”
“I know,” Hunter said.
“What you going to do then?”
Hunter looked at his feet.
The man sighed. “Come with me,” he said.
Hunter followed him into the office. There was a coffee urn and the man poured him a cup.
“You want any cream?”
Hunter shook his head. He drank the coffee and the man poured him another cup.
“What age are you?” the man said.
“Fifteen.”
“You from the State of Texas?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man nodded. “I’m supposed to call you in.”
Hunter nodded.
The man sighed again and lit himself a cigarette. He sat at a wooden table and drank some coffee of his own. Hunter sat across the table from him.
“You’re not a big talker,” the man said.
Hunter sipped his coffee.
“You got a name?”
“Rawlin,” Hunter said.
The man stretched out a hand. Hunter shook it. “I’m Charlie,” he said.
Hunter took out his cigarettes and lit one.
They sat there together for a few minutes, drinking coffee and smoking, and then the man said, “So, what am I going to do with you?”
“Point me north,” Hunter said.
The man laughed. “Point you north?” he said.
Hunter nodded.
“How’s about you tell me where you got that rifle first?”
“This was my father’s rifle.”
“And did he give you permission to take it.”
“He might of,” Hunter said, “if he was alive.”
The man nodded. “That your daddy’s coat too?”
Hunter nodded.
“You in trouble with the law?” the man said.
“No more than usual.”
The man looked at Hunter and grinned. Hunter smiled.
“Funny guy.”
Hunter shrugged.
“Anyone going to come by looking for you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Who you live with?”
“My grandfather.”
The man looked at Hunter for a minute. “My granddaddy was a mean son of a bitch,” he said.
Hunter nodded.
“I take it you don’t have plans to go back to him.”
“No sir, I don’t.”
They finished their cigarettes and the man
said, “Train there’s going to Lubbock. Most of the guys will clock off for lunch at twelve. It takes off ten minutes after.”
Hunter nodded. He thanked the man and left the office. He wandered around the rail yard for a few hours. There was a yellow dog on the street outside and he played with it, threw it a stick. The dog watched the stick land and then looked at Hunter. After about thirty seconds she ran halfheartedly and got it and brought it to him.
“Good girl,” Hunter said.
Her fur was matted and knotty. He brought her to the water spout and hosed her down. At noon he got on the Lubbock train and ate some jerky. The dog watched him from the ground. He threw her some jerky and when the train started moving she ran along side and then leapt up into the car.
“Good girl,” Hunter said.
It took a long time to get to Lubbock and they were out of jerky long before they got there. Hunter led the dog down a dusty road toward the edge of town. They passed some houses and a gas station and after a few blocks there was a convenience store with a diner next to it.
Hunter counted out the money he had. The convenience store would have been cheaper but the smell of grilled hamburger was coming from the diner so he went there. It was called Nicolette’s. The dog waited outside.
“What can I get you?” the waitress said.
“How about a cup of hot coffee?”
“It’ll take a few minutes. I’ve got to brew a pot.”
“Fine,” Hunter said.
He sat at the counter and watched her. It was a little early in the day for dinner and there were only two other customers. They were an older couple, eating by the window.
“That your dog?” the man said, pointing out the window.
“Not really,” Hunter said.
“She came with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hunter looked at the waitress. She gave him a look to pay the old man no mind. Hunter smiled.
“She should be on a leash,” the old man said.
The waitress gave Hunter his coffee. “You need sugar or cream, honey?”
