Chapter Four—

Horse Latitudes

--

On the first day of May, the boys decided to test their skills at hunting. They had crossed the Kansas river a few days ago, and even though they had wasted valuable money being ferried to the other side, and would have wasted even more if Racetrack hadn't haggled so relentlessly, they still felt the sense of accomplishment that comes to every pioneer when he knows that he is truly on his way (or her way, as Gwen would not hesitate to point out).

Loath as he was to admit it, Buck Mulligan was proud of the boys for lasting even this long. Even after their all-night poker games, homesickness for the city and squabbles over breakfast, they had all held up remarkably well. The one called Skittery was driving the oxen in the second wagon and learning everything he could about the animals, and Racetrack was out riding almost every night; even Kelly was settling into the rhythms of frontier life, after promising to never again go within five feet of an open flame.

Everything was shaping up beautifully. They had survived their first few weeks on the trail and were halfway out of Kansas, soon to cross over into Nebraska. The prairie lay before them, the world theirs to claim. It seemed only natural that the next step was to learn to hunt.

It was early in the journey, and the rations were still plentiful, the boys' hunting rifles as yet unused; there was no need, just yet, to hunt for food. They boys were all sitting around the campfire one evening talking over cups of coffee and plates of salted ham and redeye gravy, suspecting nothing, when their appointed leader walked over and told them to get out their buckshot and polish up their guns; tonight, they were going hunting.

Which was exactly how Racetrack came to be standing near a wooded copse on the Kansas prairie with Spot and Misery bickering nearby, or at least he told himself that. At the moment, he still had a hard time believing that this was actually happening, let alone coming to terms with how it had come to pass.

"All I'm sayin', Misery, is that there's nothin' wrong with usin' a sling shot."

"Spot. There are about a million things wrong with it."

"Oh, yeah? Name one."

"SLING-SHOTTING IS NOT A VALID FORM OF HUNTING."

"Who says?"

"I do!"

"Did it evah occur to you that maybe, conceivably, you could be wrong?"

"Oh, my god."

"What?"

"Spot Conlon used a word with more than two syllables. I don' believe my ears."

"You always gotta have da last woid, dontcha?"

"I don't know, do I?"

"I think so."

"You do, do you?"

"I do."

"…Do you?"

"AUGH!"

Directing his attention away from the argument, Race looked out towards the horizon, taking in the scenery. Over the past few days the terrain had changed from the open, unprotected golden plains that they had become accustomed to; their were trees now, with new green leaves and spindly branches; there were rolling hills and the sight of bluffs in the distance, and more often than not a stream close to camp where they could drink water so clean and clear and cold it made their teeth ache. They were near to one of these streams now, ostensibly hunting for ducks, which they could see and hear quite clearly, while still being unable to decide on a way to pursue. Spot was set on using his slingshot while Misery wanted to learn how to use the rifle, and all Racetrack wanted was to go back to camp, work on the letter he was going to send to the lodging house, talk to Sapphy a little, and go to sleep in his tent. Slingshot or not, the idea of shooting ducks didn't hold much appeal for him and probably never would.

However, after a lot of argument and a little suggestive brandishing of assorted firearms, Spot and Misery eventually settled on a plan.

"Okay," Spot said to Race, "here's what we're gonna do. You run over to where those ducks are roostin', make a ruckus, scare 'em into flyin' an' then me an' Mis'll both take aim an' we'll see who can bag more game. You got that?" Racetrack nodded. "Right. Now—one…two…three…GO!"

Racetrack tried, he tried. He had never had to scare ducks before, and it wasn't one of those things that came naturally, but God help him, he did put in an effort. He ran forward into the tall grass, waving his arms and squawking and the ducks did take flight—and oh, it all went beautifully for a moment. Both Spot and Misery took aim, intent on their targets, so focused that they barely even took notice when Racetrack gave a strangled cry and began gesturing frantically to them.

"Guys! Guys, HELP!"

Misery began to run towards him, with Spot still sanding rooted, slingshot in hand. "What happened?"

"I'VE BEEN ATTACKED BY A RENEGADE DUCK!"

(Or at least, that was what Racetrack meant to say. But in reality, it's no easy thing to speak clearly when a duck has slammed head-on into your face, wings splayed across your forehead, pecking furiously at you with its beak. So while Racetrack wanted to say "help me, I've been attacked by a renegade duck," it really came out more like: "HLBP M! RJGBNT TCKKD B RNNGDDCK!")

Although, with a large waterfowl clinging to his face, it didn't prove too difficult to get the message across. While Spot stood stock still, all bravado disappearing from his expression, Misery took action, marching forward and wrenching the duck away from Racetrack's face. With barely a thought, she held it tightly around the middle, grabbed hold of its neck, and twisted as hard as she could.

"Y-you killed it," Spot whispered, looking as if he was close to tears.

"It had to be done," Misery said gravely. "This was a killer duck. Who knew what other innocent lives it would have claimed if someone hadn't stopped it?"

Neither of the boys seemed to have an answer for this. While Spot stared at Misery with an expression somewhere between terror and awe, Racetrack rubbed gingerly at what he was sure was a broken nose. "Fellas? A little help?"

With a sigh, Misery handed the Duck to Spot, took Racetrack by the hand, and led him back to the camp to be cleaned up. Both were in such a hurry that they barely heard the mournful keening set loose across the prairie, in a voice thick with unshed tears. It sang an old song, full of love lost and unspeakable sadness; if you listened carefully, you could still hear the words:

"Be kind, to ya web-footed friiiieeeeends…foah a duck may be somebody's muddah…she lives on da edge of da swaaaaammmmp…wheah da weatha, is always damp…"

--

Meanwhile, on another part of the Kansas prairie, Specs and Dutchy were having a slightly more peaceful hunting experience. This might have been partly due to the fact that, unlike Spot an Misery, neither of them had the slightest interest in killing anything. The chance of injury was also greatly decreased by the fact that there were no ducks in sight; they had chosen a relatively quiet spot, and in fact the only wildlife around was a warren of rabbits. While Specs made a show of taking apart his rifle and then forgetting how to put it together again, Dutchy sat quietly watching the rabbits sniff around in the golden timothy grass, so silent that they didn't even notice he was there.

"Look at that," Dutchy said quietly, after a time.

"What is it?" Specs asked absently.

"A bunny!"

"A what?"

"A bunny! I mean...uh...a rabbit."

"Right, Dutch."

"See, over there?" Dutchy pointed to a paddock a few yards away where a little brown rabbit, not quite fully grown, was inspecting the grass selection.

"Swell," Specs said, raising the gun to his shoulder and attempting to look heroic. "Let's shoot it."

"WHAT?" Dutchy stared at him in horror.

"Hey, easy, I was just kiddin'. But what else are ya gonna do with it?"

"Well..." Dutchy crouched on the ground, watching the rabbit as it took notice of him for the first time. "I know someone who might appreciate 'im."

"Who's that?"

"...Dreamah..."

"Oh, deah god." Specs rolled his eyes. If he never had to hear about Dreamer again, he would be happy. It wasn't that he didn't like her—she was perfectly fine by him, as pleasant as they come, a girl who looked like an angel and played the Appalachian fiddle like a bat out of Hell. No, he didn't mind Dreamer at all. It was her effect on Dutchy that bothered him.

Because, the truth, quite plainly put, was this: she was turning him into a girl.

Specs watched in disgust as he best friend sat patiently on the ground, the little brown rabbit cautiously coming closer and closer towards him, until, at last, convinced of its safety, it hopped up into Dutchy's lap.

"We gotta get you away from dat goil," Specs muttered.

"Why?" Dutchy asked innocently.

"You just...ain't actin' like yourself."

"But I like bunnies," Dutchy pointed out, petting the little rabbit gently its ears. That, at least, was true enough—for as long as Specs had known him, Dutchy had always had a way with animals. Back at the lodging house, he had even had a pet rat named Smokey.

"Anyway," Dutchy continued, as the rabbit snuggled down inside his coat, perfectly content, "it ain't like you're not th' same way with Duck."

Specs suddenly became very interested in something approximately three inches to the left of his shoe. "That's different..." he mumbled.

"How so?"

"On account a' Duck ain't got me actin' all lovey-dovey, cooing ovah bunny rabbits. Duck's a real man. Like me. And it ain't easy to find a woman man enough t' give ya some happiness, these days..." Specs trailed off, not trusting himself to avoid any more mushy stuff, to see Dutchy completely oblivious, staring down at the rabbit in adoration.

"I think I'll name it Violet," he said, dreamily.

"Oh, sweet Jesus..."

--

As it turned out, Racetrack hadn't broken his nose. The real injuries were slightly less dramatic, and once he stopped bleeding Misery didn't have much trouble fixing him up. By the time she was done washing out his battle wounds (and cleaning behind his ears for good measure) the only evidence that something had ever happened was a nasty plum-colored bruise on his cheek and several small cuts on his forehead where the duck had managed to peck at him. Besides that, all he was to worry about was the trouble of explaining what had happened to the others.

"You got attacked by a wild animal?" Skittery asked in disbelief. He was currently helping Checkmate to groom some of her horses, with Sapphy standing nearby doing her best to distract them from their work, and Lute standing at the other end of the makeshift stables at the outside of the circle of wagons they made do with every night, trying to convince Snitch to come within a yard of her pony.

Racetrack nodded miserably.

"What kind?" Skittery asked, not even attempting to mask his curiosity. "Cougar? Bear? Wolf? Coyote? Snow leopard?" he added hopefully, not quite familiar with the native wildlife of Kansas.

"Duck," said Race.

"Duck?"Lute asked incredulously. "That's funny. She always came off pretty friendly, to me at least."

"No, not Duck," Racetrack corrected. "A duck." He flapped his arms for Lute's benefit, and quacked a little. "A duck," he said. "You know, like a duck."

"Yes, Race, I know what a duck is."

"So...you were attacked...by a duck?" Snitch asked, looking as if he was trying desperately not to laugh. "Dat's kinda pathetic, Race, if ya don't mind me saying."

"Oh, this from the boy who's afraid of a pony," Lute countered. That shut him up pretty quickly.

Racetrack looked around to see if anyone else was laughing. Skittery had conveniently hidden his face, and Checkmate looked like she was at a funeral, but her shoulders were shaking with laughter and she had tears running down her face. Finally, he looked at Sapphy.

"I had an uncle who was run over by a goat once," Sapphy said with utter seriousness as she hopped up into the saddle. "The way I see it, Race, you're lucky to still be alive."

Racetrack smiled as he got up on one of Checkmate's old mares that she was letting him learn on. "Ready to go for a ride?" he asked.

"Been waitin' for it all day."

And with a wink and a smile that showed all the gratitude that needed to be seen, the two new friends rode off towards the open prairie, serenaded by the lilting song of Snitch and Lute, arguing the night away.