Actually contains 4 & 5. Sorry!
4
A few days later, Grant Tracy stood at the kitchen window. Giving his wife a small kiss, he straightened to watch Virgil head off across the back yard.
"I ain't never known that boy to be so taken with horses," Grant mused in his deep, quiet voice. Beside him, the slim, grey-haired woman continued wiping counter tops. "...or you to be so quiet, Vic."
Grandma Tracy next attacked the stove top, with cleaning spray and vigor.
"Them mountains is mighty pretty," she said, mouth thinning.
Grant pushed a big hand through his shock of silver hair.
"Always have been," he responded, a little mystified.
Victoria opened the dish-washer door with a sudden, silverware-rattling jerk.
"All I'm saying is, there's the mountains on one side, and the stable on the other, and sometimes it's good to just look at the damn mountains, Grant."
"Somethin' in there I ain't supposed to see?" He asked, trying hard to be diplomatic. She'd been the prettiest, fiercest little thing in three counties, and Grant still saw her that way. He loved her dearly, and had long since learned to listen.
Victoria didn't answer, but she didn't deny anything, either.
"Okay, Vic," her bewildered husband decided at last. "I'll keep my eyes on the mountains. But at least tell me that whatever it is 'll be solved soon, without the boy gettin' hurt."
"Teddy's fine." Her dark eyes looked gravely up past the rims of her spectacles. "He's a good boy, Grant, and he can handle a couple of wildcats."
As she'd intended, the old man was instantly soothed, thinking that Virgil was out there each day on some sort of mysterious team business. He smiled, lit up his pipe, and rubbed at the back of his wife's little neck, saying,
"It's gonna be somethin' , that first game. Bet he makes a touchdown, right off."
"If they even let him play, Grant. Mind, it's his first season. Don't you put too much pressure on the boy."
She'd realized how torn Virgil was about being on the team, just as she knew that foster care could be uncertain, and that two young girls with a penchant for wandering could get into serious trouble, fast.
But, her grandson might yet come to enjoy the game, and the girls' parents could still show up. God, in her opinion, sent his trials and his lost angels for a reason. Thus, Victoria kept quiet, content to lean against Grant's broad chest, wrapped in pipe smoke and strong arms.
5
Next day, late afternoon:
John drove the ATV along the ridge road, with one hand and a sliver of consciousness, racing over boulders and crevices like he had some sort of '30 minutes or less' clause. Beside him, Virgil held grimly to the arm rest, field glasses and rifle, hoping the garbage bags didn't simply bounce out the back, again. Naturally, they did.
John didn't notice until Virgil got his attention with a brief elbow jab. Then, he brought the ATV around in a wild, dirt-hurling arc, giving Virgil a brand new cammo-pattern of bruises. They jerked to a halt, only just barely not running over the spilt trash bags.
His older brother idled the engine and sat there, sunk in his own thoughts, so Virgil climbed out, alone. John's eventual driving instructor was going to die in the line of duty, Virgil concluded, qualifying for immediate sainthood.
Five bags, which you could square to twenty-five, which was one quarter of a hundred, and if he had a hundred more dollars, he could buy that easel...
Virgil pitched the green plastic sacks into the rear of the shuddering vehicle, wishing that the nylon cargo net hadn't torn loose. Just for a minute, he wondered whether it would be worth it, to heave one of the bags so hard, it nailed John square in the back of the head.
But, his second brother was all right, in his way. The new football cleats Virgil had found at the door to his bedroom were almost certainly from John. They were Nikes, price tag torn off, but still nested in crumpled paper, in a very fancy box. Probably cost more than the easel would have, and it was hard to stay angry with someone who did nice things behind your back, and wouldn't take thanks for it.
Besides, 'fighting mad' was a state he found difficult to arrive at. Mere annoyance didn't count, not with his brother, or with the football team. Anyway, it was fixing to get dark soon, and they had a job to do. He could 'accidentally' throw something else, later.
"Hey, John," Virgil asked, climbing in after stowing the leaky bags (he tried leaning them the other way, this time, in hopes that they'd somehow brace each other).
"...You ever get really mad? I mean..., like my coach says, 'hit 'em so hard, their mammas bleed,' kindamad?"
John gave Virgil a swift, measuring glance as he gunned the engine, hurling them forward again like shot from a cannon. At first, Virgil thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, over engine rumble, undercarriage squeal and rock clatter, his brother said,
"Bad idea. If I'm that angry, something's gone wrong. Plan ahead, and you don't have to get mad."
"Yeah, but... how d' you plan ahead on the football field? Besides memorizing the plays, I mean?" And, boy, he had. Virgil's head was so packed with diagrams, patterns and signals, he hardly had room any more for music.
John shook his blond head.
"Sorry. The only thing I really know about football is how to switch channels, and what I've learned from helping you train."
His brother could sometimes be incredibly helpful. Other times.., now..., he was a complete dry hole. The other thing he wished they could talk about was more serious, from Virgil's standpoint, at least. He and John were now in the same grade, and it seemed likely that Virgil would pass, while, once again, his brother didn't. They weren't in the same classes, or anything, and Virgil went out of his way not to try too hard... (Scott had more than enough ambition for all three, anyhow)... but there it was. John wasn't just likely to fail; he seemed determined to. Virgil sighed, wishing you could tune people like you could a piano.
They reached the 'dump' before Virgil figured out how to broach the subject. Twilight had arrived, with its usual whiplash suddenness. The shadows were long, and the temperatures low. Not much time left, till dark.
The dump wasn't much. There was a chest-high fire ring of blackened stone, a clearing around that, nearly a hundred yards in diameter, and within all, a set of four rusted oil drums; where trash went to die.
Ordinarily, they'd have used the binoculars and glassed the area, first, but they were nearly out of daylight, and pretty far from the house. This once, speed trumped caution.
John must have felt bad about the six times Virgil had to pick up the scattered garbage, or else he liked setting fires. Either way, he was the one who hauled the bags to the wall, whilst Virgil trailed after with the hunting rifle, a Browning Eclipse.
John got to the wall, and stopped. Didn't sling garbage, or anything. Just stood there. For a second, Virgil wondered why. Then, the smell hit him. Rank and acrid; not trash, but something that fed on trash, and meat. Bear, just inside the stone fire ring.
There's fear, and then there's atavistic 'bone club vs. teeth and claws', 'that thing's going to eat me' horror. Mountainous in the ATV headlights, it stood up, and up, and up, and John's gaze went right along with it; seeing a rumbling cliff of coarse, silver-tipped hair, with five-inch claws and a dog-like head weaving and squinting atop massive, humped shoulders.
Virgil had no idea what he thought, or said, or did for the next few seconds, but John's response was quite distinct; a very quiet,
"Oh... shit."
The grizzly's ears rotated, and its phlegmy snuffling grew louder. Little, piggy eyes fastened upon the narrow white oval of John's face. One enormous paw came down, claws rattling against the stone wall as it rested a portion of its tremendous weight on the fire ring, and leaned forward for a better look.
Virgil stumbled backward, raising the high-powered rifle. His motion attracted the bear's attention for a second. It clashed its jaws together and turned slightly, salivating, huffing, and spraying John with warm spit.
Returning the favor, John dropped the bags, and brought out the only weapon he had on him, a very large can of pepper spray (they'd jokingly called it 'mega-mace', and half the time forgot to carry the stuff). Between one jolting heartbeat and the next, he'd pulled the tab, squeezed the trigger, and fired an expanding cloud of chemical bear deterrent. Of course, he was very close to his target, and got nearly as stiff a blast as the bear did.
They reacted in near perfect 'equal and opposite' manner. The grizzly, with a loud, anguished bellow, hurled itself backward and staggered off, stopping from time to time to rub its forepaws against its burning eyes, or scrape its head against the ground.
Equally blinded, John careened off in the other direction, hands at his face. Virgil dropped the rifle, grabbed the brother, slung him into the ATV, and drove like Yellowstone itself was blowing up right behind them.