CHAPTER 62

Dumbfounded, Dr. Bennett repeatedly blinks, then tries to bring the youth to heel by holding his hands up and shushing W.H. "Now, hold on."

W.H. clenches his fists and rocks back and forth until he stands on the tips of his toes. "I'm determined, sir!"

The wise academic takes a long, deep breath and slowly rests his body in a creaking leather desk chair.

"What reason have you to abandon such a fine institution, my good nephew?"

W.H. moves forward. His big blue eyes flash. Words practically explode off his lips. "Well, sir, I've decided that I'm a better hunter than a student."

The headmaster leans back and presses his hands together, locking his fingers. He furrows his brows disapprovingly. "So it'll be the Hudson's Bay Company for you then, eh? And how much does the fur-trap business pay?"

"Well, sir, I've decided that I'm a better hunter than most. I can make three whole dollars an antelope hide, five for buffalo, and fifteen for wolves."

"So it's the wild that calls you, is it? Dollars for hides hardly seems like a fair exchange, considering you have to extinguish lives for the furs."

An evil grin lights up W.H.'s face. "I feel almost the same way, sir. But wolves are evil, and ain't nobody gonna miss a wolf!"

"Isn't," his uncle corrects. "I, ah, see you are motivated by short-term gains versus long-term rewards…" He pauses to see if his barb will hook. When it doesn't, he works a different angle. "You esteem adventure and bounties as greater rewards than knowledge?"

W.H. holds his fingers up and rubs them together. "At present, sir, it pays better than the books."

"That is because education is like a crop. It is only of value once the seed is planted, given time to grow, and then it can be harvested. You have only begun to plant your seed and already you are saying the crop has no value? Do you realize that maybe five percent of the population is educated? Do you know what the family had to sacrifice for you to sit in that seat? Do you have any idea how many others would kill to be in your boots?"

"I'm not saying anything, sir. You know I've been hunting wolves since I was old enough to carry a rifle. I'm just a better hunter than student. Doesn't it make sense to do what you excel at?"

"So there's nothing a salty old man can say that might change your mind and convince you to exhaust your scholarship?"

"No, sir. I've already had enough success over the break that my pockets are weighed down with more pounds than I've ever had. I had to buy a new belt just to keep my britches up."

"I see. What will you do with these gains?"

"I'll invest in better equipment and start my own fur-trade company. Maybe be the next Hudson's Bay Company."

"Uh-huh, and once you've killed all the wolves?"

"That will never happen, sir."

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. These days so many men have guns, it's a wonder any critters wander the earth."

"My point exactly, sir. I gotta get while the getting is good!"

"You are a young man now. You can withdraw from the trust. But I have to warn you that seats are so competitive, you most likely will not be able to return. Plus your scholarship will go to someone else. It's not like these things remain idle." In a flurry of frustration, his uncle shows a hint of anger. "What was all this going on about you being an artist, wanting to build great coliseums. What of your writing? You know it will suffer if you abandon it." Realizing he's not getting anywhere, he transitions. Dr. Bennett leans back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. "I'm curious. Where will your hunts take you?"

"North woods in Vancouver. They have plenty of wolves to hunt there, and the bounty is sufficient."

"Well, I wish you the best, Nephew. See to it that you write me from time to time and inform me of this great adventure. I will do my best to see if I can secure a seat for you in the event you should change your mind."

W.H. extends his hand, "Thank you, Uncle, for your understanding. I promise I won't regret it. Or I mean, you won't."

The headmaster raises his eyebrows and reluctantly extends his hand.

Kevin lifts a stack of three burning marshmallows to his mouth. With several heaves, he blows them out.

"I'd quit school to shoot wolves. 'Specially if I was getting paid for it," Luther says with a greedy grin, rubbing his hands together.

"Yeah, me too. The most richest men in the world dropped out of school. I'll do the same," John affirms.

Kevin looks at the boys, then thinks over his own options. "I like school. I think I'd stay in and then hunt wolves afterward! I mean, it's not like they're going anywhere." He turns his attention to his scorched marshmallows. He stuffs the burning, ashy treats into his mouth, which simultaneously puffs out his cheeks and causes him to inhale great puffs for air to cool them down.

"W.H. probably should have stayed in boarding school. Instead, he followed his heart. Like most fools at that age, he thought he knew exactly what he wanted. Ideas are sometimes better than reality, though," Charlie says to discourage the boys from abandoning their education.

Several months later, W.H. sits at King's Pub.

"What will it be for you, W.H.?"

"I'll take water. I ain't got no money."

"No money? There's the door. We don't pour charity at this pub. It's whiskey and ale. Besides, it ain't even noon yet. You shouldn't even be in here."

Shocked by his buddy's response, W.H. protests. He cites all the money he's spent at the joint and all the additional customers that came to the bar just to hear his "hero" story. He made sure to comment on how he saved the lumberjack's life. It's no use. The bartender combs his fingers through his imperial mustache with one hand, while the other disappears beneath the bar.

W.H. knows that he's about to be billy clubbed or shot, and he doesn't have enough liquid courage in him to endure either. He lowers his head in shame, slouches his shoulders, and slides off the circular barstool. With a flick of his hand, he sends the wheel seat spinning all the way down to its base. Dragging his feet, he makes his way over to the glass door that reads, KING'S PUB.

Instead of using the bright brass handle, he presses his hand to the glass and leaves an oily palm print. For some reason, this act of resistance seems a better result to him than the arguments his lips fail to form.

When the bell rings from the breeze and the door slowly shuts behind him, he glances at his white Appalachian mountain horse. Taking a quick inventory of the pans, sleeping roll, water jugs, and rifle holster that bog down the beast, W.H. begins to regret the timing of his decision to drop out of school.

"Guess boarding in the dormitories weren't so bad after all." He pouts, wishing his home weren't strapped to his horse's back.

Bingo, his ever-faithful collie, rests at the horse's feet. He releases short whimpers to let W.H. know he's hungry. But the message gets mixed with his wagging tail.

W.H. reaches inside his pockets and turns them inside out. "Looks like we're going to have to eat out of the rubbish pail again, buddy."

Bingo barks and stands up on his hind legs. He turns around in a circle and points at the alley.

W.H. watches the alley and finds what he's looking for; the pub's overweight cook is dumping last week's chili. He waits for the worker to slip back inside his kitchen. Looking left and right to make sure no dignified persons see him, he sprints across the muddy street, trying his best to keep his feet dry. He smacks his lips as he feels his toes get wet. The drive for hunger carries a penalty of discomfort, as does rummaging through the garbage pile. Sweeping the debris away, he seizes his "kill," a mush pile of burnt chili. He scoops it up with his tin pan and tucks it under his arm as he scurries off. A breeze picks up and forces him to turn his collar up. He pushes his hands deep in his pockets to keep his hands warm.

The boys cup their hands to their mouths.

"Ew!"

"Gross!"

"I would have stayed in school." Zack makes a gagging noise at the thought of eating garbage.

"Me too!" John joins in.

"Yeah, I'd never eat trash!" Luther sticks his tongue out dramatically.

"Yuck!" Kevin chimes in after swallowing more marshmallows.

"Yes, sir, boys. Times were a hard for W.H. He and Bingo had to eat mice, rabbits, and squirrels for a short time, too. That is, until something happened a way down southwest. In the frontier lands, near the Mexican border."