Nebraska 1873

Chapter 1

The stove almost warmed the room, though damp from the last storm still sat in it. Mary Harrington stirred a dull gravy as her five-year-old son slathered lard on a biscuit. Her husband, Edmund, had been home only two days this last time. He had said he was going to Omaha for supplies, but returned with none, neither salt, nor sugar, nor potatoes, nor wood for the winter. Their food stores were running low now.

The front door popped, Mary startled. She patted her thigh. “Ezekiel,” she said, “here.” The boy dropped the biscuit and ran to her. Edmund came in, swearing. He held the rifle in one hand, a near-empty bottle in the other. Ezekiel made some little noise, like an animal’s squeak. His father shouted, “Runt,” and staggered toward them.

Mary pulled Ezekiel’s arm. “Behind me,” she said.

This inflamed Edmund; he blurted something she did not understand and he stomped. It caused him to drop the bottle. Its liquid dribbled onto the dirt floor, and disappeared. “Now, look’t what you made me do.” The house filled with the odor of his breath.

He focused his eyes on his son like a predator on quarry. He raised the rifle’s stock over his head, his movement sloppy, untrue. He threw himself into bringing the gun down on them. The stock swiped the low ceiling, and sod grit rained down on him. The catch put Edmund off balance and he sank to his knees.

Mary shoved Ezekiel toward the blanket hung to demark her and Edmund’s bedroom. “Out the window,” she said. Ezekiel disappeared behind the blanket.

Edmund managed to pull himself up, and he spat out, “Puh! Not worth the trouble.” In disgust, he took his rifle and precious bottle and wrestled himself out the door.