Wanted

Chapter 51

"Get your bag, and empty its content on the table," came the next command, but John was in no mood to comply with that. He knew what that meant, he would lose at least half of the few things he owned, so he just stood there looking at McCarthy hoping he'd change his mind.

"John, I know you heard what I said, so do as I tell you," McCarthy told John in the same commanding tone, and then when John still wouldn't comply, he added with an unwavering resolve, "John, as my apprentice you are expected to do as you are told."

John looked at the man's wife who had come up behind him, wondering if she would stop her husband if he was going to hurt him, but saw that she agreed with him, by the way she had raised her eyebrows.

Despite that, John heard himself ask, "Why?" in a challenging tone.

"Why?" McCarthy asked surprised, and somewhat indignantly, looking first at his wife who stood beside him and then over his shoulder to the door where his son had just come in from the back yard. He had obviously been eavesdropping and couldn't resist being part of the drama.

"Yes, why?" John asked again, with as much confidence as he could muster, "they are my things, I own them," he added firmly, even though he didn't expect this to go his way and there were a good few things in his bag, that he didn't exactly own in the sense that most people defined 'ownership' but McCarthy didn't know that.

John hadn't liked the way Mrs McCarthy had gone through his clothes earlier and didn't fancy them doing the same with his personal belongings. The bar of soap had disappeared, along with the woolly jumper and the mittens, and Numees' sleeveless Jacket too. They had said they would give him clothes but that didn't mean they could have his things in exchange. He was expected to work for it, was he not? McCarthy had said so. He told him it wasn't charity.

"I tell you why boy," McCarthy said slowly leaning forward so that their eyes were on the same level and far too close for comfort, "because despite you just coming out of the tub, I can smell smoke of you, because there was ash in the sink in my bathroom and I found a burnt match on the floor. And unless my wife or my son have taken up smoking behind my back, I could bet a million dollars that there is either a pipe or cigars or some other form of tobacco in your bag. Am I right?" McCarthy asked when John had to avert his gaze, "You are going to hand me over that tobacco and I want to see what else you have in there that you are not allowed to have, so empty your bag and put everything onto my kitchen table, or I will do it for you," McCarthy told him dryly.

John still didn't move, so McCarthy walked around him and got the bag, that had been lying on the daybed, himself, and then proceeded to empty it out onto the table.

He confiscated the matches and the sheriff's cigar right away, putting them to the side. John's heart sank when next he picked up the marshal's bowie knife and Bert's slingshot as well and also put them to the side.

"They're mine, please sir, I need them," John pleaded with McCarthy.

"What for?" McCarthy wanted to know, although his tone made it clear, he was in no mood for arguing.

"Killing rats?" John suggested with a questioning tone. It was the only thing he could think of that would earn their approval. Who wouldn't be glad if someone volunteered to do that job.

"Rats?!" Mrs McCarthy yelped in disbelief, "we don't have any rats here, child."

"Rabbits then," John corrected quickly, and shrugged his shoulders, "hunting rabbits."

McCarthy sighed. "You won't be going hunting rabbits for a while. It will be a long time before I trust you to leave my premises on you own, John."

Deflated, John sat onto the bench and watched miserably as McCarthy rummaged through his worldly possessions with his wife and curious son on either side.