So sorry friends and readers, but I have an injury on my arm and it slows me down so much, not only with writing but almost everything I do. And it's not even my dominant arm. but here it is the next chapter.
In a panic, because Horace wouldn't stop his squealing, and because he didn't know what else to do to make him stop, John put his hand into the bucket a second time and threw more food at Horace, and when that didn't work, he just did it again, and again. The practice with his left arm had paid off, Matunaagd would have been proud of him. He didn't miss once.
It was of course a stupid thing to do, Jeremiah would not have been proud of him at all. Despite that and to his own surprise, it did work. Horace eventually did go quiet and slowly scratched the food of his woolen jumper with a puss on him that would have even made his father jealous. By the time he threw it back at John however, John was already running toward him as he had heard Mrs McCarthy approach from behind the back door.
Horace, unlucky for him, neither reacted as swiftly nor was as good a shot as John, so that he hit his mother straight in the chest with the lump of food, just as she opened the door into the kitchen.
After that everything just happened too fast. In the panic that ensued, poor Horace who stood in front of the exit that led to the hallway, mistook John's coming at him as an attack, so that he held up his good arm in front of him as a defense which John ran straight into, sore shoulder first. The pain shot through John like a bullet and had him go down on his knees gasping for air, pulling Horace on his gammy legs down with him.
To Mrs McCarthy it must have looked as if they were fighting with each other, for as soon as she had recovered from the fright she'd gotten, she started to shout at them to stop, and then proceeded to hit them with her broom that she had only moments ago used to free her beloved porch of the freshly fallen snow. There was no room in her house for this kind of violence she shouted at them. "In this house, arguments are fought with words," she screeched bringing the wet bundle of twigs down onto their bodies again and again leaving melting snowflakes all over her floor and the boys. The irony of this statement went amiss on her of course, and her beatings although not that painful did not help one bit to stop the kerfuffle. The boys were not fighting but were merely trying to get up and scramble away from each other.
When at last she stopped and helped her son up onto his feet, John grabbed the opportunity and the bucket with what was left for the pigs and ran out to the barn as fast as his sore shoulder allowed it.
Exhausted and disappointed with himself, he fed the pigs and then instead of doing what he was told to do, he stayed at the window of the barn from where he was anxiously watching McCarthy, Phelps and the lads cut wood in the sizeable roofed over area at the side of the main house that they so generously called the woodshed.
It was of course only a matter of time that the master would hear of his latest crime and he was not going to be left waiting for long. It was Mrs McCarthy who wrapped up in her large woolen shawl came out the front door to tell her husband all about it.
He couldn't hear what McCarthy was shouting but that he was angry as hell was obvious. Both Lee and Carter cautiously backed away from him as he pointed angrily in their direction berating them. Mrs McCarthy with her hands on her hip too seemed to be doing her own bit of giving out too, but not at the lads but McCarthy, while Phelps as if using the opportunity to take a break sat himself down on the saw-horse lighting his pipe as if none of this was any of his concern, which of course it wasn't.
John watched with a sinking heart and queasy feeling in his stomach as McCarthy drove his axe into the chopping block and then stomped off into the direction of the barn.
He had a good look around, but there was nowhere good to run to or hide. There was nothing useful he could throw at McCarthy to fight him off or distract him with either. He grabbed the pitchfork that stood beside him against the wall, the only useful weapon available in the barn but quickly put it back again, realising that it was too heavy for him to use with just the one arm. He wouldn't have used it anyhow he told himself, and McCarthy would have had him disarmed in no time.
So he went back to the window where he was surprised to see McCarthy disappear inside the house with a loud bang of the front door.
He had no idea why the man had suddenly changed his direction, but imagined that it probably meant the end of the road for him at the carpenter's place in any event. Horace would tell his father what he had done and probably would put his own spin on the story as well. Full of gloom John sank down to the ground beside the pigsty burying his face in his knees and wrapping his arms around himself as much as that was possible with his sore arm.
The two pigs promptly came over to poke at him with their snouts through the fence like Jeremiah's dog used to do when he felt sad. 'A person could do a lot worse than having a pig for a friend,' John thought defiantly as he lifted his head and scratched the side of the animal's face, looking deep into the animal's eyes, but then he remembered that they were going to get killed next week and with a sigh rubbed them even harder but averted his gaze. 'If they'd send him away, at least he wouldn't have to be part of that,' John thought.
Feeling sorry for himself and thinking about all the options he would have had if it weren't for his stupid broken shoulder and the cold weather outside, John just waited for the inevitable.
The inevitable however didn't come, but Carter, Lee and Phelps did. John wasn't sure if this was a good or bad development. All three of them had come to his aid occasionally, when McCarthy wanted to throttle him but other times they had been the ones that told McCarthy he was going too easy on him. Carter and Lee wanted to come over to him, but Phelps wouldn't let them and told them to get the wagon ready instead. He then walked over to John.
"Is he making you bring me into town?" John asked anxiously looking up at Phelps who towered over him.
Phelps laughed and told him, 'no' but that he was getting the wagon ready to take some of the wood to his own house. "I am taking the lads with me to help me unload and bring the wagon and horse back later," he told him and then added with a chuckle and a wink of his eye, "and also to get them out of 'harm's way'."
"Can I come?" John asked hopefully.
Phelps just laughed and shook his head.
"I wish I could stay with you. I am your apprentice too Mr Phelps, why can't I live with you instead? Why must I stay with him," John asked sullenly.
"Why, what foolish notion is this, boy?" Phelps replied sternly, "what on earth makes you think you'd be any better off in my house? My missus would have me whoop your white hiney every single day. My place? By Christmas you'd altogether forgotten how to sit," Phelps said, leaning down and wagging his finger in front of John's face, "my wife would not suffer your nonsense, not for a minute, and neither would I, believe me."
Ashamed John lowered his head, he'd always thought Phelps liked him. Seeing this, Phelps continued with a little more empathy.
"Look boy, they've took you from them Injuns and gave you to white folks to be educated proper, what makes you think they would leave you with an old negro and his wife instead. My place?" he shook his head again in reply to his own question and then walked over to the lads to give them a hand.
When they left John remained in the safety of the barn and attempted to muck out the stalls but didn't get very far on accounts of his injury. He kept going though. He didn't want to be accused of being lazy as well.
McCarthy himself only reappeared when Phelps and the lads had already gone, announcing his return with an almighty bang of the heavy front door that made John jump in fright. Again McCarthy did not come over to him but headed for the woodshed instead where he picked up the axe and started to chop more wood with seemingly renewed enthusiasm.
For a long time John just stood there at the window of the barn and watched McCarthy work, not knowing what he was supposed to do. He considered staying in the barn indefinitely, and was wondering if maybe McCarthy would let him. The building was cold but not that cold that he would freeze to death he imagined. There were plenty of blankets lying around that would protect him during the night. But then what? If he didn't go back would they just ignore him and let him starve? Or would they bring him food? Would they let him have his coat? Or would they simply bring him to the sheriff when eventually they'd come for him.
It started to snow again. Heavy snowflakes slowly floating to the ground, the kind that stick and cover the cold ground with a dense carpet. It was starting to get darker too.
There was no point in hanging around in the barn, John decided, when the only thing that could sway McCarthy into keeping him was showing him that he could be useful to him, so John walked out and toward the woodshed.
McCarthy was working steadily without taking a break. He picked up one piece of wood at the time, positioned it on the chopping block and with an almighty swing he split the chunk of wood into smaller pieces, bringing his axe down again and again, until there was no wood big enough left on the block. Then he picked out the next lump of wood, and started the process all over again, not bothering with picking up the firewood that fell on the ground around him.
John approached cautiously. Ready to run if necessary and keeping his distance to McCarthy and McCarthy at first pretended to not notice him. He continued to work, even though John had seen him glance at him inconspicuously at one point.
With his heart thumping in his chest so hard he could feel it in his neck, John stood himself at the side of the shed, still far enough away so that McCarthy could not reach him, but close enough that trying to run would have been futile. The only useful job he could do for McCarthy was pick up the firewood of the ground, but that would have meant he would have had to get considerably closer to the capricious man and John just wasn't that brave, so he continued to quietly wait, in the hope that McCarthy would tell him what to do.
McCarthy however didn't, and just let John stew in his discomfort for another little while until John couldn't take it any longer. Cautiously edging himself forward, he reached for a piece of wood, not letting McCarthy out of his sight and then backed away with it to the wall at the back of the shed where he placed it neatly on the pile that Lee and Carter had started to built there earlier.
McCarthy drove his axe into the chopping block with a loud crack. Taking a break from what he was doing, he closely watched the boy cautiously coming back towards him to get himself another piece of wood and tidy it away. John defiantly locked eyes with him as he got one piece after the other, always ready to bolt if necessary.
Not unlike John himself, McCarthy's pursed lips and narrowed eyes that followed every move John made gave the impression he badly wanted to say something he knew he shouldn't. Eventually however, he went back to what he was doing and after a while John too relaxed. For the remainder of the afternoon they both just worked silently alongside each other until all the wood in front of the woodshed had been dealt with, and all the firewood was neatly stacked around the walls of the shed.
It was only then that John noticed the sharp wind that was driving the heavy snow fast across the yard and McCarthy's worried face which changed however instantly when he saw the lads come through the gate. "Thank god for that," McCarthy mumbled to himself visibly relieved and then ordered John to go inside with a gesture of his hand and without even saying a word. John obeyed, reluctantly walking ahead while McCarthy went to greet the young men and helped them put away the horse.
John went inside as quiet as he could. Took of his boots but not his snow covered jumper. It was cold in the hall. He didn't want to go into the kitchen where he would have to come face to face with Horace and his mother, so he stayed put, waiting for McCarthy to come in. He knew it made no sense. Of the two he should have been more afraid of McCarthy, yet here he was not wanting to face her without him.
Eventually McCarthy came back to the house, bringing the lads with him. John could hear them bickering at each other as they approached the front door, and when they got inside he immediately understood why. "I will not hear another word about this," McCarthy told Carter and Lee, who were carrying a bag and bedroll each, "until this weather has settled, you both will sleep in the house. We'll figure out later where we put you, but for now take off your wet clothes and follow me into the kitchen." The young men did not look impressed but McCarthy's sharp tone did not leave room for any more objections.
McCarthy didn't look half as surprised as he should have when he saw John still awkwardly standing in the hall. So once he had finished with the lads and taken off his own boots and wet overcoat, he grabbed John by the scruff of his neck and unceremoniously dragged him along towards the kitchen.
He did not go into the kitchen however but just opened the door wide enough for Mrs McCarthy to see them. "Is the water hot Clarissa?" he wanted to know from his wife without letting go of John. She nodded wordlessly and gave him a pile of fresh clothes for John and a towel. She looked down at John with pursed lips and a disapproving look, but like her husband did not say anything to him either. Horace was nowhere to be seen.
"The lads are staying in the house until the weather settles. You don't mind do you?" Mr McCarthy asked.
"God no," his wife answered, "I'd hate them being stuck in that bunkhouse all by themselves in that weather," Mrs McCarthy said, her voice full of concern and pity, "We'll put them in the dining room. It will be a treat for them to be in the warm house for a change and I won't miss having to run between the bunkhouse and my kitchen with their food for a while," she added more cheerfully.
"Quite right," McCarthy agreed not telling her that the lads didn't see it at all that way and that he had to twist their arms to agree.
He then brought John down to the bathroom. John didn't like the idea of a bath he only had one a week ago. As far as he was concerned he was still squeaky clean, but he didn't dare to complain.
Like the last time McCarthy ran him the bath, while he was sitting on the rim of the tub with his back turned to John, periodically checking the temperature, while John himself remained standing in the door. He still hadn't said a single word to him which caused John to become increasingly anxious and altogether certain, that McCarthy no longer wanted him. John imagined that he'd probably would hand him over to the sheriff or maybe even the pastor the next day after church, if they'd even were prepared to take him, it being Sunday an all. He was wondering if he only gave him a bath, so he could hand him over clean and presentable. He could have told him that they wouldn't care about that in the orphanage and had to think of the state he and his brothers had been in when they first were taken off the streets.
"Mr McCarthy," at last John anxiously whispered. He just couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"Mr McCarthy," John tried again, even though McCarthy kept actively ignoring him, "are you going to get rid of me tomorrow after church? Are you going to hand me over to the sheriff?" he wanted to know.
McCarthy didn't answer him right away but John could see that he took his hand out of the water and lifted his head to gaze out the window.
"John if that was to happen you'd be the first to know," McCarthy at last replied soberly still with his back to him.
What McCarthy had said did not put John at ease much. In his head it merely meant he hadn't made his mind up just yet. But at least until church the next day was still a bit of time left, so maybe he could sway the man into keeping him if he behaved himself and did what he was told until then.
"Take of your shirt I want to see how your wounds are doing," McCarthy instructed him sternly, so instead of telling him that they were doing just fine, John obeyed .
McCarthy was happy enough with the wounds. They were all dry and properly closed over at this stage. The bump on John's collar bone however was a different story and had McCarthy look at it with concern. There was fresh bruising around it, and McCarthy kept asking him if he thought the bone felt worse than before and if the pain was in anyway different or indicated that he'd broken the bone anew. Did he feel a tingling or pain anywhere else in his arm that wasn't there before he wanted to know. John shrugged his shoulder because he wasn't sure. He hadn't paid all that much attention to it. But because he knew McCarthy hated it when he was just shrugging his shoulders he tried to explain.
"It's just still sore is all. When I try use it or hit it off something it hurts like hell, but the pain then fades away quick enough. I think it'll be alright again in a few days," John told him. It hurt when Blunt hit him there, he explained and when he fell on it in the livery when Delaney slapped him as well, but now it was almost back to the way it was before that happened he told him. He didn't tell McCarthy about Horace hitting him in the shoulder earlier on. After all he wasn't a rat. He was going to deal with Horace in his own way. Hitting him in that shoulder had been a mean move.
McCarthy seemed appeased enough with that. He instructed John to get into the bath and do a good job washing himself. "I doubt we will be going to church tomorrow, what with your Indian's weather coming down on us today," McCarthy said, as if it had been Enkoodabooaoo who had summoned the snowstorm. Even if they didn't get to church the next day, he told him, it was still the Lord's day, and then he concluded his speech by telling him to see him in his office straight afterwards. He was intending to give him a whopping he wouldn't so quickly forget, he told him solemnly as if he was offering John something entirely different. "I hardly need to explain to you why, do I?" McCarthy said without any emotion and then closed the door behind him, leaving a perplexed and somewhat bewildered John behind.
The word whopping did a beating with a belt no justice. It sounded a lot less harmless than it was. The last time McCarthy gave him six with the belt, it took a whole day and a bit before the tenderness had completely left his buttocks. So the prospect of a whooping which he wasn't going to forget for a very long time, had John feeling nervous. Under normal circumstances, John would have never even contemplated cooperating with such a request. There was no way he would have subjected himself to a beating voluntarily, why would he. With the exception of the orphanage, where they threatened to separate him from his brothers if he'd didn't cooperate, he'd always had made it as difficult as possible for whoever thought it was their right to give him a beating, of course he did.
The threat of separating him from his brothers of course had been a much more effective way to keep him in line, and it hadn't taken the workers in the orphanage very long to find that out. The threat to be send back to that place had the same effect, he could have told McCarthy but thought better of it. Under normal circumstances he would have up and left. But these weren't normal circumstances. There was a snowstorm tormenting the lands outside, and he had nowhere to go and no body that would give him shelter out there, so when he had completed his bath taking as long as he possibly could, he really did find himself knocking at the back of the door of McCarthy's office.
"Close the door behind you John," McCarthy told him without looking up. He was sitting at his desk over some ledgers. His belt was lying curled up like a snake beside him on the table as if that was its normal place.
John didn't know if he was supposed to say or do anything, so he just stood there awkwardly, between the door and the table, watching McCarthy work and not sure why he didn't just run or at least hide somewhere in the house. He'd been able to fight him off the night before, when he sought refuge under the table and kicked out at him, but then on that day everything was still different. He didn't want to stay. He had been still hoping there was someone he could return to, someone who wanted him back.
He still didn't want to be there, didn't like the McCarthys, none of them. None of that had changed, but he was not stupid. He knew that this was as good as it could possibly get for him, for now anyway, at least until spring, and then he could go and find his own luck. Maybe try and get back to his brothers, or up North to where that man was that his father had rescued, maybe he would give him a job, or maybe his father's friend, the guy who owned the saloon, or maybe he could find Delaney and go prospecting with him.
"My wife tells me you boys were throwing the pig's food at each other which then turned into a physical fight. My son confirmed as much and added that you started it because he said some unkind things to you. Is that true?" McCarthy wanted to know interrupting John's daydreaming. John nodded and followed it up with a barely audible, yes, sir. "Is there anything else you would like to add to this in your defense John Finnegan?" McCarthy wanted to know using his full name as if he was standing in front of some sort of court.
John was about to shrug his shoulders but then thought better of it, shook his head, and said 'No sir!" the way McCarthy appreciated it. Of course Horace the rat had told his daddy that John had started it. Of course, Horace had confessed to him he'd been unkind, just so McCarthy would go easy on him, or not punish him at all, that slimy good for nothing rat.
"John, to tell you the truth, when my wife told me about what happened earlier, I was set on driving you into town there and then and hand you over to the sheriff, but the weather was in your favour today boy. That and the fact that my wife, god knows why, begged me not to," McCarthy said as he picked up the belt, uncurled it and folded it over, at the same time as he got up out of his seat.
I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour from anyone in my household and I sure will not tolerate you attacking my son. God knows he gets enough of that in school. At the moment you might think he is a match to you while you are still injured, but you and I both know that as soon as your bone is all healed up he is no match to you, not physically and for sure not in terms of mean spiritedness. That boy has never as much as hurt a fly," he lectured him. But John knew this wasn't true. His shoulder was still sore from Horace's punch earlier, but he unlike Horace was not a rat.
"So I am telling you this once, and for all, in a way that I hope you won't forget so soon, you keep your hands of my son, or god help you," McCarthy told him, pushing John down onto the table and John let him. Which was something, he regretted rather quickly, for McCarthy made true of his threat. This was a beating he was not going to forget so soon. McCarthy didn't hit him all that hard, but this time he didn't stop at six but just kept going. He held him down with the back of his shirt scrunched up in his fist, just below the neck and because of his sore shoulder there was little John could do to get away or defend himself. All he could do was lie there and take it, and he tried, but McCarthy did not stop until he had done what he set out to do, and had cut him down to size. After all he was a carpenter. He beat John for as long as it took to get him to admit defeat and give up on his stoic, defiant and obstinate stance.
"Now boy," McCarthy went when John finally had started to cry hard and begged him to stop. "What do you have to say to me?" he asked, as he pulled the sobbing and shaking boy into an upright position in front of him.
John complied, he had no choice. He apologised, said he would never do it again, and promised that from now on he would do as he was told. And in that moment, he even meant it. He never ever wanted to endure a beating like that again.
McCarthy was satisfied he had done the right thing, and told John, whose tears were running openly down his face having given up on trying to be brave, that he could stay in his office for as long as he needed to compose himself. When he did join the rest of the household however, he was expected to apologies to his wife and his son, he told him, and "mind you don't miss dinner," he warned him as well, as he left the room to go into the kitchen.
Had it not been for Carter who talked him around, agreeing with him that Horace was a snake, and the master a mean auld goat, John would have missed the dinner that night. He was too humiliated to join everyone at the family's table, let alone apologise to Horace and McCarthy's wife. They had all heard him fuzzing and cursing over the beating he got.
As he tenderly sat down at his usual spot opposite Horace who also was squirming uneasily in his seat with eyes red from crying he was wondering if despite McCarthy's lecture he too had been given a hiding. Only for the knowledge that it wouldn't have taken McCarthy all that long to get him to the point where he begged his father to stop, John would have felt sorry for him. John apologised to Horace and his mother without meaning it and ate his dinner in silence and in shame.
He knew he could not take revenge even though that was what he really would have liked to do instead of apologising. He knew he was trapped and had nowhere else to go. No one else wanted him. And he also knew that no matter how hard he'd tried there was no way that he would ever manage to live up to McCarthy's stupid standards. Sooner or later he'd mess up again, but on this night he tried. McCarthy did not have to tell him to slow down eating his food, and he said, yes sir, and no sir, and yes please and no thank you, and did not shrug his shoulders when he was asked a question or was being corrected for having his elbows on the table. He was just as well behaved and obedient as McCarthy and his stupid wife liked it.
The trouble with physical punishment is not that it does not work as some people might like one to think. It works just fine for the adult that is doling it out. It maintains their dominance and even gets rid of some pent up anger and frustration one might hold, unless of course the person in question knows that what they are doing is morally wrong and they feel guilty about hitting a child, that is. But even then, one can always blame the child who drove them to this, and with a bit of luck the child might even behave much better for the adult hence forth or for at least a little while, making it all worthwhile and justifiable. And why wouldn't they behave better? They'd be too afraid not to. And when they misbehaved again, or had forgotten what they should be afraid of one could always beat them again, a bit harder this time, so they'd remember for longer. A beating however, does very little to teach a child right from wrong and does even less for a child' self esteem. They gain no insight into why what they might have done was wrong. Beyond the punishment, it does not make them use their head and learn about the actual consequences of their actions to them or others. It does not promote empathy nor compassion, not for their opponents or victims, not for themselves and even less so for their parents. It is a peculiarity of adulthood of course, that grown ups who have themselves experienced this sort of thing when they were children, seem to have forgotten how this worked.
So while McCarthy was feeling a little sad that it had come to this, but also justified and content that he had been doing the right thing and that it had worked because the boy now seemed remorseful and contemplated his wrongdoings and was mending his ways, John's own thinking circled around the meanness of everyone else, the revenge he would like to carry out if only he could and what he should have done instead, so he wouldn't have got caught. He imagined himself throwing not only the food at Horace but putting the whole bucket over his head, then running out of the kitchen, long before the stupid-ass boy had a chance to holler for his ma. He saw himself steal some money out of McCarthy's wallet that he had earlier discovered was kept in the drawer of the man's desk, where his slingshot and knife were keeping it company again, and then steal McCarthy's good horse as well and gallop towards the train station in the city, without a saddle of course, because he was taught to ride properly, by an Indian.
His understanding of what he had been doing wrong was very different to McCarthy's, and when McCarthy later on asked him if he had done his prayers yet John told him yes he did, and punctuated that sentence with a 'sir'. And none of this helped him find any sleep that night.
Horace had been an arse that day of course but he also was a child, who knew how this worked. So with a guilty conscience and armed with his bedside lamp, he got up as soon as he was sure his parents were asleep and snuck into the kitchen.
"John, are you awake?" he whisper called into the kitchen.
John pretended to be asleep, but of course he wasn't, how could a fellow sleep with that amount of anger and self-pity in his belly, let alone a sore backside. He had been feeling the welts on the back of his legs, looking for any signs of wetness because he could have sworn McCarthy had managed to cut his skin, which would have given him even more reason to hate the man, but surprisingly he didn't find any.
Horace brought the light right up to John's face, but John kept his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady, right until he felt Horace move something on the little shelf above him where he kept the little animals that Walls had made just for him. As fast as a rattlesnake that was hiding in the long grass, John grabbed Horace's wrist with his own good hand which caused Horace to open his hand and let the lion fall down onto John's chest.
"Please, please, don't scream, I was going to put it back, look, look I fixed its ear, look, please I am sorry, please let me go," Horace cried in a terrified whisper.
So John sat up, hatefully looking at Horace as he retrieved the lion form the blanket and holding it tight in his closed fist.
"Please, look at it," Horace implored, "I did a really good job of it, look," Horace said again, looking hopefully at John and bringing the light that he had placed on the table earlier closer to John.
John had no idea how he wanted to react, he was full of anger but the boy's tearful demeanor, plus his sore shoulder made it impossible for him to lash out the way he wanted to.
Only minutes ago he had fantasised about ways he could humiliate the other boy in front of his classmates or even better in front of his father without him getting the blame for it. He hadn't come up with anything useful though, not yet.
The last thing he wanted was Horace doing him a favour and on top of that he didn't even want the lion to be fixed. He liked her just the way she was, even though every time he looked at her she also did remind him of that awkward moment where he fired her against the wall in Walls.
"You had no right," he snarled at Horace tearfully, when he finally looked at her in the light of the lamp that Horace was holding up to him, "you had no right to touch her, she is mine, and I liked her the way she was," he repeated with clenched teeth and then put her back beside her two little boys.
Horace was horrified. This had backfired in a way that he could have not imagined it would.
"Go to bed, Horace before your dad comes in and gives me another hiding. God knows you're too much of a coward and would blame it all on me again, you fucking rat," John spat hatefully, "have I told you that rats are the lowest of the low where I am from?" he asked venomously.
"I didn't want to tell him, John," Horace begged, "honest I didn't. He made me."
John laughed quietly, "yeah I bet he did. He probably didn't even have his belt out of its loops and you spilled the beans like the rat you are."
"I am not a rat," Horace spat back angrily this time "I really tried, but he told mam that you had to go because I was too terrified of you to tell him what had happened. He said you must have threatened me somehow."
John fell silent. This was not at all what he had expected and he wasn't sure if Horace was telling the truth. He didn't know him to be a liar though either, but then again he didn't know him really at all.
"Don't you see, I had to tell him. I am not a rat, honest I am not," Horace said again, "I didn't tell him that you attacked me. Only that you threw food at me," Horace said sounding quite proud of himself and hoping John would forgive him, "and I told him it was my fault, because I teased you."
"I didn't attack you," John countered in annoyance.
"Yeah you did. When I tried to throw the food back at you, you attacked me and pulled me to the ground," Horace said.
"I didn't. You gave me a box in the shoulder and I fell taking you down with me," John said, and both boys realised that what they thought had happened was somewhat different to what actually did happen.
"Huh," Horace went, and then after a while said, "anyways, the important bit is that I didn't tell dad."
"Huh," John went as well and they both fell silent for a bit. John still wanted to hate the other boy but didn't know quite how.
"I am sorry he hit you that hard," Horace went again.
"Huh," John went again, and then after a while added, "it wasn't all that hard. I pretended or he'd never stopped," he lied.
"Huh," Horace said knowingly and they both went silent again for a while.
"How come you ran away," Horace at last tentatively asked the question that he had wanted to ask every since his father had brought John back home.
John shrugged his shoulders.
I hate it here, he wanted to say. I want to be back with my own family, he wanted to tell Horace but then felt it would sound stupid. They weren't really his family. They never were his family. He'd been with them less than a year.
"I thought we were friends," Horace said sadly.
"Friends?" John asked angrily, "friends don't rat on each other Horace. Friends don't say the kind of things you said to me this morning."
"I am sorry," Horace said remorsefully, "I was upset that you left like that. Without saying anything, not even goodbye. I thought we were friends. I never had a friend," Horace pleaded with him, shrugging his shoulders helplessly having apologised but realising it was not enough.
John looked at him in disgust.
"Friends. You have no idea what that word even means Horace McCarthy. If you were my friend you'd want me to get back to the folks they've taken me from, where I was happy. For the first time in my life I was somewhere where I was really happy and they just took me and brought me here, where I am not even wanted. They wanted me. They said I could stay with them forever. Jeremiah even asked me to call him, Pa," John said with tears in his voice, "if you really were my friend, you wouldn't want me to stay where I am unhappy for your own sake! That's not what friends do."
Horace bit his lip in shame. All of this was new to him and yet he knew John was right. He had known John was brought to them against his will, but still thought that being with his family, being his father's apprentice was far superior to where he'd been before. He, like everyone else had thought giving it a bit of time, John would come to that same conclusion himself.
"Dad says, they are gone now and half the country is after them because they killed so many men," Horace said cautiously.
"It was self-defence," John said defensively.
"Dad said that too," Horace said, "but he said that don't matter because they are Indians and the ones they killed were all white folks."
John hummed in sad agreement.
"If they weren't gone, and if it wasn't winter. I would help you get back to them," Horace said nervously, "I do want to be your friend."
It was an easy promise to make, since John had no idea where they were, it wasn't safe to do so and there was a fierce snowstorm raging outside, but Horace liked to believe he made the promise in earnest.
John smiled a little. "The path to hell is paved with good intentions," he said.
Horace looked perplexed and somewhat hurt as well.
"It's something Jeremiah used to say to me, when I made excuses why I hadn't done what I said I would, or promised to do something later but he knew I was trying to get away with not having to do it" he explained.
"Oh," Horace said embarrassedly.
"Don't worry about it. I have no idea where they went. And I don't think they'd still want me anyway. I'd only slow them down," John said sadly.
Horace was careful not to agree, even though he wanted to and it was kind of what his father had said too.
"I can read the paper for you when father gets it on the weekends," he suggested, "maybe some day there is something in the paper about them?"
John nodded.
They stayed up a little longer. John sharing stories about his life with Jeremiah, Enkoodabooaoo and Numees and Matunaagd, and dog in the cabin, and also sharing the food that he was allowed to have at night from his tin box that Mrs McCarthy had restocked with all sorts of delicacies that he had not had before, until McCarthy came thundering into the kitchen and put an end to their party.
"Is everything alright?" his wife asked when he climbed back into the warm bed.
"Yeah, they are back in bed. Go back to sleep, love," he replied kissing her on her forehead.
"The lads?" she asked.
McCarthy sighed, "no the boys," he replied.
His wife sat up, now fully awake, "Horace was out of bed?" she asked concerned.
"Yes but he is back in bed now," he said, "go lie back down and go to sleep, Clarissa."
"And John?" she asked.
"Him too," McCarthy replied.
"Huh," she went surprised and laid down again.
McCarthy could still hear her worry through her nose.
"They're fine, Clarissa, go to sleep" he said.
"What were they doing?" she wanted to know.
"Having a picnic," he said.
"A picnic?" she asked and sat up again.
"Yep," McCarthy went, and offered her one of the cookies he had taken from the boys as payment, in lieu for a hiding. He had to smile to himself, painfully. His son of course knew it was a joke but John had taken him quite serious and almost got upset. He hoped he wouldn't have to repeat the hiding he gave him today no time soon.
His wife took the cookie and ate it.
"Matthew, do you think we made a mistake?" she asked.
"What about?" he wanted to know.
"Keeping him," she said, "maybe you were right," she suggested looking down at her husband.
"I was right, Clarissa, but it's too late now," he gave his reply with great satisfaction.
"What if he's a bad influence on our boy?" she asked anxiously.
McCarthy chuckled lightly.
"I hope he is. He's here now, and for your son, it probably is the best thing that could have ever happened to him. It's about time that he got up out of bed in the middle of the night to have a picnic with a friend" he said, and then finished eating the cookies his wife had made a few days ago, and had told everyone they couldn't have any of them yet because they were the first she made for Christmas. It was the same every year, and by the time December came around that first batch was always gone.