Holster Read Online Free PDF

away
from the blazing sun. His shadow fell onto the ground before him.
It stood slightly stooped. No longer did he stand straight and
tall. The top of his spine bent forward, worn down like the
mountains around him. His posture crushed by the weight of an
unbearable grief.
     
    He shouldered the daypack, slamming the truck door
with a bang. Dust leapt off the door into the air, as if shocked.
He ignored it. Reaching into the back of the pickup, behind the
driver’s side, he unzipped a black, dirt covered duffel. Halfway
down the zipper stuck. He cursed. With a frustrated yank he ripped
it open, breaking the zipper. There, on the bottom of the bag,
glistening in the bright white sunlight, lay a shiny silver Smith
and Wesson .44 revolver.
     
    As a boy he had watched his father kill a man with
this gun. They had been hunting the backside of Chief Joe’s Draw.
It was near the end of the season, when the snows covered the peaks
but hadn’t yet touched the valleys. It was late in the day, and the
light was low. They camped just below the snowline, big wet flakes
mixed with rain falling from the sky. Jeremiah sat at the campfire,
hands painfully cold inside wet gloves, watching the little bursts
of steam rise from the snowflakes that landed on the hot rocks at
the edge of the fire.
     
    The man stumbled drunk out of the woods into their
camp. His rifle was scuffed, rusted, and wet. It slung haphazardly
over his left shoulder, a piece of dirty twine holding it in place
instead of a leather shoulder strap. It pointed towards the sky,
taking the rain and snow directly down the barrel. The man did not
seem to notice.
     
    He said he was a hunter like they were. He said he
had hunted these hills for a long time, like they had. He said all
hunters were brothers in camp.
     
    Jeremiah’s father did not answer. He rose slowly and
stood unspeaking between Jeremiah and the man.
     
    Hunters share their kill with other hunters, the man
said. No one should go hungry when there is food for everyone. The
man’s eyes darted about the camp, stopping when it saw his father’s
rifle.
     
    It sat leaned up against the tent under the fly, out
of the rain. It was flawless. The barrel had a perfect sheen of oil
on it, so perfect it reflected the flames of the campfire in the
steel. A single drop of moisture beaded up on the barrel, unable to
touch the steel through the oil.
     
    The wood of the stock was worn smooth from use. It
shimmied as well, fine, dark, and precise. A leather strap, crafted
by his father specifically for the rifle, twisted slowly back and
forth in the breeze, dangling from the top of the barrel. It was an
instrument of perfection.
     
    The man stared at the rifle for minute. No one moved.
His eyes shifted from the rifle, back to Jeremiah, then to his
father. He spoke again, slurring his words.
     
    I have whiskey; I can share whiskey for meat.
     
    He took a step towards the fire.
     
    Jeremiah’s father rested his hand on the hilt of the
revolver. He slowly shook his head side to side, never taking his
eyes off the man.
     
    The man spoke faster, spittle flinging from the edges
of his mouth. It’s not right to keep a man hungry when you have
more than enough. It’s not right to turn a man away from a hot fire
on a cold night. It’s not right for you to have, and others to not.
I’m a hunter too, he said, I’m a hunter too.
     
    Still, Jeremiah’s father did not speak.
     
    The man grew more agitated. He pointed at Jeremiah.
If there’s not enough the boy will be fine going hungry. It’s good
for a boy to sleep in the mountains with an empty stomach. It
teaches him to be a man. Give me some food. He took another step.
Give me some food. Jeremiah grew afraid.
     
    His father answered.
     
    No.
     
    The word hung in the air like a wall as soon as his
father spoke it. It was solid, unmoving, untouchable. The man knew
it.
     
    Give me some food. I have a family too. Give me some
food, or I will take it.
     
    Jeremiah