The Good Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

building us a castle, of digging a moat and filling it with alligators. He said there’d be giant beds and rugs on the walls and chandeliers full of candles and thousands of rooms; we could live in one for a day and just leave it behind. There’d be servants, of course, and dozens of cooks ready to make us whatever we wanted. There’d be peasants to tend the fields. There’d be new clothes for the winter. There’d be cows and chickens and pigs and horses and wizards to weave spells so we’d never get old.
     
    “You learned how to walk that summer,” said Benjamin Nab. “Mother kept you tied so you wouldn’t wander off. She was afraid a wolf would get you when her back was turned. But it wasn’t a wolf that came. It was an Indian.”
     
    The air in the room went still. Ren had never seen an Indian before, but he could almost feel one now, hidden in the shadows of the bookcase, the native’s body strong and marked with paint, his stale breath close enough to smell.
     
    “I’d been off to fetch some water,” said Benjamin Nab. “Two buckets on my shoulder, and when I got to the cabin I heard this strange sound, sort of like bed moans. So I rested my buckets and stayed in the trees and when I got closer I saw a group of Indians. They were small brown men, and they were wearing women’s nightgowns—white with ruffles, like our mother’s. Only one had it on properly. The others wore theirs around their shoulders, and one had tied the arms around his waist like an apron. They were standing over something in the vegetable garden and hacking at it with their clubs. It was Father. I could tell when one of them picked up his leg to remove the shoes.
     
    “The moans were coming from Mother. There was blood on her face and she was stretched out on the ground, holding on to your ankles. An Indian had you by the hands, pulling you away, dragging Mother behind in the dirt. They went right past the woodpile, and I saw Mother grope for the ax, and before I knew it she had swung it down over her head and cut your arm in two.” Benjamin Nab looked Ren in the eye. “I believe she was aiming for the Indian.
     
    “She took down three men before the others reached her. It gave me time to snatch you up and get away. You were screaming when we reached the woods. I had to stuff my shirt in your mouth. I took us into the river and I swam for it. Kept your head up and let the current take me when it could. Cold water’s the only reason you didn’t die.”
     
    Ren put his arms behind his back and cupped his right hand around the stump. It was tingling, as if it were touching ice. Father John was leaning forward. The heavy wooden beads he kept on his belt swung with a light clack against the side of the desk, in and out with his breath.
     
    “I gave you to a wagon full of people returning east, cutting their losses. I asked them to put you in a good home. Somewhere civilized, where you could get an education.” Benjamin Nab’s face turned serious. “Then I went after those Indians.
     
    “I learned how to shoot. Learned how to drink and how to gamble. I joined up with Indians—good ones—and spent a few years hunting buffalo and living in tents, all the while searching for the ones who’d done it. I learned how to find water where there wasn’t water, learned how to find a trail where there wasn’t a trail, learned how to find hiding places when there was no place to hide.”
     
    At this point Benjamin Nab paused and squinted. “It took me ten years. But I tracked those Indians down, and I found our mother and father.” He pulled a leather pouch from the pocket of his long coat and loosened the strings. He placed two strips of hair on the desk. One square cut of brownish fuzz and the other a jagged scrap of faded yellow curls.
     
    “That’s all that was left.”
     
    Benjamin Nab, Father John, and Ren looked down at the scalps. The priest cleared his throat. Ren felt the urge to reach forward and touch the