A Dangerous Man (28 page)

“I like peach pie,” Wes said. “And apple, if it's got raisins in it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“And plenty of cinnamon.”

“She made pies like that.” Then quickly, before he could interrupt again, I went on. “I was there the whole month of June, then on the second of July, the day after my ninth birthday, the cabin got hit by a band of Lipan Apaches that had crossed the Rio Grande and come up from Mexico.”

“Damned murdering savages,” Wes said.

“The youngest of the Simpson boys fell dead in the first volley. His name was Reuben or maybe Rufus, I can't recollect which. The others, myself included, made it back into the cabin, though Mrs. Simpson's butt got burned by a musket ball as she was coming through the door.”

“Big target.”

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“Hold on just a minute.” Wes grabbed the dead man by the ankles and dragged him into the brush. When he came back he said, “Then what happened?”

“Well, Mr. Simpson and his surviving sons held off the Apaches until dark when all went quiet. But they were afraid to go out for the dead boy's body on account of how the savages might be lying in ambush.”

“Damned Apaches. I hate them.”

“Well, just as the moon came up, we heard this snorting and snuffling sound, then a strange ripping noise, like calico cloth being torn into little pieces.”

“What was it?” Wes asked.

“It was Reuben or maybe Rufus being torn into little pieces.”

“The big boars have sharp tusks on them. They can rip into a man.”

“They ripped into the dead boy all right. Come first light all that was left was a bloody skeleton. But the head was still intact. The hogs hadn't touched it.” I stared at Wes. “Why would they do that?”

“I don't know, Little Bit. There ain't no accounting for what a hog will do.”

Wes stepped to the brush, then turned and said, “I'm taking this feller well away from camp. Your damned story about them hogs has me boogered.”