A LITTLE SCARE
by
Sharon Kay Bottoms
Ben, holding Buck’s reins with one hand and his drawn gun with the other, rounded the corner of the barn at a frenetic gallop. He’d already been moving at a brisk pace, even before he heard the gunshots, because the low, threatening clouds overhead signaled an oncoming storm and he had no desire to get drenched. As he charged into the yard at a speed he frequently berated his youngest son for using, however, he pulled up short and stared. Nothing. Absolutely nothing and no one in sight. Must have been thunder, he decided as he started to holster his gun.
Then he heard it again. Too sharp and crisp for thunder. Definitely gunfire. From the back of the house. Keeping the gun out, he slid from his horse. “That Joseph,” he muttered. “Probably practicing his fast draw against tin cans again. I warned him not to do that so close to the house.” He wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that those shots were only the prelude to a well deserved scolding, but he couldn’t quite convince himself. With a storm coming on, how likely was it that Little Joe would be outside, casually firing at tin cans? Ben’s heart was in his throat as, gun still drawn, he moved cautiously around the side of the house. He almost collided with his youngest son at the back corner of the sprawling ranch house.
Joe stared at the gun in his father’s hand. “Pa? What . . .”
Ben rapidly holstered the gun and gently grasped his son’s bleeding right forearm. “Who shot you?” he demanded.
“Huh?” Then Joe snickered. “I ain’t shot,
“But I heard . . . and your arm.”
Joe shook his head. “You heard me. Couple of bobcats got after the chickens. Just saw the one at first. Shot him, but when I went over to check him out, the other came at me, clawed me pretty good before I could get off the second shot.” He grinned at his father. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no big, bad bushwhackers this time. That’s what you thought, isn’t it?”
“Either that or a very disobedient little boy,” Ben conceded with a smile.
“Little boy! Aw, come on, Pa,” Joe protested.
“No, you come on, Joseph . . . into the house,” Ben chuckled, guiding the young man toward the front yard. “We need to get those scratches cleaned out, so you don’t become a very sick little boy.”
“Pa,” Joe whined, sounding very much like the child he was protesting he was not.
“All right, all right,” Ben said, stroking his son’s shoulder. “No more teasing. It wasn’t a bushwhacker, and it wasn’t a bad boy, but a regular little hero I came across back there.”
“Pa!” Joe squealed, blushing furiously. “Hero’s bad enough—‘cause I ain’t one, just a man doin’ his duty—but do you have to put ‘little’ in front of everything when you’re talkin’ about me?”
Ben grasped the young man’s neck and gave it a playful shake. “Well, why not? It’s your name, isn’t it, Little Joe?”
Just then thunder pealed, drowning out whatever Joe said in response, and the yard was bright with the flash of lightning that accompanied it. Ben bustled his boy into the house as drops of rain began pelting down. They’d escaped the storm, and thankfully, Joe had escaped a greater danger. Ben was grateful, and his buttons threatened to burst with fatherly pride.
The End
© August, 2004