Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

couldn’t help it. Gilpin wouldn’t stand a chance.

Bold as he could be, Gilpin said, “I was up on my graze getting a calf.”

Kidro and Nason looked to the back of Gilpin’s empty truck. They both knew he was lying. “Needs to be a bull calf,” said Kidro, just for argument’s sake, already tired of this. It was dark now.

“Why from me? I never understood that. We don’t even live in this valley.”

Nason said, “You attended our school. You shop at the emporium. Like it or not, we’re neighbors.”

“So I shop at the store. So what? It’s a store.”

Kidro said, “You use my bank and you drive on my roads.”

Gilpin turned on Kidro, eager to tumble in the dust with a much older man. “I just traded you Stoner for that calf. My bull’s getting old and impotent. I need that calf.”

Stupid.

“You should have thought of that before you clipped all your young bulls.” Kidro stepped forward, angry now.

Gilpin lunged.

Nason deftly slid between them and grabbed Gilpin’s arm, blocking his attempted punch at Kidro. “It’s getting late.” Nason forcibly shoved Gilpin toward his truck.

“I ain’t giving it up,” shouted Gilpin, trying to get around Nason to get at Kidro. “Not to no grizzly, I ain’t. I got my rifle in my truck. I’ll kill it myself.”

“Been tried,” said Kidro, thinking about ten years ago, he and both his sons shooting it all those times.  “. . . by better men than you.”

Still controlling Gilpin, Nason said, “The Village Committee will take care of it, Bruce. Get back in your truck and go home.” When Gilpin ripped free, Nason used his hat again, steadily herding Gilpin toward the trucks. After a couple of quick sidesteps, blocking Gilpin, Nason opened the door to Gilpin’s truck, thrust him inside and closed the door.

Gilpin started his truck and slowly backed away, hard to see his face in the dark. The fool was probably planning something stupid.

Kidro didn’t care.

“What a pud.” Nason propped his hat on the back of his head and looked at his dented tailgate.

“Yeah, those Gilpins are a brood apart.”

Nason chuckled and closed his tailgate, frowning as he ran his fingers across the new crease in his chrome trim. He shook his head, pulled off his hat and climbed into the cab.  Nason started his truck, smiled, turned on his headlights and slowly backed away.

Kidro turned for home, snapped his fingers and Scooter followed.

Those stupid meadowlarks swirled above the treetops, a black blur against the rising moon.

GILPIN SMOKED A JOINT and waited on the other side of River Road, backed under the low, wide-spread branches of a giant sequoia, hoping Nason wouldn’t see his truck. Those two morons couldn't pull this crap on him.

Not today. Not this Gilpin.

The wimp asses were afraid to deal with a dumb animal. He took a hit from the fat, sweet tasting marijuana cigarette and set it in the ashtray.

There.

Nason’s headlights moved slowly but steadily down the dirt road from Potter’s upper meadow. He turned right onto River Road and sped toward the village.

Chapter Two

Barnabas, Jason Potter’s American Pit Bull Terrier, lay on the corner of Jason’s bed, always watching Jason’s every move. Except for the brindle patches on his head, Barnabas was pure white.

Jason’s ninth birthday was on November 11, barely more than a month away. Barnabas was born on November 14. He'd be four. Barnabas always got to celebrate his birthday with Jason on the 11th.

Jason studied the pencil drawing he’d been working on and propped the sketchpad against his raised knee, working at the workspace in the corner of his bedroom. The overall shape of his dog’s muscled head and shoulders looked okay but needed more detail. Time to fill in the brindle patches around his eyes.

Eyes are tricky.

He’d work on those a little at a time, as the spirit led. Good advice from his mom.

His dog stared back at him, his unclipped ears perked, nice and still.

Jason squirmed into a more comfortable position, studying those big hazel irises.

Too tricky right now.

He went back to work on the brindle patches and looked again.

He'd go for the dark pupils. Those were easy enough.

A good start.

His mom poked her head into his bedroom and asked, “Did you read tomorrow’s chapters yet?” She stepped all the way in and noticed the drawing. “Better not let your grandmother see that. You know how she feels about your artwork.”

“Uh huh.” Jason’s grandmother had no use for artists, not since chasing off Jason’s grandpa when his mom was still in school, since long before Jason was born. Jason had to keep all his sketches, drawings and water colors hidden.

He put the sketchpad into a drawer and closed it, bent down, pulled his school binder from his backpack on the floor and handed it to his mom.

She scanned the printed notes from his desktop computer and Jason turned the computer back on, waiting for her inevitable corrections. She always made him read the material before class, highlight the important information, go to his computer and print out notes from his highlights, then put the printed notes into his binder. That way, Jason could listen to his teacher and only take notes for stuff not found in his books.

He could even draw in class using his secret sketchpad. Mom didn't know about that one. He still listened to every word from his teacher, waiting to hear something new. He'd always write the new stuff down in the notebook under his sketchpad.

Sometimes he got caught and got into trouble, like once when the teacher threw a whiteboard eraser. It had hit Jason’s head and she'd asked him about the capital of California. They’d been studying about state governments. Jason told her it was Sacramento. He’d not only learned that from the textbook, but he’d just heard her talk about it.

Ms. Martinez had pointed at the floor in front of the whiteboard. “You get up here right now, young man.” When Jason got there, she'd told him to draw a