Winchester 1887 by William W. Johnstone Page A

old-timer took that lie as gospel, too, and looked at his son. “What you think, kid?”
    Robin shrugged.
    After spitting tobacco juice into the fire, Wildcat wiped his mouth with the back of his buckskinned sleeve, and nodded. “Ya can ride along with me and my boy.” He laughed. “We’s bound for Fort Smith, ain’t we, son?”
    The kid rolled his eyes. “Eventually.” Robin sighed.
    Â 
    Â 
    First, of course, they had to find the oxen—eight in all—that pulled that large wagon. The old man decided to break camp, sending Robin and James out after the beasts, hoping the animals had not strayed too far during the storm.
    The sun dried out James’s clothes quickly, but after an hour, James had his doubts. They had found only one animal, and it was dead. He and Robin spread out, trying to cover more ground, although he would have preferred sticking close, just for the conversation. Robin looked to be about James’s age, slimmer, fairer, and with the worst haircut he had ever seen. Even the drunkard at the tonsorial parlor in McAdam, who only cut hair part-time (his main source of income being the postmaster, if that was a full-time affair in a place like McAdam), gave a better haircut that the one Robin Lamar had been given. It looked as if Wildcat had cut his son’s hair with a knife, a dull knife at that.
    Another ox had been killed, too. They saw the turkey buzzards circling before they found its carcass.
    James begin to realize how lucky he was to be alive. “Did you see the twister?”
    Robin stood just a few feet from him, the two of them looking down into an arroyo, still running with water, and what once had been a beast of burden.
    â€œHeard it,” he said. “Storm come up on us so fast, didn’t have time to find shelter or nothin’. We’d just turned the stock loose, and we leaped into the back of the wagon.” He looked away from the dead animal, and at James. “Didn’t hear you when you come in, else we’d have invited you inside.” He grinned, a wonderful smile, full of life. “Don’t want you a-thinkin’ we ain’t hospitable.”
    James laughed. “I’m surprised the tornado didn’t haul your wagon off.”
    Robin shrugged, moving on, calling out the animals’ names. “It’s heavy enough,” he said after walking several rods, and then his head shook. “If any more of our oxen is kilt, we won’t be haulin’ nothin’ nowhere.” That gave him a moment’s pause. “Which might not be a bad thing.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” James had just caught up with the lad.
    â€œNothin’.” Robin changed the subject and pointed at James’s ripped clothing. “I gots a shirt you can wear. Yer a mite bigger ’n me, so it might not fit that good, but it’s better than what you’s wearin’.” Without waiting for a reply, he started walking across the plains. “July! August! Where are you knuckleheads?”
    By dusk, they had found July and August, November and March. They had been driven into another arroyo, miles south of where the Lamars had been forced to camp, and the narrow slit in the ground had likely saved those four oxen from joining April and October in death. Not bad graze down in the little cut, either. The four animals were obedient, and November took the lead, so that all Robin and James had to do was clap their hands and let out a whoop every now and then to keep the oxen moving. The other two beasts they never found. Robin said four would have to do.
    â€œToo late to make much progress,” Wildcat said when they returned to camp. “Let the sun bake the ground some more.” He staked the animals a ways from camp and began to get the fire going again.
    â€œSorry about April and December, Mr. Lamar,” James said as he accepted the coffee the one-eyed man had poured. “And