A Summer of Flying Steel

A first person present, single POV account of the struggles of 3 people preparing for a national blade throwing contest while Russians are stealing the local water.

A Summer of Flying Steel

 

 by Tinker Pete

Saturday, 26 April 2014, 1930 hrs.

 

As we finish our third beers, Bro and I watch the sun sink behind Strawberry Peak. Orange and gold highlights slowly streak scattered high, wispy cirrus clouds. Mare’s tails, the old timers call them, and the very fact that I know the term surely dates me.

Nobody uses metaphors like that anymore. It’s a dying art.

Bro sighs after he finishes his last swallow, then crushes the empty can into the dust beneath his boot.

“I guess I should go get us some more beer,” he says.

 Therion’s weird 5-beat Ginungagap blares through Bluetooth speakers on a verdigris-encrusted bronze table over by the antique charcoal forge.

I finish my beer as the song ends and hand him my empty can.

“You sure you want to go in the house, dude? It may not be safe, yet.”

He stomps my can, then tosses it in a 30-gallon garbage bin half-filled with similarly flattened aluminum disks.

“All I know is I want another beer,” he says. “It’s my house, too. I should be able to go in and get one whenever I want one.”

“Who said you couldn’t? You’re just scared of your own wife and children, bro.”

“Well, you’re scared of them, too,” he says, looking all defensive.

Hmmm. What he said is not really true. I’m only scared of myself when I’m around them, not actually scared of them.

“Damn right,” I say anyway. I don’t want him to feel bad. “Big Mama don’t like me. She can straight-up kick my a*s, and your daughters are sneaky, lying, conniving little sirens. Wherever those girls go, some stupid weird bullshit is sure to follow.”

About half the time, because I talked them into it.

Bro grunts and frowns down at his boots. “I’ll flip you for it,” he says.

Uh-uh.

“No way, we’ll throw for it,” I say back, grinning. “Stic-tac-toe. One round.”

He tugs at his long salt-and-pepper goatee and thinks about it. He knows I win 55% of our backyard blade games. He’s the one who did the calculations.

I guess somebody had to do it. Math ain’t really my thing, though, so I don’t care as much as he does. Damned genius freak. What with the ponytail hanging down to his a*s and the geeky black frame glasses and those slanted stoner brown eyes, he looks like a pensive refugee from a bad Kung fu movie, just minus the coolie hat.

I let slip a chuckle as I think about Bro in a Kung fu movie, getting his a*s kicked by Jackie Chan and Jet Li.

He arches his eyebrows at me. “What? You think this is funny? You think you’ll win?”

Now I’m laughing. He can be such a child.

“I’m going to kick your a*s,” he says as he stomps off to the cheap, weather-warped banquet table stuck between his dilapidated old wooden workshop and the wire enclosure eight hens, two roosters, one little yellow chick named Lucky, and Ray Rae, a species-and-sometimes-gender-confused tom turkey, call home.

Bro studies the three dozen knives on the table for half a minute, then he picks up his favorites, a set of three 13-inch, scale-less Bill Page Dragons.

After a cursory inspection, he chooses one, then walks over to the range and stops at the fluorescent-orange-painted railroad spike driven into the ground 3 meters from the stic-tac-toe target, a 3-foot wide, 1-foot thick cottonwood round mounted at chest height on an easel-type tripod made of 4x4s.

A large square, 18 inches a side, has been painted on the target round and is divided into a 3x3 grid of smaller 6-inch squares. All lines are 1.25 inches wide and spray-painted dark blue. In the center of each grid square is a 3-inch wide circle painted red.

A big tic-tac-toe board.

Bro assumes his throwing stance; left foot forward, right foot back about 3 feet.

“Center,” he says, calling his shot.

He raises his knife high above his head, leans back a little, then throws his knife so hard his back foot comes off the ground.

Thunk!

“S**t!”

Funny how those blue lines seem to draw your blade, like that blue paint was magnetized.

I take my time walking to the table, then I pick up one of the four 14.25-inch clip-point prototypes Talon Newton made for me. Convolution Bowies he calls them, 17 ounces with rough leather handle scales, my own personal favorites.

Frowning still, Bro paces back and forth between the mammoth fire pit and the stone-built barbecue pit, hands clasped at the small of his back.

I take up my stance 6 inches behind the railroad spike; feet shoulder width apart, right foot back about 6 inches, my cane and knives in my left hand. This is my spot. I could throw with my eyes closed if I wanted to and still have a shot at beating Bro.

I heft the knife a few times. The weight feels perfect in my hand. The balance feels perfect, too, always has. These knives are my sweet precious babies and this one is statistically my best one, according to Bro and his scoring app.

I stretch my back a little, but titanium steel rods don’t bend, they break, and I’m not going through that again, so I don’t push it.

“Center square,” I say over my shoulder.

I grunt as I make my throw, shifting weight slightly from my right foot to the cane. My arm and shoulders do most of the work.

Thunk!

The knife sticks in the center square, but it doesn’t hit the red circle. I get credit for the square, but I don’t get to throw again this turn.

I retrieve my knife and stick a white golf tee in the hole it made to mark the square as mine.

When I turn around, Bro is already at the line. He gives me the finger.

I just smile and walk away.

The very instant I pass out of his sight, he says, “Right middle,” and throws.

Thunk!

His knife sticks, but it’s next to the inner line of the right middle square. Bro jogs to the target, bends over and stares at it, then he looks at me and beckons with a crooked finger.

 “I think it’s in,” he says, “But your call, dude.”

I stroll down range and have a look. One side of the knife is blue territory, the other is wood.

“That’s in,” I say.

Bro puts a pink tee in the square to mark it as his, then he hurries back to the line and taps a boot toe in the dirt while he waits on me to stroll back.

Grasshopper needs to learn patience.

Need a little patience, yeah.

Just a little patience, yeah.

Exactly right, Axel, exactly right. Thanks for chiming in.

I stop in front of Bro.

“Move, dude,” I say. “You’re a downer with a rude attitude, sometimes.”

“Well, hurry up. I’m thirsty,” he says and backs away.

“Go drink some water from the hose,” I say. “I’ll wait until you get back.”

“Up yours,” he says and flips me the finger again. “Just throw.”

So, I step to the line.

“Bottom right,” I say and throw.

Thunk!

Dead center in the bottom right red circle. I get another throw.

“Woohoo!” I yell without looking back at Bro.

I walk down range as slowly as I can without expecting a knife in my back, then I retrieve my Bowie and place a white tee in the hole.

I smile on the way back.

Bro rolls his eyes and taps his foot, sturdy arms crossed on his barrel chest.

I might as well put him out of his misery. Or into it, depending on how you look at it.

“Top left,” I say as soon as I reach the line, then I set myself and throw.

Thunk!

Barely in the top left square, but in nonetheless.

“S**t!” shouts Bro. “S**t! S**t! S**t!”

“Game over, dude,” I say. “If you want beer, you’ll have to fetch it yourself. You can bring me one or not. I’m not going in there. They might eat me.”

“That’s not funny,” he says. “They’ve already got a fire lit under the cannibal stew pot.”

I laugh. “I thought it was a cowgirl hot tub.”

He shrugs. “You could call it a witch’s cauldron and I wouldn’t object. They’ll all be dancing around it, chanting dark-side incantations by midnight. I swear I heard the word ‘sacrifice’.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “And you’ll be passed out drunk by 10. I’ll be with a bunch of wet naked drunk women a dozen or more years younger than me, all of us dancing in the moonlight, and dude, it’s you they hate, not me.”

Bro glowers at me. “They call you a freaking saint,” he says. “They call me Major A*****e. I’m getting screwed.”

No, you’re not, not by your wife, dude. She’s screwing somebody else.

“Dude, you’re always screwing yourself,” I say.

It was probably true both literally and figuratively.

He sighs and chews on a fingernail.

Damn. I hate seeing him like this.

“Okay, fine, chicken s**t,” I say as I return my knives to the table. “I’ll go with you.”

“Right on,” he says and heads for the house.

He grins at me over his shoulder as I try to keep up. “I knew you’d go with me,” he says.

I laugh.

“B*****d,” I say, “You know I’m a sucker for a sad face and a sob story.”

“You’re easy, dude” he says. “I know why the women call you the Saint. You’ve got a seriously messed up white knight complex.”

“You’re right,” I shoot back. “It’s genetic. I’m a descendant of Charles “The Hammer” Martel and Prince John of Gaunt, First Knight of the Garter, the most chivalrous knight the world has ever known.”

“Oh,” he says. “You mean the guys who slaughtered thousands, including their own kin, and took their land, their possessions and their women?”

Damn hippies. They still don’t get it. The more you change human nature, the less chance we’ll survive as a species.

 

 

***

 

 

As we approach the back porch, Bro stops and scratches his head. The electronic groove sounds of Shpongle are clearly audible from inside the closed-up brick farm house, as are the faint, raucous laughs of grown women and the high-pitched squeals and shouts of their sugar-amped tweener daughters.

A real full-blown estrogen fest.

“Hey man,” I say, “Listen carefully. This is one of those enter at your own risk situations. These women are the worst kind. They’re smart and liberated, they’re masters of ridicule, they’re on their own turf, they don’t like you, and ten bucks says they’re on their third or fourth round of margaritas by now. That’s a potent combination.”

Tread lightly my brother, tread lightly.

Maybe I should’ve brought my knives.

Bro just grunts and goes back to scratching his head.

“Dude,” he finally says. “Here’s the plan. I’ll go around front after you go in the back to the kitchen. If the kitchen is clear, grab the beer. If not, wait to see what happens after I go in the front door.”

“You just want to see me struggle up three steps,” I say.

Steps ain’t really my thing.

He grins at me, and it’s that evil grin he gets on his face when he’s being Major A*****e.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “A little suffering is good for the soul.”

“Screw you, bro,” I say. “You’re a closet sadist.”

“Hey, you’re the one who says it all the time. Are you telling me it’s not true?”

“Of course it’s true, and it’s still true you’re a sadist.”

He eyes the steps, then he eyes me, then he eyes the steps again…

“Okay, fine,” I say as I take the first step with my right foot, then drag my left foot up beside it. Step, drag, step, drag and I’m on the porch.

I turn and face Bro, still at the bottom of the steps. I raise my eyebrows. “Happy now?” I ask him.

The last light is fading in the west. All I can really see in the dark is his teeth. He must be grinning at me.

“Yeah,” he says. “Your suffering moves me to tears.”

He laughs as he walks away toward the front of the house.

I flip him the finger even though he’s not looking.

“B*****d,” I mutter, then I walk across the porch to the back door, kicking crap out of my way as I go.

Are all farmers this messy?

I think they are. They never throw away anything. Who knows when they might need it, right?

As I reach for the backdoor knob, the door opens.

It’s Stick, Bro and Big Mama’s oldest.

Damn, she’s as tall as I am now and she’s not even 13, yet!

“I thought I heard somebody out here,” she says. She leans to look around me. “Where’s my dad?”

I pretend to look at a non-existent watch on my wrist. “He should be at the front door about… right… nnnnow.”

She rolls her big brown eyes at me. “You’re weird,” she says.

“Oh, you have no idea, Little Woman,” I shoot back.

She giggles a little. She likes it when I call her that.

“You’re such a perv,” she says.

This conversation is not getting me any closer to the beer.

“Hey,” I say. “Who’s in the kitchen right now?”

She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “Just my mom. She’s making more margaritas.”

Now that she mentions it, I can hear the blender grinding away.

“Perfect,” I say. “Go get our last 12-pack of Modelo out of the fridge, grab a back of Doritos, and meet me at the range, all right?”

Her face brightens. “Can I hang out with you guys and throw? I’m bored. My mom keeps telling me to go away and the younger kids are driving me crazy. I’m not getting paid, so I’m not going to be the babysitter.”

I can’t help but laugh, but I enjoy her company, so, “Yeah, sure,” I say, “You can hang out with us. Just wait til your mom is done. When she leaves the kitchen, grab the goods and run.”

“Okay, I can do that,” she says, an ear to ear grin on her face.

“Cool,” I say, then we tap fists.

She goes back in the house and shuts the door.

I turn and hobble away.

Going down steps is harder than going up, though, so I carefully make my way down, one step at a time, then I head back toward the range.

S**t. It’s totally dark. The moon won’t be up for another hour and we were in such a freaking hurry to get more beer we forgot to turn on the range lights and light the bonfire. I’m screwed if I can’t see my feet. I can’t walk. My balance is shaky at best, and the path to the range is rough.

My feet are trying to grab on to the ground like a monkey about to fall off a tree branch.

The primate response.

Sometimes, I think I might have a little more monkey in me than most.

Step, tap, slide. Step, tap, slide.

Five minutes later, I’m still just halfway to the range when Stick shows up with a 12-pack under one arm and a bag of Ranch-flavored Doritos under the other.

“Race you,” she says as she passes me by, laughing like a little… um… Bro.

“Can I have a beer?” she calls out over her shoulder.

“Say may I and please.”

She rolls her eyes. “May I have a beer, please?”

“You know better than to ask me that, Stick. That’s your dad’s call, not mine.”

“Ugh. You are such a dick. What if I shake this 12-pack as hard as I can until you catch up?”

“Go ahead, but if you do, you’ll have to go back in the house with the women folk.”

“Aaargh,” she groans. “You’re no fun.”

“Ha! You know that’s not true.”

Bro shows up, just then.

“Hey,” he says glumly. “You could’ve told me you got the beer.”

I shrug and ask him, “What happened?”

He stares down at the boot toe he’s scuffing in the dirt.

“You were right” he says. “I got stabbed by a half-dozen wicked-sharp tongues.”

Stick snickers.

I just hang my head and slowly shake it. “What did Patty say?”

“She called me a dumbass, then she told me I should’ve put all the beer in the ice chest to start with and to do a better job of preparing next time.”

I burst out laughing.

“Yeah, she’s right. You should’ve.”

He looks up at me and flips me the finger. “You didn’t say anything. It’s your fault, too.”

“Bro, you’re the host. It’s your responsibility to keep the cooler stocked.”

“Just shut up, dude. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He turns toward his daughter. “Give me a beer,” he says.

Stick hands him one.

“Put the rest in the cooler, please,” he tells her.

“Are we gonna throw in the dark, bro?” I ask him.

“Stick, will you turn on the lights while I light the fire?”

“How about you turn on the lights and I’ll light the fire.”

“Okay.”

He hands Stick the fire starter gadget on his way to the workshop.

The music goes off and the range lights come on a few seconds later; a giant spotlight in the open shop window aimed at the throwing wall and a bank of four others attached high up on a nearby utility pole, each one aimed at a target on a tripod.

The lights are bright. We’ll be able to throw all night if we want to.

Meanwhile, Stick returns, flicking the lighter on and off, on and off…

As the flames behind her grow and limn her in flickering orange light, I hold out my hand. “Give it to me, firebug,” I say.

She holds the gadget away from me, but she doesn’t see Bro coming up behind her. He snatches it out of her hand.

She turns and shouts, “Hey dude, what the hell?”

She’s so much like her dad at this age.

“I told you, Stick, it’s not a toy.”

“Fine,” she says and stomps off toward the workshop.

“Freaking teenagers,” I say.

“Be glad you don’t have one,” Bro says. “They’re a real pain in the a*s and I’ll have three of them in another four years.”

Should I be glad? I don’t know. It’s kind of a sore spot with me. I get along great with Bro’s kids, but then, I don’t have to live with them. He does.

Stick comes out of the workshop with the set of three 14-inch scale-less ‘Gryphons-on-steroids’ daggers her dad made her. She walks over to the smiley face setup; another 3-foot diameter cottonwood round mounted on a 4x4 tripod with ten target circles painted on it; one 4-inch blue circle at the bottom center, representing a chin, four 3-inch red circles in an arc above it, two on either side of the chin, representing a smiling mouth, another 4-inch blue circle above that, right in the center of the round, representing a nose, two more 4-inch blue circles above the nose, one on each side a half-foot from the centerline, representing eyes, and two 5-inch yellow half-circles on either side at the top; half because only half of the circle is on the round, the other half is in thin air.

Tough, tough targets, those ears. I hate overthrows. They end up in the chicken pen. And in chicken s**t.

We should probably put up a warning sign somewhere.

Stick finds the railroad spike 3 meters in front of the target, quickly assumes her stance; one size 12 foot on the line and the other back about 3 feet.

She rears back, her knife high above her right shoulder, then she snaps forward and throws hard; harder, even, than her 240-pound dad.

THUNK! Right in Smiley’s nose.

Hard to believe how long and lean Stick is, now, all legs like a year-old filly, and if she grows into those Bozo feet, she’s going to be a giant.

She’ll probably eat me.

She’s got leverage, way more than I do.

THUNK!

THUNK!

Yeah, this girl will put your eyes out, just like that.

I can’t believe how much those heavy daggers improved her throwing since last summer. Bro knew what he was doing when he gave them to her.

Hell, she’s been throwing since she was 7. She should be good anyway.

“You want a beer?” Bro asks me.

I shake my head. “No, I think I’ll hold off for now. I’m going to throw for a while.”

He sits in a folding chair with his beer in one hand and his phone in the other. “Go ahead,” he says. “I need to check my messages.”

He’s already frowning and reading before I can turn around.

Whatever.

I hobble to the blade table and pick up my knives, then I join Stick as she returns from retrieving hers from the target.

“Which game are we playing?” she asks me.

“You pick,” I say. “A, B, or C.”

She taps her chin with the butts of her knives as she thinks about it for a second, then she pushes her big, thick-lensed glasses up with a finger.

They immediately slide down her nose again.

“How ‘bout we start with A,” she says.

“Sounds good. Throw for who goes first?”

She shakes her head. “Age before beauty, Old Man. You can go first.”

I don’t reply. I step to the line instead. 

“Do I get a warm-up round?” I ask.

Stick shrugs. “I don’t care, I’ll beat you anyway.”

“Then these first three throws are warm-ups.”

She nods and says, “Okay.”

I take up my stance 6 inches behind the fluorescent-orange-painted spike.

I take a few deep breaths, shake out my shoulders, do two half knee-bends, then I throw.

Clang! Ding!

Damn. I missed. Under-spun, I think.

 I back up another 4 inches. You have to hit these knotty, wavy-grained cottonwood rounds straight on or there’s a good chance your knife won’t stick.

I raise my next knife over my shoulder and throw.

Thunk! Dead center in the left eye.

Too bad I was aiming at the right one!

I think Stick is really going to kick my a*s. This game is way harder than stic-tac-toe.

Ok, then, last chance.

I raise my third knife, take a deep breath, and blow it out as I throw. My open hand release is perfect. My reach over the fence is good.

Thunk!

There it is! Take that, smiley face chin. They don’t call me Sucker-punch Saul for nothing.

I look back over my shoulder. Stick is talking to her dad. He’s not paying her the slightest bit of attention, as usual, but that won’t stop her.

“Hey!” I call out. “I’m ready. You know the rules. You have to watch, or you forfeit.”

She stops in mid-sentence and joins me. She hates to lose at anything.

“So, throw, Old Man,” she says. “Call your shot.”

“Wait,” I say. “We usually put money on this game. Do you have any money?”

She gives me the teenage stink eye. “I have $23, but I’m not betting it on a stupid game. How much is Cassie worth? I’ll give you her.”

I laugh at her. “I don’t want your little kitty, Stick. If I win, you have to practice after school every day next week.”

“But I have responsibilities…”

I wave my hand to cut her off. “Bullshit. The school system only has enough books for the classroom, not enough for every student to take home. You don’t have homework, and hell, you only go to school 4 days a week. Read less Harry Potter and throw more. If you show a little initiative, maybe your dad will let you go to Austin with us this fall and compete. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

She crosses long skinny arms over her flat bony chest, then she taps a gargantuan sneaker toe in the dirt.

Sometimes, it’s like watching a weird version of Olive Oyl.

Or maybe I’m just freaking Popeye on medical grade spinach.

Well, blow me down…

“What do I get if I win?” Stick finally asks.

I give her the evilest grin I can manage.

“You get to practice every day next week, and if you show some initiative, maybe your dad will let you go to Austin with us.”

Her shoulders slump, her arms drop to her sides. Her mouth gapes open as wide as her bugging eyes.

“Seriously, dude?” she says. “You really are a dick.”

I nod at her and smile. “I am. But if you want to go to Austin, you’ll need my help, and the only way you’ll get it, is if you practice every afternoon next week, and beyond.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but she thinks about it for a heartbeat, then shuts it.

Little grasshopper is learning faster than big grasshopper.

Mainly because some old grasshoppers refuse to learn new tricks.

Just ask Big Mama.

“If I don’t get to go to Austin,” Stick says. “I’m going to be pissed at you.”

“If you don’t get to go to Austin,” I shoot back, “You should only be pissed at yourself. It will likely be your own damn fault.”

She sighs and looks me in the eye.

“Bet,” she says and nods at the target. “Now throw.”

I set myself and shake my arms. I’m sore and tight by this time of day.

“I’m throwing red first,” I say.

I’ll have to hit all the red targets before I move on to another color. I like the yellow ears, but what the hell, the mouth is hard, too. Only the blues are easy.

“Why red first?” Stick asks me. “Those are the smallest and hardest. I always save those for last.”

“I prefer to throw at the more difficult targets first, so the game gets easier, not harder, as I play it.”

“Oh,” she says. “I guess that makes sense.”

“I’m calling my shot. Far left red.”

“Okay. Go for it.”

I take aim and throw.

Thunk!

Off to the left about an inch.

I reset and throw again.

Thunk!

My knife nicks the right edge of my target.

“That’s in,” Stick says.

“Next target,” I say. “The one next to the one I hit.”

I take aim and throw.

Tink! Clang!

Damn. Way overspun. I must’ve flicked my wrist. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Bad habit. I should pay more attention to my mechanics or I’m going to embarrass myself in Austin.

“I’ll get your knives,” Stick says.

And she does. Not because she’s trying to be helpful, but because she’s an impatient teenager.

She hands me my knives.

“Thanks,” I say as I take them from her, “But you don’t have to fetch for me.”

“Pfffft, I don’t won’t to be here til next week, Old Man.”

I shrug. “Fine, then. Throw.”

She takes the line. “I’m throwing blue first, starting with the nose.”

“Go for it,” I say.

She sets, takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

Right in the center of her target, but that’s the easiest one.

“Left eye,” she says as she takes aim again and throws.

Thunk!

She’s 3 inches inside on that one.

“Crap,” she mutters, then she says, “Hey, can I change targets for this last throw? I want to throw at the right eye instead.”

I shake my head. “You know the rules. You know you can’t. Once you pick a target, you have to throw at it until you hit it.”

Stick huffs out an annoyed sigh. “Fine, then. Left eye again.”

She sets and throws.

Thunk!

Damn, she makes it look easy, sometimes. A dead center shot.

“Ha!” Stick says and sticks out her tongue at me. “I am so kicking your a*s.”

She retrieves her knives and returns.

“You’re up,” she says.

I take the line. That second from the left red mouth target always gives me trouble.

I check my stance and make a slow-motion practice throw, elbow in, knife up above my right ear.

I set myself, focus on the target and throw.

Thunk!

A half-inch to the right.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m pulling that knife. It’s in the way for a right-handed thrower.”

“I didn’t know we could do that.”

I nod. “It’s in the rules.”

As of right now.

“Oh,” Stick says. “That makes sense. I’ll get it for you.”

And she does.

I take aim again and throw.

Thunk!

“Ha!” I shout. “Gotcha, b***h!”

Stick laughs.

“Inside right red next,” I say, then I set and throw again.

Thunk!

It looks in to me, but Stick is already hustling down range to check it out.

“It’s in,” she says as she grabs my knives and hurries back.

I take the blades from her and she takes the line.

“Right eye,” she says, then she quickly sets and throws.

Clang! Ding! Doink!

“Hey,” I say. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Take your time and get your mechanics right.”

She ducks her head and glares at me over her glasses, which, as usual, are about to slide down off her nose.

“What?” I say and give her the Pistol Pete stink eye.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she doesn’t say anything.

She turns her focus back to the target and takes her time as she aims, then she rears back and throws.

Thunk!

“See?” I say. “That was much better.”

She nods agreement, but her focus remains down-range. “Goatee,” she says.

“It’s a chin.”

“Whatever. It looks like a goatee to me.”

That chin target is harder than it looks. Because of the tilt of the round on the tripod, the chin target is closer than the others.

She lines up her shot and throws.

Thunk!

It’s in, but way under-spun. Stick’s lucky that one stuck.

She looks happy as she half-skips down range to get her knives and runs back.

“Four to three,” she says. “I’m winning.”

“It’s a long game,” I say. “You should wait before you get so excited.”

She shrugs. “I’m not scared.”

And I know she isn’t. But she should be. They don’t call me Sandbagger Sam for nothing.

I’m at the line and I’m feeling loose and warmed up now. “Far right red,” I say. “I’m shutting Smiley’s mouth.”

I set myself and throw.

Thunk!

Three inches to the right. Can I squeeze the next one past it? Maybe, but why take a chance?

Before I can even take a step, Stick is halfway to the target to fetch my knife.

Her dad never does that.

She hurries back and holds my knife while I reset.

I throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s almost in the center of the target. Smiley’s mouth is shut.

One more throw this turn.

“Left ear,” I say.

Those yellow ear targets are a good three inches further away than the ones near the center of the round.

I lean forward a little as I throw.

Thunk!

Nailed it! Hello yellow, mellow yellow, looking good to me.

Stick fetches my knives again, hands them to me, then steps up to her spot. She takes a couple of deep breaths.

“I’ll throw at the ears, too,” she says. “Right one first.”

She raises her knife and throws.

Her knife sails over the target and into the chicken pen. The birds raise a brief ruckus.

“Damn it,” she mutters, then she points her two remaining knives at me and glares. “Don’t you say a word Old Man.”

I just laugh as she turns and walks toward the pen to find her knife.

“Good luck,” I call out. “And watch out for Ray Rae. I think he’s got a thing for you.”

She doesn’t say a word. She just raises a fist and gives me the finger as she opens the pen door and disappears behind the 50-foot long target wall.

That girl spends way too much time with her dad. She’s starting to be just like him.

I hobble to the cooler and take out a bottle of generic water, then I open it and chug about half.

Aaah!

Cold water in the desert. There ain’t nothing better.

Now if I could just refresh my throbbing legs…

“Hey, bro,” Bro calls out from his chair. “Bring me a beer.”

He only calls me bro when he wants something. The rest of the time, I’m just another dude.

I grab a beer anyway and ferry it to him. He takes it from me, then points at the chair beside him.

“Sit down,” he says.

I shake my head. “Man, you know sitting ain’t really my thing.”

He shrugs. “Okay, dude.”

See?

The bonfire roars and crackles behind him. The flames are ten feet high now.

Bro tends to go a little overboard with anything pertaining to fire, firearms, or things that go ‘boom’ in the night.

“So, dude, are we still going to Austin in October?” I ask him.

He shrugs again. “Are you driving?”

“I don’t know about driving,” I say, “But we can take my van.”

He nods. “I can’t afford a hotel. Do you mind camping in a state park, or something? There’s one nearby, McKinney Falls.”

I shake my head. “I don’t mind at all. I can’t really afford a hotel either. I’ll just put an air mattress in the back of the van. I’ll be fine as long as there’s a bathroom within a hundred feet.”

“Did you pay the $25 to join the Association?”

“Not yet, but I will after payday.”

“Cool.”

Stick is back in sight now, wiping her free hand on her jeans and wearing a big disgusted frown on her face. She opens the pen door, gives Ray Rae a solid kick as he tries to sneak up behind her, then she’s out and headed for the throwing lanes.

She holds her knives up in the air. “I found it,” she says. “Let’s finish this game.”

I rejoin her.

She finds her spot, then she makes a face as she sniffs her hand.

“Ugh,” she says. “I hate freaking chickens. I don’t know why we have them. There’s chicken poop everywhere. We never collect the eggs, and the roadrunners and hawks and feral cats eat all the chicks.”

“Is that why you named that one in the pen Lucky?”

“Yep. She’s the only one that made it out of the 11 chicks we had then.”

“How do you know it’s a female at this point?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’d rather have a hen. Roosters are pretty much useless, and they’re so… so brutal. Have you seen them do it? It’s… it’s disgusting… and... and… rude!”

I laugh so hard I can barely stand up.

“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am?” I manage to gasp out.

Stick starts giggling. Her glasses gleam in the harsh artificial light. It makes her look crazy.

“Well, I didn’t hear any please and thank you being said,” she says. “But… eggs-actly!”

Now we’re both laughing uncontrollably.

“You children behave yourselves,” Bro pipes up. “I’m working over here.”

I manage to stifle myself, but I’ve got a big smile on my face.

Stick does, too.

She turns her attention back to the target. Her face sobers rapidly. Three seconds later, she takes aim and throws.

Zing!

Her knife clips the edge of the target, then spins off into the darkness of the chicken pen again.

“F**K!” she screams, then she stomps her way back to the pen, where Ray Rae is waiting.

“Hey, watch your language, Stick,” Bro yells after her, then he goes back to doing whatever it is he’s doing on his phone.

He says he’s working, but he’s probably on Match.com, trying to find a new wife. I think Big Mama is done with him.

Poor Stick. She’ll take it hard if she lives with her mom without her dad. That mother-daughter rivalry thing is already hard to watch.

I don’t know for sure, but I think the problem is Patty. She sure looks at me like a t**d in the teapot.

But then again, Peachy Pete ain’t one of my nicknames.

Stick stomps back out of the pen and straight back to her spot on the line.

In the 7 years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her concentrate so intently.

Finally, she aims and throws.

Thunk!

“Yes!” she yells as she runs to get her knife.

“Good job, girl,” I say when she returns.

“Five to five,” she says. “Your turn.”

My legs and feet hurt. I’m getting tired. It’s late for me to be out.

Suck it up, p***y.

I move to my spot and just stand there, watching a three-quarter moon rise out of the bosque cottonwoods.

After a good full minute, Stick comes over and stands by me.

“Are you okay, Old Man?” she asks me quietly.

She puts a hand on my left shoulder and gently squeezes. “You’re moving kinda slow, even for you, and you’re all hunched over.”

“Yeah, I’m all right. I just run out of gas this time of day.”

“That’s because you’re older than Jesus,” she says with a grin, then she steps away.

Oh, the insolence of youth…

I turn toward the target, check my stance, roll my shoulders a little, then I take aim

“Right ear,” I say as I throw.

Thunk!

Ugh. Three inches low.

I aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in, though just barely.

Nothing left but the blues.

Do you know what it means

To love a woman you can’t own?

If you do,

Then you know the meaning of the blues…

I’ve been there, Joe, I know eggs-actly what you mean.

“Chin,” I say, then I back up about 4 inches.

I check my stance, aim, and throw.

Thunk!

Perfect!

“Dude!” Stick says. “You’re kicking my a*s!”

“Uh huh,” I say back. “Just try not to kill any chickens while you’re throwing at that other ear.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, then she fetches my knives and brings them back.

After she hands them over, she moves to her spot.

“Left ear,” she says.

She stretches her back and waggles her shoulders, then she takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

“Yes!” she shouts and briefly raises her fist.

“Nice throw,” I say, “But look at what you have left on the board compared to what I have left.”

She holds up the two knives in her left hand.

“I’m not done, yet,” she says, “So hold your horses, Old Man.”

“Well, throw, then. Show me what you got.”

“Fine. I will!”

I hope she wins. I really do.

Stick studies the board for a half-minute.

“Outside left,” she says.

“Good choice,” I say. “Left to right across the mouth is easier for a right-handed thrower.”

She takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

She’s off by 2 inches to the left.

“Do you want to clear that knife?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Watch this,” she says.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

Right in the middle of her target.

She looks at me and grins, then she retrieves her knives.

“Seven to seven,” she says when she gets back. “Don’t choke, Old Man.”

“All I have left is the nose and the eyes. Those are the easiest targets.”

I hobble very slowly to my spot.

“Nose,” I say, then I aim and throw.

Thunk!

My knife barely touches the top edge of the target circle, but that still counts.

“Left eye,” I say.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

That one’s in, too.

Stick is chewing a fingernail, now.

“Right eye,” I say.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

“Well, that’s it for me,” I say. “You have one chance to tie me, since I went first.”

Stick looks all serious and grim now. She doesn’t say a word as she takes the line. She stares at the target round, shaking out her throwing arm. After half a minute she sets herself.

“Inside left mouth,” she says.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

I’ll be damned. She hit it dead center.

“Yes!” Stick says, then she sets herself again.

“Outside right mouth,” she says and points her dagger at her target.

Aim.

Throw.

Thunk!

Damn, that one’s in, too.

She looks at me and grins. “Side bet?”

“What did you have in mind?” I ask her.

She glances sideways at her dad, then beckons me with a finger to come closer.

Uh-oh. I may not like this.

I hobble across packed caliche and crusher fines until I stand beside her.

“So, spit it out, girl,” I say quietly. “What scheme are you hatching now?”

She’s always chock-full of them.

“If I make this throw, you practice, too, next week, otherwise, I’ll be practicing by myself. Besides, you suck. I hope they have a senior division. You might have a chance against a bunch of cripples and old people. You, know, like you.”

At least she smiled when she said it. And the best she can do is tie me, so I may be an old fart, but I’m beating her. Experience versus raw talent, an interesting matchup.

I can make her a star, if that’s what she wants.

“What do I get if you miss?” I ask her.

Stick grins at me. “You get to practice with me next week.”

I laugh. “I guess I’m not the only dick in the crowd, huh? You learn fast, Li’l Woman.”

Her grin widens as she glances at her dad. “I was taught by the grand-daddy of all dicks.”

I’m really laughing now. “Yes, you were, but you still have a lot of untapped potential. I intend to get the most out of it. You know, “be all you can be”, and all that. They’ll be calling you “the dick chick”.

Stick is giggling like only a young teenage girl can giggle. “Don’t they call that a transvestite?” she asks.

It does my heart good to see that girl laugh. Her bitter past bites her on the a*s, sometimes, but not like it used to.

“Technically,” I say straight-faced. “A transvestite is a cross-dresser. A chick with a dick is referred to as ‘trans-gender’.”

Stick is just full-out laughing now. “You sure seem to know a lot about it,” she gasps out, holding her side and wiping tears from her eyes with the back of a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

“Knowledge is power, grasshopper,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

She laughs again and shakes her head, then she takes a deep breath and focuses on her target for half a minute. “Right inside mouth,” she says, then she throws.

Thunk!

“Damn,” I say. “You made that look easy. If you hadn’t lost two knives in the chicken pen, you would’ve beaten me.”

“So, what do we do for a tie-breaker?” she asks me.

“I’m good for one more game. We haven’t played ‘climb the tree’ in a while.”

“It’s kinda dark over by the tree…”

I shake my head. “You can see better in the dark than I can. Your advantage.”

Bro has now joined us. “There’s three columns of targets,” he says. “Can I get in this game, too?”

“Only if you’re a dick, dad,” Stick says immediately. “The winner gets to be a Royal Dick for a day.”

“Well. I’m definitely a dick,” he says. “In fact, I’m ‘King Dick’, and you should all be calling me ‘Your Majesty’.”

“That’s a new one,” I say, “But I figured you’d go for ‘Emperor Dick’, or something like it.”

“Yeah,” Stick says. “Mama says you wear your ego like other people wear a watch and it’s always telling you it’s time to make a royal fool out of yourself.”

Bro glares at Stick.

I glare at both.

“Hey,” I say before the argument starts. “None of this damned dick-ish-ness, do you two hear me? No mas. It’s a knife-throwing contest, not a bitchiness contest. You can b***h at each other all you want when I’m not around.”

I hate being that way, but it is what it is. They’re both hard-headed, and I swear, Stick’s like a cougar cub being raised by a pack of wolves. Lots of growling and hissing and cussing, and lots of fur flying.

She never backs down, regardless of consequences. I think she’s a closet psychopath, which is probably not all bad in her case. It’s a hard, cold world out there if you’ve got a big mouth and a hard head, so, I guess it’s okay they’re still staring and glaring at each other.

It’s just good practice.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m throwing. You can play, or you can go away, but the beer stays with me.”

That should shut Bro up for a few minutes, at least.

Stick is the wild card in this deck.

But she just says, “Fine,” and moves over to the stump.

Except stump is not really an accurate description. It’s more like a 7-ft diameter cottonwood trunk upended and buried 3 feet in the dirt. It sticks up about 12 feet above the ground, a tangled dead root mass forming a cap over the whole thing.

Three parallel columns of 6-inch targets are painted on one face of the trunk, 7 in each column starting at ground level and going up to about 8 feet. A single target is painted above the others, right in the middle, about 9 feet up.

“I don’t remember this game very well,” Stick says.

“We each choose a column,” Bro says and points his knives. “Once you climb to the top of your column, you have to hit that lone target at the top.”

“So, we throw three knives at a time?”

“Yes.”

“Who chooses a column first? Do we throw for it?”

Bro and I look at each other. He shrugs.

“Closest to the top target,” I say. “Stick, you go first. Bro next. Me last.”

“Why do I have to go first?”

“Youngest to oldest,” I say.

“Why not oldest to youngest?”

Bro is looking pissed again. “Just throw your damn knife, okay?”

“Fine,” Stick says, and searches for a spike marking the 3-meter line.

“You can dig in the dirt all day,” Bro says, “But you won’t find a spike. The distances change a little with elevation, so you just have to wing it.”

“Do I get a practice throw?”

“Yes, you can have three.”

She lines up her first throw and chunks her knife.

Thud! Clunk!

Not even close.

She backs up a little, then she takes aim and throws again.

Clang! Dang! Doink!

Stick is now frowning and looking at the ground around her.

I move over by her and kick a line in the dirt.

“Try that,” I say.

She moves to the line, aims, and throws.

Thunk!

Her knife didn’t stick a target, but at least she has a working distance, now.

Little Woman smiles at me and says, “Thanks.”

She moves a little closer to throw at that high target.

Set.

Aim.

Throw.

Clang!

“Damnit,” she mutters. She moves out of the way to get her knives as Bro judges his spot from hers and sets himself.

He’s throwing 16-inch Bill Page Diamondheads, now. He swears bigger is better when it comes to that upended cottonwood log.

I’ll stick with my trusty Bowies.

But him first.

“Practice round,” Bro says, then he takes his stance, aims, and throws.

Thunk!

His knife sticks the middle column’s middle target.

He backs up 3 inches, aims again, and throws.

His knife hits the dirt right in front of the middle column’s lowest target, bounces up and off the trunk, then buries itself in the dirt off to the right of the range.

He moves up a little and resets, then he aims and throws at the top target.

Thud! Clang!

A little under-spun.

Bro retrieves his knives, then returns to his previous throwing position. “This one counts,” he says as he resets and throws.

Thunk!

He misses the top target by an inch to the right.

He leaves his knife where it stuck, and he walks away.

“Your shot, Old Man,” Stick calls out.

“No warm up,” I say. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I set up a few inches forward of Bro’s last throwing position, then I aim at that highest target and throw hard.

Thunk!

Well, I stuck my knife, but I missed the target by a good 6 inches. Bro’s knife is closer.

Maybe I should’ve taken a warm-up throw.

“I’ll take the right column,” Bro says as he pops the top on another beer.

“I’ve got the middle,” I say.

“You’re both dicks,” Stick says as I go to fetch my knife. “Leaving me with the left side like that is cold-blooded. It’s the hardest.”

“Hush, child,” I say. “You’re 45 years younger than me and your dad has knocked back about a twelve-pack by now. You’ve still got the advantage.”

I swear, I have never, ever seen another child roll her eyes like that.

“You old roosters go ahead,” she says. “Throw and crow. That’s all you’re good for.”

Bro takes up his stance in front of the right target column. His beer is still in his left hand. He takes careful aim, leans back, and whips forward. His knife spins once and hits just below the bottom target.

He resets and throws again, even harder.

Thunk!

His knife sticks dead center.

He backs up two inches, resets, and throws again.

Thunk!

His knife nails the next target up.

“Two down,” he says as he goes to retrieve his knives and I move to my spot before the center target column.

On his way back, Bro stops for a second and grins at me. “Guess who I heard from a little while ago?” he says.

I shrug.

“You know I can’t answer that, so just tell me,” I say.

“I got an email from our state rep replying to my questions about the Rancho Llano Alto water scheme.”

“Do tell,” I say as he moves out of my way. “You have my undivided attention.”

I wait to throw until he spills the beans. I’m dying to know what’s happening. This is the biggest issue to hit Socorro County since 1945, when the government blew up the first atomic bomb not 30 miles from where we’re standing.

“So… this is what’s happening,” Bro says. “It turns out the Rancho Llano Alto, LLC, of New York state has applied to pump 54 billion gallons of water a year out of the San Agustin Aquifer and sell it to Rio Rancho and/or the Intel plant.”

My jaw hangs open for a second. “You mean there’s that much water out there?”

He nods. “Yeah, there is. It’s paleo-water. The llano alto was a big freshwater lake 14,000 years ago. All the water in the aquifer is what’s left over and it’s all 12,000 years old or older.”

“So, there’s no re-charge?”

Bro shakes his head. “Not even close to 54 billion gallons a year.”

“Hmmm… what does the state engineer say?”

“He denied the permit, but the Rancho is taking it to Federal Court.”

Stick waves her hand like a student in the classroom.

Bro raises his bushy eyebrows at her.

“Are you saying an out-of-state company wants to sell New Mexicans their own water?” she asks.

Bro nods. “That’s about the gist of it, except even worse. It turns out Rancho Llano Alto, LLC, is owned by a Russian holding company.”

“What?” we both yell.

Bro nods and grins like Major A*****e again.

“Yep,” he says. “Some bunch of Russians is gonna get rich selling us our own water.”

“Well, ain’t that some s**t,” I say and take up my throwing stance. That piece of info really chaps my a*s. It’s bad enough that we owe Texas billions of gallons we can’t pay back.

I aim and throw.

Thunk!

A little high and over-spun. I move forward a couple of inches, resume my stance, aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in and the bottom target is usually the hardest.

One more would be nice, though.

I back up two inches, reset, aim, and throw.

Clang!

Well, hell. That one was off by a foot.

“What’s the outlook for the legal battle?” I ask as I go pick up my knives.

Bro shrugs. “Apparently, the precedent has already been set in California. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Grrrr,” I growl to myself.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Stick says as she picks her spot in front of the left target column.

Bro shrugs again. “I understand the inevitability of the situation. Too many people. Not enough water. I just have a problem with foreigners profiting from our misery and misfortune. The money, like the water, should stay in New Mexico.”

Stick takes aim and throws.

Thud.

That one is in the dirt. She moves up a few inches, sets and throws again.

Clang!

That one ricochets off the trunk and spins out in the yard somewhere.

She’s got an annoyed frown on her face, now, as she sets for her third throw. She takes a deep breathe, takes careful aim, and chunks her knife.

Thunk!

Instantly, Stick looks overjoyed; all smiles and giggles. She made a solid throw. Throwing low like that is hard for most people.

She skips down range to fetch her knives as Bro moves to his spot.

“I also talked to the state engineer about the water issue,” he says as he takes up his stance and shakes out his arm.

“And?”

“And the state engineer is old school. He’ll fight the Russians until his dying breath.”

“What can we do to help?” Stick asks from the yard, where she’s still looking for her ricochet.

“There’s a local adversarial group forming,” Bro says, then he aims and throws.

Thunk!

That one is in.

He backs up a few inches, then he aims and throws again.

Clang!

A little over-spun.

He resets and throws his third knife.

Thunk!

“That’s four,” he says with a big grin. “I’m halfway already. I’m kicking both your asses.”

I move to my spot as Bro heads down range to get his knives.

“What was that about an adversarial group?” I ask him.

“There’s a small ranch owner’s group already, mostly from Catron County. They hired an attorney. Another group is scheduled to meet in Magdalena later this month. Both groups believe there won’t be any water left for them.”

“Poor Magdalena,” Stick says. “They’ve already run out of water once. It was like a third-world country up there.”

I take up my stance, aim and throw.

Thunk!

That one’s in. Two down.

I aim and throw again.

Thunk!

That one’s in, too, but under-spun. I’m lucky it stuck.

I move back about 6 inches, then I aim and throw my third knife.

Clang!

Why am I off so bad on my third throws? At least I made the score close; 4 to 3.

I proceed down range while Stick moves into her spot behind me.

“Did you join a group, dad?” she asks.

Bro shakes his head. “We get our water from the river. The San Agustin aquifer has nothing to do with us.”

“What if Texas decides to use California precedents, too?” I ask. “Couldn’t they just take the water we owe them? Couldn’t they empty every reservoir in the state? Wouldn’t that affect every farmer in the Rio Grande valley?”

Bro frowns back at me, but he doesn’t answer right away.

Meanwhile, Stick assumes her stance.

“I want to join the Magdalena group,” she says.

Whoa!

Bro arches his brows at her. “Since when did you grow a political conscience?”

“Since when did you lose yours?” she shoots back and gives him the stink-eye to boot.

Good question. I raise my eyebrows at him. It seems to be a contagious gesture.

He glares back at me, spotlights reflecting from his glasses. The bonfire roars behind him, turning him into a flame-wreathed, gleaming-eyed shadow. It seems almost fitting.

Meanwhile, Stick makes her first throw.

Clang!

“S**t,” she mutters as sets herself again.

“Wait,” I say to her. “That last one was under-spun. You should move back about 6 inches.”

She smiles at me as she moves back.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m struggling a bit with this damn tree. I never throw at it.”

I chuckle at her.

“I noticed,” I say.

Bro is still off to the side, frowning at us.

Stick aims and throws.

Thunk!

“Damnit,” she whispers under her breath.

She was two inches to the right with that one, but her distance is right, now. She should get the next one.

She winds up again and throws.

Thunk!

That one is in there.

Stick doesn’t say a word on the way to fetch her knives. She knows the score as well as we do.

Bro takes her place at the line.

Stick pulls her knives from the trunk, then turns to face her dad.

“So?” she asks. “Can I join the Magdalena water group or not?”

“You’re not old enough to vote,” Bro says. “So you don’t count.”

“I’m joining,” I say. “Are you going to tell me I don’t count because I’m a cripple?”

“No… wait… that’s different… you can vote…”

He shakes his head and holds up his hands. “Fine,” he says. “You can go to the meetings with us.”

A smile lights Stick’s face even brighter than the firelight.

“Good man, Dad,” she says as she moves off the range. “I knew you had it in you.”

But bro is staring at the house and rubbing his chin. He’s wondering what Big Mama Patty will think about this. He’s wondering if time away from her is worth missing a few beers one night a week.

Yeah. That’s probably what swayed him most.

Bro turns back to the target, takes aim and throws.

Thunk!

Damn, he’s on a roll. He must have his beer buzz just right.

Maybe I should’ve had another one.

He aims at the next target up, the 6^th, and throws.

Thunk!

“Last one before the last one,” he says and smirks.

Stick is groaning somewhere behind me.

Bro chugs beer from his can, then he takes careful aim, leans back, and throws his third knife.

Thunk!

“Three in a row,” he says with a grin on his face again. “Seven to three to two. Ya’ll are toast.”

He proceeds to the tree trunk and fetches his knives while I move into my spot.

Meanwhile, a door slams, then the sound of women laughing and moving around in the side yard suddenly fills the night. A tall hedge separates them from us, but I’m sure they’re all headed for the cattle tank with a fire pit beneath it; Big Mama’s cowgirl hot tub.

“Go see what they’re doing,” Bro says to Stick in a low voice. “And check on the kids. I want to know who is still here, okay?”

“What’s in it for me?” she asks immediately.

“You won’t get my boot up your skinny a*s.”

Stick sticks out her tongue at him.

“Yep. You are definitely some sort of royal dick, Daddy Dearest,” she concludes, then she turns away and trots toward a narrow gap in the hedge.

Bro glares at me.

“Don’t look at me like that, dude,” he says. “You don’t have a clue about child-raising, so don’t judge me, just throw.”

So that’s what I do.

Thunk!

Cool! That’s four! That’s pretty good for me.

I set, aim, and throw again.

Clang!

That one was a little short. I move up a couple of inches, then I aim and throw for the third time.

Thunk!

Not bad for a crippled old man, but Bro is still two ahead of me.

He’s stomping on and disposing of another empty beer can while we wait for Stick.

It doesn’t take her long to come trotting back.

“Mom and Claire and Linda are in the hot tub,” she says. “Both my sisters are in bed. There’s nobody else here, now.”

Bro noticeably relaxes.

Is that a smile on his face?

“You’re up, kid,” he says. “I’ve got seven. Old Dude has five. You’ve got two.”

“I know what I’ve got,” she snaps at him and moves to her spot.

She throws so hard she grunts.

Clang!

She throws again, even harder.

Clang!

Then again.

Clang!

“Now, you can finish it,” she says as she hurries to pick up her knives.

Bro glares at her and takes his stance, then he aims and throws at the top target.

Clang!

“You missed on purpose!” Stick yells at him.

Bro just shrugs.

“So did you,” he says.

He takes aim again. He throws.

Clang!

“Aaargh!” Stick yells and shakes her fist at him.

Bro is laughing at her now. He aims for the third time and throws.

Thunk!

That one is dead center in the target.

“You win,” I say. “Woohoo.”

“Yeah. Woohoo,” Stick adds sarcastically.

Bro points the knives he just retrieved at me.

“You can still tie me,” he says.

I shake my head.

“I’m done,” I say. “I’ll never hit three in a row this late in the day. I concede.”

“Cool,” Bro says as he returns his knives to the table. “I’m going to bed while the going is good.”

“Can I stay up for a while?” Stick asks.

Bro looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

I shrug.

“I don’t care, bro,” I say.

He looks at Stick and nods once, then he heads for the house.

“Good night, Old Man,” he says over his shoulder.

“Later, Bro,” is all I say back.

Neither of us is the sentimental, long-goodbye type.

Stick watches him walk away without much of an expression on her face at all. When he finally goes in the back door, she flips him a finger, then she opens the cooler and grabs two beers. She tosses me one.

“Don’t you say a word to me, Old Man,” she says as she pops the top on hers.

I pop the top on mine, too.

“Wasn’t going to, Little Woman,” I say back. “No way in hell. You wannabe grown-up, be grown-up, but remember that rules and expectations are different for adults.”

“I know,” she says, acting all nonchalant and trying to hold back a huge smile. “You’re the one who told me humans learn best from observation, practice and repetition, right?”

I nod at her and smile. Like I said, Little Woman has a lot of untapped potential.

“I’m glad you were paying attention,” I say.

“I was,” she says and nods, then she takes a long drink from her beer.

She’s said before she likes beer, which may or may not be problematic in the future.

I hesitate to say. I am not a prophet, though there is plenty of precedent substance abuse in her birth family.

Afterward, she looks up, belches, and grins at me in the firelight, looking like the little imp she can be, the little imp I hope she’ll always be, but know in my heart she won’t be.

“Let’s practice something besides knife-throwing for a while,” she says.

“Deal,” is all I have to say to that while she goes to kill the lights.

Ten seconds later, we take adjacent chairs by the still-burning fire. We practice being quiet, and we practice drinking a beer beneath a bright vernal moon and a million stars.

Meanwhile, all we can hear are the soft moans and gasps of three wannabe lesbians in a cowgirl hot tub just the other side of a thin desert hedge, the faint rustle of fresh young cottonwood leaves in a light midnight breeze, and the lonely call of a chuck-will’s-widow somewhere down by the river.

The only thing keeping me awake 10 minutes later is Little Woman. The steady crunch of Doritos coming from her voluminous mouth would surely wake the dead.

 

 

***

 

 

 

Author's Note

What do you think of the characters? Are they believable? Were you engaged in the story throughout? Could you understand the descriptions of the blade games? Do you want to know what happens next?