Ethan Whitehorse's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The whistle hung warm against Catherine's collarbone by the third evening, and Ethan had not yet needed to blow his own. The threat that came for the farm did not come up the road. It came out of the scrub at dusk, on four feet, in a loose gray line. Ethan saw them from the tower two nights running: coyotes, five or six, circling the pen where the longhorns bedded down. The cattle were Catherine's whole ledger. Without them, the farm could not carry another season. Without the farm, his mother had nothing left to stand on. He climbed down at sundown with his father's old rifle across his back and the dog at his heel. Catherine was at the pump, sleeves rolled, washing dust from her forearms. He faced her square so she could read his mouth. He told her about the coyotes. He told her he meant to sit the pen tonight and drive them off. She dried her hands on her apron and studied him. He watched the argument move behind her eyes and lose. She said, "You fire only if they come inside the rail. You understand me?" He nodded. She touched the whistle at her throat to remind him it was there. He took his place behind the water trough where the wind carried his scent away from the pen. The longhorns shifted in the dark, five broad shapes, horns catching the last light. The black mustang watched from the far corral, ears pricked toward the brush. Ethan could not hear the coyotes coming. He watched the mustang instead. When the horse's head snapped left, Ethan looked left. They came in low, four adults spread wide, and behind them a pup, sandy and small, ears too big for its skull. The lead coyote slipped between the rails. Ethan stood, shouldered the rifle, and fired over its back. The crack rolled across the pasture. The longhorns lurched up, bellowing, and one of them charged the rail with its horns down. The lead coyote broke sideways and ran. The others scattered into the mesquite. The pup froze. It stood in the open with its belly low, amber eyes wide, one paw lifted. Ethan lowered the rifle. He could have shot it clean. He did not. He clapped his hands once, hard, and stamped his boot. The pup bolted after its pack and vanished into the brush. Catherine reached him at a run, skirt hitched, the whistle still tucked in her collar. She looked at the pen, at the unbroken rail, at the cattle already settling. She looked at her son with the rifle across his arm and did not say what she had come out to say. She put her hand on the back of his neck. "Tomorrow we build the watchfire," she said. "They'll come back." Ethan already knew they would. He had let one of them live to remember him.