Mista Jones's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Mista stepped out from the stump and crossed to the pit. The youth below was curled on one side, clutching an ankle, breath ragged. A gray squirrel watched from a low branch, still and alert. Mista made his choice in a heartbeat. He could not leave the kid down there, and he could not carry a hurt stranger far without a plan. He worked fast. From a stash near the quarry, he dragged out beams and rope and lashed a small frame over the pit's edge. A block and tackle hung from the crossbar, rope threaded clean. He tested the knots twice. Three steps ahead, always. He lowered the loop down and spoke low and steady. "Slip it under your arms. I've got you." The youth obeyed, shaking. Mista hauled, hand over hand, the pulley taking the worst of the weight. Inch by inch, the small body rose into the gray light. He laid the youth on a thick bed of pine needles he'd raked into a clearing nearby. A folded cloth made a pillow. He opened his kit and drew out rolled bandages and a smooth wooden splint. The ankle was swollen, not broken. He wrapped it firm, gave the kid water from his jug, and watched color creep back into the pale face. The squirrel chattered once and vanished. Mista sat back on his heels. The pit was empty. The youth was breathing easy. But now a stranger knew his face, and the quarry was no longer his secret alone.