I saw Miles near the barn. He held a shotgun and waved his arm wildly. “Run for the trees! Climb a tree!”

Albion pointed. “There!”

A yellow dog trotted toward us from the riverbank. It snapped at the air.

“Oh, lordy!” I dropped my pail and ran. But I stopped, for Albion was not with me. He stood rigid and watched the dog.

I ran back to him. “Come on!” I screamed, and tugged at his arm.

“I can’t!” He sounded about to choke. “I’m scairt to turn my back on it!”

The dog was so close I could see the white flecks about its jaw.

“Run, damn it!” he whispered fiercely. He was crying. He broke away from me, walked toward the dog. It saw him, broke into a loping run. Miles’s gun cracked, the dog’s hind legs kicked the air, and it lay still.

Miles ran up, knocked Albion down, stood over him.

“You durned fool! You nearly got my little sister kilt!”

Albion stood up. Miles pushed him down again.

“Miles, you stop that!” I yelled. Flora and Aunt Becka ran out of the house. Aunt Becka gathered me into her arms and Flora helped Albion up.

“You aint being fair, Miles,” she said. “He put hisself between her and the dog. I seen it from the window.”

Miles trembled all over. “What if I’d missed? I’d never have forgive myself. Hit’s been a year since—”

He broke off and turned away. It was a year since he’d been hunting, I knew.

When Daddy came home from helping Clinard Slone build a fence, he praised Miles to the high heaven. He examined the carcass before he burned it, said, “You took him clean, son. Couldn’t have done better myself. We’re a goin to miss you around here.”

Miles looked frightened instead of pleased. He was to leave for Berea in a week.

“Maybe I should stay here,” he said feebly.

“Dont be silly,” Ben said quickly. “Hit’s only school. Aint like you wont never be back. Besides, I’m here now. We’ll be just fine.”

At suppertime, Albion was nowhere to be seen. Aunt Becka set his portion back in the warming closet, and I went to look for him. I found him beside the river, seated upon a rock, his head buried in his arms. When I spoke his name he turned his face away.

“We had a good supper,” I coaxed. “Trout and fried taters and cornbread. And apple pie with cream. Aunt Becka saved yourn still yet warm if you come on.”

When he did not answer, I was uncertain what to do.

“You weren’t no coward,” I whispered. “You was brave. Miles was just het up is all. He was scairt to think hit was all on his shoulders.”

I eased up behind him, slipped my arms beneath his and wrapped them around his chest. I felt him stiffen and nearly let him go, but when he moved, the ribs of his thin chest rubbed against my bare arms and I felt the hurt in him. I tightened my hold and rested my cheek against his back.