Farthest House

Again, my blood coursed hot and wild. This Beast deserved exactly what he received. I wanted to kill him again for what he’d done and the trouble his death was causing and would cause. He could not be dead enough, didn’t deserve the respite of death. I’d count coup on him, just as Thomas told stories of Indians counting coup on their dead enemies. The act was symbolic, but I needed to beat him, somehow, to be a participant. Only a few yards away, a sapling had recently been planted and still had a supporting stake. I pulled the stake from the ground and struck the body—dull thwacks—until the thin plank in my angry hands broke and was but a few worthless inches of stick. “I’ll cut off his twisted-up root,” I screamed, “he won’t have it for any afterlife.”