William Krueger: Red knife

On a clear day in late August, Cork O’Connor sat in the cabin of Henry Meloux, smoking tobacco with the old Mide. Outside, Stevie played in the meadow grass with Walleye, trying to coax the relaxed old mongrel into chasing butterflies with him. On the table between Meloux and Cork lay a. 38 police special and a Remington Model 700. The rifle Cork had used for hunting since he was a young man. The revolver his father had carried as sheriff of Tamarack County, and Cork, too, when he was sheriff.

“Why not sell them?” the old man suggested.

“That just puts them into someone else’s hands, Henry.”

“There will always be other rifles, other guns, Corcoran O’Connor. I can’t keep them all.”

Through the open window, Cork watched his son play and his heart felt heavy. “I’ve killed men, Henry, and convinced myself it was the right thing to do. Now I lie in bed nights thinking about Darrell Gallagher. In his own mind, I’m sure everything he did was justified.”

The dark creases at the corners of the old man’s eyes deepened and Meloux nodded thoughtfully. “In the woods sometimes I find the bones of deer left by the wolves that brought them down. If a deer had a rifle and could shoot the wolves, I expect it would do just that.”

“My life has been steeped in bloodshed, and God help me, some of that was because I wanted it that way. Once you turn to violence as an answer, Henry, it’s hard to stop looking there first. I don’t want my son growing up to be me. I don’t want him to be able to pick up a gun and have it feel like he’s shaking hands with an old friend.”

Meloux, too, looked through the window and watched Stevie at play in the meadow. “I have been told, Corcoran O’Connor, that the heart has two chambers. I believe it because I do know that the heart has two sides. One is love and the other is fear. One creates, the other destroys. Not every person kills, but every person could. It is how the Great Spirit created us. I do not pretend to understand why; I only know it is so.”

“Maybe you can’t alter the human heart, Henry, but you can remove the weapons. Maybe not so many people would kill then or so many die.”

The ancient Mide gave his head a faint shake. “Handing me your firearms won’t by itself change anything.”

“It’s a start.”

“All right,” the old man agreed, though his voice betrayed his skepticism. He reached out with his wrinkled, spotted hands and drew the weapons toward him. “They’ll be here when you need them.”

“I won’t be needing them, Henry.”

“We will see.”

They left the cabin and walked into the sunlit meadow.

“Time to go, Stevie,” Cork called.

His son bestowed on Walleye a prolonged patting in good-bye and came trotting to his father’s side.

“ Migwech, Henry,” Cork said.

Meloux smiled and gave a small shrug, and Cork knew exactly what the old Mide was thinking. It didn’t matter.

Together, father and son walked the path toward the woods that edged the meadow. Halfway there, Stevie said, “I’ll race you, Dad.”

“Okay, but wait until I say go.”

Stevie poised himself as if at a starting line.

“On your mark,” Cork said. “Get set.”

And he took off.

“Hey!” Stevie yelled at his back.

In a few seconds, Stevie had caught up. He ran past Cork, his arms pumping hard, his small strong legs carrying him away. Cork slowed and, as he watched his son, his beloved son, racing away from him, he was struck with an overwhelming and inexplicable sadness. In only a moment, Stevie had sprinted out of the sunlight, entered the shadow of the deep forest ahead, and disappeared from his father’s sight.