Cy in Chains by David L. Dudley Page B

boys’ leg irons, and they were free for a while. Eager to stretch their legs, some boys got up a game of tag. West went off by himself to a sunny patch of ground, lay down, and went to sleep. Mouse walked around, searching the grass for critters.
    Billy made his way to the front of the camp and stood gazing through the barbed wire in the direction the wagon had brought him from.
    Cy wandered around wishing he had something to do. He felt irritable, the way Teufel used to get when he’d been cooped up in his stall too long. That was when he was likely to bite or kick, even though you were trying to bring him out for exercise. Strange that when he was allowed free time, Cy couldn’t come up with a way to use it. Mess with West? That was tempting—the kid couldn’t mouth off to him that way!—but Stryker or Prescott might notice.
    Visiting day. Nothing more than a mean joke. Cy glanced at the gate where Billy had planted himself. Maybe his daddy
would
show up—most likely not. For a moment, Cy felt sorry for the kid.
    He had wandered up near the cookhouse when Rosalee appeared at the door with Pook. “Go on, sugar,” she told the child, gently removing his hand from her long skirt. “Let Mama see how fast you can run.”
    Pook stood still a moment, then looked up at Rosalee. She nodded and smiled at him. “Run, little man. Stretch them long legs.”
    Cy stopped and watched. The catch in his throat surprised him, but not as much as Pook did when the child ran right to him. Without stopping to think about it, Cy grabbed Pook under both arms, picked him up, and began to swing him around. The child squealed happily.
    Cy put Pook down, but the boy wasn’t satisfied. “Again!” he shouted.
    So he did it again, and again. Pook kept laughing and asking for more.
    â€œYou havin’ fun, sugar?” Rosalee called.
    â€œYeah!” he cried.
    â€œI got to stop,” Cy said. He was panting and dizzy, but happier than he could remember being in a long time.
    â€œLet Cy be,” Rosalee said. “He wore out from playin’ with you. Tell him thank you.”
    Pook hugged Cy’s knees. “T’ank you, Cy.” He started back to his mother, then spotted something in the weeds. He squatted to look. Cy followed, and Mouse came over, too.
    â€œBood,” Pook said.
    â€œDead bird,” Mouse said, holding it up.
    â€œBood,” Pook said again. Rosalee came and stood by him.
    Mouse held the bird in his palm. It was small, with some yellow on its breast and throat, and white stripes on its wings. The back was darker, kind of dull green. “We got to bury him,” Mouse declared.
    â€œBood,” Pook repeated, staring at the pitiful thing.
    â€œJust throw it over the fence,” Cy suggested.
    â€œWe got to
bury
him,” Mouse repeated. He laid the dead bird on the ground and began scrabbling in the dirt with both hands.
    â€œWhy? It only a bird.”
    Mouse didn’t answer, just tore at the earth, digging his nails into the slimy red clay.
    â€œPut him in,” Mouse told Pook when the hole was dug.
    â€œHe don’t understand.”
    â€œCourse he do. Put him in.”
    Pook picked up the dead bird by one scrawny foot and carefully placed it in the hole.
    Without warning, tears came to Cy’s eyes.
Stop it!
he ordered himself.
You gonna cry over a dead bird?
    â€œHey, you!” a voice shouted.
    It took Cy a second to realize he was being called. It was Stryker, at the gate. “Get over here, boy! You got a visitor.”
    On the other side of the barbed wire, near where Billy waited, staring at the road, stood Pete Williams.
    Â 
    Stryker unlocked the gate and gestured for the man to step through. He carried a shabby carpetbag in one hand. His hair had started to go gray, and there was something wrong with his left leg.
    Cy didn’t move.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” Stryker shouted across