The Turtle Warrior Read Online Free Page A

records and sang them while fighting his enemies in the barnyard.
    He sang “Don’t Be Cruel” and raised his wooden sword. Swish! Another enemy was dead. He sang “Love Me Tender” loudly and out of tune, speeding up the beat while cutting off the purple tops of thistles by the chicken coop with a few sweeps of his sword. He screamed the words to “Great Balls of Fire” while pretending their mutt dog, Beans, was one of his archenemies and chased him around and around the outside of the barn and sometimes into the field. And when Bill got tired of playing, he sang “Blue Angel” and sat on the wooden fence post behind the barn while the dog retreated to a safe distance to rest, his tongue lolling and dripping out of his mouth but his eyes kept warily on Bill.
    Once when James was dancing to his music in the hayloft and Bill was fighting and singing below in the toolshed, their father furiously loped around the corner of the barn. He pushed open the sliding red barn door and yelled up into the hayloft, “Will you shut off that goddamn wango-bango music! Shut it off! Do you hear me! Shut it off!”
    Then he ducked into the toolshed and grabbed Bill’s sword out of his hand. He dragged Bill by his arm out into the yard, and while his son stood violently trembling, John Lucas flung the sword into the field next to the barn.
    “Now quit dreamin’ and do some chores!” his father yelled, lifting him off the ground by the neck of his shirt. Bill’s arm dangled inside the turtle shell. He held his breath. His father stank of tractor oil, sweat, and Jim Beam whiskey. Then he dropped Bill and strode just as furiously back to the tractor he was supposedly repairing behind the barn.
    “Christ, he’s hung over. Probably woke him up,” James muttered, having climbed down from the loft to stand near Bill. Bill watched as James turned in the direction their father had gone. His brother raised one brown muscled arm and, closing his hand into a fist, lifted only his middle finger. Bill watched that bird fly.

    “Hey!”
    Bill looked up.
    “Get over here!”
    Bill broke into a reluctant jog until he caught up with them. The snapper’s flow of blood had slowed to a trickle. She appeared almost dead except for the rhythmic clawing of her legs.
    “Quit being so poky, and c’mon,” James said irritably, shifting the turtle to his left hand. Bill could tell James and Terry were coming off their beer buzz because their shoulders slumped and they weren’t talking anymore. They barely lifted their feet, shuffling like elderly men.
    Minutes later they were walking out of the curve that hid the Lucas farm from the road when they heard the low hum of a vehicle coming up behind them.
    “Wonder who it is. Your old man?” Terry asked.
    James stopped and listened, his head cocked toward the sound. “Nah. My old man is in town. I’ll bet it’s Ernie Morriseau. Sounds like his truck. Can you hear that knock?”
    The hum and knock became louder. Bill hoped it was Ernie Morriseau, and when he turned around, his hope was confirmed as the gray ’64 Ford truck appeared behind them. Ernie Morriseau slowed down behind the boys and brought his truck to an idling halt beside them. He eyed the turtle in James’s hands.
    “Did you get that snapper down at the river?” He leaned out of his truck window for a better look.
    “Yeah ... we’re taking her home to Mom for soup,” James answered stiffly.
    Ernie glanced at all three boys. “What happened to her jaws?” He said it quietly, but they heard him despite the idling engine.
    “Nothin’,” Terry answered sullenly. “We were just havin’ a little fun.”
    Bill watched Ernie’s eyes narrow toward his brother and Terry. The turtle let out a groan. Bill’s eyes watered again. Ernie cut the engine.
    “How bad does your mom need a turtle for soup?”
    Bill could tell Ernie was mad. The skin on Ernie’s neck was a sun-weathered red-brown, and when he was angry, it turned