Neal Barrett Jr. (2 page)

The men came at him just before first light, making little noise, working up to him on the ground. He could smell their sweat and knew they weren’t afraid. Howie figured they’d done this once or twice before. They came in together, the second man holding a knife, just behind the first. They stopped still to listen for a while, then the first man crawled up slow and grabbed out at Howie’s arms to hold him down. Howie rolled to one side and came up in crouch; the man with the knife looked surprised because Howie wasn’t there and then he was. Howie thrust his own blade in belly-deep, sliced up quickly to the breast, and jerked free, all in a move too fast to see.

The other man cried out in fright, crabbed away and tried for the weapon at his belt. His eyes told Howie this wasn’t the way it ought to be. It was his job to hold; he hadn’t ever had to do this. He could see that a man who wasn’t ready was a man already dead. and he wouldn’t have to think of that again.

The men had been doing something right up to now. Howie found a bag of copper coins, a pistol, and some shells. He kept the best of the knives and a good straw hat, and a better pair of boots than his own. A slit on one side and they fit just fine. The men were likely deserters, unless they’d stolen the pistol too. Howie followed their tracks out of the woods in case they’d left packs somewhere, but there was nothing else to find. Neither of the two had any food.

Howie started walking east,-chewing corn along the way. He left the men where they were. He didn’t look back, and didn’t think about them after that.

F
or some time after Mexico, Howie had walked north and east, finally running flat out of land and coming up against the sea. He marveled at the great blue expanse that seemed to stretch out forever to the sky. Ma had shown him a picture in a book one time, an ocean and a boy in a boat. The water in the picture looked flat and painted on; it didn’t look a thing like this.

Howie liked the sand and the shells and the curious things that washed upon the shore. The beach was thick with tiny creatures that scuttled along the sand; they were easy to catch and good to eat. Storms came in off the water now and then, and he had enough to drink.

He followed the coast for some time. It was the easiest thing to do. Twice he saw the ruins of old cities and quickly passed them by. He tried to draw a map of the country in his head, and decided the big stretch of water was the Gulf.

The coast seemed to go on forever. Finally he began to find settlements on the beach and headed north. The land changed to pine trees and farms. Small towns, and people with hollow eyes. At the Big Muddy River, a man kept a large raft. It cost a small coin or real goods to get across. Howie didn’t have either at the time. He waited till dark and then stole a small boat and rowed to the other side.

He knew he was getting close. Crossing the river told him that. The map in his head said the country made a narrow little tail to the east. Silver Island lay somewhere south of the tail. His thoughts didn’t go beyond that. He didn’t see another Howie going somewhere else, doing something he wasn’t doing now. Silver Island was enough.

H
alf a day after he left the men in the woods, he found one of the old stone roads and followed it east. A hundred summers and winters had done their work. The road was buckled and overgrown; tall trees split the man-made surface and thrust slabs of rubble aside. Howie could smell salt air and knew the Gulf was not far to the south. The trees were full of white birds. He even saw a little game, snicks and two rabuts, and some creatures he couldn’t name, the only animals he’d seen since Mexico.

By late afternoon he smelled stock. The odor sent a sharp wave of nausea through his belly. Pictures appeared in his head, things he didn’t want to see. Howie stopped and drank from a clearwater stream, cooled his face and thought about what he ought to do. Stock meant a town up ahead, and a fairly good-sized one at that, if they had enough men to guard meat. He didn’t want to see the town, but he knew it was something he had to do. There were things he didn’t know, things he had to find out.

It wasn’t a real big operation; meat was scarce as it could be, and nearly every head went to feed the troopers fighting in the war. Howie wondered if there would ever be another great herd like the one he had helped drive west. Most likely not; the army was simply eating up stock too fast.

Two men with rifles watched Howie as he passed. Their eyes said keep walking by. That was fine with Howie. He picked up his pace and walked as quickly as he could. The stink was overpowering. The pens were set up in a clearing, on the bank of a sandy river that likely ran down to the sea. With a river close by you could dump all the waste from the stock and the organs nobody liked to eat. If the river was deep enough, shippers could barge the herd down to market and save money on feed. A herd on foot liked to eat, and that cut profit to the bone.

The cutting plant was silent, and that told Howie a lot. The lack of noisy clatter said meat was being shipped out live; the price was too good to sell to folks who couldn’t match the army buyers.

As ever, there was slow, constant motion in the pens, stock shuffling aimlessly about. Howie passed the breeding sheds, keeping his attention straight ahead, trying to ignore the growing knot that cramped his gut. He walked by a high board fence, past gateways and ramps, and came right on the mares. Howie stopped, too shaken to turn away. Sweat cold as ice stung his face. They were young, no more than fourteen, each one gravid and heavy-breasted, nearly ready to foal. One looked up, a mare with matted yellow hair, looked right at him with dull, incurious eyes, grunted in her throat and clutched her breasts. Bile rose up in Howie’s throat and he turned away and retched.

“H
ey, you,” one of the guards called out, “what the hell you think you’re doin’?”

“You can’t hold it, don’t drink it,” the other man said, and both the guards laughed.

Howie swept a hand across his mouth, staggered through the brush and ran blindly through the trees. Thorny branches ripped at his flesh. Terrible pictures filled his head, visions bright and sharp as colored glass. Howie ran until his lungs caught fire and then dropped to the ground. An awful cry escaped his throat, a cry of sorrow and anger, a pain that cut and slashed at his soul. All the pictures in his head turned red. Howie let them come. He didn’t try to fight them anymore.

I
t was close to night when he walked into the town. The storefronts were closed up tight, and there were very few people in the streets. Howie heard a woman laugh. Two men squatted beneath a tree. One shook a handful of stones and then tossed them on the ground. The other man groaned.

Lamps in the tavern cast pale yellow squares on the street. Howie walked through the open door and found a table in the back. The air was thick with the overpowering smell of cooked meat. Howie’s stomach threatened to revolt, and he fought the sickness back. He had to eat, get something down. He tried to remember when he’d had real food. Counting back didn’t work. The weeks and the months swam together, one long day and night. Grubs and dried corn. Wild onions and nuts. Stale creek water, and those animals he had sucked from their shells on the beach.

“What’ll it be, mister?”

The voice started Howie out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the old man. Gaunt, narrow in the chest; frazzled silver hair and livered flesh. The smell of sour sweat.

“Bring me something to eat,” Howie said.

“How you want that done?”

“
No
. No meat.”

The force in Howie’s voice brought a frown to the old man’s eyes. “Listen, the meat here’s good. And you ain’t goin’ to find a fairer price.

Howie didn’t look up. “Bring me something else. Whatever you got. And something to drink.”

The old man muttered to himself and walked away.

Howie drew in a breath, tried to relax. Hunger was working on his nerves. There were six or eight men in the room. He knew they were looking at him. He could feel them at his back. Two men stood and left their table by the door. Howie knew they were coming his way. He didn’t look up until they stopped. The first man limped. His eyes were dark as stones, his beard tangled red splashed with black. The second man was shorter, broader in the chest. His face was peppered with powder burns.

The first man grunted, an easy smile that was a lie before he spoke. “Where you from, friend? I don’t guess I’ve seen you in town.”

“West,” Howie said.

The man laughed and winked at his friend. “Hell, reckon everyone’s from there. Me and Ben here fought of Lathan ’cross the Colorado Mountains and back. That’s where Ben got his fine purty face. Rifle blew up in his hands. Me, now, I got my toes shot off. Near took the whole goddam foot. Where’d you say you lost that eye?”

“I don’t guess I did.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. The smile was still there, and Howie knew this was how the man wanted things to be; now he had the reason, the excuse he’d come to find.

Howie didn’t move. “Go ahead, he said quietly. “Do whatever you’ve got to do.

The man seemed startled. Howie’s challenge brought anger to his cheeks. He looked into Howie’s good eye, looked for a good long time. Then something in his face went slack. He blinked, as if he’d seen something he didn’t want to see. He turned and laughed harshly at his friend, and it was clear that the laugh wasn’t real.

“Hell with it, Ben,” the man said. “Man don’t want to talk, there isn’t no law against that.”

Ben looked puzzled. The man gripped his arm and urged him back across the room.

Howie was vaguely aware that the room had gone silent for a while. Now the tavern was full of talk again. He forgot about the men. A platter appeared and a cup of cool ale. The aroma made Howie want to cry. He dug into hot boiled onions and potatoes, a loaf of dark bread, pausing now and then to wash it all down with drink. The plate was empty in an instant, and Howie asked for more. He knew what the unfamiliar pleasures were doing in his belly, that he ought to have the good sense to stop. Howie didn’t care. Eating roots and bugs didn’t make sense, either. If he threw it all up, well, hell—he’d thrown up worse about a dozen times before.

CHAPTER TWO

H
owie felt a little warm, and figured the ale was likely going to his head. Shoot, he could soak that up with more potatoes and bread. That’d work just fine. He turned and watched as the old man crossed the room with another heaping course. As the platter reached the table, a man dropped quickly into the chair across from Howie, arriving precisely with the meal.

“Mister, I didn’t ask for no company,” Howie said,

“Oh, now, I’m not company, son,” the visitor pro-tested. “You just go right ahead. Don’t bother ’bout me.”

Howie wasn’t sure what to do. The man had a broad and easy smile, not mean underneath and maybe hiding something else. He wasn’t like the other man at all. Howie guessed he was forty, or somewhere about. He had a nearly bald head and no beard, pale blue eyes that never seemed to sit still. The thing that struck Howie, and nearly brought chewing to a stop, was the fact that the man was so
clean
. The room was full of lean and sullen men with tangled hair and ragged clothes, and here was this stranger all shaved and spanking new. Good clothes and smelling like soap, and a little extra fat on his ribs. A man like that would have money in his purse, and Howie would have bet a whole copper that his boots were new, too.

Howie shook his head and stuffed bread in his mouth. It was a wonder this fellow was still alive. Any man here would stick a knife in his throat and strip him bare before the poor bastard could turn around.

“You look like a man who hasn’t seen a good meal in some time,” the man said. He smiled at Howie’s plate. —You might be right,” Howie said.

“I’m guessing that you fought in the war. If you did, why you know full well what hunger’s all about. Nothing I could tell
you
about that. Men cold and starving and too weak to fight. Crying for a single crust of bread. Famine and disease across the land, sorrow and pain in every home. And is hunger the cause? Is that what the war’s all about? No sir, it surely is not. Avarice and greed is what brought this nation to its knees. One man wants what another man’s got. And when he gets it, then what? Why, he wants something more. Lust of any kind is never satisfied.” The man stuck out his hand. “Son, I’m Brother Ritcher Jones, and I didn’t get your name.”

Brother
Ritcher Jones. That explained a lot. Howie stared in irritation at the hand, clean and new as baby’s skin.

“Mister, I don’t want to talk,” Howie said. “I sure don’t want to talk to no preacher.”

The man beamed, pleased as he could be. Howie wondered if he’d said something nice, and couldn’t figure what it might be.

“Right talk can do a man a lot of good,” Jones said. “Clear the air and get his spirit working right.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Howie said.

Ritcher Jones gave Howie a solemn look. “Son, I don’t mean to preach at you at all. It’s just that I see a hungry man here filling his body’s needs. And I know full well that a belly’s not the only empty place a man’s got. There’s other parts need filling, too. A man can eat a sack of potatoes every day and still walk in the dark, alone and sore afraid.”

“I already done that,” Howie said.

“Oh, I see that you have,” said Ritcher Jones. “I can see that right clear.” His eyes seemed to blur, as if he might really know, as if he might understand Howie’s pain. Either that, Howie thought, or he wanted you to think that he could.

Ritcher Jones stood, smiling at Howie like church was letting out, folding his hands the way preachers liked to do.

“Think about that empty place, son,” he told Howie. “Think about a man’s inner needs.”

Jones walked away; Howie didn’t look up. He ran a crust in a circle around his plate, mopping up the juice. He could feel his belly cramping something fierce, sweat getting cold on his brow. Howie swallowed hard and forced the food back down where it belonged. A good meal had been too long coming, and he was damned if he’d throw it up now.