Neal Barrett Jr. (3 page)

The clown was funny as he could be. He stumbled in the tent in a lopsided hat and a baggy old patchwork suit. All the children laughed, and the grownups, too. A trooper played his fiddle and the clown began to dance. He whirled and leaped about, sweating so hard that the paint rolled off his face. He leaped so high that he flipped over neatly in the air, and when his feet hit the ground, a bunch of long silver ribbons was in his hand. He pranced and danced about, stopping first before one child and then another. And sometimes when he stopped, he pinned a long silver ribbon to a lucky boy or girl, then laughed and danced away. And when all the silver ribbons were gone, he bowed and threw a kiss to one and all. More than half of all the children were Chosen, more than any other year. Mama cried and then laughed, and Papa wiped a tear away too, and Howie ran and hugged Carolee. It was a real fine thing to get picked for Silver Island; he was glad that his sister would get to go, but he would miss her some, too. She looked so pretty in her brand-new dress, just as happy as she could be, and Howie wondered why her hair was all tangled and matted when Mama kept it brushed real good, and then Carolee looked at Howie with pale and empty eyes and tore the nice dress away and Howie saw her belly all swollen up hard, saw her legs cut and scabbed, saw her whole body crusted in filth, and then Carolee screamed and her belly went flat, and something red and ugly dropped down between her legs and began to squirm and cry….

Howie woke up rigid, a hoarse cry stuck in his throat. He felt as if his belly were ripping apart; he jerked up straight and then everything was rushing up his throat and streaming out of his mouth and his nose. He leaned across the bed and watched his supper spew out onto the floor, then fell back and trembled, gasping for air, too weak to move away from the smell. The room was smudged with dawn, the moist air heavy with the promise of heat to come.

T
he porridge was lumpy and tasteless but he forced a little down, then chewed on a piece of dry toast. Filling up his gut had been a fool thing to do, and when you did something foolish you had to pay.

He tried not to think about the dream. It had been bad this time, real bad. He dreamed about the war now and then, the fighting and the killing, and Colonel Jacob cutting out his eye. But the Carolee dreams were the worst. They stayed on and wouldn’t go away.

A few men were up and about, and Howie listened to them talk. Lathan had broken through and was leading a great army to the east. The government had beaten Lathan back in a big fight north of Colorado and the Rebels were on the run. War talk was always like that. You could hear every kind of tale there was, and there was no way to say what was true. Howie even heard both sides were ready to call it quits, that they might start talking peace soon. That was one rumor he didn’t believe at all.

T
he town had looked bad the night before, and it was worse in the full light of day. Tired, and beat flat to the ground, like the people Howie saw on the streets, The man who ran the tavern told Howie it was called Tallahassee, named for a place that had once been farther to the north. Howie was surprised to hear that. It wasn’t good luck to use a dead city’s name. Maybe the folks here didn’t know that, or didn’t care.

Walking down the dusty street, he saw farmers gathered in quiet little groups, men with empty pockets and hopeless eyes. They stood before storefronts and taverns and looked at the ground; no one had the coppers to buy what was offered inside. They had nothing else to do except talk about rain and better years. It was easy to spot the men who’d fought in the West. The older men were whole; the young men were frequently missing limbs or bore terrible scars of the war.

More than once, women and young girls showed Howie a weary smile, and he knew they were offering themselves for money or a meal. It was clear they were finding few takers.

At noon, Howie saw a hanging in the square. Word had gotten around somehow, and everyone in town came to watch. The hanging was quick, with no ceremony or fuss. A rope was tossed over a big oak limb and a tow-headed boy was led out through the crowd. He seemed no more than seventeen, and showed no expression at all. He simply stood on a box as he was told, and paid no attention to the noose around his neck. One man kicked the box away and that was that. The crowd hung around for a while, then decided there was nothing else to see.

A smith had a shop across the square; Howie wandered over and offered two knives to be sharpened, and asked what the boy had done.

“Beats me,” the smith said. “Might’ve been a Rebel spy. We been gettin’ some of those.” He gave Howie a narrow look. “Where are
you
from, mister? You don’t mind me asking.”

Howie forced a smile. “Up north of here a ways. And I ain’t a Rebel spy.”

“Didn’t figure you was. The smith shrugged and pumped his sharpening wheel, sending a shower of sparks from Howie’s blade. “Most of them Rebels has got a look. You know? Sorta squinty-eyed. From lookin’ in the sun out West, I suppose. You can tell ’em right off.”

Howie wondered what a spy could find out in this town, but didn’t ask. He gave the man a small copper coin and wandered back in the direction of the tavern. His belly was sending two different messages to his head: Eat, and don’t eat anything at all, and Howie knew which one he’d have to heed.

T
he tavern was full, and Howie recognized faces he had seen the night before—a man with one arm and a yellow beard, the pair of men built thick as oaks who sat alone in the back. It struck Howie then that there was a reason why the tavern’s clientele stayed the same. The town was dirt-poor, but there was plenty of food and drink to be had if you could pay. And what kind of man could do that? Men who sold meat, Howie decided, and men who stole what they got from someone else. Like preachers and other damn fools. There sure weren’t any farmers or storekeepers here drinking ale and eating meat.

Howie ordered potatoes and bread, promising himself that he wouldn’t overdo it this time. The sack of coins he’d taken from the men who’d tried to kill him in the woods was growing light. When that was gone, he would be right back where he’d been. And what then? He wouldn’t kill a man to get his purse. He might do a lot of things, but he wouldn’t do that.

Ritcher Jones appeared with two mugs of ale, placed one before Howie, and quickly took a seat.

“Well now, I trust you had a fine night,” Jones said. He wore a smile wide as a barn, and a clean blue shirt. “A man needs his blessed sleep, and that’s the truth. Sleep cures a man’s ills and prepares him for the day’s work ahead. Rest is precious food and drink for the soul.”

Howie looked straight at Jones. “Listen, what the hell do you want with me, mister?”

“What do I want? What do I want with
you?
” Jones spread his hands wide. “Why, not a thing, son. Not a thing except the chance to share drink with a friend.”

“I don’t recall you and me bein’ friends.”

“Well, now. That’s the truth. It surely is. But you never can tell. That’s the thing, you see. You simply never can tell.”

Howie didn’t touch his ale. It was clear plain talk didn’t bother Jones at all. The man’s fine manner and easy ways made it seem as if you’d welcomed him to sit all along, and that irritated Howie no end. He was about to tell Jones to take his drinks and walk away when a crowd burst in through the door.

There were five bearded men, all wearing torn bits of uniform they’d saved from the war. Howie recognized them all from the night before, including the two who had tried to pick a fight. The sixth man was a stranger, and not like the other men at all. Shorter than the rest, he had a nearly square head, and features squeezed tight on his face. He wore a clean pair of butternut pants, a green army shirt with a sea-blue-and-white shoulder patch, and new boots. His hair was combed straight back, and his beard was neatly trimmed,

Several men rose at once to shake the stranger’s hand. His friends called for drink, and soon there was a large crowd of admirers gathered about a table in the front.

“Who you reckon that might be?” Howie asked, then remembered that he hadn’t asked Ritcher Jones to leave.

Jones raised a brow. “That, I believe, would be the famed Anson Slade. A local hero of sorts.” The preacher took a deep healthy swallow from his mug and carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth. “A survivor, it would seem, from that terrible massacre to the south.”

Howie looked puzzled. “What massacre is that? There isn’t no fighting ’
round
here, or none I heard about.

Jones hesitated, then seemed to understand. “Ah, of course. I forget you just arrived. It wasn’t a
fight
, so to speak. No, sir. Plain slaughter is what it was. And innocent youngsters at that.” Jones looked solemnly at his hands. “God rest their souls. Those fine boys and girls all killed or carried off and Silver Island burned to the ground. The whole place just—Good heavens, boy, are you all right?”

Howie couldn’t move. He felt as if a big fist had reached in and ripped out his heart.

“What—what happened?” He strangled on the words. “What happened to Silver Island?”

Ritcher Jones gave Howie a curious look. “Why, it’s just like I said. It’s all gone. The whole thing. Rebels took the place by surprise, though God knows how they got this far east. Here now, you drink some of this ale—”

Howie struck out at the mug, came to his feet and sent the stool clattering across the floor. Ritcher Jones backed off in alarm. Howie couldn’t breathe. The room was veiled in red, and he could feel the rage and sorrow welling up inside, hear the curses in his path as he staggered blindly for the door. Something rose up in his path; Howie’s fist struck out and found a startled bearded face and he could feel the dark sky, feel the welcome sultry night, feel the cry in his throat and the tears that began to scald his eyes….

CHAPTER THREE

H
owie felt as if the night had surrounded him with peace, healed him of his sorrows and his fears. There was no more hatred in his heart, no shadow of the raw and terrible anger that had nearly consumed him in the tavern, the fury that had threatened to explode like broken glass in his head. All that was gone, washed and purified in the silence arid the dark. Now he didn’t feel the rage or the sadness or regret. He didn’t feel anything at all…

The spring he was fifteen, he found brand-new thoughts to think about. Things that had seemed important once didn’t matter anymore. Sometimes he woke up from dreams he couldn’t name, and there were nights when he couldn’t sleep at all. The days were as restless as the nights, and sometimes he’d simply have to run, fall to the soft high grass and lie there letting blue sky whirl around him overhead until the storm within him passed.

He drew in a breath and smelled the dust of the earth, smelled the hot salt air from far away. The town was nearly quiet. Men drifted into the streets, talked for a while before the tavern, then went their own ways. A man laughed. A bottle shattered against a wall. Four men came out together, framed for a moment in yellow light. Three stumbled off on their own. The fourth walked away by himself. Howie stayed in shadow across the street. The man headed toward the east end of town. Storefronts soon gave way to a row of small houses set back among the trees. The man turned up a gravel path, humming to himself.

Howie moved swiftly across the street, keeping to the shadow as best he could. When the man reached his door, Howie’s arm went tight across his throat. The man jerked violently and tried to cry out, clawing at Howie’s hand. Howie let the man see his knife.

“You do that again,” Howie whispered, “and you’re dead right here. You got that straight?”

The man nodded eagerly, gasping for breath. Howie slid his free hand past the man’s waist and pushed the door aside. The house smelled of whiskey and sweat.

“Anyone else live here beside you?”

“No, just me,” the man said hoarsely. “God, don’t kill me, just don’t do that. All right? I—I got money. It’s in my coat. Take it, take anything you want!”

Howie loosed his grip slightly, turned the man around and hit him squarely in the jaw. The man’s face went slack. Howie lowered him roughly to the floor. He moved quickly through the house, There were only three rooms—a parlor, a small bedroom, and a kitchen. Howie pulled the shades and dragged the man into the bedroom. He pulled a shirt off a chair and made a gag, stuffing the cloth into the man’s mouth. In the kitchen, he found a coil of wire, brought it back, and wound it tightly about the man’s wrists and his ankles. The man wasn’t lying; he had quite a few coins in his coat, more silvers than coppers, and Howie hadn’t seen a lot of those. He searched the house and found a rifle in a closet. He couldn’t find shells anywhere and left the rifle where it was.

Howie lit a lamp and turned the wick down low and placed the lamp on the floor. Then he sat down, and waited for the man to come around.

Howie decided that he’d dozed. He knew he’d been gone a long time, and that Papa would wonder where he was. He heard the voices then, and worked his way down past the big oak tree through the grass. There were three men, not many yards away, stock tenders who worked for his father. Three men, and a girl was with them, too, a girl with a— Oh, Lord God, it wasn’t a girl at all—it was a mare! A young mare with yellow hair, and the men were—

Howie couldn’t breathe. He thought his head would split open. The mare lay in the soft high grass. Her legs were spread wide and she grinned up vacantly at the men. One of the men touched himself and laughed. His big shaft was stiffly erect between his\ legs. In a moment he was down on the mare, his hands clutching at her breasts. The mare groaned and engulfed him, thrusting her belly up to meet him. Her eyes were closed and her head arched back until the veins stood out in her throat. The man breathed hard, pumping himself into her. His companions watched, laughing and calling out advice.

Howie couldn’t hear what they said. He couldn’t hear anything at all. His head throbbed as if there were a million angry bees caught up inside.