Through Darkest America-Extended Version (11 page)

The river ran slow and easy near the shore, swift and certain in midstream. He sat quietly and watched a long branch float by; it bobbed quickly out of sight around the bend and Howie grinned to himself. He'd be long gone when the sun found him in the morning!

It was a safe enough place to wait out the day. The small backwater was studded with high brush and willows, masking him from the river. The log he'd picked was well hidden, but ready to go—the long gun strapped to its side. The handgun was tight against his belt. Howie near itched for sundown. Now that he'd set himself to go, the hours seemed to be creeping by.

He lay on his back in the brush and watched a jay squawk overhead. During the last few days he'd thought about killing one, but something had stopped him. Birds weren't exactly unclean, but you weren't really supposed to eat them, and he never had. He could try for a fish, but that would mean getting too close to the water and he knew he couldn't risk being seen.

He started remembering the canal trip to
Bluevale
, and Papa and mother and
Carolee
, and the big turtle on the log, and how Papa had let him handle stock for the first time. He swept the thoughts aside. Those were years gone and over. In a world that wasn't his anymore.

At least, he thought,
Carolee
was all right. Safe on Silver Island. That was something. He didn't have to worry about what was happening to her. There wasn't anybody left to worry about now. Just him.

The jay hopped to a stone wall and looked at him. Dark brown stained the wall where metal had been. There was probably a lot of iron left in the City, though people had pretty well stripped what they could find years before. Nobody liked the Cities, but metal was worth going after. Sometimes a bargeman or someone else who traveled a lot would show something he said came from the Cities—a coin, maybe, or-something out of glass. He'd try to sell it if he could, but no one much wanted things like that. They weren't supposed to bring good luck.

Something stirred in the brush nearby and Howie sat up straight. It moved again, and he searched the foliage without turning his head one way or the other. It was close. Not more than five yards away. He reached for his bow, then turned around slowly—and almost laughed to himself. There it was, green on green and nearly invisible, but plain as day if you knew what to look for. A big bullfrog, fresh from the river and just sitting there, fat as could be, waiting for a fine blue fly.

Hunger came back and set juices moving in his belly. He thought how the frog would keep just fine in the water—and by morning, he'd be far enough downriver for a fire. Bringing up the bow on his far side, he carefully nocked an arrow. There was one thing about frogs—you had to hit '
em
square, right in the head, or they'd hop out of sight and die in deep water. Only he was sure his stomach wouldn't let him do a fool thing like that.

The bow sang. It was an easy shot; the frog twitched once, pinned to soft earth. Howie dropped his bow and sprang up after it. He could already smell the white flesh sizzling over coals. He reached down to jerk the arrow and saw the bright flash from the corner of his eye. Sound followed a quick second later, exploding over the water. Lead whined angrily past his ear and chunked into wood. Howie jumped for cover, felt his foot hit the wet frog, and went sprawling into shallow water. The second shot buzzed overhead. Someone shouted. He looked up and saw the two horsemen churning toward him across the river.

He knew he had to move. Keep low, belly fast out of the water, and disappear into the brush. It started just fine. He was close to the bank with a good stand of willow for cover and knew he could make it. Then the riders started firing blindly from the middle of the river. Bullets ploughed up mud around his fingers and clipped the low branches and cratered the rock wall. Fear gripped him hard—jerked him to his feet and set him running. The shot turned him around, slammed him hard into the river.

Howie rolled and cried out. He couldn't believe the pain. He stared down at his shoulder, saw blood turn the water pink.

It's happening
, he cried out to himself.
I'm dying! I'm really for sure dying . . . !

His hand found something hard. A root. He pulled himself toward the bank. Someone yelled nearby and a horse blew water. Howie tried to care, but couldn't.

It was hard to see anymore. There was something—Big. Dark. Blotting out daylight. It came close to him. Howie smelled whiskey and sweat. He knew what was coming, and closed his eyes against it.

When he woke again it was near dark. He was still in the water but he wasn't cold anymore. He didn't feel anything at all now. He was just bone tired clear through. All he wanted to do was sleep for a while. Then he'd get up rested and get on his log and start downriver. On the shore nearby, he could see something dark and terrible squatting in the brush. While he watched, the dark thing lifted a naked man in its big arms, gentle and easy, and took up a silver knife. Then it carefully skinned all the hide off the man's head.

Howie was sure he was dying then. Most likely, he was dead already.

Chapter Twelve

O
nce during the night he woke briefly, saw ground swimming by, and figured he was belly down on a horse. Rain swept over him hard. It stung his neck and coursed down his cheeks and made small rivers to his nose and mouth. Choking, he retched miserably down the animal's flanks.

In the quick flashes of lightning he saw hooves churning up mud. When he turned to see where he was going and who had him, pain knifed him hard and pulled him under again. And in a small moment of relief, he knew that was the best place to be at the time.

There was fire smell.

Wet clothes and leather.

And food. Honest to God
hot
food on a
cookfire
.

Howie kept his eyes closed. There were men around the fire; he could hear their voices, low and gruff sounding. He'd been awake long enough to feel dull pain and remember the river. Some of it, anyway. There were pieces missing—things that weren't clear at all.

One thing was certain, though, and that crowded all other thoughts aside. He was still alive. The soldiers had put a bullet in him, but he wasn't dead. Rightly, they should have finished him off and left him in the river. Instead, they'd patched him up and put him on a horse and hauled him off somewhere alive.
And that, he decided, had to be a whole lot worse than being dead.

The big foot caught him full in the ribs. He screamed, sucked in air. The boot found him again and he doubled in pain.

The man laughed. "Hey, our little friend here's waked up, Klu."

Howie opened his eyes and blinked back tears. The man loomed over him like a broad oak. Black-eyed, thick-chested. Dark hair and tangled beard. Light from the fire made his coarse features swim; the flames licked over rocky walls behind. They were holed up in a cave, then. Probably back on the high ridge somewhere.

"You get rested good, did you?"

Howie didn't answer. The man grinned and fingered his beard. "You're right enough, Klu," he said gently, "the lad's some pretty!"

Howie glared up at him. The other man came up behind, a smaller copy of the first. He grinned curiously at Howie, then squatted down close.

"What they call you, boy?"

Howie eyed the man dubiously. They knew his name well enough. The whole bunch had been hard on his heels for more than a week. It wasn't likely they'd forgotten how he left his mark on Jacob.

"Come on, boy. We ain't going to hurt you any."

With a bullet in his shoulder and his ribs near caved, he didn't give much credit to that. If they wanted a new name, though, he'd give them one. "It's -Burt," he said.

"Burt what?"

"Just Burt."

"Burt . . ." The man tasted the word. "That's a real nice name." He turned aside and winked at the man above. The big man gave him back a quick laugh.

"Now then, Burt," the man smiled, "I'm Klu and that
big'un
up there's Jigger. How's that shoulder of yours coming? Bet it smarts some, don't it?"

"Some," Howie told him.

Klu shook his head and frowned. "Bet it does, too. That was a mighty big slug for a little fella like you. Just a
teeninsy
bit down an' you wouldn't be
layin
' up in no warm cave with Jigger and me. No, sir. Where you'd be is pushing up river mud like them other
un
-
fortunates
."

The one called Jigger laughed at that.

Howie studied the man, puzzled.
What
others? Something touched the edge of his mind and he didn't like the taste of it.

"Thing is," Klu went on, "you got to watch them kind of wounds." He touched Howie's arm. "They got a way of
goin
' bad. You know? Real quick like."

Without warning his finger stiffened and jabbed hard into Howie's shoulder. Howie moaned.

Klu showed concern. "That smart any, Burt?"

"
Lordy
," Howie gasped, "what'd you do
that
for?" "You see that, Jigger?" Klu pulled Howie's shirt aside.

"Look at that boy's shoulder. Why, it's all festered up." "It is," said Jigger, squatting down to see. "It rightly is,

Klu. What you figure we ought to do?"

"What we got to do first," Klu told him, "is
git
this boy comfortable." His big fingers worked at Howie's trousers. "Get him out of these
soakin
' wet clothes an’ . . ."

"Hey,
stop
that!" Howie tried to protest, but every move started the shoulder up again and set his head swimming. He suddenly knew, and understood. His face went hot. Jigger peeled his trousers away and grinned foolishly, big hands searching between his legs. Then Klu was there, too, in another way, and the bile rose in Howie's throat.

No matter what they did or how much it hurt, he was determined to fight them. Even if they kicked
loose
all
his ribs he’d

Klu raised up, then, and met his eyes. Howie went cold all over. He saw something he'd never even dreamed of before.
Nobody'd
ever told him there were things like that, but it was clear as day in
Klu's
one look—and he knew whatever they did he'd lie there and take it. That the other thing squatting dark and terrible in the man's head was worse than anything that was happening to him now. It was all Klu was really waiting for; the screaming and kicking and fighting back. He wanted that a lot more than he wanted the other . . .

"Jigger! Klu!"

The two men straightened, pulled back from Howie like he'd turned to fire.

"
Git
your asses over here to me and do it
quick! Move!"

Howie let out a breath, gripped his legs to stop the shaking. The man stood just past the
cookfire
, watching. His hair and beard might have stolen color from the flames; he was two heads shorter than the black-browed giants, and spare of frame—but his eyes said more than grit and muscle. They blazed out and seized the two, held them still, and scorched them soundly. If there was anger in either of the men, they held it close and did as they were told.

For a long time, the three squatted by the fire. Klu and Jigger had plenty to say, but it was the red beard who did most of the talking. It was likely about him, Howie figured, but he didn't much care. He was glad for a minute to get back in his clothes. The effort hurt something awful, but he'd decided whatever the soldiers did next, he was by damn
goin
' to die decent. And
that
meant having trousers on.

Finally, Klu and Jigger swung rain blankets over their shoulders and grumbled out of the cave. They were plain enough unhappy, but they went. Klu shot a dark look over his shoulder in Howie's direction. The red beard spooned a big bowl of stew and walked back to him.

"You're Burt, I reckon. I'm Pardo, if
them
two didn't tell you. Hungry?" He held out the stew. Howie didn't answer; he scooped up the bowl as soon as Pardo let it go and wolfed it down quickly.

"Hey—" Pardo grabbed his arm. "You
git
greedy you
goin
' to lose it all, boy."

Howie looked at him and tried to slow down, but it wasn't easy. Pardo squatted with his own bowl and watched him finish. Up close, it wasn't hard to see what set Klu and Jigger moving. Pardo was plain enough—raw-boned, homely, and pale-skinned—like a lot of folks
Howie'd
seen with red hair. But the eyes were something else again. Even when they weren't blazing out angry, they looked right through you. Like the man behind '
em
knew everything that was going on in your head.

Colonel Jacob's eyes had been like that, too. Only different. Jacob had a meanness in him, and you could read it well enough. You couldn't hardly tell about Pardo. Likely as not, he'd look fierce as lightning without caring one way or the other—and
grinnin
' all lazy like right before he took a knife to your belly.

"Now," said Pardo, wiping his beard, "I reckon you better tell me just who you are and what it is you're doing here."