Through Darkest America-Extended Version (8 page)

It was nearly noon, but for Howie the day seemed no further along. The hours stretched wearily by and even Papa stopped pretending there were things to do. He sat at the big table with his hands in his lap and looked at nothing at all.

When the sun was just overhead, though, he did a peculiar thing—something Howie would never forget. Without a word, he got up and walked out the front door and off the porch and into the yard. Howie followed. At the same time, he saw a single rider move out of the grove and start for the house—as if they both knew the other would be right where they were.

The rider was a copy of the others, but somehow not the same. And no one had to tell Howie it was Colonel Jacob. He rode straight and silent, without looking to either side, letting the horse make its own way. It seemed forever before he touched his reins and stopped just before the spot where Papa stood.

"Milo," he said, "it's been a long while."

"It has," said Howie's father.

There was something in Papa's voice Howie hadn't heard before. Whatever it was, the Colonel heard it, too, and looked at Papa a long moment without moving his eyes. He was an older, thinner man than Howie remembered. A face gone to leather, and a body tight and hard as stone. The eyes, though, were the same—and he remembered how they'd looked at him, and at his mother, and what he'd seen there, even being twelve and not knowing much at all. And when Jacob's glance touched him again, he stared straight back and didn't turn away.

"The boy's grown some," said Jacob.

"He has."

"Looks a little like you in the face. Got
Ev's
color, though."

Papa didn't answer; Jacob shifted in his saddle and looked up at the low clouds. "The little girl. She coming all right?"

"
Carolee
went from us," said Papa. "At the Choosing."

"Well, now. That's fine, Milo."

"I guess it is."

Jacob nodded and shifted his gaze to Howie. "You sure have sprung up, boy."

"Yes, sir," said Howie.

"Be big enough to serve, soon. You know that?"

Papa looked up sharply. "If he chooses, Jacob. Don't know as he's given any thought to soldiering."

Jacob shrugged. "Maybe. Might come to something else though, Milo. It's a terrible war out there. Men dying in
frightenin
' ways. Or gettin' sick and wishing they had a clean bullet in their bellies 'stead of filth and pollution." He shook his head. "You got to see it to know what I'm saying. See it, and wash your hands in a man's blood, and smell his corruption."

Papa stood tall and still, his gaze staying right on the Colonel. To Howie, it seemed as if Jacob's eyes had gone different while he talked—like he'd been somewhere a long way off a minute, and just come back. -

"The war," said Papa. "You said
somethin
' about the war. How it might come to—
somethin
' different. I don't reckon I understand that, Jacob."

Jacob gave him a weary smile. "Simple as rain, Milo. Soldiers are dying out west faster than boys are joining up. War's got
a
awful appetite, I'll tell you. Eats up armies like corn in a field."

"Then you might better stop your war, I'm thinking." "Can't do that. Not now."

"Can't. Or don't care to."

Jacob's smile faded. "You haven't fought," he said stiffly. "You're out of line, Milo, if you ain't been there."

"Maybe," said Papa. "And maybe folks that like fighting so much ought to do as they please. And leave those that don't to themselves."

Jacob stared at him and laughed out loud. "You haven't changed a damn bit, Milo! A simple man with simple answers."

"Suits me well enough," Papa said darkly.

"Suits you, is right. But not the world, not anymore. The world's changing—it's not a simple place anymore, Milo. It chews up simple men and spits '
em
on the ground."

"Like Jess, you mean."

Jacob's face went hard and the two men just looked at each other, neither backing away. Howie figured he could measure the silence between them. Finally, Jacob sat back in his saddle and shook his head.

"
Lordee
," he said, letting out a long breath, "that was a bad thing, Milo. A real bad thing. It ain't easy to do what you have to do. Sometimes, though, a war jus—"

"
Have
to do!" Papa exploded. He stared up at Jacob and the cords of his neck went tight. "Damn, man, what's
happened
to you? You talk like you hung a stranger from that tree!"

"He was a stranger to me," said Jacob.

"He was a man you grew
up
with, Jacob. Jess and you and me and the rest. Right here. The same dirt, the same—"

"No. That's not so, Milo." He looked at Howie's father with no expression at all. "I was a boy here and that's true enough. I grew
up
out there. With men that ain't anything like you and Jess." He seemed to lose himself in thought a minute, then his eyes went tired again. "Hell, Milo. We go back a long way. You know that?"

"We do, Jacob."

"War's hard on a man. You got to understand that." "I reckon that's so."

"A man don't figure on changing, but he does. It's not something you got much say in. You . . ." He looked at Howie, and ran a dry hand over his mouth. "You got some cool water in there, boy?"

Howie looked at his father.

"Get him some water, Howie."

"No, no." Jacob held up a hand and raised himself in the saddle. "Reckon I'll walk in with you. Give me a chance to iron out the wrinkles.
Ev
inside?"

"She's inside," Papa said evenly.

"Well, then . . ."

"She's feeling poorly, Jacob."

The challenge in Papa's voice was clear enough. Jacob gave him a curious look, then eased back in his saddle. "You'll tell her I asked, Milo."

"I'll do that."

"Well . . ." Jacob looked up at the house, then back again. "A lot of
years've
gone by, ain't they?"

"They have, for certain."

"Things change . . ."

"I guess they always will, Jacob."

Jacob touched his reins lightly and the mount skittered to one side.

 
"This business, Milo .. ." He gestured over his shoulder toward the grove. "It's something that's got to be done."

Papa didn't answer. Jacob studied him a moment, then turned his horse smartly, kicking up dust, and galloped back to the grove.

Papa watched him go. He stood where he was until the wagon was loaded, the stock gathered, and the long column of soldiers had followed Jacob back over the hill the way they'd come.

In the afternoon Howie's mother came downstairs and sat at the big oak table. Papa tried to get her to eat some hot bread or take a bowl of soup, but she said she wasn't hungry at all and would just as soon have a little
honeywater
to sip on. Howie wanted to cry looking at her. She seemed so frail and tired, like all the life had gone out of her. In a little while she asked Papa if he'd mind seeing to supper, something Howie couldn't remember her ever doing before.

"Papa," he asked later, when she'd gone back upstairs, "she's going to be all right, ain't she?"

"Sure she is, Howie." His father forced a smile. "The day's been hard on her, is all. It's over and done with now, and there's nothing more to worry about. She'll see that in the morning."

"For certain, Papa?"

"For certain, Howie."

Howie had a lot more questions about the day, but he could see Papa didn't want to do much talking. He went about his chores, wisely leaving his father to himself and his thoughts.

Everything might be over and done like Papa said, but you couldn't tell by the way he acted. His mind was still out in the high grove of trees and over the dark horizon. Through the long afternoon, he left Howie more than once to stalk about outside. Just standing, out on the porch or in the yard, his face matching the brooding sky.

Late in the evening, after they'd shared a cold supper, Howie went to bed by himself, leaving his father alone. And when he woke deep in the night, he went to the window and found Papa outside, a dark figure listening to the silence.

"
Howie . . .
"

He woke smelling first dawn, heavy with sleep then suddenly awake, seeing his father there and feeling the strong hands on him.

"Howie. Don't talk, boy, just listen."

A cold chill gripped him. There was something awful in Papa's eyes and he didn't want to see it.

"Howie. I want you to get up now and go in real quiet and get your mother. Get her downstairs and out the back. Over the field, Howie, and you can't make no noise at all. You see that? Not any."

"Papa . . ."

"
Listen
, boy. Take that little gully as far as you can, where you can
kinda
stoop over good 'till you get near enough to the woods. After that . . ."

"Papa. I can't!"

"Howie . . ." Pap's voice broke. "You got to!"

He felt the tears well up and Papa gripped him hard.

"I ain't got time to explain, boy. I just
know
. He let it show right there in his eyes, and I
know
, Howie. I felt it then, an' . . . son, for God's sake!"

Howie moved without thinking. For a moment, his father was behind him, then he was gone. When his mother saw him and what he meant to do, her eyes went wide and full of fear and he knew she was going to cry out and he’d have to stop her.

She flailed against him; he pulled her along, hurting her, and not thinking about that, either. When they were halfway to the woods through the shallow ravine, he became suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. He didn’t dare look at her, then. If he had, he couldn’t have gone on doing what he had to do.

He heard the sound behind him and turned and saw them. Two men on horses coming fast, gray against the first raw touch of dawn. He knew there was nothing he could do because they were cutting the angle between the gully and the woods. He had a quick second to hear the hooves drum over soft ground and see the bright flash of fire at the man’s shoulder. He thought his mother ought to be there somewhere but he couldn’t be sure . . .

Chapter Nine

A
long time later he'd go through it again and feel it just like it had happened and know that was the time he'd passed being a boy.

But this wasn't the time. There was no feeling or understanding now. It was as if he stood just outside himself and watched another Howie go about his business and do the things that had to be done. Like a little piece of time had been neatly lifted out of the day and set aside on a shelf somewhere. All the minutes and seconds and hours staying just as they were until he was ready for them, the way tiny bits of seed and stone got caught in pond ice, and slept there until the Spring let them go.

The clouds were breaking up and moving away to the east when he opened his eyes. From the light he could tell it was nearly noon and that meant he'd been out at least four or five hours, maybe more.

When he sat up he felt the pain, sharp and clean like a hot knife. He touched his head gingerly where the rider's bullet had creased a neat furrow across the side of his skull, taking away flesh nearly to the bone. His hair was crusted with blood. There was blood on his face and down his chest but it was all dried and the bleeding had stopped some time ago. He decided he must look pretty awful. Which was probably why they'd left him there and hadn't bothered to make sure he was dead.

He pulled himself to his feet and stood in the ravine, holding to an old root until the nausea went away. He was tired and stiff all over. He stood there a long time just looking anywhere but toward the house. That was when something else took over in his head and, for a while, put everything behind him.

They'd gone quickly through the kitchen, mostly just breaking things and tearing up whatever they could find. There was flour everywhere and sugar grated under his feet. Pots were shattered and the pieces ground into the floor until you couldn't tell what they might have been. He reached down and picked up something white and shiny. It was part of a cup, the one with the flowers painted on it that had been his mother's favorite. He looked at it a minute, then laid it carefully on the table.

In the room upstairs where Papa and his mother slept he found her. Her clothes had been stripped away and her wrists and ankles were tied to the head and foot of the bed with coarse wire. The wire was buried in flesh and he couldn't see it except where it wound around the posts. She had fought a lot, for a while, anyway. The blood made red bracelets around her wrists and ankles and the skin was torn and swollen there. There was blood in a lot of other places, too, where they'd done things to her. He couldn't see all of her face because the long black hair was tangled about her features, but he could see the small dark hole in her forehead, ringed with a faint aura of blue.

He thought about cutting the wires loose and finding one of the sheets or blankets that hadn't been torn too bad and covering her with that. Instead, he turned away and closed the door and went downstairs again.