Through Darkest America-Extended Version (9 page)

Papa was halfway up the front steps. He still had on the heavy checkered shirt but his trousers were gone, and Howie saw them bundled up in the yard. He had crawled about ten yards over the hard ground and Howie could look behind him and see the trail he'd made trying to get to the house. He hadn't used his arms, because his hands were pressed tight against his belly where he'd tried to hold everything in long enough to get there. They'd cut him badly. One raw slice across the bowels, deep, from hipbone to hipbone. There were other cuts on his thighs and between his legs where they'd taken everything away.

Howie looked at him, studying the expression on his face for a long moment.

In his own room, he reached up between the eaves and found his bow and quiver of arrows still there. He rolled up his extra work pants and another shirt and his jacket. Downstairs, he picked through the wreckage in the kitchen and added half a loaf of bread and some dried meat to the bundle. Outside he filled a clay jar with water and stoppered it with a dry plug. Then he walked to the grove of oaks where the War Tax goods had been stacked, squatted down, and studied the tracks of men and horses and wagons. He followed the wheel ruts and the hoof prints with his eye and saw they'd gone west, across his father's land, toward the river road. That meant they probably didn't mean to pick up any more goods just now, but were headed for Cotter, which was just outside
Bluevale
and used a lot by the army.

He looked back once at the house and the barn, then past them to the fields and the stock pits and the green shadow of the woods. There was no sign of old
Jaro
or any of the other hands. The stock pits were empty. They'd taken everything, as he'd figured. He guessed there were still goods in the barn—there was more there than you could carry away.

He turned and searched the horizon west. On horse a man could go faster, but they had the wagon, which was slow, and the stock to drive along. They'd just make the river, then. They'd have to stop there and rest the stock for the night, even if they felt like pushing on in the dark. He figured he could make it by maybe two or three in the morning. And that would be a good time to get there.

Howie Knew he would have to take care and go slowly. They were soldiers and knew their business; you didn't just sneak up on men like that and figure they'd hold still and line up nice and easy like meat. They'd be fast and alert, and more dangerous asleep than most men full awake.

There were the guns to reckon with, too. A man with a gun had it all over a man with lesser weapons. At least, in a lot of ways he did.

There was a quarter-moon with enough light to see how the low Spring grasses had been flattened where they'd left the prairieland and angled off down the hill to the river. The hollow there was thick with big oaks and cottonwoods. He spotted the red sparks of a dead fire just to the south, twenty yards or so from the river. They'd set up camp in the shadow of the trees, then. The stock would be further down, but well away from the trees so none of the herd could wander off. And since they were on the road, and weren't likely to build pens or dig pits, they'd do what you always did on a drive— keep watch around the meat in shifts.

Howie wasn't sure what you did with horses. But he was near certain you didn't have to watch them or anything. That meant—what? With a herd that size, three men, at least, to stand watch. And maybe two others for the camp itself, if they bothered. And he had an idea they were in the habit of that. Five, six men awake, then. The others asleep. He crawled down the side of the hill and moved quietly through the edge of the forest.

It took a good hour to circle the camp. There were three guards instead of two. Three others watched the herd. Six slept. Colonel Jacob was on the far edge of the camp, away from the fire, and close to the river. The other troopers were dark lumps scattered about him.

Howie stayed just on the skirt of the camp a long quarter hour. Belly flat against damp forest floor, hardly daring to breathe, his eyes taking in every trifle—how the grass bent, and where the dim moonlight touched the ground.

There was a guard between him and the Colonel. He stood just outside the small clearing, quiet and almost invisible against a broad oak. There was a little cover noise from the river, but not enough. He'd never get past the man without being heard. He inched back down the bank, passing the guard and coming up again higher, behind a thick bed of fern.

He lay still on his back a long moment, fitting the arrow quietly to his bow, acutely aware of the man only yards away, and knowing what the slightest sound would do. Coming up slowly, he brought his eyes just over the foliage. For a moment, his heart stopped, thinking the man was gone. Then the body took shape again; he let out a long breath.

Howie knew he had to go for the head or no place at all. Anything less than that and the man could cry out. He didn't let himself think about missing. The bowstring sang and a shadow dropped quietly to the base of the tree. When he crawled forward his hand touched the rifle and a broad cartridge belt the guard had left at his feet. There was a pistol in his belt and he took that and the other things and laid them where he could find them again at the base of the bank. Then he turned back to the clearing and went in for Jacob.

He'd thought about how to do it. He knew even a grown man used to moving fast couldn't stop a quick knife across his throat. Only that wasn't the way it was supposed to be. He knew that, too. It had to be the other way or it wouldn't be right.

A few feet from Jacob a man turned over and groaned in his sleep. Howie froze where he was, part of the earth and shadow, then inched forward until he could touch the Colonel. He slept with his mouth open, one hand across his chest. Howie slipped the bone knife from his belt. He'd already wrapped the butt with thick layers of cloth from his extra shirt. Grasping Jacob's hair with one hand, he brought the padded hilt down solidly, just above the ear. Jacob stiffened slightly, but made no sound at all.

It took nearly an hour to make the thirty yards to the river. When his feet touched wetness behind him he wanted to drop his burden right there and let the feeling come back to his arms and legs. Instead, he pulled Jacob into the water and across to the other side. Then laid him behind high weeds while he went back for the weapons.

There was a clump of scrub oak masking the shore and a sand wash behind that. He stripped Jacob, leaned him against a tree, and wired him securely to the trunk, pulling his feet straight before him and wiring them as well. Then he stuffed the man's socks in his mouth and used his shirt to make a tight gag knotted behind his neck.

He worried about the time. It was a lot lighter now than it ought to be. And soldiers got up early—near as early as ranchers, he figured. He glanced impatiently at Jacob and moved his face up close to the man's nose. He was breathing, all right, but he didn't show any signs of waking. Suppose he didn't come to for hours? Then what? Howie shook the thought aside. That wouldn't do at all. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

He searched through his bundle, found the clay jug, and emptied it over Jacob. He crawled down to the river and filled the jug again. The water was colder. This time Jacob's mouth twitched irritably and his eyes opened to tiny slits. They looked steadily at Howie; then went wide with understanding. He jerked frantically against his bonds, moaning behind his gag.

Howie ignored him. He straddled Jacob's legs, drew the bone knife from his belt, and started working on the Colonel's bare chest. He went slowly and carefully, making the letters neat like his mother had taught him. It was hard to see in the dim light and he had to keep wiping the blood away to tell what he was doing. Jacob's eyes bulged and sweat beaded his face and Howie could hear the noises he was making but nothing much came through the gag.

When he was through he went to work on the eyes, being careful to do just what needed to be done. He didn't want Jacob to pass out and miss anything, or lose more blood than he had to. He was still conscious, Howie knew, but near out of his head and that was okay. That was the way it was supposed to be.

When he was finished he looked at Jacob and touched the blade lightly against the man's thighs. Jacob jerked uncontrollably, nearly pulling his arms out of the sockets. He knew pretty well what was coming. Howie did the best he could, but the fear and the pain were more than Jacob could handle. He quickly dropped into unconsciousness. That was all right too, Howie decided. He'd wake up and have plenty of time to think about what had happened to him.

Across the river and below the camp he found where they'd left the horses. There was no guard; he guessed that was part of what the man he'd killed was supposed to do.

He'd thought about the horses. He no longer feared them much, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle one right. Maybe horses knew whether you could ride or not. Maybe they wouldn't do anything unless you did what you were supposed to. Anyway, it didn't make much difference now. He had to try. They'd come after him for certain and he wouldn't have a chance on foot. He'd either make-it on a horse or not at all. There wasn't time to think about learning how to ride with the sky getting light enough to read by.

The horses were tied to a long rope stretched between two trees. Howie loosened one of the shorter ropes that went over the creature's head and led it away from the others. The horse skittered about nervously and the others answered. Howie knew he had minutes. He strapped his bundle to his shoulders and threw himself over the broad back and hung on. He hadn't even considered trying to use one of the saddles he knew horses wore. There wasn't time and he wouldn't have known what to do with one anyway.

He held on, urging the mount toward the river. When he was across he let the animal do what it wanted to do, which was trot through the trees at a bone-jarring pace until it reached the broad meadow beyond. There it stopped and, to Howie's horror, began methodically chewing grass. He beat at the animal frantically, kicking his legs against its broad sides. He remembered the reins, then, and how he'd seen the soldiers use them to pull and jerk the mounts one way or the other. The reins and the kicking—used together—seemed to work. And when he could see open ground again he closed his eyes and pushed the animal until he could hear wind whistling by over the low, green hills.

By mid-afternoon he was far to the north, in the midst of deep woods ringed by high, rugged cliffs. He had no idea where he might be, only that he was far from the camp by the river. If the soldiers were after him he didn't know it and, at the moment, didn't much care.

He tied the horse to a tree and stumbled through low brush until his legs gave way and he went shakily to his knees. There was nothing in his stomach, but he vomited bile until his belly felt full of glass.

The tears came, then. And he remembered Papa and his mother and what they'd looked like at the house. He remembered killing the soldier. He tried to throw up again, but there was nothing there. He wished he could crawl away from his own smell only his body wasn't working right.

Howie closed his eyes hard, trying to think of nothing. But his mother was still there. And Papa. Looking surprised at dying. He saw Colonel Jacob and what he'd done to him on the river bank. The hollow eyes and the terrible empty place between his legs. And the bone-deep letters on his chest that would last as long as Jacob and wouldn't ever go away:

He knew he couldn't stay there; he had to get back on the horse. And he remembered a whole day had gone by and it was April, now, and tomorrow he'd be sixteen.

Chapter Ten

H
e halted the mount in a stand of cedars and climbed the few yards to the top of the ridge. He'd been in shadow most of the morning, so he waited to let his eyes get used to brightness and far places.

A raw wind cut steadily across the high crest, the chill going straight to the bone. For a long time, he huddled in the lee of the big stone that capped the far edge of the rim. The thin jacket was nearly useless, but he pulled it tight around him.

It was a good spot, he figured, if you didn't freeze to death. From here you could see nearly every approach to the ridge and all the valley beyond for several miles. If the soldiers were still following, they were being mighty slow about it, or flat out cagey. He hoped to God it was the first. You didn't have to know much about horses to see the animal down below was near done in.

He knew better, of course. Jacob's men hadn't lost him. They were back there somewhere. Likely not too far down the ridge. You could hope all you wanted and wish something different, but that wouldn't change much.