Through Darkest America-Extended Version

by Neal Barrett Jr

  When he made his way wearily back to the drivers' camp, the sky was gray with the first somber hints of morning. The herd was nearly through Arkansas Territory. Tomorrow, or the next day, they'd likely meet scouts from the army. Even Pardo said the worst was over. Maybe, thought Howie. Or maybe for him it was just beginning. What would he do when he found himself in the middle of government troopers again? Did they know about him in Badlands? Had word gotten that far? He was too tired, now, to worry. He pulled his blankets about him, and was asleep nearly as soon as he hit the ground.

  A half hour later the sun tipped the edge of the low hills, and Lathan's raiders hit the herd.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A heavy mist still clung to the ground, and the sun was dull copper behind it. The raiders moved in shadow browns and greens, the color of morning. Their horses, trained in war, picked their steps carefully over damp earth. Death rode quietly through the camp, but there was little time to think of dying. Men simply sighed back into darkness with sleep in their eyes, as if they'd come awake too soon…

  Howie sat up straight, wondering if he was truly awake or still dreaming. Figures moved about him like silent wraiths, dark ghosts in a gray sea. Branches scraped behind him and a horse blew air. He turned, saw the tall rider loom over him, the big pistol swinging down to cover him. To his right, a driver kicked blankets aside and brought his weapon up fast. The rider's gun roared and the driver's eyes went suddenly empty. The tall man turned in his saddle and looked down at Howie for a long moment, then jerked his mount aside and trotted quickly past the draw.

  Howie didn't look at the dead man. He set his teeth and found his rifle, snapped a cartridge in the chamber and brought the gun to his shoulder. The rider's back covered his sights and he squeezed the trigger gently.

  The big fist came out of nowhere and sent him sprawling. Howie's shot snapped wood overhead. He sat up, shook his head. A shadow touched the ground and he stared up at the dark, scowling face.

  "Jigger!" Howie's mouth opened in surprise. "Jigger, what—"

  Jigger jerked the weapon out of his hand and reached for him with a big paw. Howie rolled away. Jigger took one quick step and pulled him roughly to his feet, tore the pistol from his belt and tossed him aside.

  Howie got to his feet in time to see Jigger's broad back disappear in the brush. He stared after the man, bewildered. Now what in hell was all that about? Had Jigger gone crazy?

  A shot nearby turned him around. Another weapon answered, further away. The sharp smell of powder stung his nostrils. Down the draw, a man cried out.

  Then—nothing. A terrible silence fell over the camp, and there was only the harsh round ball of the sun blazing up to burn the mist away.

  Howie stood where he was for a long moment, uncertain, which way to turn, what to do next. The silence was a fearsome thing. You could almost see it, rising on the morning heat. Where was everybody? Lord, were they all dead— raiders and drivers alike—except him and Jigger?

  A few steps past the trail he came to a break in the trees and saw the dead scattered up and down the draw. He stood a while and looked at them curiously. Funny, they didn't seem dead at all. It was more like they'd just fallen down drunk or something, and didn't care to get up for a while. It wasn't at all like Pa or his mother had—

  Remembrance hit him hard, grabbing his belly and bringing bile to his throat. He turned away quickly and shut his eyes to the dead men.

  Not anymore. He wouldn't let it happen like that again!

  The idea of just walking up and seeing one of the dead faces, knowing right then it was somebody he'd talked to. It was something he couldn't do right now. Maybe not ever. What if it was old Jess, or Cory. He shook his head violently and moved back down the draw. He didn't want to think about that. Anyway, it wouldn't be Cory. Cory was all right. They were going to do things together, like finding treasure.

  A man called out somewhere to his right. Another answered, closer by. Howie dropped to cover, listened a moment, then moved quietly through the grove, away from the voices. Finally, he went to ground and made a wide circle back past the trees, bringing him up behind where he figured the first man ought to be.

  A dozen rebel riders were bunched up by the end of the draw, where the trail twisted into the woods past the main camp. They sat their mounts easy, tall men in earth colors squinting against the sudden brightness of morning. One looked off to the east, where the herd was bedded, and pointed. Another man nodded and rode away.

  Howie's heart leaped. Lordee, he hadn't even thought about Aimie! What had happened to her? Was she dead, too, like the others? He decided she was probably all right. It didn't make sense killing girls as pretty and willing as Aimie. The gamblers, now, and the merchants who'd followed them all the way from Big River—that was something else again.

  A thought struck him. Maybe he could work his way around the herd, find Aimie, and get her away. And if Cory was still alive—he was ready, now, to admit there was a chance that he wasn't, but if he was, though.. ..

  Howie liked the idea. Pardo was likely dead and wouldn't bother him. And Jigger would be hightailing it out, looking after himself. Maybe that's what Jigger had been trying to tell him—in the only way Jigger'd be able to—that fighting back now wouldn't do any more'n get him killed. That the best thing to do was just lie low and wait for a chance to get away.

  Only one man who mattered, then, knew he was still alive—the raider who'd had the chance to kill him, and hadn't. Howie was more than a little curious about that, but there wasn't time to let it bother him. Maybe he looked like someone the man knew, a son, or a boy back home where he came from. It didn't much matter. He was alive, and that's what counted. He'd just keep quiet and easy, and wait for the right time to make his move.

  The riders laughed about something and Howie raised up cautiously to look. Sun filled the clearing, now, and he could put faces on the rebel horsemen. A dark, bearded man joked with another. The second man drank hastily from his water jug and passed it back to his friend. Howie stared. He nearly came up out of the bushes. Pardo! By God, it was! And Jigger, behind him, and Klu—and a handful of other drivers sitting big as you please right square in the middle of the rebels. Laughing and kidding around like nothing had happened!

  Howie shook his head. It didn't make sense. Why, if Lathan had taken the herd…

  Something cold as winter reached inside and held him. Breath stuck in his throat and faces in the clearing blurred behind hot tears. All he could see were the bright red 'kerchiefs Pardo and Klu and Jigger and the rebel soldiers wore 'round their sleeves. Blood-red, just like his own. Suddenly, he knew why Cory was dead and he was alive, and the understanding filled him with a shame and horror he couldn't bear. The pain carried him into the clearing and brought the awful cry from his throat and the bone-handled knife to his hand. Riders turned to stare. A rebel soldier clawed for his pistol; another yelled something he didn't hear.

  It happened so quickly, Pardo could do no more than jerk his mount aside. Howie's blade flashed—the horse screamed and pawed air as steel tore its flesh. Howie stabbed out again and Pardo's boot met his face.

  He went down hard, spitting blood and dirt, and came up clawing blindly for his knife. But Pardo was off his mount and all over him. He dragged Howie through the riders and tossed him back in deep brush outside the clearing.

  Pardo stood back and looked at him a long time. His face screwed up in a tight wrinkle, like he was trying to decide what smelled bad.

  "I jest can't figure . . .” he started. "I jest . . . aw, shit," he finished, "godamn you anyway!"

  His eyes flashed dark fury at Howie. His fists trembled at his sides, like he was holding them there by sheer willpower.

  "To think I was wondering where you was off to and if you was all right and everything. An' you come on pullin' a stunt like that." He shook his head in disgust. "What I ought to do is put a godanm bullet 'tween your eyes and put you out of your—"

  Howie went for him
. He'd been waiting, watching the man's hands. When the tension went out of his fingers and the fists uncurled, he kicked out hard between Pardo's legs.

  Pardo hardly moved. He took the blow off his thigh and deftly whipped a big boot under Howie's guard. Howie doubled up and fought to keep his senses. He was sure he'd felt a rib go.

  "You better hug dirt some," Pardo told him wearily. "You done about all the movin' around you can likely handle."

  "You killed 'em!" Howie yelled. "Cory and Jess and … and ever'one!" The tears came again and he didn't even try to stop them. "Why, Pardo? Why'd you have to do that for? Ever'one!"

  "Naw, now," Pardo looked pained. "Not ever'one, damn it." He sighed deeply, and rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Boy, listen . . .” He squatted down close to Howie. "What you got to understand is I didn't have nothin"gainst any of them fellers. They just wasn't part of the business. Now, can't everyone be, can they?"

  "They didn't do nothin' to you," Howie said fiercely. He pulled himself painfully up on one arm. "You didn't have no call for that Pardo. I liked him. I liked him a lot!"

  "Just shut up, now!" Pardo roared. He grabbed Howie's hair and pulled him straight, so close Howie could see the bright flecks of anger in the man's eyes. "Howie," his voice was deadly calm, now, "you got a lot of learnin' to do yet, and the first thing you better get through that head of yours is that a man ain't got no friends but himself. And the only reason someone don't do somethin' to you is he ain't thought of it yet or he don't see no profit in the doing."

  "Cory . . .”

  "Cory wasn't no different than anyone else. A might slower'n some, maybe. Give him half a chance and he'd—"

  Howie pulled away from him. "Pardo, you better do whatever you figure on doin' to me. 'Cause I swear I'm goin' to kill you. Any time I figure I can get the better of you."

  Pardo gave him a curious look, then a broad grin spread his whiskered features. "Why, God damn, I believe you will at that!"

  "I mean it. I sure as hell do."

  "I know you do. I don't reckon I'll let it come between us . . . it's a natural thing, one feller wantin' to cut up another. 'Course, it ain't real smart telling a man what you figure on doing to him. Not that I haven't known what you was think- in' since it come to you. Which weren't today, by the way."

  He looked hard at Howie. "A man, now, he wouldn't let me see that, Howie. But a boy hasn't got enough smarts to know what's good for him. 'Stead of fighting, he talks about what's right and what ain't… an 'bout poor old Cory, layin' out there cold somewhere in the bushes—"

  Howie struck out wildly and Pardo easily slapped him away.

  "You're the dirtiest son of a bitch there ever was, Pardo!" His whole body shook, and he couldn't make it stop. "There ain't no man worse than you anywhere! Not even—not even Colonel Jacob!"

  Pardo shook his head sadly. "See what I'm saying? There you go with that child-talk again." He pulled himself to his feet and looked down at Howie. "Boy, you just cry 'bout poor old Cory and Jess and whoever all day if you got a mind to. 'Cause I'll tell you one thing . . ." He cocked a shaggy brow and pointed a long finger at Howie. "Come this time tomorrow morning you're going to be so Godamn glad it's him dead out there 'stead of you, you won't hardly be able to pee straight."

  "That ain't so," yelled Howie. "I'm not ever going to think like that!"

  "Sure." Pardo spat solemnly on the ground. "Not 'til tomorrow you ain't." He turned and walked back toward the clearing without looking back.

  Howie sat where he was until the ache in his side went away and watched the riders move down the draw toward the herd. The smell of heat and dust and horses was heavy on the air, and as the morning breeze picked up, the stink of live meat wafted up to the clearing.

  While he sat there, a strange and terrible thing happened to him. Something cried out for help deep inside him, something that was—and wasn't—a part of him anymore. Howie tried desperately to answer. He knew what was happening, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. The thing inside him faded quietly away and was no more.

  A great shame flooded in to replace the awful emptiness, but that didn't help the hurt. There wasn't anything that could make it better. It was gone and it took part of the old Howie with it. And it could never quite come back again.

  It was a peculiar thing, Howie thought. Everytime someone took something from him, they gave something-back. It wasn't always something bad, he realized. Jacob and Pardo had given him terrible needs, things he didn't want at all, but Aimie had given him something deep and wonderful that he wanted very much. It seemed like what people did taught you what to do back to them.

  There wasn't any question anymore about going south or running away or anything else. He would stay. He would stay until he was man enough to face Pardo, and kill him. It wasn't a good thing, but it was something that had to be. And of course Pardo would know that, too.

  Chapter 20

  The town of Roundtree clustered about the far bend of a dry river. Time, and hot winds from the Kansas prairie, had warped the plank buildings and turned them dusty gray. They leaned slightly westward, now, like thirsty old men waiting for water to bubble up out of the parched ground.

  Fifty or so people had lived in Roundtree before Lathan burst out of Colorado to swallow Danefield, Caravel Keep, and a clear road to the flat country. Now, the rebels breathed down Loyalist necks in Dodge and threatened to cut supply lines all the way to Arkansas Territory. Still, there was a relative quiet in the north and the big fighting to the south had made Roundtree's fortune. Near enough to Dodge, but close to rebel ground as well, it was useful to both sides without really belonging to either. The fifty citizens had swelled to five-thousand and new buildings rose out of the prairie as fast as men could stand raw timber on end.

  It was a place where arms of all kinds could be bought, sold, or traded. Black powder and fresh water brought nearly the same price until a fair well was drilled close to town. Good raw metal was worth a quarter of its weight in silver. And a fine horse might be bought in Roundtree one week and sold there twice the next—its interim owners mysteriously missing.

  The town was thick with rebel and Loyalist soldiers, though neither appeared in uniform, and none would admit to any interest in the war. Most were disguised as merchants, raiders, or thieves; and in truth, there were few among them who couldn't rise to such roles. In Roundtree they spied honestly on one another, plied each other with whiskey and women, and traded mounts for their respective armies—always pocketing a fair piece of change for their troubles. It was common enough here to buy back your own stolen mounts and more than once a soldier had found himself bidding for arms against a brother officer.

  It was in Roundtree that Pardo had made his deal with Loyalist leaders to join the big meat herd and see it safely through Tennessee and Arkansas Territory. And it was here that he had promptly doubled his money and then some by selling the deal back to Lathan's men.

  No one was foolish enough to think the raid was any accident—certainly no one in Roundtree. And it was common talk that Colonel Monroe in Dodge had put a price on Pardo's head for it. Double-dealing was one thing—that was part of the game—but the loss of such an enormous quantity of meat had hurt the government badly, and they weren't likely to forget it.

  Pardo laughed it off in good humor and said, where everyone could hear, that Monroe was more worried about losing a star on his shirt than any meat herd and that's what was truly getting his back up. To copper his bet, though, Howie knew, he'd secretly sent word to Monroe that he hadn't had anything to do with the rebels stealing his meat, that he was out the rest of his own money on the deal, and had been lucky to get away with his hide. He even offered to hire out at almost nothing to take soldiers into eastern Colorado to steal the herd back from the rebels. Monroe didn't answer and Pardo didn't expect him to.

  Meanwhile, Pardo had his hands full getting an arms shipment ready for Jeb Hacker, Lathan's top trader in Roundtree and the man who'd closed the meat dea
l. Guns were getting scarcer than ever and Hacker had offered a high premium for every weapon Pardo could furnish. Which gave Pardo the idea it'd be plain foolish to deal solely with the rebels; if Monroe wanted to play the fool, why, there were other government officers who'd be glad enough to get in on the bidding. Especially, he figured, if it appeared like the guns were coming from someone who didn't have anything to do with him directly. That'd work just fine and a little healthy competition wouldn't hurt the price any . . .

  If that kind of business didn't get Pardo's head on a stick, nothing would, Howie thought sourly. It seemed like the man was stretching his luck as far as it'd go, just to see if he could—like he didn't have enough trouble and had to stir up some more.

  At the moment, his mind wasn't on Pardo at all, or the cartload of nothing he was supposed to be watching. Harlie and Ketch hauled the small wagon, with the top tied down real careful, while Howie or someone else who could handle a gun kept an eye out for trouble. There wasn't much thinking to a job like that, but someone had to do it. It seemed plain crazy to worry about raiders hitting one little cart right in the middle of Roundtree with the streets full of people—but it happened, sometimes. It wouldn't if Pardo and the other dealers who had something going would keep all their business in one place instead of putting one piece together here, and another somewhere else. Only that was plain asking for trouble. The man who put his whole operation under one roof would likely be out of business before the day was out. It had happened more than twice in Roundtree.

  If you were in the arms and ammunition trade, you knew better than to bring all your craftsmen together, or to let a man who worked for you know who got the parts after him. That was the quickest way in the world to get a knife in your ribs.