Through Darkest America-Extended Version

by Neal Barrett Jr

  So there were carts covered to look like whatever they weren't passing through Roundtree at all hours of the day; some full of valuable metals or sacks of springs and bores, and some full of nothing at all going places where nobody was. The decoys didn't do much good, because there were enough idlers in Roundtree willing to follow most anything for a copper.

  The truth was, as Howie and most everyone else knew, the really important goods went from place to place in a man's pocket or under a woman's skirt. It was less trouble than the business with the carts. On the other hand, the more people you used, the greater the chance they also worked for someone else.

  In Roundtree, there were guards guarding guards and watchers watching watchers. There was work for everybody. And for the few, like Pardo, who had the cunning and patience to keep an eye on everything in town at once, there was a great deal of money to be made. If you could only keep alive long enough to spend it.

  It was enough to make a man's head hurt, Howie thought irritably. When the cart reached Center Street, he left Harlie and Ketch to play out the rest of the game and disappeared quickly into the noonday crowd. Instead of going directly back to the Keep, he circled through the middle of town, past the crowded clapboard shops and narrow stalls that stretched the length of Roundtree's main avenue of commerce. It was a noisy, sprawling street; merchants large and small vied for every copper that lined a passing pocket. They were intense, quick-eyed men, hungry for trade at ever- climbing prices. No one knew how long the war might last. Why, God forbid, it could end tomorrow!

  There were vegetable sellers, feed mash merchants, and whiskey dealers by the dozen. A man could buy steel blades, wheat flour, hemp rope, cotton cloth, bone tools, clay kettles, horse blankets, real and false gemstones, and pretty girls no more than fourteen summers old. ("And you'll be the first to touch her, sir, I promise you that!")

  Howie passed the butcher shop where a small boy tried vainly to keep clouds of black flies from hanging cuts of meat. Next door, a whole carcass dripped grease over sizzling coals, while the butcher's other offspring kept it turning. It was prime young mare, fat and full of juices. Howie hadn't eaten since sunup and the rich smells assailed his empty stomach. He gave the boy coppers for a meaty rib half as long as his forearm and gnawed it happily through the crowd.

  He'd gone no more than a block before he was certain someone else was in his tracks—and more than one, at that. He'd felt vaguely uneasy since morning, when they'd loaded the cart on Dryside past the Keep. The usual watchers were about; Howie knew the regulars well enough. But there was someone else, too. He could have easily dismissed the whole business, but if they were still with him after he'd left the cart behind, that was a different brand of trouble altogether.

  Keeping to the busy street, he glanced in stalls and shops for another short block, then turned off the avenue and walked south toward the dry river, and Pardo's Keep. They wouldn't push him until they were ready, only Howie didn't figure on waiting for that. Pardo was right about some things. If the problem was low down and dirty enough, he likely had an answer for it. In this case, it was clear as day. Get square behind whatever's after you.

  There were at least two of them. Howie figured three. He'd seen the first two briefly, in the crowd behind him. The third was hanging back, playing shadow out of sight.

  Howie moved slow and easy, giving his followers no trouble. At the end of the block he crossed the street, stopped a moment to hitch up his belt, then turned casually into a narrow alleyway. The minute he was out of sight he broke into a fast run, circled the block, and cut back to the crowded avenue. He was right where he'd started, just past the butcher shop, a short walk from the corner. He saw them coming back up the hill, out of breath, the anger in their faces clear a good block away. From their dour looks, neither was anxious to report their failure.

  He guessed their path ahead, a line of shops across the street with an alley at the end. He cut through the strollers and circled the short block, coming up on the alley from behind. Howie grinned to himself. The man was where he ought to be, in the shadow of a doorway a few steps from the street, his eyes on the crowd.

  Howie moved, letting the street noise cover him. He wasn't anxious to handle three of them; the man's companions would be on him soon. With one motion he turned the man hard against the wall and brought his blade up sharp under the throat. The man stiffened, then let his body go loose. He watched Howie over his shoulder and grinned.

  "Don't want no trouble, boy. Just a little talk."

  "You'll get it," snapped Howie. "Move!"

  He glanced quickly up the alley, then herded his prisoner out the back way, stopping only when he was several turns from the avenue, where Roundtree backed into the dry river. There was no one about. Only the slat walls and the hot glare of the flats. He searched the man quickly, found a long steel knife and tossed it aside.

  "Now we'll talk some," he announced. "That's what you was wanting, ain't it?" He jammed his own blade back in his belt and replaced it with the pistol. The man looked at the weapon, then at Howie.

  "No need for that," he smiled. "Said I didn't want no trouble."

  He was a tall man, spare, with no meat on his bones. He had an easy grin and a lazy, friendly manner that set Howie doubly on his guard.

  "You been pushing me all day, mister," he said darkly. "What for?"

  "A question or two," the man shrugged. "Nothing more."

  "Questions about what?"

  The man studied him calmly. "Guess we could start off talkin' about Cory."

  Howie blinked back his surprise. The words shook him visibly, and the man knew it.

  "Ah, you recall him, then."

  "I remember him."

  "He was a friend, perhaps?"

  "I remember him!" Howie flared. "You follow me 'round all day to ask that?"

  "That, and a bit more if you can," the man said gently. "Like what happened out there . . . and how come Cory ain't coming back."

  Howie licked his lips to get the dry out. "Cory got it 'cause the rebels come up on us-and took the herd. He wasn't the only one, either. Weren't too many that made it."

  "You did."

  Howie stepped back and raised the barrel of his pistol. "Mister, who the hell are you and what's Cory to you? And, don't give me one of them answers that don't say nothin'!"

  The man shrugged bony shoulders. "A friend of Cory's is all. Maybe one of yours, too."

  "Yeah, I'll just bet."

  "Might be I could help some."

  "Help who? Me?" Howie laughed uneasily. "I don't even know you and you ain't making much sense far as I can see!"

  "'Bout as much as you, boy." The man turned lazy eyes on Howie. "Lordee, isn't anyone in Roundtree doesn't know what happened out there. The rebels got the herd all right . . . but not by themselves they didn't."

  Howie started to protest; the man held up a hand. "Now I ain't sayin' I care one way or the other. What I care about is Cory and what happened to him."

  "And I just told you," Howie said irritably.

  "Ah, you did and you didn't," said the man. He wagged a long finger at Howie. "You said he died and I know that. What I'm huntin' for is how."

  "I already said he—"

  "—Died when the rebels took the herd," the man nodded. "And I'm certain that's so. What I don't know is whether one of them did the job, or someone else." He gave Howie a sly wink. "Pardo himself, maybe? Or one of the others? You recall right off which it was?"

  Howie stared at him. "You got to be crazy. Or figure I am."

  "No," the man blinked at the sun and scratched his scrawny neck. "Don't guess it's either of us, boy. It's the times, mostly. Good men are dying and them that did 'em in are walking the streets with pockets full of silver. Peculiar things are happening everywhere and more'n one man has got hisself tangled in other folk's affairs deeper'n he'd like to be." He grinned affably at Howie. "It is some hot out here, you know?

  Looks to me like friends could talk better in
good shade over a drink or two, without pistols and such between 'em."

  The man took a slight step forward. Howie backed off warily and waved his weapon. "I told you what happened to Cory," he said harshly. "You can take it or leave it, mister. I got nothing else to say."

  "No. Didn't figure you did, right now." The man gave - him a tired, curious smile.

  "Might come to it, though. Can't never tell." Without another word, he turned and started back toward the center of town.

  "Hey, now just a damn minute!" Howie yelled after him.

  The man didn't answer. He just kept walking, as if Howie wasn't there. Howie stood in the sun with the pistol hanging from his hand, feeling like a plain fool.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Howie tried hard to put the whole business aside, but it wouldn't go away. He knew he'd handled it badly. He'd had it all over the skinny little stranger and the man had gotten the best of him.

  It made him swell up inside just to think about it. If you didn't take care of yourself in Roundtree, someone else'd sure do it for you. He'd learned his lessons well, and had the scars to prove it. Only—this one had called his bluff and walked clean away.

  He knew what had happened. All that talk about Cory had taken the fight out of him and made him act just like a kid again. There wasn't a day passed that he didn't think about Cory—he couldn't forget, and didn't want to. Long ago, though, he had put that part of himself away in a special place that didn't hurt so much. It was there, and he could get to it when he wanted to. Only the stranger had come along and found it and brought it right out in the open.

  Howie was sure he was going to be sick. The fat, succulent meat he'd eaten earlier was turning heavy in his stomach. He passed a whiskey seller and wondered if a drink would help. Probably just make things worse. He didn't much like the stuff, anyway.

  He tried to think about something else. He thought of Kari Ann and wondered if she was back at the Keep. He thought about the way her eyes looked, gray and smoky and kind of half closed all the time. Like she was just getting out of bed, or thinking about going. He brushed the picture aside. It just made him feel worse, in a different way.

  Howie wondered again just who the man was and what he was really after. Maybe he was one of Colonel Monroe's people, just fishing around, trying to spook anyone who worked for Pardo and pick up whatever he could.. Probably, he hadn't ever even known Cory. Finding out what had happened out there wouldn't be any big thing. One of Pardo's crew could've gotten too much corn whiskey in his gut and talked when he should have been listening.

  What was he supposed to do—run and tell Pardo all about it and see if that would put some fat in the fire? Make Pardo itchy, so he'd pull something Monroe could hang on him? Or maybe he, Howie, was supposed to keep the meeting to himself and let Monroe slip the word to Pardo that you couldn't trust Howie on the street. Howie kicked a big rock and sent it rattling down the alleyway. Lordee, there was sure a lot more thinking to the stealing business than he'd ever figured!

  Pardo’s keep was a big, sprawling two-story clapboard left over from Roundtree's early days. At one time or another it had served as a hotel, brothel, town hall, dry goods store, and, finally, a warehouse for stock feed. It still smelled strongly of the latter. Now, it housed Pardo's immediate band, eight men and assorted females.

  Pardo was extra careful about who stayed in the Keep. The riders he hired from time to time weren't welcome there and unapproved visitors were frowned upon. Pardo didn't trust the people who lived there, much less those who didn't.

  The Keep was on the far edge of town, with no other houses close at hand. It backed up to the dry river bed with plenty of breathing room all around so you could see who was coming before they got there. Lew Renner lazed on the porch with a rifle on his lap. Howie nodded as he went up the board steps and inside. The big front room took up most of the lower floor. There was a kitchen in back with rough cabinets for foodstuffs and cooking gear. Boxes, crates, and straw mattresses littered both the main room and the kitchen. A few patched chairs and broken stools were scattered about, but there was no real furniture as such. The Keep was a place that kept other people out while you slept, ate, had a woman, or made plans to go somewhere else. No one pretended anyone lived there, or cared to.

  Howie tripped over a box of trash, cursed, and kicked it aside. Glass and broken pottery clattered across the board floor; the noise brought Klu stomping halfway down the stairs. The big man glared at him.

  "Where the hell you been, boy?"

  "None of your godamn business," Howie told him.

  Klu muttered something to himself. "Well jest turn your little ass 'round and get it back where you come from. Pardo wants you to haul out to Kearney's right quick and fetch Yargo. He's got a deal goin' on them mounts."

  Howie didn't look at him. His foot had gone right through the trash box and left him with grease clear to his ankles. He squatted on a crate and scraped meat tallow from his boot with a stick.

  "Listen," said Klu, "you hear me?"

  "I hear you, but I ain't in no hurry to go horse ridin' in the hot sun. Reckon you better get someone else."

  Klu seemed to think about that. "He didn't say no one else. He said you."

  Howie stood and faced him. "It don't make no difference who runs out to Kearney's. Ben Yargo'll be dirt crawlin' drunk and ain't going to have no idea who come after him."

  Klu just stood there, looking at him. Howie could hardly see his eyes; they were tiny black points lost under heavy brows. Klu was wearing dirty cotton pants and no shirt. The tangled hair from his beard flowed into the thick mat that covered his powerful chest and shoulders. "Well," he growled finally, "Pardo said you was to do it."

  "I ain't going to do it, though," Howie explained flatly. "So it'll have to be Lew or Jake or whoever."

  Klu's face reddened. His big fists tightened and, for a moment, Howie thought he might leap right off the stairs. Instead, he shot Howie a look of open disgust and thundered down the steps and past him. Howie heard his great voice roar at Lew, then the man scrambled off the porch for his mount.

  Even a few weeks before it might have been a different story. Klu could still squeeze the life out of Howie—that hadn't changed. But Howie wasn't the same anymore and Klu seemed to sense it. He'd seen it long before anyone else, including Pardo and Howie himself. There was more man there now and less boy. He was quick with a knife and better than Pardo with a pistol.

  Klu didn't fear him—there wasn't anything moving the big man was scared to tackle. But Klu was closer to the earth than most men; he took a lot more stock in things he smelled on the air or felt in his gut than he did in the thoughts that came to his head. And the thing he knew about Howie was that you'd likely be dead about one fine hair before you had any idea Howie meant to put a neat little hole between your eyes. More than that, he'd let Howie have his way this time because he was certain Howie himself had no idea just when he'd decide to kill a man.

  Howie checked his boots again and glanced disdainfully about the room. He was dead sure what his mother would've said about Pardo's Keep, and she'd be close to right, too. Anyone who didn't know better would figure stock lived there instead of people. He hitched his belt and moved up the stairs to his room:

  "Well, hey now."

  The voice turned him around. Kari Ann stood against the kitchen door, watching him. She was a tall girl, slim and lean as a sapling, with skin as sun-dark as Howie's. Her hair, wet from washing, hung in black strands about her shoulders. The man's shirt she wore near swallowed her up, and she made no effort to keep buttons where they belonged. Howie pretended not to notice there was nothing under the shirt except Kari Ann. Kari saw him and gave him a look of quiet amusement.

  "Baby, old Klu is going to jump you good one of these days. You know?"

  "He might."

  Kari made a face and laughed to herself.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing."

  "Well, what?"
<
br />   "Nothing!"

  Howie scowled and muttered to himself. "Anything you say ever mean somethin'?"

  "Sometimes."

  "When? I don't reckon I recall."

  Kari pursed her lips and frowned thoughtfully. "Leeet's see now . . ."

  Howie shook his head and turned up the stairs. Kari laughed and followed, then passed him, long legs flying. In his room, she dropped down on his straw mattress and crossed her ankles. From her shirt pocket she took a small piece of machined metal and a file no longer than her fingers. Holding the piece close to her eyes, she turned it in the sunlight, studying every angle intently. Finally, she ran the file over the tiny plane for a full minute, stopped, turned the piece slightly, then started on another. She worked in quick, short strokes. The frown lines deepened between her eyes and her tongue darted between white teeth to worry the corners of her mouth. When she was satisfied, she laid the file aside and started polishing the piece carefully with the corner of her shirt. The harder she polished, the more the shirt revealed of Kari Ann. Kari didn't notice, or care to.

  Howie groaned to himself and looked away. He dipped his head in the clay basin in the corner of his room and scrubbed his face vigorously. He didn't dare turn around and face Kari now. She'd know right off what was happening to him.

  Any other right-thinking girl'd get all excited and start crawling all over him, he thought grimly. Not Kari Ann, though. She'd likely roll over and kick her legs in the air and laugh herself sick. Howie knew plenty of girls in Roundtree—and he didn't have trouble getting them in bed, either. All except Kari. Who lived right under the same roof and wouldn't let him do anything but look. And hell, she let everybody do that. Kari didn't seem to care one way or the other whether she was neck deep in a fancy dress or half-ass naked.

  Just looking drove him plumb crazy, but he couldn't stop. He'd never known a girl like Kari. She didn't talk like anyone else and she sure didn't do anything girls were supposed to do. Kari flat belonged under a man, but he was certain there wasn't anyone in Roundtree getting to her. Looking was about all he'd ever get, he decided, unless he plain took what he wanted—and there'd be hell to pay for that. Pardo didn't give a damn who laid who, but he'd kill Howie or anyone else who hurt Kari or scared her off. Pardo needed Kari Ann and wasn't about to lose her; because no matter what she looked like, Kari knew more about guns than any man within five-hundred miles of Roundtree. She could take any weapon apart, fix it, and put it back together. If the right part couldn't be found, why, she'd just squint up her eyes funny and figure out what ought to go where something wasn't, and make one up out of her head.