by Neal Barrett
The figure moved toward him across the darkness. He shrank back in the corner, trying to squeeze himself out of the room.
“Howie? Howie, where are you?”
He let out a breath. “I’m over here. What do you want, Kari?”
Kari felt her way along the wall, then let herself down beside him. “Are you all right, Howie?”
“Sure,” Howie told her. “I’m just fine. I’m having a real good time here.”
“Is your… foot all right?”
“It feels swell,” he said. “All they done was peel a bunch of skin off the bottom, kinda slow like so I wouldn’t miss nothing. I’m sure sorry you didn’t get to see it. But I reckon Lewis give you all the details.”
“Howie…”
“Listen, Kari.” He sat up as well as he could. “I don’t know what you come for, but I’m sure it don’t have nothin’ to do with my foot and how it’s feeling. I told your friend everything I know, which ain’t nothing at all. If he doesn’t believe me, he can come on up and work on the other one.”
Kari looked at him in the dark. “You think Lewis sent me.”
Howie gave her a harsh laugh. “Now why’d I think a thing like that?”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Uhuh. You just ambled on up here an’ told the guard `hey, let me run on in there and see old Howie.’ ”
“Of course not,” she said crossly. “I asked Lewis if it was all right. He said it was.”
“You admit it, then.”
“I don’t admit anything, Howie,” she said evenly, “except that I wanted to talk to you. If you don’t want to see me, I’ll go. Is that what you want? If it is, say so.”
“Kari…” He tried to make her out in the dark. She was no more than shadow against a greater blackness that swallowed the room. “I’m tired, Kari. I’m tired and I’m hurt and I don’t mind sayin’ it—I’m plain scared. You can go or you can stay. It’s all the same to me. I don’t figure we got much to say to each other. Not anymore.”
“Why not anymore? What does that mean?”
He couldn’t see her, but he didn’t have to. He could read her in the dark. Head cocked slightly, the little pinched line between the wide, curious eyes. She didn’t see it at all. She really didn’t. It was something he could never really make himself understand.
“Kari. You’re out there and I’m in here. Ain’t that enough?”
She was silent a moment. Then, “You’re mad at me? Is that it? Because the troopers didn’t torture me like they did you and Pardo. Because you’re locked up in here and I’m not.”
“No, it’s just…”
“I think that’s exactly what it is, Howie. You’re locked up and hurt and you think everybody else ought to be if you are. Only that’s not so and you can’t make me feel bad that it’s you instead of me.”
“That ain’t it and you know it,” he said wearily. “I’m glad you got away. I didn’t think you was alive. I didn’t think anybody was. It’s just… well, you showin’ up like that with Lewis. Out there in the tent with Pardo… like he was.”
“I didn’t exactly get away,” she told him. “I mean, I got caught, just like you did. I can’t go or anything. I’ve got to work on guns for them, but that’s all right, I guess. I like to do it and I’m good at it.” She was silent a moment. “Howie. Maybe you could work with me. If you want to, I could talk to Lewis.”
“Kari…” He reached out in the dark and found her hand. She jerked quickly away from him.
“Listen,” she said flatly, “I asked you because I can use the help. It doesn’t have anything to do with you touching or feeling or anything like that. I shouldn’t have ever let you do that… see me naked and everything back at the Keep. That was a big mistake.”
Howie stiffened. “Well don’t worry your godamn head about it,” he snapped angrily, “it ain’t likely you got any big problem with me! Lewis sure isn’t goin’ to let me get close to no guns.”
Kari didn’t seem to notice his anger. “Oh, I don’t think that’s true, Howie,” she said seriously. “He knows you told him everything.”
Howie snorted. “He does, huh?”
“Yes. He told me so. He said he just had to make sure.” “That’s what he kept telling me,” Howie said darkly, “all the time he was slicing away at my foot.”
“I think he meant it, though,” she said. “They were pretty mad about Pardo. Losing all those weapons when they thought…”
“Hey, wait, now…” Howie stopped her. “What do you mean, losing the guns, Kari? They got the guns. I already know that.”
“No,” she shook her head in the dark. “They were supposed to. I mean really supposed to. Pardo made a deal with the Loyalists. He was going to deliver the guns at a higher price than Hacker would pay. Monroe was to wait until the column met the big Rebel force and get them all at once.”
Howie was shaken. “Pardo was double-dealing Hacker? And he trusted the Loyalists, after what he’d done to Monroe?” He let out a short whistle. That didn’t sound like Pardo.
Only it did—Pardo figuring he could outslick anyone, no matter what.
“That’s just it,” Kari explained. “He didn’t trust them. Not really. Any more than they trusted him. They’d already decided to kill Pardo and everyone else in the attack and just take the guns. Only, Pardo didn’t have them.”
“He did, though,” Howie protested. “We all packed them on horses at the Keep, I saw them. So did you!”
“He had them there. Lewis figures that’s why he made such a big thing out of letting everyone know what he was doing. He didn’t have them on the mesa, though, when the troopers attacked us.”
Howie was bewildered. “He didn’t? Then…”
“He told Lewis what he’d done with them. After Lewis… did those things to him. It was the second night we camped, Howie. Up on the rise with the big red rocks? Pardo had arranged to have the government troopers stage an attack there. He said it was to make Hacker nervous and throw him off guard. It wasn’t, though. What he wanted was a few moments of confusion to hide all the guns, and fill the packs up with rocks. He and Klu and Jigger had it all planned out.”
Howie groaned. He could finish the rest. Pardo had figured Monroe would try to trick him, somehow. If he didn’t have the guns with him, though, he’d have Monroe over a barrel. Monroe would have to come across with the money, and leave Pardo alone, or he’d never find out where the weapons really were. Only Pardo had outsmarted himself, this time. He’d never had the chance to put his deal to Monroe. The Loyalist officer had been hurt bad on the meat deal with Pardo, and he had never forgotten. He’d kill Pardo first—then take the guns.
Howie searched out Kari in the darkness. “If that’s so,” he frowned, “why’d Lewis have to put me through all that? If Pardo told him where the guns are, why, he can just go out an’ get them. He don’t need to cut a man all up for nothing!”
“He knows where they are, Howie,” she said patiently, “and he knows Pardo told the truth. Only… he can’t really know for sure until he sees them, can he? And he can’t very well do that right now.”
“Why not?” Howie wanted to know, “what’s stopping him?”
“Well, the Rebels, of course,” she told him. “Don’t you even know what’s happening, Howie?”
“Only to me,” he said dully. “You want to tell me, or not?”
“Lewis says it’s the biggest Rebel army ever. And that they’ve chased the Loyalists clear out of the west, nearly. Everywhere but here. So there’s no one who can get through to find the guns. Maybe nobody’ll ever get them.”
That’s what it was all for, then, he thought grimly. Two-, three-, maybe four-hundred men had died out on the mesa. And neither side had one gun more than they’d had before. And when the Rebels attacked the city—how-many more would get killed over that? Someone would win. Then what?
“Kari…”
“I got to go, Howie.” He could see her shadow stand and move away fro
m him, and hear the rustle of her clothes. “I’ll try to get back, maybe.”
“Kari, I want to know something. Did you… were you there when Lewis got all that out of Pardo?”
She was silent for a minute. “Did I watch? Is that what you mean?”
Howie didn’t answer.
“Some,” she said absently. “Why?”
Chapter Thirty-One
The first skirmish of the battle began just before midnight. It wasn’t much of a fight and it seemed to Howie there was more shouting than shooting. Mostly, it was a chance for the Rebels to let the city know they were there, and itching for trouble.
He watched from his window as long as he could, following the winks of gunfire out into the night. Now and then he caught the tail-end of a command, or a traded insult. When his foot hurt too much to stand on anymore he limped back to his corner and curled up on the hard floor.
Sleep didn’t come easily. His foot throbbed something awful. It ought to be getting better, but it wasn’t. It was hot to the touch, now, and pounding all by itself, like a small heart. The pain was starting to move right up the back of his leg, past the ankle, and he didn’t like that at all. The poison from a bad wound, if it wasn’t clean, could go right up through your body. You could lose your whole leg before you knew it. Unless he got some help, that might just hap-pen. Only, where the hell was he going to get any help in here?
On the edge of pain he wondered how the battle would turn out and whether the Rebels would take the city or not. If they did, then what? Suppose they swept the Loyalists clear out of the west, and then pushed them all the way back east, too, and took over the government?
To keep his mind off the pain, he tried to list in his head what was good and bad about both sides. He sure couldn’t think of much difference. One was about as bad as the other. He’d heard Lathan wanted to make things better for folks, but that didn’t mean anything—just saying it. As near as he could see, it was Lathan he wanted to better.
Things hadn’t been too bad, really, before anyone had even heard of Lathan. Most people had enough to eat and clothes on their backs. And the government had been trying to do things. Why, if there hadn’t been a war, they might’ve even gotten to where farmers and ranchers could get horses. When would that happen, now? No matter who won, horses were going to be scarcer than ever.
He hurt too much to keep up with the list. It didn’t make sense, anyway. All he could figure for sure was that people had been better off when there wasn’t any fighting going on. And you had to say one thing about the government; they wanted to do things for the country. You couldn’t forget there was still Silver Island. And that was something. Maybe it was even one thing worth fighting to keep. As long as you had something like that, you had the hope of something better, anyway.
Whatever happened, he couldn’t forget that. Even thinking about what the government was doing to him right now. Hell, the Rebels would have done the same. And they didn’t have any Silver Island for folks to go to, either. It was, truly, the only thing he could think of that was really right with the world. He thanked the Lord that Carolee was there and didn’t even have to know anything about this.
He dozed, finally, thinking about her. Only he saw her now like he remembered her, on a warm, lazy day floating down the canal on the way to the fair at Bluevale. It was a good thing to think about, and for a while his foot didn’t hurt anymore.
Pain brought him up again in the bleak, dull hour of dawn. His eyes were pasted together and his throat was dry. He couldn’t stand the smell of himself. He tried to recall when he’d had a bath in clean, hot water.
There was food again, and a jug of water. He wolfed down the cold bread and meat, and saved most of the water. His foot was worse than ever. The skin was red and swollen and hurt just to touch. He couldn’t stand on it at all without near passing out from the pain. Crawling over to the window, he pulled himself up and ran his fingers over the surface of each of the thick wooden bars. They were smooth and slick with age, and there was nothing rough enough to pull loose. For an hour he dug his fingernails into one tiny split in the wood, standing on one foot and prying at the spot until his hands bled. When the piece finally came free it was no more than a splinter, but it would have to do.
He crawled back to the wall, exhausted, clutching his prize. There was no use putting it off, he decided. It wasn’t going to get any easier. Using a little of the water, he cleaned off the top of the ugly wound as best he could, wincing at his own easy touch. Lordee, if it hurt that much just to gentle the thing…
He knew what was coming, so he stuffed his shirt in his mouth and bit down hard. Then he dug the sharp splinter right in the middle of the fester. He swallowed the pain and ground his teeth into the cloth. Sweat stung his eyes and red and black suns swam before his vision. The ugly yellow poison poured out of the wound and he forced it through the angry red skin until no more would come. Then he washed the whole area clean with the rest of his water and bandaged it as well as he could with a strip from his shirt. When he was finished, he was drained clear down to the bone. His hands trembled and he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
Patrols headed out from the city in the afternoon, but they didn’t get far. There were more Rebel cookfires on the horizon than a man could count.
In midafternoon, with the sun behind them, the Rebels attacked in force. They swarmed down on the city like a river in flood, until there was no bare ground beneath them. They shouted as they came, one mighty voice that swept all sound before them.
In the vanguard was the cavalry with green banners flying and hooves sending thunder over the city. There were more mounts before the wall that day than any man alive had ever seen. Behind them came the foot soldiers armed with swords, clubs, long ugly pikes, and every weapon imaginable. The Loyalists poured over the walls to meet them. When the two armies met, the din and cry was a terrible thing to hear. Howie watched, his foot forgotten for the moment. Nothing could match the pain before his eyes. He felt strangely uneasy, seeing the battle and having no part in it. Men were fighting and dying a few hundred yards away, while he stood at his window and watched. Somehow, it didn’t seem right. You ought to be able to die without people watching.
For a while, the rumor spread about the city that Lathan himself was there, leading his army. But no one could say whether or not this was so.
Just before sundown the Rebels withdrew, and, less than an hour after that, attacked another side of the city. The battle there raged for nearly an hour. Then the Rebels withdrew to their camps, now bright with nightfires. No one cheered their retreat; everyone knew they had broken off the fight of their own will. The two terrible battles had been little more than probing actions to test the strength of the Loyalists. They would be back again, and soon.
Howie wished Kari would come to see him again. He hated to admit it, but it was so. There was no way to forget what she did to him. He knew what would happen if she came. She’d start talking nonsense again and he’d get mad and blow his stack. But he wanted her there, anyway.
His foot didn’t feel so bad now and he could rest a little. He tried to stay awake, though, thinking she might come. She hadn’t come until late, last time. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt a little like himself again. Like he could sit back and think, maybe—without worrying whether Pardo was going to get him into something where he’d get killed; or Klu or Jigger or someone would put a blade in his ribs just for fun.
He laughed softly at his thoughts. It was sure a funny time to get feeling good, locked up with his foot all swollen and hungry and thirsty half the time. All that would pass, though. A couple of good meals and a week or two off his feet would take care of those problems. He wasn’t really too worried about Lewis anymore. Kari wouldn’t make up something like that, crazy as she was. Lewis could torture him some more, or kill him—but what’d be the point?
Lewis and everyone else had plenty on their hands right now. He didn’t thi
nk they’d be worrying over one prisoner who couldn’t help or harm them, one way or the other.
And if the Rebels broke through… He’d given some thought to that. When it happened—and he figured it would—he sure didn’t intend waiting for an invitation to get away. Just how he’d bring that off he couldn’t say. But there’d be a chance. And he’d take it.
And after that? He wouldn’t even let himself think about it. He wasn’t even sure he knew how. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d just done whatever he liked, or gone wherever he wanted to—without someone saying what he had to do.
When they came for him it was in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t even know they were there until they’d jerked him up off the floor and set him on his feet. The first jolt of pain shot all the way up his leg and set him howling. He tried to pull away and tell them he couldn’t walk; that it was all a big mistake, but they wouldn’t listen. When he fell they just picked him up and started him off again. Or gave him a quick boot in the ribs to show they meant business. He couldn’t go down the stairs so they dragged him most of the way; the bad foot hitting every step until it hit so many he couldn’t feel it any more.
Before they strapped him in the big oak chair they stripped him naked, not bothering to look for buttons, just ripping and tearing until everything was gone. There were two big logs this time and they strapped his ankles to both of them, stretching his legs wide and leaving a big open space in between. His senses were near drowning in pain, but exposing him like that brought him up again quickly. He was suddenly struck by a cold, terrible fear worse than any-thing he could remember.
He called out again and again, telling them he didn’t know anything, that he shouldn’t be there. If they’d just listen to him they’d know that. Where was Lewis? All they had to do was ask Lewis. He’d tell them it was all a mistake.