Neal Barrett Jr.

by Dawn's Uncertain Light

  The tall boy’s expression didn’t change. “Mister, who you been killin’ don’t mean a thing to me. You haven’t said why you’re here.

  “They took my sister to Silver Island,” Howie said.

  “I know what they did down there. I reckon you know, too. You want to shoot that thing, go ahead. I’m tired of standing out in the sun.”

  “I reckon I can fix that,” the boy said.

  “Jack—” The girl touched the boy’s shoulder and looked at Howie. “Listen, what’s your sister’s name?”

  “Shut up, Janie,” the boy said.

  “Carolee. Carolee Ryder. She was nine when they took her. She’d be about fifteen now.”

  Howie saw something in the girl’s eyes—scarcely anything at all, but enough. She didn’t look at the boy, but he lowered the rifle, maybe half an inch.

  “Let’s move,” the boy said flatly, “I don’t like stayin’ ’round here.” The camp was three hours into the ’glades. Howie tried to remember how they’d come, but he was lost after the first quarter mile. The morning had started out hot and sultry. By noon, the air was a nearly visible pall, a veil of green. The woods were thick with tupelo and water oak, great cypress trees that perched on tangled roots in black water. The camp was on a dry hammock of land. Hanging moss bearded thick and ancient trees, whose branches bent nearly to the ground. There were nearly thirty people in the camp, children, most of them from twelve to fourteen, a few younger than that. Only the tall boy and the girl were older; around eighteen, Howie guessed, near his own age. When he looked at the young ones he wanted to cry. They were children, but none of them had children’s eyes.

  Howie searched their faces quickly. He knew Carolee wasn’t there. He had known that right from the start.

  The children looked fearfully at Howie, keeping their distance, yet curious as to who he might be. Jack spoke to them firmly and told them to keep away. He left Howie completely alone; he hadn’t spoken since they’d left the old road.

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” Janie said. “That’s just Jack’s way.” She sat with Howie by the water near the edge of the camp. Howie wolfed down a bowl of soup that smelled strongly of wild onions, and ate some fried fish. The fish had a slightly muddy taste, but Howie didn’t mind.

  “He don’t care for people,” Janie said. “ ’Cept for us. He’s got good reason to watch for anyone that don’t belong.”

  “I guess he does,” Howie said. He liked to watch the girl, liked to have her close by. She was nearly as tall as he was, but thin as a rail, like everyone else in the camp. He liked her dark hair and the way the sharp bones in her cheeks drew the flesh across her face. Her eyes were dark, vibrant and intent, as if fear couldn’t touch her at all. Howie guessed there was very little left that could frighten this girl, after what she must have seen.

  “None of us would be here now,” Janie said, “if it hadn’t been for Jack.” She looked past Howie, her thoughts somewhere beyond the still dark waters of the ’glades. “It was him got us out. All the little ones was cryin’ and plain scared to death. Everyone was dying all around, and Jack got together as many as he could and led us out. It all happened so fast there wasn’t many had a chance. The troopers just come out fast one night and started killing. People, stock, it didn’t make no difference. We was all the same to them. They used guns for a while, walking in a line and just shooting, backin’ everyone up till there wasn’t no place left to go. Then they came in with clubs and finished anyone off that looked alive. I saw some of the troopers up close. They was the worst kind of men or they wouldn’t have been there. But a couple of ’em was crying, I know that. They couldn’t take what they was Navin’ to do.

  “Jack got a bunch of us out through a hole in the fence. He’d been working some time on that hole; it was right near the end of the shed where they kept all the younguns. The guards was too busy killin’ to see. Jack got us all in some boats. I think there was five, maybe six boats. Only two of ’em made it up here. The boats wasn’t much good. I reckon the rest of them sank, or maybe got lost out to sea. I don’t know. We never saw no one else.”

  Janie hesitated, then looked curiously at Howie. “You figured if anyone was still alive he’d be here. That this is where we’d have to come, the closest place to hide.”

  Howie nodded. He told her what people were saying, that the Rebels had somehow got over east and done the killing at Silver Island, that some of them were hiding in the swamps.

  “There’s something else, too,” Howie said. “Something you ought to know. I saw eight of your folks, down in Mexico. I don’t know how they got that far, but they did. They was wandering around, and a black man was keeping them fed. Hell, I thought they was stock. Only, one of ’em could talk. Not real good, but he could talk. They hadn’t cut his tongue right.”

  “My Lord!” Janie’s eyes were bright with hope. “Did they give you any names? Did they tell you who they were?”

  “No, but they was from Silver Island, all right.” Howie looked at his hands. “The one who talked—he’d known Carolee. He said that. He told me—what it was the government did. That Silver Island wasn’t what folks thought it was at all. That it wasn’t any new America they was making; they were doing something awful down there—”

  Janie shook her head quickly, cutting Howie off. She closed her eyes an instant, then the moment passed. She reached out and touched Howie’s hand.

  “Howie, listen,” she said gently. “Maybe you don’t want to know this at all. You haven’t asked, and maybe that’s why. But I guess I got to say it. I knew her. I think you figured that. Carolee was like me and Jack. She was good with the younguns. If you was useful that way, they didn’t cut your tongue.” Janie paused. “Don’t go on lookin’ for her, Howie. She— I saw her. Back there when it happened. She didn’t get away, and you got to stop thinking that she did. That isn’t goin’ to stop the hurt. Nothing’s goin’ to do that. You can’t bring her back, and that’s what you got to know. Just hold on to what you’ve got and keep thinking how she was before. That’s all you can do.” She looked toward the camp. “That’s all anyone can do.”

  Howie couldn’t look in her eyes. He felt her hand go away. He felt something die inside, and he knew it was something that he couldn’t get back; that it was gone and Carolee was gone too. He felt a sudden, strange sense of relief. Janie had released him from a burden he had carried too long. Only now he didn’t want to let it go. It was gone, and there was nothing else there. He was alive; his breathing and his heart hadn’t stopped. He wondered why his body couldn’t figure what his head already knew. That there was nothing else to do. No place else to go.

  Jack came to him in the morning, He had a clay bottle of water and some food, Howie’s pistol and his knives, and the handful of coins Janie had taken from him the day before.

  “I’m letting you go,” Jack said. “That’s what Janie says we ought to do. Get yourself some breakfast. There’s an easy way out up north. ’Gator Alley. Don’t anyone know it’s still there. It’ll take you due west out of the ’glades. I’ll go with you partway. Listen, you don’t ever want to come back here. I don’t want you doin’ that.”

  “All right,” Howie said.

  “Is that true what you said? You really kill Anson Slade?”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’s good.” Jack nodded and kicked at the ground. “That’s real good.” He turned and walked away through low-hanging moss.

  “Why’d they do it?” Howie said. “Why’d they go and murder everyone like that? They must’ve had a reason why. You don’t go and do a thing like that, you haven’t got a reason why.”

  Jack didn’t answer. Howie didn’t know if he heard or not. Howie turned at a soft explosion of sound, a muffled noise in the trees. Birds white as bone rose up into the air.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He gave Tallahassee a wide berth, walking west and keeping to the coast. There were fine dark forests that came down nearly to the sea, tall pines
that filled the air with sweet and pungent smells. As soon as he saw the woods he started north, glad to get away from the water for a while. The sun had baked him dry and he felt as if his teeth were grinding sand. The forest was thick with ferny growth, and the tiny leaves brushed him with water as he passed. The woods reminded him of the place just behind Papa’s farm, near the wheat fields past the barn. The growth here was somewhat different, but the feeling was the same. He found familiar plants that he knew were good to eat; toward evening, he discovered a patch of blackberries the birds had miraculously left alone. The ferns hid a small stream, and he stopped near there for the night. He thought about the girl named Janie. She stirred up feelings he hadn’t felt in some time, and when he slept he didn’t dream.

  He studied the river, looking for the places where shallows might let him get across standing up. Earlier he had caught the faint smell of someone’s breakfast fire; there was no way to tell how close it might be because the wind was running strong. It might not be near at all, but Howie didn’t want to chance that. There wasn’t anyone he cared to see.

  The river was nearly fifty yards wide. That meant a great deal of time in the open. The best thing to do was get across real fast, back to good cover in the thick stand of trees on the other side. A man wading shallow could maybe right back; a man up to his neck was as easy to hit as a turtle on a log.

  Howie sat in the brush a long time, listening and watching the river. He watched the crows in a tall tree thirty yards away to his right. The crows seemed content. Crows liked to squawk and raise hell if there was anything around. Howie sat still for a while, then walked out in the sun to the water.

  The first shot took off his hat. He was halfway across. The second shot came on the echo of the first and went wild. Howie didn’t wait around for the third. He thought about the smoke and how it must’ve been closer than he thought and how careless was the next thing to dead. He thought about the goddam crows, and how they’d let him down.

  He ran as erratically as he could, churning up water and slipping into holes. The men were on the far bank, and that was bad. The only good thing was they’d been careless too. They were still up the river a ways, and they had started firing much too soon. If they had sneaked on down through the trees where he had to come out of the river, they could have walked up and shot him in the ear.

  Howie made the shore and started scrambling up the rocky bank, slipped and felt the sharp stone rip down the side of his leg. He cursed aloud and hit back the pain. A shot plowed into the earth half a foot from his head. Howie dropped back. There was no use trying to climb the bank. He’d have to stay and fight them right there and that was no good at all. They could come from two ways and he wouldn’t know where they’d appear.

  Two rapid shots rang overhead and plunked into the river. One of the bastards had a rifle. The sharp, clean sound bounced back and forth across the water.

  One of the men yelled to the other. Howie crawled low beneath the cover of the bank, trying not to think about his leg. Worse than that, something was wrong with his foot. It burned like he’d stepped in a fire. There was no time to look. The bank had caved in just ahead, leaving a tumble of dirt and rock. Howie felt a surge of relief. If he could climb up that, he could shoot from good cover. If they were both still close together—

  Howie cried out as his foot gave way. He reached up desperately and grabbed for the top of the bank. One of the men shouted and fired wildly at his hand. Howie held on and peeked over the top. Hair crawled the back of his neck. God A’mighty, they weren’t ten yards away! He snapped off two quick shots. The man on the right hesitated, slapped at his arm as if a bee had climbed his sleeve, then loosed a shot in Howie’s direction. Howie ducked, shifted his aim quickly at the other man, squeezed the trigger too fast and knew at once he hadn’t hit a thing. He fired again. The pistol gave a hollow click, the worst sound he’d ever heard.

  The man with the rifle laughed. He looked right at Howie, as if he’d never seen anything funnier in his life. A blue hole appeared between his eyes. He sank to his knees, taking plenty of time, taking the laugh with him to the ground. The second man seemed amazed. He looked past Howie at something else. This time Howie heard the shot. The man’s right eye disappeared; he turned around twice, looking for somewhere to go.

  Howie turned and saw the preacher on a horse. He was sitting in the cover of the trees, forty yards to Howie’s back. He grinned at Howie and waved. He held a bright silver pistol in his hand, the barrel fully twelve inches long. Howie could scarcely believe this was happening at all. He’d never seen a preacher with a gun; he had sure never seen one who could shoot like that. It didn’t seem right. At least he had an answer as to why someone hadn’t cut Jones’s throat. You’d have to get past that gun, and it clearly wasn’t easy to do.

  Ritcher Jones kicked his mount and started toward Howie. He looked like a man on a Sunday-morning ride— a fine straw hat with a red feather stuck in the brim, boots polished up and a crease in his pants, a new white shirt with white ruffles on the sleeves.

  Jones tipped his hat and looked solemnly at Howie. “It appears to me you’ve been having a troublesome morning, son. Troublesome, indeed. You give any thought to what I said, how a man ought to find proper food for the soul? That’s mighty sound advice, I’ll tell you true.”

  “I’m sure obliged for the help,” Howie said. It didn’t seem like the time for a sermon, but maybe preachers went on like that all the time. He walked over and took a look at the dead men, favoring his bad foot. Even from a distance, with no time to stop and study features, Howie had felt he knew the pair. The man with the hole between his eyes had tried to push him into a fight, his first night in Tallahassee. He didn’t know his name, and couldn’t remember what the fellow had called his friend.

  “If a man bears hatred in his heart,” Jones said behind him, “so shall that hatred turn and quickly smite him down. Vengeance is the Lord’s, and this is as fine an example as you’ll see.”

  Jones squatted down and studied the man with the ruined eye. “I surely didn’t mean to do that.” He shook his head and frowned. “Low, and a half inch off to the right. I abhor the sin of pride, but a man likes to do a thing right, even if it’s something he didn’t want to have to do. You better sit, boy. I’ll see these sinners off, then take a good look at your foot.”

  Ritcher Jones grabbed the first man’s legs and dragged him down the bank, then out into the shallows. Then he went back and got the other. The slow current caught the two bodies and drew them toward the center of the river.

  Jones watched them go, then closed his eyes and clasped his hands. “Lord, have mercy on these thy children, for it’s clear they were ignorant of your ways. Forgive me if you will, as I don’t see burial as prudent at the time. Gunfire tends to draw a crowd, and there might be other unbelievers near about. I sure don’t want more violence to mar this lovely day which thou has fashioned for our benefit and joy. Amen.”

  The preacher stepped gingerly back to shore, then drew a large kerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his boots. He picked up the weapons the men had left behind and carried them to his horse.

  “Get up in that saddle if you can,” he told Howie. “We’ll go a little ways in the woods. It’s feeling mighty open out here.”

  Howie started to protest, but he could feel something wet inside his boot; he wouldn’t get far unless he patched himself up, and there wasn’t any reason not to ride. Besides, arguing with Jones was a good way to tire yourself out, even if you weren’t flat worn down to start.

  The foot wasn’t bad. A bullet had gone through the boot and gouged some flesh from Howie’s heel, but there was more blood than anything else. Howie limped down to a creek that fed the river and eased down on the moss-covered bank. He cleaned the wound and the scrape on his leg, then washed all the blood from his boot. Jones had a strip of clean cloth in his pack, and Howie used it to bind his foot tight. Then he leaned back and watched Ritcher Jones prepare lunch. />
  It was an awesome thing to see. Jones had more in his pack than a good-sized tavern might supply—and better than you’d likely get, too. There were jars full of powders and spices, peppers and pickled fruits. Things in paper packets Howie couldn’t identify. Jones found some strips of fish that looked dried and shriveled-up. Then he dropped them in a skillet of hot oil, sprinkled peppers and odd powders all about; the withered strips began to swell up fine, releasing an aroma that made Howie want to cry. From somewhere in the miraculous pack, Jones found a loaf of bread that resembled a club. There were tin plates and cups, knives and even forks. Wine in a pretty green bottle with a cork. Howie tasted some, and thought it left his mouth dry. Jones smiled when he told him that.

  “Now that’s what a good wine’s supposed to do,” Jones said. When the meal was all over, Jones washed everything clean, then put his goods back where they belonged’. There were soft leather pockets in his pack, each one the shape of a certain jar or sack, an eating utensil or a plate. Once Howie saw how it was done, it was easy to see how so much could emerge from an ordinary pack. Still, Howie shook his head in wonder. There were tastes in his mouth he’d never thought about before. He had never eaten finer in his life—and here they were out in the middle of the woods. Ritcher Jones clearly wasn’t a man to let the famine and hardship of the land get in his way. He had fine clothes and food, a good weapon and a horse. The horse—now that was something Howie found hard to believe. He hadn’t even seen a horse since he’d left the war in the West. Jones hadn’t kept the mount close to Tallahassee, Howie was certain of that. He’d stashed it out of town somewhere for sure. The preacher might be good with a gun, but they’d have killed him real quick if they knew he had a horse.

  Howie watched as Jones cleaned his weapon, wiping it with oil and running patches down the overlong barrel. Light filtered through the trees and made a hundred tiny suns on the bright silver surface. The grips were something white like bone, and there were squiggly lines etched into the metal.