Neal Barrett Jr.

by Dawn's Uncertain Light

  He knew this was true. Still, walking back toward town he had a sudden, sobering thought, and an image of Ritcher Jones. He stopped for a minute and felt his throat grow dry. How could he face the preacher now? Jones would see clear through him. He’d know right off what they’d done. Howie was certain of that. You couldn’t hide sin from Ritcher Jones. Even if it likely wasn’t sin anymore. Jones would see them tangled naked in the bed and he wouldn’t see love pure and fine, he’d see dark violation arid corruption of the flesh. And he’d sure as hell figure it was all Howie’s fault. He wouldn’t understand that a Sister of the Church could feel stirrings inside like any other girl. That if the right man came into her life, even a girl as clean and refined as Lorene would have to follow where her heart said to go.

  What Ritcher Jones would do, Howie knew, was pray for Howie’s soul and forgive him on the spot—then draw that long silver gun from his belt and put a sanctified hole in Howie’s head. Amen.

  Maybe, Howie reasoned, if he avoided the hotel for a while, the pictures in his mind might fade just a little, and Jones wouldn’t see them real good. It was sure worth a try. He thought about the ships and how they’d look with the sun going down. That would be a good thing to see.

  The day was nearly gone when he found his way back to the docks, but there was still enough light to see the tall masts sketched against a purple eastern sky. How fine it would be, sailing off across the sea. Ritcher Jones said most of the time you couldn’t even see the land. That was kind of scary, but a person could get used to that. Why, you’d have to if you were a sailor, or someone like Jones who rode ships all the time.

  How fast did they go? Howie hadn’t asked Jones about that. The ships he’d seen in the bay under sail didn’t look to be faster than a horse. But that was sure fast enough. And of course you didn’t have to stop and rest. As long as there was a wind you could sail all day and all night.

  And in his head right then, Howie saw a picture of himself and Lorene, off on a ship going somewhere no one had ever been before. The ship would stop and let them off; the sailors were good and honest men, and they would promise not to tell anyone where they were.

  Howie had to laugh at himself. Hell, there weren’t any places like that. And if there were, the sailors would cut his throat and take Lorene for themselves the first day out to sea. There wasn’t a man alive who could keep from doing that.

  The place was a few minutes’ walk from the pier and on a street that had lights. Inside, the walls were freshly whitewashed wood. A bar was set along one side, and there were tables in the back where you could sit and order food. Howie asked for potatoes and fried fish. It was still early yet, and there weren’t a lot of drinkers at the bar—a few sailors and workers from the docks. They acted as if they’d been there all day and intended to stay the night.

  Past the dining tables at the far end of the bar, four troopers sat around a table playing cards. Howie wished they weren’t there, but there was no use worrying about that. The army was in Alabama Port and meant to stay. At any rate, the soldiers were intent on their game and didn’t notice he was there. An overweight bargirl kept the players supplied with ale. Each time she passed by a skinny trooper pinched her rear: the girl shrieked with delight and seemed constantly surprised.

  The potatoes weren’t done but the fish was the best he’d ever had. Howie mopped up his plate with a thick slice of bread and grinned at a secret thought. By God, it was true as it could be. Lovin’ sure made a man hungry. He was starved right down to the bone. If a fella was to wrestle with Lorene every day, he’d have to spend all his coppers on food—just to keep from getting weak and falling down. He laughed aloud at that, and two stout merchants at a table close by looked up and frowned. Howie grinned back and the men turned quickly away, likely thinking he was crazy or a fool. Well, they could by damn think what they liked.

  Howie ordered a cup of ale and another after that. The more he thought about food and Lorene, the funnier the joke seemed to be. After a while, the merchants got up and found a table near the door.

  As it had the night before, dry heat lightning raced across the summer sky. Howie had felt fine in the tavern, his head full of fanciful thoughts. He’d find Lorene and steal a horse. Ride west and then south to Mexico. They’d be long gone before Ritcher Jones guessed they were even out of Alabama Port.

  At the time, it had all seemed easy enough. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do. Now, on the street again, the stifling night air seemed to wilt all his dreams. His head felt full of nails and the ale had gone sour in his belly.

  Goddamn it, isn’t none of that ever going to be. Lorene’s going off to California. And I’m not going anywhere at all.

  Howie kicked savagely at an empty whiskey jug and sent it shattering against a wall. A pair of drunken sailors cursed him from the far end of the alley, then laughed at what they had done.

  It wasn’t right at all, Howie thought. He didn’t want to let her go. And Lorene didn’t want to leave him, he knew that. Lord, he didn’t have to wonder about Lorene, not with the thought of her bare-ass naked astride his thighs, her eyes rolled back in her head. She liked lovin’ as much as he did, and there wasn’t any doubt about that.

  Howie saw the man coming toward him, cutting a dizzy path down the street. He was singing to himself, taking slow, exaggerated steps, as if that might do the trick.

  Howie had to grin. At least he wasn’t near as drunk as that. The way the poor fellow was going, he’d take half a week to get home.

  “Wunnerful night,” the man muttered as he passed. “Goddam wunnerful night,”

  “Sure is,” Howie said, giving the drunk a wide berth. The man lost his footing, reached out, and caught himself against a wall, muttering and trying to find his feet.

  “Might be a good idea to stop and take it easy, friend,” Howie said. “Seems to me y—”

  Howie felt a chill clutch his spine. He was staring right into the barrel of a pistol, and the man’s eyes were sober as his own.

  “Raise ’em.” The man grinned. “Just back up slow against the wall. Move blow your damn brains all over the street.”

  “Mister, I got a few coppers, that’s all,” Howie said carefully. “You’re sure welcome to ’em. I ain’t looking for any trouble.”

  “And I’m not looking for any coppers, Howie Ryder. What I’m looking for is you.

  Howie’s heart nearly stopped. Too late, he recognized the skinny trooper from the tavern, the one who liked to pinch barmaids on the sly. Howie cursed himself for a fool. He’d never caught the man looking at him at all; he had never once given himself away.

  “Guess you got the wrong man,” Howie said, forcing an easy grin. “Name’s Cory, and I—”

  The barrel of the weapon was a blur. Howie tried to jerk away and the iron struck him hard across the brow. The pain was like a cannon going off in his head. He went to his knees and retched. Something far off in a place that didn’t hurt said, Get the damn pistol from your belt—do it now! He reached feebly for his waist. The man kicked him in the ribs. Howie groaned and brought his knees up under his chin. A boot found his back, then a hand snaked down and found the pistol under his coat. Howie heard it hit dirt, and knew the man had tossed it away.

  “Sit up,” the man said harshly. “I ain’t goin’ to kill youlyin’ down.”

  “Why the hell not?” Howie spat blood on the ground. “Boy, you want some more kickin’, that’s purely up to you.”

  The tone was convincing. Howie struggled to his feet, sliding his hands up the rough brick wall. The man was no fool. He stayed well away in case Howie had something more to give. Howie knew he didn’t. Nothing worth wasting on a man who had a gun aimed right between his eyes.

  “You got a blade or anything on you, drop it on the ground right now,” the man said.

  Howie laughed. It hurt like hell. “You should’ve thought of that when you had me on the ground. You ain’t thinkin’ too clear.”

  The man didn’t care for t
hat at all. His eyes turned hard.

  Howie grinned. “Go ahead and shoot. Then you can look for that blade.”

  The man’s anger began to fade. He studied Howie a long moment as if there was something he needed to find. “Don’t reckon you recall knowin’ me,” he said finally. “But I sure remember you, Ryder. I knew you right off. The minute I seen you back there.” The man’s eyes caught the light. “I remember when we all rode into the city, every one of us wearin’ new jackets with white wooden buttons, and fine feathers in our caps. Wasn’t a man there didn’t know we’d likely never ride out, but didn’t any of us care. I was right beside Colonel Jacob when we come into town. And I was there later on when they come and said that you’d been taken, that you were right there, too. Lord, you should have seen the colonel smile. It was something fine to see.”

  “I reckon I seen it once or twice,” Howie said calmly. “The man just thought about hurtin’, he got to feeling good inside.”

  “You goddam traitor!” The trooper’s gun hand trembled. Howie read the fury in his eyes and was sure he’d pull the trigger right then.

  “Anything happened to you, Colonel Jacob had the right. I seen what you carved on his chest, Ryder. We all saw that. I seen his blind eyes and the ruin you left between his legs. The man had a right!”

  “I reckon you’ll think what you want,” Howie said.

  “Isn’t any thinking to it. God’s truth is what it is.” The man grinned at Howie with sudden pleasure. “I’m right glad the colonel didn’t have time to take out your other eye. I’ll consider it an honor to do it for him. But that isn’t right now. You’re goin’ to get it down there first off.” He waved the gun at Howie’s groin. “You’re going to get what you gave Colonel Jacob ’fore I—”

  Howie went for him. The instant the gun barrel moved he threw himself hard at the trooper’s legs. The weapon exploded; Howie felt its heat sear the top of his head. Reaching out blindly, he grasped the trooper below the knees and sent him sprawling. The man yelled and fired wildly in the air, kicking out at Howie’s face. Howie took a blow to the shoulder, caught one boot and held on, twisting as hard as he could. Howie felt bone give way; the trooper screamed and jerked over on his belly. The pistol fell from the man’s hand; he came up on his good knee and tried to find it. Howie kicked him in the face and slid the gun aside. The trooper cursed and clasped his hands to his nose.

  Howie searched about for his own pistol and spotted it against a dark wall. He picked it up and walked back to the trooper. The man wiped blood from his face. Howie saw the fright in his eyes.

  “Listen, I ain’t goin’ to tell no one who you are,” the trooper said. “I swear. Goddam, just don’t kill me.

  Howie looked at him. “I got your word on that?”

  “Oh God, yes!” The man looked relieved. “I ain’t no fool.”

  Howie shot him in the face. The trooper’s head snapped back and he lay down flat, as if he’d suddenly grown tired of the day.

  Howie squatted down and went quickly through his pockets. A few coppers, nothing to show who he was. Not that it made a lot of difference. He’d either told his card-playing friends what he planned to do or he hadn’t. Howie figured the man had kept it to himself or the others would have been there too. That made sense.

  Howie stood and took a breath. If no one else knew, it would work out fine. Only that wasn’t so. There were plenty of other soldiers in town. The same thing could happen again.

  Howie gingerly touched the back of his head. His hand came away wet. Staying in Alabama Port was no good. The place was too big. There were too many people, too many troopers. He thought about the few belongings in his room. There was nothing there he needed, nothing he couldn’t do without.

  And what would Lorene think? Would she understand what he had to do, would she go off with him, just like that? The kind of life she’d have to live wasn’t anything like what she had in California. Things would be hard, and a girl like that …

  He swept his doubts aside. Hell, she’d go, all right. Lorene cared for him, needed him the same as he needed her. She’d do it. She had to.

  With a last look at the dead trooper, Howie started walking quickly back east. It was late, and Lorene would be asleep. Still, she could—

  Howie froze at the sudden sound of voices nearby. Around the corner, somewhere just ahead. He turned and ran back the way he’d come, saw the lanterns bobbing in the dark. A man shouted, pointed in his direction. Howie stopped, turned, and saw the others clearly now. A rifle shot whined above his head, then another. Angry voices split the dark. Ahead and behind. Howie looked desperately for a street, a door, anything at all, and suddenly there was no place else to go.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After the terrible battles out West against the Rebels, many troopers had been sent back to rest up and lick their wounds.

  “They’re hungry, and most of ’em hurt,” a visitor to the farm told Papa. “They got no will to fight Lathan anymore, but there’s plenty of mean in them still.”

  And mean, he told Papa, meant brawling and burning, and a rape or two thrown in. It wasn’t so bad in the countryside yet—but it would be, as soon as the towns got too tough for the troopers.

  If that wasn’t enough, news came soon about the War Tax. The Rebels had stripped the land out West, and there was nothing but stubble on the ground. Every farmer had to give the government a portion of his stock and his crops, whether he wanted to or not. Papa was fit to be tied about that.

  “When you figure they’ll come?” Howie asked. “I’m thinking maybe tomorrow,” Papa said. “And Colonel Jacob? He’ll be with the soldiers?”

  “Stands that he will, son.”

  The soldiers didn’t come the next day. Or the day after that. When they finally arrived, Howie was on the porch, looking right at them. They rode silently over the far swell of land, moving down the furrowed hill against a gray smudge of dawn. Twelve mounted troopers and a wagon trailing behind. Closer, Howie could see these were nothing like the parade soldiers he’d seen at the Bluevale Fair, nearly four years before. They were gaunt, shadow men—hollow faces under grizzled beards. There was no fat about them, only hard planes pulling flesh at awkward angles.

  Their clothes seemed all alike and had no color at all.

  “Milo, it’s been a long time,” Colonel Jacob said.

  “It has,” said Howie’s father, and there was something in his voice Howie hadn’t heard before. Colonel Jacob sensed it too, Howie knew. The colonel was darker and thinner than Howie remembered. His face was gone to leather, and his body was hard as stone. The eyes, though, the eyes were the same, and Howie hadn’t forgotten how Colonel Jacob had looked at his mother at the fair, and what the look had said. His mother had gone pale with sudden fear, as if the colonel’s look held her and she couldn’t get away. And even being twelve at the time and not knowing much at all, Howie had seen right then there was something real bad that had happened in the past. He had seen it in his mother at the time, and the bad thing was back there again, between Papa and Colonel Jacob.

  “You got a right fine boy,” Colonel Jacob said, looking right at Howie. “And the girl, she doing all right?”

  “Carolee’s gone,” Papa said. “They picked her at the Choosing. “

  “Well, now that’s fine, Milo.”

  “I guess it is,” Papa said.

  Howie’s mother didn’t come downstairs until the troopers had taken the War Tax goods and gone. Howie wanted to cry, just looking at her. She seemed so frightened, as if all the life had gone out of her, just knowing Colonel Jacob had been there in the yard. Later, Howie heard her crying, and Papa’s deep voice trying to soothe her, tell her everything would be fine.

  And some time after that, when Howie woke deep in the night, he went to the window and saw Papa outside, a dark figure listening to the silence, watching the hills where the troopers had disappeared.

  Howie didn’t even try to sleep. The cell had a plain dirt floor, packed h
ard as stone. Men had thrown up where they lay, sweated and relieved themselves against the walls, and some had likely died. The floor held every foul smell that had ever come along, and daily added each new odor to the overwhelming stench of the years.

  There was one narrow window, barred, and too high to reach. Howie sat against a far wall and watched the square of darkness outside and waited for the night to go away. He felt somehow that the day would make things all right. And of course that was wrong as it could be, any damn fool could see that. In the morning, they’d come and get him out and take him up before a judge, and the judge would tell him when he had to hang. They wouldn’t waste a whole lot of time, Howie was sure of that.

  “Don’t make no plans for after breakfast,” one of the jailers said with a grin, which told Howie more than he really cared to know.

  He thought a lot about Lorene. He wondered why something like this had to be, and there wasn’t any answer to that. The window turned a dirty shade of gray, the color of army soup. What if it finally rained? Howie wondered. Would they hang somebody in the rain?

  The street outside had scarcely begun to stir when he heard a door open down the hall, a heavy, solid sound that drew the air with it, and he recalled coming in that way, and the big door itself, solid oak half a foot thick and bound with iron.

  Two men talked, and one seemed angry with the other. He didn’t know the angry voice, but the other seemed familiar, and when he looked up again, Ritcher Jones was standing there just outside his cell, a jailer at his side.

  Howie had to smile. “You lookin’ for a funeral to preach, I reckon I can help.”

  “Cory, shut up,” Jones said. He looked at the jailer. “Open the door. We’re wasting time.”

  The jailer glanced nervously down the hall, fumbling with his keys. “Mister, I don’t like this business. Don’t like it none at all.”