Jake shook his head.
“We’ve eaten,” said Pike. “We’ll search the town for what we can carry and what we need. Probably not going to be much, it was stripped clean. At first light we’ll try and close some of this distance.”
“Fair enough,” Roosevelt said.
* * *
Connelly awoke to the pale dawn the next day. Just barely morning. Somewhere birds wheeled through the cold skies, whistling mournfully to one another. He sat up and looked and saw Jake’s bedding deserted. He reached out and prodded Hammond.
Hammond rubbed at his eyes. “What?” he asked.
Connelly nodded at Jake’s empty place. Hammond sat up. The two of them stood, looked at each other, then began searching the nearby area.
Somehow Connelly knew where he would be. He went down to where the dry creek ran and began walking along its side. He spotted him sitting on a large red rock, his form hunched and drunkenly leaning. Connelly approached slowly.
It had not been done neatly. The thin slice of obsidian had been a good tool but Jake had not known where the arteries would be and so had ravaged his upper arms and wrists. His lap was red and a pool spread from his crotch and ran down the face of the rock like he had shat or urinated blood. He was cross-legged and his arms were up against his belly like he was carrying some tiny precious package, like a child.
He was facing east. He had wanted to see the dawn. Perhaps he had.
They stood looking at Jake. No one spoke. Roonie began sobbing, small, weak animal noises. Lottie took him and held him and he buried his face in her neck.
“Despair is the greatest sin,” said Pike.
“Go to hell,” said Monk. “He had just lost his brother.”
“All the more reason not to give up.”
“What do we do?” said Roosevelt.
“Burial will have to be quick,” said Pike. “If we give him one.”
“We will,” Lottie said savagely.
“Then we will.”
“We should bury him with his brother.”
“If you want to carry him the mile back to that place then by all means, do so,” said Pike. “But we’re limited by time and by distance. If we’re going to do this it’ll have to be quick and close.”
It was a shoddy job. Not much more than a shallow hole in the ground. They piled stones upon it until it was a malformed cairn and made a cross out of timber and hammered it into the ground.
“Do we say anything?” said Roonie.
“What is there to say?” asked Hammond.
They did not answer. They took off their caps and held them before them and bowed their heads. Then they shouldered their grips and began their way to the freightyard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They came upon the trains nearly a day later. The filthy metal webbing spread out before them on the plain, smoke and ash rising in columns, gray trains milling and laboring forward like a nest full of snakes.
It did not take long to find someone. Find water, Roosevelt told them, and you will find other hobos. He was right. Near a small pond to the west they found a ragtag shack and a handful of men wallowing in soiled beddings. The smell of drink poured off them in cascades. Pike strode up to them and they scattered at first but then relaxed. When he asked of the scarred man they said, “Sure, sure. We know him. Came through here about three days ago.”
“Three? You’re sure?”
“Yep,” said one man who seemed half-sensible. His face was long and he wore a cheap cap and a long overcoat. “He come through, asked when the next train into New Mexico would be running.”
“Christ,” said Roosevelt. “New Mexico? You’re sure?”
“Yes. I sure am. You fellas got any money?”
“Not much,” said Hammond. “You’re sure it was him? Scarred on the cheeks?”
“I said it was, didn’t I?”
“Did he say anything?”
“You got any money?” he said.
“We don’t have much money.”
He spat. “Then maybe you dumbasses should stop bothering a guy, huh? Get out of here. I’m sick of looking at you.”
Pike grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he said to him, “unless I ask you to open it. Where in New Mexico? Where?”
“Jesus!” cried the man. “Some poor-ass town! Vuegas, I think! Let me go!”
“When did he leave?”
“The hell with you! I’ll kill you, you old bastard!”
Pike struck him in the stomach. Hammond and Monk moved forward to face down the other hobos who were getting up.
“When did he leave?”
The man coughed and spittle hung from his mouth. “Yesterday,” he gasped. “Just yesterday.”
“Anyone know when the next train is running out?” shouted Monk to the other vagrants.
“Why you being so mean to old Bevis?” croaked one of the hobos. “He ain’t done nothing to you.”
“Because he has bad manners,” said Hammond. “When’s the next train out?”
“Two days. Just two days. You fellas don’t got to be so mean about it,” he mourned. Connelly saw he was weeping like an infant.
“Why couldn’t you all just say so?” said Connelly as Pike dropped his man. “Why?”
“Because fuck you, that’s why,” the man gasped. He wiped his mouth and glowered at them. “I’ll cut your throats. All of you dumb sons of bitches, I’ll cut your throats.”
Connelly looked at him and followed the others away.
That night Connelly could not sleep. Each time he shut his eyes he would see the shape of Ernie’s shrouded body lying not far away from him, spots of red and brown seeping through and soaking into the patchwork of the sheet. Sometimes beyond it another person was sitting on the ground, leaning madly and painted red, arms clutched at their sides.
Finally Connelly gave in and sat up. He looked at the others lying around him, their chests gently rising and falling in sleep. Then he saw one figure standing far away, a small fire held in its fingers. It looked at him and held a finger to its lips and he blinked and realized it was Pike.
Connelly stood as quietly as he could and walked over to the old man. He was standing far out in the brush, watching the sleeping party, a glowing ember from the fire in his hand. He blew on it until it turned into a hellish spark and then he held it to the end of a damp cigarette and took a drag.
“Can’t sleep?” Pike asked.
“No.”
“Hm. I can’t either.” He sighed. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s damp tobacco,” he said out of the side
