thick black coat, streaked with gray mud. He washed it off in the stream and let it dry before putting it on and going out. They packed him a small bag of dry foods and a canteen of water, its punctured skin roughly patched with old bandages. He slung it over his shoulder and walked out front.
The mist had receded. Sunlight sparkled on the crinkled waters of the stream. Dexy and Nina came to watch his departure and he was not sure but he thought he spotted a dark shape move in the far window.
“I thank you for your hospitality, and for your advice,” he said.
“Didn’t give you no advice,” said Nina. “Just told you how it was going to be.”
“Well. I thank you anyways.”
“Wasn’t anything.”
“I hope I see you again,” he said.
“You won’t,” Dexy said. “Boys like you are always running off chasing one thing or another. They never know when to sit still.”
“Maybe.”
They bid their farewells and he walked upstream and turned north through a passage of hills. Each time he turned around he expected to see the stream of smoke was suddenly gone. But it was always there, threading up into the sky. Watching him, perhaps, and frowning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wandering days came then, drifting days. He learned he was in Colorado from a passing motorist who then gave him a ride to Hawtache and provided directions to Willison. His travels became quick, desperate jaunts between towns. Each time he reached the next his resources were exhausted and his belly empty. He bought food when he could and lived off of garbage when he had to, stayed in the little Hoovers that grew in the backlots like so much fungus and slept in ditches and alleys when he could not find these. Children thought him a boogey man, a great, shambling shaman, wandering backroads and scavenging whatever he could find.
The sheriff’s town had been called Marion, Connelly learned. He made a crude map of charcoal and newspaper and began scouting the areas around the town of his capture. He heard no news of the gray man but he did catch wind of some wounded men making their way north, men with bad business on their mind. People could only guess at their numbers. Some said four, others five or three. Connelly wondered how many of his companions were still alive.
He kept to their backtrail, following the followers. He learned to survive. Taught himself how to trap and kill small animals and through trial and error he learned how to gut and cook them. It was a messy process and sometimes he was tempted to eat them raw.
By necessity he was drawn back to the rail, but not to ride. Hobo jungles offered the most protection and news, no matter the size, and he knew his companions would have slept there if it came to it.
He met a great many strange people in the Hoovers. In one encampment he ate a strange, stringy meat for the first time and did not find it unpalatable. A grime-covered man came and sat down by him as he ate and confided, “They’s fought over it.”
“What?” said Connelly.
“They’s fought when we killed it. Fought over it and ate his body.”
“Whose?”
“Dog’s,” said the man, and nodded at the leg in Connelly’s hand. “His pack. We killed him and cooked him and when we was done his brothers fought over the pickings. Ate it up.” He grinned wickedly. “Ate it all up,” he said, and laughed.
Connelly looked at the meat in his hand. Turned it over. Then he finished it and tossed the bone away.
In one shanty Connelly watched a man build a lute out of a coffee can and sit playing it and whistling songs, to the great delight of everyone. In another he fought and beat a drunk senseless while the rest of the jungle watched and clapped. When he was done his opponent left the clutch of foul homes, weeping like a child. And in yet another he awoke one morning to find all the others crowded around one woman who would never wake again, having succumbed to some infection or addiction. They did not know her name but buried her under stones and sang for her regardless.
One evening he came upon a jungle that was no more than a collection of tents and rags. He spotted a young man with an eye patch and a bandaged hand sitting guard before a fire. Connelly approached slowly as he always did, showing that he was unarmed. The young man stood and said, “What do you want?”
“Calling in. Just rest and a bit of talk.”
“Well, I’m not in a talkative mood. Look elsewhere.”
“I got some food on me.”
“Whoopte-doo. I don’t care. We don’t want you here.”
“You sure are unfriendly. All the other places have been okay.”
“Well, all the other places aren’t here. I—” The young man stopped and peered at him. “Holy hell, Connelly?”
“Yeah?” He looked closer. “Hammond?”
Hammond crowed laughter. “Hot damn, I knew you hadn’t kicked the bucket! I damn knew it!” He threw his arms around him and they spun around. “Where you been?”
“All over. I was in the woods a while. Been moving from town to town. I almost didn’t recognize you, you look… Well…”
“Yeah,” said Hammond. “I got kind of roughed up getting you all out of jail. You lost some weight, Connelly, Jesus. You’re skinny as a rail.”
“Not too much.”
Pike and Peachy emerged from tents behind Hammond. Pike grinned humorlessly. “Of course!” he said. “Of course, it’s Mr. Connelly. A man such as you doesn’t die easy, Mr. Connelly, if he dies at all.”
Peachy ambled over and shook his hand, pumping it up and down. “Oh, damn, I thought you were dead. I really did. I thought that’d be a shame, you getting busted out and dying just after.”
“Sorry to disappoint. Why are you still sticking with these bums?”
“These boys broke me out. I’m indebted to them. Got to do good by those who done you a decent thing.” He smiled. His bright teeth shone in the night, his dark skin making the rest of him almost invisible. “I am glad to see you, I must say. Seems odd us talking all the time and not seeing each other.”
“I’m glad to see you, too. Good to match a voice with a face.”
“Yes,” said Pike. “Though it’s been no easy thing traveling with a colored, we’re happy to have him along. It’s useful having someone healthy around.”
Hammond glanced at Peachy, but Peachy’s eyes were fixed on the ground.
“Where’s Rosie?” asked Connelly.
“In the tent in the back,” Pike said. “He has weakened since your run from the jail. We worry about him, but I think he’s doing better.”
“And Monk?”
“Gone,” said Pike. “Decided he did not want to keep with us much further.” Hammond frowned behind him but still did not speak.
“Oh,” said Connelly. “What happened at the jail? Did you all get away all right?”
“Easily enough,” he said glibly. “Scratches and bruises here and there. But we survived.”
“And Roonie?” Hammond asked.
Connelly shook his head.
“Damn,” Hammond whispered.
“The way is hard,” Pike said, and sat before the fire with a grunt. “The Lord is testing us, perhaps. One should not complain if He beats us, for surely He is beating us to serve as some great tool, like iron in the
