Through Darkest America

Most welcome of all were grain dealers and feed sellers. The drive couldn’t possibly carry enough supplies to feed the hungry herd the whole length of the trip. And moving stock burned up a lot more feed than they did penned up. Prices were outrageous, but the owners grudgingly paid them; telling themselves the money they’d already been promised by army buyers would more than make up the difference. If they got where they were going, that is.

“And that’s the thing,” said Cory Halgood, a driver friend of Pardo’s, “you don’t never get rich riding herd, but you don’t get frightful poor, neither—like ol’ Jess here stands to be when Lathan turns him upside down an’ lets all that army gold run out his boots.”

Pardo and the other drivers laughed, and Jess Blinker turned red and then laughed with them. “Hell’s fire,” he grumbled, emptying the last dregs of his cup. “I got to keep makin’ money. Somebody has to buy corn for deadass drivers that don’t have the sense to earn it themselves!”

“We’re just trying to help,” grinned Cory. “No sense leaving all them good barrels of whiskey for Lathan.”

The crew grinned, but Jess stared them down. “That just possibly ain’t too funny, or far from the truth. The rider that come in from Ozark…”

“You can’t believe nothing an Arkansawyer says,” Pardo put in. “They’ll tell you most anything.”

“If you’ll sit still an’ listen,” Cory agreed.

Jess eyed them warily. “Trouble is, you can believe most anything you hear these days.” He filled his cup and downed it with a grimace. “What he says is likely close to bein’. true, Pardo. A whole regiment of Lathan’s men ain’t where they’re supposed to be. An’ this feller works for the government in Badlands and ought to know what he’s saying. If it’s not true, it ought to be. If you was Lathan, what would you be doin’ now?” He snorted and stamped his big foot. “Why, you’d set loose that regiment—which you could spare easy with no real fightin’ going on—and just follow the damn parade drifting in and out of here to gawk. And that’d be that, for certain. Likely enough it will be.”

The men considered that, and looked at their cups.

“Only thing is,” Pardo pointed out, “them troopers don’t want to lose that meat any more’n you do, Jess. They figure on gettin’ here a lot quicker than Lathan can.”

“Figuring and doing is two different things,” Jess grumbled. “I figured on findin’ copper pennies growin’ on trees up in Ohio country, but I never seen any when I was there.”

Howie liked both Cory and old Jess. Cory was near twenty or so, but he treated Howie like he was a man doing a man’s job—which was more than you could say for some of Pardo’s friends. Cory was tall and lean with dark hair and heavy brows. Deep lines were etched about his eyes—the sign of a man born outdoors, who’d seldom slept under a roof. He’d been in the army once and had fought in Colorado, but hadn’t liked it much. That was Cory’s way, for the most part. When he got tired of what he was doing, he just upped and walked away and did something else and never mind who didn’t like it. Still, he hid his face under a heavy beard, now. “Just in case some army feller’s got a memory longer’n his nose.”

Life on the drive was dreary and hard, but Howie decided it was some better than camping out with Klu and Jigger—keeping one eye open all the time, and one hand on your trousers. One thing galled him plenty, though; Pardo had taken his weapons at the cave and never given them back. Howie hated him for that. He’d rightfully earned those guns, if anybody had. They were his. No one had any call to take them away. If you could use ’em, he told him-self ruefully, you might still have them.

He vowed that day would come, too. And soon. He wouldn’t be caught like Papa had, on foot with no weapons to fend off men who had both mounts and guns. He’d had the strength of half a dozen men and what good had it been? A man on a horse with a pistol in his belt and a rifle on his back—that’s who ran the world now.

He was far enough from that at the moment, he decided glumly. On foot, helping tend the smelly herd and running errands for Pardo or whoever could find him. At the end of the day he was too tired to think who he was, much less who he ought to be.

Just before sundown, Cory found him above the river at the small stream they used for washing and bathing.

“You git out of there, and make yourself decent,” he yelled. “We got things to do!”

“I got about ten hundred hours sleepin’ to do,” Howie told him, “if I ever get enough stink off to matter.” He was up to his shoulders in the cool water, his clothes drying on the bank.

Cory laughed. “Matter of fact, you don’t have to get too decent, where we’re going. Ain’t nobody else gonna be.” Howie looked at him. “And where’s that?”

“That’s for me to know an’ you to find out,” Cory grinned slyly.

“Then it’s likely you’ll be goin’ alone. I ain’t much on surprises.”

“You’ll take to this one, all right.”

Howie studied him. “What I think I’ll be doin’ is sleeping, Cory.”

“Not much you won’t,” Cory assured him.

Howie decided he was drunk. There was no other way to figure the silly, lopsided grin on his face.

“Git out of there,” Cory told him. “Too much water ain’t good for you. Hear?”

Howie faced him. “Look. I reckon I’ll pass up whatever it is. Thanks just the same.”

“Oh, you’re just as welcome as you can be,” said Cory. He moved off the bank and set one big boot in the stream. Howie stared at him.

“I don’t recollect ever gettin’ a feller your size dressed and all,” Cory yawned, “but I suppose I can handle it.” “Now just a damn minute!” Howie retreated upstream.

“The wetter I get,” Cory warned, “the madder I’m gonna be…”

Chapter Fifteen

Howie wished he could crawl under a rock somewhere, or die right where he was.

“You are a fine looking boy,” the girl told him. “You rightly are. Didn’t no one ever tell you that?”

She looked at him with dark, lazy eyes and bit her lip in a way that made Howie twist up inside. “Nobody never did, and I ain’t no boy,” he said bluntly.

She threw back her head and laughed, tossing black hair over bare shoulders. “Well whatever you are, I like it. For certain I do!”

Howie scowled at Cory, but Cory wasn’t looking. The other girl had perched herself in his lap and was doing something to his ear. Howie could have killed him. Worse than that, he wasn’t sure whether he ought to be mad. Cory was either treating him older than he was—and a lot older than Howie felt—or else was making a big fool of him. Either way, he wished the girl would leave him alone a minute so he could get his wits back and figure how he felt about anything.

It had all happened too quick to do much thinking. Cory had just dragged him into the big tent where the drivers drank corn and out the other side. No one had paid any attention to them, except one bearded driver who looked up hazily at Howie like he might want to start something. Howie quickly looked the other way and caught up with Cory.

Behind the big one, there were smaller tents with plank and keg tables and an oil lamp. There was a bottle of white corn, and straw pallets in the corner. The girls came out of nowhere, and it was plain enough they knew Cory. It didn’t take Howie but a second to figure what was happening. That’s when his belly turned upside down and he started looking for things to crawl under.

“Listen, you ain’t even told me your name,” said the girl. “You know that?”

“Burt,” said Howie.

“Well. How do, Burt. We goin’ to get along just fine, you know? I’m Aimie, and that’s Maye.” She laughed and climbed in his lap and kissed him soundly. “Only I can’t introduce you ’cause Maye’s kinda occ-you-pied. Lordee, I guess!”