Through Darkest America

Lathan’s in the south, an’ maybe he ain’t.” Which was all he’d say on the subject, and didn’t tell anyone much of anything.

The owners, though, found it hard to take this new development lightly. For one thing, the problem of feed for the stock was growing more critical daily. The addition of the southern herd didn’t help matters. A long, overland drive simply wasn’t the way to make money on meat. Not ordinarily, anyway. What you did was fatten up a herd and send it lazily downriver by barge. That way, stock didn’t use up energy faster than you could feed them. Still, unusual times called for unusual measures, as Jess put it. And when you were being paid seven or eight times what a side of meat was worth, a man was tempted to take some risks.

So the herd went on short rations, and foragers rode farther and faster to find grain to add to the stores. Stock that died or lagged behind was slaughtered and ground into feed on the spot, to give extra energy to the living.

“Way I see it,” Cory observed wryly, “is we’ll git to Badlands with about half a dozen head. But they’ll be the fattest sons of bitches you ever seen!”

About the best you could say about Pardo, Howie decided, was that you never could say, for sure. One day he’d laugh out loud and slap you on the back and tell you what a fine lad you were; and the next he’d likely ride up and knock you clean off your mount for nothing at all. It made a person jittery, wondering what was coming next, and he was sure Pardo did it for just that reason. He was certain nothing Pardo could do would surprise him, but he was totally unprepared for the shooting lessons.

“Time you learned how to handle arms, boy,” Pardo announced suddenly. Howie was rounding up two young mares that had wandered off with a buck, and Pardo simply pulled him away and stuck another driver in his place.

“No sense carryin’ around weapons you can’t use,” he said. “They ain’t no better than clubs unless you know what to do with ’em.”

Howie hid his shock—and excitement. He’d learned the wisdom of concealing both.

Pardo was a good teacher and Howie was eager to learn. He caught on quickly to the basics, and even Pardo was plainly impressed. “You got a good eye,” he said simply, “a real natural feel for it.”

Howie sensed there was a lot he wasn’t saying. He knew, right off, that he was good, and that Pardo knew it, too. He never was sure how hard firing and hitting a target was supposed to be. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, same as breathing. It wasn’t a matter of just figuring distance, taking aim, and squeezing off a shot. You felt all that—like your eye and your arm had reached out past the barrel of your weapon and touched the target. You knew that was where your shot was supposed to go and it did.

After they’d been out twice with the pistol, Pardo gave him back his other weapon, the rifle he’d taken off one of Jacob’s troopers. With his first few shots Howie shattered a row of small wood chips Pardo lined up for him. Then he threw sticks in the air and solemnly announced Howie was to hit them before they fell. Out of eight tries, Howie split six.

He was disappointed, and showed it. “I reckon I’ll get better with some practice,” he muttered.

Pardo eyed him narrowly. “Yeah. Well I sure do hope so.”

On the way back to camp that evening Pardo took a bright red neckerchief out of his pocket and gave it to Howie. “It’s for you,” he said. “Wear it ’round your arm.”

Howie was puzzled. “What for?”

“Well, godamn, just ’cause I said so!” Pardo snapped.

Howie shrugged and did as he was told. It was better than getting knocked flat, which he figured Pardo was about to do.

“If you don’t know what it means I’ll tell you,” Pardo grumbled. “Where I come from it says a boy’s learned his arms, and ain’t a boy no more.”

He looked hard at Howie.

“That all right with you? That I give it to you?” He slapped his mount, not waiting for an answer, and left Howie behind.

Once, something peculiar happened that Howie didn’t forget. They had left their mounts and walked up a narrow gully looking for targets. The land was dry and featureless with little to see except scrub and stone. Suddenly, Pardo froze and grabbed his arm tightly.

“Look, right over there,” he whispered. “By that shady bush to the left. ”

Squinting, Howie could see nothing for a moment. There was a bush and a sandy-colored rock. The rock seemed marbled, like some other kind of stone veined through it. He looked questioningly at Pardo. Just then the rock twitched, found legs, and skittered away down the gully.

“Lordee!” Howie gasped.

Pardo grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Rabut. They’re coming back. Slow like. An’ some of the others, too. Only you don’t spot ’em much ’less you get down past the border.”

“But… what in the world was it?” Howie wanted to know.

Pardo looked pained. “I told you, boy. Rabut. It’s a animal.”

“There ain’t any animals,” Howie said flatly. “’Cept one.”

“You seen it, didn’t you?”

“I… think so.”

“Think so, nothing. You did or you didn’t.”

“Well…”

“Then there is animals, if you seen one. Not many, but they sure didn’t all die out, like folks’d have you think.” He looked mischievously at Howie. “I eat one once. In Mexico.”

“Pardo!” Howie sucked in a breath, horrified. “Don’t you know they’re—”

“Uhuh. Unclean. Only at the time I didn’t have no Scriptures to eat instead, an’ my belly’d been rubbing my backbone for ’bout a week. It sure seemed tasty at the time.” He patted his flat stomach and laughed. “So far, I ain’t growed no horns or nothing. And don’t figure I will.”

If the arrival of the southern herd created problems for the drive, it solved one for Howie. He discovered that Aimie was neither lost, strayed, nor stolen. She and Maye and the half dozen other girls in their party had followed their employer along the southern route. Seth DeGuire was a businessman, and he’d decided at Big River that while there’d be fewer customers for his girls, white corn, and games of chance on the lower route, he’d also be less likely to meet Lathan’s raiders or government troops. A little profit was better than none, and armies—no matter who they belonged to—had a habit of forgetting to pay for what they got.

It was a subject that Aimie reluctantly mentioned to Howie. “You come and see me all the time, and… you don’t never bring me nothing.”

“Like what?” asked Howie. He knew very well what she meant, but it was a subject he’d put out of his mind. The idea that Aimie bared all that wonderful flesh to others— and got paid for it—was something he refused to think about.

“Burt…” She lowered her eyes and ran a finger along his arm. Howie shivered and pulled away. “Burt, I’m supposed to. You know…”

“He tell you that?” Howie demanded hotly. “That I got to quit coming?” He’d only seen Aimie’s employer once, but he hated the man with a fierce anger.

“Seth?” Aimie looked pained and shook her head. “Lord, no. He don’t have any idea I don’t… . If he did, Burt…”

“He’d what? If he ever hurt you or anything, Aimie…” Aimie said nothing. “I’ll… quit comin’ if it gets you in trouble.”

“No, I don’t want you to do that, Burt.”

“Well I can’t do nothing else.”

“Just a few coppers or something would—be okay.”

“I ain’t got a few coppers,” he said darkly. “Aimie, I don’t want to talk about it no more.”

“Just anything’d do…”