Wolves (12 page)

The captain nods slowly. He looks to Huxley and Jay. “And you gentlemen? Y'all from Borderline as well?”

Gordon answers for them. “They was traveling through at the time. Helped us fight. Agreed to meet up here.”

One of the red-banded guards spoke up. “Yeah, I saw you boys coupla nights ago.”

A few other guards confirm that Huxley and his little group had been spotted before.

Gordon nods. “Yup. Met up at Josie's and went after them.”

The captain eyes the bodies again, this time with a different understanding. “Heard you pulled a gun on Josie's boy.”

Gordon licks his lips, settles back into his saddle a bit. “I was in a state. I apologize.”

The captain shrugs. “Understandable. Wasn't her or her boy that made a fuss about it. Someone else seen it through a window and mentioned it to me, but as I gather, all's well that ends well. Josie got paid for her trouble and y'all moved on.” He shoves himself off the boardwalk and walks over to the bed of the wagon. He looks over the contents more closely now. “You boys did all this by yourselves, huh? Took on a crew of slavers. Then you bring 'em to me. Dead as dogs and their slavers' poles stacked in the back with 'em. Jawbones and all.” He removes his hat, itches his brow, the settles it back on his head. “Well, shit. Where's the slaves? Did they not have any slaves?”

“They did,” Huxley says. “But by the time we caught up to them, they didn't. Off-loaded them somewhere. Had to be somewhere close.”

The captain considers this for a long time, staring down at the bodies.

Huxley clears his throat. “We thought you'd want to know that they weren't out there anymore. We took care of it. If you don't have someone to bury them, then we'll drop them off the side of the road and continue on …”

The captain makes a face. “No, no, no. Last thing we need is for another crew to happen by them while they're still recognizable and start terrorizing my areas. They can be a spiteful bunch. As I'm sure you realize.” He tips his hat back a bit and squints up at Huxley. “No, we'll bury them for you gents. Let them be forgotten about. But you guys …”

He trails off.

Huxley feels a tingle working through him. His fingers itch for the revolver in his waistband.

The captain wags a finger, looking across Huxley's gathered group. “… You guys. I might be able to solve the mystery of where these slaves have gone.”

Chapter 4

The captain points to a group of his guards. “Y'all come take care of these bodies, will you?” He walks around to the front of the wagon and holds out a hand to Huxley. “Captain Tim,” he says. “Elected town peacekeeper, so I'm told.” He says it with a practiced tone of self-deprecation. As though he's not proud of his title. Huxley can tell that he is.

Huxley stares at the hand for a brief moment. It's been so long since someone offered a handshake that Huxley actually wonders what the hell the hand is for, and then remembers. He takes it with some hesitation and gives it a single pump.

“Huxley,” he says.

“Alright then, Huxley. You and your boys want a hot meal?”

Huxley actually just wants to be going. But Tim has pressed a button, and he seems to know he has. Somehow the captain senses that he has Huxley on the hook, and now he's casually letting out the line. Huxley wants to know where the slaves went. Because if he can figure out where the slaves went, then he might figure out where the
slavers
go. And that is the question. Because even though the woman with the black braid is lying dead in his cart, Huxley still has unfinished business.

He wants to hurt the slavers in general.

But one in particular.

Besides, hot food would be nice. “Sure,” Huxley says.

“Well, come on then.”

Huxley and Jay make their way down off the wagon. They both keep their satchels with them. Captain Tim seems to take note, but he only smiles at their precaution and says nothing. Rigo and Gordon find a hitching post and they leave their horses there, also taking their own bags of goods. There is little trust established at this moment. Simply two groups of men—Huxley's and Captain Tim's—that are, for the moment, not going to harm each other.

A parley of sorts.

Tim walks them down the boardwalk to a building just like every other structure—adobe on the bottom, and wood on top. A metal chimney rises out of the roof and pours white smoke. The entire street immediately around the structure smells like charred meat and spices. In the Old World, Huxley would have found the smells cloying. Now they are probably the best he's smelled in some time.

A few guards tag along, but at the entrance, Tim dismisses them. Only he and Huxley's group enter. The interior bears the same smell as outside, only stronger, nearly tangible as though it could be tasted simply by taking mouthfuls of air. The interior is dim and smoky, light coming in from multiple places where the scrap walls don't meet up, and from unglassed windows. Even with all the open spaces, the area is warm almost to the point of stuffiness.

There is only a single wooden table made from what looked like old shiplap boards, surrounded by stools made of semipolished logs. In the center of the single-room structure, a man tends a gigantic cast-iron pot that sits atop a ring of stones holding in the glow of a fire. He is old and balding, and though he isn't fat, it's clear he's better fed than most everyone else.

Huxley remembers a similar set-up in his old farming commune. The purpose was not to be a restaurant, but more of a community kitchen. In his farming community, and the few others he'd come into contact with since then, the work was hard and the hours were long. If there wasn't a man to feed the workers, then the workers found other communes to work in. Plus, they labored from sunup to sundown—they had no time to gather and prepare their own meals. Huxley imagined it was much the same with these outposts and towns in the Wastelands.

Well, not the Wastelands anymore
, he reminds himself.
We're in the Riverlands now. Whatever the hell that means.

Tim greets the man at the pot with a wave. “Food for these gentlemen, please. And I'll take some myself.”

Huxley and his companions follow Tim's lead and sit themselves at the table. Huxley finds himself directly across from Tim, with Jay to one side, and Rigo and Gordon on the other. The food comes nearly before they had finished settling onto their stools. Tin plates bearing some sort of stew or chili, heavy with beans, though there appears to be a generous amount of meat in it as well.

Jay, Rigo, and Gordon attack their food, but Huxley is more reserved.

He eyes the captain on the other side of the table. “This is very kind. Thank you.”

Tim smiles. “Enjoy your food. We'll talk afterward.”

Huxley humors his host by eating half of it before he stops and clears his throat loudly. “You mentioned the slaves. Where they might be.”

That same smile. “I think we can finish our food …”

“I think we should talk.”

The sound of flatware ticking on the tin plates slows to a steady rhythm as Rigo and Gordon glance warily in Huxley's direction. Jay is almost instantly disinterested in his food and more attuned to the conversation and the sudden tension between Huxley and Tim. He holds his fork with one hand, the end of it stabbed down into the center of his plate, while the other hand drops off of the table and into his lap.

Tim's expression does not change, though it dries up some. Then he takes one more bite and leans back from the table, tapping the side of the plate with his own fork. “Fair enough, fair enough. You seem to be very business minded, so let's get right down to business.”

Huxley's lips draw out into a thin line.

Tim continues: “I've got a bit of a problem here in New Amarillo.” His eyes fall to the fork as he spins it around in his fingers. “My problem is with a group of slavers that have decided to make a little outpost out past Firelight Bluff, a ways to the south of here. They call themselves the Reapers, or some such nonsense. I'd like to trivialize it but I won't.” He looks Huxley in the eyes. “They were most likely where your own group of slavers took their load before y'all caught up with them. Hell, the slavers you took out may have been a part of the Reapers. But even if they weren't, I know these slavers.” He leans back a bit. “They stick together. They work together. Some groups are the takers: they go out and make the raids. Other groups transport them. Others sell them. There's no league, but there might as well be.”

Huxley finds himself leaning forward, looking at the other man intensely. “How do you know so much about the slavers?”

Captain Tim smiles thinly and assesses Huxley for a moment. “Well, you'll have to not hold it against me … but, once upon a time I was a Black Hat.”

Gordon makes a noise from the other end of the table.

Huxley purses his lips, thoughtfully. “A Black Hat.”

Captain Tim nods. “Black Hat Bitwell … Timothy Bitwell is my name. I actually worked with none other than Black Hat Davies.” Tim barks laughter.

Huxley raises an eyebrow.

Tim stifles his laughter. “Oh. You gentlemen …” he seems to realize something. “You're Wastelanders, aren't you?”

No answer, which is answer enough.

“You've never heard of Black Hat Davies? Black
Heart
Davies, as we called him?”

Huxley shakes his head once. “Not familiar.”

“Ah. Well.” Tim shakes his head. “Raging maniac, that one. Burned down an entire church full of people because he thought they was hiding a fugitive inside. Never did recover a body, but he claimed the warrant was served. That's when he earned his name.”

“And you were his partner.”

“Not then. Before.”

“So what brought you out here?”

Captain Tim's eyes go dark. Walls go up. His smile stiffens and then falls away. “Tell you what, Mr. Huxley. Let's agree right now that if you don't ask me why I'm here, I won't inquire about why a Wastelander has traveled across the desert to get here.”

Huxley grinds his teeth. “Fair enough. Let me ask you a different question.”

Tim waits.

“If you know so much about them, tell me … where do the slavers go?”

The two men regard each other in silence for a moment. Each man is a stone statue. Each the other's thoughts a mystery. Each trying harder to hide their own truths, than to spot the lie in the other.

“I'll tell you what,” Tim says. “You help me out and I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll tell you
exactly
where the slavers go.”

For a moment Huxley is infuriated that this information is something to be bartered for. But he swallows that down like a big, bitter pill. Then he nods. “Fine. What do you need help with?”

“This outpost of slavers,” Tim starts, a bit cautiously. “They've been hitting little places that New Amarillo has … a vested interest in. They wouldn't dare hit New Amarillo itself, but they're getting a little liberal with their raids.” He sighs. “Once upon a time, it was understood that you went out beyond the desert for that shit—no offense.”

Huxley seethes, feels his body stiff as a board. His jaw locked.

Beside him, Jay drops his fork and sucks his teeth, glaring at Captain Tim.

Tim raises his hands. “I spoke out of turn. It isn't that I wish that upon anyone. I don't. But what I'm trying to say is … what I'm trying to say is that we used to be
ignored
. And we liked to be ignored. And now, for whatever reason, they're starting to hit us out here. Even though the Riverlands keep telling us we're a part of them, we're under their protection, blah blah blah. Slavers ain't got the memo.”

Jay's voice is rigid. “Maybe it's because they've damn near bled the Wastelands dry. Maybe they've murdered and kidnapped everyone out west.”

Tim regards Huxley and his group, all silent now. Even Rigo seems to understand enough to dislike Captain Tim. “Look. I get it. I'm a Black Hat—or I was. You don't like me. But you boys … you got a chip on your shoulder and it looks like slavers to me. So here's an opportunity for you. We're on the same team. Different reasons, but the same goal. We want the slavers gone.”

Huxley clasps his hands together. “You want us to help you take down this slaver outpost.”

Tim nods without hesitation. “Yes. That's exactly it.”

“You're the captain of the guard,” Huxley says coolly. “Stop them.”

“I've got six men besides myself. The Reapers have eight that I know of—not including whoever y'all had your run-in with. Add to that, the men I have are young and green, never been in nothin' but a drunken fistfight, and the slavers are all practiced fighters and killers … I'm sure you see my problem.”

“And you think we're going to solve that problem.”

“Well,” Tim puts the fork down and rubs his hands together. “You did well enough against that other group of slavers.”

“We attacked them by surprise, during a rainstorm.”

“What about at night?”

“Excuse me?”

“If your men and my men worked together and attacked them at night, do you not think we would take them?” Tim lowers his voice. “I'm sure I don't need to remind you who these people are. Complete shit. Scum of the earth. Murderers. Kidnappers. They're taking children and selling them into slavery. And wasn't it Mark Twain that said, ‘All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing'?”

“Edmund Burke,” Huxley corrects. “Not Mark Twain.”

“Oh. Well the point still stands.”

Huxley feels his neck beginning to itch. He rubs it. Scratches it. Lowers his hand deliberately.

Here was a man asking them to help him take out slavers. Possibly the slavers that the woman in the black braid dropped their slaves off with before they went after Borderline, who knew. But in Huxley's mind, none of that truly mattered. He kept asking himself,
If you walk away from Captain Tim right now, won't you just go hunt them down anyway?

And the answer was yes. He would.

Gordon speaks up, somewhat demure. “I wanna do it.”

Huxley glances at him, then at Rigo. The Mexican has followed enough of the conversation to know that they are talking about slavers. Outside of that, it doesn't seem like he cares much, but he points his fork toward Huxley and speaks his broken English.

“If Huxley go … I go.”

Huxley is surprised. Rigo says this as though Huxley has done something to earn Rigo's loyalty. He's not sure what it is, but he accepts it. He doesn't suppose he can do anything else with it. It is a sudden and almost uncomfortable realization that he has taken the reins of this group without even knowing it. He was speaking for them, striking deals for them, and he hadn't even realized it.

Was I in charge of them last night?

It didn't feel like I was. But what if everything they did was because I let them do it?

Huxley pushes that thought away. It isn't useful to him right then.
She didn't deserve mercy. None of them did. They deserved everything they got, and I refuse to feel remorse for it. It will only make me weak. I am not weak. I am strong. That is why I am alive.

But did Captain Tim know who they were?

Probably not.

He'll find out, though.

“Fine,” Huxley says. “We'll help. Only if you do it tonight. And then I want to know where the slavers go.”