Wolves (31 page)

“I didn't figure you were.” One eyebrow comes up. “Do you think I am?”

Huxley grinds his teeth together.

The man gestures languidly back to the table Huxley had just abandoned. “Sit. And we talk.”

Huxley peers into the shadows where the man's eyes should be, trying to ascertain truth from trickery. “What are we going to talk about?”

The man fixes him with a serious look. “Life and death. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Chapter 3

Very slowly, the pair walks back to the little table next to the smoky fireplace. They walk beside each other, perhaps an arm's length apart, neither wanting to go in front of the other. Out of the corner of their eyes, they watch each other, and everyone in the bar watches them as they make this long but tiny journey with slow, steady steps, each one planted with the realization that the other man might turn on him in an instant.

Huxley has pulled his hand away from his revolver, but his thumb still sits on his belt, inches away.

The other man's hands might be empty, but he is not without weapons, Huxley notes. Underneath a thick jacket of canvas, the man has a trench knife on one hip, and on the other, only visible when he steps with his right foot and the jacket swings open a bit, Huxley can see a holstered sidearm.

Not a revolver.

An actual cartridge pistol.

Huxley reaches the seat that is probably still warm from him sitting on it, and turns to face the man. Enemy? Perhaps. It didn't feel terribly friendly at this point.

The man pulls out the other stool and sits, gesturing for Huxley to do the same, as though he owns both the table and the chairs. Huxley takes his seat. He sits stiffly, with his back erect, both feet on the floor, and his hands in his lap.

The man scoots his chair in, props his elbows on the table and shows his hands, wiggling his fingers for effect. “Generally speaking, when two men who might kill each other are trying to parley, they talk with their hands on the table.”

Keeping his eyes on the man across from him, Huxley slowly extracts his hands from under the table, disliking how far they are from his weapons now, but at least both men are equally disadvantaged.
Except he has a cartridge pistol. He'll get rounds off long before I can even pull the hammer back. Unless his doesn't work. Unless he keeps it for show.

Around them, the rest of the men in the tavern seem to realize that it will not come to a fight—not just yet anyway—and they slowly turn back to their conversations with each other, or staring down into the head of their ales. Josie comes from behind the counter, carrying two clay tankards with a very unsure look on her face. She is not predisposed to feeling off-balance, Huxley can tell.

She sets the tankards in front of the men at the table and doesn't speak a word. Before she turns, she glances at Huxley, and there seems to be some sort of an apology there.
You should be sorry, you backstabbing bitch,
Huxley glares at her as she walks away.
You took my gold and then sold me out.

The man across from him takes his tankard and raises it to his lips, taking a long, slow sip as he watches Huxley over the rim of the cup. He sets it down and wipes a thin layer of froth from his lips. Just keeps his eyes on Huxley.

Huxley takes a swallow of his own ale. It's bitter and sweet and spicy all at once. Good, but it cloys at his tongue. Or perhaps it is just the situation that he now finds himself in. He looks for the door. It stands there, closed, the outside world inaccessible.

Walk out the door and you won't leave Shreveport alive.

Huxley rubs the cool, soft surface of the tankard. “How do you know who I am?”

“Word travels fast for wanted men,” the man says. “Your warrants were posted here just yesterday. And now here you are.”

Huxley is very stiff, sitting on his stool. He looks at the man's uncovered head. “Where's your hat then?”

The man grunts and opens his jacket. He reaches into the inner pocket and withdraws a big chunk of weathered black cloth which he then plops on the table between them. It unfurls when it strikes the wooden top and Huxley can see what it is.

“You
are
a Black Hat,” Huxley stares at the boonie hat, the color now more of a charcoal from sun and weather and sweat.

“I've been called worse.” A smile twitches the corners of the man's thin lips, but then disappears quickly. “Some of the others wear theirs around town, and that's fine, but I find that Shreveport's promises of cooperation with the Black Hats only go so far as its leadership. But the leadership can't help me track a man down. The smallfolk can, but they know they'll get their throats cut if they're seen talking to a man in a black boonie hat.” He shrugs, takes another sip of ale. “I could compel them. But that's not my style.”

“That's very forward thinking of you.”

“Very
old
thinking of me.” The Black Hat looks around, a moment of wistfulness passing over his face. “It's amazing what a decade will do.”

“Why aren't you killing me?” Huxley says, unable to restrain the question any longer. It blurts out and then he wishes he could suck it back in, but it's already been said, cannot be unsaid.

The Black Hat drums his fingers against the side of his tankard. He looks at Huxley. Then down into the murk of his ale. “I should be. That's true enough. But in my somewhat substantial time hunting people down and killing them in the name of justice, I've learned that sometimes being a little slow to pull the trigger can turn out to be advantageous.”

“You want money?” Huxley snorts. This was not the hardcore manhunter he'd been expecting from a Black Hat. But maybe this one was just a poser. Maybe he just played the part so he could threaten people and then coerce valuables out of them.

Huxley gets his answer in the form of a dark glare from the other man.

“No, I don't want your money. Try to bribe me again and I will end this straightaway.” The Black Hat leans back in his seat, appearing to take a moment to harness his anger. “Do you believe me, Mr. Huxley?”

Huxley does believe him. He nods.

The Black Hat lays his hands flat on the table. “I'll cut to the chase since I don't think either of us wants to be sitting here at this table. If I wanted you dead, I'd've just followed you out into the street and done it in the back of the head. It's not a duel. I'm not looking for a gun battle or an honorable fight. You're a walking dead man. My job is to put you down. I'd slit your throat in your sleep, if that was the best way to do it. Doesn't matter how it gets done, as long as it gets done. Except that you're not my quarry.”

Huxley's stomach is roiling. He feels suddenly queasy. “Your quarry?”

The Black Hat shakes his head. “No, you're not. Secondarily, from Josie's little case of mistaken identity, I gather that you and I might be looking for the same person.”

“Who are you looking for?” Huxley's mouth feels numb around the words.

“Nathaniel Cartwright. He's a slaver. He's got a lot of tattoos. One on his neck.”

“A scorpion,” Huxley mumbles.

“Yes.” That wan smile again, coming and going almost instantaneously. “The difference is that I'm looking for him because that's what I've been charged to do. In all honesty, I never hold a grudge against a man I'm sent to kill. The grudge is on the behalf of the councilmen and the chairman that I serve. Me? I'm just a means to an end. And I'm okay with that. But you …” he wags a finger at Huxley. “Here you are in the armpit of what is left of America, looking for a man that I also happen to be looking for. Why?”

Huxley feels a tremble that starts in his legs and goes up through the small of his back and into his shoulders. He hides it as best he can. It isn't fear. It's simply … strangeness. A dark, grisly sort of excitement, perhaps. It doesn't feel distinctively negative, but neither does it feel good.

Huxley's voice is almost a whisper when he tries to speak, so he clears his throat and says it again, more forcefully. “He took something that belonged to me.”

The Black Hat nods slowly. “Yes. He has a habit of doing that.”

“Why did the council send you after him?”

The Black Hat tilts his head slightly, but then shrugs. “It's fairly common knowledge, so you might as well know. He attacked a caravan under my sworn councilman's banners. Killed several of his men and made off with his daughter and a few other household members. The councilman's daughter and the others were recovered alive, but Mr. Cartwright escaped. And there were allegations of rape.”

Of course.

Huxley snorts. “So it's perfectly okay for slavers to rape and pillage out in the Wastelands, but God help us if they do it here in the Riverlands. Is that right?”

The Black Hat nods. “Yes, that's about the size of it. The Wastelands are part of the Riverland Nations in name only. The claim on that territory exists only on paper. Nobody owns the Wastelands. They simply are what they are. They send us out there in pairs, as though two of us might corral the whole, giant fuck-upedness that is the Wastelands. Two men for the entire southwest. It's just a gesture. Nothing more. There's no expectation that the lawlessness will actually be curbed. So, yes. Pretty much anything goes in the Wastelands. But here between the rivers, we have rules for a reason. People travel under councilmen's banners so that they can get safely from point A to point B. Without that ability to travel, there is no trade, no economy, no government.”

“And yet you support the slave trade. The very thing that keeps the Wastelands lawless.”

“I don't support the slave trade,” the Black Hat corrects. “I serve at the pleasure of the council. And they support the slave trade.”

“You're a part of the same system.”

The Black Hat nods. “I am. I understand this. I've made my peace with it. Because, the truth is, Mr. Huxley, everything is built by slaves. Slaves, violence, and coercion. Subjugation. Indentured servants. However you want to term it. Without computers and machines to do everything for us, human misery is the only way to get anything done. You think I'm wrong?” The Black Hat shakes his head. “You sound educated when you speak. Think back, Mr. Huxley. Think back to every civilization that ever was, and ask yourself, ‘Where did it come from?' Capitalism and free trade? No. Every civilization that ever was or will be was built on a bedrock of slavery, in one form or another. Slaves, violence, and coercion. I promise you, Mr. Huxley, that is the way of humanity. I dislike it. I find it distasteful. But disliking something doesn't make it untrue. And I like to maintain an honest relationship with myself. What about you?”

Huxley grabs his dark ale and drinks a heavy draft that tingles the back of his dry tongue and settles in his stomach with an almost uncomfortable warmth. Why bother with this man? He clearly had his own opinions. And nothing that a wanted man was going to tell him would change that. This was not an opportunity for the airing of grievances.

Huxley glances for the door again.

“You look like you want to leave,” the Black Hat says. “I won't keep you much longer. So let's get down to the facts, as they say. You know why Nathaniel Cartwright is a wanted man. And then there's you. And apparently, you have your own reasons for wanting to find Nathaniel Cartwright. I don't know what you plan to do with the man once you find him, though I imagine just from looking at you, that it isn't pleasant. On top of all of that, you're a wanted man yourself. And here's the kicker: I'm very familiar with the affiant of your case, Captain Tim of New Amarillo. And I can only imagine his affidavit is a stretch at the very least, and most likely an outright lie. So now I see an opportunity that does not interfere with the operation of my moral compass, which, as wayward as it sometimes points me, I still do try to follow.”

The Black Hat props his elbows on the table and holds up a single index finger. “I'm going to give you one day. I'm going to tell you everything I know about Nathaniel Cartwright and where he is, and the minute you walk out that door, the clock starts. You get one day, and then I'm coming for you and Nathaniel both. And I will find you. This is what I do. This is what I've been doing for the last decade of my life, and I'm quite good at it. So you have a one-day head start on me. And you're going to go find Nathaniel. And when you find him, you're going to deal with the business you have with him, and then you are going to leave him for me—dead or alive, it doesn't matter to me, as long as I can clear his warrant. And then I will have to kill you as well, but at least you will have a chance to do what you came all this way to do.”

Huxley looks away, blinking, looks at the flames spewing out from between the logs on the fireplace, breathes in the oaky smell of smoke coming off of it. “He took something …” Huxley has to stop, take a slow swallow, and breathe. “He took something from me …”

Fire. Smoke. Everything burned to ashes.

Charity.

Nadine.

“… I just want to talk to him about it,” Huxley finishes, his voice quiet.

The dubious expression on the Black Hat's face turns into something like a look of pity, though it is just a hint, as though it was a tiny drop of that substance, one of the very few that the Black Hat still had left. Huxley avoided his gaze.

The Black Hat takes a deep breath. “You must've loved that person very much, whoever they were. To come all this way … I know how love can turn to anger. When it's taken away from you unexpectedly.” The Black Hat says the last part a bit harshly, reliving some old memory of his own. He clears his throat. “But I'm not in the business of mercy, you understand. Warrants for execution were signed for both you and this man. There's nothing that can be changed about that. And you cannot escape us for very long, Mr. Huxley. Especially between the rivers. We're numerous, and so are our eyes and ears. If you intend to get far, if you intend to find this man and whatever or whoever he took from you, then my deal is the best chance you have of actually accomplishing that. Bitter as it might taste to you.”

Huxley stares into the fire, feeling the heat of it contracting the skin on his face. He looks back sharply. “If I'm a dead man anyway, then why not just kill you right here and be on my way? I've been wrongly accused. I might as well earn my death warrant.”