Wolves (38 page)

The tall man takes his cold eye off Niner and faces the bar. Now he is just a wet, black poncho. Like a picture of a ghost.
Or Death.

“We want to buy slaves,” the tall man says. His voice reminds Niner of the Wastelands—dry and dead.

Philly glances between the two newcomers and Slope, a nervous grin still twitching away at his face, his slightly glazed eyes wondering if he was drunker than he felt, or if indeed this entire situation wasn't making sense. Slope's expression stays suspicious, and Philly seems to take some comfort from that.

While the slave seller and the two newcomers are staring at each other, Niner drops his right hand off the table and onto his right thigh, just above where his revolver is holstered.

Philly stands up from his stool at the bar. “Gentlemen, if it were any other time but right now—late in a rainy, disgusting evening—I would be more than happy to broker a deal. Unfortunately, the bad weather is delaying some of the caravans that were planned to arrive today.” He opens his arms, apologetically. “I have nothing to sell you right now. But you're welcome to have a drink. My friend Eddie here can put you in a room, and perhaps the weather will clear up in the morning and we'll see some of the wagons that were due today.”

The tall man and the Mexican exchange a glance that lasts a moment. Neither speaks. The tall man wipes a drop of rainwater from his face. Clears his throat. “So you're the man to talk to about slaves? You're the … uh … 
broker
?”

“That's exactly what I am!” A smarmy smile and an outstretched hand. “Philly Thomas. And you are?”

“Your caravans won't be coming.”

There is stillness.

All parties frozen in their poses. Philly's is the most extravagant, with his salesman's smile and his outstretched hand hanging there unreceived in the air. Slope with his right elbow on the bar top, his hand hanging close to his holstered revolver. Eddie standing stiffly behind his bar, looking like he is struggling with whether to cut and run or make a grab for the scattergun he keeps behind the counter. And poor little Jocelyn, completely unaware of the tension rippling around the room, caught in the middle of everything.

A drop from the ceiling and a drop from the tall man's coat hit the ground at the same time, a simultaneous, wet
plap.

“Excuse me?” Philly says, dumbly.

In a flash, the tall man's poncho flies open, a revolver swinging up in his right hand, the snick of a hammer coming back. The flap of the poncho sweeps droplets of water through the air that scatter across Niner's tabletop.

The tall man levels his revolver at Philly and shouts, “Nobody move!”

Slope is already moving, his revolver half out of its holster.

The Mexican produces a rifle from under his poncho and fires from the waist, a giant boom in the enclosed space.

Slope's chest bursts, spraying the ground and Jocelyn with blood.

She screams and ducks away from Slope's falling body.

Both Philly and Eddie cry out in fear, raising their hands.

Slope's body hits the ground, but he is still trying to pull the revolver out, his teeth bared in pain and rabid determination. The tall man has another revolver, this one in his left hand, which he fires twice in rapid succession. The first strikes the bar top, sending up wooden splinters, the second strikes Slope in the forehead, killing him instantly.

Niner grabs the handle of his own revolver.

One quick movement and the tall man's left-handed revolver is pointing directly at his face.

Niner freezes.

Two eyes now, looking at him from under the soaked poncho hood, the thin slash of the man's mouth nearly completely covered by the beard and mustache, but you could intuit the cruelty in it.

“Don't,” the tall man says.

Jocelyn is still screaming.

Eddie is cursing over and over. “Holy fuck! Holy
fuck
!
”

Philly just keeps staring at Slope's dead body, saying, “Whoa! Whoa!” Like these two violent strangers are a team of horses that might be reined in with a pull and a strong word.

The Mexican opens a lever on his rifle and reloads it.

The tall man has his left-hand revolver pointed at Niner, the right-hand revolver at Philly, and incidentally at Jocelyn, who is clinging to him and still wailing.

The tall man stabs the air with the barrel of the revolver. “Shut that bitch up!” he shouts to be heard over her.

Philly snaps out of his trancelike stare at Slope and snakes an arm around Jocelyn, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Quiet, honey. Quiet, quiet, quiet.” He looks at the tall man. “What do you want?”

“You,” the tall man says. “You're coming with us.”

Philly pushes Jocelyn gently away from him, keeps his hands up, palms out. “Easy, man. You don't want to do this. I've got friends.”

“Do you think they can stop me from killing you right now?” the tall man asks, almost earnestly.

Philly is silent. He knows his powerful friends can't help him.

“Come with me. If you fight or resist, I'll kill everyone in this tavern. Then I'll kill every man, woman, and child in this godforsaken town of yours. I'll burn it to ashes. In fact, I should do that anyway. But I'll show them mercy. If you cooperate.”

“Just two guys?” Philly says, nervous, but a bit dubious. “You're gonna wipe out a whole town?”

“More than two,” the tall man says. “And in the rain? Late at night? Not so hard. We could probably just slit everyone's throats in their beds. Might not even have to fire a shot. Stop talking and come with me or I'll take your knees off and drag you. One way or another. Makes no difference to me.”

“Okay. Jesus-fucking-Christ. I'm coming.”

The Mexican, his rifle reloaded, strides to the bar top. “Whiskey,” he says.

Eddie is confused. Then his shaking hands point to the whiskey bottle.

“Whiskey,” the Mexican repeats.

Eddie grabs the bottle from the bar top and offers it over.

The Mexican grabs the bottle, tucks it away somewhere in his poncho. “Gracias.”

The tall man takes a hold of Philly, spins him around so he's facing the bar and grasps him by the collar with his right hand, the revolver still in it, the barrel rapping on the back of Philly's head as a constant reminder. The tall man turns and fixes Niner with that stare again.

“You just stay right where you are.”

Then the tall man and the Mexican open the door and drag Philly out into the pouring rain and darkness.

The door slams closed behind them.

Jocelyn erupts, her hands flapping around, not sure what to do with herself.

Eddie yells out a curse and finally grabs the scattergun from behind the counter, as though it'll do him any good at this point. He crosses around the counter to where Slope is lying crumpled against the bar. He shakes the man, calls his name.

Eddie looks at Niner, grim-faced. “He's dead.”

Niner comes up out of his seat. “No shit he's dead! He's got a hole in his head, you dumb fuck!” Niner draws his revolver, clutching it in white knuckles as he storms around his little table, jostling it and causing his tankard of little beer to spill out, frothing onto the wood plank floors. He moves quickly to the door.

“What are you gonna do?” Eddie gasps, standing up, hugging his scattergun.

Niner puts his hand on the doorknob and glances over his shoulder. “I'm gonna see who the hell these people are. Get behind the counter. And get Jocelyn, too. And Jesus Christ, Jocelyn, could you calm down? Stop screamin'. I can't hear a goddamned thing.”

Eddie takes her by the shoulders, quite tenderly, actually, and leads her back behind the counter, murmuring comfort to her while she sobs and wipes tears and blood from her face. Niner watches them, waits until they are hidden, then he turns back to the door. He can't hear anything outside except for the rain, and then, the sound of a horse whinnying, but it could've been anybody's horse.

He opens the door slightly, tries to peek out, but his vision is hampered by the light of the bar. The tavern itself is dim, but compared to the blackness without, it is blinding. He can't see out into the dark rain. He grits his teeth and swears under his breath, then yanks the door all the way open and strides out into the night, still under the tavern's awning and out of the rain.

“Whoa there,” a voice calls out from the darkness.

A woman's voice. Almost cheery, but with a hint of warning to it.

Niner is extremely conscious of the revolver he still holds in his hand, hanging at his side, barrel pointed at the planks he is standing on. He blinks rapidly, scouring away the light from inside the tavern. As his eyes struggle to adjust, things begin to take shape in the darkness.

Horses. At least a dozen of them. Standing in the middle of the street.

And there, in the center of them all, a wagon. In the back of the wagon, Niner can see a shape that he thinks is the Mexican, and it is tying rope around another shape, which he assumes is Philly. Another shape, tall and lanky, stands at the driver's bench, seeming to look straight at him.

“Hey there, Mister,” the voice calls again.

Close by.

His eyes focus on the horse and rider closest to him.

By the light of the single lantern hanging under the awning of the tavern, the little flame guttering around in the wind and rain, he can make out the barest details of a piebald roan and its rider. A smallish shape, dressed in an oversize coat and a wide-brimmed hat that droops in the rain.

The rider's head lifts up and the dim lantern light plays across a woman's face, long and homely, smiling broadly at him, her teeth a brilliant white in the gloom.

A rifle, leveled at him.

“Why don't you hop back inside?” she says in a voice that sounds cheerful, but is hewn out of cold rock. “Nothing much to see. And besides, it's a frightful night to be caught outside.”

Slowly, Niner backs away, into the doorway, and closes the door on the frightful night.

Chapter 12

They ride hard eastward in the driving rain.

What do I feel right now? What do I feel?

Mystery. Void. Nothingness.

Maybe some satisfaction.

Huxley is soaked through completely, even the leather overcoat cannot keep him dry. He had shivered, but now his entire body is clenched against it, his jaw aching as his teeth grind together. He cannot feel his hands holding the reins. He just jerks his arms awkwardly to snap the reins when he needs to, barks out an order to the horses that spurs them on, little tricks and calls he's learned from Rigo who is much more of a horseman.

They are cold and wet too.

A half an hour outside of Monroe, Huxley yanks back on the reins and pulls the brake lever. The horses trundle to a stop, each of them issuing stout fogs of breath from their nostrils. The dozen or so riders that flank him—some more adept at piloting their horses than others—pull themselves to a stop. Their horses stamp the ground, almost impatient to continue on. There is no light, save for the lonely oil lantern that flickers at Huxley's side. It barely illuminates the road before them, and mostly the horses just follow the worn path of their own accord.

Huxley looks around him. The riders are watching him.

Brie, one of the more proficient riders, stays front and center of them. She holds her rifle casually across her lap. Huxley thinks there is more to her history than she has said. She is not just the daughter of some village healer. There were other things that went wrong besides just being captured by slavers. Her hatred burns too hot.

Who knows what they did to her. To her family. To her village.

“Why are we stopping?” Brie asks.

From his spot, hunched over on the bench next to Huxley, Jay peers out of the hood he's drawn around him to shield himself from the cold rain. “Yes. Why are we stopping?”

Huxley doesn't answer. He stands up from the bench, his legs sore and stiff in the cold. He looks into the back of the wagon. Rigo is there, and Lowell. Both of them are sitting, hunched much like Jay, with their rifles pointed at the man who is bound and gagged.

“Stand him up,” Huxley says.

Rigo and Lowell bend down and drag the man up to his feet. He makes a pathetic whimpering sound and tries to say something, but the words are unintelligible through his gag. Huxley looks carefully at Rigo, and then at Lowell. Rigo simply looks to Huxley, waiting for further direction. He is not bothered. And Lowell … his eyes are dead. His eyes say,
I don't care what happens next.

That's good
, Huxley thinks.
It's better that way.

Better to feel nothing than everything.

“Move him to the edge of the wagon,” Huxley says, gesturing.

The bound man is trembling. Cold or fear. Perhaps both. Tears in his eyes, or maybe just rain.

Rigo and Lowell hook their arms through the bound man's and drag him backward, wordlessly but noisily protesting, back to the edge of the wagon where it drops off into mud and old, cracked concrete.

Huxley grabs the lantern from Jay and holds it up, casting its yellowish illumination over the wagon. He steps over the bench and into the cargo bed. Two strides. He stands in front of the bound man, the lantern swinging between their faces so they can see each other.

The bound man's face is terrified.

Huxley's face is … nothing.

He reaches up and hooks his index finger around the cloth gag, yanks it roughly out of the man's mouth. Like a stopper yanked from a keg, the words start bubbling out of him.

“I don't know what the fuck you want! I don't even know! Just tell me what you want! I can help you! Just promise that you'll let me go! You don't want to hurt me. I'm a nice guy. I am. I just do my work and then I go home. I don't hurt anybody. What's this about? Did Barkley send you? Is it about that big fucking nigger? I didn't find out about him being crazy until after the auction, I swear to God. What am I supposed to do? Have a full medical history of every slave I sell?”

Huxley holds a finger to his lips. “Ssh.”

“What do you want? Tell me what you want. If you're from Barkley, I promise, I'll get him a good deal next time. I pay for my mistakes. I mean, I don't think I was responsible, but in the interest of keeping a good customer, I sure as hell will cut him a deal! Philly Thomas never cheats anybody. I'm an honest businessman, I swear to God! Does he want me to pay him back? Fuck, I'll pay him back for it. I'll pay him back with interest, how's that?”

Huxley grabs the man by the face. “Quiet, I said.”

“Okay,” the man whispers. “Okay.”

“Philly Thomas. That's your name?”

The man gives a shaky nod, Huxley's fingers still clamped onto his cheeks. “Uh-huh.”

“You broker the slave auctions.”

“Yes.”

“You broker the buying and selling of people's lives. You're the middleman in this whole system. It's you. Encouraging the buyer. Encouraging the seller. Giving these motherfuckers a pat on the back as you wish them luck and happy hunting when they go out past the rivers and into the Wastelands to grab another couple of lives.”

“I … I …”

“Let me ask you a question.” Huxley bends the man's head, his grip harder and harder into his face, so that the man winces and groans. “Have you ever been to the Wastelands, Mr. Philly Thomas? Have you ever watched these slavers do their work? Their
honest
work? Have you ever seen the bodies all naked and stacked up like cordwood, covered in each other's piss and shit, while these filthy savages rape mothers just feet away from their dead infants? Have you seen them play their games? Have you seen what passes for amusement in the Wastelands? It all amounts to murder. Rape and murder, every bit of it. And you stand here in front of me telling me that you're an
honest
man, and that you do
honest
work, and that you've never, ever hurt anybody.”

Philly Thomas is weeping now. There is no mistaking it for rain.

“You see these faces?” Huxley jerks his head to force him to look at the riders that have crowded around the back of the wagon. “Look at them. Look at their eyes. Know who they are. You'd be selling them right now, if it weren't for me. And do you know what they are? Do you?”

“I don't know,” Philly cries, closing his eyes.

“They're ghosts, Philly. They're the ghosts of dead families. They're the ghosts of villages that were just trying to build something. Did you ever think you'd see them in the Riverlands? Did you think they'd never come to haunt you? Did you think you could just keep stealing and never have to answer for any of it?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Philly sobs, opening his eyes wide. “Is that what this is? Revenge?”

Huxley pushes his head away in disgust, releasing him.

“Oh my God, you're going to kill me.” Philly starts to wail.

“No,” Huxley says. “I'm not.”

Philly stifles himself for a moment. “You're not?”

“No. I'm looking for a man.”

“Okay,” Philly looks suddenly hopeful. “Okay, okay. I know lots of people. Just tell me who he is … wait … if I tell you about him do you promise not to kill me?”

Huxley sniffs, snorts, spits off the side of the wagon. “Sure.”

“Okay. Who are you looking for?”

“Nathaniel Cartwright.”

“Nathaniel Cartwright?” Philly looks horrified.

“He just came through Monroe, didn't he? Don't lie to me.”

Philly is thinking hard. “He did, he did. But he's on the run. You know that, don't you? The Black Hats are after him. You guys aren't …? No. Obviously you're not Black Hats.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Three days ago. I haven't seen or heard from him since.”

“Where is he going?”

Philly looks pained. “The guy at the bar, the other guy that was sitting in the corner, that's one of his guys. Niner's his name. Wild Nate left him to see who was coming after him. You should've grabbed
him
.”

Anger flashes over Huxley's face. “Well it's a bit late now, huh?”

Brie interjects from where she sits on horseback. “Should we go back and get him?”

Philly nods emphatically. “Yes. He'll know way more than I do.”

Huxley glares at him. “Well, then you're not much use to me are you?” Then he turns to Brie. “And we can't go back. The town'll be on high alert, if they aren't already sending a party after us. We've gotta keep moving forward.”

“Forward to where?” Brie demands. “If we don't know where Cartwright is, where the hell are we going?” Then she fixes a savage look on Philly and hoists her rifle. “And what do you think we should do with you in the meantime, huh, Big Guy? What should we do with a useless fucking slaver?”

Huxley lets out a noise like an angered dog. “Kill him.”

Philly gasps. “But you said …”

“I said I wouldn't kill you if you told me what I wanted to know. You didn't tell me what I wanted to know. You're useless. And you're a slaver. You're already dead to me. All that remains is pulling the trigger.”

Philly jerks around, looking for a sympathetic face, and finding none. Everyone is hollow.

“Wait! Wait!” Philly stammers. “Now … I can't say for sure, okay? But I overheard some things.”

“Bullshit,” Brie says. “He's lying. Just trying to save his hide.”

“No, no, no!” Philly shakes his head. “I'm telling the truth.”

Jay kicks a foot up onto the back of the bench and rests his elbows on his knee. “Just kill this motherfucker so we can find a place to sleep.”

Huxley clenches his jaw. Wipes dripping rain off of his nose. “Speak. Speak for your life, Philly. Make it good. Convince me.”

“Okay,” Philly nods rapidly. “Like I said, like I said … uh … I overheard them talking. Wild Nate and some of his crew. I acted like I didn't know, but I kind of have to know, you know? I have to know everything. It's what the Black Hats expect when they come rolling through. They drop me a few coins, I give them info on where people are, you know? So I try to listen. So, right before Wild Nate leaves town, I hear him talking with some of his crew in the back room at the tavern. And I already know that he's in trouble. Word travels fast. He wasn't even supposed to be in Monroe, but me and him go way back …” Philly seems to realize he might not want to align himself with Nathaniel Cartwright. “Well, I mean … we're not friends or anything. But … but … you know, I try to do people favors when I can. So he's not even supposed to be in Monroe, but I let him come in and … and … well, fuck, you already know what I do for a living. I know it's not right, okay? I know that. But I have to eat, too. Everyone has to make a living. So I helped broker his auction. And the councilmen, shit, most of them don't care. They're always half a step from going to war with each other anyway, so they'll buy from Wild Nate, even if they know he's wanted for kidnapping another councilman's daughter. They don't give a fuck …”

Huxley crosses his arms over his chest, buries his cold fingers in his warm armpits. “Philly. You're talking too much. I need you tell me where Nathaniel Cartwright—or Wild Nate, or whatever it is you call him—I need to know where he is.”

“I'm sorry.” Philly takes a breath. “I was getting there. I overheard him talking to his guys. He's only got a few slaves left. In fact, he may have just …” Philly looks around cautiously and lowers his voice. “He may have just killed them off. They weren't selling. Not for three towns. And they were weighing him down. Anyway, he's probably already in Vicksburg. But that's the thing, that's the thing … he's not coming back through. And that's what I heard him talking about. He and his whole crew are going to cross the Mississippi to defect.”

“Defect?” Huxley asks, confused.

“To the Democratic States,” Philly says, matter-of-factly. “Once he's over there, he's as good as gone. The whole eastern borderline, about a hundred miles east of the Mississippi? It's a fucking warzone. I wouldn't go over there. I mean … how bad do you want this guy?”

Huxley seems deep in thought until Philly's last question sinks in and registers with him. He snaps his head up and stares at the man standing in front of him. Like you would stare at someone who has lulled you into a moment of complacency, and you then wake up and remember that you find their existence repugnant.

Huxley looks at Lowell. “Lowell. Do you want to do something?”

Lowell seems unsure. But those eyes … 

He nods.

Huxley looks back up at Philly, makes sure he has eye contact before speaking again. “Shoot this man in the leg.”

“What?!” Philly is shocked for half a second, then starts to struggle. “No! No! Absolutely not! You can't shoot me! I told you everything I know!”

Lowell steps back away from the man, leveling his rifle, but not quite bringing it up to aim. He is hesitating, Huxley can see it. Huxley stands there, looking at Lowell, wondering if he is wrong. Wondering how much of this Lowell is feeling. But the more you feel, the less you feel. Wasn't that the conundrum?

Huxley keeps telling himself,
He needs to do this. This is necessary.

“Lowell,” he says again, slowly and sternly. “Shoot him in the leg.”

Lowell looks at the man standing in front of him. The boy's expression is inscrutable. Then he looks at Huxley. Then he looks at Rigo, who is standing just behind Philly, holding the slaver in place. They lock eyes for a moment. Then Rigo nods.

All the while, Philly keeps protesting, jerking against Rigo.

Lowell looks back at Philly. “You're an evil man. I won't enjoy shooting you. But I have to.”