Wolves (41 page)

Huxley has to take a steady breath to keep himself under control. He nods to the guard. “Thanks. Don't keep the gate open on my account.”

“We will,” the guard says, a little tiredly. “So make it quick.”

Huxley spurs his horse. “I will.”

He gets about ten feet from the gate when the guard calls out again, “Hey, wait!”

Huxley stops. Hand touching the grip of his revolver. Heart stopping in his chest, and then hammering at double-time. He turns back to the gate. Looks at the guard who stands there, still in the middle of the road.

“Yeah?” Huxley says, his voice almost a croak.

They know, they know, they know … 

The guard squints at him again. His little beady rat eyes. “You pass any group of travelers? Maybe about a dozen of them? A wagon and a bunch of horses? Anything like that ring a bell?”

Huxley looks skyward, pretending to think. “Uh … no, I don't believe I did. Seemed like the road was fairly empty.”
Give him something, something, deflect!
“I did see some wagon tracks, but never the wagon itself. Didn't pay it much mind. Why? You looking for someone?”

The guard shrugs. “No, but they might be looking for us. You see a group of people like I just described, you turn around and go the other direction, you hear? That's a bad bunch. Been looting and murdering all the way from Shreveport. Some wild men from the Wastelands I hear. Goddamned savages.”

Huxley nods stiffly. His knuckles ache from the grip he has on the reins. “I'll keep an eye out.”

“Best you do,” the guard says. “Best you do.”

Chapter 15

As the guard predicted, there are only a few stalls open in the market by the time that Huxley arrives, his chest still thready and feeling raw. He keeps waiting for the guards to reappear, to have realized their mistake, and to arrest him, or to simply shoot him down. At any point in time, around any dark corner, Black Heart Davies could be waiting for him, his revolver out and ready to be fired.

Time's up
, Huxley thinks.
That's what he'd tell me before he put a bullet in my brain.

And I'm no closer to finding Cartwright than I was a few days ago.

Time's up, and I've wasted it all.

None of the stands that are open are selling things Huxley wants. He bypasses them all, keeping his head down, trying to blend in, that difficult balancing act between being casual and looking like you're trying too hard to be casual.

The general store is a little wooden construction, something like a barn, tucked in the middle of all the closed stands, the carts empty for the night, all their wares sealed up and carried away by the vendors. But from the inside of the general store, lamplight still glows. By now the streets of Delhi are dark, and out beyond the market, Huxley can hear the tavern warming up for the night, all the miserable field hands and cattle drivers and slave runners gathering for booze and women and to hopefully forget about their lives.

Huxley presses into the general store.

A bell above the door chimes, a lonely, tinny sound.

There are shelves all around him, a collection of wooden slats and posts, crammed full of random assortments of objects. Old rusty things that have become useful again. New things made from other old rusty things. New things forged fresh that don't have a spot of rust on them. Food. Booze. Gunpowder. Lead balls. Lead ingots, to mold your own.

“We're closed,” someone says. An old man, judging by the voice. Gruff and irritable.

Huxley peers around a shelf of goods, sees the shopkeeper standing at the counter, an old man, but big. Hands underneath the counter. Resting on something that Huxley can't see. The two men catch eyes for a moment.

Huxley points a thumb behind him. “Your door's not locked.”

The shopkeeper presses his lips together so they flatten out in front of his face. His white eyebrows are furrowed over dark eyes. He is broadly built, and tall as well. A thick neck that hides his jawline. Sloped shoulders that press against a stained button-up shirt. Perhaps not as old as Huxley had thought, but his hair is completely white, and his features weathered enough to give that first impression. Older than Huxley, for sure. Perhaps in his early fifties.

The shopkeeper watches him, something more than just normal caution in his face. But Huxley is now focused on the counter behind which the shopkeeper's hands are hidden. Huxley nods toward it. “You got a scattergun pointed at me right now, sir?”

The shopkeeper sticks out his chin. “Might be I do.”

“Any reason why?”

“You go through the gate?”

“I did. Answered all their questions.”

The shopkeeper makes a
harrumph
noise. “Come here.”

“You planning on shooting me?”

“You planning on robbing me?”

“No. I have money.”

The shopkeeper pulls the scattergun out from behind the counter, lays the big barrel on top, keeps his hand on it, finger on the trigger. “You don't rob me, I won't shoot you. Lay your money down. Right on the counter. And get it slowly. You touch either of those pistols and I'll let this thing eat.”

Huxley very slowly reaches for the satchel of coins. He pulls it out, holds it up delicately between his thumb and forefinger as he takes two steps to the countertop. “You treat all your customers this way?”

The shopkeeper takes a long look at him, up and down, but it does nothing to cool him down. He seems to get more irritated. “Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbles. “What jackass let you through?”

Huxley isn't sure he's supposed to actually answer. He lays the satchel of coins on the counter. “I think …” he finds his throat has gone dry. He works some saliva into his mouth and swallows it, keeps glancing down at the big bore of the scattergun. “I think there's some mistake.”

“Fuck you,” the shopkeeper says, dismissively. “I know who the fuck you are.”

Huxley stiffens, all attempt at humor or deflection or deception leaves him. Now he stares at the barrel of the scattergun, and then at the shopkeeper, and he wonders if he can get his revolvers out before it blows a hole in his belly.

“I just want to buy food,” Huxley says, quietly.

The shopkeeper works his jaw. He knows who he is dealing with, and that realization carries with it a significant gravity, which seems to just be dawning on the man. There is a second thought behind the shopkeeper's eyes, a painful hesitation, like he is thinking maybe he should not be pointing a gun at Huxley, that maybe Huxley was the wrong person to mess with …

The shopkeeper shifts nervously, eyes glancing around. “Now … now you listen to me, okay? I don't want any trouble from you. Nor your crew. I know what the slavers have done to your kind, okay? That ain't me. I just run a shop. You ain't got an issue with me or my family. I hope you don't want any trouble either.”

“I just want food,” Huxley says again, quietly, trying to be nonthreatening.

“Well …” the shopkeeper adjusts his grip on the gun. “Here's the deal: I'm going to keep this here gun on you. You're going to get what you need from the shelves. You're going to give me the appropriate amount of gold pieces from your pouch—no more, 'cause I ain't a crook—and then you're going to leave. I'm going to forget that you came in here. And you're going to forget that I held a gun to you. And you're going to pass by Delhi. And you're never going to bother us again. Do we have a deal?”

Slowly, Huxley nods. “Deal.”

The shopkeeper nods toward his store. “Then get to gettin'.”

Huxley backs away from the counter a step, then turns away to face the shelves. For a brief moment, he thinks about snatching his revolvers and gunning the shopkeeper down. If he dove out of the way as he spun on the shopkeeper, chances are the scattergun wouldn't catch him.

No.

That was Jay talking.

There was no need for that here. If the shopkeeper meant to raise the alarm, he would've done it already. He only wanted to close his shop and go to his home. Maybe he had a wife. Maybe he had children. He wanted to be allowed to continue with them. And Huxley didn't want to gun him down, not really. He didn't want to run from the town like an animal. He wanted to pay for his goods like a normal person and then leave, no shots fired, no blood spilled.

But he's one of THEM.

He's a part of the SYSTEM.

Huxley closes his eyes.
He's just a damn shopkeeper.

So Huxley opens his eyes and he goes to a shelf directly in front of him that he can see has food provisions on it. He isn't going to shop around. He doesn't think the old man wants him to do that. And he doesn't want the scattergun on him any longer than necessary. He grabs items without really paying attention to what they are, catching labels only in the periphery of his conscious.

Beans.

Millet.

Dried corn.

A chunk of salt beef.

He takes what he can carry in his arms and in his satchel and he hauls it to the counter. The shopkeeper looks over the things, tallying them in his mind.

“Eight gold pieces. And that's rounding down.”

Huxley opens the satchel and takes out the requested eight pieces. As he does, his eye floats away from the shopkeeper and his scattergun for the first time, and he sees some of the other things that have been arrayed on the counter for sale. Funny, how these things used to be stationed at the counter as
impulse buys
. Huxley cannot imagine anyone buying anything on impulse anymore.

But then his eyes fall on one of the objects for sale.

A battered tin can, in which are sticks of charcoal pencils.

Huxley stares at the pencils and a silence grows.

The shopkeeper shifts, uncomfortably, and the barrel of the scattergun scrapes an inch or two across the counter.

Slowly, so he doesn't spook the shopkeeper, Huxley reaches out and takes three of the sticks of charcoal from the tin can and lays them gently beside the other supplies. He looks up at the shopkeeper, who is watching Huxley with an odd expression. He is curious. Somewhat taken aback. What brigand or thief needs a charcoal pencil?

“Do you have paper?” Huxley asks.

The shopkeeper clacks his teeth together. “I do.”

They share a moment of expectant silence.

“Will you sell it to me?”

The shopkeeper's eyes stray off to the side, as though he is trying to look behind him. “I'd have to get it. And I don't want to take this gun off you. I don't trust you.”

Huxley lays both his hands flat on the countertop. “Please,” he says with all the earnestness he can muster. “Three pieces is all I need. I'll give you another gold piece for the lot.”

The shopkeeper hesitates for a long time, but Huxley can tell he is thinking.

“Who's it for?” the older man asks. “You draw?”

“No.” Huxley shakes his head. “It's not for me.”

The shopkeeper lets out a laborious breath. Then, holding the scattergun with one hand, he reaches back behind him, feels around a shelf, keeping his eyes on Huxley. His fingers float over and around a ream of tallow-colored cloth paper. They finally touch the paper, and he deftly counts out three pages. He brings them over. Slides them gently onto the counter.

Huxley pulls out another gold piece, places it with the other eight.

The shopkeeper takes the gold in one hand, slides them into a pants pocket. “Anything else you need?” his voice is almost polite.

Huxley shakes his head and gathers his items.

The shopkeeper watches for a moment. “You don't seem like a bad man to me.”

Huxley pauses in the middle of stuffing the sack of millet into his satchel. “No?”

The man across the counter leans back an inch or two, seeming partially relaxed for the first time, though he doesn't take the gun off of Huxley. “You just got a devil on your back. I know a thing or two about that.” The shopkeeper looks very serious for a second or so. “It'll end up eating you alive. It's best to let it go.”

Huxley clears his throat and stuffs the rest of his purchased items into his satchel. When he is done, he leaves his hands up on the counter and faces the shopkeeper. “Maybe you're right. But I have to ask … have you seen Nathaniel Cartwright come through here?”

The shopkeeper considers this for a long time.

Huxley is about to turn around and walk away.

The shopkeeper takes a sharp breath. “Look. I've got no part in your fight with him, whatever it's for. And I ain't gonna dime him out, because eventually that'll come back on me. It always does when it comes to Wild Nate. But I will tell you this … if I were hunting Nathaniel Cartwright, I'd take into account that he's not a man who runs and hides.”

Huxley raises his eyebrows.

“Hunting bears ain't like hunting deers,” the shopkeeper says. “When you hunt a bear, you take into account that it's probably hunting you back.”

Huxley just nods. Taps the counter twice. “Thank you.”

The shopkeeper sniffs, then nods toward the door. “Don't come back.”

“I won't,” Huxley says, turning for the door. “You've got my word, whatever it's worth.”

If the shopkeeper expresses his faith or distrust of the promises of a murderer and a thief, Huxley doesn't hear them. He pushes through the shop door and out into fast-falling darkness, a windy chill gusting down the main street.

Huxley mounts his horse, stiffly, looking over his shoulder, wondering how much of what the shopkeeper said was truth, and how much was the myth and legend that surrounds a certain stature of outlaw. In all the dangerous shadows, now there was more than just a posse from Monroe or Black Heart Davies to worry about. Now there was also a man with a scorpion tattoo. A man who had a reputation for not running and hiding. A man that everyone seemed to know as “Wild Nate.”

But they don't know me. They don't know where I came from, what I've been through.

Perhaps Wild Nate is not as wild as they think he is.

Perhaps he knows that there is something much more dangerous than him out there.

Jay's old words rattle through Huxley's head, and they warm him like a fire when the cold darkness surrounds him: “Desperate men with nothing to live for are the most dangerous animals alive.”

You made me who I am, Nathaniel Cartwright, Wild Nate, man with the scorpion tattoo.

You made me a desperate man. You took away everything I had to live for.

You created this monster. And now it's coming after you.

Huxley rides out of Delhi. The guards at the gate give him a nod and a tip of the hat. They holler out warnings to Huxley to beware of the Wastelanders, oh how dangerous they are, especially in the dark.