Wolves (42 page)

Chapter 16

About a mile from Delhi, on the dark road, just barely illuminated by the stars and a rising moon, Huxley sees his companion coming out of the woods. There is a rustle and he knows that someone is there, but there is no fear in him, because he knows that it is only Jay.

He sidles up next to Huxley and rides abreast. He looks at Huxley carefully in the darkness, assessing everything. “You seem fairly relaxed. I assume you got in and out without having to kill anyone?”

Huxley looks at him, tired. Tired of him being there. “No. I didn't have to kill anyone.”

“Well …” Jay adjusts his seat in the saddle. “Good for you.”

The place where they camped is difficult to find in the darkness, but luckily Brie assigned a watch, and just as Huxley is about to pass the driveway by, one of them steps out of the trees, rifle in hand, and gives them a short whistle.

Huxley looks over his shoulder, sees the young man standing there.

“We must be well hidden,” the young man smiles.

“Must be,” Huxley says.

The young man melts back into the forest and Huxley and Jay follow the row of low-growth pines back to the clearing where the little brick ranch sits, its backyard a clutter of horses. They leave their horses and go in the front door.

Most everyone has gathered near to where the roof has caved in, because that is where the fire has been constructed. A large pot that had been taken from the slave barge is sitting on some coals while a smaller fire burns behind it and is vented out the hole in the roof, dispersed nicely by the fallen tree that protrudes through the ceiling.

The ex-slaves are huddled close to the fire and each other for warmth, sharing blankets and body heat. Brie is crouched down next to the pot, speaking in low tones with Lowell, when they both notice that Huxley and Jay have walked in.

Brie points to the pot sitting on the coals. “We found some water. There's a creek about a mile south of here.”

“Good,” Huxley says. He drops his satchel next to her. “There's food.”

She rummages through the satchel, taking stock of what Huxley has purchased. She comes to the three sheets of cloth paper gently folded against the side of the satchel, the pieces of charcoal enclosed inside. She frowns at them, and then looks up at Huxley with a question on her face.

Huxley takes them from her, almost with a flush of embarrassment.

“What are those for?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly.

He holds the paper behind his back and waits while Brie returns to the satchel. She selects the salt beef and the millet, and returns the rest of the items to the satchel. She slides it back to Huxley. Then, holding the salt beef and the sack of millet, she looks up at him again.

“Thank you,” she said. “You didn't have to do this.”

“Yeah, I did.” Huxley takes his satchel, the papers and charcoal still grasped in his other hand, furtively, almost, and he turns away from her. He doesn't want her thanks. It makes him feel small. It drives something into his heart that threatens to crack what he thought couldn't be broken anymore.

He puts the satchel in a corner of the room and he stands there for a moment, looking around at the ex-slaves. He sees the three youngest ones, huddled together, watching Brie work by the light of the fire, mixing the millet into the boiling water, carving off little pieces of the salt beef.

Huxley sits. Puts his back up against the wall.

He holds the paper and charcoal in both hands, in his lap. He stares at them.

He thinks about his little girl, her tiny hands, the fast, erratic way they moved across papers and canvases and boards—anything that could be drawn on. The way the pictures came to life out of lines that made no sense to him. But she could always see the picture. She always knew where to put all those little lines and marks and then all of a sudden, there would be something there.

I love you more than every single star in the sky.

Huxley blinks rapidly. He looks up at Brie and Lowell, but they are focused on the pot and the fire. He looks over to the three younger kids, and he sees that one of them is looking at him. When he makes eye contact, the kid looks away, still scared of him. Terrified, in fact.

Huxley feels a pang that he immediately stuffs away.

Useless feelings. Useless emotions.

He waits until the child looks up again, knowing that he will, and then Huxley waves him over. “Come here,” Huxley says, and realizes it sounds a bit stern. So he softens his voice a bit. “It's okay. Come here. I want to show you something.”

Now Brie has looked up from her cooking. Lowell, too. She looks cautiously between Huxley and the three children sitting by the fire. Like she isn't so sure about Huxley, but doesn't want to piss him off even more than before. She makes a quick judgment from Huxley's apparent mood, and then seems to acquiesce.

The children watch her, like they are waiting to see what she thinks.

She gives them a look that seems to say,
Go at your own risk
, then turns very deliberately back to the pot, though Huxley can see her eyes glancing back in his direction every so often.

I'm not going to hurt them
, Huxley thinks, resentfully.
Even I have my limits.

The first child stands up, slump-shouldered and nervous-looking. The other two follow him. They walk, shoulder-to-shoulder, taking those small steps that children take when they are certain that they are in trouble. They stop five feet from Huxley, which seems to him too far, so he waves them closer, which gains him another few inches.

“Seriously,” he says. “I'm not gonna hurt you. I have something for you. For all three of you.”

Fear and piqued interest. They shuffle forward so their feet are almost touching his. They peer at what he has in his hand.

He opens the papers toward the three of them. The charcoal sticks inside.

“What is it?” One of the boys asks.

“It's a paper and pencil,” Huxley says. He feels this old voice, unused for so long, the voice of a father speaking to children. He hates it. It feels awkward in his mouth. He feels embarrassed by it. But in the same moment, it comes out so readily. The way the inflections go up. A way to imbue excitement and interest. “You ever had a paper and a pencil? You ever draw?”

The three of them look amongst themselves.

The one that seemed the bravest—the one who had already spoken—scratches at his head. “We used to draw in the dirt. With sticks. Is it the same?”

“It's kind of the same.” Huxley takes one of the charcoal pencils and flattens one of the pieces of paper against his leg. “Let me show you how it works. What's your name?”

“Bryce,” the kid says, fidgeting.

“How do you spell that?”

“I don't know.”

Of course you don't
. Huxley nods and puts the charcoal pencil against the upper left corner of the page. He writes “BRYCE” in bold letters. He points to it. “See? I just wrote your name. That's your name right there. B-R-Y-C-E. That's how you spell it.” Then Huxley hands him the paper and pencil. “That's yours. It's got your name on it. You can draw whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Bryce says. The ghost of a smile plays across his lips, and then is gone.

Huxley looks at the other two boys. “What're your names?”

“Christian,” one says.

“Paul,” the other blurts.

“Christian and Paul.” Huxley writes the names on the other two pieces of paper. “There. Those are your names. This one's yours. This one's yours. You can draw whatever you want.”

The two kids, Christian and Paul, they take the pieces of paper and the charcoal pencils as Huxley hands them over. They look at their names written out, just scribbles without comprehension. But the way that they hold the pencil and paper … they are happy to own something.

Walking close together in a jumble of footsteps, they retreat back to the fire.

Huxley watches them go, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, his lips pressed together. He watches them and he feels a growing heaviness inside of him, a tension in his throat, in his chest, like the great weight of his soul is pulling at the tethers that hold him together, the cordage, and it is straining under the load.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Brie looking at him. He cannot tell from his periphery how she is looking at him—maybe with thanks, maybe with suspicion. He doesn't look back at her. That will only add more weight to him. And he cannot take that right now.

This was stupid
, he tells himself.
A waste of a gold coin. And a waste of three young lives, to boot. They don't need kindness. They need hardness. They need to learn … 

Huxley rises from his spot on the floor and he quickly exits through the front door and into the cold night air. The diffused smell of the wood smoke plays with his nose, plays with his memories, a smell of hearth and home. But it does not come from a hearth, and this is not his home.

He feels his chest hitching as he makes it into the darkness outside of the house. Away from everyone that can see him, away from the eyes that will judge him. He can feel it growing in him like a swelling wave, like a sudden sickness.

In the darkness, hidden by the pines, he drops to his knees and cries for everything that is lost.

Chapter 17

The chill of the night gives way to an unseasonable warmth. Huxley watches the sun coming up above the trees, chasing away the cold, and there is a wind blowing from the south, warm southern air coming in off the gulf. All around them are trees, trees, trees. The forest chokes the road and it has narrowed it significantly, so that the roots of some of the nearest trees are pushing up chunks of ancient blacktop out of the dirt. In areas, the road is low grasses and Huxley begins to wonder how frequently this stretch of the Slavers' Trail is traveled, and if there is a reason for that.

They've gone around Delhi. As promised.

Every once in a while, he sees an old, washed-out hoofprint from a horse, but the edges are worn away by age and rain and the settling of the dirt it's pressed into. He tries to judge their age, but he really has no idea what he's doing. He has spotted the track, that should be something. He feels confident that the print couldn't be recent. Not
too
recent.

Jay rides alongside him on the right, peaceful in the growing heat, almost seeming to enjoy himself. He always did seem like that. Like he was one pleasant thought away from letting out a soft chuckle. Like none of this could touch him. Like none of it was real.

How do I be like you?
Huxley would sometimes ask himself. But the thought would come unbidden, and immediately afterward he would chastise himself:
You don't want to be like Jay. That's not something you should want.

The sun is reaching about the peak of its arc now, seeming to hover there in the sky, not really gaining altitude, not really falling. Like a thrown ball, that moment when it appears to just hang.

Brie rides up beside him on the left, a light sheen of sweat on her brow. “Odd weather.”

Huxley looks up at the sun, dazzling his eyes. He blinks away the sunspots. “It is Louisiana. Was.”

“Yeah. Was.” Brie adjusts herself in the saddle. “How close are we to Tallulah?” she asks.

Huxley shrugs. “Black Heart Davies said a day's ride between the towns. So I'm guessing sometime around dark.”

There is a long pause while Brie watches him.

“What?” he asks.

She looks away. “I thought those boys didn't need a mother,” she says, quietly vindicated. “I thought you said they needed to toughen up.”

Huxley scratches his beard. “They do.”

“Well then what was all that last night?”

Huxley doesn't look at her. Prefers to look at the road. He doesn't answer.

Brie presses. “What was with the paper and pencil?”

He spits off to the side. “You know …” he shakes his head, working for control. “I'm not … I don't like it. You know that right?”

Brie glances at him, unsure of what he's talking about.

“I don't like this,” he says again. “I don't enjoy these kids having to do these things. I don't get anything out of it. It doesn't make me happy. I hope you know that.”

She sniffs and considers. “I guess … Yes.”

“I just wish that they'd learn. I want them to be hard.” He looks at Brie, plaintively for a half second, then turns away. “I wish my daughter had been harder. I wish I'd taught her how. Maybe she'd be alive now.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Huxley says nothing for a minute. Then, “She drew.”

Brie looks at him, assessing him differently.

“My daughter,” he clarifies. “Nadine. She drew.”

Brie looks down at her saddle for a while.

Huxley looks straight ahead, grinding his teeth against the pain in his chest.

“Thank you,” Brie says, very quietly.

Huxley doesn't acknowledge. He acts like the conversation had never happened.

In the quiet of the road, in the monotony of the horse's steps, Rigo suddenly calls out: “Oye!”

Huxley looks at Rigo, who is standing at his bench seat on the wagon now, both reins in one hand, pointing with the other. Huxley snaps his eyes to where Rigo is pointing—down the road.

At the very end of where Huxley can see, where the road seems to turn into the forest like some strange optical illusion—the dead end that never truly ends—there is a man. A horse. The horse is standing there in the middle of the road, the man standing next to the horse. One hand up on the saddle, like he wants to jump in, but has been waiting.

Waiting … 

Faded red shirt.

The same red shirt as the man that swam his horse through the river and got away.

“It's him,” Huxley blurts. “The guy, the one that got away!”

Recognition seems to dawn on Brie's face as well.

Huxley realizes that the wagon and all the riders have stopped.

Jay is nearly standing in his stirrups. “We should go get him!” he urges. “Grab his ass before he gets to Cartwright!”

Huxley almost kicks his heels into the sides of his horse, but he stays himself at the last second. The horse feels his legs tense and seems to jump at the start, but Huxley pulls back the reins.

Something's not right here … 

The man in the red shirt has vaulted himself into the saddle now. He looks over his shoulder at them as he puts the spurs to his horse, and even from this distance, Huxley can see his eyes, and they look scared, but everything else seems stiff and false.

Why was he just standing in the middle of the road?

“Huxley!” Jay says, slightly louder this time. “Let's fucking go!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Brie shouts.

Huxley whips his head to his left, glaring at her. “What?”

To his right, Huxley can hear Jay's horse stamping its feet. Jay is growling under his breath, “Come on, Huxley, he's gonna get away! He's getting away!”

Brie points down the road, but her eyes are locked with Huxley's. “You're gonna run off after this guy? It could be a trap!”

“You see me going after him?” Huxley snaps.

“Hux!” Jay is nearly shouting now, the bloodlust evident in his voice. “He's gonna get away! We've got a chance!”

Brie shakes her head. “Don't do it.”

“Fuck that,” Jay bites back. “You gonna listen to this bitch? I'm goin' after him. I'll bring his scalp back.”

“Jay!” Huxley calls after him.

It's too late. Jay has already made up his mind. He turns his horse and jams his heels into the beast's flanks. The horse snorts and leaps forward, clattering down the roadway after the man in the red shirt.

“Shit!” Huxley can't let him go off by himself. He starts urging his horse forward, looking back over his shoulder at Brie and shouting, “You stay right here! Don't move!”

He rides hard, hunched in his saddle, peering down the road just over the top of the horse's head as it bobs up and down with each rapid stride, the mane flying in Huxley's face, but he feels like he is holding on for dear life.

Ahead of him, Jay roars down the roadway and shows no sign of slowing down.

What are you doing, Jay? Why are you doing this?

He just can't stop himself. He can never fucking stop himself.

The road meanders out into another curve, another turn, a straightaway, a hill—going up, then coming down. He pushes the horse, keeps spurring it on, yelling in its ear to keep going. He's gaining a little ground on Jay, but it doesn't seem like enough. Jay is leading him down the road, still riding recklessly ahead.

Think about it! Think before you act!

Why was the man just standing in the middle of the road?

Huxley feels the squeeze in his stomach, the sensation, that tiny little moment in time when you put your foot out for a step and realize that you miscalculated, the step is not there—the quarter second or so when your mind tells you,
You fucked up, you're gonna fall, you're gonna hurt yourself, here we go … 

The road flies by underneath them. He keeps looking ahead, wondering if the man in the red shirt is going to appear. He's a little closer to Jay, but then he wonders what the hell he's going to do to get Jay to stop pursuing? And then he wonders,
What if we just catch the guy?

What if we catch him?

What if we can kill him?

You should kill him … 

That is not his thinking. That is Jay's thinking. Reckless. Foolhardy. Giving into rage rather than thinking his way through it. That is not him. He is better than that.

He comes abreast of Jay's horse and reaches out quickly, before Jay can steer away, and he grabs a hold of the reins, pulling it back just a bit to slow it. He totters there, unbalanced, half of him stretched out and the space between their horses widening as the confused animals pull away from each other and make sharp noises of distress. Huxley regains some of his balance and pulls back on his own reins, the horses slowing now to a stop in the road.

Jay wrestles his reins out of Huxley's hand, then spins on him, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?” he demands.

Huxley looks past Jay to the empty road. “This is wrong!”

“Wrong?” Jay is breathless. “Fucking
wrong
? This is right! That man is going to get to Tallulah and he's going to tell everyone there, just like he did in Delhi. Except for one of these times, they're going to get the gumption up to send a posse out to meet us, if they haven't done it already! I hate to break it to you, brother, but we've been pillaging their shit pretty good all along the Slavers' Trail, and they can't be real happy about it!”

“And whose fault is that?” Huxley almost screams. “I didn't kill the ranch keeper! I didn't kill the random motherfucker on the side of the road! I didn't kill a man for his cart of beer! That was you! It was fucking
you
!” Huxley flails his arms, wants to strike Jay, wants that conflict, feels it brewing in him like it is imminent. “I'm not even talking about the morality of it, you fuck! I'm talking about this being a trap!”

“A trap?” Jay seems flabbergasted, like he hadn't considered that.

Of course you hadn't!

“Why do you think he was sitting in the middle of the road?” Huxley demands. “Jesus Christ, Jay! You're fucking reckless!”

Jay starts looking around, eyes wide, suddenly realizing their situation.

Huxley spins his horse around. He looks behind him. “He had to have gone off the road somewhere we didn't see him. He's in these woods somewhere. Somewhere behind us.”

The anger, the frustration, growing.

This isn't me, this isn't who I am.

I'm not this person. I'm not this desperate man at the end of his rope. I'm not you, Jay. I'm not you and I never will be!

He turns on Jay. “Why the fuck was he in the middle of the road?”

Jay raises his hands, mirroring Huxley's sudden anger. “How the fuck should I know?”

Huxley stabs the air with his rifle. “Because he wanted us to see him, that's why! Because he wanted us to chase him!”

“Why are you getting angry at me?”

“Because what did you think was going to happen when you randomly start killing people, Jay?” Huxley is struggling. Struggling to keep control of himself. “We could've been in and out, could've found the man we were looking for, without ever having called attention to ourselves. But you had to fucking kill everyone we came across! You're fucking everything up!”

Jay points at him. “This guy? This Cartwright guy? The man with the tattoo? That's
your
mission, brother! Not mine. I told you what I was here for. I told you I was here for blood and death. I told you I was going to kill every one of them that I could.”

Huxley cannot deny it, so he deflects. “I'm so tired of your mouth!” he grinds out. “You're reckless! You don't
think
! You just wanna kill, kill, kill, you're so wrapped up in your fucking vengeance that you just never STOP AND THINK!”

“Look who's standing in the middle of the road with me!” Jay's face is only inches from Huxley's, their stirruped feet tapping together, the flanks of their horses brushing.

They are galaxies colliding, stars igniting, compression, gravity, momentum—powerful, undeniable forces swirling around each other.

“Everything we've done we've done
together
!” Jay shouts at him. “I never forced you to do anything, and if you ever took my advice on anything, it's because deep down inside, you
agreed
with me! Deep down inside, you wanted those things to happen just as much as I did!”

That's not me!
Huxley's mind is railing.
That's not who I am!

“I'm not you!” Huxley screams. He lets go of his reins and he is about to reach across to grab whatever of Jay's face or head or neck that he can take in his hands and drag him to the ground where he intends to beat him into submission, or maybe to kill him … 

And that's when they hear the gunfire.