Wolves (8 page)

Chapter 10

They ride into the settlement of New Amarillo like desert ghosts, pale with dust and crusted with mud and stiff with dried sweat and salt deposits. This settlement has no walls, but it is large enough that it doesn't need one—it would take an army of slavers to sack this town. Men with guns and red cloth tied about their upper arms walk the streets in pairs and they watch the three men warily though not aggressively as they enter the town.

It is similar in its arrangement to Borderline, but here the buildings seem more permanent, some even made of stone and mortar. Most are simple adobe, but they are also made with scraps from Old World constructions, and Huxley can tell that this settlement did not exist before the skyfire.

Huxley stops in the dirt street and regards a pair of the red-marked guards who stand at the door of a squat, wide building.

“Help you?” one of them asks.

“Is there a place to room for the night?”

The guard nods and takes a step toward them. He looks Huxley up and down with a suspicious eye, but then points off down the main street to a building constructed of an adobe base and a wood and metal second story. The windows glow with lamplight and several horses are hitched at the front of the building.

“Inn and tavern down there. Josie's the lady that runs it.” The guard hooks his thumbs into his belt. “Y'all peaceable folks?”

Huxley takes a second to answer. He wonders if the guard noticed. “Of course.”

The guard's discerning eye tracks over the filthy group in front of him. “You folks wouldn't be plannin' on causin' any trouble, would you?”

Huxley shakes his head and dust sifts off of his beard. “No, sir. We're just traveling through.”

The guard nods to them. “Alright now.”

The riders work their way down the street and dismount in front of the tavern. As they're about to hitch their horses, a young boy wanders up to them.

“I can take your horses, Mister.”

Huxley looks back and forth between Rigo and Jay. Neither man gives an indication of whether they trust the young boy.

The kid takes a dirty old baseball cap off his head and scratches the back of his neck with the bill. “Mister, we ain't got no walls around here. Guards do a good job, but if you're plannin' on staying overnight and you leave 'em on the hitching post, there's a chance they might not be here when you wake up.”

Huxley wipes grime off his face with grimier hands. “Well … where you gonna take them?”

“We got a stable around back. Got enough room for all three.”

“You work for the tavern?”

“Josie's my mom,” the kid says dismissively.

“Okay.” Huxley says. “What do you want for a room and three stables?”

“Coin or barter?” the kid asks.

Huxley doesn't want to show the coins he has. There is something about having them that makes him feel like it will call attention. And he doesn't want attention. He wants a bed to sleep in, out of the elements for the night, maybe a hot meal, and then to be gone and never remembered. “Barter,” he says. “How far will .22 ammo get me around here?”

The kid purses his lips and sizes the men up. “Take fifty rounds for the three of you and your horses. That's per night.”

Huxley makes a face. They hadn't counted the .22 cartridges in his satchel, but he thought there were approximately a hundred. He snorts and spits in the dirt. “Tell you what, kid. I think ten for each man and his horse is a good number. Brings us up to thirty.”

The kid chews the inside of his lip, giving Huxley a funny look. His eyes track over Huxley's companions for a second, seeming to count them up. But then he just nods, briskly. “Yeah, alright. Deal.”

Huxley pulls his satchel off the horse and reaches in, feeling his way around the different items until he finds the old coffee can. He pulls it free and counts out thirty cartridges and places them in the kid's cupped hands. The kid scrutinizes them, and then nods, shoving them into a little pouch tied to his belt. He takes the reins of the horses and the men remove their possessions, then the boy guides the horses around back.

Josie greets them at the front door. She is a plain woman with a stocky build and sandy hair she keeps in a tight braid. She has a large smile full of badly kept teeth and she welcomes them in with a wave of her thick arms.

“Malcolm already take your horses?”

Huxley nods. “He did.”

“Good.” Josie makes her way toward them.

Behind her, there is a roughhewn counter with several large clay jugs that Huxley assumes are full of homemade wine and spirits. The tavern area is cramped, containing only the bar and a few tables with chairs around them. Two men sit at the bar, and one solitary man sits secluded at one of the tables, pulled into a dark corner like a spider in a web.

“What you boys looking for? Food? A place to stay?” Josie asks when she is before them.

Huxley looks down at her. “A room. Some beds. Food, if you have enough.”

“Sure do,” she says cheerfully, and draws them into the tavern. “Have a seat. I'll get some food in you and get your room ready while you eat.”

They take a table and Josie disappears into what they can only assume is a kitchen area. When she returns, it is with a platter of what appears to be deer or antelope meat and some potatoes. She sets the platter before the three men and they eat until they have finished the entire plate and can fit no more in their mouths. She takes the three men to their room, a drafty space on the second floor where cracks in the walls between the boards and the sheets of corrugated steel let a dim glow of lantern light across the wall in stippling patterns.

Exhausted from their ride and fuller in their bellies than they have felt in months, the three men collapse on the dirty mattresses that lay unadorned on the floor and they are quickly asleep.

Chapter 11

Huxley wakes the next morning to the sound of a horse stamping up to the hitching station directly outside and below their room. Lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with an old blanket wrapped around him in the cold room, Huxley sees the gray sky through the cracks in the walls and roof and knows that it is dawn.

Below the room, he hears muffled voices.

A child's voice and the voice of a young man.

This is the first bed he's slept in since his own bed in his own house. He doesn't want to get out of it. He wants to stay there, stay warm, stay comfortable, imagine that things are better. But there is something about the voices below that makes it impossible for him to close his eyes again.

Huxley rolls in his mattress, and the old springs inside it creak and pop. He leans against the weathered boards and panels and presses his head against the crack there, where his right eye is illuminated in a vertical slash of diffused light. He can see down into the dusty street below where all the green things have been trampled to death by feet and hooves, leaving only a fine powder of dirt.

Below their room, the front door of Josie's tavern is shielded by an overhanging piece of corrugated steel that makes an awning. Beyond this, Huxley can barely see the horse and Josie's boy, but he can clearly see the rider as he swings from the worn saddle and kicks his legs about, working blood back into them. It is a filthy man with sandy hair, his face mottled by a mix of ash, soot, and dust from the road. His hair is shaggy and unkempt and beneath a layer of that same white dust, Huxley can see where the dirt has clung to and darkened around a crusted head wound, the blood now black and sunbaked, the hair stuck in a clumpy rat's nest near his temple.

It is the sentry from the gates of Borderline.

The one Huxley left alive.

The sentry is now leaning tiredly against the horse. His voice is like dried branches crackling in a fire. “Get me some water, boy,” he says.

“You need me to put your horse up, Mister?”

“No. I just need some goddamned water.”

“Well … what've you got to trade?”

“I ain't got nothin' to trade with you.”

“I can't just give away water, Mister! My mom'd …”

The sentry from Borderline pulls out an old cartridge pistol, maybe the very same one that once belonged to Barry from the smokehouse. He doesn't point it at the boy, but lets it dangle loosely in his hand, a warning to the boy that he is not to be messed with.

Huxley can feel his whole body tighten like a compressed spring.

The sentry's voice is low now. “Just get me some water. And then I'll be on my way.”

“Dammit …” Huxley rolls off of his mattress and leaves the thick blanket behind and the smell of old skin and sweat trapped in that fabric. The cold air in the room coils around him and makes every muscle tense.

He snatches up his revolver and, dressed only in filthy jeans, bursts through the bedroom door and rushes down the rickety steps to the main level, his feet still clumsy with sleep.

When he reaches the front door of the tavern, he finds it partially open. Through the narrow doorway, he can see the sentry in profile, pistol held down at his side. Huxley pulls the hammer back on the revolver until it snicks into position and then eases through the opening in the door so that only his arm and half of his body protrudes through the door. The revolver is held out level and he aims for the sentry's head.

“Don't you fucking move,” Huxley says.

The sentry looks at Huxley, his own sidearm still hanging, pointing at the ground. “Hey, there's no need …”

Huxley emerges fully from the door. The dawn air is even colder now and he can feel his skin tighten around him with gooseflesh. He keeps the big revolver pointed at the younger man. “You're right. There's no need.”

The sentry's eyes narrow. “Hey …”

He's going to recognize me …

Between the two men, Josie's boy backs up a few steps, his eyes wide, and his hands up in surrender.

The sentry's index finger titters outside the trigger guard of his pistol. “You the guy that shot up them slavers yesterday? Shot 'em dead right in the whorehouse?”

Huxley shakes his head slowly. “No.”

The sentry continues to stare, his lips drawn in tight as though they are in the process of imploding. He considers Huxley's denial, but eventually nods his head. “Yeah. You're the guy.”

Huxley tries to deny it again, but all he can manage is another shake of his head.

The sentry doesn't move. He doesn't aggress, and he doesn't retreat. “You know they came in after you, a woman, her and about seven other slavers. Shot ten good men. Coupla women and children. They lit a fire before they left and it burned half the damn town. Probably another dozen people died in that. I don't know who else got out.”

Huxley clenches his jaw. “That wasn't my doing,” he says.

The sentry doesn't respond.

Huxley's arm begins to tire from holding the pistol up.

After a long moment of silence, Huxley raises his chin a bit. “Boy …”

Josie's boy looks at Huxley. “Yessir?”

“Get the man some water. Have your mother make up some food. I'll pay for it.”

The boy doesn't wait to even respond or acknowledge. He is simply gone in a flash, his footsteps crunching rapidly through the dirt.

Huxley slowly lowers his pistol. “No need for any violence between us.”

Still the sentry does not respond, but he very slowly sticks the pistol back in his waistband. With his eyes still affixed on Huxley, he hitches his sweating horse outside the tavern and follows Huxley inside.

Just inside the doorway, Rigo and Jay stand, watching and waiting. Rigo's hand hovers over the holstered revolver at his side and Jay is holding the scattergun. Huxley can see the copper filament glowing hotly. Huxley motions with his head toward one of the tables and he takes a seat himself. The other two men follow suit.

Still standing and staring at the three of them, the sentry is hesitant to join them. From the back of the tavern, they can hear the opening and closing of an old wooden door. Josie emerges, flustered and pasting her hair back behind her ears, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Her eyes flick worriedly to the men at the table but instantly look away, as if resting her gaze upon them for too long would bring swift punishment. She disappears into the kitchen and they can hear the clank of cookware. The boy emerges a moment later, scared, carrying a large glass jar full of water, the vestiges of an old label still clinging to it like the skin on a mummified corpse.

He offers the jar of water to the sentry who takes it, staring at Josie's boy the entire time with a hollow sort of gaze that reveals very little of what he is thinking. The sentry drinks from the jar, slowly, with restraint, and his eyes stay on the boy the whole time. The boy steps away, never turning his back on the men until he is almost to the bar, at which point he spins and scampers into the kitchen where his mother scolds him quietly.

The sentry drinks until the water is gone. Huxley, Rigo, and Jay watch him in silence, just the sound of the water going down his throat. Then the sentry puts the jar down on the table and regards each of them in turn, his face still as blank as before. Then he sits.

Everyone at the table relaxes a bit.

Huxley keeps his hand near the butt of his revolver. “What's your name?”

The sentry stares at the empty jar. “Gordon.”

“I'm sorry about your town, Gordon.” Huxley struggles for appropriate words. He lies. “We had no idea they would come back like that.”

Gordon sniffs. “Well …” He trails off into silence.

“Did anyone else make it out?”

“I don't know.” Gordon looks up and his eyes are sharp and hot. “Town's probably burned to cinders now.”

Josie emerges from the kitchen and she carries two metal trays, one with a few slabs of cold deer meat and one with dense biscuits made of lard and some coarsely milled grain. She sets the trays down and waits only until the boy has returned with a pitcher of water for all of them, and then the two of them hurry back into the kitchen.

Gordon stares at the food for a while. Huxley, Jay, and Rigo wait.

“Are you hungry?” Huxley asks.

“Don't matter,” Gordon says. Slowly, he reaches forward and takes one of the dense biscuits, breaking it apart in his hand and staring at it. Then he lifts a piece to his mouth and bites a chunk, as though every movement is a struggle. He chews without relish.

Huxley scratches his neck absently.

Rigo is the first to shake off the tension and take a plate for himself. He loads it with biscuits and chunks of meat and begins to eat. He seems to ignore the rest of them. His partial understanding of the language is only partly to blame. Huxley knows that Rigo must recognize Gordon. But for all his smiley outward face, Rigo is as callous as the rest of them. Gordon's tragedy will not affect his appetite.

Huxley and Jay watch Rigo eat. Then they turn back to Gordon.

The filthy young man is still chewing that one bite. His eyes are on the tabletop, but Huxley doesn't think that's what he's seeing. He's probably seeing Borderline, crumbled into ashes, blackened skeletons from friends and loved ones.

Was there someone there that he cared about? A lover perhaps? Hell, he was young but this wasn't the Old World. Someone Gordon's age could easily have a family. Maybe they were lying in the ashes behind him.

Maybe he's in the same boat as the rest of us.

Gordon taps the wooden tabletop twice with his finger. “You know she's out there. Camped out just past Dry Gulch.”

“Don't know where Dry Gulch is,” Huxley says.

“Maybe two or three miles south of here,” Gordon says.

Still going east
, Huxley thinks.
Borderline was just a stopover.

Huxley puts his elbows on the table. “You guys kill any of them when they came to town?”

“I got one,” Gordon says defensively.

“Anyone else get another one?”

“I don't know.”

Huxley looks at Jay. Neither man speaks, but they each know what the other is thinking. Leaving Borderline, it had been three on seven. Now, worst-case scenario, it would be four on six. And if they took them by surprise … 

Huxley makes a face. “Still not smart,” he says, more to Jay than anyone else at the table. “We don't have the lay of the land. Chances are they'll see us coming. Maybe if we wait. Maybe if we catch them while they're asleep. But not during the day.”

Gordon leans forward. “We must've got more than that. And there's gotta be some wounded. That's the only reason I can think of that they'd stay camped during the day.” Gordon licks his lips nervously. “I'm goin' after her.”

Huxley considers what Gordon's said. One down, according to Gordon. And they are camping. Which would make sense if they were licking wounds. He looks up at Gordon. “They'll kill you.”

“Maybe,” Gordon says with a shrug. “It don't matter anyhow.”

“How long has it been since you slept?”

A shrug. “I slept some in the saddle.”

“Sleep first,” Huxley suggests. “Then figure out what you're going to do.”

Gordon suddenly points at Huxley, his tired, haunted eyes narrowing. He drops his pointing hand to the table with a slap and shakes his head. “Why'd you shoot 'em?”

There is silence around the table. Huxley looks to Rigo, who is just finishing his meal. Rigo's eyes dart back and forth between Huxley and Gordon, showing that he is following more than he lets on. He wisely lets the language barrier make people think he is less intelligent. But he knows exactly what he's doing.

Huxley then looks to Jay. The other man is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, regarding the younger man sitting across from them with the expression of an adult dealing with a petulant child. Jay doesn't speak. Huxley looks into those cold gray eyes for a few beats.

Why did we shoot them?

Because we could. Because we want them to hurt. Because we want to take from them, like they took from us. We can't run anymore. So now we bite.

“What's it matter to you?” Huxley says, quietly.

Gordon leans away, flicks the crumbs of his biscuit away from him on the tabletop. “I just thought … thought there must've been a reason. But maybe you're just killers. Maybe y'all just like gunfights.”

Huxley feels the question hanging in the air, the accusation. He feels the burning in his chest, what is becoming a familiar warmth. It rises in him like lava flow. Continues searing away anything organic, anything so useless as human emotion. It leaves behind only volcanic rock. And when it cools, it is cold, and it is sharp as broken glass. That is the world his mind has become.

Huxley rises partially from his seat, but only to scoot it closer. He scoots it around the big, wooden spool that serves as their table, and he pulls it in very close to Gordon. So close that Gordon is visibly discomfited. Huxley leans one elbow on the table and he posts one hand on the back of Gordon's chair. His face is very close to Gordon's. He studies the other man. The way he will not look Huxley straight in the eye now. Like a dog who knows he's met the alpha.

Huxley speaks evenly. Just above a whisper. “And if we are killers? What difference does it make? Maybe it takes one to kill one.” Huxley opens his arms slightly, showing his chest, as though he is baring his heart. “Look at me, Gordon. I have nothing. I'm just a ghost. I don't even fucking exist. I had things, one time. I had a wife. I had a daughter. I lived in a commune and I grew and tended barley.” He tilts his head, studies the youth of Gordon's face. “You're young. You barely remember the Old World. But I was there. I lost all of that too. But I made it to the other side with my wife and my child, and I built another life, and I was happy there in my simple little life. But then even that got taken away from me. The slavers came, and they took everything, and they left me with nothing. And now they've come for
your
life, Gordon, and they've taken everything from you. Now
you
have nothing, just like
I
have nothing. So, you know. You know exactly why I killed them.”