Through Darkest America-Extended Version

by Neal Barrett Jr

  Long after it was dead, Klu kept the carcass hopping about in the dirt—catching an arm or a leg in his thongs, faster and faster all the time, until the whip near disappeared and it looked like the dead thing was crawling bloodily across the ground on its own. Then, as quickly as it started it was over, and Klu and Jigger cut a dusty path back through the herd.

  Other creatures passed the body, looked at it vacantly and moved on. A few tried to reach down and dip their fingers in fresh blood, but a driver steered them away. Soon, a butcher from the back of the herd pulled up with his cart and helper to slit the buck's throat and bleed him. The helper tossed him in the cart and the two pulled the meat away; a red trail followed the rattling wheels back to the rear.

  Cory sat his horse and studied the situation thoughtfully. "There wasn't no call for that," he said flatly. "Just pure meanness, and waste. A dead stud ain't good for nothing. Tougher'n hell to chew, and he sure isn't goin' to breed no more." He looked straight at Howie. "You asked, Burt, and I'll tell you I heard some about Pardo all right, but no more'n you hear about a lot of fellers." He glanced back at the herd. "Don't guess you need to hear much, though, seein' what he runs with . . . ."

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the Big River was four days behind, even Cory had to admit there was some good to be said for working. If nothing else, it kept you clear of Pardo. That was something worth doing, and more than one driver learned the truth of this, the hard way.

  What the trail leader had in mind was anyone's guess. And if you thought you had him figured, ten minutes later you were guessing again. The first day out he kept the herd going so fast drivers and animals alike were dragging belly by noon. Then, he'd slow to a snail's pace and break every hour or so. Or he'd drive everyone to exhaustion for the next eighteen hours and give 'ern two to rest up.

  If you had complaints or suggestions you mostly saw Klu and Jigger; Pardo had cut himself off from nearly everyone else. Even old Jess, who still seemed to respect Pardo in spite of their differences, was hard pressed to get along with him now.

  "It just appears to me we'd fare better," he explained patiently, "if we kept movin' at a steady pace, instead of running one minute and crawlin' ass the next. It just seems that way to me, Pardo."

  Pardo eyed him like he'd crawled out from under something. "It does, does it? Well, it don't to me."

  Jess tried to swallow his irritation. "This ain't my first drive, you know," he said darkly.

  I been out once or twice before."

  "Figured you had," Pardo said absently.

  "Well, you'd best figure on it good," Jess flushed, "'cause if you haven't got some reason for what you're doing . . ."

  "You'll what, Jess? Get yourself a new driver?" "By God, that ain't impossible!" Jess fumed.

  "It ain't likely, neither."

  Jess studied him curiously, like he was trying to read what might be going on in Pardo's head. All the anger was out of him, now. He simply wanted to know what in all Hell might be going on, and why.

  "I guess maybe I better talk to the rest of the owners," he said plainly, "arid get back to you. We're going to have some answers, Pardo. You might as well figure on that." He walked away, feeling the younger man's eyes looking after him.

  Not more than an hour later Pardo rode up to him grinning, like nothing had happened between them. "I guess I got off wrong back there, Jess," he said. "There's a couple of things you ain't thinking on, and maybe I should've gone into 'em some."

  "Might be you should have," Jess agreed.

  Pardo bit a corner of his beard and looked at the ground. "I don't mean to offend none, Jess, but it doesn't matter much how many drives you been on, or how much you know about stock. 'Cause this ain't exactly a drive we're on now. It's more like a e-vasion than anything else. In army talk that's . . ."

  "I know what it means."

  "Uhuh." Pardo squinted at the sun, so all the color went out of his eyes. "Well ain't real sure you do. 'Cause when you raised all Hell back there about stoppin' and startin' and going this way and that I seen real clear you ain't got much of a head for army thinking."

  Jess' brow clouded. He shifted on his mount impatiently. "Pardo, just git on with whatever it is you're trying to say."

  "What we're trying to do," said Pardo, "is get from one place to another without meeting Lathan in the middle. Only you're forgettin' Lathan wants this here meat pretty bad an' is willing to go some to get it. He knows exactly where we started from, Jess, where we're going, and how long it takes to get there. And if we git there your way, he's going to be right on the button." He made his point with a big finger on Jess' chest.

  The old man looked down his chin and swept the hand off his jacket. "All right. I see what you're gettin' at. Only . . .”

  "Only I don't figure on being where Lathan wants us to be. Where we'll be is ahead—or behind—the spot he's got in mind."

  "Which?"

  Pardo grinned sheepishly. "Now that I ain't saying. There's too many long ears and noses in this drive for my liking."

  Jess frowned. "You think we got spies?"

  Pardo let out a breath. "'Course we do, Jess. You think Lathan ain't covering ever' bet he's got down?"

  "Well it ain't me!" Jess snapped. "So you can damn well tell me what you got in mind!"

  "I will," Pardo said soberly. He jerked his reins and let his mount skitter away. "Right soon, Jess."

  Jess bit off words after him, but Pardo pretended not to hear.

  Jess kept grumbling, but mostly to himself. And while he didn't feel much better after Pardo's explanation, he decided there wasn't any use talking about it, either. They were a week into the drive and, whether he liked it or not, they were committed to Pardo's erratic plan. It was too late now to get the herd moving at a regular pace. And, he told himself, if Pardo irritated the Hell out of him, what of it? They'd hired him because he had a name for outslicking greased eels. If they'd wanted a polite-talking storekeeper, why, they should have got one sooner. He just hoped it wouldn't be too long before they met the army's troopers coming out of Badlands. Jess decided he'd feel a lot better when that happened.

  At dawn the next morning a driver came in fast from the south. He announced that the lower herd was turning to join them as quick as they could. That farmers along the way said Lathan had troopers thick as flies nosing through the hills there.

  And that, Jess told himself sourly, is all the Hell we need.

  Pardo seemed to take the news in stride. "It's your meat, not mine," he told Jess and the owners. "Maybe Lathan's in the south, an' maybe he ain't." Which was all he'd say on the subject, and didn't tell anyone much of anything.

  The owners, though, found it hard to take this new development lightly. For one thing, the problem of feed for the stock was growing more critical daily. The addition of the southern herd didn't help matters. A long, overland drive simply wasn't the way to make money on meat. Not ordinarily, anyway. What you did was fatten up a herd and send it lazily downriver by barge. That way, stock didn't use up energy faster than you could feed them. Still, unusual times called for unusual measures, as Jess put it. And when you were being paid seven or eight times what a side of meat was worth, a man was tempted to take some risks.

  So the herd went on short rations, and foragers rode farther and faster to find grain to add to the stores. Stock that died or lagged behind was slaughtered and ground into feed on the spot, to give extra energy to the living.

  "Way I see it," Cory observed wryly, "is we'll git to Badlands with about half a dozen head. But they'll be the fattest sons of bitches you ever seen!"

  About the best you could say about Pardo, Howie decided, was that you never could say, for sure. One day he'd laugh out loud and slap you on the back and tell you what a fine lad you were; and the next he'd likely ride up and knock you clean off your mount for nothing at all. It made a person jittery, wondering what was coming next, and he was sure Pardo did it for just that reason. He was certain nothing Pardo
could do would surprise him, but he was totally unprepared for the shooting lessons.

  "Time you learned how to handle arms, boy," Pardo announced suddenly. Howie was rounding up two young mares that had wandered off with a buck, and Pardo simply pulled him away and stuck another driver in his place.

  "No sense carryin' around weapons you can't use," he said. "They ain't no better than clubs unless you know what to do with 'em."

  Howie hid his shock—and excitement. He'd learned the wisdom of concealing both.

  Pardo was a good teacher and Howie was eager to learn. He caught on quickly to the basics, and even Pardo was plainly impressed. "You got a good eye," he said simply, "a real natural feel for it."

  Howie sensed there was a lot he wasn't saying. He knew, right off, that he was good, and that Pardo knew it, too. He never was sure how hard firing and hitting a target was supposed to be. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, same as breathing. It wasn't a matter of just figuring distance, taking aim, and squeezing off a shot. You felt all that—like your eye and your arm had reached out past the barrel of your weapon and touched the target. You knew that was where your shot was supposed to go and it did.

  After they'd been out twice with the pistol, Pardo gave him back his other weapon, the rifle he'd taken off one of Jacob's troopers. With his first few shots Howie shattered a row of small wood chips Pardo lined up for him. Then he threw sticks in the air and solemnly announced Howie was to hit them before they fell. Out of eight tries, Howie split six.

  He was disappointed, and showed it. "I reckon I'll get better with some practice," he muttered.

  Pardo eyed him narrowly. "Yeah. Well I sure do hope so."

  On the way back to camp that evening Pardo took a bright red neckerchief out of his pocket and gave it to Howie. "It's for you," he said. "Wear it 'round your arm."

  Howie was puzzled. "What for?"

  "Well, godamn, just 'cause I said so!" Pardo snapped.

  Howie shrugged and did as he was told. It was better than getting knocked flat, which he figured Pardo was about to do.

  "If you don't know what it means I'll tell you," Pardo grumbled. "Where I come from it says a boy's learned his arms, and ain't a boy no more."

  He looked hard at Howie.

  "That all right with you? That I give it to you?" He slapped his mount, not waiting for an answer, and left Howie behind.

  Once, something peculiar happened that Howie didn't forget. They had left their mounts and walked up a narrow gully looking for targets. The land was dry and featureless with little to see except scrub and stone. Suddenly, Pardo froze and grabbed his arm tightly.

  "Look, right over there," he whispered. "By that shady bush to the left. "

  Squinting, Howie could see nothing for a moment. There was a bush and a sandy-colored rock. The rock seemed marbled, like some other kind of stone veined through it. He looked questioningly at Pardo. Just then the rock twitched, found legs, and skittered away down the gully.

  "Lordee!" Howie gasped.

  Pardo grinned, showing yellow teeth. "Rabut. They're coming back. Slow like. An' some of the others, too. Only you don't spot 'em much 'less you get down past the border."

  "But . . . what in the world was it?" Howie wanted to know.

  Pardo looked pained. "I told you, boy. Rabut. It's a animal."

  "There ain't any animals," Howie said flatly. " 'Cept one."

  "You seen it, didn't you?"

  "I . . . think so."

  "Think so, nothing. You did or you didn't."

  "Well . . .”

  "Then there is animals, if you seen one. Not many, but they sure didn't all die out, like folks'd have you think." He looked mischievously at Howie. "I eat one once. In Mexico."

  "Pardo!" Howie sucked in a breath, horrified. "Don't you know they're—"

  "Uhuh. Unclean. Only at the time I didn't have no Scriptures to eat instead, an' my belly'd been rubbing my backbone for 'bout a week. It sure seemed tasty at the time." He patted his flat stomach and laughed. "So far, I ain't growed no horns or nothing. And don't figure I will."

  If the arrival of the southern herd created problems for the drive, it solved one for Howie. He discovered that Aimie was neither lost, strayed, nor stolen. She and Maye and the half dozen other girls in their party had followed their employer along the southern route. Seth DeGuire was a businessman, and he'd decided at Big River that while there'd be fewer customers for his girls, white corn, and games of chance on the lower route, he'd also be less likely to meet Lathan's raiders or government troops. A little profit was better than none, and armies—no matter who they belonged to—had a habit of forgetting to pay for what they got.

  It was a subject that Aimie reluctantly mentioned to Howie. "You come and see me all the time, and . . . you don't never bring me nothing."

  "Like what?" asked Howie. He knew very well what she meant, but it was a subject he'd put out of his mind. The idea that Aimie bared all that wonderful flesh to others— and got paid for it—was something he refused to think about.

  "Burt . . .” She lowered her eyes and ran a finger along his arm. Howie shivered and pulled away. "Burt, I'm supposed to. You know . . .”

  "He tell you that?" Howie demanded hotly. "That I got to quit coming?" He'd only seen Aimie's employer once, but he hated the man with a fierce anger.

  "Seth?" Aimie looked pained and shook her head. "Lord, no. He don't have any idea I don't . . . . If he did, Burt . . .”

  "He'd what? If he ever hurt you or anything, Aimie . . ." Aimie said nothing. "I'll . . . quit comin' if it gets you in trouble."

  "No, I don't want you to do that, Burt."

  "Well I can't do nothing else."

  "Just a few coppers or something would—be okay."

  "I ain't got a few coppers," he said darkly. "Aimie, I don't want to talk about it no more."

  "Just anything'd do . . .”

  "And I told you I ain't got anything. If you want me to stop coming, just say so, Aimie!"

  He wondered what he'd do if she said just that. She didn't, though, and he kept seeing her, as often as he could. And when he wasn't with her he thought about dark, tousled hair and cream-colored breasts and the way her lips parted lazily. And then he itched all over until he could see her again.

  Aimie had opened doors more wondrous than he'd ever imagined, even in his wildest daydreams. Why, you could lie awake hot summer nights for a hundred years, thinking about what a girl'd be like—but it wasn't anything like that at all!

  "What you’re goin' to do," Cory warned him, "is wear it out the first year you use it. I heard of that happening."

  Howie turned away and buried his face in his meal, so Cory couldn't see the color in his cheeks.

  Cory laughed. "Well, it's so. Way you're going . . . He shook his head and grinned at Howie's back. "Kind of like that stuff, don't you?"

  Howie didn't answer.

  "I'm serious. You watch it, Burt. First thing you know . . .”

  "Cory." Howie turned on him. "It ain't nothin' I want to talk about. You hear?"

  Cory read his look, but ignored it. "She give you that pretty red neckerchief?"

  "No, she didn't!" Howie snapped.

  "Uhuh."

  "Well, she didn't!"

  Cory looked at him with mock astonishment. "Lordee, you mean you got more'n one going? You goin' to kill yourself for sure, boy."

  Howie dropped his clay plate.. "That ain't so."

  "What ain't?"

  "About Aimie."

  "Where'd you git it, then?"

  "I said it wasn't Aimie or no one else."

  "Uhuh."

  "Damn you Cory, Pardo gave it to me!" he blurted out. "It's for learnin' to shoot good an' I reckon I earned it. I bet I'm better'n you are, too!" He was immediately sorry he'd opened his mouth, but it was too late to stop.

  Cory sat down his plate. For a moment his eyes went hard, then the lazy grin bent the corners of his mouth again. "Yeah. Okay, kid . . .”
>
  Howie didn't know what to say. "Listen. I didn't mean nothing by that."

  "Didn't figure you did."

  Howie made an effort to finish his meat and beans.

  "I was riding you some," said Cory. "And I didn't mean nothing, either. Only . . . I don't get it about the 'kerchief. How come Pardo did that?"

  Howie didn't much want to talk about it anymore, but he explained what Pardo had told him.

  Cory made a face. "I never heard of wearin' no red hankie 'round your arm just 'cause you done a little shooting."

  "Pardo said they do it all the time, so I reckon they do."

  "Uhuh." Cory chewed over that. He scratched his chin and squinted into the low hills. "If he give me something, I'd likely check it over real close to figure why. That don't sound like the same Pardo to me."

  Howie didn't know how to answer that. "I reckon he ain't hardly ever the same," he said lamely.

  Which was likely right, Howie decided. After the next shooting ride into the hills, he and Pardo were flanking the herd back to camp when the man suddenly pulled up hard and leaned forward on his mount.

  "Lordee!" Pardo made a low noise in his throat. "Now that's a fine lookin' animal, if I do say so." He nodded toward a long-bodied mare with high breasts at the edge of the pack. "Bet them legs'd fair squeeze the guts out of a man, you think?"

  He looked and caught Howie's expression. A big grin spread his beard. "Now, don't tell me you ain't never rooted meat? An' I thought you was a farm boy."

  Howie's mind flashed back to green fern and a high oak. And men hanging stiffly from a stout branch. Pardo read his eyes. "Well don't you git uppity now," he growled. "The one you been studdin' ain't a whole lot better . . . ."

  He truly hated Pardo then, more than ever.

  That night he sought out Aimie and stayed with her until it was nearly dawn. If Seth or anyone else had interfered, he was certain he would have killed them on the spot. It was a strange, savage kind of lovemaking; much like their first night together. Howie didn't pretend to understand his feelings. He was bewildered and fiercely excited by the things that happened between them. He knew he both loved and hated Aimie, and didn't see how that could be. Aimie's eyes told him she knew a great deal more about what was going through his mind than he did. Howie didn't ask, though—he was afraid to really know what was there.