Connelly hesitated, then tramped up the hill. He saw three men standing before the fire looking down on him, their faces almost masked in the dark. One, the shouter, was very tall, and while not as tall as Connelly just as broad. His face was aged and hoary and was half hidden by a grisly, raw beard. The one beside him was shorter and more slender, his face narrow and handsome and somewhat amused. The third was short and portly. His eyes were runny and frightened and unkempt hair grew around his chin and upper lip. He wore a ragged bowler hat that he could not stop touching and he stayed back farther than the other two.
“The camp is back that way,” said the leader. “Plenty of room there.”
“I didn’t come here to throw down a mattress,” said Connelly.
“Then what did you come here for?”
“To ask a question.”
“A question, eh? If you want to ask, then ask.”
“I came looking for someone.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A… a man. A scarred man. Cheeks all tore up.”
They did not answer, did not move or tense or twitch. They stood as statues crowning a hill, eyes placid and blank, faces dark.
“Heard you were looking for him, too,” said Connelly. “Came to… to see. Just to see.”
The men still did not speak, nor did they glance among themselves to confer. They remained quiet for far longer than any man had the right to.
“Why are you looking for him?” said Connelly. “What’s he done? What’s he done to you? Who… who is he?”
“The camp is back that way,” said the leader, this time quieter. “Plenty of room there.”
Connelly looked at them a moment longer, waiting for some answer or at the very least some sign of knowledge. They gave him nothing. He walked back down the hill to the camp. When he glanced back they were still standing, still watching him, unmoving as though part of the hill itself.
It was late when Connelly made it back to the grounds and he could not navigate among the jalopies and the shabby homes. He picked out the bank of a small stream not far from the camp. Then he unrolled his bedding and threw it down and lay there, looking up at the stars and listening to the worried mutterings of the other travelers. He took out a pint of whisky and drew deeply from it. He grimaced as it went down, then took another draw and watched the sky die and the moon rise above him.
On the cusp of sleep he whispered to himself: “Molly. Molly, I’m close. I’m closer than ever now.”
He slept, but not for long. He awoke less than an hour later, his heart beating and his mind screaming, awoken by some nameless animal instinct that told him he was no longer alone.
His eyes snapped open and he sat up and heard a gruff, low shout. Something crashing through the brush to his right. Then a figure barreled through the weeds at him, arm held high, something gold and glittering clutched in its fingers.
Connelly reacted without thinking and threw his arm up to catch the blow. His elbow met with the man’s lip and the man grunted and something sprayed Connelly’s cheek, hot and wet and thick. His attacker stumbled and collapsed, clutching his face. Another voice cried out in the darkness, “Georgie, Georgie! What you done to my Georgie!” A second man came running out, ready to tackle Connelly, but Connelly outweighed the man easily and tossed him to the ground. He straddled him and struck him once, twice, around the face. He tried to weigh down the man’s struggling but still he cried out, “Georgie! Say something! Say something!”
Fingers dug into the flesh at Connelly’s neck and the other hand clawed at his armpit. Connelly groped in the dark and found the pipe that had served as the first’s weapon and brought it down, again and again. The man yelped and fell silent, his body seizing up and his knees rising to touch his face. Behind Connelly the first attacker struggled to his feet. He roared drunkenly and though Connelly could not see him his ears sought the sound and brought the pipe to it. With a sharp crack the man fell limp and did not move again.
Connelly stood over them, breathing hard, his arm aching and his blood beating so hard and fast he felt it would erupt out of his veins. Yards away voices were shouting, calling out, “What was that? What the hell’s going on out there?” Connelly looked at the shapes of the bodies in the dark, not knowing if they were alive or dead, unable to hear any breathing over the rush in his own ears. He hurled the pipe into the stream and felt his hand and knew it was covered in blood, perhaps his or perhaps another’s.
He gathered up his satchel and his bedding and ran downstream, across the water and over stones. The keening of birds and insects filled his ears. He threw himself down next to a fallen old oak and looked over the top. He could see nothing, no eyes in the starlight, no hands or glint of metal. Someone shouted, calling to another. He held his breath, then picked himself up and began running again.
He ran until his legs failed and he collapsed beside the stream, lungs and knees on fire. He washed his hands and face, cupped his hands and drank deeply and tried to ignore the coppery taste that he knew was blood, then drank again.
“You sure beat the hell out of those gentlemen,” said a voice.
He looked up. Across the stream was the leader of the three men, his hoary face floating above the silvery water and his eyes alight with satisfaction. Before him he held on to a thick walking stick, chin high. He leaned forward on it thoughtfully.
“What?” said Connelly.
“Those men. I saw. They jumped you as you slept. Trying to roll a drunk, I believe. And you beat them. I’ll not turn you in,” he said as Connelly began to move. “I don’t think you could run much further, regardless.”
“You saw me?”
“I came down here to refill my canteen. Yes, I saw. Not many men could go from sleep to fighting off two men.”
There were more shouts from downstream. Connelly whipped his head to look. The other man did not.
“If you find the scarred man, what will you do?” the man asked.
“What?” said Connelly.
“If you find the scarred man, what will you do? What do you want of him?”
“They’re coming.”
“Yes. They are. I have nothing to run from, so let them come. They may not know you to be innocent in this affair, however.” He leaned into his staff. “If you were to find this man, what would you do, sir?”
Connelly looked at him, then down at the water. He could barely make out his own reflection. It was faceless, formless.
“Kill,” said Connelly. “I’d kill him.”
The man nodded, satisfied. “Then cross. Come with me. You can stay by our fire. If they come I will say you have been there all along, and avoid any unpleasantness, should God allow it.”
He turned and began walking uphill and soon disappeared into the undergrowth. Connelly heard the bark of dogs to the east, then hoisted his satchel over his head and crossed, wading through the water and up to the fire on the hill.
CHAPTER THREE
The other two men were seated around the campfire, the short fat one and the slender handsome one Connelly had seen before. They looked up when he approached and the slender one’s hands dipped into his coat.
“Easy,” said the leader, striding over to them. “I’ve brought him here myself.”
“Didn’t ask us,” said the portly one indignantly.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. It was spur of the moment, brought on by providence.” The leader sat down upon a log they had picked up as a crude seat. “Come,” he said. “Come and sit. Fire’s warm and the night’s dropping fast. Come and sit.”
Connelly walked over to them, still careful, and sat.
“You look pretty beat,” said the portly one to Connelly.
“The man was attacked,” said the leader. “While he slept. Two men trying to roll a drunk, only he didn’t turn out to be drunk. Is that so?”
Connelly shrugged, nodded. “What’s going to happen?”
“Happen?” asked the leader.
“Yeah,” he said,
and jerked his head in the direction of the town. “About that?”
“To you, you mean? Probably nothing. I doubt if that’s the first mugging those folks witnessed. Though maybe the first that wasn’t successful. Hungry times breed discontent. Here, I have yet to learn your name, sir,” said the leader, grinning again. “What would you go by?”
Connelly didn’t think to answer. The slender one was still watching him calmly and Connelly did not take his sights off of him.
“Fair enough,” said the leader. “I am Pike. They call me Reverend Pike, for I was once a man of God. I still am a man of God, in my own way, but with no flock. It’s better this way. I was never much of a shepherd. I always preferred the sword to the crook.” Pike swatted at the slender one with his cap. “Introduce yourself.”
“What?” he said.
“Introduce yourself,” said Pike.
“Why should I? I don’t know him at all.”
“He can fight, that’s why. And he’s here looking for the same man we are. And he wants what we want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Blood,” said Pike simply, and produced two dead rabbits from his sack.
The slender one observed Connelly for a while longer and shrugged. “I’m Hammond.”
“Jakob Hammond,” said Pike, and grinned. “With a ‘k.’ ”
“Yes,” said Hammond tersely.
“But Lord only knows what your family’s surname was back in Europe.”
“Something different, to be sure,” said Hammond.
Pike looked at Connelly. “Mr. Hammond here is a Jew,” he said.
They seemed to expect something from him, having said that. “Oh?” Connelly said.
“Yes.”
“Never seen a Jew before.”
Hammond laughed. “Well, I can’t say you were missing out on much. I’ll do my best to make a good impression. Where do you come from to never meet a Jew?”
“Tennessee.”
“You’ll find that Jews are a rarity in most of this nation, Hammond,” said Pike.
“So I’m learning.”
“And that over there is Mr. Roosevelt,” said Pike. “Like the leader of our great nation. Though he says he’s of no relation, unless he’s been drinking.”
Roosevelt tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“As are we all,” said Pike. “Now. What would your name be?”
“Connelly.”
“Connelly,” repeated Pike. “Good name. And good that a man worries about giving his name, Mr. Connelly. Names are important things. They’re a part of you. A name can get a man into trouble. Seems like not long ago openness was a virtue. In days like these, it’s a risk. Get rid of it while you can.”
“They’re just words,” said Hammond. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Maybe so,” said Pike, and took out a small, well-cared-for knife and began skinning and gutting the rabbits, cutting off their feet and taking handfuls of their innards and flinging them away into the night. He wiped his hands on his pants as he began upon the second.
As he worked Connelly glanced sideways at the other two men, watching them in the closer light. Roosevelt was strangely dressed in some semblance of dignity, sporting a natty waistcoat with only two remaining buttons, both barely holding on under the pressure of his girth. On his head he wore an old bowler that had lost its fabric long ago. Hammond was far younger than any of them, several years from thirty at least. He wore a simple coat and pants with suspenders, but his hair was carefully slicked back. It smelled of camphor and oil, even in the smoke of the fire. He had a rushed look about him, as though he had run out of town in the middle of the night and had been running ever since.
“Why did you bring him here, Pike?” asked Hammond.
Pike turned the second rabbit over in his bloody hands on his bloody trousers, his entire being occupied in his work as he guided the edge of the blade through the gristle and meat of the carcass. Soon it no longer resembled a rabbit, no longer resembled anything at all. He took the feet and the head, then cupped the entrails in his hands and tossed them down the hill.
“I should burn them, maybe,” said Pike. “Make a stink, sure, but that’s better than bringing wolves or coyotes. But I doubt if wolves or coyotes roam a place such as this.”
He sat back down and spitted the rabbits and strung them up on two stakes. All three of them stopped to look at the rabbits and they listened to the fat begin to bubble and pop and hiss. Then their eyes moved to Connelly.
“To break bread is a holy thing,” said Pike. “What can you share?”
Connelly reached into his satchel and took out a single can of beans. Hammond laughed. “Beans! A can of beans. The bread and butter of a knight of the road. Here, I have an opener. Let me open it and toss her on.”
“Been living off of them for a while,” said Connelly. “Cheap.”
“That’s true,” said Roosevelt. “My brother lived on nothing but beans for years. Said it did his stomach good. But good God, it sure didn’t do any good for his house. Every single room smelled like something had died in it. I kept telling him to keep his windows open, he kept saying he didn’t smell anything.”
“Well,” said Hammond, “we’ll make sure to sleep upwind of you, then.”
They smiled and laughed, and Connelly relaxed a little more.
The beans cooked just off the fire underneath the rabbits, catching stray drippings, which Hammond said would add to their flavor. They watched the meal cook with a deep gravity.
“It’ll be ready soon,” said Hammond.
“And then we’ll talk,” said Pike.
Pike lifted the spits off of the fire when the hares began to crackle. They took out knives and peeled off ribs and legs and ate, fingers and lips shining with grease. Connelly ate with them. They had not cooked long so the meat was gamy and full of fat. After the can of beans cooled they passed it around, their knives dipping down to the lip of the can and then up to their open mouths, gray and yellow teeth shining in the fire. They gnawed at the bones and pulled off gristle, then placed the bones in a pot and poured in water and began a stew. They watched it heat up without speaking. Against the backdrop of the stars their glistening, mournful faces resembled men burning alive.
Connelly looked upon these strangers sitting underneath the broken-dish moon, watching meat sing and hiss on a paltry fire with quiet, lost eyes. Somewhere a train wailed and the earth shook, but they did not move. And then he recognized in these men something that was also in himself, for they were men who had been struck deaf and dumb by a terrible grief. Men who had been robbed not only of contentment and joy but the capacity to have such things. They slept in the hills not because they wished to but because they could not sleep in the camp. Such a place was forbidden to them.
“God is great,” said Pike finally. “The Lord is good to us. He guided these rabbits to our traps and so gave us this bounty today. And He has also guided this man to us, I shall say, and so I also say He has a purpose to us as we do to Him, and when the Lord speaks we should listen.”
Across the fire Hammond and Roosevelt glanced at each other. Hammond rolled his eyes slightly.
“How far have you come, Mr. Connelly?” asked Pike.
“Far. Memphis. It was my home.”
“And that was where you met him? The scarred man?”
“Never met him,” said Connelly softly.
“But encountered him? Was that the city that started you here?”
Connelly nodded.
“How long ago was that?”
“Three weeks. Maybe more. Been coming by foot and train. I hitched a ride where I could. It was tough going. No one’s heading west now. Not from the east, at least.”
“We ran into that,” said Hammond. “Boy, did we.”
“He is, though,” said Pike.
They shifted uncomfortably, unsure if they wanted to broach the topic.
“Who is he?” said Connelly. “The man wit
h the scars? What’s he done to you?”
“Why?” said Roosevelt. “What’s he done to you?”
Connelly said nothing.
“You shouldn’t worry so,” said Pike softly. “You and we are much alike. All of us here, we are alike.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Pike frowned at him sadly. “I mean that we have all lost someone to this man.”
Connelly stared at them. The men looked back, grim-faced and silent.
“No,” whispered Connelly. “I don’t believe it. No.”
“Mr. Connelly, I wonder if you’d be willing to let me guess at your past,” said Pike. “I feel I may know it pretty well. Is that all right?” He considered it and said, “You are a quiet man, sir, if I may say so. You speak when spoken to and at all other times would prefer to attract little attention. I could see you living a peaceful life, not a life of means, per se, but one of quiet dignity, a… a modest but satisfying job working with your hands and a small family whom you held dearly. And at some point, not too long ago, a scarred man came into your life. It seemed a chance meeting, one of no importance, and yet later… Later, you found this man to have taken everything you cherished, all at once. I cannot and will not guess at what he took from you, Mr. Connelly, that is a private matter to you and should not be given to conjecture. But whatever it was, you cannot go home. You cannot. And neither can we.”
Connelly stared into his lap, listening but refusing to believe.
“We all run into him,” said Roosevelt. “All of us. We all come to find him. By road and rail, we come.”
“Yes,” said Pike.
“And we’ll go further,” said Hammond. “All the way across the country, if need be. Which we nearly already have done.”
Pike said, “Hammond?”
“Yes?” said Hammond.
“Tell him how you came here. Tell him what started you here.”
Hammond looked at him. Pike nodded. “Go on,” he said.
There was a moment of silence and Hammond said, “It was in Massachusetts. That was my home. My town, Winthrop. I was born there. I still remember it, like it was yesterday. I-I saw him outside my home, a man in a coat that may have been black but had been worn and patched so many times it was gray. His face was scarred, here and here,” he said, indicating the cheeks, “and here around the temple, mottling his eyes. He was watching my home. I didn’t know why. He was watching when I left for work one day. When I came home the front door had been broken in and I… I went to the kitchen and found my parents there.”
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