Through Darkest America-Extended Version (16 page)

With much to be done, and no sleep for any man on the drive, Howie had little time to think about his aches or bruises, or bemoan the loss of his chance to get away from Pardo. Even Aimie was briefly forgotten. Once, while the herd was moving toward the river, he caught a questioning look from Cory. But Cory didn't ask him what had happened and Howie was much relieved that he didn't.

Near noon, he sat his mount with Pardo and Cory, watching the last of the herd cross the river. The job had taken most of the morning. The river was no more than waist high anywhere, but meat never did like the water. And this morning, the drivers were doing more harm than good, being in a hurry to get moving. Howie thought that meat was sometimes smarter than people gave them credit for; he was sure the herd was spookier than usual because they smelled man-fear all around them.

"Folks say it was some river once," Pardo commented. He leaned over his mount and spit on the ground. "Split the country right down the middle."

Cory shook his head soberly. "Sure ain't much now," he drawled.

Pardo looked at'
im
. "Well,
now
ain't
then
, is it? It was near the biggest there was anywhere
once't
. Only the War done something to it."

"The War did."

"That's what I said."

"Must of been some War," Cory grinned. "I haven't heard much that ain't been blamed on it."

Pardo pulled himself erect and looked holes through Cory. Then he jerked his mount around and left them in dust. Howie watched him go, keeping his face straight as could be. Pardo wasn't much for jokes, unless he was doing the joking.

Urging his mount through sluggish brown water, he followed Cory across the river. The herd was over and there was no more use watching for stragglers. The only job now was splitting off the last of the sections that would take the southwesterly trail below them. The drivers knew their jobs and the herd was soon on its way.

On the tail end of the drive were the followers they'd picked up along the trek. Most had decided to try the more treacherous route, figuring it was also likely the safest and quickest, if they met the army on time. Anyway, they argued,
Lathan
was after meat and wouldn't be looking to run down pot sellers and farmers with empty wagons.

There were gamblers with their women in tow, loaded with trail packs and camp gear. Merchants and corn whiskey dealers pulled hastily loaded carts through the shallow water. They were all afoot; few had ever been close to a horse before. Mounts were for fighting men, or whoever could get and hold one of the rare animals for himself. Less than a quarter of the forty-odd drivers in Pardo's group were mounted. And not half of that number had guns. Howie decided he probably ought to feel like something special—even if his horse belonged to Pardo and his pistol couldn't hurt anyone.

Before he splashed up on the far bank he turned and squinted back across. But if Aimie was there, he couldn't pick her out of the dust-covered followers.

At noon, Pardo and Jess had an argument that came near to going past loud talking and hard looks. The land was flat and easy beyond the river and Jess wanted to speed up the herd some. Pardo said he could understand Jess and the others being anxious to get where they were going, but he didn't see any use getting there with three-thousand head of dead meat. Jess flared up and said it wasn't any of Pardo's meat in the first place—dead or otherwise. The end was they did speed up some—then slowed a little—so no one could tell much difference one way or the other.

Howie heard some of it, bringing water bags up to Pardo, but he got hastily away as soon as he could.

"What you think's going to happen?" he asked Cory later. "You figure
Lathan'll
git
here or the army?"

"No way of telling," Cory shrugged. He sat his mount chewing a stick he'd snapped off a scrub tree. "You can't never say about
Lathan
. He's fooled that old army before, though."

"You didn't like soldiering much, did you?"

Cory chuckled and grinned. "Guess you could say that."

"What's it like?" Howie asked. "I mean, I
know
I wouldn't want to do it either. I don't care much for soldiers."

Cory's face screwed up in a frown. "What it's like is sit- tin' around waiting to do nothing forever.
Giffin
' one place, and coming back to where you was. Going here and then
marchin
' there—and then sitting some more in the cold 'till your ass falls off. And then, all of a sudden like, some fool's
throwin
' lead at you or coming over the hill
screamin
' with a big blade flashing and you're wishing to shit you was back
doin
'
nothin
' again." Cory sighed and shook his head. "It's some
wearin
' on the mind and body, Burt."

"Ain't as good as driving, huh?"

Cory held him with one eye. "
Lordee
, boy!" He spit wood splinters and wiped his mouth. "Where'd you get the idea one piece of work's
better'n
another? Hell, it's
all
bad!"

Howie laughed. "That what you going to do when we get to Badlands? Nothing?"

"Not if I want to keep eating," he said sourly. He squinted hard at Howie. "You sure loaded up with questions today, ain't you?"

Howie colored and looked at his hands. "I didn't mean
nothin
' by it. Just talking . .."

Cory grunted to himself. "Well . . . What I figure on doing—after I sober up and get tired of women—is
headin
' south." He winked at Howie. "Might even go after War booty."

Howie's eyes widened, then he decided Cory was playing with him.

"No, I ain't
kiddin
' at all," Cory assured him. "There's still booty to be found from the War. Gold and silver and all kinds of metals. Specially copper an' stuff. People find it all the time. There was some fellers in Colorado, right before the war, found a whole building full of goodies. Rain hadn't got in or nothing. Know what was in there?
Coils
of copper. Looked just like rope, they say—big around as your arm. Hundreds of reels of it, all
higher'n
a man.

The idea intrigued Howie. "What'd they do with it?"

"Huh?" Cory turned on his mount and
laUghed
. "Why, they got rich as old kings, is what they did. Raised all kinds of hell. 'Till one figured he wanted what the
other'n
had
 
too, and they blew a bunch of holes in each other. Right smart couple of fellers."

Cory paused, gazing thoughtfully past the horizon. "'Course, you want to make a
real
find, now. What you want to do is stumble on a whole
passle
of guns. Lord, I'd rather find me a cache of new weapons than a barrel of gold!" He laughed. "So would everyone else. But there's still finds
bein
' made, an' it only takes one to make a man rich. And it'll be that way until we can make '
em
the way they used to . . . and I don't see that
comin
' soon."

Howie kept his silence a long minute. "Cory," he said finally, "I'd like to do that. I truly would."

Cory started to answer, then caught his meaning. "You would, huh?"

"I surely would."

"Well, I don't imagine
Pardo'd
take much to you going off treasure hunting with me, now would he?"

Howie didn't answer. He looked away from Cory and stared out over the herd. "You know Pardo very long?" he asked finally.

"Not any longer than he's been on the drive. Knew of
him,though
."

"You mean you heard things."

"Well, sure. This and that."

"What kind of things?"

Cory looked at him curiously. "He's
your
pa, Burt. Reckon you know more 'bout him than I do."

Howie looked straight ahead. Well, he'd done it now. If Cory took it into his head to tell Pardo he'd been asking questions …

Cory suddenly seemed to make up his mind about something. He leaned over and gripped Howie's reins and turned him about.

"Listen, boy," he said quickly, glancing at the head of the herd, "what I ought to do is keep shut, but I ain't got good sense and never have. Thing is, I was talking to
Maye
and she was talking to Aimie. What I'm saying is, you best take a care who you tell your business to." He looked hard at Howie. "Aimie says you told her Pardo ain't your pa."

Howie felt his stomach drop. "She . . . did?"

"
Uhuh
."

"Well, maybe I said it. I don't recall."

Cory ignored him. "If he ain't your pa, what is he, Burt?

An' if he's not, I can't say I'm real surprised to hear it." "He's . . . just kind of someone I know, I guess." "You guess."

"Cory . . .”

"You mean, like a friend."

Howie felt miserable. "Yeah, sort of. I mean . . .” Cory watched him, and he knew there wasn't anything at all he could say that wouldn't turn out wrong. For sure, he couldn't tell the truth. Cory might be about the only friend he had, but there were some things you didn't dare talk about to anyone, no matter how much you might want to.

"Burt," Cory told him, guessing his thoughts, "I ain't sticking my nose in where it don't belong. You're right enough to keep to yourself. Only…" He hesitated a moment. "You got any trouble you need
gettin
' out of?"

Howie looked at him and kept straight as he could. "Everything's fine, Cory. Honest it is."

"Yeah, well that's good." It was plain Cory didn't believe him at all.

"And I'm obliged. About what you said."

Cory shrugged. "Well, that's what friends are for, ain't it?"

Howie felt awful, then, about what he'd been thinking. Maybe it was wrong to try to keep everything to yourself. Maybe Cory was someone he
could
talk to. It was clear he didn't like Pardo. That was a start. And if he ever hoped to get away when the drive was over . . . . It was something worth thinking about, he decided. There was still plenty of time. But he knew he was already sure what he was going to do. It made him feel some better, but it would make the waiting harder, now.

From the corner of his eyes, he caught sudden motion at the edge of the herd, and automatically started his mount forward. Cory put out an arm to stop him. Howie gave him a puzzled glance, then understood. Klu and Jigger had spotted the commotion too, and were cutting toward the trouble spot.

It was a common enough problem. Several young bucks had edged a ripe mare into their pack, and the inevitable fight had started, spreading like ripples in a pond. In a few minutes, meat fifty feet off were brawling and grunting away without even knowing why.

Jigger plainly knew little about handling stock, but he knew what he wanted done. Using his boots and his big mount to scatter bodies, he cleared a rough path for his companion. Howie knew Klu hadn't the slightest idea which creature had started the business and that he didn't much care. He rode straight into the bunch and right to his choice, like he'd been thinking about it all winter.

The first crack of his big driver's whip dropped the meat to its knees. It tried to rise once, but Klu was good with his weapon. He slashed again and again, keeping his own rhythm, a high, whistling loop from left to right, right to left. Long red stripes patterned the buck's body. Its eyes rolled blankly to the sky; a mouth opened to cry out, but nothing came.

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

W
hen 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.