Through Darkest America-Extended Version (20 page)

Keeping to the busy street, he glanced in stalls and shops for another short block, then turned off the avenue and walked south toward the dry river, and Pardo's Keep. They wouldn't push him until they were ready, only Howie didn't figure on waiting for that. Pardo was right about some things. If the problem was low down and dirty enough, he likely had an answer for it. In this case, it was clear as day. Get square behind whatever's after you.

There were at least two of them. Howie figured three. He'd seen the first two briefly, in the crowd behind him. The third was hanging back, playing shadow out of sight.

Howie moved slow and easy, giving his followers no trouble. At the end of the block he crossed the street, stopped a moment to hitch up his belt, then turned casually into a narrow alleyway. The minute he was out of sight he broke into a fast run, circled the block, and cut back to the crowded avenue. He was right where he'd started, just past the butcher shop, a short walk from the corner. He saw them coming back up the hill, out of breath, the anger in their faces clear a good block away. From their dour looks, neither was anxious to report their failure.

He guessed their path ahead, a line of shops across the street with an alley at the end. He cut through the strollers and circled the short block, coming up on the alley from behind. Howie grinned to himself. The man was where he ought to be, in the shadow of a doorway a few steps from the street, his eyes on the crowd.

Howie moved, letting the street noise cover him. He wasn't anxious to handle three of them; the man's companions would be on him soon. With one motion he turned the man hard against the wall and brought his blade up sharp under the throat. The man stiffened, then let his body go loose. He watched Howie over his shoulder and grinned.

"Don't want no trouble, boy. Just a little talk."

"You'll get it," snapped Howie. "Move!"

He glanced quickly up the alley, then herded his prisoner out the back way, stopping only when he was several turns from the avenue, where Roundtree backed into the dry river. There was no one about. Only the slat walls and the hot glare of the flats. He searched the man quickly, found a long steel knife and tossed it aside.

"Now we'll talk some," he announced. "That's what you was wanting, ain't it?" He jammed his own blade back in his belt and replaced it with the pistol. The man looked at the weapon, then at Howie.

"No need for that," he smiled. "Said I didn't want no trouble."

He was a tall man, spare, with no meat on his bones. He had an easy grin and a lazy, friendly manner that set Howie doubly on his guard.

"You been pushing me all day, mister," he said darkly. "What for?"

"A question or two," the man shrugged. "Nothing more."

"Questions about what?"

The man studied him calmly. "Guess we could start off
talkin
' about Cory."

Howie blinked back his surprise. The words shook him visibly, and the man knew it.

"Ah, you recall him, then."

"I
 
remember him."

"He was a friend, perhaps?"

"I remember him!" Howie flared. "You follow me 'round all day to ask that?"

"That, and a bit more if you can," the man said gently. "Like what happened out there . . .
 
and how come Cory ain't coming back."

Howie licked his lips to get the dry out. "Cory got it 'cause the rebels come up on us-and took the herd. He wasn't the only one, either. Weren't too many that made it."

"You did."

Howie stepped back and raised the barrel of his pistol. "Mister, who the hell are you and what's Cory to you? And, don't give me one of them answers that don't say
nothin
'!"

The man shrugged bony shoulders. "A friend of Cory's is all. Maybe one of yours, too."

"Yeah, I'll just bet."

"Might be I could
help
some."

"Help who? Me?" Howie laughed uneasily. "I don't even know you and you ain't making much sense far as I can see!"

"'Bout as much as you, boy." The man turned lazy eyes on Howie. "
Lordee
, isn't anyone in Roundtree doesn't know what happened out there. The rebels got the herd all right . . . but not by themselves they didn't."

Howie started to protest; the man held up a hand. "Now I ain't
sayin
'
I
care one way or the other. What I care about is Cory and what happened to him."

"And I just told you," Howie said irritably.

"Ah, you did and you didn't," said the man. He
wagged
a long finger at Howie. "You said he
died
and I know that. What I'm
huntin
' for is
how
."

"I already said he—"

"—Died when the rebels took the herd," the man nodded. "And I'm certain that's so. What I don't know is whether one of them did the job, or someone else." He gave Howie a sly wink. "Pardo himself, maybe? Or one of the others? You recall right off which it was?"

Howie stared at him. "You got to be crazy. Or figure I am."

"No," the man blinked at the sun and scratched his scrawny neck. "Don't guess it's either of us, boy. It's the times, mostly. Good men are dying and them that did '
em
in are walking the streets with pockets full of silver. Peculiar things are happening everywhere and
more'n
one man has got
hisself
tangled in other folk's affairs
deeper'n
he'd like to be." He grinned affably at Howie. "It is some
hot
out here, you know?

 
Looks to me like friends could talk better in good
shade
over a drink or two, without pistols and such between '
em
."

The man took a slight step forward. Howie backed off warily and waved his weapon. "I told you what happened to Cory," he said harshly. "You can take it or leave it, mister. I got nothing else to say."

"No. Didn't figure you did, right now." The man gave - him a tired, curious smile.

 
"Might come to it, though. Can't never tell." Without another word, he turned and started back toward the center of town.

"Hey, now just a damn minute!" Howie yelled after him.

The man didn't answer. He just kept walking, as if Howie wasn't there. Howie stood in the sun with the pistol hanging from his hand, feeling like a plain fool.

Chapter Twenty-One

H
owie tried hard to put the whole business aside, but it wouldn't go away. He knew he'd handled it badly. He'd had it all over the skinny little stranger and the man had gotten the best of him.

It made him swell up inside just to think about it. If you didn't take care of yourself in Roundtree, someone
else'd
sure do it for you. He'd learned his lessons well, and had the scars to prove it. Only—this one had called his bluff and walked clean away.

He knew what had happened. All that talk about Cory had taken the fight out of him and made him act just like a kid again. There wasn't a day passed that he didn't think about Cory—he couldn't forget, and didn't want to. Long ago, though, he had put that part of himself away in a special place that didn't hurt so much. It was there, and he could get to it when he wanted to. Only the stranger had come along and found it and brought it right out in the open.

Howie was sure he was going to be sick. The fat, succulent meat he'd eaten earlier was turning heavy in his stomach. He passed a whiskey seller and wondered if a drink would help. Probably just make things worse. He didn't much like the stuff, anyway.

He tried to think about something else. He thought of Kari Ann and wondered if she was back at the Keep. He thought about the way her eyes looked, gray and smoky and kind of half closed all the time. Like she was just getting out of bed, or thinking about going. He brushed the picture aside. It just made him feel worse, in a different way.

Howie wondered again just who the man was and what he was really after. Maybe he was one of Colonel Monroe's people, just fishing around, trying to spook anyone who worked for Pardo and pick up whatever he could.. Probably, he hadn't ever even
known
Cory. Finding out what had happened out there wouldn't be any big thing. One of Pardo's crew could've gotten too much corn whiskey in his gut and talked when he should have been listening.

What was he supposed to do—run and tell Pardo all about it and see if
that
would put some fat in the fire? Make Pardo itchy, so he'd pull something Monroe could hang on him? Or maybe he, Howie, was supposed to keep the meeting to himself and let Monroe slip the word to Pardo that you couldn't trust Howie on the street. Howie kicked a big rock and sent it rattling down the alleyway.
Lordee
, there was sure a lot more thinking to the stealing business than he'd ever figured!

Pardo’s keep was a big, sprawling two-story clapboard left over from
Roundtree's
early days. At one time or another it had served as a hotel, brothel, town hall, dry goods store, and, finally, a warehouse for stock feed. It still smelled strongly of the latter. Now, it housed Pardo's immediate band, eight men and assorted females.

Pardo was extra careful about who stayed in the Keep. The riders he hired from time to time weren't welcome there and unapproved visitors were frowned upon. Pardo didn't trust the people who lived there, much less those who didn't.

The Keep was on the far edge of town, with no other houses close at hand. It backed up to the dry river bed with plenty of breathing room all around so you could see who was coming before they got there. Lew Renner lazed on the porch with a rifle on his lap. Howie nodded as he went up the board steps and inside. The big front room took up most of the lower floor. There was a kitchen in back with rough cabinets for foodstuffs and cooking gear. Boxes, crates, and straw mattresses littered both the main room and the kitchen. A few patched chairs and broken stools were scattered about, but there was no real furniture as such. The Keep was a place that kept other people out while you slept, ate, had a woman, or made plans to go somewhere else. No one pretended anyone lived there, or cared to.

Howie tripped over a box of trash, cursed, and kicked it aside. Glass and broken pottery clattered across the board floor; the noise brought Klu stomping halfway down the stairs. The big man glared at him.

"Where the hell you been, boy?"

"None of your
godamn
business," Howie told him.

Klu muttered something to himself. "Well jest turn your little ass 'round and get it back where you come from. Pardo wants you to haul out to Kearney's right quick and fetch Yargo. He's got a deal
goin
' on them mounts."

Howie didn't look at him. His foot had gone right through the trash box and left him with grease clear to his ankles. He squatted on a crate and scraped meat tallow from his boot with a stick.

"Listen," said Klu, "you hear me?"

"I hear you, but I ain't in no hurry to go horse
ridin
' in the hot sun. Reckon you better get someone else."

Klu seemed to think about that. "He didn't say no one else. He said you."

Howie stood and faced him. "It don't make no difference who runs out to Kearney's. Ben
Yargo'll
be dirt
crawlin
' drunk and ain't going to have no idea who come after him."

Klu just stood there, looking at him. Howie could hardly see his eyes; they were tiny black points lost under heavy brows. Klu was wearing dirty cotton pants and no shirt. The tangled hair from his beard flowed into the thick mat that covered his powerful chest and shoulders. "Well," he growled finally, "Pardo said you was to do it."

"I ain't going to do it, though," Howie explained flatly. "So it'll have to be Lew or Jake or
whoever
."

Klu's
face reddened. His big fists tightened and, for a moment, Howie thought he might leap right off the stairs. Instead, he shot Howie a look of open disgust and thundered down the steps and past him. Howie heard his great voice roar at Lew, then the man scrambled off the porch for his mount.

Even a few weeks before it might have been a different story. Klu could still squeeze the life out of Howie—that hadn't changed. But Howie wasn't the same anymore and Klu seemed to sense it. He'd seen it long before anyone else, including Pardo and Howie himself. There was more man there now and less boy. He was quick with a knife and better than Pardo with a pistol.

Klu didn't fear him—there wasn't anything moving the big man was scared to tackle. But Klu was closer to the earth than most men; he took a lot more stock in things he smelled on the air or felt in his gut than he did in the thoughts that came to his head. And the thing he knew about Howie was that you'd likely be dead about one fine hair
before
you had any idea Howie meant to put a neat little hole between your eyes. More than that, he'd let Howie have his way this time because he was certain Howie himself had no idea just when he'd decide to kill a man.

Howie checked his boots again and glanced disdainfully about the room. He was dead sure what his mother would've said about Pardo's Keep, and she'd be close to right, too. Anyone who didn't know better would figure stock lived there instead of people. He hitched his belt and moved up the stairs to his room: