Neal Barrett - Through Darkest America

That was happening a lot, now. Eating next to nothing just aggravated his belly, reminding it of what ought to be coming down and wasn’t. He had to eat, though. He knew that. Whatever he could scratch up would go down his gullet and his stomach would just have to make do with what it got.

It was different with the soldiers, he figured. Theyd’d been trained to pace their appetites on a hard trail, eating when they could, doing without when they had to. The more Howie rode, the hungrier he got!

There was another thing, too. He had to keep going, no matter what. But the soldiers could send a couple of men out looking for rations without slowing the chase. They’d been close enough at least once in the last six days for him to hear them doing just that.

Lordee—that had been too close! He’d been sure the horse would give him away then, but it hadn’t. It was trained to travel in silence, a talent that had saved his skin more than once.

He ate what he could, then. Scrambling around at night for nuts left over from the fall before. Stopping on the trail for wild onions, or whatever else grew in his path. He lost near as much as he ate, but enough stayed down to keep him going.

The sun passed swiftly overhead and shadows crawled down the side of the ridge to fill the valley. Howie lay perfectly still, taking in every inch of the land below. His eyes marked a place where stone turned from one color to another; he could see where water lay under the earth by the way trees would swell up thick and heavy-green one place, and light somewhere else. He knew plants followed the patterns of water, and men did the same. It was the way life moved about. You just kind of naturally followed the way a stream flowed, or a river. He watched where the birds swung in easy arcs over the woods and where they darted and scattered, suddenly aware of something below. It might be nothing at all—but it could be a sign that men were about.

The soldiers were some better in the wilderness, and Howie knew it. But he was no stranger there, either. He was still alive, wasn’t he? They hadn’t gotten him yet, and that was something. And every day he stayed ahead of them was a day in which he gained trail sense to help him stay alive a little longer. He was learning he knew more than he’d figured. Papa had taught him things he was using without even thinking. That made him proud.

He spotted them late in the afternoon, the sun behind their ragged column, coming east instead of west. His heart sank a little. He’d moved fast that morning, leaving a clear trail that led down through the valley westward, and across onto hard rock again. They’d followed the false trail, but it hadn’t fooled them much. They were doubling back now, just as he’d done earlier. Howie felt a sudden chill. They were more than a half a mile away still, but he was certain they could see him plain as day, perched up there on the ridge, squeezed under his flat slab of stone.

He pulled himself up tight in his hole, until cold rock was part of his hide. Squinting right into the sun, it was hard to make a good count—not that a count meant anything. They’d tried that once or twice, too. Let him think the whole bunch was in a column, but keeping a few stragglers behind, or maybe Hankers out to the sides.

He was certain that’s what they were up to now. Trail sense told him they were coming on too slow and easy— lined up straight and pretty for him to see. The others would be back of him, then. Over the ridge. Maybe waiting at the edge of the woods where he’d likely try to break away with the mount. That’d be the normal thing to do—run from the men coming straight on—right into the troopers waiting for him.

Howie gauged the sun again. It was nearly down—another four or five minutes. Once it dropped behind the low hills it’d get dark quick enough. And maybe he’d just give ’em what they wanted.

He’d judged the horse right enough. It was nearly gone— the ugly head slack against a tall pine, feet spread wide, sides heaving for air. He felt sorry for it. The beast had saved his life, and he’d fair run it to death. That was something that couldn’t be helped, though, and there was nothing for it now. And he had one more favor to ask of it. A big one.

It was dark when he led the beast back down the slope. His skin crawled at the idea of getting caught on foot this close to where the pines stopped their march downhill and gave way to the clearing. If the soldiers were anywhere around, they’d be waiting close by. But he had to chance it. If the thing was going to work at all, the soldiers had to know about it. It wasn’t any good unless there was somebody there to appreciate what he was doing.

He stood back and let the arrow go without much force behind it, placing it just behind the animal’s rib cage. He figured it ought to cause plenty of pain there, without bringing the creature down too soon. The horse screamed and bolted—tearing brush aside and snapping low branches. Howie took off up the hill without looking back. Lordee, if they didn’t hear that—!

And by the time they figured what had happened, that he wasn’t on the horse, he’d have a fair start. They couldn’t trail him until daylight and they’d have a fine time guessing which way he’d gone.

If it was just dark enough, he reminded himself. And if the troopers didn’t look too close…

He woke stiff and cold, hunger growing like something live inside him. For a quick minute he thought he’d died and gone wherever it was people went. The whole world below his branch was draped in a wet blanket of gray. Like the forest had grown a mile high in the night and poked its head right through the clouds.

He thought a while about what he ought to do. The fog would hide him while he climbed down from his perch. But if anyone was close enough to hear…

He stayed where he was, holding himself patiently against the cold. Doing one thing wrong was one too many. It was something he had to keep remembering. Wait. Until everything felt right. Wait until the wind feels easy at first dawn. Until the birds settle at noon. And right now, wait until the fog burns away and there’s a chance you’ll see whoever’s about, ’fore they see you first.

There was a stream in the draw below the trees. Young wild onions were plentiful and he ate as many as he could, knowing they’d tie his stomach in knots again. Further downstream he found button mushrooms—tiny bulbs pale as death clustered under heavy oaks. He didn’t worry about whether they were mushrooms or something else. He was proud of himself for that. A town boy from Cotter or Bluevale might not know the difference, but he did. They tasted good and he picked as many as he could find, filling his stomach and his pockets at the same time.

It was a good place and he wanted to stay longer, but he knew better than that. Filling his clay jug with fresh water, he left the green shadows and climbed back up the rise. Where the trees began to thin, he came out suddenly into the full light of morning. And when he looked down through the last tails of fog burning away in the sun he could see the bone-white carcass of the city, stretching clear across the valley as far as the shining river.

Who could imagine such a sight? Why, you could’ve set a hundred Bluevales down there and lost ’em easy! He’d never seen anything like it before, but he knew right off what it was. A City was something you didn’t have to more than hear about.

After a good half minute he realized he was standing big as you please in bright sunlight—an easy target for any fool who cared to look. Scolding himself soundly for such carelessness, he went to ground quickly.

It was an eerie thing, for certain. Enough to set a chill up the back of your neck. As far as the eye could see, ragged spires of gray stone dotted the dark woods. Like stacks of old bones, thought Howie. The wilderness had come back to claim the valley long ago, but you could still make out where streets had been and how it might have looked before.