Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(87)

“The dead are about a mile or so to the east. The majority of them haven’t crossed the inner fence yet, and the patrols have been mopping up the stragglers all evening. We’ve lit the line so there’s some visibility. We’re going to ride out there and see if we can’t finish off the rest of the pack. The plan is to let them come to you. You cross that interior fence, you’re on your own. Is everyone clear?”

There are silent nods of assent, and then everyone breaks off and files into the nearby armory. The drovers are allowed in first, and they come out holding rifles that look as near to new as anything I’ve ever seen.

Finally it’s our turn, and I’m one of the first into the armory; the sight of it is enough to make me swear and cry happy tears all at the same time. Row upon row of bright, edged weapons are held in proper holders, their blades gleaming even in the low lamplight. A collective gasp goes up from the Negroes around me as they take in all of the fine implements before us. For the first time they are seeing just what the sheriff has done to us, day in and day out, sending us out to die on the front line with nothing but garden tools for defense when real weapons were waiting all the while behind lock and key. We could’ve cleaned out the plains with this arsenal.

“I’d like to kill that man,” mutters the stocky boy next to me, his skin dark as pitch.

“Get in line,” I say. He gives me a small smile, and stands next to me as the crowd clears out. I’m angry, and I want a moment to compose myself before I go back outside.

The boy watches me, his gaze weighty. “What’re you looking for?”

“Nothing. I got my sickles.”

“Difficult weapon to wield.”

“Only if you don’t know how.”

“True, that.” He walks to the far shelf where the heavy weapons are kept and picks up the porcupine, a weighted wooden club with fierce metal spikes embedded in the rounded end. It doesn’t require a lot of skill to wield but does require a good bit of arm strength. “Maybe you should try one of these.”

“Porcupine ain’t for me. I got chicken arms.”

He laughs, the sound low. “Well, try not to get turned, Chicken Arms.”

“You, too. And be patient, that lawman will get his just desserts.”

His lips twist, filled with malice. “I ain’t yet seen the man who can do that.”

“Maybe that’s your problem. You been waiting for a man.”

He hefts the porcupine, propping it on his shoulder, expression thoughtful. “All right, then. My name’s Lucas. You need any help with anything, you let me know.”

He leaves without waiting for my answer. I grab a small throwing knife, slipping it into my boot before I exit. I pass Bill on my way. I give him my best smile and he stops.

“What’re you grinning about?”

“I want my penny back, Bill.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “You ain’t getting it. Besides, you got bigger things to fret about. I’d bet you won’t last till morning.”

“I will. And when I do, I’m going to march right back here and take what’s mine. You got my promise on that.”

Bill gives me a hard look. “Keep walking, you crazy-ass coon.”

I don’t let the slur move me, because I feel more confident than I have in a long while. Instead, I just level a flat look at Bill.

“You have no idea.”





Jane, as this is my last letter, I suppose I should finally confess the news that I’ve been afraid to share these long few months, wondering if you were ever going to return home: I have decided to take a husband. A fine man, to be sure. I am most assured you will find him every bit as enchanting as I do.





Chapter 33


In Which I Demonstrate My Worth


The sheriff sets a grueling pace out to the rendezvous point. Halfway through the run I understand why he picked the people he did to accompany him. Because it’s all Summerland has to offer. There are only about thirty of us in all, mostly Negroes, with a few of the younger roughnecks to round out the ranks. It ain’t nearly enough people to defend a town of this size.

We keep pace with the horses’ canter, following the lanterns the riders carry. A few of my wounds pull open during the run, the blood dampening the back of my dress, but it’s nothing compared to the exhaustion I read on the drovers’ faces. There ain’t enough horses to go around, and a few of the younger men have to run with the colored folks. I end up keeping pace with a sandy-haired youth with a sparse beard. He looks to be around my age, and he gasps like a fish on a riverbank as we run.

“Take deeper breaths,” I say, trying to help him out.

“Don’t need yer help,” he snaps, his accent thick and rich like good gravy.

“Well, you keep panting like a dog and you’re like as not to pass out, and you don’t want that, do you? You’re much easier to kill flat on your back.” From his new boots and sad beard I surmise he’s a boy trying to be a man, and the last thing he’s going to want is to have a fainting spell like some fine corseted lady.

He stops gasping and begins to breathe deeper, and I swallow a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Cary. Cary MacAfee.”

“You a Scotsman, Cary?”