Only Killers and Thieves(53)
Noone nodded to Pope and the old man withdrew. He sat down cross-legged in the circle near the fire, placed the platters in the center of the group. Tommy waited for the scramble, the fight for each piece, but there was none. One by one the troopers took their allotted share. Conversation rippled between them, now and then a muffled laugh, picking at their offal and eating with a cordiality so at odds with all Tommy had expected and heard. He’d imagined them ripping raw meat straight from the bone, no different from scavengers or carrion birds. Yet here they were fine dining. Might as well have been in some restaurant in town.
“You should eat,” Billy said quietly, leaning in close.
“I ain’t hungry.”
“You must be.” He noticed Tommy watching the troopers across the room. “Don’t watch them if it puts you off. Here, try this.”
Billy reached for the platter, fetched Tommy a boned joint that looked to have been part of the ribs. The meat steamed and dripped its juices on the floor; Tommy dropped it into his lap, shook his hand against the burn. Sullivan laughed at him. He sent the rum down the line. Locke, then Billy, then it was Tommy’s turn. He waved the bottle away. Billy pressed it on him but Tommy refused.
“What’s wrong with you?” Billy whispered. “It looks bad if you don’t.”
“I don’t care how it looks.”
“You sick or something?”
“You know I ain’t sick.”
“Best not be.”
“Or what? You’d leave me behind?”
Billy frowned at him. “What’s that mean?”
“You never wanted me here, so fine, leave me. Pick me up on your way back through.”
Billy stared at him a long time, clicked his tongue, said, “Don’t be so fucking soft.” He took another swig of rum, handed it back to Locke. Sullivan was making eyes at the overseer to offer the bottle to Noone. Locke wouldn’t do it. Sullenly he shook his head. From his seat by the front doorway, Noone took bites of each organ from the end of his knife and watched the brief exchange. He was smiling. Nibbling the joey’s heart. Firelight and shadow dividing his face. Sullivan sighed and reached for the bottle, passed it across to him, and Noone took a very long drink, his eyes resting on Locke the whole time.
“We shouldn’t even be here,” Tommy whispered. “All we told him was lies.”
“Shh,” Billy hissed. “Shut up about that.”
“What if he finds out?”
“He won’t. Eat your fucking food.”
“Look at us, Billy. We don’t belong here.”
“Aye? And where would you rather be? Home? Where’s that now, hmm?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I mean it. At least we’re doing something. And here’s not so bad.”
Tommy looked around the room. “Oh, you reckon?”
“We’ve shelter, fire, food . . .”
“Quit acting what you’re not.”
Billy shook his head and gnawed on his bone, then an idea struck him and he looked up again. “Hey, when’s your birthday anyway? What’s the date?”
Tommy whispered it sadly: “Today.”
“It’s Tommy’s birthday!” Billy announced. “My little brother’s fifteen!”
A small cheer went up. Billy slapped him on the back. Sullivan crawled over the dusty floor and pressed the bottle of rum into Tommy’s hand and told him he had no choice but to drink. He did so, then sat there shyly while Sullivan began slurring “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and the others steadily joined him, even Noone, even the troopers, a mangled attempt at the words. A chorus of voices echoing around the walls and spilling out of the little house. Aglow in the darkness. Alone on the plains.
19
They were most of the next morning recrossing that same stretch of terrain over which they’d fled yesterday, now littered with debris from the storm. Trees bent and broken, tumbleweed strewn about, a flotsam of deadwood and plants uprooted by the wind. No wind this morning, though. The day hot and clear and still. Their tracks had been covered by a fresh dusting of topsoil and they rode into virgin land. Untouched plains before them, the ranges inching closer, and in the wake of the horses a single trail of overlapping hoofprints, stretching mile after mile back to the house lying empty and abandoned once more.
Around midday Pope halted and the column bunched behind his horse. The old man spoke briefly with Noone, then dismounted and wandered out into the scrub, unhurriedly weaving his way through. The group sat watching him. Tommy heard Locke curse and spit violently on the ground.
Pope stopped to examine a particular clutch of bush. Nothing untoward about it. Nothing that Tommy could see. Pope bent, then squatted to sit on his heels. He was still shirtless, they all were; that morning none of the troopers had bothered to re-dress. Pope’s skin pulled tight against his ribs. His concave stomach creased. “He taking a fucking shit?” Locke scoffed. Nobody answered him. Pope reached into the bush and tugged something free from the branches, then carried it back to the group, a square of fabric flapping in his hand. The same measured walk he’d taken out there. Face as placid as stone.
What he’d found was a handmade dilly bag, woven from grass, feathers, and bark; an expert, intricate weave. Pope dipped his hand inside and removed it in a fist, letting a stream of dirt dribble out before opening his palm to reveal berries, seeds, and other pickings, which he fingered carefully like runes. Pope passed up the bag and the findings for Noone to inspect, and while he did so, Pope scanned the country to the west.