Only Killers and Thieves(74)

“And they killed Ma—what’s the difference? When are you going to learn?”

Billy’s face swam in the rain, pale and hollow-eyed and nothing like the brother Tommy knew. “We can’t go in there,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow—we can’t be a part of what they’ve got planned.”

“We don’t have a choice, Tommy.”

“Yes, we do. We could leave. Tonight. Now. Untie the horses, ride off.”

Billy hesitated, said, “Don’t be so fucking dumb.”

“Why not? What’s stopping us?”

“No water for one thing, no supplies, we don’t even know where we’re at.”

“We ride east with the sun. Keep going till we find a town.”

“They’d hunt us like dogs, Tommy. We’d be cowards if we leave, worse.”

“I’d rather live with that than what’ll happen if we don’t.”

“Son, you wouldn’t live to see the dawn.”

Noone’s voice. Both brothers turned. He came sloshing through the mud and out of the darkness like some pale apparition of the night. He was naked. Entirely unclothed save his boots. His body was white and wizened and unwell as a corpse. A thick mat of hair covered his chest and crotch. He stood close enough that they could smell him, feel the heat of his skin. Rain streaming down the crags of his cheeks and dripping from his stubbled chin, his mustache drooping sadly like a painted-on frown.

“The last deserter I had, I tied to a tree and burned. Slowly. Took about an hour before he died. We tended the fire just-so. He watched his own skin peel.”

“We’re not deserting,” Billy pleaded. “We were talking, that’s all.”

“I heard you talking. I heard exactly what you said.”

He reached down and cupped Tommy’s chin with his hand, twisted his head around. Tommy tried to pull away but couldn’t, the grip as strong as a dog’s jaw. He lifted his eyes to look at Noone, his face looming close in the rain, and those eyes reaching in through Tommy’s eyes and rummaging about in his soul. Tommy whimpered. He clutched Noone’s wrist with both hands but couldn’t shift it, like gripping an ancient tree limb. Noone squeezed and lifted; lifted him onto his toes. Billy pulled at Noone’s other arm but the arm was too slick for him to hold. Noone slapped him. Billy fell backward, slipped in the mud, rose but didn’t try again. Noone pressed his nose against Tommy’s nose, his brow on Tommy’s brow, and Tommy tasted the foulness of his breath when he spoke.

“I do like you, Tommy. But talk like that again and I’ll see that you burn.”

He dumped him back on his feet and Tommy reeled away, breathless, through the mud. Noone stood before them and neither brother moved. Slowly his face broke into a smile; he raised his arms at his sides like he held the world aloft.

“Isn’t this beautiful? Can you imagine a more perfect night?”

He tilted back his head and arched his spine, his cock wobbling, his hair lank and flat on his head. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, then breathed out with a satisfied groan.

“Back to your bedrolls, boys. Get yourselves rested for dawn.”

They walked either side of him, past his outstretched arms, and made their way into camp. Tommy weak-footed, weak-legged, slipping in the mud. When they reached the mouth of the passage he looked back at the clearing and could still make out Noone, the shape of him, crucified in the darkness, imprinted on the night.





27



The rain had stopped come daybreak. The rocks dripped and the ground oozed and the air was close and thick. The camp slowly stirring, the men wringing out their bedrolls and moving stiffly in their damp clothes. Noone was the only one dry. Freshly shaved and fully dressed, including his longcoat, like a man stepping out from home. In the oily half-light he watched the preparations and snapped orders at his men. They too were in uniform: Noone inspected them one by one. Fiddling with each collar, adjusting each hat brim.

Tommy stood numbly among the boulders, his rifle dangling in his hand and his sopping bedroll clutched under his arm, the others milling around him, making for their horses, bustling back and forth. He couldn’t bring himself to leave camp. As if he alone could hold them back, when of course he could not. Death is inevitable. Regardless, it comes. A man walks to the gallows and never thinks to try to run, stands obediently while the bag is draped and the noose is hung, waits patiently for the trapdoor to fall . . .

“Tommy?” Noone said. Tommy’s eyes flicked toward him. “There a problem? You’re not thinking of running off again, I hope?”

Sullivan overheard, called out, “The hell he is. On your horse, boy.”

“What happens to the girl?” Tommy asked.

“She stays here until we’re done,” Noone said. He hooked Rabbit by the arm as he passed. “Hobble her with one of the ropes, there’s a good man.”

Rabbit nodded. He went to where Kala sat bound and gagged in the rocks, and wrenched her to her feet.

“I’ll watch her,” Tommy offered. “Guard her till you’re back.”

Noone was smiling. “Of course you would, Tommy.”

“Get him on that fucking horse!” Sullivan yelled.

Noone scragged Tommy by his collar and tossed him out of camp. He sprawled in the mud, spilling his rifle and bedroll, right beside Locke, who was seeing to his saddle pack. The overseer ran his tongue around his gums, leaned to offer Tommy a hand, then when Tommy reached for it withdrew the hand again, and Tommy fell back into the muck.