The Hunger(30)

“I been having trouble with the axle on one of my wagons like it is,” Graves said. “Can’t risk it.”

“We should send a couple men ahead to find Hastings and bring him back,” Reed said. “He got us into this mess, he can damn well get us out of it.” Reed squared his shoulders. He was sweating in the sun. Stanton didn’t know why he always suited up like he was going to a courthouse. “I’d like to volunteer.”

“You? What makes you think he’s gonna listen to you?” Keseberg called out. “Hell, nobody listens to you.” This got some easy laughs. Keseberg reminded Stanton of the schoolroom bullies who’d made games of plucking wings off dragonflies or crushing ants beneath their feet.

“I’ll make him listen.” Reed tried his best to sound confident. “Though I’d like another man to ride with me. Safety in numbers.” No one needed to be reminded why.

A wind turned over dry leaves in the silence. Last night there had been poker games, drinking, storytelling, and who knew what had gone on inside the tents. Few men would want to leave such comforts to ride blind through unknown territory.

The cowards. They were only too happy to let Reed shoulder all the risk. He couldn’t let Reed head out on his own with no one to watch his back. Stanton stepped forward. “I’ll go.” He deliberately avoided Keseberg’s eyes; he knew well enough what Keseberg thought about him. “I’ll ride with Reed.”



* * *



? ? ?

LATER THAT EVENING, Stanton tethered his saddle horse at his campsite and built a fire. Then he unhitched his oxen and drove them to the meadow to graze with the other livestock, nodding to the men who had taken up watch for the night. In the distance, Franklin Graves and one of his boys drove their oxen through the meadow, and when Franklin turned and caught sight of him, the look on his face reminded Stanton of the rumors he’d caught wind of back in Fort Bridger, the unpleasant speculations whirling about him. Keseberg had given him the truth—you could count on Keseberg for the truth if it was unpleasant—that there were some in the wagon party wondering whether Stanton might not be just a little off, a little lonely, a little crazy, a potential danger to the others. When Bryant had warned that the Nystrom boy’s murderer might be some twisted individual living among them, little did Stanton imagine that he’d be a suspect. No one had gone so far as to accuse him—no one was willing to take it that far, it seemed. But still, Stanton knew the human mind was susceptible to insidious influence, especially when people were hungry, tired, and afraid. He remembered how his neighbors had been only too willing to believe the worst about him when Lydia died . . . Had these people, the ones who knew him from Springfield, finally discovered the story of Lydia? And if they had, how long would it be before they began to turn on him?

Edwin Bryant had given him good advice and he’d ignored it. He should’ve made more allies when he had the chance. The other single men had made themselves useful to one household or another, finding a place at family campfires or a seat in their wagons, like sickly Luke Halloran or the old Belgian, Hardkoop. Out here, you couldn’t afford to be on your own.

And then, of course, there was still the problem of Tamsen, whose thin smile cut into him with a chill whenever they passed, the unspoken power she held over him lingering in her wake long after she’d gone.

A stand of cottonwood striplings bordered the meadow, the farthest outcropping of the dark woods into which the previous wagon party had disappeared. Stanton imagined their wagons simply swallowed up, like sunlight absorbed by so many leaves. He pushed into the ragged little grove to search for enough dry wood to keep his fire going through the night.

But he had only gone a few steps when he startled: Mary Graves was moving among the trees, having clearly had the same idea, and he was so pleased and surprised to see her he almost doubted she was real. But she turned when a twig cracked under his boots. In the half dark, he couldn’t read the expression on her face. But she nearly dropped the sticks in her arms.

“Miss Graves.” He drew in a deep breath. “What a pleasure to run into you. I hope I didn’t startle you.” In truth, he was alarmed to find how often he thought about Mary Graves lately, as if all of his other thoughts were fallen leaves easily scattered.

Mary still hadn’t spoken to him since her attack at Fort Bridger. But he was sure he’d caught her looking in his direction more than once.

“Only a little,” she admitted now. “I’m afraid, after what happened . . .”

“I’m so glad to see you looking well,” Stanton said quickly. She’d gone pale, and he hated to think he’d reminded her of the monstrous man at Fort Bridger. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call on you.” Her father had been tailing her day and night.

Her smile was tight but seemed sincere. “No need to apologize. I understand.”

“Are you feeling better?” He wondered about the wound on her shoulder. It had been slight, but the man who’d attacked her had been filthy; it would be so easy for the wound to become infected and to fester.

“Yes, thank you. It was nothing, a graze. Once my mother saw that horrible man’s condition, she made me bathe in vinegar and soda ash! I feel as though I’ve been scrubbed raw.” She laughed, running her hands over her arms self-consciously. “Actually, I’m glad to see you, Mr. Stanton. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I would’ve come earlier, but my father . . .” She stopped, blinking, and a sour taste rose in Stanton’s throat. So it was as he suspected. “Thank you for what you did that day, rushing to my rescue like that. It was very brave of you.”