The Hunger(32)

Reed smiled faintly as he flayed it, jerking the skin off the carcass in a couple of tugs. “Lucky, I guess. Found a spring down by those boulders, too. I’ll get water for the horses once I get this rabbit over the fire.”

Stanton had been wary of heading out with Reed, whom he suspected of having his own reasons for wanting to take a break from the party: Stanton knew a man with a secret when he saw one. But now that they were away from the fray, Stanton relaxed a bit.

The two men caught up with Hastings’s wagon party the next day, following their meandering trail through the trees. It looked to have been charted by a drunk, spur after spur ending abruptly at a cliff. Standing at the edge, Stanton could see the canyon far below them, which promised a way through the mountains. But there was no apparent path down to reach it.

They rode up on the wagon party halted dead in the woods. The scene was of frenetic work, the men either swinging axes to clear a path or using the oxen to haul the felled trees out of the way. The wagons remained in a line backed down the trail, bottled up in place. Oddly, there were few women and no children about: no campfires burning, no cooking or clothes washing taking place. A couple of men stood lookout, too, perched high on rock outcroppings, rifles nestled in the crook of their arms. Maybe, Stanton thought, they’d had trouble with Indians along the way.

A big, red-faced man, stripped to the waist, lowered his ax in midswing when Stanton and Reed rode into the clearing. Stanton didn’t like the way the men on lookout notched their rifles into their shoulders.

“We’re looking for Lansford Hastings,” Stanton called out, when they were still far enough away to make for a difficult target. “Is he with you?”

The men exchanged wary looks and didn’t answer.

Reed spoke to fill the silence. “Our wagon party is a couple days back. We took the cutoff, just like you, but all we found was a note from Hastings, warning us not to follow.”

One of the men laughed darkly. “Then he done you a courtesy, friend. Count yourself lucky and turn around.”

“We have nearly a hundred people waiting back at the trailhead,” Stanton said. “We need him to guide us.”

“Look.” The red-faced man hefted his ax. “He ain’t good for much, but we need him to get us out of this goddamned forest. We ain’t about to let you have him.”

It was a strange thing to say. Stanton and Reed exchanged a look.

“We only want to talk to him, that’s all,” Reed said. Finally, the men gestured for them to come forward, and the sentries lowered their rifles. They walked single file between the long string of wagons. Stanton peered through gaps in the canvas and saw small frightened faces, children huddled together, silently eyeing him in return. Something had happened. That was clear.

“So, why the sentry?” Reed asked, his voice friendly. “Have you had trouble with Indians?”

The red-faced man wiped his brow with a bandana. “We got trouble, but it ain’t been Indians. We got an animal tracking us, maybe more than one. Been on our tail ever since we left Fort Bridger.”

“Surely you don’t have to worry they’ll attack in broad daylight?” Stanton asked. But almost immediately he realized that the tree canopy was so thick it could’ve been dusk.

“Mostly they been picking off our livestock at night, and we can’t afford to lose any,” the man said. “But now some of the dogs have gone missing, too. Maybe they run off, hard to know.”

Stanton was uneasy. He scanned the trees pressing close on either side of them.

Reed cleared his throat. “You said Hastings wasn’t worth much—what did you mean by that?”

“He’s lost his nerve, is all,” said the man with the ax. “You’ll see for yourself.” He jerked his chin toward a wagon set a way back from the others. The canvas opening had been laced together with leather strips. It looked as if Hastings had sewn himself inside. Stanton had never seen anything like it. He gave Reed a questioning look, but Reed just shrugged. It was clear their escorts didn’t intend to go any farther. The man planted the ax between his feet and leaned on the handle, looking faintly amused.

Stanton went forward, wishing he could shake the feeling that they were being watched—not just by the other men, but by the forest itself.

“Lansford Hastings?” Stanton climbed over the toe board. A scuffling noise came from inside the wagon. “Don’t shoot. My friend and I have come to speak with you. We just want a few minutes of your time.” There was no reply, but no further noises, either, which Stanton decided to take as a sign of acquiescence. He had to unlace the leather strips to climb under the opening in the canopy. Reed followed him.

The first thing Stanton noticed was that it smelled smoky but not of wood smoke. It was as though Hastings had been burning herbs or flowers, and the smell recalled Tamsen sharply to him, the smell of her hair on his fingers, the way her skin tasted. Hanging from wooden pegs were dozens of Indian charms made of feathers, twigs, and string. The wagon looked as though it had been ransacked, the floor a hodgepodge of barrels and chests and hogsheads. As his eyes got used to the dark, Stanton saw a bulky figure cowering at their approach, crouched behind a leather-strapped trunk. A rifle barrel glinted in the dim light.

Under different circumstances, at a different time, Lansford Hastings might have been handsome; he had a square jaw, a strong brow, and dark, sharp eyes. Now his face was powdered with trail dust. His hair was roped in dirty strands.