The Hunger(46)

“By a hair,” Stanton said, and tried to keep his voice even. “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

He led Reed over to his wagon and showed him the hole made by the bullet.

Reed crouched low to get a clean look. “Did you see who did it?”

Stanton hesitated. He couldn’t see a reason to reveal Tamsen’s and Keseberg’s involvement. Better to keep the particulars secret until he had a better sense of where their scheme was headed. “No. Too dark.”

“It’s gotten that bad, has it, that we’re trying to kill each other?” Reed took off his hat and smoothed his sweat-drenched hair. Stanton remembered how Reed had first looked when they set off, like a big-city boss, still starching his shirt collars and shining his shoes. “What are you going to do?”

“I’d like to volunteer to ride ahead. To Johnson’s Ranch. We need the food, and most of the families are in a bad way. Some are near the end of their supplies. The ones that aren’t won’t share with those in need.”

Reed squinted at the wagons in the lead, far down the flats. They were as small as beetles. “We could take a day or two once we’re out of the desert and slaughter some of the livestock, dry the meat. That would tide us over for a while.”

“No one who still has cattle will part with it, not for love or money,” Stanton pointed out. “A good number of the cattle died in the crossing or ran off. The people close to starving are the ones who started with almost nothing—the Eddys, the McCutcheons, Wolfinger and Keseberg. And don’t forget all the single men. Single men with rifles. Things will get ugly soon.”

Reed nodded and glanced again at the tear in Stanton’s wagon cover. “They already have.” He sighed. “I suppose it might give whoever took a shot at you some time to cool off.”

That or he’d risk isolating himself further.

But it was still safer than the alternative, for now. He had to get away.

“So it’s settled, then.”

Reed nodded.

Not for the first time, Stanton wondered where Bryant was now and tried not to read the worst into the lack of promised letters. Hopefully, Bryant was nearly to Yerba Buena, enjoying that fabled sunshine.

“I want to take another man with me,” he said slowly, watching Reed’s reaction. He didn’t expect to find many eager men for the job. There were plenty of things that could kill a man between where they stood and Johnson’s Ranch.

“Will McCutcheon,” Reed said. “I think he’s the right man to accompany you.”

Stanton nodded, understanding: Everything the McCutcheons had was strapped to the back of their family mule.

“I can ask Baylis to handle the oxen while you’re gone. Mrs. McCutcheon can look after your wagon.”

Stanton only nodded again.

“We are much obliged to you, Mr. Stanton. Much obliged.” Reed dusted his hands before extending one to shake.



* * *



? ? ?

HE FOUND TAMSEN TRUDGING in the shadow cast by the tall canopies of the Donners’ wagons. She had draped a white shawl over her head to protect her from the sun. He dismounted and began to walk beside her.

“Mr. Stanton.” She didn’t seem surprised to see him. He admired her control. “What are you doing here?”

He reached into his saddlebag. “I believe this is yours.”

She froze at the sight of her own revolver. She seemed altered to him suddenly, no less beautiful but smaller somehow, like a flame narrowed by lack of oxygen.

“You might as well take it,” he said. “I know it belongs to you.”

She did, but with a look of distaste, as if it were a snake or a large insect that might bite her. He stared at her hands, wondered briefly if she might aim the weapon at him, and something in him leapt at the uncertainty of it. Then he hated himself, for it was this kind of attraction—to wrong things, to danger, to her—that led to ruin, and he knew it, and the knowing somehow only made it stronger. Her lips were taut and pink. He looked away, suddenly furious with her, with the pinkness of her mouth. She didn’t even have the grace to look guilty.

“Don’t you want to know where I found it?” he asked, pressing.

She looked at him blankly.

“I took it away from Lewis Keseberg,” he said.

“Lewis Keseberg?” She shrugged coolly, pushing the weapon back to him. “Whatever he did, it wasn’t me who told him to do it. I didn’t give him the gun, either. He must have taken it.”

“And when would he have had the opportunity to do that? You like to keep busy, don’t you, Mrs. Donner? I must say that I’m happy you’ve found another plaything.” It was wrong of him to imply such a thing, but the beast, chained inside him, held down for these last few months, had reared its head. Stanton was losing control of himself—or he already had, long ago.

Her whole expression curdled around a look of hatred. “You have no right to speak to me like that. Not after what’s been between us.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” he said, hating the growl in his voice, hating her power over him, yet drawn to that power. “I’m reminded every day, when half the train whispers as I pass, and the other half shuns me and rumors spread like a sickness. I’m reminded when Franklin Graves threatens me with hanging if—” He broke off. He hadn’t meant to mention Mary.