The Hunger(57)

But before Snyder could strike him again, they both heard voices, too far off to be distinct but unmistakably raised in argument. Then the sound of a gunshot tore through the air, a violent punch that echoed through the hollow. Snyder backed off Reed’s chest, startling like an animal.

“What the hell is going on?” he said.

Reed didn’t answer. With effort, he managed to stagger to his feet and lunge for his horse, barely making it up into the saddle. Blood dripped from somewhere on his swollen face. He was having a hard time seeing straight. His thoughts had gone numb, a faint buzz at the back of his head. It took all his concentration to stay on his horse—part of him wanted to fall off, to fall away from himself and vanish. To be wiped clean from this earth.

By the time Reed rode back to the camp, the argument was in full swing. Diminutive William Eddy was chest-to-chest with Patrick Breen, easily twice his size. Eddy, a dead shot, held his rifle firmly, but he wasn’t threatening Breen with it, at least not at the moment. The two were red-faced, shouting over each other’s words. A small boy, no older than three or four, stood to the side, bawling. A circle had formed around them.

Reed swung wearily out of the saddle, the spot on his face where Snyder had hit him throbbing. He could hardly think through a red haze of pain. “What’s going on here?” His voice sounded distant.

Breen did a double take. “What happened to your face?”

“Never mind that,” Reed said. His breath came a little easier now. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Took out his handkerchief and began to wipe down his face, carefully, methodically. “What’s the argument about?”

Breen made to grab the crying little boy, but Eddy stepped in front of him. “I’ll tell you what happened—this little thief broke into my stores and stole the biscuits we were saving for breakfast.”

Biscuits. Reed had had his last biscuit a week ago. Probably nobody in the party had enough flour left for biscuits except the Breens and the Murphys. He thought of the incident with Stanton and the gun. It was a miracle no one had forcibly tried to take food away from the Breens yet, under the circumstances. Not that he could say this to Patrick; he had firearms and he was prepared to use them.

“They’re just biscuits, Mr. Breen. What do you propose we do—hang the boy?” He looked down at his handkerchief, which was now drenched in his own blood, and then quickly back at Patrick Breen.

“Nobody’s going to lay a hand on Peter,” Eddy said. “Not unless they want a bullet in the gut.” So the kid was Eddy’s son.

“He’s a thief. He deserves a good whipping.” Breen spat, barely missing Eddy’s shoe. “Kids don’t come up with these ideas by themselves.”

“What are you saying?” Eddy’s voice was dangerously low. “Are you saying I put him up to it?”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, is all.”

Eddy began to shoulder his rifle and Reed only just managed to push the barrel aside. “Will, you don’t want to do that.”

“You came around asking for food,” Breen said. “Don’t deny it.”

“You refused to give me a bite,” Eddy returned. “Not very Christian of you. My family is starving and you got cattle on the hoof. You won’t slaughter your livestock even if it means saving my family’s lives.”

When Breen frowned he was an ugly man. “It ain’t my fault your cattle run off or that you didn’t bring enough provisions with you. I might let you buy a cow if I had one to spare, but I brought these cattle with me for a reason.”

“This is an emergency. None of us knew what we were signing up for.”

Reed’s head throbbed. He needed a cold compress and willow bark powder. He could still hear Snyder’s voice in his head, like the shard of some fractured dream. Faggot. “The Eddys are not alone,” he said, stuffing the soiled hanky into his pocket and doing his best to draw up his height. Even still, his voice sounded thin above the shouting. “It’s no secret that a good number of families are nearly out of provisions.”

“That’s right,” Amanda McCutcheon said. Already, her face looked hollowed out, as if over the course of the journey all her fat had simply burned away in the heat. “If my Will don’t get back soon, I’m going to be in desperate straits.” Will had gone ahead with Stanton to seek out supplies—with Reed’s permission.

Reed held up his hands to quell the murmuring. Panic, barely suppressed, vibrated the air almost constantly now. And who, besides a monster, would be able to stand by and watch a child starve to death? Patrick Breen would. Of that he was sure. This party had its share of monsters.

And sins.

“We have to face the possibility that Charles Stanton and Will McCutcheon may not return,” he said, sternly but calmly, “or may not return . . . in time. It’s a long, dangerous way to California.”

Lavinah Murphy squinted at him. “What do you propose we do about it?”

He was so tired. “You know my thoughts. We must pool our food—”

He was nearly drowned out by an explosion of protest.

“—and begin strict rationing. It’s the only way,” he persisted.

“Why should my family suffer because someone else was too cheap to bring enough?” Patrick Breen was shouting now. “It’s not my fault. It’s their tough luck. I’m not going to let my children starve.” Some in the crowd murmured in agreement.