The Hunger(58)

Things were turning ugly faster than Reed expected. “Let’s not start with blame. Every family in the party has had plenty of bad luck . . .”

“Easy for you to say. You’re one of the ones who needs help, not one who’d be making the sacrifice,” Lavinah Murphy said.

Faggot. I’m not the one who’s a pervert. Was it possible that what had happened in the desert, that all his losses, the cattle roll-eyed and plugged with bullets, or vanished overnight, was punishment for his own wrongdoings? “True, Mrs. Murphy,” he said quietly. “True enough. But didn’t I sign a voucher promising to pay John Sutter for any charges Stanton incurs on our behalf? I’m not without generosity.”

Breen shook his head. His beard and hair were overgrown. They were all starting to neglect themselves, losing the will to keep themselves clean and tidy. To remain civilized. Day by day, they grew wilder, filthier, more animal. “It’s easy enough to make promises when it’s not food out of your mouth.”

There would be no resolution, Reed could see that. But things could get very ugly, very fast. Every man in the party had a rifle and would use it to defend himself. On the other hand, Reed’s heart went out to William Eddy, who’d counted on finding game to feed his family. He was a crack shot, the odds had been in his favor; how was he to know the plains had been unaccountably depleted? Today it was the Eddys who were suffering. But tomorrow it would be the McCutcheons and before long, his own family.

He caught sight of his wife, making her way to the gathering. How small she looked, wrapped in her shawl. She was still mourning the loss of their wagon. She blamed him, he knew. He thought not of her belongings but of his daughter’s doll then, the bisque and calico scraps—frayed, love-worn—buried in the earth miles back, a final bit of hope now covered in dirt and gone.

Reed was just about to speak again when John Snyder pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Reed hadn’t seen him approach. He would have thought Snyder was drunk if he didn’t know there was almost no alcohol or beer to be had. Besides, there hadn’t been any time—he had just been close enough to smell him, to smell the familiar reek of his sweat, the smell of harness leather on his fingers.

“Hang on, everybody,” Snyder said. “Before you listen to one more word from that man”—he jerked his head in Reed’s direction—“there’s something you should know about him. He’s not the man you think he is.”

The air went out of Reed’s lungs. Even after Snyder’s attack underneath the cottonwood, even despite the burn of bloodthirst he’d felt in Snyder’s muscles, his anger, the blood staining Reed’s handkerchief—despite all of it, he’d still thought that maybe the teamster wouldn’t dare make good on his threats . . .

“What are you talking about?” Breen asked, and Reed could see, on Snyder’s face, how much pleasure he was taking in the sudden hush of attention: the same pleasure he always took in crushing and destroying, in leaving open wounds.

Reed never gave Snyder a chance to respond. He couldn’t afford to. If he let Snyder speak, he’d be strung up by nightfall.

He launched himself at Snyder, knocking him to the ground. For a moment they were pressed together, cheek against cheek. Snyder’s hands on his wrists felt familiar, the breath on his face intimate. Reed couldn’t see what the others were doing but he heard their shocked murmurs, the sharp intake of breath. He expected someone to separate them, but no one came. No one stopped him.

The tender spot on his face throbbed; his aching head pulsed like it was set to explode.

The seconds passed like hours. Snyder had a choke hold on him, but Reed would not surrender his grasp on Snyder’s collar. Finally, Snyder let go of Reed’s throat but only to reach for his belt, for the hunting knife kept there in a sheath. Reed had seen Snyder play with it a dozen times. Snyder meant to kill him; there wasn’t a question in Reed’s mind.

Faggot. Faggot. What about your wife?

One second, Reed was waiting to feel the knife plunged into his side, cracking his ribs apart. But the next, it was his hand holding the knife.

He thrust it to the hilt in John Snyder’s chest.

For a split second, Reed felt relief fly through him, as though this, in the end, were what he’d wanted all along. Sweet air rushed into his lungs even as Snyder went soft, letting out a long dry hiss like the sound of wind escaping the plains. Then Reed stared, with no feeling at all, as John Snyder fell back, lifeless, his eyes rolling open and unseeing to the sky.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





Mary Graves had been just about to turn in for the evening when she heard the swell of voices and saw people rush past their campsite. Had something terrible happened? Her first thought was of another fire, or an Indian attack, or a raid on the remaining cattle.

Her heart sped up. She followed the crowd to the Donners’ campsite. George Donner, sitting by the fire, looked up at the sudden interruption. Lewis Keseberg and William Eddy held James Reed between them. Reed looked terrible. The man was shaking uncontrollably. A huge welt was rising on his forehead, and a dark bruise blackened his jaw. Then she saw that his hands were wet with blood.

Keseberg shoved Reed to his knees. “We were fools to follow this man. Dragged us over the mountains and through that desert. I told you all that he didn’t know what he was doing, but you wouldn’t listen to me! And now he’s up and killed a man—”