River

Stu

I hate it here. The swamp is an awful place, full of bugs and gators and stink. Mason and Harpe’s men are suspicious of me, don’t really believe my story about how Mason was shot, or about how I helped him get here.

Mason isn’t doing much better even after a few days of rest. Harpe got the bullet out, but I’m not sure it really did Mason any favors, the way that he clumsily dug it out with his knife while I had to hold Mason down, screaming. I doubt his leg will ever be the same.

He’s still feverish, and he’s become delirious half the time. I can barely get him to eat any of the dwindling rations that they have stored here, or even to drink any of the murky water that is available. He’s just been lying there in the camp that his men have set up, in the shelter of an overhanging rocky hill alongside the Bayou. The ground there is low enough that I’m sure that it floods when it rains, and even now after a dry spell it is constantly soggy.

I find it impossible to sleep in the little cave, clustered together with the other half dozen men on the squashy ground under the overhang. I’ve discovered a way up the side of the hill, a steep climb but at the top there is a dry spot of bare granite on which to recline. It’s not comfortable on the hard rock, but better here than down in the cave with them, or in the swamp with the gators. So I have been spending my nights up on top of the rocky hill, listening to them snoring or arguing or laughing underneath me.

Tonight the sky is clear, and I am lying back against the rock, wondering if I’ll ever get any sleep. I stare at the strange smear of light that I have been noticing in the sky lately, an odd streak of something that hangs in the stars to the northwest. I have no idea what this thing is, but I swear that every night it has been growing, brightening. It feels like an ill omen.

I try for the millionth time to think of a way out of this stupid fix. Do I set off on my own? Do I wait for Mason to get better? Do I just resign myself to being a member of this lot? What do I do?

I hear somebody climbing the path up to me, and I sit up.

It’s Little Harpe. In the brief time I have known him, I’ve realized that he is crafty, brilliant, and volatile. There is no way to predict what he is going to do next.

I greet him with a grunt and a nod of my head.

He settles in, reclining on the rock next to me, and is silent for a few minutes, squinting up into the sky. I lay back down as well. I guess he wants to do some stargazing together. You never know with him.

After a while, he points up at the smudge of light. “You see that thing?”

“Yup,” I say.

“I’ve heard tell that it’s a comet.”

“Is that so?” I think I’ve heard that word before. I don’t really understand what it is supposed to be though.

“Some people say it’s an omen,” he says. That’s interesting, since that’s exactly what I was just thinking.

“Hm,” I say, and despite not really wanting to be in a conversation with Little I go on. I am curious. “Of what?”

“Don’t know. Bad things coming, they say.”

“Huh.” I feel like I’ve already had my share of bad things.

We are silent for a few minutes, then Little says, “We aren’t going to be able to stay here much longer. We need more provisions. Also, when the rain starts this shelter isn’t usable.”

I nod. That’s what I figured.

“The question is what to do about Mason,” he continues. “He’s become a problem. We can’t just keep waiting around for him to be ready to come along.”

“He just needs some more time,” I say.

“Time we don’t have. Besides, I’m not convinced he is going to recover.”

I look over at him, his features fierce in the dim light. “I think he will,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “I’ve heard that there’s a reward for his capture. Is that true?”

“Mmm,” I grunt.

“Is it?”

“Yes. For him and his gang.”

“How much?” he asks.

“I don’t know. A lot, I think. Like two thousand dollars.”

He sits up. “Two thousand dollars?”

It is an outrageous sum of money, far more than any bandit could collect in years of stealing along the Trace. I shrug. I don’t know if he can see it in the starlight. It doesn’t really matter how much the reward is, since either we’ll be caught or we won’t. The amount of the reward has nothing to do with us.

“Two thousand dollars,” he repeats.

That’s what I said. “What of it?” I say.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter to us,” I say. “It’s not like we’re ever going to see the money. If it’s ever paid, it’s because we’ve been caught.”

“Hmmmm,” he mumbles, lays back down and then falls silent. After a long time, while we both stare up at the comet, he says again, “Two thousand dollars,” then gets up and goes back beneath the overhang.

Pfsh. No point in getting all excited about money that will never be ours.

I try to close my eyes and get some rest, on the hard rocks under the starry sky, the comet balefully glinting at me, hinting of evil things to come.