Savage Boy. Nick Cole

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      Chapter Eleven

      CITIES AIN’T GOT nothing left for you, Boy.

      And yet, Sergeant, I’ve always wanted to go into them. To know what’s in them.

      Places where you might have lived, Boy, had things been different.

      Sergeant Presley’s voice seemed to ignore Escondido’s whispered commentary and remembrances as they led their horses through the dust and rubble.

      I try to find myself in them, Sergeant Presley. I try to find who I might have been.

      Why, Boy?

      It might tell me who I am, Sergeant.

      “I come through here must been something like five years ago with a partner. Dan was his name.” Escondido’s face looked gray and dusty in the last orange light of day. His mouth, full of crooked teeth, hung open, sucking at the dry desert air.

      The Boy could hear Escondido’s heavy breathing.

      They entered the long, crumpled stretch of casino row. Hollow-­eyed windows gaped blindly down on them from along shell-­dented walls.

      “Said he might go in and jes’ take a look around. I tells him it’s jes’ not done, Dan. Jes’ not done.”

      They passed a burned U.S. Army tank poking its melted barrel out from a storefront whose sign had long since been scoured to meaninglessness.

      M-­1 Abrams, thought the Boy.

      “Toughest hour of my life was waitin’ for Dan to come out. I sat there holding that horse of his for the longest time. We’d had a good haul in lions that year. What was the point of going in?”

      Ahead, a sweeping bridge spanned the gap between two casinos like a broken arm reaching out from the wreckage of a terrible accident to touch another victim.

      “Worst part’s just ahead,” muttered Escondido.

      Escondido cocked back the hammer on his long rife.

      This is what I mean, Boy. Told you not to get caught up in things and here you are, caught up.

      I could answer you, he thought to Sergeant Presley. But you would tell me I was crazy. You would tell me that you are dead and the problems of this life no longer concern you. Wouldn’t you?

      “I waited an hour and he never come out,” whispered Escondido.

      The laughing started.

      One voice cackled, clear and very near at once.

      Moments later two others responded, as if only politely and at a mediocre jest.

      Then another burst out, hysterically almost.

      Finally the rest were laughing uncontrollably.

      Sniggering.

      Guffawing.

      Giggling.

      Snickering.

      Hooting.

      Wailing.

      Sobbing.

      Moaning.

      Crying.

      Laughter careened across the broken casino walls.

      Laughter was everywhere.

      “Keep straight on!” yelled Escondido over the echoing din.

      For a moment there were almost-­shadows within the recessed gloom of the buildings high above. Not quite, but almost.

      Leading Horse, the Boy pulled his tomahawk from his belt.

      “They won’t come out. Never do. But you don’t want to go in after ’em all the same,” warned Escondido.

      They crossed the shadow of the broken bridge and a sink crashed to the dusty pavement behind them.

      Horses reared and snarled fearfully.

      The Boy held him around the neck, whispering softly.

      “I know. I know. I know,” he said over and over.

      Once they were almost out from underneath the broken walkway, Escondido muttered, “I think that’s what all the silliness is about. Tryin’ to get us to come in and take a look.”

      A scabbed face, pale and haunted, appeared for a moment behind dusty shards of broken glass three stories up. Whether it was a man or a woman, who could say.

      They passed on and the laughter seemed to fade in quiet increments. Finally there is a single painful scream.

      In the hours that passed between the ruins of Reno and the river, Horse began to favor his unhurt legs, limping with the left hind leg. The Boy knew a powerful infection had already set in.

      “He can’t go much farther,” said the Boy.

      “He’ll have to. Another few hours to the foot of the mountains and then the river. I won’t sleep down here tonight.”

      They rode on, passing through lonely crumbling hills in the weak last light of day. When the sun finally fell behind the lowest of the Sierra Nevada, the land turned to purple and the smell of sage hung heavy in the shadows.

      “Another hour and we’ll be alongside the river. Once we’re to it my hunting lodge won’t be much farther on. I won’t waste a bullet on your horse. Load ’em myself and there’s precious few left now. Understand?”

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