Two hours later, Oatha stumbled out of the saloon, and he barely made it into an alley before spewing his supper against the clapboard.
Nathan stood chuckling behind him. “You can’t play cards for shit.”
“Yeah,” Oatha groaned as he leaned against the wall, bracing for the next round of nausea. “And I got barely the money for a horse now.”
“Wouldn’t fret.”
Oatha spit. “Why’s that?”
“Like I said, me and the boys headin to Abandon in two days. Travel with us, you want. Dan’s got a mule you can ride.”
“A mule.”
“Mean son of a bitch name a Rusty.”
Oatha straightened, tried to center himself over his feet, the world tilting. On the second floor of a false-fronted building across the street, a headboard smacked repeatedly into a wall and bedsprings squealed like ravenous pigs. Against the dark, Nathan was just a silhouette.
“You sure?” Oatha asked.
“Yeah, you don’t wanna be takin that trail to Abandon on your own anyhow. Wild country out there, bad people in it.”
“I’m obliged,” Oatha said, though he wasn’t. Last thing he wanted was these men for extended company.
“You get yourself home?” Nathan asked.
“Believe so.”
“I’m gonna go scare up a little snatch.”
Nathan wandered off toward Blair Street, an assured elegance to his drunken gait, and Oatha sat down against the back of the saloon to let his head clear, get his bearings straight for the long stagger back to the hotel.
He woke stiff and cold some hours later, still sitting up against the back of the saloon, his
gray frockcoat glazed with a heavy frost. The throbbing at the base of his skull was his
pulse, and it quickened as he struggled to his feet in the thin air.
The predawn sky held a deep lavender tint, the surrounding peaks stark black against it, like patches of starless space, and aside from the candleflames in the windows of the cribs, this boom town stood as still and dark as a man might hope to see it.
Oatha bought a lineback canelo from a greaser at the livery, an old saddle, and provisions for two days, including tobacco and a quart of whiskey. Struck out of Silverton in the late afternoon, even as the sun perched on a jagged ridge of peaks in the west.
At dusk, he was three miles out of town, camped along a drowsy stream downsized to a trickle in these dry weeks of autumn. Oatha lay smoking on his bedroll, staring up through the spruce at pieces of the night sky, moonless and starblown. If he rode hard, he’d make Abandon by nightfall. It all seemed like the start of something for him, a new direction. He was fifty-one, and maybe it was time he got his life right, started walking that road his friend, Sik’is, had always talked about.
The restlessness of the horse tore him out of the dream, and Oatha sat up before his eyes opened. It was light out, though still early, maybe an hour past dawn. He got up, walked over to the mare and rubbed her neck.
In the near distance, a twig snapped, followed by the clink of bits and leather saddles creaking in the cold. Oatha spotted movement through the trees. Though he’d star-pitched fifty feet off the trail, he now realized he was still in easy eyeshot of any passersby who happened to glance in his general direction.
He counted three riders moving up the trail and was debating whether to hail them or just let them pass, none the wiser of his presence, when a voice called out, “Got breakfast ready, Oatha?”
Now Nathan was coming toward him through the trees astride an apron-faced gelding.
“Hello there, boys.” Oatha mustering more enthusiasm than he felt, something unnerving about being in proximity to Nathan Curtice in the middle of nowhere that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Nathan, Dan, and McClurg rode up, and Nathan dismounted, walked over to Oatha, glancing at his bedroll, his horse, as if he’d caught him stepping out.
“Got yourself that new horse,” Nathan said.
Oatha nodded.
“You know you’ve hurt Rusty’s feelings.”
“Who?”
McClurg snorted.
“Oh, the mule. Came looking for you boys yesterday,” Oatha lied, “see if you wanted to start out a day early.” The way Nathan stared into his eyes bothered Oatha, like the man was looking through his head, reading the scrawl on the back of his skull.
“You not think we’d make fit traveling companions?” Nathan asked.
“Course not.”
“What then?”
“Just started out early is all.”
Nathan gave a nod, though it didn’t appear to be one of understanding. He glanced back at Dan, as if to say something, but stopped himself.
“You care to ride on with us?” Nathan asked.
“I’ll probably just catch a few more winks and then—”
“How about you saddle your horse right now, come along with us like you said you was goin to.”
Oatha rode between McClurg and Dan in the early morning cold, the trail winding up a long drainage through a dense stand of spruce. By midday, a thick cloud deck had darkened the sky, and when the men stopped to lunch at timberline, tiny flakes of snow stood out on the wool of Oatha’s coat. They were making a leisurely go of it, no chance of reaching Abandon by nightfall at this pace, but Oatha held his tongue, even as they lounged for two hours, smoking and nipping from Nathan’s jar of whiskey, the men fair drunk by the time they finally decamped.
It was cold riding, and Oatha’s glow soon faded.
They climbed out of the trees, the snow blowing sideways over this exposed, open terrain. The Teats, those twin promontories Oatha had been using as a guide since yesterday, had vanished in the storm.
They camped miserable, cold, and wet just below timberline in a grove of dead spruce, got a sheet of canvas strung up between the trees, a fire going underneath, but even the whiskey jar making the rounds couldn’t lift Oatha’s spirits. He sat leaning against a spruce, watching the snow pour down and the light recede, thinking he should be in Abandon by now.
“How much you figure they keep on hand?” McClurg asked.
“Few thousand. Ten if we’re lucky,” Nathan said.
“Enough to make it worth our trouble,” Dan said.
Oatha cut his eyes at the three men, and McClurg noticed, said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
Nathan smiled. “Nobody told him he felled in with road agents.”
The men laughed.
“What do you do for a livin?” Nathan asked.
Oatha’s mouth had run dry. “Been prospecting, bar mining, picking up work in the mines where I can—”
“Like honest work, do you?” Dan said.
“I guess.”
“But the question,” McClurg said, “is how you feel about dishonest work?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well think on it, get back to us.”
The men laughed again and Nathan swiped the jar from Dan, tilted it back. McClurg hoisted a log onto the fire, a spray of ashes engulfing Oatha. He rummaged through his satchel, located the loaf of sourdough he’d bought before leaving Silverton.
“Break me off a hunk a that,” Nathan said, and Oatha tore off a piece.
“Got a round a cheese in here, too.”
“Don’t be stingy.”
They cut cheese onto the bread, set the slices on hot stones in the fire’s vicinity to let it melt.
The storm brought a premature night, and in the firelight, Oatha watched the snow fall without respite. They played cards until the fire ran out of wood, won the last of Oatha’s money, drank up his quart of whiskey, smoked all of his tobacco.