Gabriel's Story by David Anthony Durham Page A

handling of horses and his stature in the saddle, however, it seemed he belonged to this country as much as anybody could. It was his job to loose-herd the three riderless horses they had with them, the only ones not sold at auction. He did this with a skill that almost seemed a sixth sense, at times pushing the horses out before him and letting them kick up to a trot, at other times bringing them in so close to the wagon that Gabriel could have reached out and touched them.
    But the man who caused Gabriel the greatest concern was the one he saw the least of, the black man, Caleb. He led the way, darker and more silent than ever, on a large painted stallion that had some wildness in it still. It seemed he preferred his own company to that of any other and tolerated the rest only from the solitude of the lead position. Watching him on his horse, Gabriel thought him some dark figure of the apocalypse. It was unclear which of those demons he might incarnate, but when he glanced back at the caravan, Gabriel saw in his gloomy countenance an utter and indescribable loathing for the world and all its creatures. Gabriel had never seen such a face before, black or white, and he couldn’t help but hope that his perceptions were wrong. He knew instinctively that no man should be so twisted, and he knew further that no man could remain so for long without enacting some drama upon the world.
    THE FIRST EVENING, THEY CAMPED ON THE PRAIRIE several miles from any settlement, beside a lonely creek that moved through the land lost and forlorn, switching this way and that in search of something it seemed destined never to find. They hobbled the horses and let them feed and built up a fire of brush and of what wood they could find along the creek. Above the fire they suspended a blackened kettle and threw into it the makings of soup—chunks of smoked meat, lard, and potatoes. With the utmost concentration, Bill added some herbs that he had bought in Crownsville, sure that they would flavor it nicely.
    Rollins was kind enough to serve the boys their first wooden bowls, full to the brim, steaming and pooled with oil. He stood before them, ladle still in hand, urging them to eat. As the first spoonful passed his lips, Gabriel sensed the heat of it, but he didn’t pause quickly enough. The hot oil bit into his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He flinched, clamped his lips around the spoon, and closed his eyes as a wave of pain flooded his senses. When he looked up again, the first thing he saw was Rollins’s face close to his, smug and smiling with feigned interest and innocence. “So, what’s the verdict?”
    Gabriel was trying to figure out how to answer when James cut him short. The other boy gasped and spewed his food onto the fire. “Goddamn!” He rose to his feet and danced back a few steps, as if he’d felt the heat primarily in the seat of his pants and the soles of his feet. “I near burned my mouth. That’s hotter’n Satan’s piss in a frying pan!”
    This put Rollins into hysterics. He laughed and joked and imitated James and Gabriel with his dull features, using gestures that annoyed Gabriel with their inaccuracy. None of the other men seemed equally amused. “I’ll grant you the boy’s got a way with words,” Marshall said, “but sit yourself, Rollins. Sometimes you act like a damn five-year-old.”
    Gabriel ate on very carefully after that, staring down at the soup mistrustfully. He blew on it till all semblance of heat was long gone, then tried to slip the food past his tender mouth and straight down into him. No sign or flavor of those herbs could be found, and Gabriel wondered if his enflamed tongue had lost the power to taste. He said nothing, but he couldn’t help giving Rollins an occasional angry look.
    The men drank coffee and talked and watched the air ripple up from the fire and rise into the milky sky. Jack remembered the hospitality