Wolves by D. J. Molles Page A

that makes it impossible for him to close his eyes again.
    Huxley rolls in his mattress, and the old springs inside it creak and pop. He leans against the weathered boards and panels and presses his head against the crack there, where his right eye is illuminated in a vertical slash of diffused light. He can see down into the dusty street below where all the green things have been trampled to death by feet and hooves, leaving only a fine powder of dirt.
    Below their room, the front door of Josie’s tavern is shielded by an overhanging piece of corrugated steel that makes an awning. Beyond this, Huxley can barely see the horse and Josie’s boy, but he can clearly see the rider as he swings from the worn saddle and kicks his legs about, working blood back into them. It is a filthy man with sandy hair, his face mottled by a mix of ash, soot, and dust from the road. His hair is shaggy and unkempt and beneath a layer of that same white dust, Huxley can see where the dirt has clung to and darkened around a crusted head wound, the blood now black and sunbaked, the hair stuck in a clumpy rat’s nest near his temple.
    It is the sentry from the gates of Borderline.
    The one Huxley left alive.
    The sentry is now leaning tiredly against the horse. His voice is like dried branches crackling in a fire. “Get me some water, boy,” he says.
    â€œYou need me to put your horse up, Mister?”
    â€œNo. I just need some goddamned water.”
    â€œWell … what’ve you got to trade?”
    â€œI ain’t got nothin’ to trade with you.”
    â€œI can’t just give away water, Mister! My mom’d …”
    The sentry from Borderline pulls out an old cartridge pistol, maybe the very same one that once belonged to Barry from the smokehouse. He doesn’t point it at the boy, but lets it dangle loosely in his hand, a warning to the boy that he is not to be messed with.
    Huxley can feel his whole body tighten like a compressed spring.
    The sentry’s voice is low now. “Just get me some water. And then I’ll be on my way.”
    â€œDammit …” Huxley rolls off of his mattress and leaves the thick blanket behind and the smell of old skin and sweat trapped in that fabric. The cold air in the room coils around him and makes every muscle tense.
    He snatches up his revolver and, dressed only in filthy jeans, bursts through the bedroom door and rushes down the rickety steps to the main level, his feet still clumsy with sleep.
    When he reaches the front door of the tavern, he finds it partially open. Through the narrow doorway, he can see the sentry in profile, pistol held down at his side. Huxley pulls the hammer back on the revolver until it snicks into position and then eases through the opening in the door so that only his arm and half of his body protrudes through the door. The revolver is held out level and he aims for the sentry’s head.
    â€œDon’t you fucking move,” Huxley says.
    The sentry looks at Huxley, his own sidearm still hanging, pointing at the ground. “Hey, there’s no need …”
    Huxley emerges fully from the door. The dawn air is even colder now and he can feel his skin tighten around him with gooseflesh. He keeps the big revolver pointed at the younger man. “You’re right. There’s no need.”
    The sentry’s eyes narrow. “Hey …”
    He’s going to recognize me …
    Between the two men, Josie’s boy backs up a few steps, his eyes wide, and his hands up in surrender.
    The sentry’s index finger titters outside the trigger guard of his pistol. “You the guy that shot up them slavers yesterday? Shot ’em dead right in the whorehouse?”
    Huxley shakes his head slowly. “No.”
    The sentry continues to stare, his lips drawn in tight as though they are in the process of imploding. He considers Huxley’s denial, but eventually nods his head.