Chapter Seven No Lies After Dark #3
The trust implicit in the question was unbearable.
"They will expect the broad trail," Drew said. Warren's survey notes marked the canyon as unstable but passable. Calvin had stolen the current map, not those older notes. "Black Tooth is dangerous, but surprise may be safer than distance."
"You ridden it?" Ortiz asked.
"No."
"Then what makes you certain?"
Drew could not answer without exposing how he knew the surveys. "I am not certain."
Hank studied him, then turned to the crew. "Canyon. We enter before dusk."
The men dispersed unhappily. Drew remained beside the map.
"You did not need to follow my advice," he said.
"Didn't. Made my decision."
"Based partly upon information I could not explain."
"You want to explain it now?"
Drew looked toward Sam's wagon. "Tonight."
"Sun's still up," Hank said.
The bitterness was quiet but exact.
They spent the next hours preparing for the canyon. Bedrolls and loose gear were tied flat. Bells came off the remuda. Men wrapped metal buckles in cloth to prevent sudden noise. Hank divided the herd into smaller strings and assigned his calmest riders to the leaders.
Drew worked beside Ben at the supply wagon. When Sam called for water, he climbed inside with a canteen.
"You look worse than me," Sam said.
"I assure you that is impossible."
"Hank knows."
Drew nearly spilled the water. "Knows what?"
"That you're lying. Not the shape of it."
"He has known since Texas."
"Different now. Before, he enjoyed hunting it. Now he fears finding it."
Drew held the cup while Sam drank. "The initials are mine."
Sam's eyes opened fully.
"Not the attack," Drew said quickly. "An earlier report. I gave the railroad our route before I understood what Warren intended. Calvin used it to place men ahead of us."
"Warren."
There were many Warrens. Drew could pretend.
"Whitaker," he said.
Sam went still. Outside, men shouted as a wagon wheel settled into place.
"Relation?" Sam asked.
Drew's mouth dried. "I—"
Hank appeared at the rear flap. "Relation to what?"
The moment stood open. Drew saw the path through it: my father, my name, my original purpose. He also saw the outfit camped within sight of the canyon, Sam unable to ride without help, Hank carrying six families' futures. A confession now could fracture command when they needed it most.
He hated how reasonable cowardice sounded.
"To the survey," Drew said. "I told Sam Warren Whitaker commissioned the first Black Tooth survey."
Hank's eyes settled on Sam.
Sam looked at Drew for a long, terrible second. "That's what he said."
The lie now belonged to both of them.
Hank handed Drew a bundle of willow bark. "Boil this. We move in an hour."
After he left, Drew rounded on Sam. "Why did you help me?"
"Didn't. Helped the crew. Confess in the canyon and Hank loses focus, men die. But when we're clear, you tell him before I do."
"I will."
"That a daylight promise or a night one?"
Drew flinched.
Sam closed his eyes. "Thought so."
At the canyon entrance, the air cooled. Black walls rose on both sides, swallowing the late sun. Hoofbeats returned in overlapping echoes. The cattle smelled stone and confinement and began to bunch.
Hank rode point. Drew had been assigned ten places behind, but when the first string balked, Hank called him forward.
"Keep the leaders' eyes on your horse," Hank said. "No sudden turns."
Drew moved beside him. Their knees nearly touched in the narrow path. Hank's presence steadied the gelding and Drew in equal measure.
"You trust me with the leaders?" Drew asked.
"Trust your riding."
The distinction cut.
For the first mile, the canyon held. The walls narrowed gradually. Dry streambeds crossed beneath the herd. Pebbles clicked down the slopes and made the cattle lift their heads, but the line continued.
They halted at dusk in a small widening barely large enough for the first third of the herd. Fires were forbidden. Men ate cold biscuit and watered horses from canvas buckets. Sound traveled too far; every conversation became a whisper.
Drew found Hank checking the forward wall. "Sun is down," he said.
Hank did not turn. "It is."
"We said no lies after dark."
"We did."
Drew's heart beat painfully. "Ask me."
Hank turned then. In the shadowed canyon his face looked carved from the same stone.
"What's your name?"
The simplest question. The whole truth waited behind it.
Before Drew could answer, a crash came from the rear string. Men shouted. One of the canvas water slings had broken, startling a steer into the wall. The herd compressed forward.
Hank was moving before the echo died. Drew followed. Together they reached the frightened animal, cut the dragging canvas free, and eased the line apart. By the time order returned, midnight had passed and three men were injured.
Hank found Drew beside a boulder, wrapping a cut on Ben's hand.
"We didn't finish," Hank said.
"No."
"After we're out."
"After we're out," Drew agreed.
Hank crouched to help with the bandage. His hand covered Drew's for a moment, warm and callused. Ben looked away with studied interest. The touch was neither forgiveness nor accusation. It was a reminder that whatever truth arrived would alter something precious.
The night passed in watches. During Drew's, he saw movement along the high rim—too straight for animal, gone too quickly for certainty. He woke Hank.
"Where?" Hank asked.
Drew pointed. Their bodies stood close in the cold darkness. Hank followed the line of his arm, one hand settling at Drew's hip for balance. Even here, with danger above and suspicion between them, the contact sent heat through Drew. Hank felt it; his fingers tightened, then released.
"Could be a scout," Drew said.
"Could be rock shadow."
"We should move at first light."
"We will."
Hank looked toward the rim a long time, but Drew knew part of his attention remained on the man beside him. Since Texas, Hank had watched Drew for the direction danger might come from. After the spring, he had watched for desire. After Red Mesa, for betrayal.
Now he needed to know which direction the man he loved would turn when the canyon closed around them.