No, Holme said. It knocked him plumb out of his boots. That cable did when it busted. Sounded like a cannonload of cats goin by.
Well now, the bearded one said. I allowed you was the ferryman.
No, Holme said. It was like I told ye.
The bearded one was watching him very intently. He looked down at the fire. On a rock was a pan of black and mummified meat. He watched the fire and rubbed his hands together. The other two men had come up and were squatting half in darkness watching him. The bearded one looked toward them and Holme looked at the pan of meat again.
Help yourself to some meat there if you’re hungry, the man said.
Holme swallowed and glanced at him again. In the up-slant of light his beard shone and his mouth was red, and his eyes were shadowed lunettes with nothing there at all.
What kind is it?
The man didn’t answer.
Holme looked to the fire. I really ain’t a bit hungry, he said, but I’d admire to dry this here shirt if you don’t care.
The man nodded.
He started to pull the wet shirt off and as he jerked his arms forward he felt the cloth part soundlessly down the back. He stopped and reached behind him gingerly.
Looks like you about out of a shirt, the man said.
Yes, he said. He peeled the shirt from him and looked at it, holding it up before the fire.
You ain’t et, the man said.
Holme’s stomach turned coldly.
Ain’t no need to be backards about it. Get all ye want. We’ve done et.
He laid the shirt across his knees, reached gingerly and took a piece of the blackened meat from the pan and bit into it. It had the consistency of whang, was dusted with ash, tasted of sulphur. He tore off a bite and began chewing, his jaws working in a hopeless circular motion.
The bearded one nodded. And a rider, he said.
A what? Holme said.
A rider.
Yes.
Ah, he said.
Old crazy horse like to of killed me, Holme said. Whatever it was had swollen in his mouth and taken on a pulpy feel warped and run with unassailable fibers. He chewed.
Where was it you was headed? the man said.
He worked the clot of meat into one cheek. I was just crossin the river, he said. I wasn’t headed no place special.
No place special.
No.
Ah, the man said.
Holme chewed. I don’t believe I ever et no meat of this kind, he said.
I ain’t sure I ever did either, the man said.
He stopped. You ain’t et none of this? he said.
The man didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said: They’s different kinds.
Oh, Holme said.
The one with the rifle across his squatting thighs giggled. Ain’t they, he said. Shitepoke, pole …
The bearded one didn’t say anything. He just looked at him and he hushed.
Ain’t no such a thing, he said. Don’t pay him no mind, mister. Pull in a little closter there. You Harmon, get some wood.
The one with the rifle rose and handed it to the one who had not spoken and disappeared.
I’d be proud to help fetch some wood, Holme said.
You just set, the man said. You don’t need to worry about it.
He chewed.
That is a jimdandy pair of boots you got there, the man said.
Holme looked at the boots. He had sat and they were stretched sideways along the fire, one crossed over the other. They all right, he said.
Yes.
I wisht it’d let up rainin, Holme said. Don’t you?
Yes, the man said. What did ye do with the horse?
What horse?
The rider’s horse.
I didn’t do nothin with him. He like to of killed me. Commenced tearin up and down like somethin crazy till he run plumb off in the river.
More horse than you could handle was it?
I couldn’t even see it.
Or maybe you was afraid to take it. That makes sense.
I don’t need no horse, Holme said.
No. Get ye some more meat there.
I still got some, Holme said.
The man turned his head. Harmon had come up with a load of wet limbs and now he dumped them on the ground and knelt in the loamy river soil and began to arrange them before the fire to dry. The man waited. Then he said: Set down. Harmon squatted on his haunches and folded his arms about his shinbones.
Well, the man said, turning to Holme. You’ve set there and dried and warmed and et but you’ve not said your name. A feller didn’t know he’d think you wanted it kept for a secret.
I don’t care to tell it, Holme said. Folks don’t commonly ast, where I come from.
We ain’t in them places, the man said.
Holme, Holme said.
Holme, the man repeated. The word seemed to feel bad in his mouth. He jerked his head vaguely toward the one with the rifle. That’n ain’t got a name, he said. He wanted me to give him one but I wouldn’t do it. He don’t need nary. You ever see a man with no name afore?
No.
No, the man said. Not likely.
Holme looked at the one with the rifle.
Everthing don’t need a name, does it? the man said.
I don’t know. I don’t reckon.
I guess you’d like to know mine, wouldn’t ye?
I don’t care, Holme said.
I said I guess you’d like to know mine wouldn’t ye?
Yes, Holme said.
The man’s teeth appeared and went away again as if he had smiled. Yes, he said. I expect they’s lots would like to know that.
Holme wiped his mouth on his naked arm and tried to swallow and then went on chewing. It was very quiet. He listened but he could hear no sound anywhere in the woods or along the river. Not of owl or nightbird or distant hounds.
Some things is best not named, the man said. Harmon here — he gestured toward the squatting figure — that’s his right name. I like for him to set and listen even if he cain’t understand much.
Holme nodded.
I like for him to have the opportunity.
Yes.
Harmon did not appear to be listening. He was gazing into the fire like a lean and dirty cat.
He might know somethin and him and me neither one know about it, the man said. Asides I like for him to set there and listen and maybe mend the fire.
Harmon moved. He did not stop looking at the fire but he leaned and groped with one hand until he had hold of some wood and he poked a few pieces into the wasting flames. Holme could see the third one squatting on the far side with the rifle upright between his knees and his face resting against the side of the barrel.
I like to keep the fire up, the man said. They might be somebody else comin.
Holme swallowed the leached and tasteless wad of meat, his eyeballs tilting like a toad’s with the effort. I would doubt they was, he said.
The bearded one didn’t seem to hear. He stretched his feet forth and crossed them and recrossed them. Holme reached toward the pan before he thought and checked too late. He lifted a sour black chunk of meat and bit into it.
Now these here old boots of mine, the man said, is plumb wore out.
Holme looked at the boots. They were cracked and weatherblackened and one was cleft from tongue to toe like a hoof. He looked at Harmon and he looked at the fire, chewing.
Ain’t they? the man said.
I reckon, Holme said. He rearranged the shirt and felt of it.
Get ye some more meat there, the man said.
Thank ye, Holme said. I’ve a plenty.
Did that ferryman not have nary better shirt than that?
What?
I said did that ferryman not have no better a shirt on him than that? I never noticed his shirt.
The man watched him. After a minute he turned to Harmon. He says he never noticed his shirt, he said.
Harmon squeezed his shins and giggled and nodded his head up and down.
The man had stretched out before the fire and was propped up on one elbow. He said: I wonder where a feller might find him a pair of bullhide boots like them you got.