“Well, these men ain’t from Kenton.”
Donny felt the mattress shift as Gunner sat upright. “Who?”
“Dunnitch lads, it seems,” Donny said, patting him twice on the shoulder. “Get your wits about you, Gun. On your feet.”
They carried a sack each over their backs down the western tunnel. Gunner held the lantern, and Donny the canary. He heard the dirge of the underground rising up beneath them, heard the minute shifts of earth, mites chewing at the mineral-rich bacteria, black beetles burrowing tiny crevasses, water tables, somewhere beneath them, cutting silver pathways.
Gunner walked with a limp, his gait heavy-footed on the right. Intermittently, Donny heard him gasp and clutch his side where the knife had shanked inward.
Donny remembered the wet sound of it, the easy split of the tissue, the reels of red streaming into his mind.
Gunner didn’t shout for bluff anymore. He only wasted away. For three days or more he’d slept. Ate and spoke and moved about like a ghost. In the night, when he thought Donny asleep, he prayed. Mostly, he prayed that Patrick would return.
It reminded Donny of when their father had first been captured. How they’d counted the passing days and hoped against fading odds that they’d awaken to John strolling back down Main Street, announcing his next grand plan. Patrick had prayed harder than any of them. He’d never faltered. He went about running Kenton Hill as though John would waltz in at any moment and light into them all for letting his town fall to ruin.
Donny wondered where his brother was now. He wondered what Patrick would do if he found Dunnitch men wandering uninvited down the western line.
An hour into the tunnels, Gunner called out, a weakened rendition of his usual menace, but menace enough. “Oh ho!” he yelled, as though he were calling across a vast cavern and not a six-foot-tall tunnel. His voice rebounded off the walls and rang in Donny’s ears.
“Mornin’,” came Scottie’s voice. “Found us a couple of visitors.”
Six pairs of feet shifting the mud—his own, Gunner’s, Scottie’s, Otto’s, and two others. Two unwanted guests.
“Hello, boys,” said Gunner. “Just what in bleedin’ hell can we do for you?”
A scuffle, one of them likely detained in Scottie’s fists. “Tell this fuckin’ oaf to get his hands off me.” The voice was tremulous, rough.
“He only does that to people he fancies,” Gunner said casually. “What’re your names?”
“Dirk,” said that first voice. From farther down the tunnel, a smaller one said, “Warner.”
“Found guns in the backs of their trousers,” said Otto.
Donny could feel the silver in them from here, now protruding from the pockets of Otto’s overalls. Two small pistols. His mind reached for them.
“Now just what were you plannin’ on doin’ with those, eh?” Donny asked the men. “Was it to be a two-man raze?”
“We only wanted totalk,” Warner said, and Donny thought he might be younger, on the cusp of manhood. “Your men didn’t come at collection time.”
Donny shrugged. “They didn’t come to collect, ’cause there’s nothin’ we’re needin’.”
“Or they didn’t come ’cause you ain’t got a single ounce of bluff to trade,” said Dirk. There was a strangled sound, as though Scottie had gripped his throat a little tighter.
“Let him down, Scottie,” Gunner said. “For fuck’s sake, he’ll pop.”
A thwack of limbs in the mud. A groan.
Donny clicked his tongue. He pulled a damp cigarette from his pocket. “Now, didn’t we make it clear to your members that the bluff is bein’ allocated elsewhere?”
“Aye,” said Dirk. “And it ain’t what we agreed to. We need the bluff as much as anyone else.”
“Once the infirmaries clear up, we’ll send some down the line.”
“It ain’t just us,” Dirk continued. “The Union members in Hoaklin want to know when to expect the next trade. Same with Dorser and Trent.” Dirk panted as he stood upright. “Trades ain’t ever failed before.”
“Times are hard,” Gunner responded. “From each what they can give. To each what they need—”
“And we need it,” Dirk spat. “We’ve fought just as hard, sacrificed just as much! If there’s still bluff in Kenton Hill, then you’re favorin’ your own parish.”
