Excerpt from Klondike, Texas

Walker swatted another mosquito and looked at the tiny prick of blood on his palm. Too slow.

Many old folks and more than a few of the men in camp said smoke kept the bugs at bay. He’d heard that about bees; his mama was wild about them, planted five apiaries across their land just so she could spend all day scraping honey off comb and fix up each queen like it was another one of her many daughters. Some times Walker had joined her, when he wasn’t out with the Tallmadges or by him self, wandering through limestone canyons with nothing but a map and a pen and a loaded gun in a holster. It helped how he was used to the miniscule motions of drawing maps, how fragile even the tiniest movement could be, and was better than any of his sisters at getting as much honey as he could out without doing damage to the hive. A simple task, much simpler than trekking through more trees and brush than he ever thought existed.

All in all, smoking didn’t do damn all about mosquitos, not really. But most of the men that were here in the employ of Mr. Roderick Staytz, Esquire, traipsed around with something lit between their lips anyway. The acrid scent of tobacco smoke or the sweeter smell of pipe ash constituted their excuses, as did the ease that settled into their limbs when they took a deep enough drag. For his part, Walk er tried to limit himself to one pack a month, if any. It was a bad habit, but a persistent one.

Sun set a couple of hours ago. Nice night. Nicer than the ones they’d had lately, anyway. When Walker wiped his forehead with the back of his hand it took almost twice as long as it usually did for it to become saturated again, which con sidering all things seemed optimistic. And there was a breeze, even if it was as musty and damp as the regular air, enough to feel something close to cool against all the sweat pooling in every crevice and cranny of his skin. Close to two months into the job and it wasn’t getting any cooler—August was a veritable demon in Tex as, worse than June or July, and it wouldn’t get any more bearable until well into September at least.

“Evenin, Mr. Walker.”

The man Walker’d noticed the first day in camp stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with wide, open eyes that reflected the lantern light as brightly as a mirror, tiny dots of white and yellow dancing off darkness. Walker had gotten to know him a little more over the weeks: he knew that his name was Daniel, and he was a good cook and a better shot. Walker’d been the one to teach him how to smear wax on his lips to keep them from chapping so much that they bled at night, but Daniel was the one who’d been able to fix Walker’s best shirt when that moun tain lion had surprised them all a couple of weeks ago after dinner.

“Don’t have to call me Mr. Walker right now, Danny,” Walker informed him. “It’s late.”

He would’ve been happy if someone dropped the “Mr.”; it was isolating, alienating, even if he made it a habit to keep people from using his first name. He knew it was strange, how every time someone used it he pictured another time, another pairs of lips speaking, a vigor and harshness he couldn’t stamp out from his memory. But Daniel seemed as good a candidate as any to assume that lesser type of familiarity.

Daniel smiled. Walker noticed something in his hands, something wrapped in a small, pale cloth, probably one of his handkerchiefs. When Daniel saw Walk er looking he lifted it, and explained, “They were throwin out the last of the pan bread. Someone used too much butter this morning, and it won’t hold until tomor row, so I asked if I could take it.”

His smile seemed hesitant, something like pride or embarrassment or nervousness playing on his lips. “You want some, sir? I already put some syrup on it, cause it’s been a while since we’ve had a proper dessert, you know, but other than that it’s just like the others make it.”

It really was late, and tomorrow, just as they’d done every other day in sight, they were getting up early. Walker was already wincing at the sound of the bell that would sound an hour before sunrise, and how heavy sleep would feel as it lingered in his eyes, heavy as lead. He was leading another extended scouting par ty, which would mean up to a week away from main camp, just him and Nathaniel Johnson and one of the other cartographers and some other men, and much less sleep than he was used to. It was important for him to get enough sleep tonight, more important than usual.

But he said, “Sure, why not.” And then, “Gotta take what we can when we can, right?”

“Right.” Daniel smiled with his teeth this time, very neat teeth, and climbed up the stairs. It was a bit of a strange sight—since they’d arrived, Walker’d only had people over to go over maps, or discuss scouting. He’d never had anyone over before in such a casual setting. Certainly not Daniel.

True enough, Daniel held out one piece of pan bread for Walker, keeping one for himself, and when he handed it over Walker could feel the tackiness of the syrup on his hand. Walker lifted his slice in a kind of cheers, and Daniel reciprocated the gesture.

It was sweet on the tongue, sweet and grainy from being soaked in butter all day. There was salt and a savoriness from the cornmeal, but the taste of the syrup Daniel had used was present above it all. It tasted like luxury, not some day-old mushy bread that had only just been saved from being thrown in the mud, or to the horses. Walker knew he himself wouldn’t have been that thoughtful. It reminded him of his mother’s cooking, filling and rich and comforting.

That’s pretty good,” he admitted, chewing slowly. “Thank you for thinkin of me.”

“No problem, sir.” Daniel tore off a small piece of his own bread and put it in his mouth. His mouth was smooth, shiny from the wax, almost full as a girl’s.

“You think tomorrow’s gonna be rough?” he continued. He still had that note in his voice, the one that was hopeful and light despite everything life had surely thrown at him. Walker knew that would fade; he himself still had the scar on his jaw from when he smacked into the cobblestones after Jonathan Tallmadge threw him there. But Walker would feel bad when Daniel suffered anything close to that fate. Wasn’t easy being out here, in land that wasn’t your own and never would be, and a lot harder if you’d lost that feeling. Was it naivety? Hope? Innocence? It had been so long he couldn’t tell.

“Aint every day been hard?” Walker replied, and Daniel didn’t say anything to that. He just kept looking at Walker, really looking, and took another bite of his bread, exposing his light pink tongue behind his lips and teeth. There was a mosquito on his cheek, but Walker didn’t move to slap it away. Too easy to administer a slap when you were trying to be kind. And just as he thought about reaching out slowly to brush it off Daniel’s face, the bug flew away.

Daniel reached under his shirt and made a face as he pulled at the bind ings underneath. Every one of the people on this trip was running from something, Walker’d learned, and he knew Daniel was one of the men that was running from something other people had subscribed to him. Walker felt bad for him sometimes, if only for how he and the other men avoiding past names got chafing on their chests and backs much faster than anyone else, so bad that they needed more boiling kettles and bandages than most amputees. He’d seen one of them when he’d been hauled up after the mountain lion attack, dizzy with fever from an infected blister, and quietly hoped Daniel had never had to experience anything so harsh.

“Can I get you anything?” Walker asked, wiping his hands on his pants. His fingers still felt the slightest bit sticky, and when he pulled them away from his pant leg little bits of lint and hair stuck to his palms.

“Oh, no, sir, I’m fine.” Daniel rolled his shoulder; his eyes scrunched in pain and a sharp intake of breath whistled between his teeth before he resumed his normal, placid face. “Been a long day, that’s all.”

“I’ve got some medicine inside,” Walker pressed. He rolled up his left sleeve, exposing the still-red scabs of where that damn cougar had gotten him those weeks ago. Coyotes were more common, but less dangerous, and Walker was still kicking himself for getting caught before managing to shoot the bastard once and for all. “It’s antiseptic, real stuff. I’m sure whatever you’ve been usin is fine, but I did spend good money on it.”

Daniel’s brow furrowed for a moment. Walker knew that face, offers that could be traps, used against you in the next breath. “You sure, sir?”

“Dead certain.” Walker stood and ducked inside. His cabin was small, but at least it was his own—men like Daniel, in lower positions, walk-ons, were lucky to get their own tent, and more often than not they were sharing two or three to a tent. The small pot of salve he’d bought when he got the chance to go into the nearest town was in the top drawer of his chest, and he grabbed it and a clean washcloth and strode back to the porch.

Daniel was pressing his fingers to his shoulders, the white edge of the bind ings exposed. Walker could see that they were stained with sweat just like everyone else’s shirts were, the skin around it shining with the familiar sheen of perspiration.

“Don’t know if I can reach the back,” Daniel admitted. He wouldn’t meet Walker’s eyes, looking out into the line of trees as if he was hoping to find some other answer there. Walker didn’t want to give him the wrong kind of reassurance, the kind that only solidified the strangeness and otherness that he knew Daniel was trying to run away from. He didn’t want earnestness to come off as something nasty.

“I don’t mind,” he assured Daniel.

There would have been silence between them if not for the cicadas, and the bugs chirped and screamed as neither man said a word. Somewhere else in camp a man shouted, and the dim wail of a harmonica echoed out to them. Walker felt more than one bead of sweat slide down the individual vertebrae of his spine. The same deep, grating fear that had plagued his bones when Mr. Staytz asked if he was a convict returned in his stomach—he had to fight the urge to qualify, to retract.

Daniel pulled his shirt over his head and held it in his lap. His shoulders were narrow, bony, his collarbone drawn stark against his pale skin. The bindings were grimy, streaked with dirt and blood and charcoal and candle wax that Walker could tell was the residue left after many, many washings. He could see the culprit of Daniel’s discomfort, half-covered as it was: skin peeled back, burst blisters glis tening with the clear liquid that was not sweat. Walker’s own skin ached in sympa thy.

“Christ, Danny, you’ve really done a number here,” he murmured, unscrewing the top of the medicine.

“Can’t help it,” Daniel replied, and closed his eyes as Walker scooped out some of the whitish paste. “No other way to get it done.”

Walker didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t his struggle; commenting wouldn’t do any good. So he just took his clean hand and pulled the bindings back enough to expose all the blistered skin, and felt Daniel wince when the medicine touched him.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Walker heard himself say. “If its stingin, it’s workin. Least that’s what they told me, and I’m doin just fine.”

Daniel’s chest rose and fell; his jaw was clenched so tight to keep any kind of groan or cry inside that Walker worried he was going to burst a blood vessel. “Relax,” he urged again, sitting, and drew his eyes level with Daniel’s. He held the bindings off the medicated shoulder and moved to expose the other one, but stopped when Daniel’s hand clapped down onto Walker’s knee, a movement that lacked even the courteous warning of a rattlesnake. All his ease was gone, his fin gers shook, and the tendons in his shoulders stiffened under Walker’s hands.

“That’s just fine, Mr. Walker,” Daniel said. His voice was much quieter now, and seemed half stuck in his throat. “Very kind of you. I appreciate it.”

His fingers were long compared to his palms, longer than Walker’s and thinner, and his knuckles seemed stained with something dark and dirt-like (coal? Gunpowder?) that made him look as if he’d clawed his way out of the earth instead of walking over from the mess tent. Walker wondered if they were at all soft despite that, despite the work they’d been shackling themselves to for these weeks. He wondered if that softness in his eyes and voice was held anywhere in Daniel’s body. He hoped it was.

Walker laid the bindings back over his shoulder wounds delicately, hoping it wouldn’t stick and that he’d put enough on to keep a protective layer against the dirt and sweat. He wished he’d bought more gauze when he’d got the medicine, for Daniel’s sake, not his own. Wiping his own hands clean with the cloth, Walker’s fingers felt soft, softer than they’d been earlier in the day.

“Try to keep weight off it tomorrow,” he advised. “Don’t want this to get any worse, or else you’ll have to go to someone above me.”

“Not exactly sure how I’m supposed to avoid that.”

He had a point, and Walker knew that. He knew that Daniel’s job was a physical one, that he helped build more houses in the time where he wasn’t keeping inventory on the camp’s firearms. An important job, one that didn’t pair well with a day off. An idea formed in Walker’s mind, and he let it turn over a couple of times, thinking before he said anything too rash.

Daniel’s hand still rested on Walker’s knee. They both seemed to realize this at the same time, and when Daniel withdrew it, Walker felt as though something had gone missing. He knew the gesture had been one of hesitance, a boundary, but its absence was something else entirely.

He took Daniel’s shirt from where it rested in Daniel’s lap and bunched it up. Nodding to the still-fresh wounds he instructed, “Lift your arms. Carefully, now.”

Walker stood again, chair scraping against the porch as he slid the thin cot ton over Daniel’s arms, resting it on his slim shoulders, a gesture more delicate than even the minute markings on his maps. Had to be careful, really. Every man was needed out here.

“Listen,” Walker said, a feeling that wasn’t pity but something close to it burning in his chest, heat index well over 100. He couldn’t keep it in any longer; there was no way he could let Daniel go to his work like this, no way in his good conscience. “Come with me to scout tomorrow. You won’t have to carry a thing once your pack is strapped to a horse, and your eyesight’s miles better than mine even without a glass. You’d be a welcome addition.”

Daniel cleared his throat and scratched his palm, lacing his fingers together in a tight fist. “You sure, Mr. Walker?”

“As long as your leg can take it.” Daniel was a good man, a dependable one, and the way his flesh had felt so flayed and raw under Walker’s fingertips was a worry.

“It can.” Daniel smiled again, teeth perfectly even. “Should I meet you here tomorrow?”

“No, I’ll come find you once I’m packed, after breakfast. Just bring some pens, and somethin to write on, and some clothes. We’ll take it from there.”

“Alright.”

The piece of cloth Daniel had used to wrap up the bread had fallen to the floor between them, and Daniel bent to pick it up. His curls brushed against Walk er’s hand, and when he straightened he stood and said, “Thank you again, Mr. Walker. It was nice sittin with you.”

“Nice of you to come by, Danny.”

Walker watched him walk down the stairs, glad to see how freely Daniel’s shirt hung on his shoulders. The rhythm of his steps — thump-THUMP-thump-THUMPthump-THUMP — resonated in the wood, and as Daniel walked away Walker caught himself breathing in time with the other man’s gait. The next light was far off, with the group of tents, and before long Daniel was part of the night, unseen.

Walker raised his hands to his nose. One smelled of syrup, sweet, cloying, nostalgic; the other of mint, something sharp and antiseptic. The slightest hint of blood from when Walker got bit and the remnants of his own wound mixed up in the medicine lingered, foreign and wholly human. How likely was it that some small part of him was in Daniel now, a bit of skin or hair or something else lodged in his exposedness?

A firefly and a mosquito landed on Walker’s bare elbow. The firefly lit up, went dark, lit up, went dark. The mosquito drank deep from the dark vein in the crook of his arm, and Walker didn’t swat it away.