The Pig Farmer's Supper

Eli climbed down into the mud. It closed over his boots with a wet kiss. He tied the reins to a low branch and motioned the others after him.

The lane ran straight toward the house, lined on either side by a sagging fence. Past it stood the pigpens, dark shapes pressed against one another. The animals made little sounds in the night - grunts, squeals, the restless scrape of bodies against boards. Their noise covered a man’s footsteps, but it also made the place seem awake.

Eli crouched beside the fence and studied the ground. The lane was their trouble. Four horses, a wagon, and six men had cut a plain trail through the mud. Even the moon, hidden behind clouds, could have found them.

“We circle around,” he whispered. “Find the back of the house. Harlan, take Boone along the fence. Silas, stay with the horses. If anything moves, whistle once.”

“What if the farmer moves?” Boone asked.

“Then whistle twice.”

Harlan gave him a thin smile. “And if he hears us?”

Eli drew his revolver and checked the cylinder by touch. “He won’t.”

They slipped through a gap in the fence. Mud dragged at Eli’s boots, and wet weeds brushed his trousers. The wind carried the sharp stink of the pens, thick with manure and old straw. Somewhere in the dark, a pig screamed. The sound rose suddenly and stopped just as fast.

Boone froze.

“What was that?” he breathed.

“Pig,” Eli said.

“Didn’t sound like one.”

“Most things don’t sound like themselves when they’re afraid.”

They moved on.

The farmhouse grew larger as they crossed the yard. It was a broad, low building with a porch that sagged toward the ground. A well stood beside it, its bucket hanging still. At the rear, a kitchen door opened onto a patch of trampled earth. Eli could see a stack of split wood beneath the eaves and, beyond that, the dark mouth of a smokehouse.

He raised one hand.

The others stopped.

There were tracks beneath the kitchen window. Fresh ones. Boot prints pressed deep into the mud, coming from the lane and ending at the wall. Eli looked down at his own boots, then back at the prints.

Too many.

A board creaked behind him.

Eli turned.

The kitchen door stood open.

A man filled the doorway, tall and thick through the shoulders. He wore a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hands were pale in the lamplight, broad and damp-looking. A shotgun rested across his forearms.

Nobody spoke.

The farmer’s eyes moved from Eli to Harlan, then to Boone and Silas beyond them. He did not look surprised. That was the first thing Eli noticed. The second was the butcher’s knife hanging from the man’s belt.

“Well,” the farmer said. His voice was quiet, almost pleasant. “You boys lost?”

Eli kept his revolver low. “Road washed out.”

“Road’s half a mile east.”

“Couldn’t see it in the dark.”

The farmer glanced at the wagon. “You came a long way to miss a road.”

Harlan’s hand drifted toward his pistol.

Eli shifted half a step, blocking the farmer’s view of him. “Name’s Mercer. We’re looking for a place to bed down.”

“You picked a poor yard.”

“We noticed.”

The farmer’s gaze settled on Eli’s boots. Mud streaked the leather nearly to the knees. “You’ve been walking around my house.”

“Just trying to find the road.”

“You found the kitchen instead.”

The shotgun made the conversation plain. Eli could shoot first, but the farmer stood close to the doorway, and there was no telling whether another weapon waited inside. The men behind Eli were spread across the yard, exposed. One wrong motion would turn the dark into gunfire.

He let his hand fall away from the revolver.

The farmer watched it happen.

“What’s your name?” Eli asked.

“Josiah Rusk.”

“Mr. Rusk.”

“Just Rusk.”

Rusk’s eyes moved again, counting them. Eli saw him do it. Six men, four horses, one wagon. Perhaps he had counted before opening the door.

“You’re welcome to come in,” Rusk said.

Boone gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Come in?”

“Supper’s on.”

Harlan stared at the man as if he had offered them a gold bar. “You invite every trespasser inside?”

“Only the hungry ones.”

“We ain’t hungry,” Harlan said.

His stomach answered with a low growl.

Rusk’s mouth twitched. “That makes one liar.”

Eli studied the farmhouse. Light burned behind the kitchen windows. There might be a woman inside, though no voice or movement showed. The yard held no dogs. That bothered him more than the shotgun. A farm this isolated ought to have one.

“What kind of supper?” Eli asked.

“Pork. Beans. Bread.”

“Got whiskey?”

“Enough.”

Harlan stepped nearer. “We’ll pay.”

Rusk looked at him. “I didn’t ask for payment.”

The invitation sat between them like a trap with its jaws open.

Eli glanced toward the lane. Their wagon stood crooked in the mud, tracks shining black behind it. If they withdrew now, Rusk would watch them go. If they stayed outside, they would remain under the open sky with a shotgun pointed at their backs. The house offered walls, warmth, and a chance to learn where the farmer kept his money.

It also placed them within reach.

Harlan leaned close. “We can handle him in there.”

Eli kept his eyes on Rusk. “Not yet.”

“He’s one man.”

“One man with a gun.”

“Then get him drunk.”

Rusk lifted the shotgun slightly. “You boys planning to whisper all night?”

Eli made his choice.

He turned toward the others. “Bring the horses around. We’ll take the supper.”

Boone stared at him. “Eli - ”

“Do it.”

The men obeyed, though none looked pleased. Harlan passed Eli with his shoulders tight, his fingers still near his pistol. Silas went for the wagon. Rusk stepped aside from the door and watched them enter one by one.

The kitchen was warmer than Eli expected. Heat rolled from a black iron stove, carrying the smell of boiled beans, onions, and meat browned in fat. A long table filled most of the room. Six plates waited beside tin cups. At the far end stood a wooden chair with arms polished smooth by years of use.

Rusk shut the door behind them.

The latch dropped with a clean wooden click.

Eli heard it.

He also heard the men outside leading the horses toward the shed. The sound faded quickly beneath the wind.

Rusk set the shotgun against the wall, but he did not move far from it. “Hang your coats.”

Harlan kept his on.

“Suit yourself,” Rusk said.

Eli removed his hat and took the chair nearest the door. It gave him a view of the kitchen, the hallway, and the shotgun. Harlan sat opposite him. Boone and Silas filled the remaining places.

Rusk ladled beans into their bowls. Steam clouded the air. The meat was cut thick, with crisp edges darkened almost black. Eli watched the farmer’s hands. They were clean now, though a red mark showed beneath one thumbnail.

“What happened to your pig?” Boone asked.

Rusk looked at him. “Which one?”

“The one that screamed.”

“Some pigs scream when they’re hungry.”

“And some?”

“Some scream when they’re not.”

Rusk placed a bowl before him.

No one touched the food.

The farmer poured whiskey into the tin cups. The liquor was amber and strong-smelling. Harlan picked up his cup, sniffed it, and drank half.

Rusk drank all of his.

Eli kept his hand around the cup without raising it. Rusk noticed.

“You afraid of whiskey?” the farmer asked.

“I’m careful with anything poured by a stranger.”

“You came into my house.”

“You invited us.”

“That makes us acquainted.”

Harlan gave a low chuckle. “Acquainted don’t mean trusted.”

Rusk sat at the head of the table. “Trust is for family.”

The word lingered strangely. Eli looked past him toward the hallway. A narrow passage led deeper into the house. The walls were bare except for a row of hooks and a framed photograph turned facedown.

Rusk picked up his fork. “Eat before it cools.”

Eli tasted the beans. They were thick, sweet, and heavy with onion. The meat came apart beneath his knife. Hunger overcame caution, as it often did. He ate slowly, watching the farmer between bites.

Rusk did not ask where they came from. He did not ask why six armed men traveled with a wagon after midnight. He sat and listened to them chew.

That silence troubled Eli more than questions would have.

Harlan emptied his cup and held it out. “Another.”

Rusk filled it.

Eli finally raised his own, but before he drank, he noticed a dark green leaf clinging to the bottom of the serving pot. It was narrow and curled, unlike anything in the beans. Rusk saw him looking.

“Garden herb,” the farmer said.

“Still got a garden in November?”

“Some things grow when they’re wanted.”

Eli lowered the cup.

Across the table, Boone laughed at something Harlan said, then stopped and rubbed his eyes.

“Long ride,” Boone muttered.

Rusk watched him with mild interest.

Outside, a pig began to thump against its pen. Once. Twice. Then again, harder.

Eli set his cup down untouched.

Rusk lifted his own drink and smiled across the table.

“Eat,” he said. “There’s plenty for all of you.”

End of chapter one. 9 more chapters and about 19,404 words in the full book.