At the edge of the cindery heap of furnishings, she saw Dane’s sketch pad, some of the pages torn or burned. She picked it up, along with the Bible some religious or superstitious raider had left on the chest, then hunted till she found a comb and clean cloths.
She wanted to wash the blood off her parents, compose their bodies. That seemed very important. The vandals must have been gone for hours, must have struck this morning when Father was hitching up the buggy. Little chance of catching them.
Should she go to Johnny’s, her first impulse, or to Lawrence? Lawrence, it had better be, so that Reverend Cordley could see to the burial and the militia could try to find the men who’d done this.
Yes. Then she’d go to Johnny’s; then she could cry. For now she must wash her mother and father. She couldn’t bear to leave them like this.
Putting the Bible and Dane’s sketch pad on the smashed buggy along with the cloths and comb, she loosened Chica’s cinch and dragged some unburned hay out of the stable. The smoking roof had caved in over the mangers, but, as with the house, the damp sod had prevented a consuming blaze. Deborah didn’t care. She’d never live here again and was sure that Thos wouldn’t, either.
Later, because utensils, tools, and such were expensive, she’d get someone to come with her to sort out what was usable from the ruins, just as Johnny would salvage what he could from the buggy.
Someone had tossed a few strangled chickens down the well and knocked over the barrels of tomatoes and plums. Deborah threw out the bucket where the birds had lodged and wiped it with snow, lowered it, and untied the rope, carrying the bucket over to her parents.
Except for what streaked her hair, it was Father’s blood on Mother. Deborah cleansed the head wound, smoothed the hair to hide the lump, washed Leticia’s face and hands, scarcely realizing that the whimpering sounds were coming from herself.
Father—Father, do you forgive them? I never shall.
Father. How can I wash away the blood and see the wounds? How many? Eight. A dozen. More. And your arm. If I put it like this, it looks almost natural. But your shirt is bloody, your vest and coat. If I fix them like this, your hurts are covered. Oh, my father, what have they done to you?
Fighting off the convulsive sobbing that wrenched her inwardly, Deborah rose. She’d left Belshazzar halfway to Chaudoin’s, but the plum bush wouldn’t hold him if he got hungry. He wouldn’t die. She’d better ride for Lawrence as fast as she could.
But her parents’ bodies! If she left them here, with night coming on, coyotes or wolves might be drawn to them. It was a wonder they’d gone unmolested for as long as they had, especially with Venus also giving off a blood scent. The door was torn off the hinges of the house and the stable was open.
The well-house. She’d have to leave her parents there. She hated to drag their bodies, but better she than scavenging beasts. Kneeling by her mother, she was trying to work the dead arms over her neck so she could take most of the weight on her back when she heard the sound of hooves.
The murderers? More despairingly glad than frightened, she felt the Bowie against her thigh and promised there’d be new blood mixed with her parents’. But it was only one rider on a big bay horse.
Rolf.
“Oh, my God!”
In an instant, he was down on his knees beside her. His big hand touched Mother’s bruised head, Father’s hand. He recoiled, shuddering, when the severed arm moved. “I’ll kill them!” he said beneath his breath. “Every damned one!”
“Who?” Deborah stared at him. “You know …?”
“I was hunting. Saw some riders. They said they were after a thief. I joined in.” She flinched. He said roughly, “Hell, Deborah, don’t look at me that way! I’ve never hunted a man before, and I felt like doing something after the way you slammed the door in my face!”
“You—didn’t come here?”
“No!” Seizing her shoulders, he gave her a shake. “I cared more for your parents than I ever did for my father! It’s partly for them that I’ve been so tame.”
“Then what did you do?”
“The party split, looking for a sign. I stayed with the group that was on the Wakarusa. The other bunch, eight or nine of them, must’ve done this.”
“You were riding with pro-slavers.”
Rolf didn’t answer.
“You must have known it!”
“What do you expect?” His tone was sullen. “You wouldn’t have me, I was hell-bent, and these men happened to come along. I’d have ridden with John Brown just as fast if I’d run into him.”
“That’s what makes it hideous! You don’t care!” Moving her head and body in dazed anger and pain, Deborah had a sudden flash of terrible certainty. “The thief. Did they—you—find him?”
“They trapped him in the snowdrifts by the riverbank.” Wetting his lips, Rolf looked past her.
“Was it Thos?”
He nodded. She moaned, struck out at him, clawing her fingers, then remembered, too late, the Bowie. Capturing her wrists, he held her in a steel grip till she stopped struggling.
“Deborah, they shot him before I came up! I didn’t know it was Thos until I saw him dead.”
“But you knew they were after someone.”
“A thief, they said!”
“And you knew that’s what they call someone who gets a slave away from them!”
“Deborah, if I’d been there in time, I’d have fought for Thos! Don’t you believe that?”
She looked into the fathomless dark green eyes, then glanced quickly away. “I don’t know.”
“Damn it, if I hadn’t defended you last May, your men would’ve died right then!”
“Now they’re dead, and Mother, too,” Deborah said tonelessly. “Everyone but me.” She collected her fragmented thoughts, battling for sanity. “Thos’s body?”
“When the others started back—they’d agreed to rendezvous with the second party at the border—it was natural for me to drop out. I rode off toward Lawrence, but when the gang was out of sight, I went back and buried Thos. The ground was frozen but I found a hollow where a big tree had been uprooted and put him there, covered him with earth and branches, and worked the big tree over him.”
So the coyotes and wolves wouldn’t tear him apart.
“Why did you come here?”
“To tell you what had happened. A few miles back, I ran into the second party’s trail. Since then, I’ve ridden as fast as I could.” Rising, he pulled Deborah to her feet. “Let me give you some whisky. It’ll make you feel better.”
She choked back a flood of wild, furious words. “Please, you go to Lawrence and send out Reverend Cordley. You can tell the sheriff or militia what the pro-slavers looked like.”
“I won’t leave you here!”
“Someone has to watch the bodies.”
“Where’s that mulatto wench?”
“She left this morning. I went partway with her. That’s why I wasn’t here when this happened.”
Rolf pondered a moment. “I’ll bury your parents—not permanently, just to protect them till a carriage can come out from town. Thos’s body can be fetched, too, and they can have proper burial. I’ll describe the Missourians, damn them—I’ll go after them myself! I swear to you that I’ll avenge your family. But you must come with me now.” He tried to make her sit down on the ruined buggy, but she pulled away.
“Let me find something to put over them so they won’t freeze or get dirty.”
The ground in the stable wasn’t frozen, though it was packed so hard that Rolf had to use a pick-axe till he reached softer earth. Deborah found several half-burned quilts, the patchwork cushion she and Judith had made for the rocking chair, and part of the featherbed, which had stopped burning when the roof fell on it.
When the shallow grave was ready, she lined it with a quilt, placed the cushion for her parents’ heads, and in spite of his protests, helped Rolf carry the bodies to the stable, arranged them gently, then covered them with the other
quilts and the featherbed.
Rolf spaded on the soil, then upended the tubs and iron kettle on top for protection. There’d be prayers later, the minister’s words, a decent burial. But for now Josiah and Leticia were washed, decently covered, and together. And the whereabouts of Thos’s grave was known; he could be buried with them.
God, my God, why did you let it happen? How could you? If you have power and didn’t stop this, you’re evil! If you re weak, why do you ask for worship and want to be obeyed?
“Come,” said Rolf.
He tightened the cinch and helped her up, then put the reins in her hands. When she asked for the Bible and sketch pad, he put them in his pack, then brought out his silver flask, holding it to her lips. “Just a swallow,” he coaxed. “If you collapse, it’ll take longer to take care of everything.”
She choked at the fiery liquid, gasped at the taste, but it did leave a warm streak from her throat to her vitals. She let him give her a second drink. Then he mounted Sangre, who’d been sharing hay with Chica, and they started for town. There seemed to be nothing else to do. She despised Rolf for joining the brigands, but she believed his story. After all, he could have lied. And she needed help.
Darkness fell and the slush grew crunchier as it began to freeze. Deborah had been stricken with uncontrollable shivering shortly, after leaving the farm. Rolf had tied a blanket from his bedroll around her and several times insisted that she drink from the flask. This helped temporarily, but she finally refused.
“I—I’m getting dizzy.” Her tongue was clumsy. “Rolf, I must be—” Even after all that had happened, she couldn’t say the word.
“Drunk?” He turned to stare at her. “My poor darling, I didn’t think! On an empty stomach and you not used to it at all, yes, you could be a little bosky. Not much,” he added soothingly. “But I could get a fire going, make you some coffee, and open a tin of meat.”
“No. Even now there’s not much chance of those devils getting caught.”
Rolf said flatly, “Every man jack of those who raided your farm is going to die.”
Deborah’s heart leaped at that, though her beliefs and long training made her say, “More killing won’t help.”
“Oh, don’t mouth such stuff, Deborah! If those men were before you now, wouldn’t you kill them if you could?”
The coldness inside her warmed as it had to the whisky, then faded as she thought of her parents. “I would, except for what Mother and Father would think about it. They’d rather be murdered twenty times than have me kill once.”
“They won’t know.”
“But I would.”
Rolf turned his head in the night. She could feel him watching her, though she couldn’t see it. He sighed, baffled. “Dane was right. You don’t belong here.”
“Oh, yes, I do!” Outrage and the anguished need to honor her family by carrying on their battle made her voice shake. “I’ll never leave till Kansas is free, and I won’t rest while there are slaves!”
Rolf didn’t answer for a few minutes. When he did, he still sounded aghast. “You’re too upset to decide such things.” Pausing, he took a long breath. “Your family’s gone, Deborah. You need someone to take care of you—a husband. Marry me.”
So distraught and shocked that she couldn’t speak at first, Deborah dropped one word like a stone. “No.”
“I’ll track down the men who killed your family. I told you before I’d join the Free Staters if you wanted that I will. I’ll steal out slaves, help them north. Anything you say. Use me, Deborah. I’ll be a sword in your hand.”
“I love Dane.”
“But he won’t let you live here if you marry him.”
“Then I won’t marry him.”
Rolf made a gutturally obscene noise. “You can’t stay single! However you pretend, you’re not made of ice. The frontier’s full of woman-hungry men.”
“So I must pick one to protect me from the pack?” Deborah’s scorn brought a growling protest from Rolf, but the spurt of anger faded in her grief.
She couldn’t believe that her parents were dead, though images of them hunted her. And Thos, her twin, born with her into this world: How could he leave it without her, leave with so many years unlived? What would Sara do?
Appearing to accept tardily that this wasn’t the time to urge his suit, Rolf, to Deborah’s relief, fell silent.
Sheer exhaustion plus the unaccustomed whisky made her feel separated from her body, floating above and contemptuous of its weariness, its hunger, the way it craved sleep.
That weak flesh might rest; but this true-seeing part of her never would. It was the difference in a piece of raw metal and one heated for the anvil, shaped and hammered to a cutting edge, to a purpose. She didn’t need Rolf or any man to be her sword; she would be her own.
But first this body, this burden, must sleep, must eat and drink. She would care for it as one did for an animal, but it must not rule.
Yet ultimately, by its weakness, it did. She was half-asleep when roused by Chica’s halting, and before she knew where or even who she was, she was lifted from the saddle and cradled in strong arms that smothered her awakening struggles.
“It’s all right, Deborah.” Rolf’s voice in her ear. “Melissa’ll bring you something warm to eat and you can sleep. I’ll tell Reverend Cordley what’s happened, and then I’ll start after those raiders with all the men I can collect.”
“I don’t want to stay at Mrs. Eden’s!”
“You have to stay someplace, and her home’s more comfortable than the hotels or the good minister’s house.”
“But—”
“At least have some food and a hot drink. Then we’ll decide what to do.”
A lamp shone through filmy curtains and he knocked, calling, putting Deborah on her feet but supporting her weight even though she tried to stand alone. “Melissa,” he said as the door opened cautiously, “if some of the chocolate’s left, please make some hot. Miss Whitlaw’s had a severe shock and needs rest and food. Is there soup, something nourishing that can be heated quickly?”
Melissa wore a quilted blue velvet robe, furred at the collar and cuffs. Her blonde hair, loosened for the night, waved about her face. “The poor child does look done in,” she said, as if Deborah couldn’t hear. “The rear bedroom’s empty and the sheets are fresh. Shall I put her to bed and take in the tray when it’s ready?”
“I can eat at the table.” Deborah was indeed hungry and knew she must restore herself physically for what lay ahead, for the work of her family now passed to her.
Melissa’s blue eyes sharpened, though her voice was gently sympathetic. “Come to the kitchen, then, dear; it’s cozier. I close off the dining room after supper and it’s like the North Pole in there now.”
Sweeping ahead, she indicated an armchair at the side of the table nearest the stove, poked up the coals in the comfortingly warm stove, and put in small kindling for a quick, hot fire. The teakettle was already on, and, taking down a saucepan, she stepped into the pantry. Rolf joined her for a moment, speaking softly, evidently explaining what had happened.
As Deborah sat down, Rolf came back, helped her off with her coat, scarf, and gauntlets, then wrapped her in an afghan he took down from a peg.
“Let’s get off those moccasins,” he said, propping her feet up on a padded round stool. Embarrassed at his handling, Deborah tried to pull away, but he stripped off the soggy footwear, swore as his fingers touched her. “Good Lord! If it weren’t for these double wool socks, you’d probably have frozen feet! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t notice.”
She felt cold all over, cold to the heart. His hands hurt as they chafed heat back into her toes, feet, and ankles. Melissa had set the pan on the stove. Seeing what Rolf was doing, she went out and was swiftly back with a pair of heavy knitted bedsocks, quite different from the blue velvet slippers that peeped from beneath her robe. She would have slipped them on, but Deborah, thanking her, did that.
Chocolate was a rare treat. Deborah was ashamed to find it delicious; it seemed wrong to enjoy such a thing, but it gave heat without the sting of whisky.
Rolf had helped himself, both to the coffee on the stove and to his silver flask. “You should eat before you go to Reverend Cordley,” Deborah said.
Rolf frowned, then said to Melissa, “I’ll have a bowl of that soup, please, if there’s enough.”
“I always have enough for favorite boarders, even when they grow irregular in their comings and goings,” Melissa said.
“I pay what you ask and rather more,” said Rolf.
She brought two large bowls of the creamy soup, then lightly caressed Rolf’s dark gold hair. “You do,” she agreed good-humoredly. And she put out spoons, light bread, a crock of butter, and knives.
“I’ll just be sure your room’s all right,” she said to Deborah, and she disappeared in a graceful sweep of velvet.
xiii
It was an effort to take the first few mouthfuls of soup, but it went down smoothly, warmly, and tasted so good that Deborah finished the bowl, though she had no appetite for the bread. Rolf, chewing a crust hungrily, nodded approval.
“That’s it. You’ll feel worlds better tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. A sickness gripped her, dread, a horrifying sense of unreality. If only she were at Johnny’s, with Sara and Judith. She’d go there as soon as she could. But tomorrow she’d wake up beneath Melissa’s roof, have to face pitying, curious people. And sometime, though not tomorrow, she’d have to decide what to do about The Clarion and the farm.
But tonight she’d sleep. She was drowsy, very drowsy, in a warm room for the first time since … morning. Rolf’s voice pierced the haze thickening about her.
“After I see Cordley, I’m starting after those bush-whackers. I may be gone a week or more. Shouldn’t take too long. From the way they talked, they’re all from around Westport.”
Daughter of the Sword Page 22