Hunter’s Moon

by Norah Hess

  He had not planned to sleep, but just before the first gray of dawn, he was awakened by Si's nudging at his face. All was quiet outside. The storm had subsided as swiftly as it had arisen. Stiffly he crawled from the shelter and stood up. He flexed his sore muscles slowly and walked around to get his blood moving.

  Hunger gnawed at him. He remembered that he had had no supper nor had the dog. Digging into his gear, he pulled out some jerked venison and shared it with the dog.

  Finishing the meager meal, he returned to the pack and brought forth a pair of snowshoes a grateful squaw had taught him to make. With the snowshoes strapped onto his feet, he began walking northward on the frozen snow.

  Several days later in the wilderness he sat still hungering for what he could never have. He nudged the coffee pot back onto the coals and said to the dog, "I'll just have one more cup of coffee and then we'll go to bed."

  On his seventh morning in the wilderness, Mike was awakened by the ringing stroke of an axe. Emerging from his shelter of tented pine boughs, he looked toward the sound of the chopping. At the foot of a small valley, he saw a thin thread of smoke rising above the treetops.

  He crouched down beside a tree and carefully surveyed the countryside. "It may be a hunting party of Indians," he whispered to the dog.

  But as the smoke continued to rise in a ribbon form, he decided that it could only be coming from a chimney. He smiled, thinking that it would be good to hear a human voice and be warm again. Picking up his gear, he walked toward the sound of the axe.

  CHAPTER 7

  A week passed before Darcey finally decided to visit Clara. If it weren't for Cindy's insistence, she wouldn't be going there today. She had driven the black woman to distraction by moping around the cabin and getting under foot.

  Only once had she broken the routine of the boring days. Yesterday she had gone for a walk and had found her way to Mike's cabin. After some moments of hesitation she had lifted the latch and entered the room. Shutters had been closed over the two windows, and with the exception of narrow shafts of light driving through the slats, she stood in near darkness. "How different from the first time I saw it," she thought. It had been so cozy and warm that day.

  Her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, and the first thing she saw was the bed in the corner. The blankets were tossed and tumbled just as she and Mike had left them. Her legs grew weak from recalling the tumbling of those covers.

  Her eyes caught the prismatic sparkle of an object peeking from under the corner of a pillow. She moved to the bed and picked it up. A glass button from one of her dresses. Clutching it, she tingled as she remembered how Mike had ripped her bodice apart that day. Unbidden, the entire event began to unroll before her. Then she became angry and cried out, "You damned fool. Don't think about him."

  The words seemed to bounce around the room and mock her as she spun on her heel and left.

  This morning when she had started her pacing, going from window to window and sighing heavily as she looked out on the white world, Cindy had finally exclaimed in exasperation, "Child, you're like a cat in heat the way you keep prowlin' around. If you can't settle down, why don't you go visit the Wilsons. It's a nice sunny day for it."

  So here she was, her boots sending up crunching sounds in the cold, still air. As she walked beneath the huge, bare trees, she felt the serene peace of the wilderness and gradually felt herself relaxing and becoming a part of it. A faint wind stirring the treetops caused the branches to rub together and seemingly to whisper to one another. Smiling at her silliness, she went one step further and tried to imagine what they talked about.

  Would they, she wondered, talk about the Indian who just a short time ago walked the floor of the forest with only his red brother for company. Or maybe it would be of past storms that had swayed and shaken their strong trunks.

  But then again, she grimaced, perhaps they were discussing her. Maybe they were saying, "There goes that Darcey Stevens. Poor soul, she fell in love with the man who raped her."

  Impatiently, she swept the thoughts from her mind and muttered, "Stop your crazy make-believe, Darcey Stevens. Imagining that trees can talk."

  She forced herself to think of other things—of the men and women who lived in these marvelous hills. She thought of the courage it must have taken for the first husband and wife who had gone into the woods and together carved a home out of the dense forest, knowing that their existence depended solely upon each other.

  "I could help a man of my own take this hill country and make a home in it," she said to herself. "With a man like Mike at my side, there is nothing I couldn't do."

  Once again her thoughts gravitated back to the man who always seemed to hang in the shadow of her mind. She was glad Clara's cabin was close.

  At a curtained window, Charlie waved to her. Clara, a smile of welcome on her face, opened the door to a bright and cheerful room that radiated the charm of its mistress.

  An aroma of vanilla hung in the air, and Darcey's eyes were drawn to a platter of fresh-baked cookies. They sat in the center of a table covered with a bright cloth. Pewter mugs were grouped around the sweets, and a pot of coffee brewed on the hearth.

  "Oh, Clara, it smells delicious in here," Darcey exclaimed, removing her coat and scarf. "You must give Cindy your recipe for those cookies."

  "I would be glad to, Darcey," Clara answered, her face beaming proudly. "But what's wrong with giving it to you? Don't you plan on getting married some day and baking goodies for your husband?"

  Darcey felt herself blush. Her hands went to her hot cheeks. "Well, yes. I plan on it someday," she stammered, and wondered if Clara was once again hinting about her brother.

  She sighed in relief when the pleasant woman hung up her coat. She saw Charlie steal a cookie. He grinned at her unabashed, his expression saying, "I know you won't tell on me."

  After Darcey had spent an hour in animated talk with Clara, she was sorry she hadn't visited her sooner. It was so easy to converse with her. She was surprised to realize that, outside of Cindy, she hadn't chatted with another woman for years. Women never seemed to take to her.

  "What kind of plans do you have for your place, Darcey," Clara asked, bringing the conversation into a more serious vein.

  "Oh, Clara, I have all kinds of ideas."

  While Clara busied herself making another pot of coffee, Darcey immersed herself in telling what she was going to do. As she talked, her face took on a rosy glow, and she felt herself regaining the old enthusiasm that had slipped away during the past week.

  "I want the fields extended for more crops," she began. "There must be at least one more room added to the cabin. We are always in each other's way. A barn must be built—the shed is too small. And, oh yes, a chicken house. I expect to have a large flock from my six hens and one rooster." She gave a small laugh. "Simon says it will be a foolish undertaking with so many wild animals about."

  She talked on and on until finally Clara laughingly Interrupted her. "How long do you expect to live, Darcey?"

  Darcey laughed in turn. "I do get carried away sometimes."

  "It's good to dream, Darcey," Clara was fast to assure her. "If we didn't have our dreams, we'd have a hard row to hoe."

  A silence grew between them as each woman thought of her own personal dream and wondered if it were unreasonable to dare hope it would come true.

  Their reverie was broken by the sound of scraping feet and the clang of metal hitting the cabin wall. Clara stirred. "One of the men back from running the trapline," she remarked.

  The door swung open and one of the handsomest men Darcey had ever seen walked into the room. "This has to be Jarvis," she thought.

  Jarvis crossed the threshold, and after his first look at Darcey Stevens, thoughts of Meg flew out of his mind. Beside the fire Charlie snickered at the ludicrous look on his uncle's face. Jarvis's handsome face had lost its cool assurance, and he gaped at Darcey like a young school boy.

  He swallowed a few times, regained hi
s composure, and started the campaign of his life to win a woman. Bending over and taking her hand as Clara introduced them, he smiled his toothiest smile, one that had won over many women. Most women failed to notice that his eyes did not smile also. Many had found out too late that it was only a trick and meant nothing.

  But this time he floundered in her pair of roguish eyes, and his self esteem was shaken. He knew that he had met his match.

  Darcey studied the arrogant face bent over her and made a quick judgment of him. She had seen the egotism and smugness in his attitude as he crossed the room, and it was apparent that he expected to win an easy victory over her, that he was used to winning any woman he desired. A woman would be a fool, she realized, to expect strength and compassion from this man.

  Still, she was drawn to him. Vibrant sex hummed crazily between their touching fingers. Jarvis, feeling it, let his eyes become bolder. They roamed hotly over her body and held overlong on the abundant cleavage showing above the neckline of her dress.

  Though she knew that it was pure desire that ran through her body, she decided that she would accept him. That way, she could drive away the memory of his brother. Oddly enough, Mike's hard, cold face swam in front of her, and his eyes seemed to look at her accusingly. She closed her eyes and willed his face to go away.

  The afternoon slipped away in easy talk with Jarvis. He carried the larger part of the conversation, trying hard to impress her. She smiled inwardly at his long descriptive tales of war and how bravely he had fought. She bit her tongue to hold back the laughter when he hinted at how popular he was with the ladies.

  "Heavens," she thought. "I hope you won't bore me to death."

  When the mists from the river began to roll in and the sun was barely at the treetops, Darcey announced that she had to start for home. "Cindy will be expecting some help with the supper," she said.

  As she rose to her feet, Jarvis went over to her. "I'll walk you home," he began. "It will be dark. . . ."

  She cut him off abruptly. "I'm not afraid of the dark, Jarvis."

  His hand stroked her arm as he questioned softly, "Maybe you're afraid of me?"

  Her laughter was a gay tinkling sound. "Why should I fear you, Jarvis? Are you planning to force yourself on me?"

  Her question brought a sudden flush to his cheekbones, and she saw a flicker of anger in his eyes before he lowered them.

  "Ha," Darcey thought. "Rejection is something new to you, bucko."

  Then Clara insisted, "You shouldn't walk alone after dark, Darcey. You could wander off the trail and get lost. And we do have a lot of wild animals around here. Why don't you let Jarvis and Charlie walk you home?"

  The memory of the wolf howling came to Darcey, and she smiled at Charlie. "How could I refuse two handsome escorts!"

  Jarvis shot a reproachful glance at Clara and snapped, "Let's get goin' then."

  Charlie grinned broadly at his uncle's hostility and winked at Darcey.

  The narrow trail did not allow for two to walk abreast and, wanting to torment Jarvis a little longer, Darcey maneuvered Charlie between them. Jarvis was in a high pout as he plodded along behind his nephew and didn't join the easy chatter of the two.

  Upon reaching the path that led to Darcey's cabin, Jarvis tapped Charlie on the shoulder and ordered brusquely, "You wait here. I'll walk Darcey to the door alone."

  Darcey was about to object but decided Jarvis had been teased enough. She looked at Charlie and nodded her head, her eyes assuring him that it was all right.

  As she had expected, when they reached the privacy of the porch, he pulled her into his arms. She allowed it to happen and leaned against him for a moment. His arms tightened about her, and a hand brushed against her breast. She felt him go hard and press against her thigh. Peeking up at him, she saw his eyes glazed with desire. She pulled away, but he brought her back and tried to kiss her. She moved to avoid the kiss, and he pressed his hot lips between her breasts. His mouth moved over them urgently and she began to writhe against him. He pulled a breast free and slid his tongue around it. Her hand was about to go inside his pants when a voice inside her whispered, "No. You do not love him. Send him away."

  Her breasts heaved with her ragged breathing as she gently shoved at his face. His mouth came away slowly, pulling a nipple between his teeth. She repressed the desire to push his face back down, and managed to say, "You musn't."

  His hands on her arms shook. For a moment she thought he would pull her into him again. If he did, she was afraid her weak flesh would give in.

  But Jarvis's plans went further than just a few passion-filled moments on a dark porch. He meant to marry this proud beauty and was willing to wait until she was ready. In the meantime Meg could continue to take care of him.

  He released her and murmured, "I'm sorry, Darcey. I couldn't help myself. You set me on fire."

  "It's all right, Jarvis," she whispered.

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Can I come over tomorrow night?"

  She almost refused, but then she thought, "Why not. His presence will break up the long boring evenings. And in time, replace his brother's memory." She smiled at him and nodded.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mike had walked for about a mile before he spotted a bark slab hovel near a large growth of cedar. It was well hidden from the casual eye, and from its flimsy structure he doubted that anyone lived in it permanently. It was the type of shack a hunter would throw up for a summer's season.

  He stopped and surveyed the building. An army deserter might have been doing the chopping. If that were the case, he and the dog might not be welcome. But while he stood at the edge of the trees, debating whether to hallo the place or to continue on his way, his eyes were drawn to the rear of the building.

  The early morning axe wielder was a woman. What in the world was a woman doing so deep in the wilderness, he wondered. He cleared his throat and called out, "Howdy, Ma'am."

  She jerked and straightened up, the axe dropping to her feet. A ragged shawl covering her head framed a pinched and drawn face. He judged her to be in her late twenties.

  He took a step toward her and fear grew in the lusterless eyes that gazed at him through matted strands of hair. She wasn't much to look at. Her hang-dog expression reminded him of a dog he had once owned and he recalled words that Josh Warden had said one time.

  "Dogs are a lot like people when it comes to havin' courage. Some are blessed with it, and there ain't nothin' on earth they won't stand up to. Then there are those lacking this characteristic and are cursed and trod on from the day they are born. Those poor devils are miserable all the days of their lives."

  So, softly, as though he was talking to a frightened, cowering dog, he spoke. "You live alone here, do you?"

  She dropped her eyes and shook her head. "Jake's inside," she mumbled.

  There was a moment of silence, and when she did not welcome him, Mike asked, "Do you think me and the dog could come in and warm up by your fire? Me and Si here have been on the trail for a week, and it would be nice to be inside for a while."

  She hesitated so long that Mike decided that she wasn't going to answer him. He was on the point of turning around and leaving when she answered in a small voice, "I gotta ask Jake first."

  A low murmur of voices came through the cabin's thin walls, and again Mike debated about moving on. If Jake was anything like the woman, he would just as soon leave. As his mind wavered back and forth, the woman came to the door and motioned him to enter.

  It was like entering a cave when he stepped into the small room. For a moment he stood still in his blindness. There were no windows in the shack, and as far as he could make out, the only light in the room came from cracks in the walls. The fitful fire that struggled in the crudely constructed fireplace gave little illumination.

  As his eyes gradually became used to the dimness, and he began to distinguish objects, his fast glance told him he had never seen a more unkept place. Dirty and sour-smelling clothing was piled in eve
ry available space, with traps and hunting gear in every corner. Ashes from the fireplace spilled out onto the dirt floor. A lopsided table in the middle of the room held a clutter of unwashed dishes, deeply crusted with the remains of dried food. The room boasted one crude home-made chair sitting beside the hearth, and in a dim corner a rough bunk bed attached to the wall.

  A dry cough drew Mike's eyes in that direction. The uncertain fire found a piece of cedar and flamed brightly for a moment. In its light Mike saw a man sprawled out in the bed's center. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and weighing well over two hundred pounds. His only attire was a pair of long woolen underwear the color of the earthen floor. And they, like his face, hadn't seen soap and water for a long while. Nor had the face felt the sweep of a razor for a while, the afterthought struck Mike.

  For a full minute the two men took measure of one another, searching and finding the worth of the other. Finally, out of courtesy, Mike broke the silence. "Howdy. I heard your wife choppin' wood and thought maybe me and my dog might warm up by your fire."

  The fat man didn't answer at once. He slipped his hand into the fly of his underwear and scratched himself. And as Mike waited for a welcoming response, the man twisted his hand and exposed himself as he continued scratching.

  In disgust, Mike made a motion to leave. Then Jake spoke. "Help yourself to the heat, stranger."

  Still half of a mind to leave, Mike knelt and held his hands to the doubtful heat. He wondered if it hadn't been warmer under his pine covering. It had been decidedly cleaner he knew, and certainly it had smelled better.

  The neatness of his own place with its fine drawing fireplace flashed through his mind and he was homesick for it. Unhappily he recalled the long evenings spent with Jim there. He sighed and pushed the thoughts away.

  In the corner the husk mattress rustled and the man spoke. "Sarie, here, ain't my wife."