She fought against simply sitting down and giving up, but Jake was bleeding and he needed her. Limping and struggling to hold back tears, she started off. She took one step and then another, watching only the road crawling under her.
“Can’t you hear?” Pete stopped in front of her, riding the horse he’d ridden when he came with news of the rocker. The snow was letting up, yet flakes settled over his cap and shoulders. “You okay? Why you walking like you can’t?”
“My feet.”
He glanced back over his shoulder at the distance to the lodge. “Come on, I got time.” He leaned down, sliding off-center of the horse’s broad back, and turned his foot out. “Step on my shoe.”
She had no choice but to reach for the hand he extended—touching him for the first time—and then stepping onto his boot. He pulled her up behind him, surprising her with his strength. She grabbed around his waist, thankful he faced forward and couldn’t see her relief and embarrassment. He’d changed in the few months since his mother’s death when he’d stood with a black eye on the doorstep. He seemed a full year older. Was he as much as fifteen or sixteen?
“They must be trapping,” he said. “I saw the wagons in front of your place. Deet’s a mean old bastard. More ’an once he yelled at Ma to get off his property.”
Bridget held tight.
“Ain’t you got a decent hat?” Pete asked. “More’n just . . . ?” Rags, but he managed not to say it.
They finished rounding the bend with the lodge just ahead and Deet’s horses and wagons on the ridge. Did they remind Pete of his mother’s funeral procession?
“We watched you walk by,” she said. “Did Chief build your mum’s box?”
Pete ignored the mention of his mother but for a small suck of air. “I used to believe he was a vampire.” He spoke over his shoulder and the steady clopping, muffled by the snow, of the heavy horse. “He builds coffins all night long.”
“How do you know?”
“Hammers half the night. There aren’t that many folks dying around here. I thought he killed people just to fill up his handiwork.”
The inflections in Pete’s voice said he teased her, but still she wondered. “There’s bedrooms upstairs, but he sleeps on a sofa downstairs.”
“How you know that?”
She’d already said too much. “If he killed people, there’d be folks missing.”
“There’s talk he went loco during the Civil War.”
“How do people know that?” Chief had carried her out of the cold and given her salve for her burns. That wasn’t loco.
“The Union,” Pete went on, “put him working with the darkies, cleaning up the battlefields. He worked day and night burying the dead. Thayer said bodies had legs blown off, bellies ripped open, faces gone. The stink like nothing else in the world.”
Bridget clutched tighter.
“Chief was alright at first. Then he quit talking. Nothing but mumbling and swinging in his sleep. They didn’t know if he was fighting Secesh or the clouds of flies and flocks of buzzards eating boys’ bodies. He was older than most he buried and with a son back home. Heat cooked the dead, varmints came, and most soldiers got no more than a trough in the dirt. Just getting ’em outta the sun and under.”
Bridget swallowed. She didn’t want these things to be true, and she didn’t like Thayer. “How does Mr. Thayer know?”
“He weren’t but ten hisself. Went to school with Chief ’s boy. The town had a send-off at the depot when a carload from Bleaksville left to fight. Thayer’s daddy was one of them, Chief, Mr. Graf, others. The army kept the Bleaksville lads in the same regiment, and those who lived come home with the same stories. They said Chief got to stinking like death, couldn’t keep the smell off hisself. Got so he didn’t even try. Or sleep. He hated shoveling dirt onto boys so much he started spending his nights looking for wood. Carrying back lumber from chicken coops, porches, privies—anything he could tear down to make a box. Couldn’t stop himself. Still can’t, though with a lumber yard in town our privies are safe.”
How could anyone bury the bloody dead all day and not go crazy? Bury them young as Rowan. She’d gone some loco when she woke and found Rowan dead beside her. Loco when dirt hit his box. Effie had gone some loco when her baby sister was buried—though Bridget still didn’t know that whole story.
“When he returned from the war,” Pete shook his head, “and found his boy drowned in the river while playing on ice and the body never recovered, he started walking up and down the banks. And building coffins.”
Bridget tightened her grip. She’d wanted to tell him about Jake’s injury, but after the story of Chief, the whole world seemed too heavy for talk.
Walking the horse past one of Deet’s wagons, Pete stopped on the ridge directly in front of the lodge. “Can you make it from here? It’s too slick to ride her down.”
Bridget could see in the closest wagon what she’d not thought to look for the night before: Oats. Half a bag. Taking them would help even the score for Deet’s meanness, help Jake’s hunger—he was one of Deet’s animals too—and help quiet the fish jumping in her stomach.
“Bastard,” Pete said, as if reading her mind. “I’d like to make him pay for hurting Ma.”
“Let’s do it,” Bridget said. “He hurt Jake.” Emotion caught in her throat. “He swung a trap and cut him bad.”
Pete’s breath eased out. “Ma never wanted me to make trouble where I couldn’t win. Deet is something you ain’t going to win.”
“Why? Because I’m a girl, or a half orphan? Or Irish?” All day she’d been telling herself to stay hidden and not cause trouble. The worst still happened, and Jake heard her yell, “Hit him harder.”
Deet’s horses shimmied, shaking snow off their backs and making their long traces jingle. She thought of Rev. Jackdaw continually checking his lines. Cursing each new split in the aging rawhide.
“You got a knife?”
“Huh?”
She knew what she’d do and the decision made her brave enough to grab Pete’s arm. Holding on to him, she eased off the horse rather than jumping and landing hard on her feet. Still, she winced as pain shot from her toes along the soles of her feet and up to her knees. “Give me your knife.”
His eyes, just visible beneath his low hat brim, studied her.
“He was mean to your ma.”
“You ain’t going to fix that.”
“Maybe he will stop coming back.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m not going to stick a person.”
He worked a small knife from a pocket in his pants. “You ain’t strong enough, anyway.”
Her heels squished in her wet shoes and her toes felt hammered. She pushed back a coat sleeve and reached up, her hand blue with cold. “Give it. For your ma.”
After craning his neck toward the trees for the sound of anyone coming, he handed over the knife.
She hurried. She wouldn’t touch a neck or loin strap for fear of nicking a horse; she’d only weaken the traces and reins. And only on the rig Deet had taken to Bleaksville the night before. That way, no one could prove it hadn’t happened there.
She pulled the blade across a leather strap and then again. Nothing. Not even a scratch.
Pete harrumphed. “I told you.”
“You gave me a spoon.” It wasn’t fair, Chief was loco and Effie was becoming a ghost and Deet got to hurt Jake, and she couldn’t do a thing to stop any of it. She turned, ready to give back the worthless knife when she caught her reflection in the eye of the horse less than an arm’s length away. A tiny Bridget, wet and defeated. Left behind by everyone who was supposed to be her family.
The horse whinnied, stomped, but its large dark eyes never left her. Like the world in Jake’s eyes. Pete didn’t understand her need to fight death, but the horse did.
She bent again to the leather, stretched it over the blade and pulled up. The knife sliced and the leather opened. The two-inch thick strap now had only a half-inch still intact.
“Come on,” Pete said. “Get away from there now.”
Bridget picked another strap and watched as the leather breeched under the knife. “They’ll make it back to Omaha,” she said. “For sure most of the way.”
“Gimme my knife.”
Blood ran down Jake’s leg and a flap of skin hung off his hip. She reached for another strap.
“Gimme my knife or I’ll come take it.”
She’d weakened the leather in only two places, but that helped.
“I’m not leaving,” Pete said, “until you give it back.”
She ignored him and went for the oats, the sack looking like a child hunched in old brown clothes. It weighed too much to lift up and over the sideboard from the ground. She climbed wheel spokes, the pressure like knives up her legs, stepped in, and dropped the sack over the side. Across the wagon lay a pile of saddlebags, male luggage that withstood the weather. And a second lumpy gunnysack—was it also oats? She widened the top. “It’s a pair of boots.” She looked at Pete’s worn boots. “Do you want them?”
He stretched forward over his horse’s shoulders and looked, squinting at the fancy red leaves twisting around the boot’s ankle and the vine of red leaves winding up the sides. “I can’t walk around in those.” He settled back. “I want my knife. Or you planning to keep it?”
“Suit yourself.” She threw the sack and its contents as far as she could. It landed only a few feet away with a dull sound and a small puff of snow. Still visible.
Pete nudged the horse even closer alongside the wagon and held out his hand. “Give it.”
Keeping his knife was the only thing keeping him. “You didn’t see Deet pick up a trap and cut Jake. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
He took his time answering, looking at her and then at the broken lodge with smoke rising from the chimney. “Lots can happen or not happen. You don’t need trouble with the sheriff. He spits in the wind to see in what direction men like Deet want him to piss. You and yours ain’t much liked around here. You don’t want to cross either man.”
She wanted to ask Pete if he was much liked, but she knew the answer: he was river people, and Effie said his mum had lived with Mr. Thayer as an unmarried woman.
Pete leaned over the side of the wagon, grabbed her arm, opened her hand, and took his knife. He folded down the blade.
“Get out of here. Let the snow work on our tracks.” He also smiled and gave her a slow nod, saying he understood. Still, he would go.
His smile helped do what throwing the boots, stealing oats, and cutting lines hadn’t. She let him reach over again, grab her around the waist, lift her from the wagon, and set her on the ground. “Go.” He turned his horse, kicked the flanks, and started off. He liked her and wanted to keep her safe. He’d even lifted her out of the wagon. Maybe it was more that he’d pulled her out and kept her from falling, but all the same, he’d reached for her.
Expecting the men to come through the trees to the right of the lodge, she went down the slope to the left, carrying the oats. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Pete was already gone.
She sat the sack just inside the trees and thought about going back up for the boots. Would Deet find them and blame her? Even stuffed with paper or straw, walking in them would be impossible, and she couldn’t wear them without Rev. Jackdaw and others knowing she’d stolen them. They were too big to hide in the walls. Rev. Jackdaw would like them, preach in them, but he’d knock her to the floor for taking them.
Effie still stared at the glass when Bridget entered. Her long yellow hair hung down the sides of her thin face, and she seemed especially small and pale. The room was cold.
Bridget dropped before the nearly burned-out logs. She gritted her teeth as she pulled off one soaked shoe and then the other. Finally, she unwound the bloody strips of newsprint from her toes, each with a weeping red eye.
She threw the paper scraps onto the glowing embers. Trying to keep her weight on her heels, she rose, added two logs, and set her shoes as close to the flames as she dared. She needed to go out again and tend Jake’s wound, but she couldn’t do that until the men left. While she waited, the wet leather would warm, and she’d use dry strips of newsprint around her toes. With the warmth and dryness, she’d somehow force her feet back into her shoes.
She limped back and forth to fight the itching and burning, then sat on the hide trying to massage away the pain. The boots she’d thrown worried her. If Deet saw the gunnysack, she couldn’t blame anyone else. Pete was right: she was going to be caught.
She dragged one of the two straight-back chairs across the plank flooring and cracked the back door open only the slit she needed to see out. The men were back.
Over the next hour, some carried in traps, others carried out the pelts of small animals just skinned. Most of the pelts would go back with them to Omaha, but Deet nailed two muskrat hides to the side of the shed. Jake stood in front. Even after having his yoke removed, he stood obedient, his head down, his starving ribs visible, and his wounded leg bent at the knee. Deet hadn’t yet commanded him to walk on. Twists of blood had dried down his leg from his flank. Maybe she’d saved his life earlier by shouting, and maybe she’d only postponed his death. Now that they were back, would they still want to shoot him?
“Walk on,” she called as loud as she dared. “Walk on.”
He didn’t move.
“If that animal was dead,” the floor groaned beneath Effie’s rocking, “Deet wouldn’t have a reason to keep us here. We could live in Omaha.”
Bridget wanted to run to the rocker and tip Effie out. All Effie thought about was getting away. Leaving Jake behind and getting to Omaha. “It isn’t just Jake. Deet would still want to trap, and he’d still need his pelts and trees watched.” She flung open the door and screamed, “Walk on!”
Jake took a halting step, but stopped as the door to the shed opened. Deet wore his hat, but no coat. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he carried a tub of skinned animals. Taking the rickety steps down, he bounced drunkenly against the rail, but regained his balance. He glanced at Jake’s stance and the slice of flayed skin, but only walked around the backside of the shed to the river’s edge and flung the waste. On his trip back, the empty tub hanging loose from his hand and dripping red into the white snow, he climbed the steps without looking.
“Walk on,” Bridget said again.
Jake headed for the trees in the direction of Old Mag.
Bridget didn’t allow herself a smile. Jake was only safe from Deet. Crows and turkey vultures dressed the ice with black wings, carrying off what Deet had thrown out. But once the cigar and pipe smoke had blown away and the trees were quiet again, the night hunters—wolves and coyotes—would come in search of fresh, warm meat. When they turned their noses up to the crisp winter air and followed the scent of blood, they’d find Jake.
The snow slowed, thinned, and stopped as the men finished inside and formed a loose circle outside. Deet pulled a small prayer book from his vest pocket—next to his rows of shells. It was Sunday. Those who held bottles or flasks in one hand took off their hats with the other and placed them over their liquor. Seconds later, they shouted “Amen.” Hats rose, thick bottles glistened against wet lips.
Bear-man carried a crate from the shed. Opening a door on the top, he drew out a bird, one wing flapping loose in panic. Palming the pigeon’s head, he used his thumb and with two quick jabs pushed in the bird’s eyes. He threw it into the cold air. Wings flapping, the wounded creature flew, but crazed, right and left without direction. When it had gained a bit of height and a few yards of distance, guns exploded.
Eleven more targets, blinded and thrown, finished the cage. Bear-man carried out the second.
With the birds all blinded and dead, the men tossed two-days’ worth of empty bottles. Tossed them drunkenly. Glass rained as the men shot bottles barely out of the thrower’s hand. Beer, rum, wine. Bridget watched them flash in the sunlight, bottles of green, blue, and brown, some
square, some round. Guns fired over the shouting and betting. Deet walked forward a bit, picked up a brown bottle with only the neck shot off, and tossed it again.
Guns fired.
As the explosions echoed into the woods, the clearing hushed. Deet dropped to his knees. Men lowered their guns. The side of Deet’s face looked flayed opened, a swath of skin peeled back. Blood ran from the wound, off his chin, and down his front. One big ear was sliced half away.
“Bastards!” he howled. He managed to stand and take a wobbling step and dropped again. “I’m hit.”
“They shot him,” Bridget nearly screamed to Effie. “They shot his face. He’s shot bad.”
Men hurried in silence, grabbed up their possession—guns, dropped gloves, the empty pigeon cages—and helped drag Deet up the slope.
Once they’d left, Effie rose from her chair, paced back and forth in front of the table. “He won’t likely die; he walked up on his own. Though he’ll be uglier.” She dropped back into her rocker, pushed her hands up and back along the arms. “Not even a scribbled note from Rev. Jackdaw, though he can write all day in his cursed book. Not even a ‘how do’ from the men.” She rose again, swiped at the pan holding the two-inch square of infested bread, sending the metal spinning off and landing on the floor. “Stinking, rotten stuff.” She picked up the knife still on the table and hurled it. The metal blade banged against the stovepipe and clattered to the floor. “I won’t die here!”
Afraid of Effie’s rage and the tears streaming down her face, Bridget worked her feet back into her shoes. The burning in her toes began with the first step, but she couldn’t stop. If she hesitated, the pain might sit her down, and she’d not get to Jake until morning. She snatched up her coat, the bread from the floor, Chief ’s nearly empty jar of poultice, and the rope.
“You don’t care about anything but that stupid animal,” Effie cried.
He won’t ever leave me. But the coil in Bridget’s stomach kept her from saying it. She hobbled out and down the ramp. The air stunk of blood, tobacco smoke, and gunpowder. Dead birds and shattered glass covered the sand and the frozen river.
River People Page 19