by Cameron Judd
Celinda remembered her father’s talk of a death angel, and shuddered at the twisting irony of it all.
She moved to the center of the boat, found a place among the casks and crates and settled there, wishing only to be alone and ignored. The world was too dangerous, too lonely, too indecipherable, and all she wanted to do was withdraw from it, as far and as long as she could, until she was safe with her aunt Ida in Natchez.
CHAPTER 15
Clardy Tyler huddled in the brown, leafless brush beside the trail, hidden behind a moss-covered fallen tree. His horse was tethered well behind him, far enough from the trail to keep any of its snorts or motions from being heard by any passing traveler. Though the early morning had been so cold that puddles were lightly frozen and frost blanketed the forest, and even the midday temperature remained too low for comfort, Clardy was breathless and his face felt hot. A crucial time had come. He was about to commit his first Wilderness Road robbery.
Many times in youth he had anticipated this moment, seeing it bathed in a light of cold glory and romance. The daring young robber, stepping out onto the road with rifle brandished, ordering the surprised traveler to turn over all his valuables, all the while basking in the fearful but secretly admiring gaze of the attractive young woman who, of course, would be among the party of travelers. With a whoop and rear of his fine horse he would be off, riding into infamy and legend, his phantom person becoming the subject of lore told around inn tables and forest campfires. And evermore the young woman who was privileged to have encountered the bold thief would carry his image in her mind and heart, wishing with sighs that she had been swept away by him to share his life of daring and continual earthly pleasures.…
Now that the time had come, the situation didn’t feel that way at all. Clardy was filthy from the trail, his horse was growing lean and slow, hardly a great steed, and the odds of some beautiful, virginal young woman coming down the road didn’t seem at all likely. Clardy was mainly aware of nerves and hunger, gnawing, painful hunger that had been with him for two days. His food had run out far more quickly than he’d expected, and he had failed to bring down any game but one single, scrawny squirrel. Little sustenance in that, and no glory at all.
He shifted his posture, wondering if this first attempt at robbery would work out any better than his hunting. At least he had a definite opportunity here. Someone was coming down the trail. A couple of minutes earlier the wind had carried a snatch of music, somebody singing, accompanied by odd, clinking sounds. The singing he could make sense of, but the clinking had him curious. He had scrambled about quickly to set up this ambush.
He heard it again. No singing now, just the clinking, and the faint nicker of a horse. Tensing, he steeled himself, gripped his rifle stock tightly, and peeped over the top of the fallen tree.
The smallest-framed man he had ever seen rode into view on a horse that was hung with pans, pots, bundles of cutlery, sewing goods, and the like. The cookware accounted for the clinking. The bulky coat the fellow wore accentuated rather than disguised his meager build. Further accenting it was the old, oversized tricorn hat that rode low above his ears and almost overhung his eyes. Smooth-shaven and homely, the man had a pleasant face and dark eyes. A peddler! Clardy told himself he was lucky. This fellow might have all kinds of things worth stealing.
The unsuspecting peddler rode closer, closer … the moment had come. Clardy coiled his muscles, prepared to leap out of the brush and level his rifle—
But he couldn’t. A strange paralysis caught him and kept him right where he was. The peddler rode on past.
Hang it all! This would never do. How could a man become a robber if he couldn’t even make himself confront his intended victims?
The peddler was almost out of sight when Clardy finally pushed himself out of the underbrush and onto the road. “You there!” he called. “Halt where you are!”
The peddler gave a start of surprise and turned. He looked at Clardy in bewilderment, then smiled. Smiled. Clardy realized he had forgotten to raise his rifle, but now he couldn’t seem to do it. That smile had thrown him off balance.
“Well, howdy-do, young man!” the peddler called cheerfully. He had a piping voice that sounded appropriate to his small build. “I can’t imagine how I managed to pass you by!” Then he addressed his horse. “Whoa, here, girl, hold up. Master Peyton’s getting down to talk to a fellow man of the road.” He slid down from the horse and walked back toward Clardy, grinning, hand extended.
Feeling foolish, Clardy stuck out his own hand and shook that of the peddler.
“Call me Peyton,” the man said. “Who might you be, my fine young Christian?”
“My name’s Clardy Tyler.” Suddenly Clardy wanted to kick himself. He had just revealed his name to a man he planned to rob … but now he knew he wouldn’t rob him. He couldn’t. That grinning face, that friendly manner, that scrawny frame—he could never wrong a man such as this.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Clardy. One is always happy to encounter a friendly person on the road. I’m a man of the trail, as you can see. A peddler of good wares to the people of Kentuck and Tennessee.”
“So I see.” Just then Clardy’s stomach gave a terribly loud rumble.
Peyton quirked up his brows and slipped off his hat, revealing an egg-bald head. “I believe you’re hungry, Clardy Tyler. It so happens I am as well, having set off without my breakfast this morning. A mistake of judgment on my part, but one we can remedy. What would you think of sharing some victuals with me?”
Clardy nodded, feeling shy about accepting kindness from a man he had originally planned to rob. “I’d think highly of it, sir. Thank you,” he mumbled.
Clardy ate his meal eagerly, but with an underlying sense of disquiet. Twice now he had bumped up against the borders of crime, once with Cale Johnson and the Harpes, and now with this clumsy effort at highway robbery. Both times matters hadn’t worked out at all as he planned. The Harpe incident had put him on the run, and today’s bungle had made him wonder if he possessed the nerve for crime.
Peyton jabbered on cheerfully, but Clardy paid meager attention, preoccupied with worry. If he couldn’t make his way as a criminal, what would he do? He would have to find work somewhere, with someone. He wasn’t sure how to go about that. He had never worked anywhere except on the Tyler farm, and even then he had shrugged off as much of the labor as possible on Thias. Now he was out on the road, heading into Kentucky and a world in which he knew no one.
Maybe he should turn around and go home to the farm. Odd, how a place he had hated and longed to leave didn’t look so bad viewed over the shoulder. Sure, Hiram was hard to deal with and the farm offered more than its share of drudgery. But was that so terrible? It also offered a home, a roof, a sense of security, and a way to maintain a living.
Peyton laughed. He had just told a joke of some sort, which Clardy had only halfway listened to. Clardy laughed just to keep up appearances, and thought how Peyton’s laugh was similar to his grandfather’s. He felt a stab of homesickness.
He would go home … but no. He couldn’t. The Harpes were there. They would hurt him, probably kill him, for having crossed them. He had never encountered such fear-inspiring men as they, men whose wickedness hung about them tangibly, like a bad smell. Clardy took another bite of Peyton’s bread and inwardly cursed the day he sat down to drink with Cale Johnson and let liquor and criminal ambition get the best of his common sense.
Peyton laughed again, so he, too, chimed in, but a little too late to be convincing. Peyton’s laughter faded and he looked at Clardy probingly. “Clardy Tyler, you seem to be a young fellow with much on his mind.”
“Well … I reckon I am, sir.”
“If I can help you in any way …”
“No, sir. Thank you.”
“A woman? Is that your trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. Thank you for asking, but you needn’t trouble yourself over me.” He took another bite and said, “You’ve gave me plent
y already, just feeding me.”
“If we were bound the same way, I’d invite you to go along with me, young man. There’s safety for two that ain’t there for one, you know.”
“Yes sir, I do. And if you don’t mind, Mr. Peyton, I’d like to give you some counsel myself. You need to be more wary of folks you meet on the road. For all you knew, I could have been aiming to rob you.”
“And if you had, Clardy, what could I have done to stop you? If you had been a thief and I’d resisted you, wouldn’t I have only got myself hurt? ’Pears to me that kindness is the best a man can give to them he meets. Sometimes it can even protect him from harm. An act of kindness can be the best shield a man has.”
Clardy wondered if Peyton had been more perceptive of his original intent than he had showed. “Reckon you’re right, sir,” he said.
Peyton’s kindness seemed boundless. Before parting, he gave Clardy a sack of cornmeal, some parched corn, flour, dried biscuits, and a tasty mix of old but palatable shelled hickory nuts mixed with dried grapes. “Be careful of yourself, Clardy Tyler,” the gentle peddler said. “God go with you and give you His protection.”
“The same to you, sir,” Clardy said.
He watched Peyton ride away, pots and pans making their pleasant clinking sound. He was sorely tempted to accept Peyton’s hospitality and turn his back on Kentucky in favor of home. But the phantom images of the Harpes loomed in his mind, and he held still. Soon the peddler was out of sight.
Retrieving his horse, Clardy mounted and rode up the Wilderness Road, very heavy of heart. He rode very slowly and at dusk made a camp. He paused to drink from a little pool by the trail. The water looked murky and had an odd taste, but he was thirsty and tired and drank it anyway. It was Thias who had problems with his belly. Surely a little stagnant water couldn’t hurt Clardy Tyler.
By dawn Clardy was in misery. He knelt in his camp, heaving even though his stomach had nothing left in it to disgorge. He was pale and weak and thoroughly emptied, and if this dry retching was painful, at least it wasn’t as bad as the diarrhea that had tormented him in the night. He felt like a hollow shell, emptied and scoured down to the soul.
He retched awhile longer, then risked trying to stand. His stomach went into hard, grinding cramps and he bent double, gripping his belly and moaning aloud. His horse stood by, watching the curious display in the interested but detached manner of the animal world. Clardy held his uncomfortable posture a half minute or so, then slowly straightened, his face red and hair sodden with sweat. He glanced at the horse.
“Stand there and gape, why don’t you! If you felt bad as me right now, I’d shoot you in mercy.”
The horse moved its ears and began cropping at some brown grass at its feet.
Clardy moved gingerly back across the road and sat down on a stump. He was very woozy, but bit by bit his stomach was hurting less. Just when he thought he was about to feel well enough to get up and ride on, another jolt of nausea sent him to his knees, and for a couple of minutes he heaved in misery.
Never again, he vowed, would he be careless about the water he drank. Never again.
The morning passed before he was able to saddle his horse, where he slumped across the great maned neck like a man half dead. He was truly worried now. Hours had gone by and he still felt terrible. He might be seriously ill. That water might have been giving off some terrible miasma that would make him sick to death.
He urged the horse forward as best he could, hoping he could find help soon. He was panicked. He wasn’t at all ready to die.
The day was waning when Clardy rode into view of an inn. By now he had regained a little of his strength and was able to sit almost upright in the saddle. When he saw the small but nicely maintained public house, he felt like weeping for joy, but he was so dehydrated that he doubted he could summon up enough moisture to make a tear. He urged the horse forward and made it into the yard, where he attempted to dismount. At the same time, a man was emerging from the front door of the building. He let out a cry of alarm when Clardy slumped off his horse and landed on his side. The man rushed forward as Clardy rolled over onto his back, groaning.
“Merciful Father, man, are you shot?” the man asked.
“Bad water,” Clardy heaved again, but nothing came up.
He heard the man yelling and saw looming figures surrounding him. His body rose into the air, held by many hands, and he was carried into the building. He felt himself sinking into a soft but noisy shuck mattress. He closed his eyes.
He awakened with the man seated by his bed, holding out a cup of water. “You must try to drink. And I assure you this water is pure. Good cold well water.”
Clardy did drink, and managed to keep it down. “I feel like I’ve been tromped by a herd of swine,” he whispered.
“We’ll get you on your feet again,” the man said. “You just drink all you can, and rest.”
Clardy slept through the night. The next morning he felt much better, until he tried to sit up and found he was weak and aching. His stomach was terribly sore from all the heaving of the prior day.
The man who had helped him appeared at his side again. “You have your color back, young man.”
“I’m better,” Clardy replied. “Not plumb well, but better. As bad as I felt yesterday, though, I reckon I’d have had to rally some just to have the strength to die.”
The man chuckled. “If you’re able to joke, you are indeed on the mend. My name is Farris, John Farris. You are at my inn.”
“I’m Clardy Tyler, from Tennessee.”
“Oh, we get hordes of Tennessee folk through here. I’m a Virginian myself. Mecklenburg County. Now I’m well established here in Kentucky. Do you know where you are?”
“Not precisely, no.”
“Hazel Patch in Rockcastle County, just a jump and hop from Crab Orchard. We live here and take in travelers off the road. Nothing too fancy, but we like to think it’s a safe and warm place, and pleasant for those who come.”
Clardy looked around. The room was sparsely furnished, its walls made of logs, but to him it looked like heaven itself. He said as much to Farris, who laughed.
“Heaven it ain’t, but better to be sick in a bed than in the woods, I suppose.”
“I have no money. I don’t know how I’ll pay you for the lodging and such.”
“A man with naught in his pocket can still pay through work. Don’t fret. We’ll neither pick your pocket nor make a slave of you.”
“You’re a kind man,” Clardy said.
“We must look out for one another in this wild country,” Farris replied. “You’ve passed through quite a wilderness just to reach us—between the Cumberland Gap and this place is some mighty lonely road. Few feel safe traveling it, and for good reason. There are highwaymen and such, and them who travel alone are sometimes molested. That was the very thing I had suspected happened to you when I saw you pitch off that horse.”
“I met no one but a peddler, and he was a kind soul,” Clardy replied.
“That would be Peyton, I’ll wager,” Farris said. “Peyton is a fine old fellow indeed and has lodged with us several times. But I worry for him. He’s too trusting a man, a friend to everyone. One of these days that’s going to bring him harm. He’s going to meet up with the wrong kind of folk, and they’ll hurt him.”
Those words reminded Clardy of his initial intent to rob Peyton. He felt ashamed. “He shared his food with me. I hope you’re wrong about what you just said. I liked him.”
“I like him, too. But it’s a hard country here. They call Kentucky the Bloody Ground, you know, and not without reason. But that’s nothing to occupy you at the moment. You rest. Tomorrow you’ll feel much better.”
Sally Rice Harpe trudged slowly, wishing she had something better than worn-out moccasins to clad her feet. This was hardly better than walking barefoot, the thin deer hide doing little to shield her feet from the cold ground and the stones and burrs hidden beneath the leaves on the forest floor.
Micajah and Wiley Harpe had rejoined her and the other women in the western end of Virginia, at a place where they had lived for some months after leaving the Nickajack region, and where Susanna had given birth to a child who had died soon after. Sally had not yet been with the Harpes at that time, but Susanna had told her about all the thieving raids the men had carried out while living here, usually in cooperation with little bands of renegade Indian scavengers. It troubled Sally that the Harpes associated so readily with Indians, particularly those with a violent bent. Sally feared all Indians, but it seemed to her that her husband and his brother seemed to like Indian society better than that of their own race. It was one of the many aspects of the Harpe men, like their keeping of multiple wives, that she had detected only after marrying Wiley. Often she wished she hadn’t let him push her into marriage so quickly. He was not the man she had thought he was when her father sealed their union, but now it was too late. Her father raised her to oppose divorce like the unpardonable sin. Even if that were an option, she knew she was too weak-willed to ever leave Wiley. And too cowardly. If she abandoned him, he would find and kill her. He had told her as much.
The Harpes had sent the women on toward this familiar locale shortly before the theft of Tiel’s horses, a crime they had planned to be their last in the Knoxville area. They had shown up with the horses no longer with them, telling them about the posse and their escape and hinting strongly that they had killed someone back at Knoxville. Sally did not know who, but wondered if it was Cale Johnson. She had detected his interest in her and knew Wiley had as well. But she did not ask. Some things she was content not to know.
Sally wondered just what would happen now. Having lost Tiel’s horses, the Harpes had nothing to sell, but they didn’t seem worried. She figured they planned to commit other thefts. In the view of the Harpe men, whatever crossed their path was theirs to take as they pleased. All Sally knew was that they were heading for Kentucky.