"It's really somethin', ain't it?" he said quietly.
"It's quite lovely. If you like wilderness," I added.
"Someday it's all gonna be ours."
"Ours?"
"It's gonna belong to us—the people. We're the ones who're gonna conquer it, settle it. The French, the British, all them bloody politicians with their grants and deeds— they're gonna have to pick up their papers and go back home."
"You don't consider yourself British?"
"Hell, no! My folks were, sure; they came to Virginia fifteen years before I was born. I was born there, in the American Colonies. I'm an American. That's what the
British call us, usually with a sneer. If things keep goin' like they have in Boston and Philadelphia and them parts, the redcoats ain't gonna be so disdainful. Reckon the 'Americans' will throw 'em out."
"That sounds suspiciously like treason," I remarked.
"Could be," he replied amiably. "Me, I couldn't care less about politics and such. I can get along wherever I happen to be—English territory, French, Spanish, don't much matter. But I hear talk. People up in that part of the country are gettin' fed up, tired uv bein' subjects of a distant king who's batty in the head."
King George was, indeed, quite mad at times. Everyone knew that. It was said he frequently had amiable chats with oak trees and claimed they chatted back, and he was kept confined for long periods of time, yet he was still our Monarch. I felt a fierce loyalty to the homeland, which was surprising after my experience with the English legal system. Still, here in the middle of this overwhelming wilderness, everything else seemed remote and unimportant. Men like Jeff were more concerned with living than law, and what took place in England and the eastern Colonies didn't affect them much one way or the other. He continued to gaze at the land unfolding before us, savoring its wild beauty as he would savor the beauty of a woman, and then he prodded his mule gently and started down the trail, leading the other mule behind.
Groaning, I followed. The trail was steep, and I bounced viciously, but soon we were on semilevel ground again, the lovely vista gone, trees growing thickly on either side, blotting out any view. It seemed an eternity before we finally reached the bank of the small stream. There was a grassy clearing shaded by trees, clusters of orange and reddish-orange wild flowers sprinkled over the ground. The stream was shallow, making a pleasant, melodic sound as it rushed over the large yellow-brown rocks scattered about the bed. There was at least two hours of daylight left, and I was surprised when Jeff suggested we stop for the night.
"Looks like a good place to camp," he said, "and I don't wanna tire you out too much—for selfish reasons. We'll stop early, then get a good start in the mornin'."
"I've no intention of arguing," I retorted, eagerly dismounting.
Jeff swung himself off his mule and grinned. "You got a lot of stamina, ya know that? Oh, you complain a lot, always groanin' and beggin' me to stop for a while, but you keep right on pluggin'."
"There's not much else I can do under the circumstances."
"Some of the women I've hauled through these parts— you wouldn't believe the trouble they were."
"I can imagine," I said dryly.
As he fed and watered the mules, I thought of Maria Crawley and the way she had tried to justify the trade he engaged in. It was quite true that most of the women who came over on the prison ships were prostitutes, or worse, and I supposed any one of them would much prefer working in a brothel in New Orleans to doing the kind of hard manual labor they were likely to have to do otherwise. Angie, for example, would have jumped at the chance. That made it none the less unsavory. He knew that I wasn't a prostitute, yet he intended to sell me just as he had sold the others.
"How many women have you taken to New Orleans?" I inquired.
"Oh, couple dozen, I guess. No sense wastin' my time with them who ain't young and pretty, and not too many young and pretty women come over on the ships."
"I suppose some of them fell in love with you."
"Reckon a few of them did. Quite a nuisance."
"You've—never been in love?" I asked.
"Never had time, too busy makin' a livin'. I figure a woman's like a good meal or a glass o' fine whiskey— somethin' to be enjoyed wholeheartedly but nothin' to lose your head over."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Say, you ain't fallin' in love with me, are you?"
"Not a chance," I retorted.
He looked relieved. "Wouldn't wanna complicate things," he said.
It would be all too easy for most women to fall in love with him. He was exceedingly attractive physically. Superbly built, he did indeed resemble an early Roman gladiator, one incongruously dressed in fringed buckskins and moccasins. There was the charm, too, and the jaunty, easygoing manner. He was, I knew, as rugged and virile as they came, yet there was a gentility about him as well. Rawlins would not be afraid to show tenderness. Though he delighted in teasing me, he had been extremely considerate from the first. So unlike Derek in every way... I had loved, and I had been deeply wounded, and I was never going to love again, certainly not a man who intended to place me in a brothel for profit. Sleeping with him was one thing. Loving him was something altogether different, and there wasn't a chance of it.
"How'd you like some fresh fish for supper?" he inquired.
"Fish?"
"This stream's full of 'em, just waitin' to be caught. Tell you what, you build a fire—you've seen me do it enough times to know how—and I'll catch us some fish to cook."
Pulling his hunting knife out of his scabbard, he examined the branches of a tree growing nearby, selected one and cut it off, then began to sharpen one end. When he was finished, he had a crude but serviceable spear. Taking off his moccasins, he stepped into the stream and, spear held aloft, gazed intently at the water. A moment later he brought the spear down quickly. There was a mighty splash, and when he held the spear aloft again a large, silvery fish was writhing on the point. He gave a shout of triumph and slung the fish on the bank, where it flopped for a moment and then grew still.
"Trick I learned from the Indians," he called.
"Clever," I retorted.
He splashed about in the stream, as happy and excited as a boy, spearing three more fish while I fetched the shovel from the pack, dug a narrow hole in the ground, lined it with rocks and then placed wood on top of the rocks. After gathering up more wood and some dry brush, I attempted to light the fire with the flint. It wasn't nearly as easy as it looked, and it took me a good five minutes to ignite the brush with a spark. By the time I had finished, Jeff had decapitated the four fish and was scraping scales off. He deboned them and, looking inordinately pleased with himself, took an old iron skillet from his pack and began cooking the fish, turning them with a long metal fork he'd also removed from the pack. I watched, feeling quite relaxed and at ease.
"You're quite handy to have around," I remarked.
"Reckon I am," he admitted. "A wench could do worse."
"I imagine she could. You've done a lot in your life, haven't you?"
"I've knocked around quite a lot. Left home when I was thirteen, struck out on my own. Took a lot of odd jobs. In '55 I joined Captain Waddell's Carolina Militia. That's when I first met Daniel Boone. He was twenty-one, four years older'n me. Joined up as a wagoner, Dan did. Both of us went with General Braddock's expedition to drive the French from Fort Duquesne. We were ambushed by Indians as we were advancin' on the fort. The whole damn expedition was almost wiped out—me and Dan and a handful of others were the only ones to get away with our scalps. Lost any interest in the military life after that, I can tell ya for sure."
"You've already told me about the French and Indian conflict," I reminded him. "What did you do after that?"
"Did a bit of scoutin', bit of trail-blazin', but I didn't have the knack, not like Boone. I finally ended up in Louisiana Territory, great place for an ambitious young man. Spent most of my time in and around New Orleans. It belonged to the Fr
ench then. They ceded all territory west of the Mississippi to Spain in '62, includin' New Orleans. Hell, this land changes hands so often a chap never knows who it belongs to."
"What did you do in New Orleans?"
"Did a bit of tradin'. Raised hell mostly. Then I started makin' these expeditions to Carolina to see what the ships brought in, peddlin' goods as I went along. Reckon this is my last trip. I'm gettin' tired of all this travelin' back and forth. I got plans—"
He looked up at me and grinned mysteriously, and I had the curious feeling that these mysterious plans concerned me in some way. He clearly had no intention of going into detail, and I was too stubborn to ask. He took the fish up, and after it had cooled we ate it. The meat was juicy and succulent, quite the best fish I had ever eaten, but perhaps that was because I was so hungry. I went over to the river to wash my hands when I had finished, and it was as I was drying them off that I heard the horse neighing.
I was startled, too startled to be frightened at first. I hurried back to Jeff. His face was grim. He looked like a different person, the amiable rogue replaced by a deadly sober man with tight mouth and hard, fierce eyes. He held the rifle ready to fire, the barrel pointing toward the area on the other side of the stream where the sound had come from. The fear gripped me then. I could feel the color leaving my cheeks.
"Get over there behind those trees," he ordered. "Stay out of sight."
"What—"
"Do as I say!" he snapped.
I quickly obeyed, darting behind the trees and peering around one of the trunks to watch, my heart pounding. The horse neighed again, and the sound of hooves rang loud and clear. A moment later a horseman rode into sight, a string of four pack mules trailing behind. Thin and rangy, the man had a long, pale face with beard as black and lanky as his hair. He wore a raccoon-skin cap with tail dangling down in back and buckskins similar to those Jeff wore, only much dirtier. Jeff held the rifle steady for a moment, and then he lowered it and let out an exuberant whoop that caused birds perching nearby to break into flight. The man on the horse, showing no reaction, calmly walked his horse across the stream.
"It's all right, Marietta!" Jeff called. "You can come on out. Jackson's a friend of mine. Jackson, you ol' son of a bitch! What th' hell are you doin' in these parts?"
"On my way to Carolina," the man replied. "Got four mules here loaded down with goods. Aim to sell to them folks you ain't already cheated. If there are any," he added.
"Christ, man, you gave us a scare!"
Jackson dismounted. He was tall, taller than Jeff, even, and so thin he looked unhealthy. The buckskins seemed to hang limply on his bony frame. The straggly beard and long hair were very dark, emphasizing his pallor. He glanced about the campsite with lazy blue eyes, showing not the least surprise when I approached from the trees. As I drew nearer I could smell him. It was difficult not to recoil. He smelled of grease and sweat and leather and various other odors, all of them blending into an exceedingly pungent whole.
"Heard that yell an' thought I was ridin' into a camp of savages," he said lazily. "You got any whiskey?"
"You know I always carry a quart, you bastard. You probably have half a dozen bottles stashed away in them packs yourself—just wanna mooch offa me. Reckon I can spare a shot or two."
"Be mighty obliged," Jackson drawled.
Jeff pulled the bottle out of one of the packs, and the two men drank, tilting the bottle back with relish. Jackson's horse nibbled at the grass. One of his mules brayed. The bottle was half empty before Jeff finally put the cap back on and slipped it into the pack.
"Mighty good," Jackson remarked.
"Particularly as it didn't cost you nothin'."
"Could have somethin' to do with it. You-all headin' for Natchez?"
Jeff nodded. "Left Carolina 'bout two weeks ago. Hear there might be Indian trouble up the trail. Crawley was certain they was gonna attack at any minute. See any signs of 'em?"
Jackson hesitated, glancing at me. He scratched the side of his head, his blue eyes filled with indecision as he debated whether or not to speak. After a moment he frowned and spoke in a guarded voice.
"Band of renegades. Couldn't be more'n ten or twelve of 'em, I figure. The rest of the tribe's moved on up country, fifty miles or so from the Trace. This bunch— they ain't up to no good. The McKenney family was murdered. I reckon Crawley heard about that. These braves're out to kill any white they can get their hands on."
Jeff was grave. "You run into 'em?"
"I saw 'em," Jackson said. "I'd camped for the night, had the horse and mules tethered. I heard 'em in the distance, heard 'em whoopin' and hollerin'. I crept through the woods to investigate, hid behind some bushes on the edge of their camp. They was all painted up, wearin' their feathers, dancin' 'round their fire. Joe Pearson—" He darted another glance at me, the crease between his brows digging deeper. "Joe started out a couple days 'fore I did. He—he was in th' fire, lashed to a stake, screamin' his lungs out. Wuzn't nothin' I could do but get th' hell outa there quick as I could. I backtracked and made a wide detour."
Both men were silent for a while. I was horrified by what I had heard. The river continued to rush along with a pleasant gurgling noise. Insects hummed. Sunlight and shadow played on the ground as tree limbs swayed gently in the breeze. The spot that had seemed so peaceful and lovely just a short while ago seemed suddenly ominous, threatening. I felt vulnerable and exposed, felt hostile eyes were observing us even as we stood there.
"How long ago was that?" Jeff asked.
" 'Bout a week and a half ago."
"Chances are they've moved out of the area by this time."
"It's likely," Jackson admitted. "Still, if you intend goin' on, you want to keep your rifle handy. You might make sure the woman has a gun handy, too."
Jeff nodded again. Jackson's expression was impassive. He was clearly a man who felt little emotion, a man long inured to hardship and horror. In his filthy buckskins and raccoon cap, with his lanky locks and shaggy black beard, he was nevertheless an impressive figure in a way I couldn't quite define. If there was such a thing as an "American" type, Jackson was uniquely so.
"Guess I better be pushin' on," he drawled. "Reckon there's another hour or so 'fore dark. Want to get as far up the road as I can."
"You haven't seen anything of the Brennans, have you?"
"You mean Jim and Billy?"
"Crawley claims they're in the area, claims they murdered a couple trappers."
"Wouldn't doubt it. Trappers were probably carryin' a rich load of furs. Them Brennan boys is bad news. I ain't seen 'em, but that don't mean they ain't around. If they are, you wanna watch out. Reckon they bear you a pretty strong grudge after the way you shot up Jim and whupped Billy."
"Reckon they might," Jeff agreed.
Jackson mounted his horse, swinging lazily into the saddle. "Don't wanna dawdle. Take care, Rawlins."
"You, too."
He walked the horse slowly out of the clearing, the mules trailing behind. Just before he passed out of sight behind a line of trees, he turned around in the saddle and gazed at us with a pale, impassive face, then lifted his arm in farewell. Jeff was silent for a long while, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and then, seeing my expression, he broke into one of those wide, merry grins.
"Aw, come on now, don't look so scared. I'll protect you."
"It—it's just so frightening."
"Hell, them Indians have probably cleared out—that was more'n a week ago. As for the Brennans, I reckon I could handle 'em any day of the week. If they know what's good for 'em, they'll steer clear. Don't you worry about it."
"That poor man—"
He looked puzzled. "Jackson?"
"Joe Pearson, the one the Indians—" I hesitated, shuddering.
"Burnin' at the stake's downright gentle compared to some of the things they do to captives. Usually they keep a man alive as long as possible. He dies a thousand deaths before—I'm upsettin' you. Tell you what, why don't we have
a little target practice?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You ever fired a rifle?"
"I've never even touched one."
"High time you had a few lessons. Not that you're likely to be usin' it against Indians," he added hastily. "I might get tired of goin' out for game one day, might decide to send you out to round up dinner. Everyone oughta know how to use a rifle. You'll soon get the hang of it."
Jeff fetched powder horn and rifle from one of the packs. He showed me how to load the thing, how to hold it. Unenthusiastic, I watched, and when he thrust it at me I held it nervously, afraid it would explode in my arms. Jeff stepped behind me and, reaching around, helped me get the proper hold. I leaned back against him, my arms shaking a bit from the weight of the rifle. His cheek was almost touching mine, and I could feel his muscles tighten as he lifted my arms up higher.
"Like this, ya see? Hold it like this. Let the butt rest against your shoulder. Relax, Marietta, it ain't gonna bite you. Okay, now look through the sight."
"The sight?"
"That tiny piece of metal stickin' up on the end of th' barrel. Don't you know anything? That's the sight. You get whatever you intend to hit lined up with it. Then you just pull the trigger—and if you ask me what the trigger is I'm gonna strangle you here and now."
"I know what the trigger is," I said wearily.
Jeff let go of my arms and strolled several paces away to my right. The rifle was much heavier than I had thought it would be. It was difficult to hold it steady.
"All right," he said, "you're ready to fire."
"What am I going to fire at?"
Still holding the rifle, I turned innocently toward him. His face turned ashen. His eyes widened in alarm. He gave a yell and almost fell over backwards getting out of the way. I realized that the rifle had been pointing directly at him and I was unable to resist a smile. Jeff scowled, not at all amused. Still shaken, he pushed his hair from his forehead.
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