Backwoods Girl

by Peggy Gaddis

  Seth, who been lulled to a deep sleep by their soft murmurs that had hardly broken the silence, now roused at their tone of voice, and pulled himself up to his front paws, looking anxiously from one to the other, but neither Jim nor Cindy was aware of the dog’s uneasiness.

  “When I was sixteen,” said Cindy at last, and her voice was low and ragged, husky with her tears, her eyes fastened on her hands clenched tightly in the folds of the old shawl, “Granny wanted me to have book-learnin’, so she taken me to the flatlands, and got me a job with some folks that had a mess o’ young-uns and was glad to have me live with ‘em and help with the young-uns after school.”

  Jim stood tense, his face white and hard, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets, standing there before her, clad only in trousers arid shirt that he had pulled on while she had been fighting for strength to speak. “Go on,” he said harshly when her voice died.

  She nodded. “Miz’ Evans was right nice t’ me, an’ I done good at school, an’ I didn’t mind the workin’. It war’n’t near as hard as what I’d been a-doin’. The young-’uns was a handful, but they liked to hear me tell ‘em Indian stories, an’ I made out all right. It was Mr. Evans I was a-feared of, the way he looked at me sometimes. He was allus a-pickin’ at-me, pattin’ me, tryin’ to git me in a corner somewheres outa sight of Miz’ Evans.

  “I didn’t know for truly-sure what he was after, but I was a-feared o’ him. An’ then one night when the young-uns’ was all in bed an’ asleep an’ Miz’ Evans had gone to a meetin’ of the Ladies Aid at the church, he—he come in my room.”

  She shuddered, and for a moment her hands were over her face. Jim could see that the memories her words were evoking were terrible to her. She appeared to be reliving the horror of that night.

  Jim waited, and could visualize the scene as clearly as though he, too, had stood there in that small, dark room, facing with her the terror that had leaped upon her out of the darkness.

  “I was asleep,” she went painfully on at last. “I’d worked hard an’ I’d studied my lessons a-fore I went to bed. Fust thing I knew, there he was, holdin’ me so hard I couldn’t fight. His hand on my mouth so’s I couldn’t holler—.”

  Horror overcame her, and she bowed her face into her hands. He saw the long shudder that shook her violently. There was a sickness deep within him, a revulsion that momentarily drowned out his pity. This was the girl he had thought a virgin, an innocent young creature who had never known intimacy with any man. Yet she was drawing a picture so ugly that he could not escape memories of countless girls who had streamed into court, protesting their innocence, accusing some man of assaulting them. Jim had often doubted the girls’ innocence. He usually felt that a girl was at least partially to blame for such things. He had even felt cynically that very few girls were molested without their consent, or at least without having invited the men’s attentions.

  “He said he’d kill me if I tole Miz’ Evans,” Cindy went on after a long moment. “An’ he said she wouldn’t believe me, anyway. She’d say I was to blame; that I’d been—a-hankerin’ after him and tryin’ to get him—.”

  “So you said nothing, and you became his mistress,” said Jim savagely: “And, of course, he paid you well. After all, you’d gone there to get an education, hadn’t you? And you certainly got it!”

  She shrank from his words as from blows, and she did not look up. She was silent for so long that at last he demanded harshly, “Well, what happened then?”

  “I got me in the family way,” she said with a terrible simplicity.

  “Well, naturally. What else did you expect?” sneered Jim. “And, of course, Evans was upset about that. He would be. What did he do?”

  “He was waitin’ for me after school one day,” she said with that stark simplicity that made her story seem even uglier, and more difficult to hear. “He said Miz’ Evans might notice I was—gettin’ a big belly, an’ he was takin’ me away. He brung me to Marshallville in his car, an’ put me on the bus, an’ gimme fifty dollars an’ tole me to go home to Granny, an’ she’d know what to do for me.”

  “And, of course, she did,” said Jim grimly.

  “She taken me in an’ taken care o’ me and wouldn’t let nobody see me, an’ she stopped goin’ out doctorin’ folks, so’s me and her could be just by ourselves. An’ when the baby was born, it didn’t never live at all. Granny buried it out under the apple tree, an’ nobody on the mountain ever knowed anythin’ ‘bout it. It was wintertime, an’ powhaful cold weather, an’ folks wasn’t projeckin’ round much.

  “When Granny died, they taken her over to the buryin’ groun’ at the church at Harmony Grove, an’ I come back here by myself, just me, an’ Seth, an’ Bessie an’ Sadie-May.” She looked up at him hopefully, praying for compassion.”

  “And since then you’ve earned your living by welcoming men to your cabin.” He hurled the ugly taunt at her, even while, in his heart he knew it was not true.

  She flinched as from a blow, and then at last she looked up at him. There was such bitterness and desolation in her eyes that he could not endure to meet them. He turned away from her, finished getting into his clothes, and without a word to her, stalked out of the cabin, letting the door slap shut behind him.

  Cindy remained where she was until the sound of his footsteps on the frozen, stony ground outside had died away. Then she slid forward out of her chair, until she lay huddled on the old bearskin rug beside the fire, her arms about the dog, her face pressed hard against his warm side.

  “He’s gone, Seth.” Her voice was no more than a soft, broken murmur. “He’s gone, an’ we ain’t never gonna see him no more.”

  A sob caught in her throat, and she cried out wildly, “Why’d he have to come hyer, Seth? Me an’ you, we wuz gettin’ along all right. There weren’t nobody we loved, an’ we didn’t miss nobody. No, he had t’come, an’ now we ain’t never gonna know peace no more. Not never!”

  Anxious, troubled, the dog turned his head and licked at the tears that slid down her soft cheek, whining softly in his eagerness to comfort her.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lorna stepped from the bus, confident that Jim would be waiting for her with the flashlight, but as the bus lumbered away into the darkness, she stumbled up the trail and paused. All was silence and darkness about her. She called to him tentatively, but there was no answer. After a moment, she went, puzzled and annoyed.

  When she reached her cabin and there were no welcoming lights, her annoyance deepened. She unlocked the door, found the light switch and touched the room into soft-yellow light. The place was exactly as she had left it a week ago, and she went about lighting the oil furnace, making herself comfortable.

  When she had had the drink for which she had been thirsting since she had left Atlanta in her car, she prepared dinner. She ate it alone, read for a while and as there was still no sign of Jim, she had a few more drinks and went on to bed eventually, feeling her taut nerves loosen beneath the silken caress of the strong liquor.

  ####

  Storekeeper greeted her heartily next morning when she came in, and looked puzzled when she asked about Jim.

  “Why, I thought he wus goin’ t’ Atlanta to see you, Miss Blake,” he said.

  Lorna stiffened, her green eyes cold. “What made you think that?”

  “Well, seems like you an’ him got to be right good frien’s,” said Storekeeper cheerfully. “So when he come in hyer t’other mornin’ an’ said he was lightin’ a shuck fer town, reckin I jest kinda took it for granted-like he was goin’ to see you.”

  “When was all this?”

  “Well, now lemme see,” mused Storekeeper with maddening deliberation. “This hyer’s Sattiday, ain’t it? Reckin it must’a been last Wednesday, er mebbe Thursday. I don’t rightly know, but it weren’t Monday ‘cause that was the day the drug man come. Yeah, I reckin i
t was Wednesday or Thursday.”

  Lorna was frowning. “Had anything happened? I mean anything to make him suddenly decide to leave?”

  “Well, now, not as I’d know ‘bout,” Storekeeper assured her. “Y’ know he ain’t one to do a heap o’ talkin’ ‘bout hisself. Leastways not to me or Marthy. Always been awful shut-mouth and say-nuthin’ like. He went to Marshallville the day before. Stayed all day. Plum night when he got back. Me an’ Marthy wuz jest settin’ down to supper. He come in and et. Seemed like he was right excited-like, but he didn’t say nuthin’ ‘bout whut. Anybody ‘cept him, I’d a said he was likkeredup, but o’ course, he don’t drink. Leastways, not corn-squeezin’s.”

  Lorna was thinking fast, and there was a dawning excitement in her eyes. “He’s finally got sense enough to go back to his job,” she said.

  Storekeeper was watching her shrewdly. “Er else he foun’ the Injun gold,” he said softly.

  Startled, Lorna caught her breath. Her eyes flew wide as she met Storekeeper’s shrewd gaze.

  “Why do you think that?” she demanded.

  “Well, the day ‘fore he went to Marshallville, he spent mostly the hull day up at the Grady cabin with Cindy,” he said softly. “He been goin’ there real often, y’ know. Reckin mebbe it weren’t too hard fur a likely-Jookin’ feller like him to get Cindy to talk.”

  Lorna tried to mask her angry astonishment, but there was a gleam of laughter at the back of Storekeeper’s shrewd little eyes.

  “Oh, that’s nonsense! You don’t really believe that old legend about Indian gold being hidden somewhere on the Grady place,” she scoffed, but despite her efforts she could not quite keep the question out of her voice.

  Storekeeper grinned dryly. “Course, I be’n livin’ hyer all my life, an’ I heard a sight o’ yarns ‘bout Injun gold bein’ foun’ ‘round these parts,” he said quietly. “Don’t know fer true anybody foun’ it, but they’s been a right smart o’ folks suddenly seemed to have more money, ‘n they coulda made workin’ fer it.”

  “It’s been almost a hundred years since the Indians left these parts,” Lorna scoffed. “Any gold they hid has been found a long time ago—if they hid any, which I never really believed.”

  “Well, mebbe you’re right, Miss Blake. Mebbe you are,” Storekeeper agreed placidly.

  Lorna turned and walked out of the store into the golden sunshine of a day that hinted that it might not be too long before the brush of spring would be seen over the mountains. It was one of those deceptively mild days that sometimes come in the middle of winter, and those wise in mountain ways and weather learn early not too take the signs too literally, for all too often such a day is followed by a night of snow and blizzard-winds.

  Lorna turned towards the trail to the Grady cabin, knowing quite well that Storekeeper was watching her and no doubt laughing his damned head off to see her heading so purposefully towards the Grady property. But let him laugh, damn him. She had to see Cindy, and see if she could discover the reason why Jim had so suddenly headed for Atlanta.

  When she had said goodbye to him a week ago, nothing had seemed farther from his mind than a return to Atlanta and his work. What could have happened, between one night-fall and the next to have made him change his mind? A trip to Marshallville, from which he had returned in high spirits, keeping his thoughts to himself; the following morning, he had in the mountain phrase “lit a shuck” for town, meaning he had departed fast and without explanations.

  If Cindy had revealed to him the hiding place of the gold, that would explain everything. In fact, Lorna could think of no other explanation, and as she climbed the trail, her hands jammed deep in the pockets of her jacket, her mouth was a thin and ugly line.

  If Jim had learned the location of the Indian gold, then he must be forced to share with her, because it was through her that he had first learned of the treasure. If he thought for one thin moment that he was going to hog it all for himself, then he damned well had another thought coming! She was a bit vague as to how she would force him to hand over what she felt was her rightful share, but she was not at all vague about her determination to demand it.

  She passed the Haney house without glancing toward it, not caring whether Jennie Haney saw her or not, not caring about anything except reaching Cindy and somehow forcing out of the girl the truth about Jim’s sudden flight. In Lorna’s mind, there was no doubt at all that it was a flight. She was convinced that he had not returned to Atlanta to his job, but to dispose of the gold Cindy had turned over to him.

  Lorna came to the plateau on which the cabin huddled and shouted Cindy’s name. There was silence, and then the cabin door swung open. Cindy stood there, waiting for her, unsmiling, her face pale, great circles beneath her eyes.

  “Why, Cindy, you’ve been sick, haven’t you? You look ghastly,” Lorna blurted in surprise as she came up the steps and across the narrow porch.

  “I’m fine, Miss Blake,” said Cindy, her voice colorless, tired. “Come in and set.”

  Lorna came in, smiled tentatively at the dog who merely regarded her without wagging his tail or growling, not yet sure whether she was friend or enemy, just reserving judgment, a watchful eye on her ready for whatever she might do or say.

  “But, Cindy, you do look ill,” Lorna insisted.

  “No’m, I’m right pert,” said Cindy. “Won’t you set?” She motioned towards a stout rocker beside the fire.

  Lorna was casting about in her mind for some way to lead up to a demand for knowledge about Jim when her eyes fell on the weaving frame in a corner. She put her hand in her pocket, smiling at Cindy with great warmth as she held out a ten-dollar bill.

  “I brought you the money for the other rug, Cindy,” she said. “And I’ve got orders for more of them. Some of my friends would like to have several of them, but I didn’t tell them you let me have mine for ten dollars a piece. I made them promise to pay you twenty-five a piece, and I’ve brought you deposits for three. I didn’t know how fast you could turn them out so I wouldn’t accept orders for more than three.”

  “Thank ye, ma’am. I’m right obliged to you,” said Cindy and accepted the proffered money, as though doubtful of its real importance.

  Lorna lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and said lightly, her eyes sharp on Cindy, “I was surprised when Storekeeper told me Jim McCurdy had gone.”

  She saw Cindy catch her breath and her dark eyes go wide. She looked as though Lorna had struck her a savage blow, and for a moment she was dumb with pain.

  “You didn’t know he had gone, Cindy?” Lorna asked after a moment, when it seemed the girl was unable to speak.

  “No’m, I didn’t know.” Cindy’s voice was husky.

  Lorna was watching her shrewdly, and now she fired a shot in the dark. “Taking your gold with him,” slit said softly.

  Bewildered, Cindy’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown above the hurt in her heart.

  “My gold? Miss Blake, you’re funnin’. He didn’t take no gold o’ mine, ‘count of I didn’t have no gold,” she protested. There was utter and convincing sincerity in her bewilderment.

  Lorna said lightly, “Oh, I thought maybe you might have shown him where the Cherokees hid their gold before they started west, and he had confiscated it.”

  Cindy smiled very faintly. It was little more than a grimace, touched with scornful amusement. “Miss Blake, you don’t believe them old tales about Indian gold being buried ‘round here, do you?”

  “Well, a great many people do,” Lorna argued.

  “Oh, I reckin so, but you been comin’ here long ‘nough to know better’n to believe them kind o’ yarns. Mountain folks dearly love a tale, and they spread ‘em just to make flatland furriners do fool things,” Cindy derided. “They ain’t no Indian gold on this place. Ain’t never been. My grandsir wouldn’t ‘a’ let the Indians bury nuthin�
�� here, ‘count o’ my grandma’am, her bein’ a Indian and him havin’ to fight so hard t’ keep folks from drivin’ her off. When the Indians wanted him to keep their gold ‘til they could come back and git it, he tole it would be dangerous for her, an’ he made ‘em bury it in one o’ their buryin’ mounds, ‘stead o’ here where him and her lived.”

  Lorna listened with complete fascination. “Then they did bury a lot of gold somewhere around here?” she asked swiftly.

  “Yessum, I reckin they did. Lije Purcell foun’ it an’ used it to build him a fine house an’ buy him a shiny car an’ a big poultry business. Leastways, I allus thought that was where he got him the money to buy all them things. They wus allus tenant farmers. Never had nuthin’, then all of a sudden, he built him a fine house an’ paid spot cash on the barrel head for ever’ livin’ thing ‘bout the place. An’ paid cash fer all the rest, an’ folks say he’s still got a heap o’ money in the bank. Reckin they’s still more gold left in the mound, too.”

  “I see,” said Lorna softly at last and flung her finished cigarette into the fire. “Did you tell Jim this? That there was no gold here?”

  Puzzled, Cindy met her eyes, and a wave of deep crimson swept over her face. “Well, I reckin maybe I did, only I don’t just remember,” she admitted.

  “Then why did he take off at a dead run? Just because you convinced him there wasn’t any gold?” demanded Lorna.

  Cindy tried to evade Lorna’s sharp eyes as she spoke. “No’m, the gold didn’t have nuthin’ to do with him leavin’ like that,” she said faintly. “Reckin maybe he left ‘count of he found out I ain’t no good.”

  Lorna stiffened. “Cindy, are you trying to tell me that Jim made love to you?”

  “He ast me to marry him,” said Cindy, and despite her shame and misery, there was pride and exultation in her voice.

  “The hell he did!” gasped Lorna, and added swiftly, “You’re sure he meant marry?”

  “Oh, yessum, I’m sure.” Cindy seemed not to resent Lorna’s frank doubt. “He’d been to Marshallville, an’ he brung me a lot o’ purties. An’—an’—well, I been hankerin’ for him since the first time I seen him an’—well, we taken to bed together. It was all I wanted, all I could ever want. Then he ast me to marry him, so I had to tell him I wasn’t fitten to marry no man. Not never!”