by Terry Persun
“Thank you as well, sir. Your kindness is appreciated. I know you’ve toiled to receive such provisions.”
The man nodded. “You can be on your way now,” he said, but he did not pick up his rifle in force.
“Thank you much.” Leon looked the man in the eyes, testing his own resolve, and bent into a slight bow. He had already scanned his surroundings and took the shortest route to cover. Once out of site of Martha and her man, Leon ran toward the edge of the woods, turned south and made his way toward the creek.
Once again the sun burned color into the sky as it lowered beyond the hillside. The corn silks turned golden in the light. A hawk screech alerted Leon to the bird’s flight, rising on the last thermals of the day. The breeze down through the valley felt cool across his skin, a welcome change to Leon.
He stopped long enough to stuff the bread and cloth filled with vegetables into his sack. The bread poked out the top. He lifted the sack by wrapping one hand around the open hem. He rubbed his head with his other hand. As his hair grew out it became more wavy, looser than when it was cut short.
He hummed and made up words about his adventure. “Crossing the River,” had a gospel leaning. He didn’t sing very loudly, but did raise his voice to a loud whisper when the chorus came in: ‘Crossing the river gave my life new meaning/ baptized my soul ‘til I came up screaming/ couldn’t walk on water like my man Jesus/ but my life sure change as my Lord God pleases.’ He felt it wasn’t perfect, but could work on it while he walked.
By the time he entered camp, the sun had slipped behind the mountain and a great glowing haze like a halo along the treetops stood, backlit by the sun. The campfire was ablaze. Buddy stood as Leon approached.
Caracker-Jack asked, “What you standin’ for?”
“Leon here,” Buddy said, as though it were obvious.
“Ain’t no matter,” Cracker-Jack said.
“Why you turnin’ so mean on him?”
“He think he better ‘an us,” Cracker-Jack poked at the fire. “And he ain’t.”
Buddy took the sack from Leon and leaned into him. “Don’t you listen to ‘im. He mad cause he have to remember who he really be and not who he make himself up to be.”
“Ain’t true. I tole you why I mean on him and it he own fault. Dammit, you think I cain’t hear?”
“No sir, Cracker-Jack, I don’t think that,” Buddy said.
Cracker-Jack snarled.
Leon sat to the left of Cracker-Jack and helped Jesse and Buddy cut the vegetables into chunks. The others had already slit the throat of the chicken and were nearly finished cleaning it. Its carcass was stuck through with a stick. There were still small feathers stuck to the bird, but they would burn out in the fire.
Leon heard another bird cluck from time to time and saw that it was wrapped in a bedroll and set near a tree a few yards away. It was Bob’s bedroll. Bob leaned against a tree trunk, his hand resting on the bedroll.
Jesse cooked up a fine vegetable stew for them. They also had stolen sweet corn and the chicken meat for dinner.
“Was hopin’ I’d git that hat today,” Bob said.
“I ain’t dead yet,” Leon said.
“Watch you sleep,” Cracker-Jack said.
Leon ducked his head and took a walk to collect firewood.
After dinner, Buddy asked Leon to read to them.
“Yeah, read, smart boy,” Cracker-Jack said.
Leon declined.
“I said read,” Cracker-Jack repeated.
“I’m tired,” Leon said.
Cracker-Jack leaped up and kicked Leon in the shoulder. “You son-a-bitch, you son-a-bitch. You’ll God damned sure read outa you book.”
Leon fell to his side and took another kick or two. His arm hurt. He held up his hands in surrender and Cracker-Jack backed off.
Leon took the book out of his sack and opened it. His voiced cracked. He read for nearly an hour. All the bedrolls came out and the roamers prepared for sleep long before Leon curled near the fire.
* * *
As summer wore on through the heat and humidity of the greater Susquahanna Valley, Leon got better at begging for food. Cracker-Jack’s early attacks on Leon escalated into a form of contempt and rage.
Leon sensed that Cracker-Jack felt increasingly vulnerable as Leon’s own confidence grew. Cracker-Jack stated his belief that Leon would eventually leave them on their own, once Leon, “…got to thinkin’ he could do it all on his own.”
The truth was, Cracker-Jack had as much to do with Leon’s interest in leaving as Leon’s gaining confidence did. Leon was sick of being the brunt of whatever anger Cracker-Jack carried around. Finally, in what Leon could only discern as desperation, Cracker-Jack ordered Bob to go with Leon, to learn some secret Leon might hold to getting the homesteaders to hand over food willingly, along with utensils, and even blankets when they saw that Leon had none.
“Ain’t goin’,” Bob said.
“You the only one I can spare,” Cracker-Jack said.
“You can spare?” Bob shook his head.
“I can spare both you. Now, git. And don’t beg fer no Liquor.”
Bob smacked his lips and Cracker-Jack pointed at him. “You git you-self in trouble, you on yer own. We leavin’ without you.”
“Can’t do that,” Jesse said.
Cracker-Jack shot him a glance and Jesse stepped back.
Leon didn’t like the idea of taking Bob with him, but felt better about it once he and Bob were walking toward the house.
Corn stood high against the evening sky, and would be easy to escape through or hide in.
“You teach me what to say, so’s Cracker-Jack don’t leave me behind,” Bob said.
“He won’t leave you.”
“He show ‘nough will. He gittin’ mean as a snake.”
Leon patted Bob’s shoulder. “He’s mad at me, not you.”
“He raging at his-self.” Bob nodded his head, agreeing with his own words.
“I’m familiar with that,” Leon said.
As they approached the shack of a cabin, a plump young woman with a ruddy complexion stepped into the yard. “Here for Pa?”
“No, ma’am,” Leon said. “We’re traveling downriver and ran short of supplies. We were wondering. . .”
“Ain’t got no extra. Pa says it gonna be a hard winter.”
“Anything would do ma’am. A small amount?” Leon removed his hat and held it in front of his chest. Bob lowered his head along with Leon’s actions.
The woman kept looking back and forth at them. Her lips pushed out and tightened as she thought. “Perhaps a few muffins.”
Leon bowed slightly.
She turned to go inside and Leon heard a shout in back of the cabin and then the loud crack of a gun. “Git, you thievin’ bastards.”
Bob turned and ran for the cornfield. Leon skuttled behind Bob with his arms out, trying to urge the old man to move faster. Another loud cry, this time closer, was followed by another shot. Buckshot tore through the corn stalks. Leon stepped around Bob and pulled him along. Another shot and Leon heard Bob let out a puff of air and a huh, like he was asking a question.
Bob slowed down.
Another shot came through the corn, this time in a whole other direction than where he and Bob headed. Leon tucked himself under Bob’s shoulder, then placed his arm around Bob’s waist for support. They moved slower than Leon wished, but faster than Bob could have done on his own. The compromise suited Leon, since the woman obviously had no idea where they were, as she blasted the edges of the cornfield over and over.
Leon shortened his usual wide circle, and exited the field south of the cabin.
Bob stumbled, but Leon held tight and continued on without thought.
“Should-a asked for liquor,” Bob wheezed.
“Next time,” Leon said.
“No,” Bob said in a trailing voice.
A short distance farther and the other men came out from a stand of trees to greet Leon and Bob. Bi
g Josh took over where Leon held tightly. As Leon backed away he noticed blood running down the back of Bob’s head and neck. The other men surrounded Bob, and it appeared to Leon as though the men raised Bob off the ground and carried him, even though Bob’s feet were still moving.
An hour later and well away from the farm, Big Josh lowered Bob’s limp body onto the ground.
Cracker-Jack slapped Leon hard on the back of the neck, spreading the sting along his shoulders.
“Weren’t my fault,” Leon said.
“You were with ‘im.”
Jesse, sitting next to Bob, raised a bloody arm. A series of clotted blood dots spread from his wrist to his elbow. “Leave ‘im be. You be with me and look what I get.”
Cracker-Jack spit on the ground at Leon’s feet.
Leon let the blood rush to his face, but he didn’t move. Not this time.
Jesse shot up from the ground and rushed Cracker-Jack. He swung his fists, knocking the leader of the roamers onto the ground. “Enough a you bullying. You got Bob kilt.”
Cracker-Jack crabbed backwards, away from Jesse’s fists. He turned away as Jesse kicked leaves and dirt at him.
Josh pulled Jesse away.
Leon stepped near Bob.
Buddy scooched to the side to let Leon kneel next to Bob. Leon lowered his face into his hands. “I couldn’t help it.” He wiped his eyes and looked up. He wished he had not moved to the front to pull Bob along.
“Nothin’ anyone could do. Ain’t no use in blamin’ no one.” Buddy glanced over at Cracker-Jack, then looked at Jesse. “No one,” he repeated.
That night the men dug a shallow grave in silence. No one ate. Cracker-Jack took his bedroll into the woods and out of the sight of the others.
Leon helped to make a fire, then let himself fall asleep, knowing that he’d awaken several times in the night. Each time he awoke, Leon lifted his head to be sure the others were asleep. As it got closer to daybreak, Leon uncurled his tight muscles, stretched his arms and legs, and sat up making as little noise as possible.
He gathered his sack. On his way out of camp, Leon placed his hat over Bob’s grave and left it there. Rather than run, Leon tip-toed as not to disturb his sleeping partners.
Jesse shocked him, stepping from around a tree into Leon’s path. “I done blame you,” Jesse whispered. He rubbed his arm where the buckshot had penetrated.
Leon wanted to step past him.
“Listen, boy. We go around the town by passin’ over the mountain. At first Cracker-Jack want to keep you around ‘cause we can use you. But Cracker-Jack turn bad.”
“There’s a town?” Leon said.
“Follow this creek downstream. At the river, go upstream. It about two days walk.” Jesse held out a pot with congealed stew about an inch thick along the bottom.
“You’ll get into trouble.” Leon pushed the pan aside with his hand.
Jesse agreed with a silent nod and slight grin. “We know you mulatto, but you also carry youself like a white boy. Cracker-Jack be jealous. You keep tellin’ youself you white. You look whites in the eye and claim you worth somethin’. You hear?”
“I do.”
“Safe travels,” Jesse said. Then he turned and headed back to camp.
Leon’s stomach ached for the stew, but it wouldn’t be good for Jesse had he taken it.
He took a few slow steps toward the creek, then stopped to listen. He couldn’t hear Jesse’s footsteps. Birdsongs had already conquered the air. The darkness had begun to dissipate into morning, waking the diurnal animals and setting the nocturnal to task looking for a safe resting place where the day’s heat would let them be.
Twittering birds increased in number until it was the only sound Leon heard. He picked up his pace, his sack in his hand and his chin up. He felt alert, rested, confident. He imagined a river-town hustling with noise, bursting with work. He could fish the river, farm at the edge of town, fix stables. There would be work for him, and people with nothing murderous in their past, nothing they would need to run from. He could live in a place like that.
CHAPTER 12
The West Branch of the Susquahanna is a winding river, taking sharp curves in one direction and then several miles farther turning in the opposite direction.
Leon couldn’t catch a fish without Bob’s help. An aching stomach, due to eating nothing but raw mushrooms and blackberries, reduced his ability to sleep. Leon followed the water around one bend after another. Nothing but silence and wilderness spread before him at one turn, then people and noise at the next. The town appeared to have sprung out of the ground.
Leon kneeled in exhaustion. The roaring of the river rushing around the bend muffled the noise coming from the town. For the moment, the sight of people brought him joy. Leon, tired as he was, lifted up onto weak legs and hobbled into town.
Two men heading south in a buckboard stacked with grain, stopped alongside Leon. “You okay, mister?”
Leon looked up and the sun caught his eye. “Tired,” he said through a squint. “And hungry.”
The man on Leon’s side of the buckboard shook his head. “There’s work and plenty of it this time of year.” He clicked his cheek, snapped the reins, and the wagon kicked back into motion.
Leon watched the wagon go down the road. Work. He changed focus back to the town ahead of him. He’d do most anything for a good meal.
The dust rose from the sun-dried roadbed and lifted into Leon’s nose and mouth. He could not will himself to feel white, a fleeting memory of what Jesse had suggested. He stayed in the road unable to enter any of the buildings.
Other men walked the streets. A few said howdy to him. Leon nodded and turned his eyes away. Before long two men deliberately approached him. “You lookin’ for work?”
Leon glanced at the man speaking, who stood Leon’s height, but carried another forty pounds, which made Leon feel skinny. The man wore a leather hat that shaded his dark brown eyes. Stubble poked out of the man’s chin, but not his cheeks, leading Leon to guess that the man was young. The speaker’s partner stood six inches shorter and ten pounds heavier, but was older by a few rough years, with a thicker beard, maybe a few week’s growth.
“Haven’t eaten much either,” Leon answered.
“Don’t know about that, but the mill needs help.”
“Where do I go?”
The young man took Leon by the arm and turned him. He pointed toward the edge of town, not far away. “There.” The largest building to be seen had a thin tower-like frame with a fat lower part below that gave the impression of a longhouse. Lumber was piled in front of it.
The young man slapped Leon’s back. “That there mill is all this town is.” Then he laughed as if he had told a joke, and walked off with his friend.
Leon continued to gaze upriver. There was only the one log pile. As he got closer to the mill, though, the banks became heavy with timber. Even so the woods behind the mill were still thick with trees. He couldn’t imagine where all the timber had come from. Upstream, he figured. Leon shook his head assuming he wasn’t processing the town properly. Perhaps there was more logic to the town than he could grasp in his present state of hunger and fatigue.
Other men passed as Leon stayed on course for the mill. With each step he heard more people talking and yelling. Then came the clanking and ringing of chains.
He didn’t have to say much as he approached the mill. It appeared that no one would go in that direction unless he wanted work. And at the moment Leon wanted nothing more than to earn a good meal and a place to lie down.
“Hey, Harry,” Leon heard someone call. Two men came down from the long-house to meet Leon. “Three days work for meals and a bed. After that, you get a daily rate to be determined by how much work you can do. That sound good, son?”
Leon nodded then his shoulders felt light and his knees weakened. He staggered. The two men grabbed him and held him up. “He’s fevered,” one said.
“Dang-blame it,” the other responded. “We take �
��im to the bunk house. The others won’t like it. Maybe the shed’ll do.”
Leon slept and remembered little more than lying on the floor. When he saw one of the men again, the burly logger was carrying food. Leon ate slowly. Before long, he felt better. His head cleared.
“You fevered. We ain’t got much space for the sick.”
“I feel better,” Leon said. He looked at the food in front of him. He took a drink of water. “Really, I feel better. I can work.”
“No matter. Until you’re free of the fever, the other men won’t want you around.”
Leon nodded as he stuffed food into his mouth. He swathed his plate with a last piece of bread and handed the plate back. His muscles ached. He stood. “I’m ready. Please, don’t turn me out.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to.
Standing required as much will as strength for Leon to accomplish.
The man pulled a crate off a stack. “Here you go. Have a seat. Not much room in here, but you can stretch out. Your sack is over there, but you ain’t got no bedroll. I have it deducted from your wages. And the couple meals too. I sure as shit hope you can work once you spry up.”
“I can,” Leon said. He stepped into the darkness of the shadows and sat on the crate. “Thank you.”
The man slapped the door frame with his palm and left, leaving the shed door hang open.
Leon watched him go, then rolled off the crate and lay on the floor where he curled into a ball. He woke in the middle of the night, a blanket over his shoulders. The man must have returned, but Leon had no idea when. He put his palm to his own forehead, which didn’t feel hot to his touch. He stretched his arms and legs. The aches were still there, and across his back and in his neck, too.
Leon crawled to the door and swung his legs out over the stoop. The sky spread clear above him. Stars stood close enough to touch. The air was cool. The river rush was loud and the thud, thud, thud of logs bumping together created a rhythm Leon almost recognized. He breathed in the night air. There were no mosquitoes, no gnats. He scratched his arms where he had been bitten the last few days. He rubbed his face with his hands. He didn’t know the name of the town nor what type of work he’d be involved with, but he was alive and awake and could feel the sickness leaving his body.