by Pamela Morsi
Mavis made no reply. Her brother looked up at her.
"You saw him, didn't you?" His voice was accusing.
"I could hardly help it," Mavis answered, not quite able to meet his gaze. "He came into the store. I was there."
Clearly Oather didn't like it, but, cursing under his breath, he accepted the inevitable. "I guess that seeing him can't always be avoided."
He pulled the meat off his eye and fingered the injured flesh there gingerly. "Curse him for a lowlife popskull, I wish he'd been too beaten to be on his feet for a day or two." Oather shook his head. "At least I think I taught him to keep a respectful distance from you."
There was silence as Mavis carried her basket to the doorway and set it upon the side-turned baking powder crate that served as a small table. She appeared to be concentrating completely upon her task.
Oather raised his chin and looked in her direction curiously. His one good eye widened in disbelieving recognition.
"By God, he actually spoke to you!" The angry words brought him immediately to his feet. He groaned with the sudden movement.
"We passed only a few words," Mavis assured her brother hastily. "It was nothing, Oather. Truly nothing."
The young man gave his sister a long hard look.
"Fry me brown, Mavis, if it were nothing why can't you look me in the eye?"
She whirled to face him, her expression heartbroken and her eyes bright with tears.
"I won't have you fight him anymore, Oather," she said. "I won't have any more blood shed on my account. I'm sorry that I ever told you. I should have ... I should have ..."
"You should have let me kill him that very day!" he said.
"Oather, the way he is, he might have killed you."
Her brother shook his head with unconcern. His teeth were clenched holding back the rage inside him. He dropped back down upon the swing in frustration and fury. “Truth is, Mavis, I think I'd rather be dead than have to live knowing what that man did to you. And him smiling. Smiling. Like you was nothing or of no account."
Mavis hurried to seat herself at her brother's side. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him fast. They had always been close, closer than most brothers and sisters tended to be. They rarely fought each other, saving their energies for resisting the absolute rule of their father.
"Don't even talk about being dead," she pleaded. "I couldn't live if something happened to you. And it's all my doing, you know. He said I got what I deserved and he's right, Oather. That's what hurts so much, is that he's right."
"He's not right!" her brother insisted.
"Yes, he is," Mavis insisted. "I slipped off to the woods with him, knowing full well what he had in mind. I told you that. He's not blameless, Oather, but it was my failing. It's always the woman's misdeed, everybody says that. If it were some woman other than me you wouldn't fault him."
"I would, Mavis," he declared adamantly. "I would. People say that it's the woman's duty to put on the stops, to not allow the spooning to get out of hand. And they say that a man is welcome to whatever he can get. That's what they say all right. But that's not the way it should be, Mavis. It's like the law. A man's got to heed more than just the letter of it. There's the spirit, too."
"You don't think that in the 'spirit of the law' I should have said no as well?" she asked.
"You were in love with him," Oather said quietly, pushing a stray red curl away from her pretty face. "Any fool could have seen that. I've never been in love. Mavis, but from what I hear it doesn't help a person to keep their thinking straight."
"Still, I could have said no," she admitted.
"He should have walked away, Mavis," Oather told her. "Or he should have wed you. His taking the physical part of what you offered, but spurning the love that went with it, that's what I don't forgive." His voice hardened with anger. "It's what I'm not going to forget either."
"But that's what we've got to do," Mavis urged. "We've just got to forget it and get on with our lives."
Oather raised his chin, his good eye narrowed. "Getting on with your life, is that what you're doing, Sister?" he asked. He shook his head as he took her hand in his own. "I remember when we were little," he said. "We'd put on Mama's aprons and we'd play 'house' all day every day while Papa was downstairs in the store. Do you remember that?"
She nodded.
"And I remember that my little red-haired sister always wanted to take care of the babies. She'd feed them and dress them and change them. She cared nothing about playing sweep up, or cook or churn. All that little girl wanted was a dozen babies to tend."
Oather raised her chin with one finger and looked solemnly into his sister's eyes. "When are you getting on with that life, Mavis? When are you going to have some real babies to tend?"
Mavis sighed and gazed sightlessly into the darkened autumn tangle of honeysuckle vines, bereft of leaves or blossoms.
"Never." She said the word so softly it was barely above a whisper.
"You can't wed another man," Oather continued. "Because you'd be obliged to tell him why he's not the first. Then he'd be bound to cast you off as a whore or kill the man that wronged you."
"I'm resigned to the spinster life," she said more bravely. "Mama and Papa need me. I'll always be here for them."
Oather shook his head. "But there's not a woman on this earth more suited to motherhood."
Mavis didn't argue that. She didn't want to argue anything. She wanted to just sit quietly with her brother, the strength of her life, and not think about it all. She wanted just to not think. But that was impossible.
"If Eben Baxley would just leave again," she said. "That's what I kept thinking. If he would just leave and this time never come back. If I didn't have to see him. If I didn't have to remember. But it doesn't seem as if that is likely to happen."
"Why not?"
"He says he's going to marry Althea Winsloe," Mavis said.
Oather raised the eyebrow on his good eye. "Althea doesn't want to marry," he told her dismissively. "We've heard her say so time and time again."
Mavis shook her head. "And you don't want to tend the store neither, but you spend your days tending it," she pointed out. "It's like with Pa. When Miz Winsloe or Granny Piggott get their backs up about something, it happens. Althea Winsloe will be married before the snows set in. And more than likely, it'll be Eben Baxley. He'll be living nearly neighbors to us for the rest of my days."
Oather gazed at his sister. She couldn't hide the pain that reality conjured up.
"It'll never happen," he declared adamantly.
"I don't know how you think you're going to stop it," she said.
Oather didn't appear to know immediately how himself. Mavis had forbidden him killing Eben. Or from telling what happened and letting someone else kill him. Oather had tried warning Baxley away with his fists and had taken a severe beating for his intention. He had no idea how he would stop the donk-swilling scofflaw from moving on to the mountain. Then, slowing as if allowing the idea to take root, he drew a long, cleansing breath—a sigh, almost of acceptance.
"If Althea Winsloe has to be married," Oather said solemnly, "by heaven, I'll wed her myself before I let Eben Baxley live here and make your life a misery."
Mavis's eyes widened. "But you told Papa that you wouldn't do it. Papa absolutely ordered you to court her and you stood up to him like a cornered cat. I've never seen you so stubborn and certain about anything before in my life."
"I'm still certain," Oather said. "I don't want to wed her. I don't want to wed anybody and Papa wouldn't be able to force me to it. But before I let Eben Baxley live here and make your life a misery, I'd jump Granny Piggott herself off the Marrying Stone."
"Would you marry Althea?" Mavis asked, her voice suddenly full of hope. "Would you really do that for me?"
"I'd rather kill Baxley, but you won't let me do that," he answered.
"Oather, Oather, Oather." Mavis almost laughed as she hugged her brother tightly around the
waist, relief pulsing though her with such hope she could have almost giggled. "This is going to turn out wonderful, wonderful I'm sure."
"Hmmm." Oather didn't seem as certain.
"And I don't think you'll be sorry," she continued. "Maybe Althea isn't the woman that you wanted, but she's real kind and sweet and I know that she'll make you a good wife."
"Yeah," Oather agreed without enthusiasm. "I'm sure she'll be as good a wife as any other. I had promised myself not to take one at all."
Mavis drew back a little and glanced up at her brother. Her expression was curious. "You're not going to start that talk about not liking girls again, are you?"
Oather immediately sat up straight as a shot and glanced nervously around the area. "Keep your voice down, Mavis," he hissed sharply.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Oather," Mavis told him honestly. "I don't understand this a bit. Twelve-year-old boys say that they don't like girls. Grown men don't say that. All men like girls, that's just nature's way."
He didn't enlighten his sister, but spoke to her gravely. "Mavis, what I said to you I said in confidence. It's . . . it's a private feeling that I have. I shared it with you because I love you and you are my sister. But I never intended for you to bring it up again."
"All right, I won't bring it up, but it is just silly. I don't know why you even told me such a thing in the first place."
Oather shook his head in agreement. "I don't know why I told you either. I guess ... I guess because you shared your secret with me, I felt I should do the same."
"But what kind of secret is that?"
"It's my secret. Now please, don't ask me about it again and let's not talk about it anymore," he said.
"All right. I won't mention it anymore. It doesn't seem like much of a secret, but I suppose you wouldn't want Papa to hear it."
"I don't want anyone to hear it," he declared with certainty as he glanced around the area nervously once more. "And especially not Papa."
"I won't say anything. But Papa will be so proud about you deciding to marry Althea," she said.
Oather nodded and then shook his head. "I'm doing it for you, Mavis. I've spent most of my life trying to be what he wanted and failing. I'll undoubtedly fail at being a husband to Althea Winsloe, too, but if it keeps Eben Baxley away from you, that's all that matters."
Chapter Eight
The morning was cool and crisp. Winter was just around the corner and as each day passed, Jesse worked harder and longer and faster for Miss Althea. This morning however, he was not working, or not working exactly. A sprinkling of snow and frost cracked under his feet as he made his way through the trees. He carried Paisley Winsloe's freshly cleaned Winchester, loaded and ready. No, it wasn't Paisley Winsloe's Winchester anymore. It was his own. It was Jesse Best's Winchester. The idea of that was wonderful, unbelievable. It certainly lightened the weight of it on his arm.
In front of him Sawtooth, Queenie, Runt, and Old Poker led the way through the brush. The four dogs were as intent upon their task as was Jesse. Hunting was no idle pastime, pleasant though it could be. If Miss Althea and her boy were to make it through the winter, they would need game. Jesse was determined to find some.
He watched the dogs as they worked, judging them. Old Poker may have been the veteran, but he was not leading. Jesse was aware of the way the aged hound was tagging Sawtooth, imitating his movements, following him, sniffing at places where he had sniffed. Old dogs, like old men, lose their eyesight and their hearing. Even the creature's sense of smell seemed weakened. But he didn't give up or stay to the side. The hound wanted to be in on the trail. Old Poker was trying to be a hunting dog, with none of the advantages of the species.
Queenie wasn't much better, Jesse noted. The female had grown lazy and fat over the summer. Even worse, the pads of her feet had softened from inactivity and the rough ground they now moved upon had them scratched and sore. But Queenie too had the craving for the hunt. She hurried along with a swiftness that belied the sad condition of her feet. Runt was feisty and eager, if not very knowledgeable about his business. He had become a pet of sorts for Baby-Paisley and had had no training at all. But he showed good heart and Jesse believed he had the makings of a fine hound.
The dogs were good, very good, just as Jesse remembered them to be. And now they were his, just like the gun. Miss Althea had said so and nothing Eben Baxley might say could make it any different. He was proud to own them. Proud to be earning them. He wanted to show Miss Althea, with their help and the gun, just how much game he could put on her table.
Hunting was something that Jesse could do. It didn't require a fellow to think things through, remember rules or reason. Like playing the fiddle, Jesse could rely on his natural inclinations to lead him. Of course the gun was not that easy. He had to remember to load it, cock it, aim it. But he wouldn't need the gun until he had spotted his quarry.
A noise some distance behind him caught Jesse's attention and he stopped for a moment and glanced back. There was nothing to be seen among the thick gray tangle of undergrowth and only the faint crackle of snapping underbrush could be detected. His nostrils flared to get a whiff of scent but came up with nothing. Walking into the wind was good for stalking prey. It was impossible for the animal to sniff out anything behind him. But by the same token, the stalkers were also unaware of what might be on their own trail.
Jesse glanced at the dogs again. They had undoubtedly heard what he heard and could probably even pick up the scent. They were completely unconcerned with whatever was following them. Jesse shrugged and continued onward. If the dogs didn't mind the straggler, then neither should he. Perhaps they'd strayed through an old coon's territory and the critter was escorting them out. Sawtooth was obviously following some other creature. Jesse hoped it was something meaty like a turkey or grouse. A fine gray winter pelt would be nice to get and good to sell, but he was hunting for Miss Althea and she couldn't eat a fox.
He simply had to trust the dogs. On the hunt, man and dogs were always a team. With Jesse, perhaps this was more true than with most. Most men, knowing themselves to be a lot smarter than the dogs, often overruled their judgment. Jesse, not thinking himself much smarter than anything, did not. He often relied upon his own instincts. He therefore had more respect for instinct, perhaps, than a man who normally relied upon intellect. The mind of the dog was in many ways as simple and uncomplicated as Jesse's own. He was taught to memorize actions in places he couldn't reason, and obey in situations that he did not understand. When he did understand he followed his instinct. His instincts assured him that as hunter, the dog was at least the equal of man. And for scenting and tracking, the dog was superior. Ignoring the rustle in the weeds behind him, Jesse continued to allow Sawtooth to lead.
The forest of the Ozark Mountains was old and well culled by nature. The majestic oak and chestnut trees interspersed with hickory and pines were widely spaced, the forest floor matted with an undergrowth of unruly shrubs and vines. Sumac, burning bush, and dogwood were often the hiding places of squirrel, fox, and turkey.
Jesse kept close behind the dogs. Sawtooth had become more careful and quiet as he went forward. The other dogs mimicked his behavior and Jesse knew they were getting close. Moving through the brush with care and stealth, Old Poker, nearly deaf himself, advanced low, slow, and with silence. Even Runt was moving forward with care.
Jesse almost sighed aloud with pride. This was an important test for the hounds, and thus far Jesse was favorably impressed. A stalking dog had to fight his natural desire to chase. He was to locate the prey, lead the hunter to it, and then wait, ready to give chase only if he was so ordered. If the animal was injured or on the run, it would be the dogs' job to bring him around. But barking, yapping, or chasing now would only warn the game away.
Jesse stepped gingerly through the brush, guarding his step and measuring his breath. The wonderful Winchester, cool and heavy in his hands, glistened in the morning sun. He had never owned his own gun. His pa had thought it t
oo big a responsibility for him. Owning a gun had been one of Jesse's three secret ambitions. He wanted his own gun, his own dogs, and . . . and, well, he wanted a woman. He'd never admitted those things to anyone except his brother-in-law, Roe. It was hard to believe that two of those things he had now.
Two of those dreams had been fulfilled.
His thoughts turned to the final ambition, but he pushed those ideas away. He had no time to think about women now. He was holding a gun. Guns were very dangerous and a man had to be very careful. Jesse was a man, he reminded himself. He could remember to be careful.
The blood was pounding in his ears. Each step forward was more thrilling than the last. The excitement primordial. Jesse couldn't see his prey yet. His nostrils flared. He couldn't scent it either. The dogs were spitting distance ahead at the top of a small rise. Sawtooth stopped stone still. His ears were perked so high they trembled, his legs as stiff as if made of wood. Queenie immediately backed him. Runt looked confused, but followed their lead. Even poor Old Poker held himself rigid in place.
His heart hammering, Jesse eased himself forward. He caught the smell of gamey musk in the breeze and his eyes widened. Meat. Real meat. A winter's worth perhaps. Excitement welled up inside him.
Be quiet. Don't dawdle. Take care.
Jesse moved with stealth and his hands were steady upon the Winchester, but inside he was quivering with excitement.
He wanted that meat for Miss Althea. He wanted it so much, so very much, for her, for Miss Althea.
He took his steps with great care. The prey wouldn't scent them upwind, but it would hear and run if Jesse's movements weren't quiet.
As he reached the rise he peeked over. Even there, the smell sharp and distinct, he almost didn't see his quarry, grayish brown among the bark and underbrush.
Behind him the snap of twigs sounded again and from the effective camouflage of nature, a white tail raised up in alarm. It might as well have been a flag of surrender. Jesse saw him. There, in the small gully just to the left, the strong, healthy buck stood tall and straight, his antlers, decorated with velvety down, six points at least. The big buck stood in majestic beauty, two half grown does at his side, their winter coats thick and glossy with the gray of an Ozark winter.