Knight in a Black Hat

by Judith B. Glad

  "Nonsense. You're imagining things. She'll come waltzing in here in a day or two, apologizing and making excuses." Picking up the book he'd been reading when Malachi had entered his tent, Dr. Kremer said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy."

  As he walked away, Malachi wondered how much longer he'd be able to keep his temper. He couldn't decide who he most wanted to beat the tar out of, Octavius Kremer or the mysterious kidnapper.

  * * * * *

  For a long time after the old woman went to the smelly pile of furs that was her bed, Nellie stared, dry-eyes, at the flickering light on the rough cave walls. Sometime during Gertie's tale of her child's death, the worst of her fear had receded, replaced by pity. Gertie would do her no harm. She had no idea why she knew this, but she did.

  Now her only fear was that she would be a captive here until Malachi gave her up for dead.

  How long would he search? How long would he hope?

  Eventually exhaustion and anxiety overcame her and she slipped into sleep filled with vague forebodings and anonymous perils.

  Tired as she was, Nellie could no longer resist the lure of food the next morning. She didn't know what was in the pot the old woman had set on the fire earlier, but it smelled delicious.

  She was no longer so frightened this morning. While she would escape the instant she had a chance, she would do so because she was a captive, not because she feared for her life. Although unpredictable in her madness, Gertie was more to be pitied than feared. In her own way, she was gentle, almost sweet, the way she worried so about Nellie's comfort.

  She brought Nellie a battered tin bowl filled with the steaming melange.

  "It smells wonderful. What is it?" Nellie said, as her stomach growled and her mouth watered.

  "Rabbit, fish, and cat-tail root, with some sagebrush leaves to season. I like a savory stew myself," Gertie said. She dropped some dried leaves into another pot, gave it a stir. "Sure wisht I had me some tea. Never was one for coffee, but I did like my tea."

  Nellie bit her lip, thinking of the five pounds of good oolong they'd brought in with their supplies. Surely they could spare some for this poor creature. When she got free....

  Gertie looked past her to the cave entrance. "Well, there you are! Where you been all night long? Off cattin' around?"

  The animal sound from behind her sent shivers up Nellie's spine. She turned her head, afraid to move anything else.

  Oh my God!

  Paralyzed, Nellie waited for the great cat to spring on her, to rend her limb from limb.

  Enormous, with wide, golden eyes, and sleek tawny fur, it looked far bigger than the lion she'd seen in a circus many years ago. Instead of pouncing, it sat back on its haunches not two yards from her and stared right into her eyes. After a terrifying pause, it yawned.

  Its teeth were long and sharp.

  "That there's Buttercup," Gertie said.

  Nellie did not move. Could not move.

  The cat crouched down, with its nose almost touching Nellie's spread skirt. It stretched out its neck and sniffed. Moved a little closer, until she felt its hot breath even through the wool and linen of her clothing. Then it rose to its feet and stuck its face into the bowl of stew in Nellie's shaking hands.

  She dropped the bowl into her lap.

  The cat immediately started slurping up the stew. When the bowl was empty, it went after the spatters, its rough tongue catching at Nellie's skirt.

  "Buttercup! Damn your hide. Git away from her!" Gertie shoved at the cat with both hands, but it was intent on getting every last drop and morsel.

  Nellie sat perfectly still, her hands at shoulder height. Could cats sense fear like dogs did? If they could, she was a goner.

  Gertie shoved again, then said, "Tryin' to move him when he don't want to move is like pushin' a rope. Soon's he gets all your stew et, he'll let you be." She picked up the bowl and set it to one side. "He never did have any manners."

  Of course not. How could one expect manners of a wild animal, after all? Nellie had intended to speak aloud, but found she had no voice.

  At last the cat stopped licking at her skirt. Nellie scooted backward as far as she could, stopping only when she came up against the rock wall. The cat didn't follow. It simply sat up and looked at her, head cocked to one side, as if to say, "Well, aren't you going to give me any more?"

  "Here, you! Buttercup! Take this and leave My Girl alone so's she can eat." Gertie held out the blackened chunk she had offered Nellie for supper last night. The cat sniffed, then delicately took the meat between gleaming fangs. It walked to the far side of the cave and wolfed the tidbit down in a matter of seconds. Then it curled up and lay its immense head on enormous paws. And stared at Nellie.

  I wonder how much longer it would take to eat me.

  When Gertie handed her the refilled bowl, Nellie found herself weak and clumsy. She lowered the bowl into her lap and held it there, watching how her shaking hands made its greasy contents shiver. The warmth of the stew was comforting, though, and she wrapped icy fingers around the bowl and simply held it.

  Gertie finished her stew and set the tin plate she'd eaten from in front of the cat. "I got to get some water. Don't reckon you want to eat from dishes washed by a cat's tongue, do you?" She disappeared down the passageway.

  Nellie and the cat stared at each other. Eventually its eyes closed and its head dropped onto its paws. If it weren't so big, I would almost think it a house cat. How on earth did she ever tame it? She found that now the hypnotic stare no longer held her attention, she could move. She picked up the spoon she'd dropped, wiped it on a clean patch of her skirt, and dipped it into the bowl. Although the stew had cooled slightly, it was still palatable. The sagebrush leaves gave it an appealing piquancy, but a sprinkle of salt would have improved it greatly.

  Gertie returned, carrying a sloshing leather bag. "Her, My Girl, toss your things in here and I'll take 'em outside to wash. No sense in dripping all over the floor." Nellie obeyed, wondering if she ought to offer to help with the dishes.

  The next instant, she realized how ridiculous the thought was. She is your captor. She stole you out of your tent, frightened you within an inch of your life. She is mad, thinking you're her long-dead daughter. And she refuses to let you go.

  You owe her nothing!

  She still felt guilty for letting an old woman wait on her, hand and foot.

  Gertie came back with the clean dishes and utensils. "Now then, My Girl, if you'll give me your word not to try to run off, I'll take that chain off of you."

  Biting her lip, Nellie pondered the ethics of dealings with a madwoman. She was a captive, so her first obligation was to get herself free. But the poor old soul had not taken her from an evil motive, but from desperate loneliness, from love, perhaps. Can I lie to save myself?

  Yes, she decided, if I must. I'll do whatever it takes.

  As if reading her thoughts, the cat lifted its head and stared at her from fathomless, yellow eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Willard came in late, close to midnight. Malachi met him by the corral. "Well?"

  "Nothin'." The muleskinner shook his head, a slow motion showing his exhaustion. "I followed every trail I could find. They all either petered out or they crossed rock where I couldn't make out tracks." He swung his mule's saddle onto the top rail. "Thing is, Malachi, whoever took her, he's a wise ol' coon. Knows this valley like the back of his hand."

  "Get some supper," Malachi told him, holding tight on his temper. "There's food hot by the fire."

  "Obliged." They walked together to the big tent. A candle burned in a lantern hung from the main pole, casting stark shadows into the corners. "I'll go out again tomorrow," Willard said. "I don't reckon it'll do much good."

  "We can't give up!" Malachi poured himself coffee. His hand trembled. "She's alive, John. I know she's alive." Maybe he should leave Willard in charge of the move and go out himself. There might be places the older man had missed. Trails he hadn't followed.<
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  "We ain't gonna give up, not so long as there's a good chance she's alive. I ain't seen no buzzards, and not a sign of blood on any of the trails I followed." Squatting beside the fire, Willard dished himself a bowl of stew and started wolfing it down.

  Malachi finished the coffee and said, "I'm going back out. Murphy's watch is about over."

  Willard spoke around a mouthful of food. "You sleep any?"

  "Last night. But I'm not sleepy now."

  Willard gave him a knowing look. "Ahuh! I'll relieve you in a couple of hours."

  "No, I--"

  "Git! Us old men don't need much sleep."

  Malachi went. He might be boss, but John Willard wasn't one to argue with. There weren't many Malachi respected like he did the old muleskinner.

  He looked in on the kid, who was sleeping peacefully, with no sign of fever. Then he went to relieve Murphy. For the next two hours, he circled the corral, listening, watching. Hoping for a sign that would tell him Nellie had freed herself and made her way home.

  Other than the ghostly shape of a gliding owl, he saw nothing. No human sound disturbed the night except the scrape of his feet on the rocky soil.

  Well after sunrise the next morning, Beckett emerged from the tent he shared with his employer. He was carrying the basin he used to shave Dr. Kremer.

  "I thought the professor was in a hurry," Malachi said.

  Poor Beckett looked like he'd had little rest last night. Too bad. Neither have I. Malachi had little patience with either of them this morning. Each time he'd closed his eyes last night, he'd seen Nellie's sweet face as it had been the last time he'd looked upon it.

  And wondered if he'd ever see her again.

  For most of the night, he'd lain with eyes wide open, staring into the dark.

  "Mr. Bradley, I just don't know what to do. Dr. Kremer says we will move tomorrow. He wants his laundry done and the presses emptied and--" Sounding close to tears, he swallowed. After a moment's pause, he said, "Sorry. Sometimes I--"

  "Let him do for himself then. Or we'll wait 'til he's ready."

  "Oh, no! I couldn't do that."

  "Why not?"

  Any other time Malachi would have laughed at Beckett.

  "Why not, indeed?" His lips moved. He seemed to search for words. "I don't think I can, but still..."

  "Beckett," Malachi said, standing and tossing the dregs of his coffee into the fire, "What Dr. Kremer wants doesn't cut much mustard with me right now. I've got one man laid up. Two out looking for Miss Sanders. That leaves me and you to pack up all this." He waved a hand to encompass the stacks of supplies, gear and botanical truck that lined three of the four walls of the big tent. "Pack it and load it onto two dozen mules. Now you can either get him to help you with his outfit or we can sit around here until you get it all ready to go."

  "But--"

  "You heard me." Malachi turned his back on the fellow. "I've got work to do," he flung over his shoulder as he went out.

  He sent both Willard and Murphy out to search again. Although he'd chafed at the necessity, he knew his place was here in camp, keeping the professor in line, making sure the gear got packed, taking care of Tom, tending the--

  His hand tightened around the tin cup as he fought to resist the urge to throw it as hard and as fast as he could.

  Why hadn't he learned more about tracking? Even as a lad, he'd not had the eye for animal sign. While he'd been able to hit a knot in a board at eighty paces, he'd look right at a fox footprint and see nothing more than a shapeless depression in the dirt.

  If he was half the tracker Willard was, he'd have an excuse to be out there looking for Nellie, instead of hanging around camp minding a couple of greenhorns he'd rather consign to perdition.

  * * * * *

  Telling night from day was not an easy task here in the cave, where light came from the fire. The smoke spiraled upwards, apparently drawn to a natural chimney, too small or too high to be seen. The narrow passage that Gertie used to go outdoors was like a passageway to the Underworld. Nellie thought it had been three days since she was brought here.

  They had eaten six times, and slept thrice.

  Three days, then. Today was the fourth.

  After Nellie had refused to promise not to escape, Gertie had gone silent. The fear Nellie had successfully controlled returned in full, only to gradually ebb as the old woman continued to treat her with kindness.

  Even better, Buttercup had stopped watching her as if she were a large, particularly delectable mouse.

  Nonetheless, Nellie stayed as far from him as she could. He might act like an oversized house cat, but he was still a wild animal.

  Gertie emerged from the corridor leading to the underground spring. She set the battered bucket beside the fire, then looked over at Nellie. "You ready to promise not to run away, My Girl?"

  "I won't make a promise I can't keep."

  "Tarnation! You are the contrariest--" Hands on hips, the old woman glared at Nellie, who looked back steadily.

  After a moment, Gertie said, "I reckon you ain't so much contrary as honest. Doubt I'd make a promise like that, was I in your place." She picked up her big knife and approached.

  Nellie shrank back to the limit of her chain. Oh, Malachi, I'd hoped--

  "Set still now!" Gertie knelt by Nellie's feet. "Don't wiggle!" She sliced through the heavy thong that had fastened the hard leather manacle.

  "There now. Go on. Git!"

  Nellie stared at her, at the lined, homely face, made fierce by the ever-changing firelight. She bit her lip.

  "I won't leave you for a while," she said, wondering if she, too, was mad. "Not for a little while." Wait, Malachi. Wait for me....

  Gertie turned away, but not before Nellie saw the relief in her expression.

  "Come eat, then," was all she said.

  "We're out of meat," Gertie said, once they'd eaten, "and fixins."

  "Fixins?"

  "Cat-tail root, taters, berries, that kind of fixins. Anything besides meat and fish." She dumped the remains of the breakfast stew into a smaller but equally battered pot, wiped the inside of the cast iron cookpot with a handful of dry grass. "Let's go, Buttercup. Maybe we can get a haunch today."

  The cat stretched, front and back, and yawned. He made a questioning noise, much like the mouser back home had when food was mentioned.

  "Haunch, Buttercup. Let's go!"

  How on earth did an old woman, even a tall, strong one, expect to bring back a haunch of venison or elk? Did the cat do the hunting? Nellie could not imagine a wild animal sharing its kill with a human.

  Then she remembered the horse Tom Ernst had been riding. Its neck had been broken by a powerful blow, and Tom's neck and chest had been slashed deeply by sharp claws.

  Had Buttercup attacked the horse? Had Gertie sicced him on a human being?

  Oh, no. She's only mad. She'd never do anything so barbaric.

  She looked back at Gertie and saw her take a long knife from one of the hide-wrapped bundles along the wall. I wish I'd know that was there. I could have cut myself free the first night.

  "We'll be back after a bit, My Girl. Depends on how far we have to range afore we find something worth takin'."

  "I'll be fine," Nellie assured her, doing her best to sound unconcerned.

  I'll wait half an hour. No more.

  "You stay close now. There's chasms in here where a body'd fall forever."

  Shuddering at the mental image, Nellie said, "I won't wander. I promise."

  Gertie waved Buttercup out the entrance passage, followed him into the dark and was gone. Nellie heard rock rattle against as they traversed the long corridor.

  She counted. To one hundred. To one thousand. Out loud. Slowly.

  One thousand seconds was only about a quarter of an hour, so she did it again. "I wish I had my boots," she said as she finally took the first step into the passage. Following Gertie to the cave entrance was not 'wandering' to her way of thinking. She was not going back on
her word. Something sharp jammed into her arch and she winced. Her feet no longer were tough-soled as they had been when she was a child. Each small pebble made itself felt through the thin knit of her stockings.

  She felt her way along the pitch dark tunnel, left hand on the rough wall. Her steps were short, only inches at a time, for she had no idea of what she might step on. Or in. Once her hand encountered moisture, slimy and slick. Shivering, she told herself it was only algae, growing in a seep.

  The passageway seemed endless. "I should have counted steps," she said, and her voice echoed around her. "Surely the end can't be too far, now."

  She counted now. Ten small steps. Fifteen. "Hello?" she called, keeping her voice low.

  "Lo...lo...lo!" the cavern replied.

  Thirty steps.

  I must have taken a wrong turn. Gertie was never gone long enough to have walked this far.

  She turned beck in the direction she'd come, never removing her hand from the wall. Put her right hand beside it, then dropped the left. Still taking short, careful steps, she followed the wall. Fifty steps.

  Sixty-seven. A faint flickering light ahead. Ten steps more, and she was at the entrance to Gertie's home.

  "There must be a fork in the tunnel." She'd try again, but sensibly this time. Alert for the slightest sound, she pulled a stick as thick as her wrist from the fire, blew on its smoldering end. It flared, but did not break into flame. Even so, the glow would give her enough light to lessen the stygian darkness of the tunnel.

  She set her right hand on the tunnel wall this time, hoping to avoid the branching passage. And she counted each step, for all none was more than the length of her foot.

  At ninety-three she felt the movement of air on her face. At ninety-seven, her foot landed on a pile of sharp stones and she lost her balance. The glowing stick slipped out of her hand as she scrabbled at the rough rock wall for a handhold.

  Clinging to a protruding rock, she saw the stick roll away from her, then fall straight down, the burning end flaring into flame as it tumbled.

  Shaking, Nellie clung to the rock behind her. It was warm with residual heat from the day, even though the air around her was cold, much colder than the chill cave air she'd grown used to. So it's quite late, midnight or after. When will the moon rise?