Beyond the Quiet Hills

by Aaron McCarver

  “Come along. Let’s go see the yearling,” Hawk said abruptly.

  “All right.” She put her bucket down on the path, and the two circled the cabin, holding hands until they reached the small corral built of saplings and larger trunks. Matilda, the fine Jersey cow, looked up and mooed softly, then turned down to nuzzle her calf that was feeding greedily.

  “There’s something so beautiful about a young animal, Hawk.” Elizabeth’s lips were open slightly, and her eyes seemed to sparkle as she studied the animals. “I think almost any baby animal is beautiful.”

  “You ought to see a baby possum if you think that,” Hawk grinned. “They look like rats.” He watched the calf nursing and then said suddenly, “I’ll have to be gone for a few weeks when I take Paul and Rhoda back to Williamsburg to get married.” Something troubled him then, and he turned to her, saying, “We could wait until I return.”

  Elizabeth was surprised. “Don’t you want to get married?”

  “Well . . . yes, of course I do, but you know what it’s like out here. Something could happen and you might be a widow again almost before you’re a bride.”

  “We’ve talked about all that, Hawk,” Elizabeth said quickly. She did not like to be reminded of the dangers that lay on the frontier. She knew they were there, yet still she pushed them into some distant corner of her mind and locked the door. Now she said, “We won’t talk about that. We’re getting married today, and you’re not going to get out of it if I have to take a tomahawk to you!”

  “Hold on, woman!” Hawk threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I give up!”

  “Then hush! I don’t want to hear any more about waiting longer.” She reached out and smoothed the fringes on his buckskin shirt and was silent for a moment. Hawk studied her face, which somehow was in repose yet had an expression that puzzled him slightly. She was caught up in a woman’s silence, which could mean many things. It was uncharted territory for Hawk Spencer, for though he had had a happy marriage with his first wife, it had been brief and was many years ago. Now as he studied Elizabeth, he wondered at the solemnness that showed in the smooth planes of her face. He had thought at times that this gravity was the shadow of a hidden sadness, but he knew that was not so, for she was a cheerful woman. And now she drew away the curtain of reserve and a teasing gaiety came into her eyes, a provocative challenge.

  “You just wait,” she whispered. “You’re going to be all mine, and you’ll never get away!”

  “Don’t intend to try.” Taking Elizabeth’s arm, he led her back to where the bucket lay on the path, and as he bent to pick it up, he was suddenly startled by a flash of movement. His reaction was so quick that Elizabeth gasped. He whirled and his hand went to the long knife stuck in his belt. It was in his hand before Elizabeth could move.

  “What is it, Hawk?”

  Hawk slowly relaxed. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a deer.”

  Elizabeth glanced in the direction of his gesture and saw a beautiful ten-point buck that had stepped out of the timberline. He stood staring at them and seemed to be fearless.

  “If I had my musket, I could get him,” Hawk said, “but then it’s getting harder and harder for me to kill deer.”

  Elizabeth knew that somehow deer had become a symbol to Hawk. Twice in the past, at critical times of his life, he had seen a magnificent deer. These special visitations had helped bring him to God, and now his favorite Bible verse was, “As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.”

  Hawk stared at the buck, not certain even now if this were a vision from heaven or a flesh-and-blood animal that stood before them. Then suddenly he lifted his voice and said, “I see you! Come on in for breakfast!”

  At his call the deer whirled and disappeared into the thickets.

  Hawk picked up the bucket and turned to go to the cabin, but Elizabeth said abruptly, “You’ve been thinking a lot about Jacob, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have.” A smile turned up the corners of his lips, and he said, “You know me pretty well, don’t you?”

  “It will be all right. I know you’re worried about him.”

  “I’ve given him a hard time, Elizabeth. Harder than any boy should ever have from his father.”

  The two of them stood there in the middle of the path, and far overhead a wavy “V” formation of Canadian geese beat their wings against the cold air. Hawk watched them for a long time, seemingly engaged by their pilgrimage to the south, but he was actually thinking of his son, Jacob, who was now fifteen years old, almost sixteen. A pain came to Hawk as he realized he had missed out on all of Jacob’s boyhood. He had been so distraught by the death of his first wife that he had abandoned his responsibility, leaving Jacob to be raised by his grandparents, James and Esther Spencer. For years the thought of his son being raised without his help had deeply troubled him, but since he had found God so very recently the pain had been even more intense.

  “I’ve been the world’s worst father, Elizabeth,” he said simply, his dark eyes filled with grief. “I don’t think I can ever make up for it.”

  “Bring him back, Hawk,” Elizabeth urged. “When you go to Williamsburg with Paul and Rhoda, go to him. Tell him you’re sorry and that you love him.”

  Hawk Spencer was a man of rough, endurable proportions. There was little fineness about him. The years in the wilderness had made him a man of action. His mind was that way, too, for survival on the frontier meant living a life facing the hardships of that reality. Each day brought the question, “Can I survive today?” and reaching nighttime was a small victory. After years of living like this, Hawk had somehow absorbed the struggle that ensues among the creatures of the wilderness and among the humans also. He had seen few happy endings to stories like his, and now there was a depression on him as he shook his head, saying, “I’ve only seen him once since I left shortly after he was born, and he hated me then.”

  “You’re different now. We’ll pray about it. God can do great things.”

  “I know that, but I can’t force Jacob to come. That would turn him against me for good.”

  “With God all things are possible,” Elizabeth whispered. She would have said more, but at that moment the door to the cabin opened and Andrew and Sarah came out.

  “Ma, what are you doing out here on your wedding day?” Andrew asked. At the age of fourteen he had a stocky build and looked a lot like his mother with the same blond hair but worn short. He had the sparkling light blue eyes of his father. He was wearing buckskin like Hawk, and now he stood before the pair with his sister beside him, smiling at them.

  “Hawk, you’re not supposed to see the bride on the day of the wedding,” Sarah said firmly. Although only eleven years of age, she had the temperament of a much older young woman. Her temperament was, in fact, much like her fiery red hair. She had her mother’s pale green eyes and showed promise of being a tall beauty. She was very precocious and wanted her own way. She had it now as she advanced and pushed at Hawk. “You go away now!” she commanded. “You ought to know better!”

  Hawk suddenly laughed. He was tremendously fond of Andrew and Sarah. By marrying Elizabeth he somehow felt that some of his lost years would be restored to him. Patrick MacNeal had been one of the best men Hawk had ever known, and as he had lain dying after an Indian attack, Hawk had made a solemn vow: “I’ll take care of your family, Patrick . . . !” He had not known at that moment that he would fall in love with Elizabeth, but it had happened, and he knew somehow that God was in it.

  Elizabeth turned and walked into the cabin, talking in an animated fashion with Sarah, who turned back over her shoulder to say, “You stay away, Hawk! You hear me, now?”

  Hawk laughed and shook his head in wonder. “Andrew,” he said as they walked away together, “you always have to obey a woman when there’s a wedding in the air!”

  Andrew MacNeal nodded happily. Whatever Hawk Spencer said was gospel to him, for he idolized the tall long hunter. He had loved his father d
early, and after his death had suffered greatly, as if an enormous emptiness occupied his whole heart and mind. But now, as he looked up at Hawk, although he said nothing, he was thinking how good it was of God to give him another father.

  Chapter Two

  Two Become One

  Zeke Taylor tilted his chair back against the wall of his cabin and watched as two scrawny pigs fought over a rattlesnake they had managed to kill. The shoats were rather pitiful creatures with sharp backs and beady eyes now reddened with anger. One of them had the snake by the head, another by the tail, and with their hooves braced, they were pulling backward with all of their strength, grunting and squealing shrilly.

  Taylor had watched the two kill the snake by stamping on it with their sharp hooves, but now he tired of the spectacle. Leaning over, he picked up a chunk of wood and heaved it at the struggling pigs, yelling, “Get out of here with that snake!” The stick struck one of the pigs on the snout, and with a startled squeal, the animal dropped his end of the dead snake and backed away. The other fled across the flat ground in front of the cabin, disappearing in a thicket, pursued by his companion, both of them squealing in a high-pitched fashion.

  “Ugly pigs! Ain’t good for nothin’!” Taylor muttered. Pulling a knife from his belt, he began shaving long, thin curls from the cedar stick he held. He never whittled anything in particular or made anything useful, but whenever he was at ease, he made a pile of curled, fragrant shavings.

  “Ezekiel? It’s almost time to go. Come on and put on your suit.”

  Taylor did not take his eyes from the cedar stick. He was of average height with a large paunch from years of heavy drinking, and now he muttered in a surly fashion, “Ain’t goin’.”

  “Why, you’ve got to go, Ezekiel.” Iris Taylor, at thirty-six, was fifteen years younger than her husband. She had dark hair and blue eyes and a thin face that retained some trace of a youthful beauty. Her loss of two sons and a difficult life with a drunkard for a husband had pared away all excess flesh and had quenched her spirit. At one time she would have taken the rebuke quietly enough, for Taylor had proved to be a brutal husband, often abusing her physically. Now as she stood there wearing a faded blue dress with white flowers, she hesitated, then said, “I wish you would go, Ezekiel. After all, they’re neighbors.”

  Amanda Taylor, aged thirteen, had come to the door, standing behind her mother. She was a tall girl for her age, with long, straight, very dark brown hair and large brown eyes. She stared at her father, thinking, He won’t go because he hates Hawk.

  In truth, Zeke Taylor did despise Hawk Spencer, for the long hunter, on the trip from Virginia, had confronted Taylor after the shiftless man had beaten his wife and daughter. Taylor had drawn a knife on him, which Spencer had simply taken away from him, and then holding it to the throat of Taylor he had said, “If I ever hear of you touching your wife or daughter again, I’ll take your scalp! I won’t kill you, but you’ll have a hard time without anything but skin on top of your head.”

  The memory was a raw wound in Zeke Taylor, and now as he looked up with his sullen muddy brown eyes, he said briefly, “You all go on. I ain’t goin’.”

  “Please, Ezekiel. We need to be friends with our neighbors.”

  “Did you hear me, woman? You can go if you want to! Shut your mouth and stop naggin’ me!”

  “All right, Ezekiel.” Iris nervously stepped back inside the cabin and saw that Amanda’s face was pale. Going over to the young woman, she put her arm around her, whispering, “We’ll have to go by ourselves, Amanda, but we’ll have a good time.”

  “All right, Ma. I’m ready.”

  “And you look real pretty, too.” Iris had worked long and hard making a dress for Amanda out of some material Elizabeth MacNeal had given her. It was a lightweight plum-colored homespun wool, with flecks of pink running through it. The dress had a high collar, long sleeves, a loose-fitting bodice, and a full skirt that came to the ankles. Black lace decorated the edges of the collar and the wrists of the sleeves. Reaching out, Iris stroked the girl’s glossy brown hair and said with a half smile, “One of these days I’ll be going to your wedding.”

  Amanda ducked her head. “I don’t know who’d have me, Ma.”

  “Now, don’t you talk like that, Amanda! You’re a fine-looking young lady! By the time you get to be a full-grown woman, why, young fellas will be lined up to get to come courtin’.”

  Amanda did not answer. Her spirit had almost been broken by the brutal treatment she had received from her father. It was manifested in her every move. She walked with her head down as if she were afraid to look up, and her shoulders were often hunched as if she were expecting a blow. Still, on this special day she did look fresh and pretty, and now she managed a smile. “All right, Ma, if you say so.”

  “Come along. We’ll have to hurry or we’ll be late.”

  As the two left the cabin, Iris said, “We’ll come back as soon as the wedding’s over, Ezekiel.” She received no answer, for her husband simply sat there adding to the pile of thin, curling shavings. Turning, the two hurried off, walking along the path that led to the eastern part of the settlement.

  As soon as they were gone, Zeke stood up and stared after them. He slipped the knife back in his belt and walked aimlessly around the littered yard. A speckled chicken got in his way, and he swore at it, giving it a kick that sent it squawking through the air. This gave him some satisfaction, and he growled, “Get out of my way, chicken, or I’ll wring your neck!”

  As he wandered over the small farm, he thought back to the time when Hawk Spencer had held the knife to his throat and threatened to scalp him if he mistreated his wife or daughter again. It had gone hard with Zeke, for something in Spencer’s dark blue eyes had warned him that he would do exactly what he said.

  “Man can’t do what he wants with his own family! Country’s come to a pretty pass!” he muttered. A thought came to him and his muddy eyes lightened for a moment. Glancing around, he stepped more rapidly until he reached the woods that lay only a few yards past the front door of his house. He paused beside a hollow tree. Reaching carefully inside to the length of his arm, he grunted with satisfaction and pulled a brown jug from the hole.

  “Now this is somethin’-like,” he said with satisfaction. He had not been drinking so much lately. As a matter of fact, he had not had a drink for over three weeks. But something about the wedding sat ill with him. He was irritable and angry, and as he lifted the jug, a baleful light gave his eyes a hard glint. He swallowed the whiskey and stomped his feet as the fiery alcohol hit his empty stomach. Expelling a huge breath, he stood there for a moment blinking his eyes as the raw whiskey bit at him.

  Taking a deep breath, he thought again of the knife at his throat, and the memory was as bitter as gall. “One of these days we’ll see, Spencer! It’ll be you that gets scalped and not me!”

  ****

  The small cabin that Hawk had made his home since coming back from his wanderings was no more than ten by twelve. The single room of the structure had a dirt floor, and only one window beside the door allowed in light and air. The furnishings were sparse and rough looking, handmade by Hawk himself. A table and two chairs were placed in the center of the room. A plain worktable with a shelf hung on the wall, while above, tin cups, plates, and a few pots and pans were suspended on pegs driven into the logs. One small bed was fastened to the back wall, bearing a corn-shuck mattress. The worktable was placed next to a small fireplace in which a fire crackled continuously, and over it dangled a cast-iron pot for heating water and cooking his meals.

  Sequatchie was standing in the middle of the room dressed in full Cherokee chief regalia. At forty years old, this tall Cherokee had smooth bronze skin and dark eyes that revealed nothing unless he chose to let them do so. He had the typical square jaw and high cheekbones of his race. His face was long, but he had a broad forehead and an aquiline nose. His head was bald except for the topknot that hung down his back. The hair itself was jet black, and n
ow there was a light of humor in his obsidian eyes as he studied Hawk Spencer, who was getting dressed.

  Sequatchie had been Hawk’s teacher in the wilderness, and now as he watched the tall man pulling off his buckskins and holding up the white shirt as if it were some strange, rather dangerous object, Sequatchie thought of how the two of them had become blood brothers. Sequatchie had saved Hawk’s life, nursing him back to health with the aid of his mother, Awenasa, and he had never regretted it.

  Andrew MacNeal stood with his back to the wall, also watching Spencer. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before, Hawk,” he said.

  “Well, you won’t see much when you do.”

  Hawk slipped on the white shirt and then pulled on a pair of black broadcloth trousers. He picked up a string tie and stood before the small mirror and struggled to make it presentable. “I don’t see why a man has to wear this outfit to get married.”

  “Why don’t you just wear your buckskins?” Sequatchie asked. “It’s your wedding.”

  “No, it’s not. As far as weddings are concerned, as I’ve told Andy, a man doesn’t have a great deal to say about it.”

  He finally completed tying the tie just as the door opened and three men walked in. The room seemed very small then as Hawk stepped back to make room for them. One of them was Paul Anderson, his childhood friend, who had followed him from Williamsburg. At no more than five ten, Anderson was the smallest man in the cabin, with sandy brown hair and light blue-green eyes. Now he said, with a mischievous sparkle in his eye, “I thought you would have run away before this, Hawk.”

  “Now, don’t you start on me, Paul!” Hawk warned.

  “All bridegrooms are fair game.”

  The speaker was George Stevens, a tall man, over six two, with gray eyes and reddish hair turning gray at the temples. He had come to Watauga as part of the Regulators who had left North Carolina, and he, along with his wife, Deborah, and their daughter, Abigail, had become close friends with the MacNeals and with Hawk.