Hannah sat up, stretching her arms toward the heat from the fire. “Feels good,” she said. “The sleeves are already dry.” She tugged at them. “I think they’ve shrunk some.” She looked across the fire at Zeb. “You get to go to school where you live?”
“We don’t have school there, either. I used to go up to the preacher in Franklin for grammar and numbers. We were just about to start Latin and Greek, but I had to quit when my daddy died. Grampa needed me at the farm.”
“Sounds like you wish you could have a lot more schooling.”
“I sure would like to, but there’s no way I can. That farm takes at least two people working from before dawn till after dark. We breed and raise horses mostly for the army. My cousins have to come and help sometimes. Mama still rides better than Grampa or me but she can’t do much of the really heavy work anymore.”
Zeb stretched out, his hands behind his head. He stared up into the black night. “Grampa and Uncle Ira let me read their books…. Maybe someday….”
Suddenly he sat up. “Speaking of books!” he said, jumping to his feet. He lifted a small leather saddlebag from a tree limb where he had hung it up to dry. “I forgot all about this.”
He opened the bag and pulled out a package, wiping it against his pants. Then he sat down next to Hannah and carefully unwrapped layer after layer of oilskin, finally revealing two leather-bound books. He fanned the pages, smiling with relief. “Just a little damp,” he said. He stood the books open to the air. “Might be dry by morning.”
Hannah was lying on her side, watching him. She shook her head in disbelief. “You brought some books to read?”
“Naw,” he said. “These are blank books. I hadn’t planned to bring them with me. I just never bothered to take this little saddlebag off the horse when I left home.”
“What are the books for?”
“My uncle Ira gave them to me. He publishes a weekly newspaper, and he wanted me to have something to write on when I go to the horse auctions and the breeders’ meetings.”
He reached into the saddlebag. “I have a pencil in here too,” he said.
“I’ve never tried a pencil,” she said. “We always used quills.” Hannah picked up the pencil and rolled it in her hands. “I would love to be able to write something. I wish I could write about….” She gestured at the forest around them. “About everything … from that first night when I stole your loaf of bread….” She looked down. “I wouldn’t really want anybody to read it though.”
Zeb handed her one of the books. “I won’t have much time for writing now,” he said. “You might as well have this one. Go ahead and use it. You can have the pencil too. And don’t worry. I’ll never read what you write unless you ask me to.”
Hannah leafed through the damp pages of the book and then stood it open to dry out. She put the pencil across the top so it would dry too. “Thank you, Zeb,” she said.
She lay down again, facing the fire. In moments they were both asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
Taking Chances
The smell of the woolen blanket, slightly singed by the fire, and the light of the bright morning sun awakened them. The blanket and canvas were dry and so were the clothes on their backs. Hannah’s ragged homespun dress was even more lopsided than it had been. The sleeves were short and tight around her arms.
She peered into the forest. “You hear that scream last night?”
“Cougar. Good thing we had a fire.”
Christmas was standing near them. Zeb knelt and removed the hobble. He tried to comb the matted mane with his fingers, tugging gently at the tangles. He leaned against the horse, talking quietly with him. “Bet you was wishin’ I had the good sense to tote a currycomb.”
Hannah burst into laughter. “You could both use one.”
Zeb ran his fingers through his hair. He was used to comments about his shaggy head. Didn’t bother him. Looked just like his grampa.
“Zeb,” she said, “I know you’re not an outlaw.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Anyone can see you never stole that horse. That’s your horse. Comes when you call him. Besides, if you were an outlaw, you would have left me in the forest. You would have let me drown in that river.”
She picked up the tinware pots, looking out over the river that had almost killed them. The water level appeared to be a little bit lower, but trees and other debris were still floating past at high speed. “Wish we could get some water to wash up and to clean the mud off these things,” she said. “But I don’t want to go near that place.”
Zeb tied one of the pots to the end of his rope and walked to the riverbank. Hannah followed, carrying the other pots.
“Zeb,” Hannah said, “you never told me why you’re traveling down the Natchez Road alone.”
“Truth is, there really ain’t that much more to tell.” He swung the pot down toward the churning river. “I go up to Franklin every week. Uncle Ira lets me help him put out the weekly newspaper. Calls me a printer’s devil.”
She lifted her head and smiled.
“No reason for your silly grin,” he growled. “It’s what they call the person who cleans up, puts the type back in the right boxes. I can already set type some, but not fast enough for Uncle Ira.”
The pot had hit a pile of brush at the river’s edge. Zeb pulled it up and tried again. “Sometimes Uncle Ira lets me write something for the paper. Something I know about, like a horse auction or a horse race.”
He tugged on the rope, trying to maneuver the pot into the water. “Day before yesterday when I went into Franklin, I was supposed to go right home, but Uncle Ira had printed some bills about horse trading at the Grady place. I decided to stop by and write a story about who brought what. I knew my uncle would print it if there was room. But anytime there’s folks buying and selling, there’s always someone who wants to have a bareback race. Nobody can beat Christmas. I didn’t get home until dark.”
Hannah looked at Christmas as if it were hard to believe that he could win a race. “Your mama doesn’t mind your racing?”
“Naw. She’s lived and worked with horses all her life. When Grampa and Mama first moved to western Tennessee from the mountains, she was about my age. Worked right alongside him, like I do now. When Daddy died, Mama was out there every day working with Grampa until I was big enough and strong enough to take her place. She still helps with the horses if we’re shorthanded.”
“What happened when you got home?”
“Tate McPhee was there with his men. He said they’d been stopped by a gang of outlaws. Said the outlaws shot Grampa and stole all the horses.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“McPhee told Mama and me that Grampa pulled out his pistol and outlaws shot him.” Zeb gestured toward their gear. “I’ve got the only pistols that Grampa owned. You saw me cleaning them. They’re nothing but antique dueling pistols.”
“So he couldn’t have pulled out a pistol.”
“That’s right. I yelled at McPhee and called him a liar. He got mad. Said we had to be off the farm in a week. He told us it was his farm now that Grampa was dead. He said they had a survivor’s agreement. Then he and the men rode up to their cabin.”
“Your grandfather and McPhee were partners?”
“No! They just shared the same meadow. They were supposed to help each other at haying time, too, but McPhee’s men were always busy with something else. I think Grampa always regretted that he ever met McPhee. There’s no way Grampa would make a survivor’s agreement with him.”
Once again Zeb pulled the empty pot up the side of the riverbank. “Mama said I had to go up and apologize to McPhee. When I got up there near McPhee’s cabin, the men were drinking and singing. I heard McPhee shouting at them, ‘No more drinking tonight! That boy goes down the Natchez Road looking for his grampa, we got problems!’ I turned the horse around and went back to our cabin.”
Zeb held onto the rope and lowered the large pot dow
n to the river. This time it floated downstream for a second and then tilted on its side and filled rapidly with water. The force of the river almost yanked the rope out of his hand. He pulled the pot up, and they began the task of filling the other pots. Hannah frowned. “If your grampa can’t trust McPhee, why did he travel with him?”
“Grampa was supposed to deliver six horses to the army at Fort Dearborn. He was surprised at the kind of horse the army picked out. They always wanted big strong horses with a lot of endurance and they always came to Franklin to check each horse and to take delivery. But that time they wanted little horses and they wanted them delivered to the fort. Grampa didn’t want to do it. He said that traveling alone on the Natchez Road with six horses on a lead would be worse than foolhardy.”
“And so McPhee and his men offered to go along to help protect the horses?”
“That’s right. Grampa hated doing business with McPhee but he needed someone to go with him. McPhee said he and his men were going anyway. McPhee wanted to sell some of his sorry horses to settlers going west.”
“And when McPhee came back, he said your grandfather had been shot by outlaws and the farm was now his?”
“Yes,” said Zeb. “I knew he’d do anything to get the farm. I took Mama to Uncle Ira’s house in Franklin where she’d be safe. I didn’t tell them what I planned to do. My cousins came out with me to help on the farm. That night, I packed up and headed for the Natchez Road. I left a note for my cousin Josh and one for Mama and another for Uncle Ira.”
“You’re real close to your grampa.”
“Ever since Daddy died of the fever three years ago, I took Daddy’s place. Work right alongside of Grampa on the farm. He taught me just about everything I know. I don’t know what I would do without him.”
“He expecting you to come down to Natchez to look for him, do you think?”
Zeb shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t ever let me go with him on his trips down the Natchez Road. He may not be too happy about my going down alone, but I’ve just gotta do it.”
Hannah didn’t say anything. The two of them carried the water back to the campsite. They washed off as much mud as they could and began to pack up. After a long silence Zeb admitted, “The truth is, he thinks I take too many fool chances.”
“Fool chances?”
“Well, racing bareback up in Franklin, for one thing.” Hannah laughed. “Racing bareback? I race the Choctaw ponies bareback all the time.”
Zeb looked down at her. She did ride better than he had expected. Might be fun to race her when they get to Yowani. Maybe he could make a little traveling money from the Choctaws there.
Zeb took the saddle off the stump and put it on the ground next to the blanket, getting ready to saddle the horse. “I ride bareback most of the time too. That’s how Grampa taught me how to ride. But the races in town are different. Some of the boys think the main object is to pull the others off their horses. A couple of the boys have gotten hurt pretty bad.”
“But you still do it?”
Christmas had wandered over into the deep grass. Zeb called him back. He grinned. “Yeah, nobody can even get near to Christmas.” He stroked the horse’s neck. “He just hates to have another horse in front of him.”
He ran his hand up and down the horse’s muzzle and over the soft nose. “I was always betting with the boys up in Franklin. Won most of the time.” He patted his pocket. “That’s where I got the money to make this trip.”
“I’d love to take Suba to Franklin one day.”
Zeb was sure that if she ever got to Franklin, she would be right out there racing with the boys—if they would let her, which was doubtful.
Zeb rolled the canvas sheet around the bedroll and tied it tightly. “Once I saw a poster for a traveling carnival,” he said. “Showed some men riding around standing on the horses’ backs. Well, I practiced some on Harlequin, a walking horse we had, and then I challenged those town boys to see who could stay on longest.”
“Your grampa didn’t like that?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t like it at all. I won. Stayed on longest, but I finally fell off. Got a kick in the leg. I limped around for a couple of weeks. Grampa made me work with him anyway, just as if nothing had happened.
“It isn’t just that I take chances,” he went on. “Grampa hates it when I act like a Kaintuck and let people think that Christmas is nothing but a plow horse. Says it’s the same as lying. The way I look at it, if they’re trying to take advantage of me, it’s all right if I take advantage of them. But Grampa says that if I keep on fooling people all the time, no one will believe me when I want to buy or sell a horse.”
“When you make these bets, do you usually win?”
“Almost always. But Grampa doesn’t have much use for gambling men. He says if I keep on betting every chance I get, one day someone will goad me into betting my horse, then I’ll lose Christmas.”
Zeb bridled Christmas and then began to saddle him. He patted the big horse on the neck. Would I ever be so stupid, he wondered, so sure of winning, that I would take a chance on losing Christmas?
He threw the blanket over the horse, running his hand over his back first to check for burrs or anything else that might chafe under the blanket. He swung the saddle easily onto the horse’s back, tightened the girth, and checked the stirrups. Hannah stood behind him, handing him the blanket roll and then the rifle and the pistols.
“I’m surprised,” Hannah said, “that he wouldn’t let you go to Natchez with him. You’re big enough and strong enough to be taken for a man, and you sure know how to take care of this big horse.”
Zeb nodded. “I’ve grown a lot in the last year, but Grampa says that size has little to do with it. He says I’ll know when I’m ready.”
Hannah looked across the river. “And now you’re on the Natchez Road, ready or not, with Tate McPhee’s men right behind you.” She hunched her shoulders. “If Big Red and the Fiddler are offering a hundred dollars for your head, they’re expecting a lot more from McPhee. They’ll probably follow you all the way to Natchez.”
CHAPTER SIX
Narrow Escape
About midmorning they reached the Natchez Road, and Zeb stopped the horse to listen for travelers. When he was sure no one was coming, he urged Christmas down onto the road and turned south once again.
They arrived at the Sheboss Place in the late afternoon. Zeb left Hannah hiding in the forest with Christmas. He slung his bedroll over his shoulder and moved through the woods toward the road, bending branches back without breaking them. At the road he left a small notch on a tree. He walked to the stand, pretending to be traveling on foot like most of the men on the trail.
The Sheboss Place was little more than a simple lean-to. The only people staying there were three Kaintucks, probably on their way to Nashville and beyond. They paid no attention to Zeb. They seemed more concerned about staking sleeping rights to the tattered and worn bearskins covering part of the dirt floor.
The innkeeper was bent over, stirring something in a huge iron pot hanging over an ember fire in the middle of the room. A hole in the roof over the fire served as a chimney. He looked up as Zeb walked into the shack. “Got no room,” he said. “You’ll hafta sleep in the forest like the rest.” He dipped a big spoon into the pot, lifted it up to sample the rich brown stew, and then poured the contents back into the pot. “I can feed ya. Twenty-five cents for supper and breakfast.” He lifted his chin, gesturing toward a rough-hewn table and two benches. “I can feed four at a time, or, if you got somethin’ to put it in, you can take it with you.”
Zeb sniffed the familiar aroma. He swallowed the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth and pulled a pot from his pack. He looked toward the men arguing about the bearskins and leaned closer to the innkeeper. “You got any grain?”
“Got a horse do ya? Feed’ll cost ya twenty-five cents a sack.” The innkeeper lowered his voice. “Tell your daddy he better be careful with a horse on the Natch
ez Road. Plan to sleep with it, his pistol at the ready. Take turns stayin’ awake.”
The innkeeper nodded toward the three Kaintucks, his voice almost a whisper. “They could just be flatboaters or they could be outlaws. No way of tellin’. Either way, they’d do just about anything to have a horse to ride.”
Zeb made his way back up the Natchez Road as quickly as he could with his extra load. When he found the notch he had made, he looked up and down the trail and then slipped into the forest. He watched for the branches he had bent back. Many of them had already begun to return to their normal position. He smiled. He had learned a lot from Hannah. When Zeb got back to where Hannah was hiding, she was seated on Christmas holding a three-foot-long tree limb like a club. “What are you going to do with that?” he whispered.
“Just thought I better have something.”
Zeb didn’t think that the branch would do much good if the outlaws found her.
The next evening they were sitting side by side on a log, well beyond the McLish stand, on the north side of the Buffalo River. Hannah was unusually quiet. Finally she turned toward him. “Zeb,” she said. “Do you know what day it is?”
“We’ve only been gone three days. I left Franklin on the fifth of September. Today must be the eighth.”
Hannah turned her head slightly away from him. Tears were running down her cheeks.
“What’s the matter? We’re making good time. We’ll be in Yowani in about two weeks.”
“It isn’t that,” she said. “Today is my birthday. I’m eleven years old.”
“Eleven! You don’t even look like ten!”
“I know. I haven’t grown much lately. But I’m eleven years old today.”
“But why are you crying?”
Hannah wiped her hand across her face. “I want to be home, with my family,” she sobbed.
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