I held the horses at a right smart pace for the half dozen miles before reaching the overlook above the falls of the Muskingum. Water swept from under gray ice and cascaded over the rocky falls into an open expanse of black water. Below the wide pool another bank-to-bank sheath of solid ice extended onward, unbroken, round a far river bend. Not a living thing moved anywhere in the valley of the river, upstream or down. The silence was almost unnerving.
Zelda was awake, barely, face flushed and shiny with sweat. I untied her wrist and she began rubbing it. Her smile was weak at best. “I watched a man with a pointy beard at Fort Pitt. He drew pretty pictures with charcoal on parchment,” she said. “Just like that.” She nodded down at the water coursing over the rocky falls.
Such spirit plastered a smile on my face. “How ’bout another slug of Monongahela straight from the jug? You seem a tad worn-out.”
I fetched the liquor jug from the following horse and handed it up. She drank a swallow, too large, and coughed furiously. She squeezed her eyes shut and downed a second sip, a smaller portion this time. With a fiery breath, Zelda handed the jug back. “Do put fire in your gizzard, don’t it now?” she mouthed in a strained voice. “I was too sleepy last time to know what bit me.”
Letting the train have their blow, I retied the jug atop the larder horse and brought Zelda jerked beef and pemmican for chewing on the next leg of travel. She remarked on how good the horses looked after five solid hours of movement.
“They’re well rested and been fed good,” I told Zelda. “We’ll test their mettle before the day is over. We’re sticking here on high ground and beelining for the Narrows. We’ll noon late, but even then they’ll likely not get a drop of water till we reach the Morgan camp. Be a dog-tough traipse, but we need a roof over your head tonight.”
I reached up and placed a palm on her forehead. Her color was better and the sweat had dried on her. “My maw always felt me for fever,” I explained.
She got that real soft look round the eyes and covered my hand with one of her own. “Why, tall man, I believe you might feel pretty fair toward me, don’t you now?”
I pulled my hand free and stepped back. “And I believe you’re ready for getting along the trail a piece, woman.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Zelda, Matthan, Zelda. It not be a hard name atall.”
I spun about, hiding red cheeks. She giggled as I clucked the lead horse ahead. She was always too quick on the uptake for me. I held the upper hand when she was sick or asleep, hardly auspicious tidings for the future. It was a goodly thing she was leaving off at her home place.
Drainage gullies slashed the high country preceding the Narrows and slowed our pace considerably. Shallow waters from melting snows ran through the gullies and spilled down the ridge faces into the river. Every so often the steepness of the crevices forced us westward till we found suitable crossings. Rugged travel well into the afternoon, a jolting, jerking ride for a woman weakened by past afflictions. Zelda rode light as possible, but the dreaded flush regained her features and she sagged between the pack saddle trees, nose hanging inches from horse’s mane.
The last gully before reaching the Narrows ran shallow and wide with water and we made a late nooning there. I freed Zelda’s feet and lifted her down. At first her legs failed. She held tight on to my arm and stamped feeling into her feet. I leaned her against a handy tree and saw to the horses.
The animals weren’t tucked up yet, and with no time for pack removal and a true rest, I watered them one at a time in the shallow gully where melted snow flowed fresh and clear. After each horse drank his fill, I led them away from the water, then saw to Zelda.
The gentle breeze blowing from the southwest had stiffened and gained a biting edge, the first signal the thaw might not continue. Colder air was in the offing for tonight with wet weather coming sometime soon. Zelda needed a dry camp at the Morgan lean-to more than ever.
She sprawled on her rump against the chestnut trunk. Her head hung between raised knees and a shiver coursed through her. I clasped an arm, pulled her on her feet, and bent over in front of her face. Her eyes drifted shut again. “You’re beat. I know that. But you’ve got to move about and get some meat in your belly. We’re not there yet,” I warned.
Zelda’s head started to droop and I shook her hard enough to rattle teeth. “Wake up! You’ll not give out on me, damn you. Being a woman don’t cut you any extra with me.”
The old Shaw dander flared just as I’d hoped. “Go to hell, tall man. I’m just nappin’. Stop blabbin’ and fetch me some grub,” she snarled in a single breath and commenced walking in a tight circle.
I stifled a grin and fetched cold meat and a handful of ground meal. She ate and walked at the same time.
“Keep at it. I’ll be back shortly.”
With rifle and spyglass, I trotted down the winding trail till I reached a spot affording a clear view of the first stretch of the Narrows. I glassed the sun dappled ice and both banks a section at a time. No movement as far downriver as the next bend where the ice swung eastward out of sight. I trotted back, anxious to complete the day’s journey while daylight lasted.
The wind blew harder and the clouds thickened, still white but higher and wider. Zelda was walking her tight circle, arms clutched about herself, but her pace had slowed greatly. She had little fight left and needed hot vittles and a long warm sleep. I doubted she could travel two days in a row.
With that in mind I gave her no slack at the moment, much as I disliked rough ways when a woman was involved. But we had to make the Morgan lean-to with its cover against the rising wind as soon as possible. A good chill might bring back her fever with a vengeance.
“Let’s shake a leg. This wind will last into the night. We’ll not halt till we reach camp.” I avoided the sight of her worn, haggard features and boosted her into the pack saddle. She didn’t quarrel when I tied her wrist to a crosstree and her legs under the horse’s belly.
“Just remember, up ahead there’ll be a fire and hot tea and a dry, tight bed. You can sleep long as you like. All right?” I waited till she bobbed her head, then led the pack train into the Narrows.
Tanking up had freshened the pack animals and put spring back in their hocks. I took full advantage of their renewed vigor and kept them moving as fast as the winding trail allowed. So concerned was I about reaching camp, I fretted not an instant over the chance other white men or the Injuns might be on the hunt anywhere near. I couldn’t hardly turn the pack train on the narrow pathway anyhow. Straight ahead was it for now.
Zelda slouched in the saddle the farther we traveled. We cleared the Narrows just before sunset and she called out. When I halted the train she handed down the pistol, which was poking her hard in the middle, and slumped across the horse’s neck. The sweat pouring down her face and soaking the head band, unchecked by the chill whistling wind, frightened me. She was sickening fast. I tied her other arm down and we taken out once more.
I turned the horses when I spied the stair-step hills against the faint light remaining behind the western horizon and wound downhill to the creek fronting Rasher Morgan’s lean-to. I barged right in, taking no heed, counting on a deserted camp. Luckily, it was: no sign anybody had been there since my departure days ago.
This go-round I ignored the horses and tended Zelda first. I freed the fur bundles on the last pack animal and toted them inside for bedding, then cut Zelda loose and carried her in. Plenty of the wood cut by Stepfather remained along the sides of the shelter and I had a fire popping in short order. While water boiled for tea, I rubbed Zelda’s arms and legs and wiped sweat from her brow. She was too tired to help.
I forced a goodly portion of tea laced with meal down her and settled her under the buffalo robe. She seemed as weak as the day she’d been slashed and nearly scalped and that bothered me greatly. I wanted to fetch her home, not kill her on the trail.
She spoke my name in a hoarse whisper. I leaned an ear close above her lips. “Where be
my pistol, tall man?”
I shucked the weapon out of a coat pocket and placed it square on her breast. The corners of her mouth curled in a faint smile. “Thank ye,” she mumbled.
I went to see after the horses, feeling somewhat better about things. There was some spark, no matter how feeble, still aflame somewhere deep inside that girl-woman. She amazed me at every turn.
Chapter 17
January 25-27
The night passed without incident. At dawn I made my decision. The weather remained unchanged and likely better than we’d see for days, but without at least a full day and another night of rest I dared not move Zelda. She had eaten almost nothing since our arrival and tossed and turned and sweated for hours before falling into a deep exhausted sleep. Somehow her fever hadn’t retumed, but I didn’t trust it wouldn’t.
All morning, like a bad tooth left unpulled, the wind blew at its whim, whipping and gusting, ruffling the long hair on the rumps of the horses. Those poor beasts waited patiently in the lee of the lean-to while I cut and carried cane for them. They’d probably never known the comfort of a barn or shelter of any kind. They withstood much with little complaint.
The nagging, biting wind did shred the smoke from our fire. Nonetheless, past noon, with Zelda sleeping soundly and the fire burning bright, I made a scout over along the Muskingum, looking for trouble before it found me.
I was hiding in a stand of hickory, checking the river bottom for intruders, when brush rattled across the ice-bound waterway. Noise carried astonishing distances in the river valley, even with a brisk wind blowing, and I held fast, listening and glassing the far bank section by section. I wasn’t budging till I was certain a four-legged animal made the disturbance.
My ear caught the sound of new movement. I trained the spyglass on a marshy bottom notching the low hills over there and looked and listened a long while. Brush rustled and swayed, and I went right on looking and listening.
A white-tailed buck shot from the overgrown mouth of the marsh and hesitated on the splotchy river ice, as frightened by the slippery footing as whatever pursued him. His hesitation made for a perfect target.
A flintlock fired.
The deer’s legs went rigid and he fell sideways. The brush parted and a greatcoated hunter stepped into sight. I didn’t need spy out the sparse black beard, long nose, beady gray eyes, and flesh white as milk. The filthy bandage tied beneath the chin and masking half his face told the story. Who else but Joseph Ballard suffered from a broken jaw not yet healed?
The buck had been hazed from opposite sides and forced from cover. So, if Joseph was on the left, brother Timothy was on the right. Sure enough, Timothy pushed aside heavy brush and stepped onto the frozen river. He leapt back as the ice cracked beneath him. Joseph roared with laughter. The ever solemn Timothy spat in embarrassment and walked toward his brother.
Together they tugged the dead buck from the ice by the rear legs and gutted him. Timothy stood, looked inland, and whistled shrilly. In no time atall two other hunters, one stooped and rail-thin, the other blocky and long-bearded, joined the waiting brothers. Working swiftly in the late afternoon light, the newcomers strung the deer by the feet, head flopping loosely, on a long pole and trudged eastward away from the far bank. Joseph and Timothy stood guard fore and aft while their companions did the heavy work.
I stayed perfectly still, shaking like a leaf trembling in the wind. If there were four of them, more waited in camp over yonder. During Injun scares, white men hunted in large parties and took game quickly by driving it toward each other. Downed animals were whisked back to camp for skinning and smoking then carried home under heavy guard. Lucky for me, the Ballard party hunted the low hills and marshy bottoms on the eastern bank, which placed the melting ice between them and the Injun path traversing the highlands over here. The Fort Frye hunters were familiar with Rasher Morgan’s lean-to in the shallow hollow behind my position. But his death at the hands of a Shawnee war party just four months ago was fresh in their minds and scared them enough they shied clear of it. They were hunting meat, not a shooting fight with the Injuns.
Taking no chances, I glassed the river and both banks till near dark. Once convinced all the Ballard party had returned to camp for the night, I headed for Rasher’s place and Zelda.
The fire burned low and the hobbled pack animals eyed my approach. A furry lump in the center of the lean-to reared upward and a yellow-brown head popped into sight. “I’m hungry,” Zelda called.
She’d slept the clock around twice, her only nourishment a few slurps of broth taken in a half stupor. Her eyes were clear and face free of sweat. The natural rosy tint of her cheeks was missing, but she appeared rested and sat upright on her own.
Zelda caught my nervous glance back the way I’d come. “Something the matter?”
I dropped wood on the fire. “We’ve got company.”
Fear widened her eyes.
“Go easy,” I said quickly. “They’re not Injuns. Hunters from downriver, Fort Frye most likely.”
Zelda pulled the buffalo robe chin high. “Did you see any of them? . . . Know their names?”
The quaver in her voice puzzled me. She knew Zed and Zeb were truly dead and gone, and accepted that. The quaver wasn’t excitement then, she was scared of something.
“You dislike someone particular from Fort Frye?” I got water boiling in the noggin and sliced venison into my small frying pan; I’d lost a taste for boiled meat the past few days.
“Not many a man can be trusted on the best of days. I’ve learned to take a mighty long look at things whenever menfolk in numbers come around.” That was all she revealed about some past scare or hurt she’d not forgotten and I didn’t push further.
“Well, damn it, tall man, did you recognize any of them?” The close check she kept on her temper slipped a little. “Weren’t considerin’ lettin’ them take me offen your hands, were you now?”
She’d seen inside my head as if there were a big hole above the ear. I was considering that very possibility at the moment. If they could “find” her at a place of my choosing, while they saw her home along with the bounty from their hunt, I could make a run westward and get clear of my fellow men once and for all.
“I’ll snitch on you lessen I know who they be, Matthan. And I can tell when you lie.”
Her threat made the truth my only choice. My escape plan couldn’t work without her keeping a close mouth about my being in this part of the territory.
“Two of them are brothers, Timothy and Joseph Ballard,” I confessed.
The gaze I got in return would’ve scalded rocks. “I’ll not stand for them bein’ near me. Them two hunt with a sorry lot, all the riffraff without women of their own. My paw warned me ’bout the likes of them.”
Zelda squared her shoulders and jutted out that bronze jaw with the finely honed mouth. “Matthan, you promised you’d fetch me home. I’m holdin’ you to your word, tall man.”
I shouldn’t have expected anything less. Whenever she was fully awake and in possession of her wits, she constantly backed me into a corner, lost for words, sullenly angry at her skill for turning any devious intention on my part to her advantage.
I turned the venison with the point of my knife, dillydallying while I scrounged for some clever way to regain the upper hand. “All right, you’ve kept your word, I’ll keep mine.” Before she smiled in pure triumph, I said, “But you travel when I say so and listen tight every step of the way. You understand? I’m not longing to learn firsthand how it feels when a rope saws your windpipe in half.”
I set the frying pan on a flat rock next to the fire. Her green eyes were somber and heavy all of a sudden. “I’ll not bring harm on you and break my own heart, Matthan.”
Those words cooled the steam in me. I hefted Abel’s rifle. “The horses need me. You eat, then get back to sleep. We’re taken out of here before first light.”
I ignored her disappointed frown and moved off. The horses were thirsty and starvin
g. And they didn’t talk back. Nor did they jolt a man where he lived with a look and a few words.
Dark clouds swept across the first quarter moon. A chill wind, heavy and clammy, never slackened. The weather seemed stuck in the same rut, but I’d a hunch when it changed we’d not like it one bit. Cold days with wet snow lay in wait, the worst weather for travel short of a norther.
The cane I’d cut before the river scout held the animals in good stead. Once fed, watered at the stream, and rehobbled, they settled for the night, sleeping on their feet. Enough cane remained for the morning feeding, which eased my mind. The sound of chopping carried a far piece in these hills, maybe clean across the Muskingum. Now that the Ballard party had settled in across the ice, no sense inviting them over unexpectedly before we were well under way in the early hours tomorrow.
The empty frying pan and noggin rested beside the dying camp fire. Zelda was a lump buried under the buffalo robe, snoring softly. I stoked the night fire and boiled a noggin of bark tea, then slept huddled in the greatcoat, propped just inside the front corner of the shelter, one eye on the horses, the other watching the river approach to camp whenever I wakened and checked fire and horses.
In the coldest part of night before false dawn I fed, watered, and saddled the horses. The chill wind dipped and swirled, and a solid gray overcast of clouds domed the sky. The weather would break today before nightfall if not sooner.
I poked Zelda awake with my rifle barrel. “Over slept again, didn’t you? Won’t never learn, will you now?” I teased, pulling at the bottom of the buffalo robe and uncovering her head.
She sat upright and rubbed sleep from her eyes with both hands. “Don’t be mean. Ain’t fair throwin’ a body’s own words at her this early.”
Thunder in the Valley Page 14