Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  He called out a loud “Hallo!” but no one returned his greeting. Other than the echo of his own shout reverberating against the hills, and the distant call of a magpie, there wasn’t another sound in the valley. He nudged his roan and rode toward the dugout.

  Up close, he found that the dwelling was little more than a hovel. Rough pine logs formed the front. The sides butted into the hill, a hybrid of a dugout. Certainly not built for permanence, it had been fashioned by someone with no talent for building. As he dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby pine, he took a good look at the structure. There wasn’t one decent corner saddle, the joint where the logs met. Luther, a zealot when it came to building log structures, would have been appalled. There was a feed crib in a lean-to that had once sheltered a horse or a mule, but it was empty now.

  Far from eager to have his head blown off, Hunter called out and unsheathed his rifle as he walked toward the cabin. Except for the smoke from the chimney, there was no sign of life. With his hand on the door latch, he shouted again. Inside, someone coughed.

  He tried the latch and found it unlocked. Rifle at the ready, he slowly pushed the door open. The interior of the place was not much bigger than the smokehouse at Sandy Shoals. The floor was cold, hard-packed earth. The few meager hand-hewn furnishings inside showed more poor attempts at woodworking. A thin piece of yellow hide covered the only window. Muted sunlight stained the greased window covering, but did little to light the room.

  The place reeked of poorly cured furs, unwashed flesh, urine, and death. A bed was shoved up against the far wall. At first glance, Hunter thought it was empty. Then he heard the cough again, a weak, rasping sound. The tired struggle for breath made his own lungs ache in sympathy. The slight rise and fall of the bearskin atop the bed was hardly perceptible.

  Despite a low fire, the room was still cold. Hunter crossed the dugout, curious to see what manner of man lay dying beneath the hide. The cough scarred the air again.

  “Hello?” Hunter drew closer.

  A weak, gravelly voice issued from beneath the hide. “If you’ve … come to kill me … be done with it.” Between bursts of speech, a man gasped for breath, drinking in air until he choked on it and coughed.

  Hunter stepped up to the bed and looked down into the gaunt, skeletal face of an old man whose watery brown eyes were stained with pain. His skin was yellow-gray, his hands as thin as crows’ feet with blue veins that stood out like knotted rope. The sleeves of his buckskins were almost black, stiff with filth and age. Everything about the old-timer—his thin wisps of hair, his skin, his clothing—all seemed brittle, as if at a touch he would crumble to ash.

  “I haven’t come to kill you.” Hunter hunkered down on one knee, wincing at the offensive smell.

  “More’s the pity,” the man whispered.

  “There’s a storm coming in. I was looking for a place to ride it out.” Hunter wondered if he could stand being shut up inside the fetid dugout even for an hour, let alone for the duration of a heavy storm.

  “Suit … yourself.”

  “Where’s your water? I’ll get you some,” Hunter volunteered after seeing the man’s cracked, dry lips. Tobacco-red bloodstains ran from the corners of his mouth, down his cheek. The filthy blanket beside his head was stained with his blood. Hunter wondered how he had managed to keep the fire going.

  The old-timer shook his head. “No water. I don’t … want to drag this … this thing out any longer … than I have to.” He fell into frenzied coughing spasms that brought his wasted frame up off the bed and slammed it down again.

  Hunter felt helpless in the face of such pain. Not a stranger to death, at seventeen he had lost his father. A few years later, his mother had been struck down by fever in only three days’ time. For either, there had been none of this pitiful, slow wasting. Swift, accidental death was commonplace on the frontier, where countless dangers lurked. He had never thought of a swift death as a stroke of luck before, but this old man’s immeasurable suffering was a death sentence he would not pass on to a dog.

  “Are … you … alone?” The old man wheezed.

  Hunter nodded, finally finding his voice. “I am. Name’s Hunter Boone.”

  “Any … relation … to Daniel?”

  “Distant cousins.”

  “Never met him.” The old-timer’s eyes closed. He lay silent for so long that Hunter felt for a sign of life. “I ain’t … gone yet, more’s … more’s the pity. M’name’s Charlie … Tate. Make your … self … t’home.”

  When the old man closed his eyes again and exhaled on another fit of coughing, Hunter straightened. He walked across the room and stood his Hawkin rifle in the corner near the door. Charlie Tate had drifted off into the world of pain and sickness that was devouring him.

  Taking stock of the squalid room and its meager contents, Hunter decided to put his horse and mules up in the lean-to, unload his supplies, and secure his rig outside. There’d be less chance of his things getting infested with bedbugs and lice if he didn’t bring them in.

  He picked up a few spindly pieces of wood, all that was left for the fire, and wondered how the old man could have managed to gather them at all. Stepping outside, Hunter welcomed the bite of the cold, fresh air, and filled his lungs, trying to overcome the lingering memory of the heavy stench he had left inside.

  Settling the animals and unloading his gear had become so much a part of his daily routine that it took little effort and no thought. He took his line and walked to the little stream not far away. His luck running high, he caught two respectable trout with shimmering rainbow scales, strung them on a line, and carried them back to the lean-to, where he unpacked his skillet.

  He laid a fire in the sheltered area between the animal hut and the dugout cabin, boiled water, and stick-cooked his trout. As he picked off the savory white fish, he studied the small space between the two structures, wondering if he could create a sheltered area for himself between them by using a tarp and wood to connect the two. It would be preferable to sleeping in filth.

  Hunter had saved some fish for Charlie, though he doubted that the old man could eat more than a bite or two. As he picked up the warm skillet, he wished his conscience would let him avoid going back inside the hovel.

  The place was as still as death, the fire nearly out. With the skillet in his hand, he stood over the bed and looked at what remained of Charlie Tate.

  “I made some trout.” Hunter glanced at the trout in the pan. The black, sightless fish eye stared back at him.

  The old man’s dry lips moved. “I can’t … eat. Nothin’ goes down.”

  Feeling helpless, Hunter reached over and set the skillet on the table.

  “I been thinkin’ …,” Charlie gasped. “A … man can … do a lot of thinkin’ when he’s dying. Who are you … Hunter Boone?”

  Three months ago, Hunter thought he knew the answer. Now he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t so much a loner as just alone. He reckoned the old man wanted to hear another voice, needed something to take his mind off of his pain.

  “I’m from Pennsylvania by way of Kentucky. Found a place on the Mississippi for my brother’s family. Started a trading post. When it looked like more and more folks would be moving into the area, I felt the need to move on. So here I am.”

  A ragged breath ripped itself out of the old man’s throat. He whispered, “Wanderlust.”

  “I guess,” Hunter shrugged and pulled a chair up beside the bed. “I couldn’t see myself putting down roots.”

  “Couldn’t?”

  “Can’t,” he amended. An uncomfortable feeling crept over him, one he wouldn’t dare admit to, or even dwell on.

  “Go back—”

  The words were uttered low, a thread of sound. Hunter leaned closer, held his breath against the stench. “What did you say?”

  “Go back be … fore it’s too … late. This life … it’s fine when you’re … when you’re young and able. But,” Charlie shuddered, “… what’s … the point? … You gon
na follow … one more river … ride over one more … mountain? They all … look alike after … a while.”

  The old man’s words so closely echoed Hunter’s own thoughts of late that he wondered if Charlie Tate was able to read his mind.

  “There’ll come a time when … when … you’ll get awful … tired of … hearing … your own heartbeat.” Collapsing into a coughing fit, Charlie raised a palsied hand to his lips and wiped away bloody spittle.

  Hunter rubbed his hands on his thighs and looked around the squalid room. “Save your strength, old man.”

  A strangled, cackle escaped Tate. “What for? I’m dyin’…. What good’s … my life been, if … I can’t pass on what … I learnt? You want to … end up like this?”

  Exhausted, the old man lay panting for air. His fingers, with their long filthy nails, raked the bear-hide cover. Hunter looked away, studying the fire that was as inept at fighting the cold in the poorly chinked dugout as Charlie’s body was at fighting his disease. Hunter marveled at the workings of fate that had brought him to Tate’s door. The old trapper’s words echoed the thoughts his soul had wrestled with for weeks. What good was a life of wandering without purpose? He had made extensive notes and maps, but what good would they be to any man save himself?

  He had gone into Kentucky with a goal. Exploring the upper Missouri, he had seen wonders of nature that made a man certain there was a God in heaven, but lately he’d begun to question what he was doing. He found himself listening for the sound of something besides wind and water, the hoot of an owl, the howl of a wolf. He had wandered for miles and months, trying like hell to get Jemma O’Hurley out of his mind and his heart, but she had been with him every step of the way. So, too, had Luther and all of the others.

  “Is … it snowing … yet?”

  Used to being alone with his thoughts, Hunter nearly came out of his skin when the old man spoke.

  “Not yet. But it’s fixin’ to,” he told Charlie.

  Charlie’s lips worked, opened, closed. He shivered. “I … want to sleep … outside,” he rasped.

  Hunter was almost certain Charlie was out of his mind with pain, then suddenly, he was afraid he understood what the man was asking him to do. “What are you saying?”

  “You … know what … I … I’m … saying. Take me outside. Let me fall asleep … out there. I can’t … no more pain.” With an effort so great that his forehead instantly beaded with sweat, Charlie brought his hand up off the hide and reached toward Hunter.

  Hunter clasped the skeletal hand, which was little more than cold flesh and brittle bone. “I’m sorry, old man.”

  Charlie writhed. He shuddered in pain. “I don’t … want your … your pity. If your horse went … went down, would you do any less … than … put him out of … of his … misery?” He was desperate, gasping for breath like a fish flung out on a riverbank. “Can’t do … this alone.”

  His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Hunter’s hand. As if he gathered strength from the human contact, he found the courage to make his plea.

  “Didn’t want to cheat death … until I knew … it was the end. Now … it’s too late for me to … do it … myself. I can see him. Waiting. In the shadows. Standin’ there. Laughin’. See him? Let me go … with my head up. Not lying here … in my own … filth.”

  Charlie’s eyes closed and his head lolled on the pillow. He was still breathing, the sound terrible to hear.

  Hunter stood up, paced the room, glanced now and again into the darkened corners. Death was indeed lurking in the room, waiting to take Charlie Tate. But when? How much longer would the old man have to endure? One day? Two? Ten? His body might not be ready to give up, even though his heart and soul were.

  “Take me outside.”

  He glanced over at the man on the bed. It would be easy to grant Charlie’s wish, but at what cost to his conscience?

  If Jemma were here, she would pray for guidance, but he had never been one to pray. He knew nothing of any of the saints she was always talking about, nor did he know much about what was written in Lucy’s Bible, either. He and God pretty much left each other alone.

  Hunter stood at the end of the bed and stared down at Charlie Tate. Even in sleep, the pain tore at the man’s lungs. The old trapper had been right about one thing. Hunter would never let an animal suffer this much pain.

  He crossed the room, threw the door open, and looked out at the afternoon sky. The wind was blowing heavy, gray clouds into the valley, clouds that would thicken until they obscured the sky and snow began to fall. The old man wouldn’t last twenty minutes out there in his condition. Other than cold, he wouldn’t feel any pain as he drifted off to sleep.

  After a heavy sigh, Hunter closed the door, his mind made up. Conscience be damned. He would wait until the snow started falling, then he’d carry Charlie outside. If God couldn’t forgive him for helping old Charlie along, then so be it.

  He sat with the old trapper until the snow began to fall, waited for it to thicken, hoping death would take Charlie first and not force his hand—but fate refused to give him the easy way out. Hunter found a jug of whiskey beside a pile of furs, took a long pull off the jug, and let the liquor burn its way down his throat. Charlie was coughing again, moaning between spasms.

  Hunter opened the door and then walked over to the bed, took a deep breath, and scooped up the old man and the bear hide. Although tall and long of limb, Tate weighed next to nothing. His eyes were closed. If he was awake, he gave no indication.

  On his way across the cabin, Hunter picked up Charlie’s tall beaver hat. When he stepped through the open door, biting snow driven by a fierce north wind stung his face. He walked away from the cabin, struggling through the mounting snow until he reached a spot beside the stream that he had chosen earlier. A gathering of cottonwoods and aspen formed a semicircle, and it was here that Hunter chose to set the old man. He propped Charlie against the tallest cottonwood and arranged the bearskin over his shoulders. Gently placing the beaver hat on Charlie’s head, Hunter adjusted it until he was satisfied. His own hands were already stiffening with cold, his fingers growing numb. It wouldn’t take long.

  “Boone …”

  He nearly came out of his skin when Charlie rasped out a whisper. The old-timer had changed his mind. Hunter was ready to bundle him up and take him back inside. Tate coughed, the sound now audible enough to hear, as if Charlie were winning the battle over by killing the host.

  “Bless … you,” he wheezed. “Now … leave … me … be. And go … home.”

  Before he could change his mind, Hunter stumbled out of the stand of trees, head down against the stinging, icy snow, his vision blurred. The cabin door was a golden rectangle swimming in the distance. He hurried toward it, refusing to think of the man beside the stream, for when he did, he not only thought of Charlie Tate, but of himself and this solitary life he had chosen.

  He hurried into the cabin but couldn’t close the door. Not with Charlie out there dying, freezing inch by inch, fingers, toes, nose and ears. Hunter hoped to God that everything he had heard was true, that Charlie would drift off to sleep without pain.

  Like a madman, he began to pull everything out of the dugout and pile it a few yards beyond the door. Again and again he went back into the filthy hovel, gathered an armload of Charlie’s possessions, and struggled through the swiftly deepening snow until he had emptied the place save for the table and chairs and the empty bedframe.

  Go back. Go home.

  Beneath the bed he discovered a battered, leather-bound box. The find slowed his frantic pace and took his mind off Charlie for a moment. Hunter sat on the edge of the bedframe and opened the shallow, dust-covered box. Inside he found a pile of what appeared to have been letters on parchment so yellowed and crumbled with time that they were little more than shreds. He brushed them aside and there, lying beneath the scraps, was a tarnished, hollow, heart-shaped pendant.

  The trinket looked even smaller in the palm of his hand.
He held it to the light and admired the scrollwork etched on the surface of the brass. Threads of what was once a black ribbon still clung to the loop. His hand closed around the heart.

  Where was the woman Charlie had left behind? Her letters had turned to dust; there would be no way to trace her even if he could. Did she even remember Charlie? Had she gone on before him?

  Hunter opened his possibles bag and slipped the heart inside. He couldn’t get Charlie’s voice out of his head as he went back outside, this time carrying a tin of lamp oil. His foot slipped on the icy, snow-packed path he’d worn between the pile and the cabin. He went to his knees, staring into the dark, toward the stand of cottonwoods. Charlie was out there dying.

  He doused the pile of furs, knives, antlers, poorly cured hides, utensils, and ragged worn-out clothes. From his possibles bag, he drew a tinderbox, hunched his shoulders to shield it against the wind, and cupped his hands. Finally a spark flared and ignited the oil. Tongues of flame licked at the pile, flickering against the wind. The fire gained strength as it drank up the oil, and Charlie’s possessions began to burn.

  Within minutes, the bonfire was huge. Flames writhed and leapt toward the starless sky, melting the falling snow. Hunter watched the heavy smoke and fire dance in the face of the wind. He thought of the places he had been, the things he’d seen out here. As he watched the fire burn, he knew for certain that not one of the wonders of the wilderness would ever match the sparkle in Jemma’s eyes, the lilt of her voice and her laughter. Not one vista could compare with the way it felt when little Sadie planted a kiss on his cheek or when Junior looked up and called him Uncle Hunt.

  He watched what was left of Charlie Tate’s time on earth go up in smoke and ash and wondered what it all meant. He had never felt so alone.

  Sandy Shoals, March 1817

  “Will you marry me, Miss Jemma?”