Dorothy Garlock (6 page)

Jeff seldom, if ever, wondered at the wisdom of a decision once it was made. One part of his mind knew that he was right to get Zan out of Saint Louis. He also knew his old friend wouldn’t leave without the girl. The other part of his mind wondered how she would adapt to life at the homestead. She seemed to be a calm, sensible woman. He couldn’t imagine Zan taking to a woman who was a flibbertigibbet. But would she and Callie take to each other? If she hated the isolation, would she make life miserable for Callie? He glanced down at the hands clasped tightly around the bundle she held in her lap. She was used to having people around, watching the comings and goings on the river. Would she become dissatisfied and want to come back? He was glad when Zan spoke and interrupted his thoughts.

“Hit’s been a right smart spell since I been aridin’ a wagon. I’d a heap druther be takin’ to my feet or aridin’ a horse.”

“I agree.” Jeff sailed a short whip out over the backs of the horses and urged them to pick up speed. “I’m not partial to riding the river or bouncing on a wagon, either. But it’s easier to haul by wagon up to the Missouri than to pole against the current on the big river.”

“Hit makes sense.”

“A neighbor, Silas Cornick, and one of his boys came down with me. They left late yesterday with another wagonload of supplies. They’ll have it unloaded and on the raft by the time we get there. We’ll pole up to Saint Charles, then load again onto wagons for the rest of the trip home.”

“This ain’t yore rig?” Zan asked the question while Annie Lash was trying to sort out the puzzle.

“It belongs to a friend, Fain MacCartney, who lives about five miles north of the mouth of the river. Isaac, Silas Cornick’s son, and I will take them back tonight.”

“I heard ’bout that MacCartney feller, but I ain’t met up with ’im. Gunsmith, ain’t he?”

“One of the best I’ve run across. He made my rifle. I’ll put it up against any I’ve seen. Even that old blunderbuss you carry around,” he added and tossed Zan a grin.

“Wal . . .” Zan leaned out and spit over the side of the wagon. “One a these days we’ll have us a little match an’ jist see ’bout it.”

Annie Lash was glad to sit back and listen to the men talk. She could give her mind over to looking and seeing. The sun was just coming up and the whole sky was flushed with a warm, rosy light. It lay over the land, and beneath it the grass was silver from the rain of the night before. A great owl, patrolling the border between the forest and the river, swooped low over the wagon and she could almost feel the stir of the air from the slow beat of its silent wings.

At first, the trail was flat and wound between the giant oaks and ash that bordered the river, but as they penetrated farther north it became rougher and higher with short sweeps of meadow in between. High above, a pair of hawks circled in amorous pursuit of each other, squirrels scampered in the underbrush and raced for a tree trunk to scold the intruders from their lofty perch. A flock of colorful parakeets dipped and dived before settling in the top of a giant tree. As the wagon lurched along, there were occasional glimpses of the river, tearing through the dense woods on its seaward course.

Sitting there on the high seat of the wagon, Annie Lash began to feel a strong sense of well-being. She was a part of this vitality, this vast land, this movement into the wilderness. She was sure Zan felt it, too. He had an eager, lively look on his face, and the tone of his voice as he talked with Jeff held more enthusiasm than she had heard in a long while.

The day passed quickly. They stopped every few hours to rest the horses and to let them drink. Zan always helped her down from the wagon, although they both knew she was quite capable of getting down on her own. Jefferson Merrick was distantly polite, seldom looking directly at her, but she noticed his eyes were continuously moving, searching, even as he squatted beside a stream to drink. Once he caught her looking at him and it made her feel foolish and awkward, stiff-handed and clumsy, as she accepted the drinking cup. A deep embarrassment spread within her, making it impossible for her to look at him. A feeling of heat crept up her throat and into her face, and she could scarcely make herself mumble, “Thank you.”

*  *  *

The size of the raft and the amount of goods on it were a complete surprise to Annie Lash, as were the three men who were waiting to help load the wagon. Silas Cornick and his son, Isaac, were farmers. The father, big, gangly and gray-bearded, wore a loose, homespun shirt. His trousers were held up by galluses. His son wore similar garb. He was a lean young man with a quick easy smile, a head of heavy dark hair, and eyebrows that grew together over the bridge of his nose.

Jeff was pleasantly surprised to see the third man. They greeted each other warmly. He was dark and quiet, wore buckskins and knee-high moccasins with fringe down the sides. His hair grew well back from his broad forehead and was held behind his neck with a thong. He was slim and wiry and had about him a solitary air. Although his dark eyes roamed the edge of the forest constantly, as did Jeff’s, Annie Lash had not caught them looking directly at her. His high, prominent cheekbones and skin the color of smooth copper proclaimed the blood of his Indian ancestors, but when he spoke it was with a pronounced French accent. Jeff said his name was Lightbody, but he was called Light. He made a small stiff bow when introduced to Annie Lash.

The raft was rectangular in shape with a platform running down the center of it so the waves that broke over the logs could not reach the goods piled on it. Annie Lash’s trunk and boxes were placed on the platform and tied down. Her rocking chair and walnut washstand were tied to the top of the canvas-covered kegs and crates that were already loaded when they arrived.

They camped beside the river and after a meal of broiled catfish and fried cornpone, Zan fixed a place on the raft for Annie Lash to bed down for the night. He was happy to be out of Saint Louis. It was evident in the smile that stripped years from his face. He talked freely with the men, joked with Jeff, and lightly teased Annie Lash.

“Git yoreself settled in, gal. We’re aleavin’ at first light an’ we ain’t awaitin’ fer ya.”

Annie Lash was sure she wouldn’t sleep a wink. Isaac and Light left before dark to take the borrowed teams and wagons to the MacCartney’s. When they returned, the five men sat beside the dying campfire and talked. The murmur of low male voices was comforting. She heard Jeff laugh, and it occurred to her that he didn’t laugh often. That disturbed her somehow. Then her mind, now free of the burden it had carried since her pa died, allowed her tired body to relax and she slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

*  *  *

Annie Lash sat on the edge of the platform and watched Light slip off the rope holding the craft to the stake on the bank. All morning she had tried to avoid looking at Jeff, but she could often feel his eyes on her. Once her glance locked with his. In spite of her excitement and that of the others, there was no merriment in his eyes, only quiet watchfulness. He was as disturbing this morning as he had been last night and the night before. She’d had a hard time pushing him out of her mind long enough to pack her belongings, and his voice was the last thing she’d heard before she went to sleep last night. Now, she marveled at how easily he and Light moved about on the bobbing, swaying craft, and how his voice was in tune with the morning quiet as he spoke to the men.

They traveled steadily upriver, and by sunup the bluffs were high along the edge. The trees that topped them merged into a solid wall of dark forest, their tops edging jaggedly against the sky. From her perch atop her trunk on the platform, Annie Lash watched the men toil, sweat, and maneuver the clumsy, heavily loaded craft away from the swift current in the middle of the river and edge it along the shoreline.

The wide, muddy Missouri River was famous for being cussedly wicked. It was devious, treacherous; it twisted and turned like a snake, it narrowed, it widened; its eddies could snatch a boat and send it whirling. The river could rise unexpectedly, lifting logs and driftwood off a hundred sandbars, hurling them with a vicious force downstream where they would lodge on other sandbars, forming concealed traps for the unwary traveler.

Along the bank of the river, quick-springing willow roots caught together a mass of branches and young trees yanked up by a sudden surge of flood waters. Then, tucked beneath its muddy waters were what boatmen called sawyers, the Missouri’s most dangerous trick of all. A log floating downstream would anchor its roots or branches in the muddy bottom on the river, giving it freedom of movement to ride up on the current, seldom breaking the surface but lying concealed until it pierced a boat or ripped off a gunwale. They were as much a danger as the sucking pockets of quicksand, hungry and relentless, that rivermen called the Missouri’s secret pockets.

Zan relieved first one man and then the other at the poles. Jeff was the last to surrender his position. He dipped a cup in the river and brought it to Annie Lash.

“I don’t have a fondness for river water myself, but sometimes it has to do.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She took the cup, drained it without breathing, and handed it back to him. “It’s better than down by Saint Louis.”

“More?”

She shook her head. “I feel useless sitting here. I can take a turn at the poles.”

“That’s not necessary. Just sit here and enjoy the ride.” His dark eyes caught hers and he seemed to not want to look away.

Annie Lash wanted to ask him about the place where they were going and about the woman, Callie, but decided this wasn’t the right time. Instead, she said,
“I’ve got two pieces of candy in my pocket. Do you want one?”

He smiled at that, his dark eyes holding her sky blue ones. Annie Lash ignored her jumping heart and dug her hand into her pocket. He popped the small square into his mouth when she handed it to him.

“That’s almost better than catfish.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden light that was plainly mischievous.

“Catfish? Ugh!”

She knew he was laughing, but no sound came from his strong, bronzed throat. His eyes were so dark, so mirror dark, she could see her own reflection in them. She felt a spurt of intense pleasure. A tingling thrill traveled down her spine, making her almost giddy.

“No taste for catfish, huh?”

“Not much.”

“How about turtle? There are snappers in the river as big as washtubs.” He continued to look at her—really look—and she felt a flush steal up her throat into her face.

“Jeff,” Light called softly.

Jeff looked past Annie Lash and his face instantly lost its merriment. She turned to see what he was looking at. Jagged rocks protruded out from the shoreline, a potential hazard for their small craft. He quickly picked up a pole mad helped the men edge the craft into deeper water.

By midday it was so warm she took off her shawl and tucked it under the rope holding the trunk. She was not used to prolonged inactivity and was stiff and tired from sitting for so long. She got up from her seat and stood holding on to the rope. She hadn’t, as yet, learned to keep her balance on the bobbing, swaying craft. Her stomach growled noisily and she ate a handful of dried fruit and a biscuit provided by Jeff. By the middle of the afternoon the question foremost in her mind was how she was going to relieve her full bladder. She ached with the pressure of it.

Annie Lash watched the river ahead and wondered what was around the next bend. It was wide and deep at this point, but not swiftly flowing, and it curled in looping bends. They were able to move along faster now. There was a low, grassy bank that separated the river from the thick growth of trees. It was still and quiet. Only the creaking of the boat and the sucking sounds as the river bottom released its hold on the poles that propelled the craft broke the hush.

Suddenly, as if some unseen force had pulled a string, she turned her head toward Jeff. It was as if he had willed her to turn and look at him. He laid a finger against his lips, then looked away from her toward the band of trees. She sensed now the alertness of the other men, although the rhythm of their poling was not broken. Light, from his position on the front, righthand side of the boat, kept his head turned toward the shore as did Jeff and Zan. Silas and his son poled strongly on the outside, taking an occasional quick glance in the direction of the river’s edge.

Annie Lash forgot her almost overfilled bladder and her not quite empty stomach as she strained her ears for sound and her eyes for movement along the thick curtain of foliage. The silence pressed down on her. There was not a whisper of a branch or a birdsong to break the stillness on this warm April day.

Jeff caught her glance and motioned for her to climb down from the piled cargo and stand on the river side of the platform. Her skin prickled and her heart knocked, but when she moved her legs they were steady. With her feet planted firmly on the floor of the raft, she looked at Jeff for more instructions. He and Light were communicating by hand signals. Light wanted to move the craft farther out into the stream as they rounded a bend. Jeff agreed, and the four men poled strongly until they were almost on the edge of the faster moving current. Zan, his long gun in his hand, moved up beside Annie Lash and stood looking over the pile of freight, his narrowed eyes searching constantly along the edge of trees.

“What is it, Zan?”

“Dunno. Somethin’ fer dadburn sure.”

“What can I do?”

“Keep yore eyes peeled ’n stay outta the way.”

It was hard work poling against the strong current and progress was slow. They had just rounded the bend when a shot rang out like the crack of a whip, echoed, and was lost down the river. Not a movement was lost as the men strained against the poles. Several more shots were heard before they cleared the point in the river and could see what lay ahead.

A clumsily constructed raft was drifting with the current toward them. One man stood against a crude log hut built in the center of it and fired his gun while another poled the craft away from the shore. A group of Indians mounted on ponies broke from the trees and raced along the bank, yipping and holding their bows high over their heads in a threatening manner. Their near naked bodies hugged the backs of the small, surefooted ponies as they sped over the rough ground. The panic-stricken settler continued to fire his gun.