Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (15 page)

*   *   *

Mercy heard Daniel shake the ashes from the cook stove and knew that dawn was near. She threw back the covers, got out of the bed, and lit a candle. She gasped as she splashed the cold water on her face, then dried it on the towel that lay on her washstand. She dressed quickly in the gray dress she had decided to wear for the trip. The dress would be warm enough for this time of year. She would take a heavy shawl and a light one. Mercy folded her nightdress and the three dresses she had chosen to take; a blue one of soft material, a light gray with a white collar, and a dark brown work dress. She placed them with the stockings, underthings, several fine handkerchiefs, and toilet articles, including two bars of scented soap, in the open carpetbag on Mary Elizabeth’s bed where the night before she had packed the supply of soft cloths she used for her monthly flow. Mercy added a soft white shawl, knitted in an open, lacy pattern and a packet of her sewing equipment, with knitting needles and several balls of wool yarn for stockings, in case she would need something to keep her hands busy.

She straightened her bed and tidied the room before she took down her hair and brushed it, braided it, and wound the thick braids around her head, securing them with the silver hairpins her parents had given her on her eighteenth birthday. Before closing the bag, she put in her comb, brush, and an extra towel. As an afterthought she packed a pair of soft slippers.

When she was ready to leave, Mercy picked up her carpetbag and looked about the room. It seemed lonely, somehow. She couldn’t believe that she was leaving it. When she looked at the candle flame, it was blurred. She blinked her eyes until they cleared, picked up the candle, and left the room.

Daniel was in the kitchen. Mercy left her bag beside his pack, just inside the kitchen door. In the lamplight he looked rested, although she knew he had made a trip out to his farm after she had gone to bed. He had shaved, and his hair was damp and had been briskly combed.

“I forgot about your haircut, but I’m taking my sewing things. I’ll cut it sometime soon.”

“I’ve made tea. How about cold dumplings and pie for breakfast?”

“We have to eat it or give it to Blackbird. I must wash the pans before we go.”

“Blackbird is
not
getting the pie,” Daniel said with a grin. He poured tea in a cup and set it on the table beside the place he had set for her. “Is that all you’re taking?” he jerked his head toward the small bag beside the door.

“It’s all I’ll need.”

“You’re a rare woman. Gavin says Eleanor takes everything she owns, even when they go to Vincennes for a few days.”

“How long do you think we’ll be gone?”

“It depends on how long you want to stay. A few weeks, maybe.” He sat down at the table, put a large piece of pie in a bowl, and poured milk on it. “I told Jeems to come in the house once a day and make sure it was all right. Mike and Gavin will keep an eye on the place too.”

Mercy took a few bites of the cold dumplings, ate a small sliver of pie, and drank the tea. When Daniel finished, he carried the dumpling pan out to the barn and scraped out what was left in a trough for Blackbird. They were both quiet as they went about the task of getting ready to leave. Mercy cleaned up the breakfast things while Daniel carried the water bucket to the fireplace and then to the kitchen stove to wet down the ashes as a precaution against fire. When he went to the barn to get his horse and one to hitch to the light wagon, he took his pack and Mercy’s bag with him.

Alone in the house, Mercy went upstairs to get the chamber pot. She carried it out the front door and emptied it away from the house. Her mother wouldn’t mind if she didn’t carry it to the outhouse just this one time, she told herself. She took it back upstairs and slid it under her bed. Mercy felt as if her past were ending, and from this day on it would exist only in her memory. This had been her home. There was a dear memory tucked into each corner of the house, into each piece of furniture, each windowpane. The people who lived here and who had made this house into a home were her family.

Determinedly she dismissed that thought from her mind and concentrated on another. Daniel had said that she was what she was, regardless of the Baxters who had passed their blood down through the generations to her.

“Oh, Daniel, my dear, dear one,” she whispered. “How unbearable this would all be without you.”

When Mercy heard the horses stamping at the back gate, she flung her shawl about her shoulders, blew out the candle, and went out into the brisk, dark morning, closing the kitchen door firmly behind her. The night wind had cleaned and freshened the air. It was sharp and cold against her cheeks. In the eastern sky a faint hint of light was coming into the blackness. She walked rapidly to where Daniel was working with the harness and hitching the mare to a short, light, high-wheeled spring wagon.

“Zelda is anxious to go,” he said, patting the neck of the sorrel mare. “She’s gentle, she’s got an easy gait, and she likes pulling the wagon.”

“We drew straws to see who got to name her. Remember? Mary Elizabeth got the shortest straw.”

Daniel finished hitching the mare and tied the reins to the brake handle. He fastened a lead rope to the halter of his mount, a big buckskin gelding that stood a good two hands taller than the mare, and tied it to the tailgate. He stood for a moment looking at Mercy over the back of the horse. Her face and hair were a faint light spot in the darkness.

“Don’t be sad. We’ll be back,” he said, his whisper sounding thick, almost desperate.

“I’m trying not to be sad.” Then she said the next thing that came into her mind. “Do you want to stop by and tell Belinda Martin you’re going?”

He said nothing for a long while, as if her words had rendered him speechless. His face was a blur in the darkness, but she could see the outline of his hat brim, and the breadth of his shoulders. He was standing very still. She could feel his eyes on her face. A sudden warmth suffused her cheeks and neck. She had no right to pry into his private affairs, and wondered what had possessed her to say such a thing.

“Why in hell would I want to do that?” he asked with quiet sincerity.

“Oh, I don’t know. I just . . . thought you m-might want to,” she stammered.

“We’d better get started if we’re going to get past Granny Halpen’s before she’s out on the porch,” he said abruptly as he went to the hitching post to unsnap the holding rope. Mercy was on the seat when he climbed up beside her. “Do you have something for your head? It’s cold down on the river road.”

Mercy folded a square she’d pulled from her pocket, placed the triangle on her head, and tied the ends beneath her chin. Daniel picked up the reins and urged the mare out onto the road. They drove away in the still of the morning with only the song of the mourning doves in the trees above the house to bid them good-bye.

*   *   *

Not a single light glowed in any of the houses in Quill’s Station when they passed through it. But now there was definite early-morning light along the tops of the trees that edged the river road. It was still very dark, but Mercy could make out the line of Daniel’s profile. His face was still, his brows drawn together as if he were in deep thought. Was he angry because she had mentioned Belinda Martin?

The thought of the small, plump widow and Daniel set a nagging thought worrying her mind. Was that the kind of woman who appealed to Daniel? Did he like a woman who would keep her mouth shut and obey him without question? Daniel deserved more, much, much more, than what Belinda Martin could offer.

Daniel turned the horse down a little used road that led to the river, and Mercy brought her thoughts back to the present. It was darker here and so quiet that the horses’ hooves and the wagon wheels made scarcely a sound on the thick mat of damp leaves. They came into a small clearing. Mercy opened her mouth to question but closed it when she sensed movement ahead. There was a stirring in the darkness, then a form stood beside the mare. She could make out the shape of a pointed leather hat and the barrel of a musket.

“She goin’?” Lenny’s voice.

“Yes.”

“She got her plunder?”

“Yes.”

“Then we ain’t got no more use fer ya, mister. Ya can head on back.”

“No.”

“Ya ain’t goin’!”

“Try and stop me.”

“Bernie’s got a bead on ya.”

“And I’ve got one on you.” The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked was loud in the quiet that followed Daniel’s words.

Mercy suddenly realized the undertone of the conversation.
They didn’t want Daniel to go with her
!

“What are you talking about?” she said, her voice shrill. “Are you saying you don’t want Daniel to go with me?” Mercy turned in the seat and leaned across Daniel’s lap so she could peer into the darkness. “He goes or I don’t! Is that understood? I wouldn’t even consider going all the way to Kentucky with you if he didn’t go!”

“He ain’t yore kin! Ya ain’t needin’ him, ’n’ he ain’t got no business trailin’ along where he ain’t wanted,” Lenny said with a snort of disgust. “Now, I’m tellin’ ya, yore goin’ ta get yoreself in a peck a trouble diddling’ ’round with a feller what ain’t yore man!”

“You . . . hare-brained, shiedpoke! You’re not telling me anything about Daniel or anyone else!” Mercy shouted, her temper flaring.

“Dang bust it! Ya’d better pay a mind ta what I’m telling ya!” Lenny’s shout matched hers.

“Don’t you yell at me, Lenny Baxter!” Mercy scanned the darkness behind him. “Bernie, put that gun down and get out here or . . . or I’ll take this horsewhip to you,” she yelled, then she turned the full force of her wrath back on Lenny. “You pig-ugly, mindless . . . worm! Don’t you even attempt to tell me what to do. You’ve already caused me to lose my teaching job,” she charged bitterly. “I’m going to your . . . Mud Creek only because Daniel is going with me. He’s in charge here! Complete charge. Do you understand that? If you or Bernie give him any trouble, you’ll be sorry you ever came to Quill’s Station. What’s more, if you touch a hair on his head, I’ll . . . I’ll shoot you! So help me God, I will!”

Daniel watched and listened with a half smile on his face. This was his Mercy, the real Mercy. She was leaning firmly against him, her shoulder against his chest, her hand on his knee. Once again she had been jarred out of her depression, as she had been when she raked Glenn Knibee over the coals. He sat quietly, enjoying her closeness and her handling of the situation.

Bernie came out of the shadows, an old musket in the crook of his arm.

“Put that gun down, you fool,” she snapped.

“It ain’t right. I ain’t likin’ it.”

“It doesn’t matter a whit to me if you like it or not. But it
does
matter to me how you treat Daniel. If you don’t back off and behave yourselves, he and I will turn back, and if you ever come near me again, I’ll fill your tail so full of buckshot, you’ll not sit on it again.”

“Well, it ’pears like ya got me o’er a barrel . . . this time. He can come,” Lenny said begrudgingly, “but Hod ’n’ Wyatt ain’t goin’ to like it none a-tall.”

“To hell with Hod and Wyatt.” Mercy slid her hand inside the crook of Daniel’s arm.

“Ya better not let Maw hear ya swearin’,” Lenny cautioned. “She’d be plumb misput.”

“Are we going, or do you intend to stand there all day jawing about it?” she asked crossly.

“We’re goin’. Bernie, get the mules.”

“Ya’re lettin’ him off the hook?”

“Ya heard me, didn’t ya? Get the mules!”

“Well, it plumb flummoxes me why ya’re lettin’ a
woman
call the shots, ’n’ say what’s what. If’n word get out ’bout this, we couldn’t look folks in the eye down on Mud Creek. This feller’s goin’ ta be nothin’ but a peck a trouble. I swan, Lenny, ya beat all I’ve seen in all my born days. Ya’ve done let Hester muddy yore mind.”

“Shut up! Get the mules. I’ve had a bellyfull a yore back talk. Sister,” he said to Mercy, “I’ve got my craw full of yore sass too.”

“That’s too bad,
brother
!” Mercy said the word scathingly. “Because you’re going to hear a lot more. And I don’t give a doodle-d-squat if you like it or not.”

“Ya just better have a mind ta who ya’re talkin’ to, Missy. I ain’t never heared of no woman what so lippy as you is,” Bernie muttered. “A taste of a willow switch is what ya be needin’. Book learnin’s done ruint ye fer mindin’ what ya’re menfolk say.”

“Book learning never ruined anyone. The lack of it sure ruined you,” Mercy retorted.

“We’ll jist see what Wyatt ’n’ Hod got to say ’bout ya runnin’ off at the mouth. They ain’t goin’ ta like a know-it-all Sister none a-tall. It’ll be plain as a nose on yore face that they ain’t goin’ ta.”

“It may surprise you to know that I’m not concerned with their opinion of me any more than I am with yours. I want to know what you meant about letting Daniel off the hook,” Mercy demanded. “I demand to know just what you two were planning to do to Daniel.”

“It was nothing,” Daniel said quickly, causing her to turn to look into his face. “We had an agreement. I told them the decision was yours, that if you decided to go to Kentucky, I would bring you here.”

“And if I decided not to go?”

“Then I’d meet them here and tell them you were not going. Let’s move on out. We’ve wasted enough time here,” he added impatiently, and slapped the reins against Zelda’s back. The wagon moved suddenly. Mercy leaned heavily against Daniel until she could straighten herself on the seat.

There was definite light now. Daniel turned the wagon around in the clearing and headed back toward the river road. Mercy moved to withdraw her hand from the crook of his arm. He pressed it tightly to his side and tilted his face down toward her.

Smiling, he looked at her. Smiling, she looked at him and snuggled her shoulder behind his.