The Big Sky (5 page)

The river came out of its heavy flow and began to race. The timber swung around, and around again. Water swam in his sight, and the two shores and quick patches of sky before the timber settled again to the current like a mule to a lead rope.

Boone kept kicking, trying to keep pointed right, trying to push beyond the hold of the channel. It was a time before he realized that the current had changed and was washing over toward the Indiana shore. He locked his chin on the timber and hung there, numb, and after a while made his feet kick again, seeing only the rifle shining wet and dark on the wood and the water moving around him.

He knew when an Indiana farmer fished him out and got his arms around him from behind and dragged him to his cabin. He heard the man grunting over him. "Let 'er go, sonny! Your rifle will be safe as anything. Let 'er go!"
 
 

The river lay behind him, the river and the Indiana farmer who had put him up and had given him flint and steel, a horn of powder, a little poke of coarse meal, and a chunk of salt meat. "If you kin use that there rifle like she was made to be used, you'll make out," the farmer had said, and Boone had thanked him while he scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot. "Maybe it'll be turn about one day," he muttered. The farmer smiled and waved away the idea, and Boone turned and headed west out of the valley.

The land was flattening out. Back of him when the trees thinned he still could see the dark arches of the hills that flanked the river, but ahead the way was leveling, broken by low rolls covered with oak and maple and hackberry, and sycamore whose trunks stood out white and naked from the rest.

The air was heavy, the sky gray and cold like a winter's pond. The bare branches of the trees veined themselves against it, forking darkly down to the trunks.

Boone wondered how soon he could reach St. Louis. "Take a man a full week, likely, if he kep' at it," he said to himself, thinking ahead to beaver and buffalo and the free plains. The road was good. Once in a while he saw a cabin at the base of a hill or the edge of a grove and felt better for its company. Sometimes he met horsemen, and once a Conestoga wagon, crowded to the canvas, rolling on west.

"We'd lift ye, boy," the driver said through a mat of whiskers as the wagon drew abreast, "but we're so jampacked we hadda make the bedbugs git out and walk." He added, "They're gonna be some sore-footed chinches, time we get to Martllasville." The faces of a woman and two children, crowded to his left, made stiff smiles and sobered again as the driver swung his whip.

As it drew on toward dusk, Boone kept an eye out for game. He had seen a turkey earlier, and deer tracks at the side of the trail, but now the way was empty of game or sign of it. Overhead a V of wild geese drove to the north, high-flying and silent except for one inquiring honk that found no answer below. Then a rabbit bounced from roadside to bush and settled, its lines and color melting into the brown tangle of twig and blade and only the dark ball of its eye showing clear.

It was poor game, but Boone came up slow with his rifle so as not to scare it, remembering Pap's brag that if a man was sharp-eyed and steady he could knock out a possum's eye with Old Sure Shot, far as he could see it. The gun cracked, and the rabbit leaped as if jerked from above and came down kicking. Boone patted the butt of his weapon and, bringing the piece into the crook of his arm, went over and stood above the stilling body as he reloaded.

The air was thickening with dusk, with the wet, sad dusk of early spring. The sun that had ridden all day behind a veil whitened the sky line ahead. It was getting colder.

Boone picked up the rabbit and started on, looking for a place to spend the night. No house was in sight, and no light, but a little farther on, just off the road, he found a smooth and level spot among the trees, at the side of which a slow branch flowed. He piled dead wood at the edge of his camp site and built a fire, sprinkling gunpowder over a handful of dry rot, lighting it with a spark from his flint and feeding the flame with twigs. When he had it going well he stepped to the stream and skinned and gutted the rabbit. He found a flat rock at the edge of the creek and angled it up from the fire, then went to the bank again and with his bloody hands molded four balls of meal and water. He cut the carcass of the rabbit into small pieces and with the ball of his thumb tagged them onto the angled stone, which he moved closer to the fire. The cakes he dropped into the coals. It wasn't much meal for a hungry man, he thought, and so cut two slices from his piece of salt meat. He dangled them in his poke of meal and laid them on the rock beside the rabbit's flesh, which already was drawing with the heat.

He sat back to wait, the knife held in his hand, hearing the creek moving, the breeze singing in the bare tree tops, and fire hissing at a wet spot in the wood. The heat on his face and chest was good. He nodded in it.

"Evenin', sir," said a soft voice. It went on quickly, "No harm intended," for Boone had scrambled up and seized his rifle from the tree against which he had leaned it. He swung around in a half crouch.

"The night caught us," the voice explained, "and I hanker for company." In the dark Boone made out the outlines of a horse and rider. The horse let out a quivering snort.

"Git down, then," said Boone, "and come where I kin see you."

"Sure," the man said amiably and swung from his horse. "Here I am," he continued, holding his arms wide under the cape of a dove greatcoat. He took off his high white beaver hat and came toward the fire. "Friend, tell me if I qualify." He stood silent, making a figure in his greatcoat and the cutaway beneath it, in the trousers that hugged his thighs and calves and were held snug by straps that looped under his boots. As he waited, his long nose caught the smell of the roasting meat, and he let out a sigh that stank the air with alcohol. His gaze ran everywhere, to Boone, to the fire, to the slanted stone, to the trees about them, to the gun that Boone held at ready. "A beautiful iron," he said, as if the eye of the rifle wasn't fixed on him. "On my saddle," he said when Boone did not speak, "I have a jug of very fine Monongahela. Would you care for a swallow before your meal?" He did not wait for an answer. The jug gurgled as he brought it forward.

"A part of it is gone," he said. "A small part. But enough is left for two." He held out the jug. After a long look Boone rested his rifle on his shoulder. He strangled a little as his throat tightened against the bite of the liquor. He squeezed out "Thank ye" and returned the jug, which the other upended. "My name," the man said as he brought the back of his hand across his mouth, "is Jonathan Bedwell, late of New Orleans."

Boone made a little gesture toward the fire. "It's no more'n a rabbit. I didn't see nothin' better, but I can put some more side meat on." As the man looked at him he added, "There's johnnycakes."

The fire flared up, lighting Bedwell's facgafle smiled a wide, long smile. "Why, we'll make out, friend:" He patted the jug and motioned toward the fire."Between this and that. Have another."

"Thanks again, mister."

Bedwell drank and put the jug on the ground. "I'll unsaddle my horse and picket him." He turned and went back. He and his horse were shadows moving at the edge of darkness. Boone put his rifle back against the tree and cut more meat. He turned the slices already on the stone. They were done when Bedwell returned carrying his rigging. Bedwell picked up the jug and offered it again. After their meal they built up the fire and gathered more wood and settled on the ground. Bedwell's eyes were busy again. They gleamed wetly in the fire light. "I'm glad to see one man," he said, "that knows a cap and ball is better than a flintlock." He picked up the jug.

"Pap says so."

"Funny. The cap and ball was hit on more than twenty years ago -by a preacher, so they say. But I suppose there's still more flintlocks. The old boys argue that this kind jumps off the mark."

"It ain't so -with this rifle, anyhow."

"No. I say again, it's a beautiful piece."

"Old Ben Mills made it hisself, at Harrodsburg. She's true as could be. That rabbit, I took the eye right out of him. I reckon you heard of old Ben Mills?"

Bedwell turned his face toward Boone. It was a sharp face, lined around the eyes and mouth, as if smiles had worn creases in it. "I reckon I have! So Mills made itl Mills himself!"

"Yep, it's a Mills." Boone took the jug that Bedwell held out to him.

"You ought to take good care of it, friend. You ought to keep it cleaned and shined up and be careful nobody steals it. There's men would give a pretty lot for that rifle."

Boone said, "I watch over it, all right."

Bedwell had taken off his dove coat and let it lie back of him. Boone saw its lining lift and flutter raggedly as the breeze touched it. His gaze swam forward to the beaver hat which Bedwell had placed between his feet, and saw that it was worn and soiled. Bedwell sat with his knees up, the tails of his cutaway spread back from his rump. His legs in their snug casings seemed spindly for the rest of him.

"So," Bedwell said, "you're bound west."

"To St. Lo. first, and then on."

"Here's to good luck!" The jug gurgled as Boone took it. "I aim to trap beaver and shoot buffalo and fight Injuns,
maybe. I kin shoot, all right."

"I'd take you for a marksman." The bare head moved and the creases deepened into a smile.

"I taken the eye right out of that rabbit."

"Light was bad, too, huh?"

"Dark-like. But I got him through the eye."

"You'll do." Bedwell got up and put more wood on the fire. "You'll make a mountain man."

The night closed in. There was the point of fire and Bedwell vague and swimming in its flicker, and close about them the wall of darkness. Boone let himself back and put his head on his arm.

"Haven't you got a blanket, friend?"

"No," Boone heard himself say, "nary blanket." He heard the whisper of the tight legs, heard the boots cracking the twigs, heard the small noises of movement. The earth swung with him. Then there were the noises again, the whisper, the crackling, and Bedwell's voice. "You use my blanket." Boone felt it fan the air against his cheek. It settled over him. "I'll keep the fire going. With it and my coat I'll be warm aplenty. Here's your rifle, friend. Best to keep it by your side. How about a nightcap?"

Boone awakened sick and trembling with cold in the first flush of the morning. He felt for the blanket and, not finding it, sat up slowly. The fire was a gray ash, in which the cook-rock had fallen and lay half buried. The breeze rolled a tuft of rabbit hair across it. He tasted his mouth and made a face and brought his fingers to his eyes to rub the film away. He looked around for Bedwell. He must have gone to see about his horse, he thought. His hand felt at his side, felt and reached out and felt again. Each finger carried its small sharp message to him. Without looking, he knew that Old Sure Shot was gone.
 
 

Boone got up quickly. The earth tilted and fell back and tilted again, and he bent over and put his hands to his head and closed his eyes to steady himself. He went over the ground, from creek to campfire to bedding spot, and finally to the place where Bedwell had picketed his horse.

He found rope marks on a small elm there and saw the grass trampled by hoofs and flattened where the horse had lain. From apile of manure a faint steam lifted.

He went back to the stream and lay down and drank, feeling the cool touch of the water to the pit of his stomach. He got up slowly, keeping his uneasy balance with the earth, and suddenly his stomach tightened like a squeezed bag. Holding to a bush, he hung over and vomited. The night's whisky was foul in his mouth. He rubbed the tears from his cheeks and picked up his poke of meal, dropping the bit of meat into it. "Goddam him!" he said aloud.

The morning mists were rising. Above the knobs to the east the sun appeared, its shine spread out and heatless. A lean hog nosed into the clearing and halted, its round snoot twitching as it sampled the air. "Git!" said the boy, and it gave a grunt and lumbered off.

Boone lagged to the trail and stopped and looked back. Home seemed a far piece now, beyond the knobs, beyond the great river, through the hills. His ma would be wondering about him, he reckoned. Maybe she grieved, hearing from Pap that the river must have got him. Maybe she said, "Boone! Boone!" to herself while her wet eyes leaked over. Of a sudden, weakness came on him again, taking the strength out of him and the grit. It wasn't any use trying to run away. Everywhere people picked on a boy, chasing after him like they'd chase a wild brute, or playing friendly and stealing from him. Better to go back to Ma and let Pap beat on him. Better to have something to eat and a home to lie in. Only, the law was after him now, and maybe home would be the jailhouse, and Pap would want to kill him, or come nigh to it. He straightened. Anyhow, he'd even things with Bedwell. He aimed to get Old Sure Shot back one way or another. He turned around and started west again, his head pounding to his step, his eyes following the horse tracks on the trail.

Boone wondered about Jim Deakins. Had Jim crossed the river? Would he really come? He saw the open, friendly face, the sorrel beard sprouting, the mild blue eyes. A man got lonesome, all by himself in a strange country. When Boone saw a gristmill, though, and the miller busy with his sacks, he put his head down and passed on, only muttering to the friendly hail. The few houses along the road he passed by, too, indrawn and distrustful. A lean brown and white dog ran out from one of them, nagging at his heels, and he turned and kicked at it, ignoring the promise of a man at the door who called, "He won't bite ye, boy."

He was in country different from home. The hills were smaller and more rounded, and there were more oaks and beech groves, but there were hickories, too, and walnuts, elms, wild cherries, and a few pines. In the smaller growth he made out dogwood, pawpaws, thorns, and persimmons. If it happened to be fall, now, he could find ripe pawpaws aplenty and shake himself down a bellyful of persimmons. He had ought to eat, regardless. Pap always said food was good for whisky fever. Not pawpaws or persimmons, though. They gagged a man, just thinking about them. Ham and parched corn and shucky beans would go better, and fresh meat better yet. If he had Old Sure Shot he could get himself some meat. Just having Old Sure Shot, without the meat, would make him feel tolerable -just having it, without the horn and pouch that Bedwell had stolen, too.