The Pilgrim Song (20 page)

“I’m pleased to meet you. Do you . . . do you think you could show me how to get home?”

“I reckon so. Dallas, you take this girl back to the Laurent place.”

“Yes’m.”

“You take Francis—it’s too fer to walk.” The woman hesitated, then said, “Here, better drink some of this. You look near ’bout frozen.”

She dipped a tin cup down into a pot of boiling liquid hanging over the fire. She brought it back and said, “Drink all a’this. Hit’ll keep you warm on the way home.”

The cup emitted a sharp aromatic aroma as Kat lifted it to her lips. She couldn’t identify the sharp taste. “What is it?”

“Sassafras tea,” the woman named Tennie said. “You ain’t never had no sassafras?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hit’s good fer you. Hit’ll clear your blood out. I’ll come by and give you some the next time I head thataway.”

Kat drank the tea and then handed the cup back. “Thank you.”

“You see, Dallas, this young’un’s got manners,” Tennie said. “Now, you take her on home, and you come right back. You hear?”

“Yes’m.”

Feeling dismissed, Kat followed the boy out to the corral, where he picked up a bridle. They walked up to the mule, a tall, rawboned animal that lowered her head for the boy to put the rope halter on. He mounted with a swift leap, then turned to Kat and motioned. Kat went over and stood beside the mule. “I don’t know how to get on.”

The boy named Dallas gave her a surprised look, then he extended his hand. She took it, and with plenty of effort from both of them, she managed to get astride the mule.

“Git up!” Dallas called, and Francis the mule moved out wearily but soon broke into a jolting trot. Kat felt her teeth jar, but she did not complain. She put her arms around the strange boy, for she was afraid of falling off, and when she touched him, she felt him stiffen.

The rough pace of the mule was not conducive to talk, but finally the boy slowed the animal down to a fast walk, and Kat said, “Was that your mother?”

“Granny.”

“Oh, you two live there alone?”

“Yep.”

Kat was finding it difficult to make conversation. Dallas would do no more than offer one-word answers. Kat soon saw the river, however, and relief washed through her. “We live over that way past that grove of trees.”

A few minutes later the mule stopped in the back of the
house. The door opened, and both Jenny and Hannah came running out. Kat slipped off the mule, and Hannah grabbed her and hugged her.

“Where have you been? We’ve been scared to death.”

Jenny reached out and patted Kat, her face showing relief. “Dad and Clint are out searching for you.”

“I got lost,” Kat said. “This is Dallas. He found me and took me to his grandmother’s house. She told him to bring me home.”

Hannah summoned a smile for the boy, even though he had his face turned to the ground. She had been terribly worried, but now she said, “Thank you so much for bringing Kat home. Won’t you come in and get warm?”

Dallas shook his head and, without a word, leaped on the mule and turned her away. Kicking her with his heels, he bounced away back toward the river.

“What a strange young man,” Jenny marveled.

“He doesn’t talk much, and his grandma looks like a witch,” Kat said.

“What’s her name?”

“She just told me it was Tennie. I don’t know her last name.”

“Well, we’ve got to go out and try to find the men. They’re as worried as we were.” Hannah reached out and shook her. “Don’t you ever do that again. You’ll never know how scared we were.”

“I’m sorry,” Kat said. “I just got turned around.”

****

Later that night at a supper of sweet potatoes, pork chops, and biscuits, Clint commented on Kat’s rescuers. “I’ve heard about that woman. She’s an herb woman. Her name’s Tennie Sharp.”

“What’s an herb woman?” Jenny asked.

“She collects herbs and makes medicine out of them. A lot of folks swear by it. They did back where I grew up too.”

“What about her grandson, Dallas?”

“As far as I can make out, one of her daughters took off with a man and wound up in Dallas. Had this baby, and when he was six years old she died, and Tennie had to take him to raise. A lot of folks think the boy’s retarded.”

“He’s not. He just doesn’t want to talk,” Kat put in.

Clint turned and said, “Kat, the next time you go exploring, don’t go north along the river. Dog Town’s up that way, and there are some pretty rough characters.”

“That’s right,” Hannah said. “You go the other way—and don’t you ever get lost again!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Josh’s Troubles

The freezing wind whipped out of the north, swirled around Josh, and held him as if in a powerful fist. He had set out walking, and a sudden freezing rain had fallen, soaking him to the skin. Now as he stumbled along, he almost turned to go back, but gritting his teeth, he moved ahead. His feet were so numbed by the cold he could not feel them.

He had gone without a drink for four days now, and the craving was consuming him. He had not known how addicted he was to alcohol until now. Feeling the sleet stinging his face, he pulled his scarf up over his chin and mouth and his hat down. He had been sick for two days and had tried to ignore it, but his craving for whiskey had become so strong it drove him out of the house toward Dog Town.

Going back into Summerdale had been out of the question, for since his arrest there, he knew there was no way to get liquor. An old toothless man had stopped his wagon the last time Josh had set out on this road and talked with Josh. He had appeared ignorant and dirty and was headed north, so Josh had said, “You live up that way?”

“Shore, live in Dog Town. You know it?”

“No.”

“Come up and see us sometime.” He had made an odd clicking noise with his false teeth and then winked. “In weather like this a man needs somethin’ to put some fire in his bones. We ain’t got much up there, but we manage to keep warm.”

The words had stayed with Josh and had drawn him out of the house, for he was as miserable as he had ever been in his life. He had six dollars in his pocket and knew he would give the last penny of it for a drink of whiskey. He remembered being in the Bowery in New York once on a Sunday morning with a friend. He had seen with disgust the bodies lying in doorways, men so drunk they couldn’t roll over. They had watched as the paddy wagons loaded them like logs and hauled them off to jail.

I’m no better than they are,
he thought, and he hated himself. Still, he kept walking until he finally turned the bend and saw a small scattering of buildings. It wasn’t very much like a town—just a few stores with some shacks surrounding them in a disorderly array. As he moved down what passed for the main street, he saw a general store, a blacksmith shop, a saloon, a gas station, and several other nondescript buildings. He hesitated, then marched toward the saloon.

When he entered, he saw a wood stove glowing cherry red at one end of the room, and the heat from it almost hurt his frozen skin. Scanning the room, he saw four rough-looking men, all with their hats on, sitting around a table playing cards. Across the other end was a bar, and as he stepped over to it, one of the men at the table got up and went behind the bar. He obviously hadn’t shaved or bathed in days, or even longer. “What’ll it be, mister?”

Josh almost said, “Give me some whiskey,” but then he remembered how he had wound up in jail the last time he had blurted this out. He did not know how to handle the situation, and he knew the other three men were all listening intently, their eyes fixed on him. Hesitantly, Josh said, “I guess . . . you got any coffee?”

“On the stove.” The man picked a cup off the shelf and handed it to him. “That’ll be five cents.”

Josh fumbled in his pocket, came out with some change, and put down a nickel. Taking the cup, he went over and poured it full from the blackened coffeepot.

The coffee itself was black and rank, but at least it warmed him. It couldn’t, however, dispel the chill he felt at the glares of the men who were all watching him. Overwhelmed by a sense of danger, he drained the cup and took it back to the bar, mumbled his thanks, then left as quickly as he dared. His craving for alcohol had been made worse by the coffee, and he shook his head in despair.

He trudged down the street, and a man came out of the blacksmith’s shop wearing a ragged old coat. He muttered, “Can you spare a quarter, mister? I ain’t had nothin’ to eat all day.”

Josh could not spare anything, but he reached into his pocket and separated a quarter and held it up. “Can a man get a drink of whiskey around here?”

The old man trembled as he reached out his hand. “Shore. You go right down that road a quarter of a mile. Back off on the left you’ll see a house. That’s the Skinners. They can fix you up, no questions asked.”

Josh surrendered the coin, then frowned as the old man started off for the saloon. Josh knew that the quarter would not go for food but for whiskey. Angry with himself and his situation, he turned and briskly strode out of town. The wind had grown colder, and the precipitation was now half sleet and half snow. It bit at his face, and he shoved his hands far into the pockets of his overcoat.

He saw the house sitting back in the trees with a single dirt road leading to it, now glistening with white flakes. Desperately he marched toward it but had not gone halfway when a voice stopped him. “What do you want?”

Startled, Josh blinked and turned to find a man watching him. He had his hands in his pockets and his hat down over his eyes, but Josh could see he was a big rough fellow.

“I’m looking for a drink,” he said. He did not care, at this point, whether he was arrested or not.

He could tell the big man was weighing him in the balances before finally saying, “Come on to the house.”

As Josh followed him, the man asked gruffly, “What’s your name?”

“Josh Winslow.”

“You the fellow that run the Cundiffs outta their place?”

Josh shook his head. “Not their place. It belonged to my family. What’s your name?”

“Jordan Skinner. How’d you know about us?”

“Some bum in town told me I could get a drink here.”

Skinner said no more as he led the way to the house. It was unpainted and had a tin roof, but yellow light glowed out of the windows. Jordan removed one hand, kept the other in his pocket, and opened the door. “Go on in.”

Josh stepped inside and found himself in a kitchen where a family had evidently gathered for dinner. A skinny man who appeared to be in his fifties sat at the end of a table. He had patchy gray hair on his head and stubble on his chin. His eyes were close together, sharp and penetrating. “Who’s this, Jordan?”

“Name’s Winslow. He’s come to get a drink.”

The good-looking young man sitting beside the older man said, “He’s probably the law. What’d you bring him in here for, Jordan?”

“He ain’t the law. He’s about to fall down.” Jordan pulled off his cap and pulled his hand out of his pocket, allowing Josh to see the pistol inside. “He looks like he’s needin’ a drink pretty bad.”

Two other people were in the room. A thin woman with salt-and-pepper hair, her face worn with the rough life she had led, was cooking at the stove.

A young woman of no more than eighteen was seated at the table. He thought she would be pretty if she were fixed up, and she still was in a primitive sort of way. Her ragged dress clearly revealed the lines of her figure as she got up and moved closer. “What’s your other name?”

“Josh.”

“Hello, Josh Winslow. I’m Dora. You really come to get somethin’ to drink?”

“Yes, I walked all the way here.”

The older woman stomped over to him and stared in his face. “You look sick to me,” she said in a sharp voice. “You don’t need to come bringin’ no fever in here.”

Dora laughed. “He ain’t sick. The man jist needs a drink.” She turned and faced Josh squarely, challenge in her wide-spaced eyes. They were an odd color, hazel with bright green flecks. “Could you use a drink?”

Josh smiled uncertainly. “The last time I said yes to that, I wound up in jail.”

“That was in Summerdale, warn’t it? We heard about it.” She walked over to the table and poured a glass half full from the heavy-looking jug that was sitting there. She handed it to Josh. “Here.”

“He might be a revenuer.” The speaker was the young handsome fellow who was now glowering at Josh.

“He ain’t no revenuer, Billy Roy.”

“No, I’m not. I just need a drink.”

“Can you pay for it?” The old man spoke up harshly.

“Yes, I can pay for it. Will you sell me a jug?”

“It’ll be five dollars.”

“That’s okay.”

Dora watched the visitor carefully. There was something about him that spoke of quality, and she could not have put her finger on it, but she knew he was not rough like most of the men she knew. His hands, she saw, were finely formed, and his hair was neatly cut. He needed a shave, but even so she could tell he was fine looking, and he wore a fine coat.

“Take your coat off,” she invited. “Sit down and have a bite to eat.”

“You’re mighty free with my groceries, daughter.”

Dora simply laughed at him. “Don’t be so miserly, Pa. Sit yourself down, Josh.”

Josh hesitated but then sat. He threw down half of the
contents of the glass and shuddered as the raw alcohol hit his stomach.

“Pretty strong stuff, ain’t it?” Jordan grinned, showing his two missing front teeth. “They make it a little smoother than that where you come from, don’t they?”

“Where do you come from?” the older man asked. “I’m Simon Skinner, by the way. This is my place.”

“Came from New York,” Josh mumbled.

“New York,” Dora whispered. “Why’d you leave New York to come here?”

Josh drained the glass and braced himself against the force of the alcohol. It was warming his system now, and he felt better. “Our family lost everything in the crash.”

“And what crash was that?” Jordan asked, a puzzled frown on his face.

“The stock market crash.”

Jordan scratched his head in confusion.

“I read about that in the paper,” Dora said. “Some fellas jumped off a building when they lost all their money.”