Wilde, Jennifer (35 page)

"Heard
that yell an' thought I was ridin' into a camp of savages," he said
lazily. "You got any whiskey?"

"You
know I always carry a quart, you bastard. You probably have half a dozen
bottles stashed away in them packs yourself—just wanna mooch offa me. Reckon I
can spare a shot or two."

"Be
mighty obliged," Jackson drawled.

Jeff
pulled the bottle out of one of the packs, and the two men drank, tilting the
bottle back with relish. Jackson's horse nibbled at the grass. One of his mules
brayed. The bottle was half empty before Jeff finally put the cap back on and
slipped it into the pack.

"Mighty
good," Jackson remarked.

"Particularly
as it didn't cost you nothin'."

"Could
have somethin' to do with it. You-all headin' for Natchez?"

Jeff
nodded. "Left Carolina 'bout two weeks ago. Hear there might be Indian
trouble up the trail. Crawley was certain they was gonna attack at any minute.
See any signs of 'em?"

Jackson
hesitated, glancing at me. He scratched the side of his head, his blue eyes
filled with indecision as he debated whether or not to speak. After a moment he
frowned and spoke in a guarded voice.

"Band
of renegades. Couldn't be more'n ten or twelve of 'em, I figure. The rest of
the tribe's moved on up country, fifty miles or so from the Trace. This bunch—
they ain't up to no good. The McKenney family was murdered. I reckon Crawley
heard about that. These braves're out to kill any white they can get their
hands on."

Jeff
was grave. "You run into 'em?"

"I
saw 'em," Jackson said. "I'd camped for the night, had the horse and
mules tethered. I heard 'em in the distance, heard 'em whoopin' and hollerin'.
I crept through the woods to investigate, hid behind some bushes on the edge of
their camp. They was all painted up, wearin' their feathers, dancin' 'round
their fire. Joe Pearson—" He darted another glance at me, the crease between
his brows digging deeper. "Joe started out a couple days 'fore I did.
He—he was
in
th' fire, lashed to a stake, screamin' his lungs out.
Wuzn't nothin' I could do but get th' hell outa there quick as I could. I
backtracked and made a wide detour."

Both
men were silent for a while. I was horrified by what I had heard. The river
continued to rush along with a pleasant gurgling noise. Insects hummed.
Sunlight and shadow played on the ground as tree limbs swayed gently in the
breeze. The spot that had seemed so peaceful and lovely just a short while ago
seemed suddenly ominous, threatening. I felt vulnerable and exposed, felt
hostile eyes were observing us even as we stood there.

"How
long ago was that?" Jeff asked.

"
'Bout a week and a half ago."

"Chances
are they've moved out of the area by this time."

"It's
likely," Jackson admitted. "Still, if you intend goin' on, you want
to keep your rifle handy. You might make sure the woman has a gun handy,
too."

Jeff
nodded again. Jackson's expression was impassive. He was clearly a man who felt
little emotion, a man long inured to hardship and horror. In his filthy
buckskins and raccoon cap, with his lanky locks and shaggy black beard, he was
nevertheless an impressive figure in a way I couldn't quite define. If there
was such a thing as an "American" type, Jackson was uniquely so.

"Guess
I better be pushin' on," he drawled. "Reckon there's another hour or
so 'fore dark. Want to get as far up the road as I can."

"You
haven't seen anything of the Brennans, have you?"

"You
mean Jim and Billy?"

"Crawley
claims they're in the area, claims they murdered a couple trappers."

"Wouldn't
doubt it. Trappers were probably carryin' a rich load of furs. Them Brennan
boys is bad news. I ain't seen 'em, but that don't mean they ain't around. If
they are, you wanna watch out. Reckon they bear you a pretty strong grudge
after the way you shot up Jim and whupped Billy."

"Reckon
they might," Jeff agreed.

Jackson
mounted his horse, swinging lazily into the saddle. "Don't wanna dawdle.
Take care, Rawlins."

"You,
too."

He
walked the horse slowly out of the clearing, the mules trailing behind. Just
before he passed out of sight behind a line of trees, he turned around in the
saddle and gazed at us with a pale, impassive face, then lifted his arm in
farewell. Jeff was silent for a long while, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and
then, seeing my expression, he broke into one of those wide, merry grins.

"Aw,
come on now, don't look so scared. I'll protect you."

"It—it's
just so frightening."

"Hell,
them Indians have probably cleared out—that was more'n a week ago. As for the
Brennans, I reckon I could handle 'em any day of the week. If they know what's
good for 'em, they'll steer clear. Don't you worry about it."

"That
poor man—"

He
looked puzzled. "Jackson?"

"Joe
Pearson, the one the Indians—" I hesitated, shuddering.

"Burnin'
at the stake's downright gentle compared to some of the things they do to
captives. Usually they keep a man alive as long as possible. He dies a thousand
deaths before—I'm upsettin' you. Tell you what, why don't we have a little
target practice?"

"I
don't know what you mean."

"You
ever fired a rifle?"

"I've
never even touched one."

"High
time you had a few lessons. Not that you're likely to be usin' it against
Indians," he added hastily. "I might get tired of goin' out for game
one day, might decide to send you out to round up dinner. Everyone oughta know
how to use a rifle. You'll soon get the hang of it."

Jeff
fetched powder horn and rifle from one of the packs. He showed me how to load
the thing, how to hold it. Unenthusiastic, I watched, and when he thrust it at
me I held it nervously, afraid it would explode in my arms. Jeff stepped behind
me and, reaching around, helped me get the proper hold. I leaned back against
him, my arms shaking a bit from the weight of the rifle. His cheek was almost
touching mine, and I could feel his muscles tighten as he lifted my arms up
higher.

"Like
this, ya see? Hold it like this. Let the butt rest against your shoulder.
Relax, Marietta, it ain't gonna bite you. Okay, now look through the
sight."

"The
sight?"

"That
tiny piece of metal stickin' up on the end of th' barrel. Don't you know
anything? That's the sight. You get whatever you intend to hit lined up with
it. Then you just pull the trigger—and if you ask me what the trigger is I'm
gonna strangle you here and now."

"I
know what the trigger is," I said wearily.

Jeff
let go of my arms and strolled several paces away to my right. The rifle was
much heavier than I had thought it would be. It was difficult to hold it
steady.

"All
right," he said, "you're ready to fire."

"What
am I going to fire at?"

Still
holding the rifle, I turned innocently toward him. His face turned ashen. His
eyes widened in alarm. He gave a yell and almost fell over backwards getting
out of the way. I realized that the rifle had been pointing directly at him and
I was unable to resist a smile. Jeff scowled, not at all amused. Still shaken,
he pushed his hair from his forehead.

"That
thing's
loaded.
You coulda blown my head off!"

"This
was your idea," I told him.

He
came up behind me again, evidently deciding that was the safest place to be.

"See
that log across the river there?" he said. "There's a great big
branch stickin' up there on the end. Fire at it. You couldn't possibly miss it,
not from this distance. Remember to get it lined up in your sight."

My
arms were already aching dreadfully from the strain of holding the rifle, and I
was even more nervous than before. Nevertheless, I took very careful aim,
determined to show him I wasn't a complete idiot. My finger rested loosely on
the trigger. Tense, my body rigid, I closed my eyes. I squeezed. The explosion
was deafening. The recoil almost knocked me over. I would have fallen had Jeff
not been there to throw his arms around me. He held me tightly as the smoke
cleared, and then he gave an exasperated sigh.

"Did
I hit it?"

"
'Fraid not," he replied, "but you sure as hell messed up that clump
of flowers over there."

He
handed me the powder horn and insisted that I load the rifle again. I hadn't
been paying enough attention earlier. I botched it terribly, spilling powder
all over the ground. Jeff jerked the rifle out of my hands and loaded it
himself, showing me how all over again, threatening to beat me if I made a mess
of it the next time. He handed the rifle back to me and made me hoist it up
into position without any help.

Again
I took aim. I was more relaxed this time, not letting the weight of the rifle
bother me so much, not nearly so rigid as I had been before. I covered the
branch with the sight. I pulled the trigger, keeping my eyes open this time,
steadying myself against the recoil. There was another deafening explosion,
another great puff of acrid smoke. A rock in the middle of the stream shattered
into bits.

"You
probably hit a
fish!"
he exclaimed.

"I'm
trying!" I retorted. "I didn't want to fire the bloody thing in the
first place!"

"You're
gonna be a crack shot before I get through with you!"

"Is
that right!"

"It
damn sure is!" he thundered.

We
glared at each other, tempers high, eyes flashing, and then, unable to maintain
his anger, Jeff broke into a sheepish grin. I began to smile. We both laughed,
and then he clapped me on the back good-naturedly and gave me the powder horn
again. I didn't spill a drop this time. I shot at the branch. I missed. He
merely shook his head. We continued target practice for another fifteen
minutes, and although I never once hit the branch, I did manage to do
considerable damage to the area nearby. Jeff cleaned the rifle and put it away.

"At
least we're making some progress," he remarked. "You're not afraid of
it any more. Tomorrow you might even be able to
hit
something."

The
sunlight was almost gone. Thick shadows were beginning to spread over the
ground. Jeff checked on the mules and then spread blankets out over the grass
beneath the boughs of a tree. The fire had long since gone out. I smoothed back
my hair, feeling much better now. Jeff took me in his arms and kissed me
soundly, and then he led me over to the blankets. Darkness fell as we made
love, wrestling lustily, enjoying each other immensely. Jeff fell asleep
immediately afterwards, his arms still wrapped around me, his head resting on
my shoulder. The stream gurgled. Leaves rustled. The forest was filled with
night noises. Through the branches of the tree I could see the dark sky frosted
with stars that blinked and glittered brightly.

Jeff
stirred, groaning, tightening his grip on me. I stroked the back of his head,
loving his weight, his warmth, wishing I could feel safe and secure here in his
arms. I couldn't. Despite all my efforts to put it out of my mind, I kept
thinking about that poor man lashed to the stake while the flames crackled and
the Indians howled. No matter what Jeff might say, I knew we were going to be
in constant danger until we finally put this savage country behind us.

I
hadn't
become a crack shot, not by any means, but after four days of lessons I handled
the rifle with some assurance and could usually hit whatever target Jeff
indicated. He was quite pleased with me. His spare rifle was now mine for the
duration of the trip. Sheathed in a long, shabby leather holster, the rifle was
affixed to Jenny's saddle and I had my own powder horn within easy reach as
well. It gave me a certain feeling of security, for although four days had
passed without the least sign of Indians, I couldn't rid myself of the fear we
would encounter them before the journey was over.

We
rode hard. I found that I was growing accustomed to it and not complaining
nearly as much. Although we got up before dawn and resumed our travel while the
sunrise was still staining the sky, Jeff was usually content to stop for the
night quite early, providing we had made good time during the day. I was
growing accustomed to the land, too. It still seemed ominous and forbidding,
but I was beginning to appreciate the savage splendor, the startling variety of
trees, the sparkling streams strewn with gray and golden-gray boulders, the
rough, ruggedly beautiful vistas we saw whenever we momentarily left the dense
forest.

Five
days after our encounter with Jackson, we spent the entire morning laboriously
moving up the side of a vast mountain thickly covered with towering pine trees,
the trail winding gradually and carrying us higher and higher. I was amazed
that Jeff, or anyone else for that matter, was able to stay on the Trace, for
ever since we had left Crawley's Inn, the trail had grown much less distinct,
vanishing altogether at times, it seemed, invisible to all but the most trained
eye. I would never have been able to keep to it on my own, would have gotten
lost immediately. But Jeff was confident, and even when there seemed to be no
trail at all, he forged on through the forest without the least hesitation.