Daughter of the Sword (28 page)

Deborah promised. And with a final wave, they started off toward the smithy.

It was slushy underfoot. Chica stepped daintily, annoyed at the splattering, but Belshazzar plunked down his big hooves as if resigned to all that bedeviled honest horses, including girls who should have the sense to stay home. It was cold but at least not freezing, and the sun made it seem warmer than it was.

“I'm goin' to miss your folks,” said Judith. “Specially your mama. My mama died havin' a baby when I was real little. About all I can remember is how she screamed and screamed.”

“Did the baby live?”

“No. It was yellow, scrawny as a plucked old rooster. Must've belonged to Mr. Jed's pa, or maybe even Mr. Jed. He was about twenty then and down in the quarters most every night.” Judith gasped in belated recollection. “Your mama wouldn't like me tellin' you such things, Deborah.”

“She'd be sorry they happened. I'm really going to miss you, Judith.”

Judith hadn't talked a lot, but she'd joined into whatever needed doing, and once she'd come to trust Deborah, she had often smiled or shot her glances of understanding. They were close to the same age, though Judith didn't know hers exactly. Still, in some ways, she seemed much older.

With Thos gone, too, it was going to be lonely. Deborah forced cheerfulness into her voice. “Sara's going to be glad to have another woman at bachelors' hall.”

“I can help her, that's sure! The mending alone she has for those three men critters! Never get to the end of it 'cause into the basket they keep tossin' socks, shirts, and trousers.” Judith illustrated the careless motions of the male part of the household so disgustedly that Deborah burst out laughing.

Judith frowned. “That Maccabee—ought to get a woman, stop loadin' Sara down.”

“He can't just kidnap someone off a wagon train, and he doesn't like to go to town.”

“Takin' the easy way,” said Judith. “Let him wash, mend, and cook for himself and see how fast he finds a wife!”

“I hope you're not going to scold the poor man.”

“Sayin' what's true's not scoldin'.” Judith grinned and Deborah laughed back, glad to see a spark of devilment in the usually subdued young woman.

They could see the distant fringe of trees along the river now, the sprawl of the smithy like tiny toy structures set down in the remaining snow. By tomorrow the prairie should be fairly clear except for drifts along the slopes.

Johnny, Maccabee, and Laddie were at work and saluted briefly, shouting a welcome as Sara came to the door. Quickly mastering her outward disappointment that there was no word from Thos, she helped the girls stable the horses and, when Judith's decision was told, made her feel warmly at home.

“I don't want any more menfolk around, but a woman—well, I'm glad to have you!” she said.

They had milk and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, sharing their snowbound experiences.

An old bachelor from upriver who'd brought his team to be shod had been forced to stay longer than the night he'd counted on, and a courting couple on their way home from a late party had come hammering for shelter as the blizzard began. They had gone their ways yesterday. “And I suppose the courting couple will have to get married to avoid scandalization,” ended Sara with a chuckle.

Since Johnny was behind in his work, Deborah felt she couldn't ask for a Bowie lesson, and Sara must have plenty to catch up on. Shortly before noon Deborah said her good-byes and started home, leading Belshazzar.

In just these few hours, more snow had dissolved. This would be a good time to thoroughly clean out the stable and chicken coop, put down new straw. It might not hurt, either, to scatter straw along the mucky path from the house to the stable. And she could start another kettle of potato soup.

It was going to be quiet without Judith or Thos, especially after the cabin's being crowded since Christmas. Deborah intended to stay very busy, preferably outside.

She was about halfway home when she noticed something whitish rising above the snow, tinging the sky like a low cloud.

Smoke!

Deborah made a choking sound. Could a coal have rolled from the fireplace? Father was always so careful!

Deborah tried to urge Belshazzar to hurry, but a grudging trot was all he'd do. Frantically, she dismounted and fastened his bridle around a scraggly plum bush. She'd get him later.

The ride seemed to take forever, though Chica plunged gallantly through the slippery mush. Gradually, the shape of the cabin and stable rose above the white horizon. Smoke rose sluggishly from the roofs. If a fire had started from the fireplace, without wind to carry it, how could it reach the stable? She couldn't see anyone moving about, though surely the blaze must have started before or very shortly after her parents left. It was a strange time for fire, with the sod and brush roofs so recently saturated with melting snow.

And no one moving.…

Fear at something uncanny, something worse than fire, clutched Deborah. She urged on the reluctant horse with voice and heels. Now she could smell the acrid odor of damp wood, grass, brush, and sod. She saw the overturned, broken, smoldering buggy, the carcass of a cow—her mind refused to say it was Venus—lying in blood that stained the trampled snow.

There were other broken things near the buggy.

Chica shied from the smoke, refusing to come closer. Numbly sliding from her back, Deborah made her wooden-feeling legs carry her forward. It—it couldn't be!

Mother. Father.

But maybe they weren't dead. Maybe—Swooping toward them, she groaned as she lifted her mother from Josiah's body, and she had to let her drop to cover what had been done. From throat to abdomen he was hacked and slashed, as if by cutlasses or knives. One arm lay severed, the one beneath Leticia, as if he'd tried to protect her.

The only wound Deborah could find on her mother was the contused lump on the side of her head which matted the soft brown hair with blood. Perhaps they—who were
they?
—hadn't meant to kill her but had struck too hard when she tried to save her husband. Quick hope flared in Deborah. It wasn't such a bad wound!

“Mother!” she pleaded, raising her, touching her face, listening for a heartbeat. “Mother! Don't! Come back—”

No warmth, no breath, not the faintest motion. Deborah knelt in the bloody snow and couldn't believe it. Oh, John Brown had cutlassed five men at Pottawatomie, Hamilton had slaughtered five and wounded more at Marais des Cygnes, and there were the countless murders of one settler here, a few others there, raids and counter-raids.

In May three Missourians had died almost in this same spot. It hadn't seemed quite real; it had happened in the night and she'd never seen the bodies, didn't know where they were buried.

This was real. Daylight and sun, Venus with her throat gaping, the chickens tossed here and there, necks wrung.

Why? Who? Almost certainly pro-slavers, most likely from Missouri. Had they been pursuing Thos or another runaway?

Rising stiffly, Deborah moved toward the cabin, mechanically thinking she should try to put out the fire. The roof near the fireplace had caved in and burned, but the rest of the pole-supported sod and brush emitted only sulky yellow smoke. Nearing the door, eyes stinging from the thick vapors, she saw that the fireplace had evidently been heaped with wood, and the furniture had been dragged close.

Charring parts of the benches, tables, the four-poster, the rocking chair, sewing machine, and, yes, the pianoforte thrust out of the blackened remains of clothes, shuck mattresses, and her parents' featherbed. Books were sprawled everywhere, some ripped from their jackets, blackened and torn.

Entering, she stood among the wreckage, the smashed china, wantonly scattered food, then wandered into the bedroom. The chest had been too cumbersome to move, or they'd been in a hurry, but Mother's music box was gone from on top and the drawers had been rifled. The shawl Dane had sent Leticia and Deborah's mantilla were gone.

Like a wound-up clockwork toy, she moved back to the main room. The silver was gone. Evidently the looters had taken what they could, small treasures, Nebuchadnezzar, and destroyed everything else, even poor Venus, who couldn't have kept up with men in a hurry to get far from the place they'd pillaged.

At the edge of the cindery heap of furnishings, she saw Dane's sketch pad, some of the pages torn or burned. She picked it up, along with the Bible some religious or superstitious raider had left on the chest, then hunted till she found a comb and clean cloths.

She wanted to wash the blood off her parents, compose their bodies. That seemed very important. The vandals must have been gone for hours, must have struck this morning when Father was hitching up the buggy. Little chance of catching them.

Should she go to Johnny's, her first impulse, or to Lawrence? Lawrence, it had better be, so that Reverend Cordley could see to the burial and the militia could try to find the men who'd done this.

Yes. Then she'd go to Johnny's; then she could cry. For now she must wash her mother and father. She couldn't bear to leave them like this.

Putting the Bible and Dane's sketch pad on the smashed buggy along with the cloths and comb, she loosened Chica's cinch and dragged some unburned hay out of the stable. The smoking roof had caved in over the mangers, but, as with the house, the damp sod had prevented a consuming blaze. Deborah didn't care. She'd never live here again and was sure that Thos wouldn't, either.

Later, because utensils, tools, and such were expensive, she'd get someone to come with her to sort out what was usable from the ruins, just as Johnny would salvage what he could from the buggy.

Someone had tossed a few strangled chickens down the well and knocked over the barrels of tomatoes and plums. Deborah threw out the bucket where the birds had lodged and wiped it with snow, lowered it, and untied the rope, carrying the bucket over to her parents.

Except for what streaked her hair, it was Father's blood on Mother. Deborah cleansed the head wound, smoothed the hair to hide the lump, washed Leticia's face and hands, scarcely realizing that the whimpering sounds were coming from herself.

Father—Father, do you forgive them? I never shall.

Father. How can I wash away the blood and see the wounds? How many? Eight. A dozen. More. And your arm. If I put it like this, it looks almost natural. But your shirt is bloody, your vest and coat. If I fix them like this, your hurts are covered. Oh, my father, what have they done to you?

Fighting off the convulsive sobbing that wrenched her inwardly, Deborah rose. She'd left Belshazzar halfway to Chaudoin's, but the plum bush wouldn't hold him if he got hungry. He wouldn't die. She'd better ride for Lawrence as fast as she could.

But her parents' bodies! If she left them here, with night coming on, coyotes or wolves might be drawn to them. It was a wonder they'd gone unmolested for as long as they had, especially with Venus also giving off a blood scent. The door was torn off the hinges of the house and the stable was open.

The well-house. She'd have to leave her parents there. She hated to drag their bodies, but better she than scavenging beasts. Kneeling by her mother, she was trying to work the dead arms over her neck so she could take most of the weight on her back when she heard the sound of hooves.

The murderers? More despairingly glad than frightened, she felt the Bowie against her thigh and promised there'd be new blood mixed with her parents'. But it was only one rider on a big bay horse.

Rolf.

“Oh, my God!”

In an instant, he was down on his knees beside her. His big hand touched Mother's bruised head, Father's hand. He recoiled, shuddering, when the severed arm moved. “I'll kill them!” he said beneath his breath. “Every damned one!”

“Who?” Deborah stared at him. “You know …?”

“I was hunting. Saw some riders. They said they were after a thief. I joined in.” She flinched. He said roughly, “Hell, Deborah, don't look at me that way! I've never hunted a man before, and I felt like doing
something
after the way you slammed the door in my face!”

“You—didn't come here?”

“No!” Seizing her shoulders, he gave her a shake. “I cared more for your parents than I ever did for my father! It's partly for them that I've been so tame.”

“Then what did you do?”

“The party split, looking for a sign. I stayed with the group that was on the Wakarusa. The other bunch, eight or nine of them, must've done this.”

“You were riding with pro-slavers.”

Rolf didn't answer.

“You must have known it!”

“What do you expect?” His tone was sullen. “You wouldn't have me, I was hell-bent, and these men happened to come along. I'd have ridden with John Brown just as fast if I'd run into him.”

“That's what makes it hideous! You don't care!” Moving her head and body in dazed anger and pain, Deborah had a sudden flash of terrible certainty. “The
thief.
Did they—you—find him?”

“They trapped him in the snowdrifts by the riverbank.” Wetting his lips, Rolf looked past her.

“Was it Thos?”

He nodded. She moaned, struck out at him, clawing her fingers, then remembered, too late, the Bowie. Capturing her wrists, he held her in a steel grip till she stopped struggling.

“Deborah, they shot him before I came up! I didn't know it was Thos until I saw him dead.”

“But you knew they were after someone.”

“A thief, they said!”

“And you knew that's what they call someone who gets a slave away from them!”

“Deborah, if I'd been there in time, I'd have fought for Thos! Don't you believe that?”

She looked into the fathomless dark green eyes, then glanced quickly away. “I don't know.”

“Damn it, if I hadn't defended you last May, your men would've died right then!”