Ladybird (6 page)

Putting out a groping hand, her fingers touched the plumy branch of a pine. Her soul thrilled. Another pine! There would be branches she could climb.

It was not a great king of a tree like the one that had been her refuge before, but it was taller than the cattle that were after her. For now she could hear the crash of a branch, the crumpling of bushes under the heavy tread as first one creature and then another ventured blindly within the thicket. Without more hesitation she clung to the trunk and drew herself up with new strength born of her necessity.

The tree swayed as she put her foot at last upon the lower branches, and the stir of swinging branches drew on the enemy. She clutched the resinous trunk tenaciously as her foot slipped and almost fell back to earth again; struggling desperately she at last got a footing and crept up. The whole tree swayed with her weight and trembled. But she was above those awful horns at last, unless the creatures tore the tree down. Could they do that? The one that had followed her was snorting and pawing just below. His horns were tangled in a branch, tossing the piney plumes.

Then a curious thing happened.

While she waited breathlessly, swaying in the treetop, a call sounded out below in the meadow, the cry of the angry leader of the beasts. In quick reply the whole herd turned and stampeded in the other direction, those struggling, tangled in the edge of the wood, crashing behind. The limbs cracked and snapped as they passed. Young saplings bent and were trampled underfoot. Old dead branches that reached low enough for the flying horns were broken off like pipe stems, and the whole dark bellowing pack hurled itself away toward the valley.

Fraley hung there in wonder and listened to their going. Then she closed her eyes and put her tired face against the gummy pine trunk and cried softly.

When the sound of the flying herd grew faint in the distance, she opened her eyes and looked to the edge of the forest.

Little faint streaks of pink had taken the place of the starry strip above the mountains, though it was still very dark in the woods, but she could see that out in the open it was gray with dawn.

Softly, cautiously, listening at every move, she slid down at last to the ground. She was stiff and sore and moved painfully. Also she was faint with hunger, but this was no place to stop and eat. This must be the beginning of the cattle lands. She must get away from here before daylight. There would be men coming when morning broke, and that would be worse perhaps than those awful cattle. She had heard all about this region. There were not only wild stretches of rich pastureland filled with cattle—many of them stolen cattle—but they were guarded by men, outlaws, such as those from whom she had fled. She must be on her guard every instant, or she would only be rushing into new dangers.

It was growing lighter now, even in the woods, and she was able to steer her course.

But now she began to be painfully aware of her burden, for the straps had become twisted and were cutting into her flesh. Also the old coat dragged heavily upon her and her hands and feet were torn and bleeding with the branches and bark. She had a stone bruise on one foot and a deep cut where she had slipped on a sharp stone in the river. All these aches began now to cry out for relief. She began to wonder how many thousand miles she had yet to go. Could she ever make it? Here she had been out only one awful night and she felt ready to lie down and die. Oh, if she only could!

Bravely she drew a deep breath and struggled on, but there were tears running down her white cheeks, though perhaps she was not even aware that she was crying.

The dawn was creeping up fast now. Overhead there was a rosy glow. Presently she heard a soft tinkle of water over stones and came upon a little brook rippling along through the forest. Ah, here was refreshment!

She remembered the old tin cup and unslung her bag to search for it.

She would have breakfast here beside this brook, and then perhaps she would be rested enough to go on.

But when she came to open the bag the tears started afresh, for it brought back so clearly her last talk with her dear mother.

Tenderly she unfastened the strings that held the bag shut and looked within. The scanty folded bits of coarse clothing made from salt bags and the like smote her with fresh sorrow. The little pockets along the sides of the bag, made with her mother’s neat stitches, even though the thread was coarse with which they had been set. How dear every stitch would always be! And mother had made it for her.

It was light enough now to see everything, but she went through her investigation with great care so that nothing should slip out and be lost in the woods.

One pocket held needles, thread, a few buttons, the old scissors with one broken point—the other point stuck into a cork for safety—a pencil, some folded bits of cloth for patches, a pincushion with a few pins. Another held a broken comb and a tiny broken mirror that had been one of the wonders of her childhood. That pocket was her little vanity case. Another held a small piece of soap and a washrag neatly hemmed. There was a larger pocket that held some little bags, one filled with cornmeal—perhaps a pint in all—another a small piece of salt pork wrapped in paper and a piece of cheese. There was a handful of shelled corn in another. Then tucked in between the bags and wrapped carefully in cloth were two little glass bottles with screw tops of metal. She knew her mother treasured them as relics of her own childhood that she had brought them with her into her far western home. One of them contained sugar and the other was half full of salt. This was her little pocket of supplies, and save for the bits of corn bread she had brought, they were all that stood between her and starvation. And she knew that these had been saved at infinite risk and sacrifice to the dear mother who had packed the bag, for Brand, who brought home all supplies, kept a keen watch upon everything.

Fraley did not discover all these things at first. She was too weary and faint to look carefully, too overwrought with sorrow to identify everything. Also the light was not even yet strong enough to tell sugar from salt there in the woods. But she knew that her mother’s tender hand had been on everything, and her love had put them all in. Later she discovered that another pocket contained a small piece of candle and a few matches in a tiny box wrapped up in a bit of woolen cloth.

But it was the sight of the old Bible sewed into its neat cotton cover that broke her down, so that for a few minutes she sat there and sobbed softly to herself.

At last she roused herself. The tinkle of the water was so inviting. She took out the old tin cup and dipped herself a drink of water. Oh, how good it tasted! She drank deeply and then leaned down to the brook and washed her face and hands, using the bit of soap and setting up the broken mirror against a tree while she combed out her pretty hair and tried to make it tidy.

She felt a little better, then, and ate a part of the corn bread she had brought. She must not eat it all, for it might be a long time before she could get more when this was gone, although there was the meal and the matches. When she got far enough away where it would be safe, she might make a little corn cake and bake it on a hot stone over a fire of twigs. But not now. She must hoard every crumb of the corn bread.

She drank some more water and then lay down and shut her eyes. It felt so good to stretch out flat and relax. She must not go to sleep, but she would rest a little while, five minutes, perhaps.

When she opened her eyes again she did not know where she was.

Two slender fingers of warm sunshine were touching her cheek and shining on her golden hair, and a bird was singing over her head. She looked up to the trees and down to the brook and at the knapsack lying open beside her, and then she remembered.

As long as she lived she would never forget that moment when she awoke and realized that she had been asleep—perhaps a long time—and had been cared for and was safe. The words that came to her lips with a kind of sweet amazement were: “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.” God had made good that promise to her in her terror and loneliness! There was almost triumph in her face as she looked over the things in her traveling bag and found them all there.

Presently, realizing that the warm color of the two rays of sunshine that had penetrated the trees above showed that it was late in the day, perhaps even past midday, she gathered herself together to go on. She dashed more cold water from the brook on her face and felt refreshed and able to travel. She drank again of the brook and was glad of the sweet water. She dipped her feet in for a last wash before she started, and then she began to strap up her bag. But in stuffing the things back again, she found two hard objects that she had not noticed earlier in the morning in the dim light. They were wrapped carefully in the clean garments her mother had made and tied with bits of string. Curious, she unknotted the string and found first an empty bottle with a good tight cork. It seemed to be perfectly clean, and a bit of paper had been pasted around it that said F
OR
W
ATER
, printed with pencil.

Again quick tears came to her eyes at the thoughtfulness that had provided for all her little needs as well as it was possible. Now she would be able to carry a little water with her for a time of need, for it was not likely that brooks of clear water like this one would be frequent along the way.

She filled the bottle from the clear deep spot where the water bubbled up in a little pool, corked it firmly, and set it upright in one of the pockets so there would be little danger of its upsetting. Then she investigated the other bundle and almost cried out with pleasure when she found that it contained the old binoculars, which had been her father’s and which, from her earliest memory, it had been the delight of her life to look through. She had not seen it since her father’s death and supposed, of course, some of the other men had appropriated it, as they had almost everything else that had belonged to him, in spite of all her mother could do. But it seemed she had been able to save this, hidden away perhaps under the old board beneath the bed, which had been their only treasure chest.

Eagerly she unwrapped it and adjusted it, turning it toward the distance in each direction, delighted when she sighted a tiny bird in the branches, a squirrel sitting under a distant tree eating a nut it had just unearthed from last winter’s store. Now she would be able to sight the distance and see if an enemy was at hand. And her mother had known that. Oh, what a wonderful mother! It was almost as if her guiding hand were still there, to find all these things ready. A hungering came over her to unwrap the old Bible and see what had been written in it, but she knew that she must not take the time to do it now. Her first business was to get out of this region as fast as her two feet could carry her. Something over two thousand miles she had to go in all.

How far had she come already? As much as ten? She could not tell. No journey in her past compared with this one. But the thought of it was appalling, as the figures loomed before her—ten into two thousand—even supposing she had already made ten! She knew that ten was nothing to the men on horseback. She knew they thought little of a journey of a hundred and fifty miles. They could easily come after her and catch her, although she had been doing her best for days, if they chose to think it worthwhile. The country was so wide and open and her knowledge of it so very limited. Oh, it was a terrible chance she was taking to expect to get away from seven determined men with seven good horses and unlimited friends to whom they might appeal for help all along the way. Yet she must go on and do her best.

She buckled the old strap of the binoculars across one shoulder, fastened up her bag carefully, and sprang to her feet. She must get on. The slant of the sunbeams was decidedly low; it might even be late afternoon. She must get some idea of where she was before night fell again. She must not risk another attack of wild cattle.

She decided to follow the brook a little way and before long came out to the edge of the larger stream again but, she judged, much farther down toward the east than she had been when she entered it, for she could see no trace of the fallen tree on which she had crossed. There was probably a curve in the stream that hid it, and the wood grew close, the trees leaning far over the water in some places.

The sun was already far down to the western horizon. She must have slept even longer than she had thought. She gave one quick searching glance around, and finding no one near, she held up the binoculars and searched the valley.

There were some cattle grazing quietly across the stream. She could even see the mark of their branding on one or two nearby, but she was safe here. They were too far away to notice her. She searched the valley behind her, the way she must have come last night, as far as she could see, but only cattle here and there dotted the peaceful scene. There were neither horses nor riders. She turned her binoculars up toward the heights across the valley and searched them step by step, back as far as her eye could reach. Was that her old pine that had given her refuge the night before? It stood out like a dark spike against the sky, with rock below and other trees around, but it was so tiny and so far away in the shimmer of the afternoon sunshine that she could not even be sure it was the same tree. Behind it and above it she could not see. If it was her tree, the cabin would probably be out of sight from the point where she stood. But, if it was her tree, how far had she come? Could one see ten miles even with binoculars? She did not know. She did know that a great mountain might be many miles away and still be visible, soft and purple against the sky, but one could not see detail on a great mountain, one could not tell one tree from another at a great distance.

She searched the way again, on the ridge along the mountain up which the men had ridden after they had shot Larcha, but there was no sign of horse or rider, and with a breath of relief she turned and hurried along the edge of the stream.