Dances Naked (9 page)

Marty took the bedroll off the back of the mare and used it as a pillow, setting his tricorner hat on his head sideways to block the splotchy sunrays coming through the tree branches. His frowning face transitioned into a contented grin. Tomo
rrow night, he’d be lying down with Bibb at his side, or even closer…

Ж

“What the
…!” Marty shouted, his hand inadvertently knocking his hat away from his eyes. He had been asleep, that much he knew, but someone was trying to pull his bedroll out from under
his head.

“Stay still if you know what’s good for ya!” the gapped tooth man instructed
.
H
e jerked the bedroll out from under Marty’s head with one hand and twirled the carved bone handle of his knife menacingly with the other. “I just want to see what you have for me here,” he added with a snort, finishing his report with a wad of spittle a scant foot from Marty’s face.

Marty gingerly scooted up to a seated position, keeping one eye on the highwayman
, and
looked to see if anyone else
was
with him. Bandits usually traveled in groups of three or more. He couldn’t see or hear anyone other than a teenaged girl with a baby, squatted down by the creek. She wasn’t paying attention to what was going on with the robber, his knife
,
or him. She was dipping her bare bottomed son in the water, laughing at his giggles as he kicked his feet into the slow moving, warm current.

Marty looked back up at the thief and felt braver. I
t was only one man and a knife—
he could handle this scenario. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked sarcastically. He knew there wasn’t anything but a blanket in his bedroll. He didn’t think it wise to have a lot of money with him so hadn’t traveled with more than a few shillings and those sewn into his vest lining.

The man answered with a sneer, “As a matter of fact I did.” He re-rolled the blanket, hastily tied it together
,
and stood up. “Take off your boots,” he commanded.

Marty’s eyes cut to the woman a
nd the baby at the water’s edge. T
hey weren’t involved in the theft
,
but
they
were probably traveling with him. The young pair wouldn’t be on the road alone; there weren’t any homes nearby
,
and he hadn’t seen a wagon or any horses. “Shit,” Marty mumbled as he pulled off his right boot, hoping that he hadn’t cut his hand enough to bleed. He was trying to palm his hidden boot knife and had sliced himself in the process.

“What d’ya mean ‘shit’?” the man asked.

“Shit: you’re taking my boots and I’ll bet you’re seriously considering taking my horse, too,” Marty said to cover his fumbled cursing.

“Oh, so you’re a betting man, are ya?” Grant asked snidely. “Well, I’ll bet this morning you didn’t see your day finding you baref
oot and without a horse by noon,
did
ya
?” The raggedy man picked up the boots and dropped one of them beside his foot, estimating the fit potential. They looked to be bigger than the ones that he had on but that didn’t seem to bother him. He picked the boot back up and stuffed it under his arm. “Rachel, bring the horse over here,” he called.

Marty watched as the girl threw the laughing baby over her shoulder, his bare butt exposed to the sunshine
,
his
little feet pedaling with glee. She walked twenty yards to grab the reins of the horse that was only ten feet from the robber. She bent down and loosened the knot on the hobble rope with one hand as she clutched her child to her with the other. She didn’t say a word as she handed him the reins
,
but did cut her eyes to Marty. It didn’t look like she was any happier with this scenario than he was.

“See what he has in his saddlebags,” Grant commanded gruffly. He wal
ked a few steps away from Marty
and
grinned as he moved his knife through the air flamboyantly
, almost
asking his victim to attack him—
he wanted a fight.

Marty subconsciously gulped then looked to the girl. She was dispassionately pulling the straps off his flat saddlebag. There was nothing in it; he had given all of his food and cookware to Wee Ian. He only had his canteen and a pocketful of granola. She flipped up the flap on the bag and stood on tiptoes to look inside, co
nfirming what she already knew—
it was empty. “Looks like he has
even
less than we do,” she commented idly then walked away from the humble nag
,
back towards the creek.

“Where is it?” Grant demanded. “No one travels without food or a way to get it. You don’t even have a pan to cook with? Nah, somethin’ fishy’s goin’ on here.”

“You’re right,” Marty said with a twinkle in his eye. Even in dire straits, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a joke. He took off his hat and pulled out the small fishing lure with the twisted line att
ached to it. “Fishy. I eat fish:
fish for breakfast, fish for lunch
,
and fish for dessert after I’ve had my fish for supper!

Smack! Grant didn’t think much of Marty’s wit and used the back of his hand to tell him so.

Marty was knocked f
or a loop, literally, landing
face down in the dirt with the backhanded
slap. He rolled over cautiously;
making sure his knife was still hidden and hadn’t been revealed in the unexpected assault. Marty rubbed his jaw and asked
,
“Now what’d you go and do that for? I’ll share the fish. I mean, if you and your wife are hungry, I’ll see what I can scare up. Although, it might be more lucrative if we waited until sundown.”

“She’s not my wife—
she’s my stupid sister,” Grant snorted. “And what in the hell is Luke ruh tive?”

“Oh, it’s just a Scottish word that means you catch more fish when the sun isn’t high,” Marty answered, making sure he didn’t smile at his lame fabrication. The man was obviously unschooled on top of being short tempered. Hopefully
,
he’d just take
the boots and horse and leave—
leave him with his life. Marty suddenly panicked at the thought of dying.

“Well, I don’t speak Scottish and I don’t like to eat fish. But, I will take this hat and the hook and line. She can catch fish for herself. I’ll eat this,” he said as he pulled out a fat tortilla wrapped sandwich from his pocket and waved it around, showing off his bounty.

“You said all the food was gone, Grant,” hollered Rachel as she made her way back up from the creek, stomping her bare feet angrily.

“I lied,” Grant sneered
then
took a big bite of the ham and cheese fare. He tossed the hat he had taken from Marty down to her. “Here, there’s a hook and line on it; go catch yourself a fish. Oh, and you can keep the hat. I still like this one best,” he said as he tapped the dusty crown of his black silk edged tricorner hat. “It always looked better on me than Atholl anyhow.

Rachel huffed in disgust but took the hat and carefully pulled out the hook. “Come on, Junior, we’ll have better luck with a hook, I promise.” She looked over at Marty, trying to decide if she should give him back his hat or not
,
then glanced up at the high noon sky. She would probably look odd wearing a man’s hat but Grant had taken hers and she didn’t want it back after what he had done to it. “Hey, it’s softer than the leaves and I had the runs from the food that those Pomeroys fed me. Yo
u can wash it out in the creek—
it’ll be as good as ever.

Rachel settled the hat that was one size too big on her head and caught Marty’s eye. She didn’t dare speak to him but lowered her eyes, saying
,
‘I’m sorry but I need it
,
’ with her expression. Marty bit back t
he words, ‘It looks cute on you
.
’
She wouldn’t have understood his odd sense of humor and her brother would probably use the uninvited conversation with his sister as an excuse to hit him again. Instead, Marty bent his head and prayed silently that he would get out of this predicament with his life. He just wanted to go home. He glanced up to heaven and added silently,
‘A
nd in one piece would be nice, too, Lord.’

“Hurry up and catch your fish. We should be able to make New Bern in two days if you don’t…”

“Oh, keep your pants on,” Rachel answered sassily, cutting off his admonishment. She wrapped up the hook and line and stuck it back on the hat brim. “They won’t be biting until later, anyhow. Let me have a couple of bites of that sandwich and then we can leave.”

“Gettin’ a bit chatty in your old age there, aren’t you?” Grant barked back, twirling his knife haft between thumb and index finger
menacingly
. “Here, I saved you a bite,” he said
,
and threw the last bit of sandwich at her, intentionally tossing it short so it landed in the dirt.

Rachel glared at him but picked up the soiled bit of tortilla with a couple of bits of cheese
and
mayonnaise still stuck to it. She carefully pulled the dirt and grassy pieces away from it and nibbled at the morsel, savoring the bite
.
She
stuck the tip of her tongue through her lips
,
removing
a pebble that she had missed. She plopped the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, suddenly afraid that Grant would take the meager meal away from her. “Let’s go,” she said with her cheeks full. “He won’t follow us,” she added then looked over at Marty, telling him with her eyes to stay put if he knew what was good for him.

Grant looked over at his victim and crowed, “Well, I don’t think he’ll be go
ing too far without these boots.
”
H
e turned his heel
and
show
ed
off the purloined footwear to Marty, “or these, either.” Grant took his worn out boots and stuffed them into the saddlebag. “And I think I ought to ride the horse for a bit. You know how new shoes always give me blisters,” then swung up on the horse. He trotted the horse a few yards down the deer path then called back snidely to the stern faced woman-child trying to catch
up with him, “And don’t dawdle—
we have a long ways to go until sundown.”

M
arty sighed in relief at his close call. He didn’t care about the horse; he was going to let her go anyway. However, the ground was rocky and his feet were as soft as a baby’s. “Shoot, I’d be better off if I could walk on my hands. At least they’re calloused!” He turned over his hands and looked at his palms in frustration. “New Bern?” he asked himself, suddenly changing his focus from the dilemma of his newly attained tenderfoot status. “They won’t be there in a few days; that’s probably 200 miles away. It looks like someone is even more lost than I am.”

Marty lifted the rock at the base of the tree where he had stashed the map just before taking his nap. “Gee, and I just wanted to make sure it didn’t blow away,” he said to himself, grateful once again at his good fortu
ne. “Okay, okay, I get it, Lord,
You’ve got my attention. Thanks for saving my bacon, I mean, thanks for saving my life today. And please, please, please, please, get me back to my time and Bibb safely. And
,
guide those doctors doing the transplant and make sure they put the right parts in the right person and, well, You know what I need and please, just help me to listen to what Y
ou want me to do; in Jesus name,
Amen. Oh, and would you look out for that girl, Rachel
, and her baby, too? Thanks, A
men again.”

Marty
spread the map out on the ground. “Okay, Lord, I’m looking at it with You right here next to me.”
He
grinned as he realized that there really was Divine intervention in his map reading. He had forgotten that he had coded his map by turning the coordinates 180 degrees so that north was south and east was west. “Gotcha! Thanks.”

Marty stood to start his trek to the trees and was quickly reminded of his other dilemma: no boots. “Crap!” he cursed mildly then looked around. “Well, at least you have the knife,” he told himself. He looked around at his surroundings, trying to find something, anything, that he could use as shoes. He looked down at his pants. Yes, he could fabricate something from strips of the brown denim duck that he had chosen over the homespun wool the re-enactors had suggested. “These are close enough in looks and will wear for years if I need them to,” he told the seamstress. He never thought that he’d have to cut them down for sandals though.

“Sandals! That’s it.” Marty picked his steps carefully as he walked to the still, shallow area of the creekside. He pushed aside some reeds and yanked a tuft out of the mud. He tried to pull the long leaf apart lengthwise but couldn’t. Yes, they would be suitable. He’d never woven a basket but these grasses seemed tough enough to
braid and stitch
into soles. He bent to the task, selecting the midsize reeds as his weaving material. He cut a few of the young shoots, too, and brought the green bundle to his little dayroom under the tree. “Lunch!” he exclaimed as he stuck the soft, tender end of a young reed in
to
his mouth, biting the succulent portion and chewing his micro salad carefully before he bent to his work. Just because he’d never made shoes
,
didn’t mean he couldn’t accomplish the task. He’d just never been motivated. And
,
getting back to his family, Bibb and the son he never even knew he had, was plenty of motivation.