Deserter (9 page)

“Cain't do it, Jake. I'd sooner trade away my grandma's ass than what little coffee I have left. Sorry.”

Jake nodded.

“Thing is, I could make up another canful in the morning, though. If you don't have no problem with me sleepin' close to your fire, course.”

Sinclair thought about the proposal.
Better having him here where I can keep an eye on him than out there wandering around in the woods, maybe drawing a bead on me with a gun he hid out there before coming in.
“I don't have a problem with that, Ferris. Long as you stay on your side of the fire and I stay on mine, we'll be just fine.”

Conversation dwindled along with the embers of the campfire. Jake stood, replenished the fire with most of the last of the wood he'd gathered, and walked into the darkness to relieve himself. His toe struck an embedded rock and he almost went down. He cursed, took another couple of steps, and stopped. He turned back, found the rock with the help of moonlight, and pulled it free of the grass and soil. It was about the size of a large man's fist, cool to the touch, with no sharp edges. He pushed it into a side pocket before going deeper into the woods. When he returned to the fire and sat down, Ferris spoke.

“You wouldn't have any liquor, would you? Now, there's something I'd trade some coffee for—a few snorts of good whiskey.”

“Can't help you there. I'm not carrying a drop.”

“I was in a little town a couple days back,” Ferris said. “I woulda bought me a bottle then, but it turns out I didn't have no money. Sons-a-bitches wouldn't extend me no credit, either.”

“What town was that?” Jake asked. “Where is it?”

“Kinda west and east, I guess. Name of Penderson or somethin' like that. Ain't much more than a spot of fly shit on a map. Lots of them little farm burgs around. Most of them ain't real hospitable to a travelin' man.”

“Oh?”

“Or any stranger, for that matter—travelin' man or not. Hell, if you ain't married to their sister they don't want nothin' to do with you.”

“You've been moving around for a while, then?”

“Some, I guess.” The tone of Ferris's voice indicated he had nothing further to say on the subject. Some moments passed.

Ferris poked at the fire with a stick. “I been tryin' to figure somethin' out, Jake,” he said. “I kinda hear a touch of South in your words, but not too much of it. You a Southern boy?”

“Two years of college in the East washed my accent away. The professors called Southern talk ‘mush-mouthed babble' and wouldn't allow it. I guess what they taught me stuck.”

“See? I knew it! You from way deep? Maybe Mississip or Georgia or such?”

Jake looked away from the fire and into the man's eyes. “Let's let it go.”

“Sure, sure,” Ferris said hastily. “I didn't mean to pry none.” He waited a couple of minutes. “I'm gonna have me a piss an' then stetch out here and get some shuteye,
Jake. Be the first good night's sleep I've gotten in a bit. Saw a good big black bear a few days ago and I've been leery ever since. Your horse will set up a racket if one of them comes close, though, and the fire'll help, too.” He stood and strode off into the darkness.

Jake'd had enough conversation. He pulled his saddle closer to the fire and stretched out in front of it, head resting against the side of the seat. He placed his pistol on the grass next to him, within easy reach of his right hand. He sighed. He didn't expect to get much sound sleep that night. The man named Ferris had seemed a little too set on sleeping near Jake's fire.
Could be he's just a harmless drifter looking for somebody to talk to for a bit.
Another thought struck him:
Maybe not, too. Seems like the war and the time that led up to it put a herd of crazies on the roads—gunfighters and wanderers and preachers and abolitionists and men with flat, dull eyes—or strange, too-bright eyes
. He shifted his shoulders against the warm earth under him, relieving a burgeoning cramp in the back of his neck. The air had cooled somewhat with darkness. The temperature remained high and the humidity cloying, but after the heat of the day, the night felt good. Ferris's breathing from the other side of the fire, sibilant, not quite a snore, was as regular as the working of a good clock, as much a part of the forest sounds as the minute shuffling of the higher leaves touched by wisps of breeze.

I wonder how my eyes will look to the people I meet.

It was probably the change in the tempo of Ferris's breathing that nudged Jake back to full consciousness. Through barely opened eyes he saw that the embers of the fire no longer cast much light—a soft-white glow
that didn't quite penetrate the darkness. Ferris was next to the fire now, a shadow, poised, moving so slowly and carefully that he seemed still. Jake kept his breathing regular, waiting. His right hand moved as imperceptibly as the man sneaking toward him. The sting of anger tightened Jake's muscles.
I
knew
this,
he chided himself.
I even prepared for it, got ready for it, but I let it happen. It'd be easy enough to pull a trigger, but maybe I've seen enough killing for a while.

The slits Jake watched through made the moonlight on the silver shape appear brighter than it actually was. The shadow-form was closer to him now, although Jake hadn't actually detected motion. He focused on the silver form, keyed his body to it.

For a long few seconds he could smell Ferris's foul breath, feel the heat of it on his face. Then, as the silver glint moved upward and then began to arc down, Jake put every iota of strength he had into his right arm, swinging it upward, his fingers locked over the rock. It seemed, to Jake, like a long time before he felt the impact, but it was actually the quickest part of a second. He'd expected a sharp sensation, a jolt the length of his wrist and into his arm—but instead the blow was softer, concurrent with the sound of stone grating against stone—a quick crackling. He drew back the rock and slammed it at its target again, and this time the shock he'd anticipated tingled down his arm. The screech was high, piercing, feline. The silver shape—the knife in Ferris's hand—dropped to the earth and the man fell back, clutching at his face, even as bits of enamel, blood, and saliva sprinkled Jake's face. Sinclair threw the rock at the writhing, keening mass and was rewarded with a satisfying thunk.

Sinclair picked up his pistol from the grass, stood, and walked around Ferris to the man's satchel, which he dragged close to the bed of embers. He emptied the bag and picked out the coffee and the tin can. Filling the can took the rest of the water in Ferris's canteen. Jake added coffee and set the can in the middle of the embers, where the almost moribund fire looked the hottest. His glance fell back to Ferris's possessions scattered on the dirt. He picked up the empty canteen and tossed it over toward his saddle. Then he hunkered down and waited for the coffee to brew.

Ferris sat where he'd fallen, hands to his face, rocking back and forth from his waist, his initial yowling now a sporadic moan. Blood gushed from an open cut at his hairline and from his mouth through his fingers. “Almost killed me,” he said. His words were wet and slurred and his voice was that of a whining child.

The coffee began to boil. Jake smiled as the aroma reached him. “You're lucky I didn't kill you, you son of a bitch. There's nothing lower than a backstabber.”

Ferris's rocking picked up speed. “No,” he slurred. “Seems to me a yella belly who runs off from a battle leavin' his friends to die is 'bout as low as a man can get.”

Jake wrapped Ferris's spare shirt around his hand to pick the tin can out of the bed of coals. Ferris caught the motion and flinched backward, as if avoiding a blow.

“What makes you think I'm on the run?”

“Think? Think, my ass. I ain't blind. That bridle on your horse is Confederate issue, and the holster you wear is army, too. Plus, what's a Southern boy doin' in
the deep woods a couple of days after Lee got his ass shot off at Gettysburg? Maybe attendin' a goddamn church picnic? Huntin' wildflowers?”

Jake drank some coffee, breathed a long
ahhhhh,
and set the can down. “What're you doing out here?” he asked.

Ferris lowered his hands and glared at Sinclair, the anger in his eyes momentarily pushing aside the pain. “I ain't no deserter, I'll tell you that. I joined up with Mr. Lincoln's army in '61, but they kicked me out 'cause I wasn't real good at rules an' all.”

Jake peered at the man's face in the light of dawn that was beginning to suffuse through the trees. The forehead wound was still leaking blood. Ferris's lips were like a pair of shredded, swollen sausages. Jagged chunks of his front teeth were still seated in his gums, looking like a crumbling picket fence. Jake noticed that the man winced as he drew air to speak.

“'Least I ain't no yella belly runnin' off from my sweared duty.”

Sinclair chuckled. “You figure it's more honorable to kill a fellow with a knife who shared his fire with you for a night?”

“Could be I do.” The voice was petulant now, even more childlike than it'd been earlier.

Jake sighed and stood up. He drank the rest of the coffee and tossed the empty can to where his saddle and the canteen rested. He picked up the paper bag of coffee with his left hand. With his right he drew his pistol and stepped to Ferris. He placed the muzzle against the man's temple and thumbed back the hammer. “Smartest thing I could do right now would be to put a
bullet in your brain. You tried to kill me. I got the right. The thing is, I don't see that you're worth killing. I'm going to saddle up and go on my way and leave you sitting here like the lump of shit you are. But hear this: If I see you again, if for some insane reason you try to follow me, sneak in on me, I'll gut-shoot you and leave you to die.” He eased the hammer down and started around the injured man.

“Goddamn deserter,” Ferris mumbled.

The punch was short and not particularly powerful. Jake was in a clumsy position and he had to lean down to deliver the blow. Even so, Ferris's upper lip split like a balloon full of blood, and Jake's knuckles removed a couple of already fractured teeth. There was no scream this time. Unconsciousness came mercifully quickly. Jake gathered up the canteen and the bag of coffee, hefted his saddle, and shoved through the brush to where Mare waited for him.

It felt good to be in the saddle. Mare was perky and fresh and had grazed well. Jake wanted to get some grain into her, and he'd do that as soon as possible, but right now her energy hadn't flagged and she moved easily, responding immediately to any cue Sinclair gave her. They came across water early—a small pond in a clearing that encroached on the water, with oak branches overhanging it. Horse and man drank; Jake filled the canteen and slung it by its cord around his saddle horn.

Jake's thoughts strayed to Ferris and the night and early morning just past. He shook his right hand as if the memory caused the little cuts from the jagged stubs
of Ferris's teeth to heat up. He rubbed his knuckles lightly against his shirt, ending the itching.
Maybe I'm supposed to feel some guilt about what I did to that fellow. I don't—he would have cut my throat and taken everything I have just as happily as he'd drink a shot of whiskey. He deserved what I gave him, and more. Guilt? Hell. I don't feel any guilt about the crazy I killed with my knife, and I have none about Ferris. Come to think of it, I don't feel anything about being a deserter. I sure didn't like hearing the words from that turd, though.

Something was different, Jake realized, but he couldn't bring whatever it was to mind. The sun cast its hazy light through the canopy of trees over him, and the forest air was still but fresh and sweet. He began to feel some hunger.
Rabbit will do fine—or maybe a pheasant, if I can get a shot at one. Maybe I'll stop later in the day and see if I can wait out a bird. It'd take some sitting still and baking in the sun, but a pheasant makes awful good . . .
It came to him: The difference was the heat, or the lack of it. Mare's neck was dry as he patted it, and his own shirt didn't stick to his skin when it touched his back or chest. His forehead was dry under his fingertips. He grinned and took a long, deep breath.
About damned time the weather broke. It's been an oven since the end of June, right through the three days of the battle, and the days since.

Leaves began to move behind a new breeze. The temperature dropped another few degrees and Jake sniffed the air, standing in the stirrups: rain. How far away it was, or if it'd come his way, he didn't know. Nevertheless, it smelled good. It seemed like a long time since he'd last seen rainfall.

Mare began getting a little nervous about the time the first deep, resonant rolls of thunder reached Jake's ears. He couldn't see much sky through the tops of the trees, but what he could see had turned from blue to a washed-out gray, tinged with black. The quality of the light changed from its cheerful morning presentation to a murky, dusklike texture. Lightning flickered; the air became heavy with the smell that followed the flashes. The lightning became more frequent and more intense, washing the woods with pure white light, scaring the hell out of Mare, seething and hissing what seemed like a few feet above their heads. A tree twenty yards away was struck with a tremendous tearing sound, and chips and pieces of wood and leaves and small branches sprayed outward from the trunk. The image of the tree the Yankee artillery had ripped up after he'd dropped the officer Uriah had spotted darted into his mind. He shook it off, using the reins to keep Mare from bolting, attempting to talk her down from her near panic.

Hail the size of minnie balls pelted down, barely slowed by the trees above. The cold, driven ice stung Mare like a cut from a quirt, increasing her fear, raising the voice of her instinct that told her to flee the storm. Jake muscled her head to her left side, not at all sure that he could hold her against her fear. His voice was useless in the crashing of thunder and the seething of lightning and the pounding clatter of the hail against leaves and trees.