Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (6 page)

Liberty sank back down, pulled the quilt up over her shoulders and stared into the darkness. She recorded a thought in her tormented mind to bring out and mull over at a later date: how comforting it was to not be alone, to hear a reassuring voice come out of the darkness. Her eyes became glazed with tears as her mind swung back, remembering Jubal alive, smiling.

“I’ll be proud as a peacock to marry you, Liberty Carroll,” he had said.

If she hadn’t asked him to marry her he would be alive in Middlecrossing, happily making his pots. There would have been no reason for him to sell out and go so far from home. Now he would never see home again or his brother, Hammond. He’d stay forever in this dark and lonely place. That was what she was thinking when the wooliness moved into her head and she went to sleep.

*  *  *

Liberty placed a bouquet of wild lupines, moss pinks and yellow wallflowers on the soft mound of earth. Farrway Quill had dug the grave before she awakened and had carried Jubal to it after she dressed him in his best shirt and smoothed his hair with her brush. He looked younger in death, and more peaceful than she’d ever seen him. Elija had read a verse from the Bible, and now he stood with Amy and Mercy, fidgeting, anxious to be away from this place.

“I want him to have a headboard. I want people who pass this way to know that he’s here.” Liberty spoke firmly and calmly, trying to deny with her tone how angry she was that Jubal had to die—Jubal, who was so kind, who never said a cross word to anyone. Jubal, who was a giver and not a taker. Jubal, who would have found beauty in this dark wood.

Farr stared into her blue eyes without speaking. She had folded the brim of her dark bonnet back, showing all of her face. The belligerent lift of her chin and the defiant glare in her eyes told him that she was holding in her grief, hiding it with anger.

“No, you don’t.” His brows came together in a scowl of impatience. He leaned the shovel against a tree, picked up a large rock and dumped it on the grave.

This angered Liberty beyond reason.

“He
will
have a headboard! I’ll make it myself.” She defied him with her eyes and dared him to contradict her.

“Not unless you want the Indians to dig him up and take his hair. They get paid by the scalp.”

“They wouldn’t do that!”

“Why not? A scalp’s a scalp, and they’d only have to do a little digging to get it.” Farr continued to work. Finally Elija handed his Bible to Amy, and with a groan picked up a stone and carried it to the grave.

In the back of Liberty’s fuzzy mind she knew he was right. Her heart gave a sickening lurch when she remembered what Hull Dexter had said about the wolves. She stood at the head of the grave silently watching the soft moist dirt being covered with stones, then continued to watch as Farr arranged deadfalls in such a way as to hide the grave.

“It’s best we get moving.” Farr stood back when he had finished and carefully surveyed the area.

“Come on, Libby.” Elija turned to leave, and Liberty started to follow, then turned abruptly and walked back to the grave. Her father snorted impatiently. “Fer cryin’ out loud! What ya doin’ now? The man’s dead, Libby. Grievin’ ain’t agoin’ to bring ’em back.”

“She knows that,” Farr said curtly and took her arm to lead her away.

“How do you know how I feel?” Liberty jerked away from Farr’s hand and tears filled her eyes for the first time since she awakened.

“I’m jist sayin’ we ort a be agoin’. Stayin’ ain’t agoin’ to bring ’em back. Jubal—”

“You didn’t even like him!” Liberty threw the words at her father in a quiet but scathing tone. “You’ve never had one good word to say about him. He did the best he could for you and you did nothing but run him down.” Her voice began to rise as the words tumbled from her mouth. “He was a good
man
, I tell you. He was a man and he had courage, which is more than you’ve got, Elija Carroll. He had courage and an adventurous spirit, even if he didn’t weigh much more than eight stone. He knew he wasn’t cut out for this kind of life, but he was willing to try. You think now that he’s gone, I’ll go back and marry Stith, and you can live nice and easy. You fool! Stith would have worked you to death,” she shouted. “He’d have worked all of us to death. I’ll never go back. Never!” She covered her face with her hands and cried.

“Ya jist gotta blame somebody. Cause I’m here it’s me. Ya jist ain’t agoin’ to own up that it’s your own doin’. Makin’ us come out here what’s done it. I won’t be surprised none if’n I ain’t the next. I ain’t cut out for this traipsin’—”

“Take the girls back to the wagon,” Farr said impatiently. He made no attempt to hide the disgusted expression on his face. Dark brows were drawn together over eyes as cold as a green pond. They narrowed threateningly.

Elija threw up his hands and, pushing Amy and Mercy ahead of him, walked away.

Farr said nothing more, allowing Liberty’s grief to work itself out. Finally she quieted and wiped her eyes.

“He was a good, kind man, and I’ll never forget him.”

“That’s the important thing.”

“No one cared a whit for him. He was just there. People walked around him like he was a porch post.”

“There’d be no roof without a porch post.”

“He could see beauty in a lot of things—”

“Men see what they want to see.”

“He liked to read—”

“He was lucky someone took the time to teach him.”

“I hate to leave him like this!” she wailed.

“There’s nothing else you can do.”

“He was scared—”

“All men are scared at one time or another.”

“He depended on me!”

“Do you want to stay?”

She looked up at him with a glazed look in her eyes. Farr, wise in the ways of grief, recognized the signs of near hysteria. He shook her roughly until her eyes blazed at him angrily.

“Get your hands off me, you . . . heathen! You’re just like Papa! You don’t care that he’s dead,” she accused.

“I didn’t know him.”

“He was a human being!”

“So were my folks. Do you feel sad about the fever taking them?”

The anger went out of her as suddenly as it appeared.

“We should have stayed in Middlecrossing,” she whispered. Her voice was so full of surrender that it angered him.

“Your life lies ahead of you, not behind you. You’ll marry again and have a dozen younguns.” He glared down at her. The words were half snarled and his mouth snapped shut, causing the scar beside it to whiten.

Liberty’s eyes focused on the scar. Why was he angry? Why the scowl of disapproval on his face? She was sure that she thoroughly detested this man. He had been kind and helpful, but he was a take-over kind of man, just the type who would bring a woman under the yoke, force her to submit to his control, shake her self-reliance. He was the kind of man who would break a woman if she loved him, and long ago she vowed never to let any man do that to her.

Anger at Farr and at herself for wasting her thoughts on him propelled her feet, and she briskly left the grave without a backward glance, walked beneath the trees and out onto the sunlit track. The early morning wind had blown the rain clouds away and the sun shone brightly. “Damn you, sun,” she muttered angrily. “Jubal wanted you to come out, shine on him, warm him. Now it’s too late.”

*  *  *

“I ain’t agoin’! I tell ya, Libby, I ain’t agoin’!” Elija banged his fist against the wagon.

“You don’t have to go, Papa. I’ll give you a third of the coins Jubal left me. You can take one of the horses and go back to Middlecrossing.”

“It’s a man’s place to decide what’s best for his family, not a lass not yet ten and ten! I say we all go back home where we belong.”

“Go if you want, Mr. Quill has offered to take us as far as his station. Amy and I have decided. We’re going to find a place up along the Wabash and farm.” Liberty finished stowing the pots in the wagon, then grabbed the bedding from beneath it and rolled and tied it. “Nothing is changed, Papa. Nothing at all.”

“Why are ya doin’ this to me, Libby? Ya know I can’t go off ’n leave you ’n Amy out here in the wilds.” Elija spread his hands appealingly and looked at Farr who stood holding the child in one hand and his rifle in the other. “Libby’s a drivin’ woman, Mr. Quill. She’s hard on a man. Just like her mama. Stubborn, hard ’n drivin’. Always amakin’ a man do things he warn’t suited fer. She needs a strong hand is what she needs. A man ta learn her a woman’s place. It warn’t in Jubal ta take charge. He warn’t no man ta handle a woman like—”

“That’s enough!” Liberty snapped angrily. “I’m not going to argue with you, and I’ll not hear a bad word about Jubal. Understand? Do what you want to do. I don’t care. If you’re coming, let’s get started. If you’re going back, good-bye.”

“See there? See there, Quill? I tole ya she was hard!”

“Set Mercy up there on the seat beside Amy, Mr. Quill.” Liberty turned her back on her father and ignored him. “She’ll not let her fall off. You’re welcome to ride the horse. I prefer to walk myself.” She waited until Farr settled the child beside Amy and threw his pack into the back of the wagon before she struck the oxen lightly with her switch. “Get humping, Sally. You, too, Molly. Pull, girls.”

Liberty didn’t look back, but she knew her father was following close behind the wagon on one of the horses. He continued to grumble until Farr moved a good twenty-five yards ahead of the wagon, his long rifle held negligently in his arms. Then he fell silent.

It was the middle of May and the Indian apple was in full flower, the maples were in red bud, and numerous wild flowers grew where they could lift their faces to the sun. The woods were filled with bird song. But still Liberty felt an inner chill, a quaking that even this beauty failed to dispel. She was alone now. Without Jubal, his brother Hammond might not feel any responsibility for her. She wasn’t worried so much for herself as for Amy.

Amy giggled and Liberty looked up to see Mercy smiling at her and patting her cheeks. Amy, the little mother, she thought. As she watched, her sister put her arm around the younger child and hugged her close.

The seriousness of their situation pressed down on Liberty. She was determined to go on as she and Jubal had planned. She drew in a deep and hurtful breath, passion rising again in her silent protest: Going back would mean she would live a life of servitude with Stith Lenning, and she would not do it! But would giving in to the yearnings of her willful heart cost her something even more precious than her independence? Would she lose Amy too? she wondered. Her father blamed her for Jubal’s death, and in a way she was responsible, but, Lordy, what else could they have done?

Liberty trudged alongside the oxen, her thoughts tumbling in mad confusion. In only five months winter would set in. Would she be able to find a place in time to plant a garden? What of the man walking ahead? He hadn’t really told her much about himself. He hadn’t encouraged her to go on or turn back. He’d said only that the settler who moved on to Saint Louis, the one who thought it was whistling that made the plow go, had left a good cabin, and that they would be welcome to it if someone hadn’t already moved in. It would be a place to rest, Liberty thought tiredly. A place to rest while she decided if she should go on to Vincennes and try to locate Hammond Perry or find a piece of land near other folks and begin to build the farm she had always dreamed of.

*  *  *

By the middle of the afternoon Liberty was so tired she was hanging onto the patient ox and the strong beast was helping her along the uneven track. She wondered if the man walking ahead ever tired. He had come back to the wagon one time for a drink of water, then moved out ahead again. At times he disappeared in the woods only to reappear suddenly, running at an easy trot.

Amy had complained that she and Mercy were hungry. Liberty had told her to open the sack of dried apples hanging from the curved bow of the wagon, but to watch for worms, and had reminded her of the hoecake left over from the previous night’s supper.

Liberty glanced back one time to see her father lifting his jug of Bald Face out of the back of the wagon. He was already unsteady in the saddle, she thought dispiritedly, and by evening he would be dead drunk and no help at all. She was embarrassed that Farr would see him so. Minutes before, the woodsman had disappeared into the thick forest. As she idly watched for him to reappear, it occurred to her that in all her life she had never had a strong man to depend on, one who would both provide for her and keep her safe . . . and love her. Liberty felt a flash of guilt at the thought. Jubal had loved her . . . in his own way.

She was startled when Farr came out of the woods and loped back down the track toward her. She knew something was wrong before he spoke.

“Stop! Stay here,” he said curtly as he checked the priming of his rifle. He lifted his head and sniffed as an animal might have done.

“What is it? Indians?” Liberty pulled the team to a halt.

“Stay here,” he said again, and disappeared into the thick growth beside the trail.

Farr had known immediately when the familiar sounds of the woods began to change. He had walked another fifty yards before the sweet sickening odor of the dead reached him. The sounds he’d heard were the cries of the scavengers: buzzards, crows, and other flesh-eating creatures. There was something else, too. A faint mewing wail. He made his way, running lightly, through the thick stand of oaks, cottonwoods and sycamores. The tallest were crowned by the foliage of huge grapevines, their trunks entwined with ropes the size of a man’s leg. A whippoorwill swooped overhead, trailing his melodious repeated cry, unmindful of the buckskin-clad figure leaping the deadfalls and slipping through the tangle of berry bushes.

Five minutes after he left Liberty, he was peering through the bushes at a sight that, although he was hardened to sudden death on the frontier, made the bile rise in his throat and an almost uncontrollable rage shake his strong body. The squawking of the birds had ceased, the silence making the forest seem more ominous than the previous uproar. The eerie silence persisted and a vision of another time, another place, and another young woman sprawled in the dirt floated across Farr’s mind and seared into his consciousness like a burning ember.