Marna (17 page)

While Sam cropped on what bits of grass he could
find, Matt gorged himself on the sweet, tangy fruits.

It was the fifth day on the trail when Matt discovered
he was being followed. Was it the same group of Indians? he wondered. When he came to a pine grove, its
floor thick with needles, he turned in. They could not
track him through this spongy mass.

Sam stood quietly, as he was trained to do. Minutes
later two Indians rode by, only feet from where Matt
waited. He sighed in relief. Only two. He could easily
handle them if necessary.

But as he peered after the retreating backs of the
braves, a twig snapped behind him, startlingly loud in
the silence. He dropped to the ground, and with fantastic speed, pointed the long rifle.

Smoke and flames belched from the gun, and a
scream rang out. Then hooves were racing toward him,
and he barely had time to draw his knife and shove it
between the ribs of the body hurtling at him. He struggled erect, his breath coming in pants. He was pouring
powder into the rifle when the arrow whistled through
the air, whanging into his back. He felt his body grow
rigid; then he sank slowly to the ground. Were there
more? he wondered, struggling against the blackness
that tried to close in on him.

As if to answer his question, a pony thundered
through the forest, coming to a skidding halt only
inches from his face. Dirt and pine needles sprayed into
his eyes, blinding him. As he clawed at the particles in
his eyes, a hard, moccasined foot slammed into his side
with the force of a hammer.

Involuntarily Matt yelled, and his eyes flew open. A
young brave stood over him, his face heavy with war
paint. In a low, guttural tone he spat out some words.
Matt strove to understand, but his body was a flame of
burning agony and it was all he could do to hang on to
consciousness. He felt the warm blood running down
his side and knew that his strength was ebbing. His
body was covered in a cold sweat, and his last conscious thought was that he was dying.

Then a small, dirty face swam before him. The dark,
tilted eyes seemed to beg, "Don't leave me, Matt."

He forced himself to return to the searing pain and
the black hatred in the brave's eyes.

The Indian was squatting beside him now, and
through eyes that were dull and heavy, Matt watched
him unsheath his knife. He felt himself screaming, "No,
no!" but no sound came through his lips.

Slowly the sinewy arm rose and the blade hung
poised over his chest. While he waited for its thrust,
holding his breath, the Indian hesitated. His arm was
arrested as he struck a pose of intense listening. Faintly,
the drumming of hoofbeats sounded from the east.

In one motion the brave was on his feet and springing onto the back of his shaggy pony. Matt turned his
head and watched him disappear through the trees before he fainted.

Matt was vaguely aware of bumping along in a saddle
and of his hands tightly gripping the horn. He was half
conscious of a strong hand on his arm, keeping him
steady in the seat. Then a deep voice called a halt to the
stallion, and he felt himself slipping to the ground.

The softness of a bed enveloped him, and hands
pulled off his buckskins and cut away his shirt In and
out of awareness, he heard the familiar sounds of pouring water, a log being laid on a fire, and the scrape of a
pot being set on a grate.

Then the comforting sounds ended. Strong yet gentle
fingers began to probe the flesh of his back. He heard a
sharp snap and recognized the sound of an arrow shaft
being broken off. He knotted his fists, waiting for a
knife to start cutting out the barbed head.

At the first gouge of the sharply pointed blade, he
gave a deep groan and fainted again.

The creaking of a rocking chair brought Matt slowly
awake. The first thing that met his gaze was a dry sink
under a window. His eyes traveled up to the bright red
curtains drawn over the panes. His eyes widened. He
knew those curtains. The place belonged to Bill and
Ann Roberts, a greenhorn couple he had met on his
way to the Ohio.

Matt turned his head to the rocking figure and was
about to call out a greeting, then his lips snapped shut.
A large man, a stranger to Matt, sat staring into the
flames. He raised his head, then closed his eyes against
the pain he had aroused in his wound. When only a dull
ache remained, he opened them to stare at the stranger.

The man was big of frame and well over six feet tall.
There was a good amount of gray in the longish curly
hair, and Matt judged him to be in his early fifties.
The stranger turned his head to glance his way.
Through half-closed lids, Matt got a good look at the
face. It showed signs of a fast and hard life, but it was
still handsome in a rough sort of way.

The man, thinking that Matt still slept, turned back
and resumed his slow rocking. Matt stared at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing in Bill Roberts's
place. What had happened to the young pair? Could
this stranger have done them harm.. .maybe killed
them?

The man leaned over to poke at the fire. In the low,
glowing light of the fire, his features stood out more
clearly. Matt creased his forehead. The man looked
familiar somehow. He reminded him of someone.

In a voice that was hoarse and hollow in the silence,
he called out, "Stranger, where's the couple who owns
this place?"

The man rose and moved to the bed. Matt studied
him, noting again the faint remains of dissipation on
the craggy face. This one had been around, it was clear.

He held a hand that was soft and smooth out to
Matt. But when Matt gripped it, he was surprised at the
strength in the fingers.

"Jake.. .Jake South," the man said, smiling.

"Matt Barton, Jake. I guess I can thank you for
savin' my hide."

"I came along just in time, at that. That redskin has
a hole in his head now. I chased him until I could put a
bullet in him. Then I tossed him and the two you got
into a ravine and covered them up with rocks. I didn't
want any of his brothers findin' him around here. The
English have them stirred up against us, and I'd just as
soon they stay back in the Valley."

"I agree with you. I just come from there, and they're halfway on the warpath. I sure wouldn't care to
have them carry their devilment into the hills."

Jake nodded agreement, then changed the subject.
"How's your back feel? I had to go in pretty deep to get
the arrow out."

"It don't feel like no bee sting, I'll tell you that. But I
don't feel as bad as I thought I would. Layin' on my
back, it must be drainin' good."

Jake answered that he was most likely right, and
started to turn away. Matt carefully leaned on an elbow
and asked, "How come you're livin' here, Jake? Used
to be a young couple here."

"You mean the Robertses. I bought the place from
them three days ago. Seems like the wife got a little
leery of spendin' a winter here."

Jake bent to lay some wood on the fire and asked
over his shoulder, "You live around here, Matt?"

Matt was so long in answering him that Jake was
beginning to think his question had been improper. He
was about to beg his pardon when Matt answered,
"Yeah, I guess so. I had planned on livin' in the Ohio
Valley, but things are too uneasy there. I was afraid of
being caught up in the war. I've already had my share
of fightin' Indians. I was on my way back to my men
when them red varmints caught up with me. At first
they were after my stallion. I had to kill a couple of
them back in Ohio, and then they were after me. I'm
glad to be back, I'll tell you."

Jake looked like he wanted to pursue the subject but
asked instead, "Are you hungry? You ain't ate in three
days."

"Three days! Was I out that long?"

Jake gave a dry chuckle. "You was out, all right. Out
of your head, too."

Matt looked at him suspiciously. "Did I do a lot of
talkin'?"

Jake hunkered by the fire and, dipping stew from a pot, grinned widely. "Yeah, you talked a lot." He stood
up and moved toward the bed, the steaming bowl in
his hand. "Who's Marna?" he asked.

Matt felt blood rush to his face. What crazy things
had he shouted in his delirium? In his embarrassment,
he did not notice the trembling of Jake's hands as he set
the stew on a small table, nor did he see the eager,
waiting look in the blue eyes.

Finally he answered shortly, "She's my wife."

The shadowed corner hid the draining of Jake
South's face. His ragged sigh escaped Matt as he continued to squirm uncomfortably. It was a great relief
when Jake asked matter-of-factly, "Can you manage
the-spoon, or do you want me to help you?"

"I can do it," he answered curtly, and took up the
spoon.

The meat was tasty, and Matt could feel a new
strength running through him as he ate. He finished the
bowl and asked for more.

Matt did not know when he had fallen asleep, but
when next he opened his eyes, bright sunlight was pouring through the drawn curtains. He felt strong and
rested. Cautiously he rose to a sitting position. His
back hurt him only a little, and he carefully lowered his
feet to the floor.

At that moment Jake entered the cabin, bringing a
cold rush of air in with him. He carried a pail of steaming milk. Setting it on the table, he removed his gloves.
Again Matt was startled by the smoothness of the long,
tapering fingers. Jake South has never done a stroke of
work in his life, he thought, and he wondered what the
man was doing so far out in the wilderness.

Jake looked at him and smiled proudly. Indicating
the pail, he said, "I'm beginnin' to get the hang of this
milkin' again. I haven't done it since I was a kid." He
removed his coat and hurried to the fire. Turning his
back to it, he remarked, "It's colder than hell out there
in that shed." He looked at Matt. "I see you're feelin' better. You want to try and get on your feet for a
while?"

"Yeah, I believe I will. You done a right good job on
me. My back hardly hurts at all."

"I used some stuff I always keep with me. A woman
gave it to me years ago. It's almost all gone now."

"I know an old woman who makes up salves and
stuff," Matt mentioned, sliding his feet into his moccasins.

"An intense gleam shot into Jake South's eyes. "Do
you, now?" he asked with interest.

But Matt only answered yes, and moved slowly
toward a chair.

It looked for a second as if Jake might question him
further about the woman, but instead he turned quietly
to slicing bacon.

It wasn't until the second day that Matt had been up
and around that Jake brought up his marriage. Having
just finished a hearty supper of roast venison, along
with potatoes baked in the ashes, they sat in front of
the fire, having their coffee. With their stockinged feet
stretched out to the heat, they sipped in companionable
silence. A liking for each other had grown between
them, and each knew the other's need for silence.

After a few minutes, Jake broke their easy silence
with a question. "How long you been married, Matt?"

Matt shot him a surprised look, then answered
shortly, "I don't know. Two or three months, I reckon."

It was Jake's turn to stare in surprise. "Two or three
months? Don't you know?"

Matt squirmed impatiently. "I don't keep track."

Jake shrugged his shoulders. "I guess your marriage
ain't like mine was. I always knew to the day and hour
how long I was married."

"I take it your wife is dead, then."

Jake sighed. "Yeah, I lost her over fifteen years ago.
She was the prettiest little thing God ever created."

"How did you lose her?"

"Childbirth." Jake stared morosely in front of him.
"She was just a child herself. Only fourteen."

"I think my wife is only thirteen," Matt muttered.

A strange disappointment shot into Jake's eyes.
"Only thirteen?"

"Well, there seems to be some disagreement on that
point between her grandparents. The old woman claims
thirteen, and the old man says closer to sixteen."

Matt sat staring in front of him as though in deep
contemplation of his wife's real age. After a while he
muttered, "She looks like sixteen to me." He gave a
short laugh. "Maybe even twenty. She's sure full
grown."

Jake had edged his chair closer to Matt. Now he
urged, "Is she pretty, Matt? What does she look like?"

"Pretty?" Matt snorted. "Not hardly. The old woman
thinks she is, though."

Amusement for a grandmother's feelings softened
Jake's eyes. "Describe your wife to me," he urged.

Matt sat a moment, his eyes going dreamy as he
pulled Marna into his memory. "Well, let's see," he
began. "She's on the slender side, but real shapely. She
has the most beautiful pair of breasts I ever saw on a
woman. Her hair is reddish brown, and her eyes are
blue and shaped like almonds."