Preacher (5 page)

“I'll be more than glad to. It's little enough to pay you back for your kindness.”

“I was just doin' my Christian duty,” Lucas replied. “But if you're up to workin' for your keep, first thing I want you to do is help me get this tarp up.” Younger began untying the canvas on one side of the wagon, and indicated that Art should do the same thing on the other.

Art untied his side, then he and Younger unrolled the canvas, stretching it across the wagon bows so that the wagon was covered. After that, Lucas did something that Art thought was rather strange. He tied a red streamer to the back of the wagon.

“There, that'll do just fine,” Tryeen said.

“What's the red flag for?” Art asked.

“Never you mind about that,” Lucas replied. “You just take the team down to water. Then, when you come back, check with the Missus. I 'spect she'll have some chores she'll be a'wantin' you to do for her.”

“Yes, sir, I'll be glad to do anything she wants,” Art said.

Art took the team down to water. When he returned, Bess gave him a bucket and had him get some water for cooking. Then she had him gather wood for the fire.

Looking around the camp, Art saw Younger going over to the area occupied by the men who were traveling alone, mostly those who had ridden in on horseback. He had no idea what he was saying to them, but some of them were visibly animated by the conversation, for they began moving around in a rather lively fashion, while looking back toward the Younger wagon. After visiting with them for a few minutes, Younger returned to the wagon. “Jennie,” he called. “You've got some business to take care of, girl. Get on up here.”

It wasn't until then that Art realized he hadn't seen Jennie since they made camp.

“Jennie, get up here now,” Younger called, a little more forcefully than before. “You know what you have to do.”

Jennie crawled out from under the little tent that had been made by dropping canvas down around the edge of the wagon. Art gasped in surprise when he saw her. Jennie no longer looked like a little girl. She looked much more like a woman, and not just any woman, but like a painted woman, the way Lily had looked at the tavern back in New Madrid.

Younger spoke directly to Art. “Boy, I'll thank you to stay out of the wagon now until after Jennie is finished with her business.”

“Finished with her business? What business?” Art asked.

“Business that ain't none of your business,” Lucas replied with a hoarse laugh. “Now, just you mind what I say. Stay out of the back of the wagon. The missus will keep you busy enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Art replied.

“Jennie, you ready in there?”

“I'm ready,” Jennie's muffled voice replied.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Younger let out a yell.

Nearly a dozen men of all ages and sizes began moving toward the wagon, most from the area where the riders were encamped, but a few from some of the other wagons as well. Art watched them approach, wondering what this was all about.

The men stood in a line behind the wagon. The first in line handed some money to Younger, then climbed up into the wagon. Because of the canvas sheet that was covering the wagon, Art couldn't see what was going on inside.

After a few minutes, the first man came out, adjusting his trousers. Some of the other men said something to him and he answered, then several of them laughed. Because Art was standing near the fire that had been built several feet in front the wagon, he was too far away to hear what was being said.

“Mrs. Younger, what's going on back there?” Art asked. “What's Jennie doing in the wagon with all those men?”

Bess Younger looked uneasy. “I got no part with that business,” she said in a clearly agitated voice. “And neither do you.”

“But Jennie's in there,” Art said.

“I told you, you got no business worryin' about that. So you just don't pay it no never mind,” Bess said.

“I know I ain't got no business. I was just curious, that's all.”

“Don't be curious,” Bess said. “Sometimes, what you don't know don't hurt you. You'll be wantin' to sleep with us tonight?”

“I aim to, yes. That is, if you and Mr. Younger don't mind.”

“We don't mind. We figured you'd be goin' on to St. Louis with us. I just thought you ought to know that we ain't got no extra blankets for you to make your bedroll. But I reckon if you want to, you can sleep up on the wagon seat. There's a buffalo robe up there that you can wrap up in if it gets too cool.”

“Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am,” Art said.

Art ran errands for Bess Younger until long after dark, gathering wood for the breakfast fire the next morning, and even rolling out dough for tomorrow's bread. All the while men from all over the camp continued to make their way to stand in line at the back of the wagon. When Art finally finished all his chores and climbed up onto the seat to go to sleep, there were still men waiting in line at the back of the wagon. But because a tarpaulin drop separated the wagon seat from the bed of the wagon, he was still unable to see what was going on.

He was asleep when he heard Jennie and Lucas Younger talking. By the position of the stars and moon, he figured it to be after midnight.

“We done pretty good tonight,” Lucas was saying. “Near 'bout ten dollars we took in.”

“Please,” Jennie said. “Please don't make me do this no more. I don't like it.”

“We all got to do things we don't like,” Younger said. “Besides, you got nothin' to complain about, girl. You could be workin' in the fields, pickin' cotton with the niggers. Would you rather be doing that?”

“Yes, sir. I'd rather be doing that.”

“That's just 'cause you're crazy,” he said gruffly. “Now crawl into your little nest under the wagon and get to bed. I don't want to hear no more 'bout this.”

The little canvas-enclosed area where Jennie had pitched her bedroll was beneath the forward part of the wagon, just under Art. As a result, she was no more than two feet from him, separated only by the bottom of the wagon. Art could hear her rustling about as she got ready for bed. He started to call out to her, but something held him back. Instead, he just lay as quietly as he could.

Then, later, when all the rustling around had stopped and everything was still, he heard Jennie crying. She was being quiet about it, stifling her sobs as best she could, but there was no mistaking what he heard. Jennie was crying.

Why was she crying? Art wondered. What was it Younger was making her do in the back of that wagon?

“Ten dollars, Bess,” Art had heard Younger telling his wife just before they went to sleep. “We made us ten dollars here tonight.”

“I can't help but think that it is Satan's money,” Bess replied in a troubled voice.

“The hell it is,” Younger said. “It's
my
money.” He laughed at his own joke.

They had been on the trail for the better part of four hours the next morning. Jennie was sitting in the back of the wagon, dozing sometimes, other times just looking off into the woods alongside the road. Bess was driving the team; Younger and Art were walking alongside the wagon to make it easier on the mules.

A couple of times Art tried to do something to cheer Jennie up, popping up suddenly beside her, or throwing little dirt clods at her. The only time he managed to get through to her was when he turned upside down and walked on his hands for a few yards. When he was upright again, he thought he saw her smile.

But the smile, as hard-won as it was, was short-lived. It was no time at all before Jennie was morose again. Art didn't think he had ever seen anyone looking as sad as Jennie did, and he wished he could do something to make her feel better.

That opportunity presented itself about mid-afternoon. Looking over into a little clump of grass, Art happened to see a tiny bunny. Reaching down, he picked it up and held it. The rabbit was so small that it barely filled the palm of his hand. It was furry and soft, and he could feel it trembling in fear as he held it.

Jennie! he thought. This was bound to cheer her up.

He trotted back to the wagon, holding the rabbit in such a way that it was obvious to Jennie, even as he approached, that he had something.

“Look what I found,” he said, though he still hadn't showed her what he was holding.

“What is it? What do you have?” Jennie asked.

“Huh-uh, you'll have to guess.”

“Oh, now, I'm not good at guessing. Please tell me what it is.

“I'll do better than that,” Art said. “I'll give it you. It's yours to keep.” He held the little rabbit out toward her.

“Oohhh!!” Jennie squealed in delight as she held the wriggling little piece of fur in her hands. “Oh, thank you! He is so pretty.”

Jennie's face lit up brighter than it had been at any time since Art first saw her. She held the little rabbit to her cheek. “What's his name?” she asked.

“Oh, that's not for me to say. He belongs to you now. You'll have to name him,” Art said.

“I think I'll call him . . .”

That was as far as she got. Unnoticed by either one of them, Younger had walked quickly up to the wagon. Reaching over the edge of the wagon, he grabbed the little rabbit, then turned and threw it as far as he could.

“Mr. Younger no!” Jennie screamed, while Art watched the little bunny flying through the air, kicking ineffectively. It fell hard, several feet away, bounced once, then remained perfectly still.

“I told you, I don't hold with that kind of business,” Younger said. “Keepin' rabbits 'n such as pets is for babies and chil'run. You're a woman, full-growed now, and it's time you started actin' like one.”

“Yes, sir,” Jennie said contritely.

“And you,” Younger continued, turning toward Art. “Next time you bring in a rabbit, it better be big enough to make into a stew.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, mimicking Jennie's response.

Younger moved on up toward the head of the team. He reached out to grab the harness of the off-mule, using it to help pull him along.

Art looked up at Jennie and saw that tears were sliding down her cheeks. He had hoped to cheer her up, but wound up making things worse. He felt very bad about it.

“I'm sorry about the rabbit,” he said quietly.

“It's all right. You couldn't do nothin' about it,” she answered with a sniff.

“Why do you call your pa Mr. Younger?”

Jennie looked at Art in shock. “He ain't my pa,” she said.

“Oh, I see. He's your step-pa then? He married your ma, is that it?”

Jennie shook her head. “Mrs. Younger ain't my ma.”

“They ain't your ma and pa?”

“No. They're my owners.”

“Owners? What do you mean, owners?”

“I'm their slave girl. I thought you knowed that.”

“No, I didn't know that,” Art said. “Fact is, I don't know as I've ever knowed a white slave girl.”

“I ain't exactly white,” Jennie said quietly.

“You're not?”

“I'm Creole. My grandma was black.”

“But how can you be their slave? You don't do no work for 'em,” Art said. “I mean . . . no offense meant, but I ain't never seen you do nothin' like get water or firewood, or help out Mrs. Younger with the cookin'.”

“No,” Jennie said quietly. “But gathering firewood, or helping in the kitchen, ain't the only way of workin'. There's other ways . . . ways that”—she stopped talking for a moment—“ways that I won't trouble you with.”

“You mean, like what you was doin' with all them men last night?”

Jennie cut a quick glance toward him. The expression on her face was one of total mortification. “You . . . you seen what I was doin'?”

“No, I didn't really see nothin' more'n a bunch of men linin' up at the back of the wagon. Even when I went to bed, I couldn't see what was goin' on on the other side of the tarp.”

“Do you . . . do you know what I was doing in there?”

Art shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I got me an idea that you was doin' what painted ladies do. Onliest thing is, I don't rightly know what that is.”

Jennie looked at him in surprise for a moment; then her face changed and she laughed.

“What is it? What's so funny?” Art asked.

“You are,” she said. “You are still just a boy after all.”

“I ain't no boy,” Art said resolutely. “I done killed me a man. I reckon that's made me man enough.”

The smile left Jennie's face and she put her hand on his shoulder. “I reckon it does at that,” she said.

“You don't like doin' what Younger is makin' you do, do you?”

“No. I hate it,” Jennie said resolutely. “It's——it's the worst thing you can imagine.”

“Then why don't you leave?”

“I can't. I belong to 'em. Besides, iffen I left, where would I go? What would I do? I'd starve to death if I didn't have someone lookin' out for me.”

“I don't know,” Art said. “But seems to me like anything would be better than this.”

“What about you? Are you going to stay with the Youngers?”

“Only as long as it takes to get to St. Louis,” Art replied. “Then I'll go out on my own.”

“Have you ever been to St. Louis?” Jennie asked.

“No, have you?”

Jennie shook her head. “No, I haven't. Mr. Younger says it's a big and fearsome place, though.”

“I'll bet you could find a way to get on there,” Art said. “I'll bet you could find work, the kind of work that wouldn't make you have to paint yourself up and be with men.”

“I'd be afraid. If I try to get away, Mr. Younger will send the slave catchers after me.”

“Slave catchers? What are slave catchers?”

“They are fearsome men who hunt down runaway slaves. They are paid to find the runaways, and bring 'em back to their masters. They say that the slave hunters always find who they are lookin' for. And most of the time they give 'em a whippin' before they bring 'em back. I ain't never been whipped.”

“I can see where a colored runaway might be easy to find. But you don't look colored. How would they find you? Don't be afraid. I'll help you get away.”

“How would you do that?”

“Easy,” Art said with more confidence than he felt. “I aim to leave the Youngers soon's we get to St. Louis. When I go, I'll just take you with me, that's all. You bein' white and all, you could pass for my sister. No one's goin' to take you for a runaway. Why, I'll bet you could find a job real easy.”

“Maybe I could get on with someone looking after their children,” Jennie suggested. “I'm real good at looking after children. You really will help me?”

“Yes,” Art replied. He spat in the palm of his hand, then held it out toward Jennie.

“What . . . what is that?” Jennie asked, recoiling from his proffered hand.

“It's a spit promise,” Art said. “That's about the most solemn promise there is.

Smiling, Jennie spat in her hand as well, then reached out to take Art's hand in hers. They shook on the deal.

Half an hour later they stopped to give the team a rest. Younger peed right by the side of the road, making no effort to conceal himself from the women. Buttoning up his trousers, he came back up to the wagon.

“Art, they's a cow down there,” he said. He reached down into the wagon and pulled out a piece of rope. “I want you to go down there and get her, and bring her back up here. Tie her off to the back of the wagon.”

“You mean just go get her?” Art asked in surprise. “How can I do that? Doesn't she belong to anyone?”

“Yes. She belongs to me,” Younger said.

“But how can that be? I thought you said you hadn't been up this way before.”

“The cow belongs to me because I say she does,” Younger said irritably. “Now, go get her like I said.”

“I'd rather not,” Art said. “I'm afraid that would be stealing and I don't want to steal from anyone.”

“It's not stealing,” Younger insisted. “Look, the cow is just standing out there. If she belonged to someone, don't you think she would be in a barn somewhere? Or at least in a pen. Now, go get her like I said.”

Art thought about it. On the one hand, he felt a sense of obligation to Younger for taking him in. On the other, he was sure that the cow didn't belong to Younger, so taking it would be stealing. It was clear, however, that if he didn't go get the cow, Younger would, so the end result would be the same. And if Art was being ordered to take the cow, then he didn't think it would be the same thing as him stealing.

“All right,” he said, taking the rope. “I'll get her.”

“Good lad,” Younger said. “You're going to work out just fine.”

They hadn't gone more than a mile beyond that when two horsemen overtook them. Both riders were carrying rifles and they rode up alongside the wagon, demanding that it stop. One of the riders was about Younger's age; the other looked to be little older than Art. Art was sure they were father and son.

“Something I can do for you gentlemen?” Younger asked.

“Hell, yes, there's something you can do, mister,” the older of the two riders said. He pointed to the cow. “You can untie our cow from the back of your wagon.”

“This is your cow?”

“You're damn right this is our cow.”

“Art, untie that cow right now,” Younger ordered. “Give it back to the rightful owners.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, walking back toward the cow.

“I'm sorry about that,” Younger said to the two men.

“What I'd like to know is, what are you doing with our cow in the first place?”

“I can see how it might look a little suspicious,” Younger said. He pointed to Art. “But the boy there had the cow with him when we picked him up on the road.”

“You say the boy had the cow?”

“He did. He said he had a hankerin' to go to St. Louis, and he offered me the cow in exchange for my wife and me to take him there.”

Art heard Younger's lie, but he made no attempt to dispute it.

“If you was a mite older, boy, you'd be hanging from yonder tree,” the older rider said as Art passed the end of the cow's lead rope up to him.

“He's near as old as I am, Pa,” the younger rider said. “Seems to me like that's old enough to hang.”

The older man shook his head. “No. I don't take to hangin' boys.” He pointed his rifle at Art. “But hear this, boy. If I ever see you in these parts again, I'll like as not shoot you. I figure the earlier you can stop a thief, the less grief other folks will be getting from him.”

“I don't think the boy meant to steal the cow, mister,” Younger said. “He told us he found it walkin' down the road. I think he thought the cow had just wandered off.”

“Uh-huh. You say you just picked him up, did you?”

“Yes, sir, my wife and I did. Figured it would be a Christian kindness to take him in.”

“Well, you'd better watch that he don't steal ever'thing you got and leave you in the middle of the night,” the older of the two riders said gruffly. “Come on, son. Let's get Nellie back into the barn.”

The riders left then, at as fast a trot as the cow would allow. Art waited until they were well out of earshot before he spoke.

“Mr. Younger, it wasn't right, you telling those men I stole that cow.”

“I didn't tell them you stole it, I told them you found it,” Younger said. “Besides, you saw how they were. If they had thought I took it, they would've hung me. Would you have wanted that on your conscience?”

“No, I reckon not,” Art replied. It didn't occur to him to tell Younger that his conscience would have been clear since he had opposed taking the cow in the first place.

“I guess we'll just have to be more careful next time, won't we?”

Art didn't answer.

“Let's step up the pace a little,” Younger said, running his finger around his neck collar. “This place don't sit well with me.