There was no vibration of hoof on earth to wake her, and when she rose it was with her strength renewed. She took up an easy trot, again along a minor set of trails, that sent her again into the forests. She watched the crows, the circling hawks, as she ran, and at last, before the sun was overhead, she heard a raucous chorus of caws from the direction of the road.
It wasn’t difficult to keep her prey in sight without being seen. Those Turtle-Men were as blind as new puppies. She kept pace with the group, staying well downwind of them. She could track them by the stink of their rank bodies, as well as the strong scent of the beasts they rode.
She felt sure they would camp before darkness fell, for a convenient stream offered a comfortable site. They were a people who liked their ease, as her People had learned by watching them. She scurried ahead and found herself a spot in which to rest and wait, with the stream and the clearing edging it within easy distance.
They were noisy and careless. Their beasts made their whinnying noises as they neared the water, and the men shouted in their coarse voices as they made their camp. She felt nothing but contempt for them. Children were valuable, and these creatures thought nothing of killing one, simply because he was curious. The thought made her dry eyes burn with rage, as she slid through the tangle of brush along the edge of the water and found a spot from which to watch them.
There was no moon that night, which was helpful. Their watchfire flared red against the darkness, and the four sentries thumped about the perimeter of the camp, as easy to hear as the crackle of the flames. She had marked, while they cooked and ate and sat about the fire, the three she wanted. One had gone into the shelter they set up at the farther edge of the clearing. Two were together in one nearer the fire. The four shelters held three hands of men, though they took turns watching through the night.
Nahadichka crept easily around the circle, avoiding the sentries without effort. Their heavy feet, their audible breathing, and their occasional comments as they met and passed made them irrelevant. She reached the dark tangle of grapevine and sweetgum and oak and hickory for which she had aimed herself, and then she lay waiting for a chance to slip across the narrow span of grass to the shelter.
The fire burned down, and the shadows grew darker. She found her chance and reached the side of the shelter without trouble. Her keen blade made a long slit, soundlessly, in the stuff, allowing her to peer through.
Three men lay cramped together in the narrow space. The flap was thrown back, and by the flicker of the coals outside, she could see them. The long one—that was the one she wanted! The others she would leave as they were, for they would fear greatly, and that was worse than death.
The knife moved, slick and silent, and the long legs flexed, straightened, twitched. She took the ear and slipped backward again, into the concealing forest. There was another camping spot, a day’s travel westward. She would be waiting there.
* * * * * * *
The next camp the group made was much more secure than the first. She watched them from a clump of brush as they cut away encroaching growth that might conceal an enemy. The horses were hobbled, and six sentries patrolled the perimeter, instead of three. The men kept their metal shells on their backs, instead of setting them aside for comfort, and a few even kept their heads covered with the high metal pots they wore.
She found herself able to laugh quietly at the obvious nervousness of the group. When an owl mourned shrilly downstream, they all jerked and turned to stare. She found that very gratifying. She was making them suffer.
There was no way to reach either of the others as she had done their fellow, and so she did not wait for full darkness. Again, a man went behind a clump of brush to relieve himself. He was not one she wanted, so she waited patiently until he was done. After a time another came, his sword in his hand, his gaze flicking from right to left, before and behind him. She lay curled around her bush, secure in the knowledge that he was as blind as his fellows.
When he had his clothing all undone and disarranged, she uncurled silently, slithered over the ground as quietly as a rattlesnake, and took him from behind. Having learned with her first attempt, she went for the throat, always, knowing that the armor would foil a stab at the back. He died as easily as the others had done, and she dropped him into his own mess and retired downstream, crossed the water, and sped southward and westward, paralleling the old road.
Only one of the killers was left alive. She told herself that she should be satisfied, should return through the forest to her own Caddoan people while yet she could. Her stealth and cunning had been great, but she knew that fortune had favored her as well. You could not depend upon that to continue.
Yet every time she thought to turn back, her son’s bewildered eyes stared at her from the leafy crowns of the trees or the muddy purls of the river water. No, she must go on to complete the task she had taken upon herself. She did not wait for the Spaniards to camp, this last time. She knew they would be so cautious that there would be little chance for success. She must attack from some hidden place, at a time when they least expected it. That meant that she could not use a stream or a river as her hiding place. They would now expect that.
She must rise from the earth itself, ready to kill that last slayer, whatever happened to her. Nahadichka was a woman of the forest now, but she had been born in the plains of a warrior people. She knew how to mislead an enemy into thinking himself safe, and she set about doing that.
The forest had been damp, for there had been rain in the east. But the flatlands were much dryer, and the grass, the soil, and the bushes and scrub oaks were dusty. She became a heap of dusty weeds beside the faint track that generations of travelers had worn into the prairie.
The sun burned up the east, traveled overhead slowly, and at last she heard the thud of hooves through the earth against which she lay. The group came closer, and she opened her eyes to stare through the mesh of grass she had arranged so as to hide her face. First came the heavy man who led the Turtle-Men. Then the one in black robes who raised his hands so often.
Behind came the others, riding in pairs, their hands on their weapons and their eyes busy studying the terrain about them. They were not fools, those Spaniards.
The last of the killers rode on the side nearest her. Fortune still was kind. Two pairs rode before him and three behind. There would be time. As he drew nearer, she gathered herself into a tense knot of muscle and resolve. The horse stepped steadily forward, and she sprang upright almost beneath its hooves. The knife flew unerringly from her hand and buried itself to the hilt in the eye socket of her victim.
There was a circle of riders about her, weapons in hand, their eyes burning with anger. Anger and astonishment. “¿Una mujer? ¡No lo creo! ¿Donde están los hombres?” Their words meant nothing to her.
She stood proudly, waiting, as several of the riders pulled away and circled, wider and wider, searching, she suspected, for a band of warriors that had harried them across the countryside. She smiled as the blade swung, holding her neck still for its impact.
Her son was avenged, and she had no other child. Her man had two wives to comfort him. It was time to die.
She felt the impact of the blade—and then the darkness descended, and she was freed of effort. The string of ears would not go onto her son’s mound, but perhaps she would find Bear-boy there in the Other Place, where the deer were fat, and the fruit was sweet and plentiful.
That would be enough.
A MOST GENTEEL PURSUIT
Rednecks sometimes still have erroneous ideas about the vulnerability of females they meet…BIG MISTAKE!
I never thought I could be talked into an extended leave of absence, not even after being beaten into hamburger by a bunch of street kids with bicycle chains. My work is what I am, and when I’m off, it leaves me restless and adrift. Once I got out of the hospital, I meant to go right back onto the streets, but two big obstacles stood in my way.
My grandmother was the bigger of the pair. Sh
e didn’t like it when I was accepted into police training. She didn’t dislike police, but she thought that was no job for her granddaughter. She was terrified every time I left the house, and prayed hard while I was away at work. After the beating, she showed signs of going into cardiac arrest when I mentioned going back on duty.
The other obstacle was my doctor, who shook his head and looked grim every time I mentioned going back to work. “You don’t think so now, but this has been a strain on you. It will take a while to build your strength again. You lost a lot of blood, almost as much tissue, and your body has to rebuild itself. You need to sit back and eat your grandmother’s cooking for a while. Those scars need to heal.”
Between them, they got me to agree to some time off. I almost went crazy sitting at the window, watching cars pass on the freeway and wishing I was out there to pull them over for speeding. Gramma realized, after a while, that I couldn’t bear being lazy.
“Let’s go up to the old place on the river,” she said at last. “I’ll call Cousin Cindy to get somebody to clean up the house and get the utilities connected. You always liked the farm and the woods and the river, and that’ll give you something to do. Maybe you might take your paints—you used to be really good with watercolors. I wish...,” but she didn’t finish.
She was right, I had been good. Maybe I’d pick up the habit while I was off-duty. It was a relaxing pastime, if nothing else.
I went shopping for supplies. A pocket watercolor kit, a pad of 130-pound watercolor paper, a folding stool, and I was ready for business. I still had my brushes, carefully cleaned and put away. By the time we were on our way, I was really getting excited about painting. I like doing birds and landscapes and tumble-down houses. God knows, there are enough of all those in East Texas to keep me busy for years.
I realized, as it began to melt away with the miles, that I’d been pushing a dull weight of anger deeper and deeper inside me since the attack. It had lessened, but I knew it was still there. The police psychologist told me it would stay with me for a long time. Maybe forever. I knew all about that: after my divorce I’d been furious for five years, and even now it didn’t do to think about it often.
Gramma and I moved back into her old home as if we’d never been gone. She and Gramps raised me, my sister, and my brother there after our parents were killed, and they did a bang-up job. We had what we needed, including lots of love and the kind of discipline you don’t find much any more, firm but fair.
As usual, Gramma had known just what I needed. She’d told me, years before, that if I didn’t divorce Reed I’d end up killing him (or he’d kill me). She was right.
After Gramps died, she came to Houston, though she hated the city, and kept house for me. Now that she’d put me back in the woods, I knew I’d been missing that for years.
I dived into the thick stands of forest like a fox and renewed my acquaintance with favorite places and familiar creatures. I began taking my painting stuff with me, for it all folded and packed into a neat shape to be carried on my shoulders. I started with quick sketches of birds. That wasn’t enough, and soon I was considering landscapes.
There was a wide eddy where the river curved to the east. The woods came down to the banks on one side, amid cattails, waterweed, and button willows. The larger species of willows bent over the water, their reflected shapes warped by the ripples.
I wanted to paint it in watercolor, using that as a sketch from which to do a big oil later, when I was at home again. I’d take part of the home country back to Houston with me to cover my living room wall.
I did the preliminary sketches, got the composition just right, and started on my real work. Coming in after a shift on the streets, I could gaze into that picture and let all the hostility drain out of me. For three days I sat on my stool on the sandy point above the eddy, getting every detail right before touching brush to water.
On the fourth day it rained. I sat at the window, impatient for it to clear. When it did I was back there on my stool, as soon as the light reached the angle I wanted. I washed in the values of forest and water and felt the old power run through my fingers into the brush.
A motor muttered around the bend, and a boat came into sight, wrinkling the water. It sputtered to a stop and a voice yelled, “Whatcha doin’?”
The biggest of the four men, the one who yelled, was a red-faced jerk who wouldn’t have understood if I told him. I held my temper, however.
“I am painting the river. In watercolor.” My tone was sharp, but it was the best I could do.
The three younger men looked blank, but the questioner seemed to think I was making fun of him. “I asked you a civil question,” he bellowed.
“I gave you an accurate answer,” I said. “I want a picture of that bend to hang on my wall. To get it, I have to paint it. Simple, even for you, I’d think.” It wasn’t particularly diplomatic, but I was on my grandmother’s land, in a place that had never seemed dangerous in all my thirty years.
I dipped my brush into the paint and laid in a ragged line to create the shadow beneath the farther bank. When I looked up, the four had come ashore and were moving toward me, lined up between me and the water.
“What in the world do you want?” I asked the red-faced man.
“Just a little roll in the hay,” he said, showing big buck teeth. “This time it’ll be mud, but you can’t have everything. It’s a waste, letting a pretty woman set out in the woods with nothin’ better to do than smear paint around. We’ll show you a real good time....” I didn’t wait for the rest. I rose off the stool and got ready. They looked surprised, but they kept moving toward me, almost within reach.
“Now don’t get feisty, honey. There’s nothin’ you kin do—nobody’s closer than about five miles downriver. We won’t hurt you, just have a good time, all together.” The idiot really believed that. I could see it in his mud-colored eyes and the smirk on his face.
He lunged toward me and caught my shirt, tearing it off with one tug. Then he saw my scars.
While the bicycle chains had missed my face, they’d made a real job on my torso. Like I said, I looked like hamburger when my fellow officers found me.
“My lord!” said Red-Face. “What happened to you?”
The fury that had been buried was boiling to the surface. These four rednecks thought the finest thing a woman could hope for was to be gang-raped in the woods, and that assumption had triggered something deep inside me. I had thought I could control it, but I found I couldn’t.
I’d been taught hand-to-hand combat by the best. Two of the men went flying into the river under my first attack, without ever knowing what hit them. The other youngster took one look at me and dived in without help. But Red-Face was one of the old school who thought a woman couldn’t possibly handle him. He got redder than ever and opened his beefy arms to get me in a bear-hug.
I went for his eyes with my right hand, while I tangled my left leg with his right and pushed him down into the mud. He gave a yell and put his hands over his fingernail-stabbed eyeballs. Tears leaked through his fingers, mixed with a bit of blood.
I rolled to my feet and caught him by the collar. Dragging him along the bank, aided by the slick mud, I dumped him into the boat, where his soaked companions were already waiting, very quietly. They pulled him in and looked up at me with fear in their eyes.
With one foot, I shoved the boat free of the bank. I grabbed up my torn shirt and tied it around me, while they drifted out into the river. The anger was subsiding now, leaving a feeling of peace behind it.
I called after them, “You boys better get used to the idea that you can’t just take what you want. It’s not safe, with men or women, any more. Don’t come to Houston, by the way.” They were far enough now so I yelled, “Down there, I’m a cop!”
Three heads turned to look back. The fourth raised itself from the bottom of the boat and looked too. His eyes were already clearing. Then somebody pulled the starter cord, and the motor sputtered, caught, and
revved ruinously. They rocketed out of sight.
I put my painting gear back into order and sat down whistling. The world was brighter than it had seemed in quite a while. That undercurrent of anger was no longer simmering inside me. I had needed a good, fair fight, not the ambush those street kids had set up.
Now I’d had it, and it felt great. Nobody had lasting damage, except to macho egos, though for a minute I’d had the impulse to blind that redneck, though I’d pulled my punch.
I painted until the light failed. Then I went whistling home through the woods. Gramma met me with food ready on the table. “You look so well, dear. But how did you tear your shirt?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply, she went on, “I’m so glad you went back to painting. It’s such a genteel pursuit.”
I didn’t quite laugh aloud, though I chuckled internally most of the evening. Then I slept like a baby, while the whippoorwills and the hoot owls and the crickets filled the night with music.
THIS LITTLE PIGGY…
Wild hogs range the East Texas woods, and more than one who has run afoul of them has never lived to tell of it….
The wood was ripe with autumn, the sugary scent of fallen leaves mingling with the tang of pine that had felt the first nip of frost. Beneath his feet, Rob felt the satisfactory scrunch of golden hickory leaves that ruffled about his ankles as he waded through them.
Occasionally he stooped to pick up a nut, still clasped tightly in its green-brown husk. Merrily made hickory-nut cakes for Christmas, though it was a royal pain to shell the suckers. He and the kids mashed fingers and pricked themselves with nut-picks, but it was all a part of the Christmas magic his wife managed to make it from what they could forage for themselves. Soon it would be time to bring the whole family, baskets in hand, to the hickory wood and gather their winter store.
Strange Doin's in the Pine Hills Page 10
