by Pat Murphy
The moon was overhead when he reached the top of the ridge. He looked back down the trail and saw no sign of pursuit. That was good. He was making good time. It would take a few days for news of his troubles to reach the far northern towns, he figured. He’d have time to liquidate his assets in Downieville before he fled.
He had decided to head east. He could change his name and lose himself among the prospectors seeking silver near Carson City, a territory where civilization had not yet taken hold. He could do well there, he thought. Perhaps he would take up gambling again, refresh the skills that Gentleman Jack had taught him so long ago. He would prosper once again.
His arm ached where the girl had cut him. He was tired, dead tired. He was out of shape from too much drinking, from too much smoking, from living the good life of a prosperous man. He needed a few hours’ sleep, he thought, and the horse needed a rest. Then he’d be on his way. He tethered the horse and lay down with his rifle at his side, his pistol in his boot.
Jasper woke to moonlight and eyes. A gray wolf crouched not ten feet from his head, watching him with steady, golden eyes. His campfire had burned down to embers, but the half-moon cast its silver light across the clearing.
Slowly, Jasper reached for his pistol, but it was not tucked into his boot where he had left it. Still moving slowly, still keeping his eyes on the wolf, he sat up, reaching for the rifle at his side. It was not there. As he groped for the rifle, he found his hunting knife and grabbed hold of the handle, pulling it from the sheath.
As he moved, he caught sight of another wolf, smaller than the first, but staring at him with the same intensity. He shifted his gaze and realized that he was surrounded by wolves—an intent and silent circle of watching animals, their eyes gleaming in the moonlight. They were grinning, lips pulled back, tongues lolling past glittering teeth.
Beyond the clearing where Jasper had made his camp, the pines blocked the moonlight, casting dark shadows. Something pale moved in the shadows behind a big gray devil of a wolf with a grizzled muzzle. As Jasper stared, Sarah stepped from the shadows and stood beside the wolf. In her right hand, she held a knife.
Her left arm was bandaged—he’d winged her with that shot. So she was injured, just as he was. That was fair.
“I took the rifle,” she said. “I took the pistol.”
“Sarah,” Jasper said. He smiled, forgetting the wolves that surrounded him. Finally, the girl. So small, so insignificant, and so much trouble. If only he had found her when he killed her parents. He’d have slit her throat, scalped her, and left her with her precious mama, lying in the sun.
Wild Angel indeed. How angelic would she look when he tore off those trousers and spread her legs for his pleasure? He’d take her, then gut her like a rabbit.
He grinned at the thought. He had smiled when he crept up behind his father with the ax. He had smiled when he strangled Gentleman Jack.
“I thought you were too smart than to come to look for me,” he said. “But I reckon I was wrong. You’re just stupid enough. I killed your mama and I’m happy to kill you, too.”
“Don’t talk,” she said. Her gaze did not waver as she stepped past the wolves, into the clearing.
Jasper pulled his legs beneath him, crouching in his bedroll, then kicking the blankets aside. He was wearing only the trousers he had worn to bed.
In his time, Jasper had whittled an opponent or two down to size. In barroom brawls and minor disagreements, a miner was far more likely to pull a knife than a pistol. Though Jasper preferred the pistol, he harbored a certain affection for knife fighting. His long reach gave him an advantage. And a gunfight was over so quickly.
With a knife, it took time to kill a person—and Jasper enjoyed that. It gave his opponent time to realize what was happening, time to realize who was in charge, who held the power. He liked watching his opponent’s face when he made the first cut. Start small, slashing off a thumb, slicing the tendons of a wrist. Whittling with short upward strikes, careful not to catch the blade in a rib or some other inconveniently placed bone. Then, as the first wounds bled, he watched the fear grow in his opponent’s eyes. His favorite killing stroke was a wide, low, sweep across the belly, a fine way to disembowel his opponent. More than one miner who had the temerity to accuse him of cheating at cards had lost to that blow.
Sarah studied Jasper, looking for weakness. He stood with his knees a little bent, his feet well apart, right foot ahead of left. He held his knife in his right hand, blade angled upward, pointing in her direction.
He was smiling, but that did not bother her. She was smiling, too. His scent filled her nostrils, but she did not feel the terrible fear that had paralyzed her before. She felt as she had before the fight with Marek—alert, alive, her heart pounding with excitement, her senses alert to the smallest change that might give her an advantage.
Her arm ached, but that did not matter. A small ache, a distraction, nothing more. Living among the wolves, she had learned to focus on the hunt, ignoring distractions that might break her concentration.
She caught a glimpse of a movement out of the corner of her eye—a tiny shift in the position of his back leg. She heard a faint sound—his foot moving on the ground—and a fraction of a second later, he lunged forward, his knife slashing through the air.
She was no longer there. At his first movement, she had sprung to one side, reaching out with her knife as she did so to stroke the back of his right wrist with the blade. Not a deep cut—she had to move quickly, no time to put much pressure behind it. Just a sting—and then she leapt away over the firepit, where the embers still burned. From the other side of the clearing, she watched him.
As he turned, she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes, hidden as quickly as it appeared. In the moonlight, his wound was turning black with blood seeping slowly from the cut. She caught the smell of it in the air and her smile grew wider, the grin of a hunter on the track of her prey.
She was small, a good foot shorter than Jasper. He had the advantage of reach. If she lingered within his range, he could slice her to bits—but she did not linger. She had the fighting reflexes of a wolf—fast, agile, striking without hesitation. By comparison, he was slow, clumsy.
At first, she let him attack, dancing away from each blow and countering with another slash to the wrist, a swipe at his leg, a flick of the knife at his trailing hand. Sometimes, she missed, but often she made contact, each time with a light touch, a small cut.
He swore at her as he fought. “Damn you—you fight like a mosquito. Tiny bites from a tiny girl. You think you can kill me with those? Think again.”
She was not listening. Words meant nothing. All her attention was on movement and position. She knew what he was going to do as soon as he did—from a twitch of the foot, a flicker of his eyes, a jerk of his head. Subtle indications—but glaringly obvious to one who had grown up in a wolf pack. The first cut, shallow though it was, distracted him. The cut on his right thigh—not very deep, but deep enough to hurt—caused him to favor one leg.
“I killed your mama. I killed your papa. I’ll kill you, too.” His smile was gone now. His lips were set in a grim line, no humor left in him.
Still, she waited for his attack, but she began to follow each counter with an attack of her own—a stab, a slash, an upward slice. Always she stayed out of reach, keeping her distance, playing it safe. She concentrated her attacks on existing wounds, slashing again and again at his wrist until he tossed the knife to his other hand. He was bleeding from a dozen cuts.
She fought like a wolf. The pack did not bring down a deer with a single bite. No, it was a long and brutal process. They tore at their prey, allowing no rest, attacking from all sides. She had the patience of a predator—there’s no hurry, once your prey is faltering. The air filled with the scent of blood; the fear was in his eyes constantly now.
He was waiting longer between attacks, conserving his strength. She watched him carefully, her eyes never wavering. He held his knife low, as if unable to raise it. She smile
d at that. She had known wolves who feigned exhaustion in a fight, hoping their opponent would let his guard down. She would not fall for that.
He stepped backward then—half a step, half a stumble, and she knew from the flicker of his eyes that this was a fake designed to lure her in. For a moment, she Jet him think he had succeeded, stepping in. In her peripheral vision, she could see the blankets from his bedroll, his boots, the embers of the fire—all obstacles, all potential weapons. His eyes flicked downward and she danced back as he kicked one of his boots into her path, hoping to trip her, holding his knife ready to slash her belly when she did.
When he kicked the boot, he put all his weight on his right leg, which had been weakened by the wound to his thigh. She acted then—springing over the boot, kicking his leg out from under him, slashing his left arm to the bone in a blow that flung his arm to the side. He dropped to his knees, releasing his grip on the knife as she brought her elbow back, striking his temple a solid blow that rocked his head to the side.
She could kill him now. That was clear. In a fight between wolves, this was the moment in which the loser might surrender, submitting to the winner, acknowledging the other animal’s superiority.
In that moment, Jasper’s eyes met hers. “Mercy,” he said. It was a word she did not recognize, a word that Max had not taught her. But she did not need to know the word. His eyes were filled with hatred, and her hand, which gripped his injured arm, felt his muscles tense, ready to strike the moment he saw an opening. This man was not surrendering.
Without hesitation, she struck with the knife, a smooth hard stroke that sliced across the side of his throat, cutting through the carotid artery. Jasper fell, his breath rattling in his throat as hot blood pumped through the slash, flowing down his neck, down his chest.
She stepped back, watching him with the same steady gaze, still smiling faintly, seeing the hatred and fear in his eyes fade as consciousness left him. His breathing stopped.
She left his body there. The wolves would not touch it—human flesh reeking of tobacco and whiskey held little appeal. Other scavengers would find him. Jays would peck out his eyes. Coyotes and foxes would gnaw his bones. Over time, he would nourish the forest, becoming a part of the wilderness.
As Sarah turned away, Beka came to greet her. Sarah reached out to scratch the big wolf’s ears. Beka rubbed against her leg, and the other wolves crowded around, grinning. She felt wagging tails strike her, heads butting against her legs.
Beka lifted her head and howled, a low, sweet moan that climbed to echo from the walls of the canyon. The others joined in, a wild chorus of howls. Sarah tipped back her head and lifted her voice, joining the pack in a cry of triumph and completion.
25 NELLY WAS A LADY
“Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen.”
—Mark Twain
THE FLOOR WAS DRENCHED by the time Sarah was done with here bath. Audrey had started with a basin of water, a washcloth, and a packet of her favorite bubble bath. Sarah had been fascinated by the bubbles, popping them at first, then tossing them in the air. That had led to splashing and entirely too much fun.
Audrey was drenched, too. But she couldn’t bring herself to scold Sarah. The girl was so innocent, so happy to be with her, that Audrey just didn’t have the heart.
Sarah was wrapped in a towel, sitting on the floor. Audrey had tried to get her to sit on a chair, but that just hadn’t worked. Sarah had squatted on the chair, straddled the seat as if it were the branch of an oak, squirmed and wiggled and tried to find a comfortable position, until Audrey finally relented and let her sit on the floor. Audrey had taken the chair and, while Sarah leaned against her leg, had carefully worked out the tangles in Sarah’s hair. Now she was brushing the coppery curls with easy, rhythmic strokes.
“Your hair is just like your mother’s was,” Audrey was saying. “Beautiful and difficult to manage. When it grows out, I’ll show you how to tie it up.”
Looking down at Sarah, Audrey wondered what had happened, out there in the woods. Sarah and Beka had finally come back to Grizzly Hill where Audrey and Max had waited. Sarah seemed exhausted, but happy. Before she had curled up by the fire to sleep, she told Audrey that Jasper was dead. Though Audrey had asked for details, Sarah did not provide any. She had simply shrugged. “I found him. Now he is dead.” The next day, they had brought Sarah back to Selby Flat.
The bruise on Sarah’s temple was fading. Audrey had been tending the wound on her right arm, and it was healing well. Soon, the visible traces of her encounters with Jasper would be gone.
Sarah’s eyes were half-closed; the rhythmic stroking of the brush had soothed her, relaxed her. She looked so sweet, so delicate. The poor lost lamb, Mrs. Selby called her.
“Hello?” Helen knocked on the bedroom door and poked her head in. “Have you seen Max?”
“He’s down on the porch, waiting for us. He offered to help me with Sarah, but I shooed him out. The last thing we need is a man’s help.”
That night, Professor Serunca’s Traveling Circus was putting on a show. The Professor had grown bored while locked in the back room of the general store. Rummaging about for something to read among an assortment of Temperance tracts and battered copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book, he had found a copy of W.H. Smith’s classic melodrama, The Drunkard. It was the perfect play for a small-town audience, and with a few modifications, he had found the play admirably suited to the players he had available.
The greatest difficulty had been finding a part for Ruby. But he had found a place for her at the end of Act Four, when Edward, the reckless young man who has been lured into becoming a drunkard and a wastrel, is felled by delirium tremens. What better scene for an elephant, the very symbol of delerium tremens? While Edward fell about the stage in convulsions that made the women shiver and the children squeal, Ruby could perform all her usual tricks, and it would fit the play perfectly.
Helen had already dressed for her role as Mary Wilson, the pure, long-suffering heroine. She was wearing her simple traveling dress, a fine costume for her part.
Helen frowned, looking at Sarah. “What’s Sarah going to wear?” Helen asked.
Audrey inclined her head toward the dress hanging from a hook on the wall, a simple blue-calico gown with a lovely full skirt. It was Audrey’s dress, but she had already taken in the waist. “It may not fit perfectly, but one must make do on the frontier.”
Helen nodded, looking a little dubious. “Would you like me to stay and help you get Sarah dressed?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Audrey said. “You just run along and practice your lines. Sarah and I will do just fine.”
Helen closed the door, feeling a little guilty. She suspected that dressing Sarah would take longer than Audrey thought.
Max sat on the wooden bench in front of Selby’s Hotel. The sun was setting, and the main street was quiet—a few idlers in front of the saloon, chickens scratching in the dust, a mangy dog trotting across the street on very important business. Max could hear the sound of drunken laughter drifting up from the Hall of Comparative Ovations.
“Hello, Max.” Professor Serunca stood on the porch, surveying the street. He smiled at the setting sun, the idlers, the chicken, the dog with approval. “What a fine evening!”
Max nodded, but said nothing. The Professor sat on the bench beside him, regarding him quizzically. “You seem thoughtful, my friend.”
Max shrugged.
“I suppose it has something to do with Mrs. North,” the Professor said. “That would be my guess.”
Max frowned. “Well, yes. I’ve been thinking about…well, I’ve been thinking about what happens now. Audrey came here to find Sarah, and now we’ve done that. I’m just not sure…I want to…” His words trailed off. “I can’t quite decide what to do.”
The Professor nodded. “And by not deciding, you are indeed deciding. After all, every point is a turning point.”
“What?”
“Oh, it’s a say
ing where I come from. Every point is a turning point.” With his hand, the Professor drew a spiral in the air. “It’s usually represented as a spiral. You see, each point along any path is a turning point. You are always making decisions, even if your decision is to stay put.”
“I want to talk with Audrey, but there just hasn’t been an opportunity,” Max said.
“Yes, and the universe just keeps moving on, carrying you along with it.” The Professor shrugged. “My friend, sometimes you must make your own opportunity. I wish you luck. But now the universe must take me down to the barn to prepare for the show. I’ve been told that a reporter from San Francisco has come to cover our performance tonight. I’m most curious to see what he thinks of our efforts.”
Max watched the Professor head off to Butterfield’s barn, where the show would take place, tipping his bowler to the idlers as he passed. Clearly, he bore the town no grudge for the week he had spent locked up in the back of the store. He was a contented man, at ease with his world. Max wished he could say the same of himself.
In the distance, the Clampers broke into song. It was an old song by Stephen Collins Foster, the same fellow who had written “Oh, Susannah.” This song, “Nelly Was a Lady,” was a sweet, sad tune about an old slave mourning for his true love Nelly, who had died the night before.
Max sang along, under his breath. He had been married and living in Chicago when the song had first become popular. Hearing it now made him remember that time and think of his wife, long dead. When he had been arrested for counterfeiting, she had returned to her family in Boston.
He had written to her from prison. She had written back—cheerful letters, poking fun at Boston society. He had no clue that she was sick until he received a letter from his wife’s sister Bridget, saying that she had died: “Worn down by shame, despondent over her status, she succumbed to a fever.”
He wrote to his daughter—but he got that letter back from Bridget. “If you love your daughter, you will let her be,” his wife’s sister wrote. “I have adopted the child, and she is well taken care of here. Give her a chance to live an honest life, untainted by your past.”
