The Further Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

by Greg Matthews

  “He ain’t truly upset, just trying to make us scared. Keep on smoking or he’ll figure we are.”

  So I smoked on, and when I finished it I fixed another pipe and lit that too, even if my mouth is getting kind of dry. Finally the chief grunted some more and Thaddeus says:

  “He reckons he’s sorely grieved at the lack of respect Jeff’s gone and showed, and he says he’ll have to make up for it.”

  “He only did as you suggested,” says the colonel, looking angry. “What kind of situation have you got us into, Mr. Winterbough?”

  “Keep your hair on, Colonel, and let’s see what he wants exactly.”

  After more talk he says:

  “Jeff, I figure you’re the kind with steady nerves. Is it so?”

  “Steady enough, I reckon.”

  “The chief wants his best bowman to shoot something off the top of your head. Can you stand hard and let him do it?”

  “This is foolhardy,” says the colonel. “We cannot expect young Jeff to make such a sacrifice.”

  “It won’t be no sacrifice. The Pawnee are mighty handy with bow and arrer. They don’t aim to kill no one, just not lose face in front of us. Jeff, it’s up to you I reckon.”

  “My boy,” says the colonel, “I apologize to you for my folly in allowing you to accompany us. You are under no obligation to submit to this ordeal.”

  “I ain’t scared,” says I, only my voice is pitched higher than usual.

  “Go stand over there,” says Thaddeus, and I took up position thirty yards off. An Injun come across and put a kind of fur and bead topknot on my head and tied it down with thongs under my chin. It made me squirm to think I look like Becky Thatcher in her Sunday bonnet. Then out of the crowd steps a tall Injun with a bow, and he nocked an arrow to the string and smiled at me friendly-like. I showed him some teeth and wished my knees would quit knocking and my belly quit churning. The Injun pulled back his bow and I held my breath, then I seen the arrow coming, the tail end wobbling some and making a kind of whiffling noise through the air, then it’s torn into the topknot and only the feathers kept it from going straight through.

  The Injuns give out a roar and the colonel rushed over and says I’m his brave boy and such, and I went back to where the chief is all beaming and happy. I figured it was all over, but then Thaddeus says:

  “Fact is, it can’t end there.”

  “What do you mean?” says the colonel. “Matters seem to have been concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  “I ain’t denyin’ it,” says Thaddeus, “only we give ’em the last laugh which means we lost a fair amount of face, even if Jeff showed he’s got gumption.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Winterbough.”

  “What we got to do now is show ’em we can do the same thing. That way we get our face back without them losing theirs.”

  “The same thing?”

  “With a rifle this time, and a whole lot further off.”

  “I absolutely forbid it,” says the colonel. “It makes no sense whatsoever. The Pawnee seem perfectly happy with what has already taken place.”

  “They’re laughing up their sleeves. We got to give it a try, Colonel, just to show ’em we ain’t weak. I know Injuns and I know what they like to see.”

  “Absolutely not. I respect your knowledge of these things, but Jeff must not be subjected to any further danger.”

  Thaddeus turns to me and says:

  “Jeff, you know a Hawken shoots straight and true. Will you trust me to do what that Injun done?”

  “How far off do you want me?” says I.

  “A couple hundred yards,” says he, and I give serious consideration to jumping on my horse and hightailing it away from there, but I already told him I trusted him. The colonel says:

  “I have grave misgivings.”

  Thinks I, likewise and double. But the die was cast, as they say, and Thaddeus told the chief what he aims to do and the Injuns got even happier, thinking to see my brains splatter all over, and tied another topknot onto me. Thaddeus says:

  “Jeff, your rifle belonged to my friend Jed Frazer and shot the truest ball of any gun I come across. I’d be obliged if you’d let me use her now.”

  “If it’ll help any you can have her and welcome.”

  I handed it over, hoping he don’t figure that’s my last will and testament I give him; it might confuse his aim some, being sentimental like he is about Jed Frazer’s gun. Then I walked away, wondering if there’s a life after death the way the preachers tell. When I got a considerable distance off I turned around, but Thaddeus waved me off further yet, and while I tramped I figured it’ll proberly be the Widow Douglas waiting for me by the Pearly Gates, all gussied up as usual and combing her wings out neat, and she’ll stare at me and say:

  “Why, Huckleberry, just look at you with your brains hanging out, you untidy child. Go and get cleaned up this instant or you won’t get a harp to play with.”

  I was practickly back to the train before Thaddeus give a holler and I turned again. His horse is lying on the ground and he’s lying behind it with my Hawken over the pommel to give it steadiness, and all of it is miles away and tiny. I closed my eyes and waited for the widow to start nagging, then I heard the shot and at the same time felt a little tug at the topknot. When I opened up my eyes there’s Thaddeus still behind his horse with a puff of smoke drifting away. The widow never showed. I tore off the topknot and there’s a little hole drilled clean through it. I waved it around some to let them know he done it then started back. Thaddeus reloaded my gun for me and says:

  “Know how I done it? I seen that target on your head as the heart of the Crow that killed old Jed and stole his rifle. After that it was right simple to put a ball through it.

  The Injuns got out a pipe long as my arm, like Thaddeus says, and half a dozen sat in a circle with me and the colonel and Thaddeus. The chief set fire to it and it got passed to me. Now, I’ve smoked considerable for my age, but I never before smoked on nothing more disgusting than that Injun tobacco. It tasted like a dead dog that’s been pissed on by bats, and I had a heap of trouble holding back my breakfast. The colonel turned kind of green after one little puff and passed it on to Thaddeus, who took it casual and even blowed a smoke ring. That impressed the chief and he tried it himself, only he never got the hang of it and sat looking miserable till we loaded the chest back on the mule and headed for the train.

  By the time the wagons got moving and we passed the place where it all happened, the Pawnee was gone, and we never seen them again.

  That night everyone was calling me a valiant hero and such and clapping me on the back and saying if they ever have sons they’ll call them Jeff. It was mortifying having all that attention shoved down my throat and I snuck off soon as I could to get some peace and quiet, only I run smack into Grace behind a wagon, and for once there ain’t a Peterson joined onto her.

  “Well,” she says. “Hail to the hero I don’t think.”

  “Hello, Grace,” says I.

  “I guess you’re feeling mighty smart after this morning. Wouldn’t they be surprised to know you’re nothing but a murderer underneath.”

  “You know I ain’t at all, Grace.”

  “I know nothing of the kind, and if you think this changes things between us you can just think again.”

  Well, I judged that means open war, so I let fly with a broadside.

  “I reckon Hewley and Duane would give a lot to know about each other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, I bet they ain’t acquainted with the fact that you’re canoodling with the both of them.”

  “I am not! How dare you say such a thing, you little stupid!”

  “Names won’t stop me telling, Grace, not unless you promise to keep our secret.”

  “I won’t even listen to this. Of course I know both the Peterson boys. I talk with whichever one happens to be riding by, anyone knows that.”

  “That’s
in daylight. Nighttime is different.”

  “Have you been spying on me, you little sneak? I’ll box your ears for you.…”

  “Hold hard, Grace. Your beaux ain’t none of my concern and my preference is to keep things that way. What I’m saying is, don’t you say nothing and I won’t neither.”

  “I don’t make trade with murderers,” she says, all grand and majestical.

  “No more than I do with whores, Grace, but we got to reach agreement anyhow. I reckon the Petersons won’t want no truck with a whore.”

  I never would of had the grit to say it, if it warn’t for twice coming close to meeting the widow that day. A double brush with heaven like that makes you kind of carefree and loose-tongued, and it done the trick all right. Grace just stared at me like I slapped her in the face, then she done something I never expected; she burst out crying, the tears running down like rain and her sobs getting louder and louder. It was pitiful to see, but it’s too late now to take it back.

  “I’m sorry, Grace, I only wanted you to quit grinding me under like you been doing.”

  But she blubbered on, real tears, not playacting, and if I had a handkerchief I would of handed it over, but I never had one so she got dampish. Then she turned off the waterfall and just says:

  “Go away.…”

  I done it, and found Jim and told him everything.

  “I reckon you kin rest easy now, Huck,” he says. “You done pull de sting outer her tail. “She ain’t goin’ to risk dem boys findin’ out she bin a whore.”

  “I ain’t so sure, Jim. She’s awful pretty. I seen the way men look at her, and it’s the kind of look that’ll just ignore the whoring part and forgive anything if she just smiles nice and bats her eyes some.”

  “Ain’t no use in worryin’, Huck,” he says.

  But I did anyhow.

  13

  Brotherly Love—An Oath of Friendship—Pistols at Dawn—Sad Sights at Fort Kearney—A Peculiar Promise

  Now the train was only one day away from Fort Kearney, which is alongside the Platte River. Thaddeus says we’ll follow the Platte west for close on three hundred miles to South Pass, the gateway through the Rockies and halfway to California. There was considerable excitement at being so close to sivilization, even if it’s only a small-sized military fort, and everyone was impatient to get there quick.

  That night there was a fistfight between the Peterson brothers and Hewley come out of it worst, being smaller, and when the colonel and Mr. Peterson wanted to know what it’s about they never spoke a word, just glared at each other. The colonel made them shake hands, but after they done it they flung each other’s hands away and wiped their mitts on their shirts to let folks know they ain’t neither of them in no forgiving mood. There was some that guessed the reason on account of seeing Grace talking with both boys from the back of the Shaughnessy wagon, but they never had all the facts like me. After the fight got broke up I figured Grace might reckon it was me that told Duane about Hewley and likewise backwards, so I set out deliberate to find her and say it ain’t so. I found her after a heap of hunting and spoke my piece, and she give me a mournful look and says:

  “It was Mr. Shaughnessy told them. He’s jealous. You’re too young to understand.”

  “Just so long as you know it warn’t me, Grace.”

  “I know you wouldn’t tell on me, Huckleberry,” she says. “You’re not that kind, and you’re not a murderer neither. I know I’ve been awful to you these last weeks and I’m truly sorry. It’s like another person inside me making me do and say things I don’t really mean. Is it too late to be friends again? You’re the only person in the whole world I can trust, really you are. Everyone else is sly and mean and lying. Don’t you want to be friends again, Huckleberry?”

  I allowed I’m agreeable and she brightened up and give me a scorching kiss between the eyes, then she took ahold of my hands and squeezed them tight and says:

  “Let’s bury the hatchet and swear undying friendship.”

  Just yesterday the only place she would of buried a hatchet is in my skull, but it don’t do no good to live in the past, so I say:

  “Well all right then, Grace, if the mood’s on you, but to make it truly binding we got to mingle blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “It’s simple. You just open a little cut in your hand and shake on it and say a few words. I disremember the ones me and my friend Tom Sawyer used, but we can think up some more.”

  “I don’t like that idea,” she says. “It’s better if we just touch each other’s hearts and say the words. Think of some.”

  I turned my brain over and out come a perfect oath with poetry in it too:

  “How’s this’n, Grace: Us two friends will always last/In summer’s heat and winter’s blast.”

  “It’s pretty,” she admits, “but is it long enough? Do another couple of lines.”

  I churned my brain and come up with this: “And if the oath is ever busted/We both of us’ll be disgusted.”

  “It’s not so poetical as the first,” says Grace, “but it’ll do. Now put your hand on my heart and I’ll put mine on yours.”

  We done it, and I never felt nothing softer than Grace’s heart, just like the little velvet cushion the widow used to stick her pins and needles in, only a mite bigger.

  “Why, Huckleberry, your heart’s beating away like anything. Are you feeling poorly?”

  “Kind of giddy, but I reckon it’ll pass.”

  “Say the words again.”

  I done it and she says them back to me, then we dropped our hands, only Grace dropped hers faster than me.

  “That’s that,” she says, looking cheery. “Now my only problem is the Petersons. They’re so stupid, both of them. I’m just so angry at the way they made a public display like that. Why, anyone would think I was in love with one or other of them.”

  “Well ain’t you?”

  “I should say not. Hewley’s like a rabbit and Duane’s like a bull. They’re just too stupid for words. I hope neither of them comes near me again. I wash my hands of them both forever and ever. Who wants men when all you truly need is a loyal friend?”

  “Me, Grace?”

  “Of course. The Petersons can go hang for all I care.”

  “Why was it you took up with them in the first place?”

  “Practice,” she says.

  “Pardon me?”

  “A piano player has got to practice, hasn’t he? Well, so do I if I’m going to marry a rich man. The Petersons are what’s called five-finger exercises.”

  I figured the drift of it and was troubled by the don’t-care way she ditched Duane and Hewley like that, but it ain’t none of my business so I give Grace a goodnight and went back to Miss Ambrose’s wagon.

  Jim was mighty glad me and Grace has patched things up like we done, but he says she’s the kind of female that likes to stir up trouble no matter what, only when the mud starts to fly she’ll be sure and not get her own dress dirty if she can help it.

  That night I dreamed about Grace dodging mud slung at her by the Petersons, then the whole train joined in till there’s a regular mud shower coming down on her, but she never got a speck on her dress, just kept saying over and over “You can all go hang.… You can all go hang.…” Then she changes and says “Except Huckleberry.… Huckleberry.… Huckleberry.…”

  I woke up and Grace is shaking my arm and hissing my name soft.

  “Get up quick!” she says.

  “What for?…” says I, half asleep still.

  “Something awful is going to happen. Hurry! Don’t make any noise.”

  I put on my boots and hat without waking Jim and follow her through the camp. It’s just before sunup and there ain’t a soul stirring yet, and the one guard we seen when we left the wagons behind was asleep, propped up by his rifle.

  “We’re out of ear-reach now, Grace. What’s all the fuss?”

  “It’s Hewley and Duane. They’re going to fight a duel.”

&nb
sp; “A duel? Where’d they get the swords?”

  “It’s a pistol duel.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Hewley woke me up to say goodbye. He knows Duane’s a better shot, but he says his honor’s at risk. You’ve got to stop them.”

  “Me? You should of gone to the colonel. He’ll stop them all right.”

  “I don’t want anyone knowing about it, no one important I mean, so I came to you, Huckleberry.”

  She could hand you a real compliment, could Grace.

  We come to a little hollow in the prairie and Hewley and Duane was both there with a pistol apiece, checking the load and aiming at rocks and such. They weren’t none too happy to see us, especially Duane. He says:

  “Who told you?”

  “I did,” says Hewley. “It was the proper thing to do.”

  “That’s typical of you, you lily-livered squirt. You always were the kind that runs to a woman to cry all over her skirts.”

  “He did nothing of the kind,” says Grace. “Now stop this nonsense!”

  “It’s too late,” says Duane. “Just you two stand back and keep out of it.”

  “Goodbye again, Grace,” says Hewley, his voice gone all shaky.

  “Stop it, both of you! Don’t you understand? I don’t want either of you! I hate the sight of you both, you stupid blockheads!”

  “It’s no use, Grace,” says Duane. “I know you’re only tarring me with the same brush to spare poor little Hewley’s feelings.”

  “No! I hate you both, you ignorant peabrains!”

  But they warn’t inclined to stop for nothing so simple as the truth, and stood back to back with pistols raised, then Duane says:

  “We forgot something, brother. Who’s going to do the counting off?”

  “You can do it,” says Hewley. “I don’t mind.”

  “You can’t trust me,” says Duane. “I might say the last number faster than the rest and turn and fire before you had a chance to.”

  “It’s all right, I trust you,” says Hewley, close to tears.

  “No it ain’t all right. These things have got to be done the right way.”

  “Well, I’ll do it then.”