The other two men were bullies, one a member of the pro-slave legislature, but Leticia Whitlaw had prayed a long time and been worn and haggard for days. Father’s scathing editorial reported that Brown had, as usual, said the blessing at breakfast with the blood of his victims still staining his hands.
Pushing that dreadful memory away, Deborah said hopefully, “I know it took federal troops from Fort Leavenworth to put an end to all that, but except for wrangling over claims between Free-Staters and pro-slavers, things have seemed fairly calm.”
“At least we’ve finally had a fair election and the legislature’s mainly Free-State,” Johnny said. “But those pro-slavers who were elected by Border Ruffians still hope to get Kansas admitted as a state under their constitution. President Buchanan’s done everything to help them.”
Deborah frowned. “Surely that won’t happen. There’s a bill in Congress to let Kansans vote again on whether to accept the pro-slave Lecompton Constitution. Now that we have a governor who won’t let the Missourians steal elections, Free-Staters are bound to reject that pro-slave fraud.”
“No use getting into a lather over it. War’s certain-sure goin’ to come. We’re just catching it a little early.” Dismissing the grim subject, Johnny squinted solicitously at Deborah. “Want Laddie to catch you up a horse? No reason you shouldn’t have a ride, too, even if the love birds didn’t ask you.”
His tone was gruff, even harsh. Could he regard Sara as more than his ward, his foster daughter?
Impossible! He must be at least forty, and looked more. But men older than he did sometimes take young wives. Deborah stifled the shocking thought.
Johnny had more sense. Besides, Thos and Sara were so in love that it shimmered between them, an almost physical glow, so beautiful, so private, that it made Deborah feel shut off from her twin and best friend, very much without a man of her own, and also afraid for them. To be that happy, that touched with magic, must be tempting fate. And they were so young, only seventeen. Oh, let them be all right, Deborah thought.
“I think I’ll walk over to the buffalo wallow,” she told Johnny. “The wild roses should be thick. Thanks, but it’s not far enough to bother with a horse.”
“Well, take care you don’t step in a prairie dog hole,” Johnny teased, for she was continually doing that, gazing into the distance or watching a meadowlark take flight rather than having a care where she stepped.
“Better me than a horse,” she countered gaily. For such stumbles could break a horse’s leg, whereas she simply bruised her dignity.
She strolled to the forge with Johnny.
A flaxen-haired young man and woman had driven up in a wagon holding various tools and pieces of farm equipment.
“Conrad!” Johnny greeted. “And Miss Ansjie! I see you’ve brought the lot for me to fix.”
“If you’ll be so kind.” The man’s clear blue eyes rested with frank admiration on Deborah. He had a precise, slow way of speaking, and there was an old scar on his left cheek. “Shall we stop tomorrow on our way home from town?”
“I’ll do my best,” Johnny said. “Miss Ansjie, this is Miss Deborah Whitlaw. Miss Deborah, this is Miss Ansjie Lander and her brother, Conrad. They came here from Prussia!”
“Prussia!” Deborah echoed. “That’s so far away!”
“Far,” Ansjie agreed, blue eyes wistful before she smiled determinedly. “But this is a very good country—fine, rich soil.”
The men unloaded the wagon and the pair drove off, Conrad settling his black hat back on his fair head.
“Nice folk,” Johnny grunted. “He’s sort of the leader of a group that has a funny religion, but they are mighty good farmers. They have a settlement about fifteen miles west.”
“Why did they leave Prussia?”
“Nearest I can figger. Conrad was afraid the Mennonites were going to run into trouble. Thinks it won’t be long before the government tries to conscript men into the army, and that’s against their faith. He isn’t a Mennonite himself, but they lived on his land and he felt responsible for them, I guess.”
Johnny hefted a worn plowshare in a way that said he was ready to work, so though she was curious about the handsome young foreigners, especially the striking, authoritative man, Deborah said good-bye and set off on her ramble.
Angling away from the river, she took a dim trail that led to her favorite place, a grassy hollow worn by countless buffalo during the countless years they’d lain down there and rolled to comfort their itching backs. They never came here now, though vast herds still ranged the plains in less settled country.
Deborah had seen a few buffalo, but never great masses like those Johnny spoke of, where the large-headed humped bison stretched like a dark sea farther than the eye could see. From ancient times they had shared this vast open land, these oceans of grass; with Indians who depended heavily on them for meat, hides for robes and tipis, tallow, sinews for sewing, horn for ornaments and utensils. Every part was used, Johnny said, except the heart, which was put back in the earth, an offering to perpetuate the great beasts.
Now the Indians were being gradually compelled to give up their free wandering as towns and settlers edged into the prairies. The strife in Kansas had made eastern investors nervous about backing railroads, but in 1855 the first Territorial Legislature had chartered five railroads and a little track had been laid, some surveying done. When trains began rolling steadily across Kansas, bringing inevitable settlements and fences, the buffalo must vanish.
All their wallows would fill with grass and flowers as this one had. Their shapes seemed to loom and face on the horizon above the rippling buffalo grass, which seemed a new color each time the wind bent it in a different direction, a gently whispering ocean caressed by sun, with red-winged blackbirds taking sudden flight, and meadowlarks singing from their nests in the grass.
Fat black-and-gold bumblebees hummed busily around the pink wild roses that grew in little hollows. There was the clucking of quail and the occasional whir of a prairie chicken taking alarm.
Deborah, like her mother often homesick for the trees of New Hampshire, realized consciously for the first time that she loved the prairie now, its immense stretches where clouds in the sky, intensities of sun, created more changes than did the terrain. Of course, she could still turn from one of the small knolls and gaze back at the distant green line of trees tracing the river. But facing west there was only bluestem and buffalo grass in wave after undulating wave.
Till she came to the bank of the wallow.
The flowered and grassy earthen bowl was perhaps fifty feet long and deep enough so that a man would have to be well over six feet tall to look over the rim. A giant’s bathtub, she thought it, and sighed, because she’d hoped there might be enough water to swim.
Splashing about in the sun-warmed water was a rare delight, one that Deborah suspected would be disapproved of by her mother, though Deborah couldn’t see why bathing beneath the sky was shameful.
There wasn’t enough water to wash in today, though, just a few shallow pools thick with roses. There had been plentiful rains that spring, but water soaked fast into the sandy loam.
She could wade, though, wiggle her toes. Kilting up her full calico skirt, she descended the bank, overgrown with daisies, buttercups, tansy, and black-eyed Susans and the dainty white flowers of wild onion.
Sitting down, she unlaced her shoes, rubbing the red marks left by the high tops. Mother let her go barefoot around home in warm weather. Shoes were expensive and only for Thos, whose feet had grown considerably since he was fifteen, had Clarion advertising been bartered for new footwear.
Johnny and Sara had made moccasins for all the Whitlaws, which were used for winter house wear, and Deborah looked forward to the time when these tight, uncomfortable “civilized” shoes wore out and Leticia had to let her go moccasined or barefoot.
Giving the shoes an unloving toss to the side, Deborah thrilled to a distant call and glanced up, shielding her eyes, to follow
a lopsided wedge of wild geese flying north. Glinting white and silver-gray, they were tiny specks in the dazzling sky when Deborah wished them a safe journey and, holding up her skirts, stepped into a grassy pool full of buttercups and daisies.
Her feet caressed the grass as she sank ankle-deep. Moving carefully in order not to crush the flowers, she sighed with sensuous pleasure. Free-Staters, pro-slavers, The Clarion, the underground railroad, and threat of civil war all seemed far away, like troubled dreams from a humid night of storm and lightning.
This was real. And it was always here, peaceful beneath the sky. It would remain after all these present troubles passed. She must remember it when she got tempery or worn down, quiet and strengthen her spirit with it as Mother did by prayer. Deborah’s prayers, except for grace at meals and family worship, were spontaneous thanks for beauties, indignant pleas over injustice, or brief inner cries for help. It wasn’t, for her, a means to grace and harmony, though this present communion was, this feeling of being part of the day, part of where she was.
A sound penetrated her bliss. At first she tried not to hear it, but the insistent clamor grew louder. Hounds! She knew hounds were sometimes used to trail runaway slaves, though she’d never seen it. Her heart contracted.
If it were a runaway, what could she do? Ironically, the Bowie she was learning to use was at Johnny’s, who insisted the twins be experts with the blades before they could keep them. But she couldn’t do nothing!
No time to lace up awkward shoes. Deborah ran from the middle of the wallow, splashing heedlessly, pelted up the bank, saw a gray-yellow form streak toward her.
A coyote! It was being coursed by dogs. Deborah had a fondness for coyotes, even though their liking for chickens necessitated shutting the hens up at night.
Amazingly, the animal stopped by her, panting, tongue lolling, exhausted, his golden eyes fixed on her. He couldn’t go farther. In his desperate state he seemed to actually be seeking refuge.
How could she give it? No sticks or rocks, no weapon—But her shoes were within reach. She grabbed them by the tops, one in either hand, and let her skirts down to better shield the coyote, which took refuge behind her, pressing into the folds of her dress as he might have taken shelter in a bush. She braced herself as the barking dogs came over the rim.
Four of them, large blue-tick hounds. Deborah, though cautious of strange ones, wasn’t fearful of dogs under normal circumstances, but these were excited, striving after quarry. She knew her only hope to save the coyote was to face them boldly, somehow halt and confuse them.
Was their owner close behind, or were they having this sport on their own? Deborah thought she heard a grass-muffled drum of hoofbeats, but it could be blood pounding in her ears. Anyway, help wasn’t to be expected from someone who’d set four dogs on one coyote.
“Scat!” she shouted and aimed one shoe at the lead hound.
It struck him on the head. He yipped, then stumbled as the shoe fell between his legs. Another hound tripped over him. There was a tumbling welter of long ears, tails, and legs, but the other hounds came on.
Deborah swung the shoe from its limber top. The hard leather heel hit the nearest dog on the nose. He yelped and veered to one side while she kicked at the next animal and clouted him with the shoe, once again striking the vulnerable muzzle.
He checked, then launched himself for her arm, but his teeth only slashed the cloth and grazed her flesh. She kicked him in the side so hard that her toes ached, sending him off his feet, but the other hounds were back now, moving in.
They weren’t giving up. Aiming kicks and swings of the shoe, Deborah knew she couldn’t hold them off much longer. If they all came at once, one or two could drag the coyote from her skirts while she was battling the others.
The biggest hound circled, barking furiously, then attacked on the left. Deborah hit him with the shoe, and as she went off balance, the dogs surged in.
ii
Screaming, she fought the hounds with hands and feet, trying vainly to ward them off their victim. There was a gray-yellow blur as the coyote ripped at one hound’s flank, tore at the throat of another, as they swarmed over him. Sobbing, Deborah hauled one dog off. The coyote was down, bleeding. In a minute they’d have him.
A piercing whistle rang out. The hounds checked, growling, still snapping over their prey. But the man on the blood-bay horse cut at them with his whip, giving that shrill whistle again, and they cringed away.
Deborah dropped by the coyote, but he was up, swaying for a moment. Blood stained his hair in patches and he favored one forefoot, but he made off swiftly, vanishing over the bank of the wallow while the dogs whined and protested, though they settled down to rest after a sharp cut of the whip in their direction.
For just a moment, the horseman watched Deborah from eyes so dark a green they were almost black, the imperious arching of tawny eyebrows easing as he smiled. Springing down from his mount, trailing the reins so the horse would stand, the stranger swept off his hat with mocking courtliness. The rakish, wide-brimmed hats had become very popular because one was worn by Louis Kossuth, the Hungarian patriot.
“You must, madam, have a great fondness for prairie wolves!”
His accent was different from any she had heard. His uncovered hair was dark gold, and from that distance he seemed the tallest man she’d ever met, towering above her, his physical presence so overwhelming that, involuntarily, she stepped back.
“I dislike seeing anything run to earth and torn apart!” Angry to have given ground, Deborah added coldly, “I especially hate such things when they’re done for sport.”
The jade eyes probed, though a smile touched the edges of a long, well-shaped mouth. She had never seen before a man to call beautiful, but this one was, in a fiercely haughty way, like young Lucifer before his fall.
“Chasing coyotes is thin sport, I agree, compared to encountering such an unexpectedly delightful lady.”
Taking her hand, he held it between his large ones for a moment. A curious weakness afflicted Deborah. She had no strength in her legs, was terrified that she might faint or collapse in this man’s arms. That she mustn’t do! Fighting the dizziness which she told herself was a result of her battle with the hounds, Deborah drew away, but the stranger, laughing slightly, retained her hand. Bowing over it, he kissed her fingers.
“Most lovely lady, I’m Rolf Hunter, lately of Hampshire, in the south of England. Have you a name, or are you a guardian spirit of this grassy dell which is, I believe, known father unpoetically as a buffalo wallow?”
“I’m Deborah Whitlaw,” she said briefly, this time wrenching her hand away. “I suppose I must thank you for calling off your hounds, though I do think it’s shameful to use them in such a way. Good-bye, Mr. Hunter.”
Catching her arm, he brought her back to face him. She cried out as his fingers gripped the forearm grazed by the hounds. He looked at her torn sleeve, the shallow but bloody trail of fangs.
“You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing. A few scratches.”
“You look like the losing side in a bout with a tiger! Hold still, Miss Whitlaw, and let me see how much you’re hurt!”
“I do assure you—”
“And I assure you that I mean to make certain you’ve taken no serious harm! It’s no wonder the dogs took you for quarry. though. With that pointed chin, red-brown hair, and eyes the color of late autumn leaves, you could be a very winsome little fox.”
Somehow, he had maneuvered her into what was perilously near an embrace, pretending great interest in her torn sleeves, gently exposing her arms as he examined them, his sure, hard fingers moving along the weals and scratches in deft caress. Deborah shivered and braced her palms against his chest.
Beneath her hands, she felt the deep, heavy pound of his heart. Once again, a mixture of fear and a new, frightening, yet headily pleasant awareness of him made her feel as if she didn’t know herself, as if some unrecognizable and dangerous part of her nature had rous
ed at this man’s touch, was responding to it in a way that shocked and terrified her.
“Please!” she said. “Please—”
The golden head brushed lightly against her breasts as he bent to kiss the small wounds on her arms and hands. Against the trapped pulse of her wrist, his mouth lingered.
Whatever this is, I have to stop it!
He was on one knee beside her, cradling her with one arm. Throwing her weight sharply and suddenly against him, she sent him pitching forward, but as she fled, one long arm swept out, brought her down beside him.
“Well, my pretty!” He laughed. “If you lay me down, you must lie with me!”
He might be joking, but Deborah knew the biblical meaning of lie, though somewhat hazy on details. She kicked, surprising a curse from him, thrashed desperately as he clamped her down with one knee and leg, catching her head in one hand while the other gripped her wrists.
His mouth still tasted of her blood. Bruising her lips, he stopped her screams. She felt as much as heard the soft, excited laughter deep in his throat, knew herself powerless, yet convulsed in frantic writhing as panic welled up in her, drowning her ability to think or even know.
“Rolf!”
Drifting back to reality, Deborah heard the name like a repeated echo, stirred unbelievingly as the crushing weight above her shifted. She opened her eyes, then dazedly saw another horseman. His gray eyes flicked past her scornfully to rest on the man who was getting to his feet, brushing off his clothes.
“At first I seemed to be intruding on a tender scene.” The newcomer’s voice slashed like a razor. “But then the lady seemed to change her mind. She has that privilege, Rolf.”
Furious at that interpretation, Deborah pushed herself up. “Sir!” she began.
Rolf put a steadying hand beneath her arm, gave her a reassuring smile which made her long to throttle him, and eyed the rider with a quizzical grin. “You do Miss Whitlaw an injustice, brother. You’ve misjudged the whole thing.”
Daughter of the Sword Page 2
