Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

  “You cain’t take our guns!” Jed’s Adam’s apple seemed about to disappear down his scrawny throat. “After this morning’s business, those Free-Soilers’ll be riled up like a den of rattlers! If we meet up with them, we’ll be helpless as babes!”

  “Like the men you killed,” said Dane brusquely. And to Thos, he asked, “Are you ready?”

  Thos nodded, having found the sack in which cornmeal was brought home from the mill. Mother looked at it with regret, but evidently she decided it couldn’t go to better use, as Thos took Jed’s knives and pistols and dropped them into it.

  “My brother’s in the stable with a rifle,” Dane told Jed. “So we’ll walk out in companionable fashion, you a little in front so this persuasive shotgun won’t show, and if your friends regard your life, they’ll hand over their arms.”

  Jed cast him a scared, venomous look but didn’t argue. At a prod of the shotgun, he started to go outside. “Keep away from the door and windows,” Dane warned the Whitlaws. “Somebody may get off a shot.”

  Obeying, Deborah stood with her parents to one side of the door, nerves screaming as the men’s footsteps faded into the mingled sounds of restless horses and riders.

  “Good evening, gentlemen!” Dane’s voice was deep and pleasant. “Don’t do anything sudden or Jed will have a large hole through his vitals. You won’t be hurt if you do as you’re told. Put your hands over your heads and keep them there. Rolf, why don’t you step out so our guests will know you’ve a rifle to their backs—a Sharps breech-loader, gentlemen, with which I’m sure you’re familiar!”

  “One of Beecher’s Bibles, compliments of that infernal New England Emigrant Aid Society!” growled one raider.

  “Not at all,” said Rolf. “I bought this pride and joy with my own money. Picked off a brace of rabbits today at up to five hundred yards.”

  There were metallic clinkings and muffled curses as the weapons were collected. Deborah began to breathe. It was working! In a moment the Missourians would be on their way.

  A shot exploded. Oaths, the sound of plunging horses, two shots blasting almost at once, screams, a cry of agony. Both Whitlaw women started out, but Josiah caught them back, pushing them to the floor.

  “Thos—he isn’t armed!” Deborah cried.

  “He can use something from the bag,” Father said grimly. “Stay here! I’ll go through the back window.”

  Casting about for a weapon, he seized the poker and vanished through the bedroom. More shots came from outside, anguished groaning, before the staccato hoofbeats of a galloping horse echoed back, dimming as they reached open prairie.

  Lying on the rough planks, mother and daughter stared at each other, then sprang up as Josiah leaned in the door. “Bring the lamp! Young Mr. Hunter’s hurt. One of the ruffians got away, but Thos had his guns.”

  “Thos?” asked Mother, running forward as Deborah brought the lamp.

  “He’s fine. But I don’t think Jed and two of his friends will do any more night riding.”

  Deborah held the lamp while her parents and Dane examined Rolf, who was leaning against Thos. “Someone had a pistol tucked away and tried to get Rolf because of the Sharps,” decided Dane. “You’re in luck, my boy. The cartridge went through the fleshy part of your shoulder. I’ll plug you up and in a few days you’ll be as good as new.”

  Rolf touched one of the bodies with his foot as Dane and Thos got him to his feet, supporting him between them. “Dead? These three—all dead?”

  None of them had moved. Josiah knelt by them, touched and listened as Deborah, raising the lamp, saw one face blown away and gasped with nausea. Controlling herself with great effort, she heard Josiah say, “They’re all dead. Here’s Jed on the bottom. Got caught in the cross-fire.”

  Mother took the lamp from Deborah’s hand, leading the way to the house. “Come, dear, and get hot water. There’s an old sheet in the chest. Tear off some strips. Here, Thos, Mr. Hunter, just bring him along to the bed.”

  “What about them?” Deborah whispered to Josiah, moving her head toward the tumbled heap of what had been living, breathing men.

  “We can’t help them,” Father said. “They’ll be seen to later.”

  He helped ease Rolf’s coat off while Deborah hurried for water and washed her hands, then tore strips from the sheet as Mother washed the torn shoulder and stanched the blood with pads. Rolf’s face was clammy, but he endured it all stoically.

  “Would someone fetch the flask from my saddle bag?” he muttered. A contorted smile flickered at Dane. “For once you can’t blame me for wanting a drink!”

  “You’ll have it.” Dane dropped his hand on his brother’s good shoulder. “And we’ll slosh some over that hole.”

  He went out and quickly returned with the same flask from which Rolf had drenched Deborah’s arms that very afternoon. It seemed an age ago. Mother took the soaked pad away. Dane poured the amber fluid on the wound, then lifted Rolf to reach the back. Rolf said something under his breath. His hand closed tightly on Deborah’s, gripping harder as Dane worked the whisky into the mangled flesh. Responding as she would have to anyone’s pain, Deborah put her other hand soothingly over Rolf’s taut fingers.

  Straightening from his task, Dane cast her a strange look before he offered the flash to Rolf. Reluctantly freeing Deborah’s hand, Rolf gave her a crooked grin. “Thanks, Miss Whitlaw. Much better than biting on a nail! I hope I didn’t crush you.”

  Green lights reflected from the darkness of his eyes as they rested on her, lingered on her mouth. Was he remembering that kiss, the kiss tasting of her blood? Deborah flushed, but she managed to keep her tone even as she handed strips of sheet to her mother, who had applied fresh pads and was now binding them tightly in place.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurt. We’re very much indebted to both of you.”

  “That we are,” agreed Father. His face was drawn. He seemed to have aged years in the past hour. “Even after three and a half years in this ravaged territory, I have no real weapon but my press—which wouldn’t, tonight, have protected my family.”

  “I’d have used the shotgun,” Thos growled.

  “No doubt,” said Josiah. “We’d have done our best. But I sadly fear it wouldn’t have been enough.” Shaking his head as if dazed, he spoke in a stronger voice. “I’m forced to believe you, Mr. Hunter. I have no right to expose my wife and daughter to pillagers like those! Letty—”

  “We’ll speak of it later, Josiah,” said Mother briskly. “Mr. Hunter needs something warm and nourishing! I think there’s enough meat left for broth, and since rabbit’s not so tasty, I’ll flavor it with onion.”

  She busied herself at the fireplace. Deborah tucked the sheet back in the chest, threw out the bloody water, and cleaned up the spots on the floor, thoughts turning irrepressibly to the three dead men near the stable. They had been killers. She trembled inwardly to think of what they would probably have done by now if the Hunters hadn’t been visiting. But for three lives to be quenched like that, in a few minutes … Tears welled to her eyes and she scrubbed blindly at Rolf’s blood on the splintery planks, fighting to hold back hysterical weeping.

  “I suppose I should take the bodies into town,” Father considered.

  “From what you say of the courts, I’d suggest you don’t,” Dane said quietly. “These men crossed the border looking for trouble. They found it. I hope you’ll agree, sir, to letting me bury them decently but obscurely. If it’s known where they died, fellow Missourians or pro-slavers might pay you another call, in much heavier numbers.”

  “It goes against the grain,” said Father. “But again, there’s sense in what you say.”

  Dane’s lean face relaxed the slightest bit, as if he found Josiah’s qualms more endearing than irritating. “After all, Mr. Whitlaw, my brother and I fired the shots, though indeed you were quick off the mark with that poker! The truth might lodge both of us in jail, so I pray you will leave the matter to me.”

  “I’d be very gl
ad to,” said Father candidly. “But you were protecting us. I’ll help you dispose of the bodies, Mr. Hunter.”

  “No, I’ll go,” insisted Thos.

  The two went out. Presently, there was the sound of the wagon creaking along a pause near the stable, and after a few minutes the wagon rumbled off.

  Deborah, standing in the bedroom doorway, became aware of Rolf’s intent gaze, then hastily started to join her mother.

  “Please,” Rolf murmured. His head drooped to one side, tawny hair spread on the pillows. “Miss Whitlaw—”

  She hurried to him. “The soup will be ready in a moment. Would you like some water?”

  He smiled. “Not even whisky. Please, stay here.”

  So you can look at me?

  But he had been wounded for their sakes and he was very pale. Deborah sat on the edge of a stool. He made no move to touch her, but again his eyes touched her face, her throat, moved to her breasts.

  A peculiar warmth seemed to melt her spine. A glow traveled through her veins, a sweet weakness. She put up her arms like a shield. How could he make her feel like this when less than an hour ago she’d felt that deep, instantaneous sense of merging with Dane? Was she a light woman—the kind described in Proverbs with lips like a honeycomb, but whose fate was “bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword?”

  Rolf smiled faintly. His eyes traveled slowly back to hers. By the time Mother brought the soup, he had fallen asleep.

  iv

  Rolf’s right shoulder was injured, so Leticia fed him the soup. She and Josiah agreed that Rolf must stay with them till his strength returned and insisted on helping him to Deborah’s bed. Thos slept outside much of the summer, anyway, so she could have his place in the lean-to. It gave her a strange feeling to see Rolf’s long body stretched out where she slept, though, comically, his feet protruded and Father brought a bench to rest them on.

  At least there was small hint it was a woman’s retreat. Her two everyday dresses and one Sunday poplin hung on a peg above the beaded moccasins Sara had given her, and a hairbrush lay on a shelf beside the japanned box that held her ribbons, hairpins, and a few pieces of jewelry inherited from her mother’s mother, who had been, apparently, more frivolous than her daughter.

  Somewhat dubiously, Father placed the flask just beneath the bed. They were bidding Rolf good night, Mother insisting that he call out if he needed anything, when the wagon rumbled into the yard.

  Neither Dane nor Thos said anything about where they’d buried the men, and no one asked. Late as it was, and tired as he must be, Dane refused to spend the night.

  “It’s kind of you to keep my brother,” he said, watching Rolf, who seemed scarcely able to keep his eyes open. “But I won’t discommode you further. I trust I may call tomorrow and see if he’s fit to travel?”

  “Come and welcome,” said Father. “But surely it’s best that your brother stay here till his shoulder’s well on the way to healing.”

  Mother said positively, “He must stay at least the week. Jogging off to Lawrence could start him bleeding or bring on fever.”

  “But the nursing of him, madam!” Dane frowned. “I hate to burden you—and your daughter.” His brow smoothed suddenly. “Our landlady, Mrs. Eden, seems most amiable. Perhaps she’d agree to come out daily and see to Rolf’s needs.”

  Deborah stiffened. Melissa Eden, with her voluptuous body and wide blue eyes, was gently spoken enough, but her full mouth always had a tiny smile, as if she had the joke on everyone else. She attended the same church as the Whitlaws, and several times, during hymns or prayer, Deborah had seen her gaze, no longer sweetly vacant, shift from man to man, impatiently, as if searching.

  Once her eyes met Deborah’s. There was a moment’s shock. Then Mrs. Eden’s smile deepened and she gave a slow nod, as if to say: Don’t look censorious, my dear. Your eyes were open, too, not closed in heavenly communion.

  To Deborah’s vast relief, though in a tone perfectly gracious, Mother said firmly that she and Deborah could manage very well, though, of course, the elder Mr. Hunter Was invited to come sit with his brother whenever he wished.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Dane yielded, perhaps tardily realizing that the presence of another woman, however amiable, might place more strain on the household than it relieved.

  Rolf seemed asleep so the others went to the living part of the cabin, where Mother brought Dane more “coffee.” His dark hair was rumpled and he looked bruised under the eyes, but he sat erect, in the way that reminded Deborah that he’d been an officer.

  “I’ve heard that in the West there’s less formality in address,” he said. “I can see there’s a problem with two Mr. Hunters about and two Mr. Whitlaws! Would it be brash of me to hope Rolf and I could be known by our first names and could call young Mr. Whitlaw Thos or Thomas?”

  “Highly sensible, Dane,” said Father. “Please call me Josiah.” He sighed, glancing toward town. “Even without our skirmish being known, Lawrence will be buzzing tomorrow! Just when it seemed that the will of the people was finally going to have to be acknowledged, even by President Buchanan. There’ll be raids into Missouri over Marais des Cygnes, and more turmoil in the Territory. It seems there’ll never be peace!”

  “Oh, peace always comes,” said Dane ironically. “If it didn’t, people couldn’t prepare themselves for another war. And I think you’re due for a terrible one in this country, sir. I’ve traveled north and south, and the way that tempers are running, there seems little chance of compromise.”

  The Whitlaws regarded each other somberly. “Well, let it be war!” cried Thos, eyes shining. “Look at the way pro-slavers have bullied and terrorized us since even before the Territory opened! Better have a declared, clean, open war than all this raiding and shooting of defenseless men!”

  Dane turned and watched the young man’s defiant face. “There’s no clean war, Thomas—not ever.”

  “But you fought in the Crimea!”

  “And it was foul and hideous. What happened here tonight was bad and could have been much worse. But in war, Thomas, hundreds die in the same short time, hundreds more are wounded, and they’re forgotten in the next carnage.”

  Thos stared, plainly unable to reconcile this attitude with his budding hero-worship for the older man. “But … but some wars have to be fought!”

  “Not by me. I’ll defend myself or my friends, but I’ll not put on a uniform and go off to slaughter men in a different uniform because of trade routes, territorial wrangles, or, worst of all, ideals!” Rising, Dane bowed. His gaze touched Deborah so briefly that she felt snubbed. “Thanks for your hospitality and care of my brother,” he said. “I’ll be out tomorrow to see how he mends.”

  Thos and Father went out to the stable-yard with him. Deborah stood looking after them, bewildered, half angry. Once, just once, yet unmistakably, their natures had seemed to rush together, fill, at least for her, the void of separateness she had supposed was inevitable as a person grew up. Surely she hadn’t imagined that! Why, then, did he virtually ignore her?

  “A driven young man,” Mother said. “He may not go to war, but he has one inside.”

  “For one who condemns war, he was ready enough to kill those men tonight.” Deborah was shocked at the harshness in her own voice.

  “Daughter! He did it to protect us.”

  That couldn’t be argued. But Deborah still felt disturbed and rebellious long after Father and Thos had come back inside and the family had prayed for the relatives of the dead Missourians and their victims of the morning, for the fugitive slave Judith to escape, for peace to come, and for Rolf’s speedy recovery.

  Lying awake in the lean-to, Deborah turned from side to side on the rustling shuck mattress, unable to rest, though bone-weary.

  So much had happened that day that she couldn’t take it in: the encounter with Rolf and Dane, the first outsider’s kiss she’d ever had, and then the nightmarish visitation of the Missourians fresh from a slaughter that was bound to thro
w Kansas into renewed conflict! She broke into a cold sweat when she pictured what Jed and his men would have done had the Englishmen not taken a hand. Father and Thos would have fought, certainly; she and Mother would have defended themselves with kitchen knives or whatever they could snatch up. But there was little doubt that, balked of finding and punishing the runaway Judith, the Missourians would have killed the men. It was true that so far even the worst Border Ruffians had seldom attacked women, but Deborah still felt soiled by the raking of Jed’s hot glance.

  And now Rolf Hunter, who’d at the least exceeded the bounds of rough frolic with her, lay in her bed and she’d have to help nurse him! Indignation at being thus trapped battled with softer feelings roused by the way he’d watched her dreamily that night, seemingly content to have her company. Perhaps he was only high-spirited, wild but not reprehensible. From reading smuggled copies of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and Clarissa Harlowe, Deborah suspected that the sons of English gentry might consider as fair prey young women beneath them in the social order.

  But this was the United States! And she was going to persuade Johnny that she should have her Bowie knife. Then, come night raiders or amorous Britishers, she’d be ready. On that unmaidenly thought, she at last fell asleep.

  It was decided the next morning that Mother would stay home. She and Deborah could do the washing while tending to Rolf, and Thos could help Father at the shop.

  “Rolf’s feverish,” Mother said after the men had gone. “I’ll try to get some milk and mush down him and dress his wound while you get the water on to boil. Thos has already started the fire under the kettle and dumped in a few buckets to start you off.”

  Deborah slipped into her moccasins, not wasting time, because it promised to be a hot day, and washing, even in cool weather, was drudgery. Still, she’d rather carry water than cope with that shoulder, let alone the strange sensations Rolf could cause in her.

  The trouble with being in the yard, of course, was that when she looked at the stable or wagon, she remembered last night. Pushing it away, she started her task.