by Vella Munn
The shadow moved. He studied it, not because he didn't now know who was out here with him but because there were so many things he still didn't understand about Calida, and this was one way of discovering more. She had learned how to move in time with Piahokee, to accept it. At night when there was little breeze, the wilderness was a gentle, almost languid place. It was as if surviving the sun took so much out of it that it did nothing except rest once the burning heat gave up its daily attack. Calida wasn't resting. She was alert, testing her surroundings, testing him. And yet she did it at Piahokee's pace.
"You cannot sleep?" he asked softly. He didn't dare move. His head felt both heavy and empty.
"You shouldn't be out here, Panther."
"If I should not, then the same is true for you."
She didn't say anything, which left him wondering whether she agreed with him or not. If he could think how to put the words together, he would have asked her. He wanted to feel something of her seep into him, nothing more.
"Gaitor's wrong," she whispered as if she didn't want to hear the sound of her own voice. "Croon isn't defeated. I know he isn't."
"Is that what keeps you from sleep?"
"That and other things."
What other things? He was certain he'd asked the question, but she wasn't reacting in any way so maybe he hadn't.
"I keep thinking about the sea." She was still whispering. "I want to hear it. To study the birds that live there. To smell—I love its smell."
He didn't care about that, didn't care about anything except her voice and nearness and... "It will take several days to reach the great water."
"I know."
She didn't know what to do with her body, or with him. He wanted to make sense of what he'd just learned, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop mist from seeping into his mind. Without thinking he reached out, but his groping hands didn't find a tree. Instead, he felt Calida's shoulders and then her arms, a breast.
And then nothing.
Legs spread, Calida shoved her hands under Panther's armpits. She tried to stop his fall, but his weight was too great, and she slumped to the ground with him partly on top of her. As soon as she'd caught her breath, she wriggled out from underneath him and pressed her ear to his chest. His heartbeat, although too fast, was strong. He shouldn't have tried to walk as far as he had.
Sitting so close that her hip pressed against his side, Calida lifted Panther's limp arm and pressed it to her breast. He would soon be well. His eyes might open in a matter of seconds, and when they did, she would draw back into herself, protect herself from him.
But for now—for this dark and quiet moment—she would lean over him and press her lips to his.
When she did, the first of her tears clouded her vision and dropped onto his flesh.
* * *
Dismounting, Reddin gave scant attention to his horse that stood with its head nearly dragging on the ground, eyes glazed. He shouldn't have ridden the nag the way he had. After a lifetime spent around horseflesh, he knew better. But he'd be damned if he'd spend one more night out in that godforsaken jungle, especially when he had his own bed waiting for him.
The plantation didn't look all that different from the last time he'd been home, but then Isiah had already done just about everything he could to bring the land into production. He'd seen both soldiers and landowners on his way here, and every one of them had maintained that the Seminoles were so far from here, thanks to pressure from the army, that they no longer threatened anyone's safety. Reddin didn't believe that. The man who trusts a Seminole to stay in the swamp is a fool.
Not bothering to wipe his boots, he slammed his way into the house and stomped toward the kitchen. Opening the door, he startled the skinny but pretty Negress cutting up vegetables. Obviously, Isiah had brought his own cook with him. Studying her, Reddin admitted that his father-in-law had chosen well. Where, he asked without bothering to introduce himself, was Isiah Yongue?
"At the corral, massa," she told him. "He done bought hisself a new stallion. It come yesterday 'en he's been with it most o' the time since."
Did she resent that? If so, Isiah hadn't taught her her place. Taking the wooden spoon from her, Reddin ladled out a chunk of meat and briefly cooled it between thumb and forefinger before popping it in his mouth. "I'll be back. When I am, I want the biggest bowl of this you've got. And then when I'm done, maybe I'll let you give me a bath."
She blinked but gave no other indication of her reaction to his boldness. He wondered if she knew who really owned the house she lived in. It didn't matter; she would before too much longer.
Going back outside, Reddin noticed that a slave had taken charge of his horse and was in the process of giving it a drink. He had to hand it to his father-in-law: The old man knew how to run a plantation. The corral was around back. Stomach rumbling and another kind of hunger nagging at him even more, he decided he wasn't going to put up with much nonsense from Isiah, not after what he'd been through.
Isiah, as lean and fit looking as ever, sat on top of the corral fence. The stallion was at the opposite side and was flanked by two slaves, who each strained on ropes around the big roan's neck. Just outside the corral a mare trembled. Her tail stuck straight up in the air; her eyes were white and wild.
"You think he's going to set her with everyone watching?" Reddin announced without preliminary. As he expected, Isiah spun around. To his great amusement, the older man all but lost his balance.
"Damn you, you gave me a fright! What are you doing here?"
"Three reasons. One, I'm hungry. Two, I've got a hankering for a piece of your cook. Three—well, why don't we talk about that later. You got any whisky?"
Isiah nodded reluctantly and climbed down. When he indicated Reddin should follow him into the brand-new barn, Reddin guessed he didn't want anyone overhearing what they said to each other. It rankled him that they weren't heading for the house—his house. But Isiah was right. What they said to each other should remain private.
"I heard," Isiah said the moment they were inside. "Your men deserted you. They said—"
"I don't want to hear what they said. It's a damn bunch of lies. I need more money."
Even in the faint light, Reddin easily read Isiah's reaction. "If you think I'm going to throw away any more money on this damn fool vendetta of yours—"
"It's mine to throw and don't you forget it."
Isiah sighed. Reddin didn't need to be hit over the head to know the man didn't want to talk about this. In the silence that followed, Reddin turned his attention to his surroundings. He'd wanted to build a barn, but Liana had insisted the house first be brought up to her standards. He'd wanted a stallion. Unfortunately there hadn't been a proven one to be had for the kind of money he'd had to spend. He'd only been gone a few months and Isiah had accomplished both of those things, among others.
So who the hell's plantation was this anyway?
"She's quite a piece," he told Isiah. "That cook of yours—can she really cook, or are you just giving her something to do when you're not fooling with her?"
"You keep your hands off her."
"Me! Damnation, she's sleeping under my roof!"
Isiah held up his hand, but with both the stallion and mare squealing now, Reddin knew no one could hear a word they said. "So," he said when it looked as if he'd rendered Isiah speechless, "what else did you hear about me?"
"Not much. There's a lot more important news than what you're up to, believe it or not. The niggers General Jesup said were going to be sent to Oklahoma? Well, it hasn't happened, and it isn't going to as far as I can see. The bulk of them are being brought to St. Augustine. As for what's going to happen to them once they're all here, well—" He shrugged. "When and if the army and government and their owners ever get together on this, I guess we'll know."
The news about how the runaways were being treated didn't surprise Reddin. It must be reaction to the long hours in the saddle; suddenly he was too tired to care whether
this so-called war went on forever or was wrapped up before nightfall. It didn't concern him, not in the slightest. Only Calida and the damnable Egret clan did.
Mostly getting Calida back.
That and reclaiming his plantation.
"I'm planning on going to St. Augustine as soon as I rest and have something to eat," he said. "From what I've heard, there's slave-catchers there, a lot of them."
"Slave-catchers?"
"Yeah. Those so-called soldiers who all but left me for dead don't know the first thing about fighting Indians. I don't know why Jesup or the President hasn't thought about this before, but if a body wants someone pulled out of the 'glades, they'd be smart to hire proven trackers."
Isiah tipped his head to one side. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, Reddin had no difficulty reading the skepticism in the older man's eyes, not that it surprised or bothered him. "I won't be here long. Just until morning," he explained. "I'll take a fresh horse. And I'm going to need more money."
"No."
"I didn't come here to argue with you, Isiah. The last time you made me beg. It isn't going to happen again."
"I said no, Reddin."
"You want everyone saying you don't give a damn that the Seminoles killed your daughter?"
"I'd think you'd give a damn whether this place succeeds or fails. It takes money to run a plantation, damn it. Money that can't be wasted chasing after ghosts."
"Ghosts? You think they're ghosts?" Reddin was losing control and had to be careful, but Isiah was pushing him. "I've seen them. Hell, I shot one of them. A war chief."
"He's dead?"
"Yeah, he's dead," Reddin insisted although he had no way of knowing that. "She was living with him. Can you believe that? She was living with that bastard."
"Who?"
Didn't Isiah know anything? "Your daughter's personal slave, in case you've forgotten. Sleeping with that brave, bold as you please. I almost had them, damn it. I'd convinced one of the runaways to take me to where the clan was hiding. Somehow Chief Panther found out about it and came after her. That's when I shot him." Laughter bubbled out of him before he could stop it. "I hope to hell she had to bury him."
"So this chief is dead. Reddin, the Seminoles are on the run. I will not waste any more money on this obsession of yours. There's no discussion to it."
Damn him. Damn, damn, damn. He nearly pointed out that the plantation was his and how he spent the money that came from it was his business, but he and Isiah had gone over this before to no avail. Little light reached this far into the barn. He was speaking to a shadow, the shadow of an old, stubborn, and worthless man. "You don't get it, do you?" Reddin challenged, although he couldn't say why he was bothering. "One of those savages killed your daughter. Is that what you're telling me? That it doesn't matter whether her killer gets away because she didn't mean that much to you?"
"I never—"
"It sure as hell sounds like it." He'd started shaking and couldn't put his mind to how to stop. "Fine. What you do or don't do is your business, but I'm telling you one thing right now, and you'd better not forget it. I'm not letting her get away with it. Runaways are either turning themselves in or being captured left and right and still she's out there defying me. Laughing in my face. She's not getting away with it. She's not!"
"Shut up."
Reddin was so surprised by his father-in-law's order that for several seconds he did exactly as he'd been told. Then: "Don't tell me what to do, old man. I'm not—"
"You killed her, didn't you?"
Reddin went cold and then hot. "What are you saying?"
"You killed my daughter." Isiah looked beyond him to the half-opened door. Reddin's eyes followed the same path as he assured himself that they were alone.
"You're crazy."
"No, I'm not. And you killed the carriage driver so there'd be no one to talk about what you'd done."
"That's—the Seminoles—"
"The Seminoles had nothing to do with it."
Although his body continued to ricochet between hot and cold, Reddin forced himself to fold his arms over his chest in a nonchalant gesture. "Go on. Tell me how you came up with this nonsense."
"Slaves talk, Reddin. You should know that."
Calida had been the only witness and she was gone. He felt a burning in his upper arm and realized he'd been gripping himself there. He forced himself to let up on the pressure. "Sure they talk, even when they've got nothing to say. Only a fool would listen to them."
"Not a fool; someone who wants to get at the truth. Joseph's wife was there the night you hauled him out on his last carriage ride, in case you've forgotten. She started thinking about that, then she talked to some of the other slaves and learned that no one had seen any sign of Indians. You should have done a better job of cleaning up after yourself. The slave who washed Liana's bedding after her death remembered a stain on it that might have been blood. Why?" He leaned forward and seemed to shrink at the same time. "Why did you do it?"
He started to tell Isiah he didn't know what he was talking about, that the slaves had lied, when suddenly he no longer cared. Isiah Yongue was at least thirty-five years older than him, and although he was in good shape for a man his age, he didn't have his size or heft.
"I want you off my property, Reddin. Now."
"Your property? Wait a—"
"Either you get back on your horse, or I'll have you charged with murder."
"No one will listen to a bunch of slaves."
For an instant Isiah seemed to shrink again, but before Reddin could take advantage, he rocked forward. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I can promise you this: General Jesup is going to know everything, and the President, if that's what it takes to stop you. You'll be ruined. My daughter's dead, but at least you'll never wear a uniform again."
Reddin was lunging before he knew he'd been going to do it. The first blow landed on Isiah's throat and threw him against the nearest stall. Isiah's hands clutched at his throat. His eyes bulged, and he made a sick gurgling sound. Reddin hit him again. This blow struck the older man on the side of the head and sent him sprawling onto the floor. Before Isiah could move, Reddin started kicking him. His boots made a sound like rocks being thrown at a watermelon.
Outside, the stallion screamed again. The sound of hooves beating against the ground echoed in time with Reddin's heartbeat, and he went on kicking long after Isiah stopped moving. Then he forced himself to pick up the body and carry it to the far corner of the barn where he hid it under a pile of cornstalks.
When Reddin went outside, the stallion was riding the mare. All eyes remained on the two animals as he headed toward the house and the bedroom where Isiah had slept and kept his valuables. His mind was on how much cash Isiah might have had on him when, just before his boots reached the stairs, he spun around and headed toward the kitchen. He reached out, grabbed the female slave around the neck, and began propelling her ahead of him.
Chapter 23
Even the air smelled less free here. No matter how many times Calida told herself that the Egret clan should remain close to the rest of the Seminoles, with all her heart she wished they'd stayed anywhere else. They hadn't yet reached the sea before a runner brought word that Osceola wanted his people to move as close to St. Augustine as possible. After conferring with the runner and then Gaitor, Panther had told his followers that Osceola did not believe the Seminole people should be scattered after all. There'd been no Green Corn dance this year, and Osceola had vowed to the Great Spirit that that would never happen again. The wilderness around St. Augustine was ancestral land; the Seminoles would not allow themselves to be forced from it.
When Calida had argued along with others that they were safer deep in Piahokee, a somber-faced Panther had pointed out the irrefutable: Piahokee was not a kind mother. Even if they could stay in one place long enough to raise crops, the crops wouldn't be ready to harvest for a long time. The Seminoles weren't raccoons who scrounged for food. Osceola was tired of eatin
g roots and berries. Whites had stolen his land from him. He would steal in return for desperately needed supplies, either by sneaking into St. Augustine itself or taking from the remaining plantations.
The idea of getting anywhere near the plantations had horrified Calida, but before she could speak, Panther had said something else. He was willing to move the Egret clan, not because he agreed with his chief, but because he wanted to try to change Osceola's mind.
"Osceola is worn down," he'd told her later that day. "His illness clouds his thoughts. His weakness makes him ask himself whether Great Spirit has deserted him. He wants to be near his parents' and grandparents' home. He wishes for all his people to join him there. And he believes that by staying close to the army, we will know everything we must about them. I say it does not matter what they do as long as we are far from them. Still—still my heart yearns for the land of my childhood. The land of Breath Giver."
Now, staying on a tree island surrounded by a plain covered with sawgrass, Calida had to admit there was some wisdom to what Osceola had decreed. Yes, they could reach St. Augustine in a little less than two days. Still, the town seemed so far away that she seldom thought about it. There was comfort in knowing other clans were nearby.
For hours at a time she felt safe.
This afternoon she was sitting in the shade after having stretched a deerhide Panther had given her for tanning on a wooden frame. Although he'd said it was her gift because she'd killed the alligator, she planned on making him new moccasins. If he was going to be meeting with Osceola and the other chiefs, she wanted him to go to them looking like a true tastanagee. Still, doing something this personal for him made her uneasy.
Made her think of him when it was easier not to.
A tiny white butterfly had been flitting around her bare feet. Now it landed on her big toe, tickling her. Stopping her work, she studied the fragile creature. So much of the land was defined by dark greens and deep shadows. The butterfly didn't seem to fit and yet maybe Breath Giver had placed it here so the Seminoles would know there was beauty in their lives.
