Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

Sally feared that Micajah might knife the impertinent fellow, but fortunately, he seemed so utterly surprised to hear this protest that he was momentarily unable to react. She also noted that the albino was carrying an even bigger knife than Micajah’s, and thought that might account for some of Micajah’s unresponsiveness as well.

  A few more days passed, and the Harpe brothers enjoyed a first excursion into river piracy, culminating it with an act so wicked that it literally made Sally ill. A flatboat was lured to the bank by an apparent sister of the albino who waved and called for help while the pirates hid. When the attack was launched and the killing began, Sally sat in the midst of it all with her baby, nursing it, lost so deep in her escapist dreams that she did not even hear the cries or see the violence. In a life that offered no real escape from miseries, she had found a way to make her own meager but acceptable substitute.

  A particularly hideous scream broke through her reverie during the sorting of the booty. She looked up and saw an amazing, appalling sight: a naked man was falling from the cliff above the cave mouth. He was tied onto the back of a horse which, like him, was blindfolded. The rider and his horse crashed into the earth with a hideous crunching thud, and Sally watched numbly as both died where they fell, broken and bleeding. Hearing laughter from above, she looked up and saw Wiley and Micajah looking over the edge of the bluff, enjoying the results of their cruel act. Turning, Sally staggered off with her baby crying in her arms, and was sick.

  That night she prayed for the first time that her husband and his brother would die, and do so horribly. If there was justice in the heavens, no less would satisfy it, or her.

  The next day the Harpes were told by the assembled group of cave residents that they were no longer welcome at Cave-in-Rock. Their cruelty was too great even for river pirates and their idea of pleasure far more twisted than anyone had yet displayed even at such a place at this. It was the fault of the Harpes that Kentucky was still being scoured free of outlaws at that moment. If they remained at the cave, they would eventually draw the regulators here, state and territorial jurisdictions notwithstanding.

  Too stunned by this unexpected rejection to feel the full measure of rage that would have been expected, the Harpes gathered their women and babies and left at once. On down the river a ways they found and stole a sizable raft someone had beached and tried unsuccessfully to hide. Then they took to the river, floating out into the great waterway and on toward the Mississippi, having no real plan of exactly where to go. Kentucky was closed to them; they had committed too many crimes there to risk going back just yet.

  And so they floated, drifting in the current, going wherever the water would take them, while Sally held her babe in silence and prayed that vengeance would come swiftly and painfully to two demonic men who deserved it dearly.

  Isaac Ford nodded and smiled, but the gesture did not succeed in hiding the obvious sadness he felt over what Clardy Tyler had just told him.

  “I understand, son,” he said. “And though I despise to see you go, I support what you’ve chose. The best future you can find, I believe, lies in your past.”

  “I don’t want to go back, not in my heart,” Clardy said, struggling to keep his voice from choking with emotion. “I’ve learned much while living here, and I believe I’m far more a man than I was when I first came to you.”

  “There’s no doubt about it. I’ve seen the changes in you. I regret that you’ve had to see the terrible times that came upon us here, the muderizing of innocent folk, and our failure to keep and punish them what done it.”

  “It was the very thing I needed to see, Mr. Ford,” Clardy replied. “I had the notions of a fool when I left home, my mind set on becoming no more than a common thief. I can see now how foolish I was.”

  Ford smiled anew. “Then I was right.”

  “About what?”

  “About there being a purpose in you and me coming together as we did. It was for your good, Clardy. It was to steer you onto better paths. You was drawed here to learn the lessons you needed.”

  Clardy shrugged. “I don’t know whether I believe in such as that. All I know is that I have to go back where I came from. I’ve got a grandfather and a brother back in Tennessee I’m aching to see again. And a lot to tell them. A lot of repenting to do for the way I’ve been through the years. I never was no count at all back home.”

  “I’m glad you crossed my path, Clardy Tyler. And I want no forever farewells here. You’ll come again—I’ll hold you to it—and you’ll be welcome when you do.”

  Clardy left the next day. It had been a hard decision for him, yet not so hard in another way. Since the killing sprees of the Harpes, he had grown to be a thoughtful young man, dwelling often on the tenuous nature of life and the importance of the kin he had left behind. He had fled his home to escape danger and to find wealth, even if in the worst of ways. He had left with a mind full of distorted notions of what his future should be, and those notions had been dashed to pieces by the goodness he found in the home of Isaac Ford and by the ugliness he witnessed in the murderous persons of the Harpe brothers.

  Amy Ford, who Clardy had perceived as being quite indifferent to him, surprised him with tears when he mounted his horse, newly laden with abundant gifts of food, ammunition, and gunpowder from the Fords.

  Young John Ford wept, too, and gave Clardy a small, crudely carved wooden figurine he had whittled himself. It was an image of a stout, tall man holding a rifle in one hand and carrying a rather shapeless lump in the other. “The rifle’s too short,” John said. “I cut off the top of it by mistake, and I didn’t get to finish whittling in the string of squirrels in the other hand … but that’s supposed to be you, Clardy, bringing in food for our table.”

  Clardy did choke up then. “I’ll treasure it, John,” he said. “And I’ll be back one of these days, and you and me will go hunting together. That sound good to you?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, then burst into fresh new sobs and turned away.

  Clardy left the Ford cabin with emotions churning. He had never known so difficult a parting. It was not made easier by the fact that Isaac Ford stood at the edge of his cabin clearing, giving forth from his endless supply of proverbs as if in a travel blessing: “‘Thou shalt walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid, yea, though shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet …’”

  But one thing brightened the gloom of separation. Standing in the cabin door, waving at him with tears in her own eyes, was pretty young Dulciana Ford. She had hardly seemed aware of him in all the time he was a guest in her house, but now that he was leaving, her tears revealed that maybe she had noticed him a lot more than he’d thought.

  He rode out of sight with the thought that at least one portion of his original vision for himself had come true: he had encountered a lovely young maid along a wilderness trail, and he gained her admiration. He would treasure the knowledge of that as dearly as the rough little figure that had been whittled by the hands of a twelve-year-old boy.

  Someday, he vowed to himself, he would return here and see if he could not nurture the admiration of Dulciana Ford into something even greater and even more rewarding. Who could know? Perhaps there had been more purpose than mere lesson-learning for his life to have been plunged into that of the Ford family.

  He traveled without incident and made good speed, covering many miles. When he came within view of the John Farris inn, he considered stopping, but that day the hour was early and he had abundant food already and was growing ever more eager to reach his home. He passed the inn without stopping and made his way toward the great gap in the Cumberland Mountains, beyond which lay Tennessee and the final miles of his journey back to the home and kin he loved far more than he had ever realized.

  CHAPTER 27

  In a tavern on the south bank of the Ohio River

  Thias Tyler stared into his cup. Little in it now, but soon it would be refilled, and when it was emptied once
more, refilled again. He would drink until he no longer felt regret over long weeks of searching for Clardy and not finding him, until he was so drunk that he no longer cared that he had lost everything he’d ever owned that was of value, and every bit of his family besides. He would drink until he was beyond all worry, including worry about his own empty pockets, so empty he couldn’t even pay for the liquor he was consuming. So far the landlord hadn’t demanded payment, happily. Whenever he did, Thias could only imagine how hot he would be to find out no payment was to be had for the liquor, or the hot meal that preceded it.

  This is like something Clardy would do. The thought made Thias chuckle coldly. Indeed, he was acting more and more like Clardy. He didn’t seem to be himself anymore. Ever since he left the Farris inn, his situation had spiraled downward like a falling maple pod. He had left with strong hopes of finding Clardy, but now here he was, all the way to the Ohio River, and still no Clardy. And he was more worried than ever about him. All he heard about anymore was the terrible killing spree of the Harpes. He couldn’t shake the fear that Clardy had become one of their victims. Bodies of several Harpe victims had been found, but who could say there were not others as yet undiscovered, hidden in the forests or sunk in the rivers?

  Thias took another swig, sloshed the liquor about in his mouth, then swallowed with a grimace. He had taken to drinking like this only over the past couple of months, as his depression and poverty grew. He had taken up stealing as well, filching small items, food, tobacco … once he had even stolen a horse. He wondered how the folk along Beaver Creek would react if they knew that Thias Tyler, the “good” Tyler brother, had taken such a quick turn for bad. They wouldn’t understand it, most likely. For that matter, Thias didn’t understand it himself.

  He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he was aware of was awakening when a cool blast of moist air breezed against the back of his neck. He sat up, feeling raindrops running down the back of his shirt.

  He turned toward the open door and the man who stood in it. “Close that door!” he bellowed drunkenly. “The bloody rain’s nigh to drowning me!”

  The man looked directly at him, and Thias blinked in astonishment. Then he rose slowly, feeling unsure on his feet, and looked more closely to make sure this rain-soaked creature was indeed who he seemed to be.

  “Billy French! Billy—that is you!”

  Thias lunged forward, almost falling. Billy French turned on his heel and ran back out into the rainy night. The landlord called from the far side of the room—“Here now, what’s this? Don’t you be going off without paying!”—and Thias, ignoring him, pushed on out the door after Billy.

  He left the tavern behind, running as best his wobbly legs would bear him, sloshing through mud and puddles, keeping the running form of Billy French in sight. The liquor made it hard to run well, but determination and a rising fury within compensated much. The angry voice of the landlord, shouting from his doorway, receded and was lost in the sound of the driving rain.

  “I’m after you, Billy!” Thias called. “You and me, we’ve got much to settle!”

  French did not answer. Though it was dark, Thias could still make out French’s form, running ahead. He was gaining ground on French very quickly. French was doing some notably poor fleeing, and when Thias overran a torn, freshly lost moccasin lying in the muddy road, he understood why. French was having trouble with his footwear.

  He heard a grunt ahead and the sound of a body falling hard into the mud. Laughing victoriously, Thias charged on. The cool rain on his head seemed to be sobering him a little. In only a couple of moments he was upon French, who was struggling to rise. With a blood-chilling cry, Thias launched himself out and landed directly atop Billy French, pushing him facedown into the mud.

  “Don’t … kill me! Oh, Thias, don’t—”

  Thias mashed French’s face into the muck, giving him a mouthful of mud and water. “Don’t what, Billy? Don’t kill you? Don’t smother the sorry life out of you? Tell me why I shouldn’t! Tell me why I shouldn’t mash you like a bug, you who took all I had in the world, everything my grandpap worked for all his days and left to his boys!”

  French blubbered and snorted, trying to breathe without filling his lungs with muddy water. The rain continued to hammer down on the struggling men.

  Thias felt French beginning to go limp beneath him before he got the best of his senses and pulled French’s face free. French took in a great, bubbly gasp of air, then exhaled very vocally and gasped some more, over and over.

  “Thias … please …” He was struggling to get his words out. “Please … I spared you … now you … spare me.…”

  Thias frowned. In his anger he had nearly forgotten that French indeed had left him alive after being ordered to kill him. Even though French and Waller had robbed him of all he had and left him to a likely death on the floor of a cold wintry forest, it had to count for at least a little that French hadn’t crushed his head with that axe.

  “I will spare you—but only on the condition that I get back what was took from me.”

  “Thias, I ain’t … got it! It was Waller! He—”

  Thias mashed French’s face back into the mud. He blubbered and struggled for another minute or so. By then Thias’s anger was substantially expended. He pulled French’s face back up, then grabbed him by the collar of his ragged coat and dragged him to his feet.

  “So my money is spent, is it?”

  “I don’t know. I never had none of it. Jack, he took it and run me off. Said he’d kill me if he seen me again.”

  “Aye? Well, I can believe that. You were naught but a tool to him, Billy. He made you do the worst of his crime, then he took the benefit.”

  “Now Daddy is gone, too,” French said. “The Harpes busted him.”

  “The Harpes!”

  “I believe it was them. I was in camp with some strangers I’d met, me and Daddy together, and Daddy was having his pipe when the Harpes came in and commenced to killing. I run, and one chased me, but I hid and he went away. When I went back to the camp, all the men was dead and Daddy was busted like an egg. They’d stomped his poor face. Poor Daddy. Poor Daddy.” French sounded as if he could weep.

  Thias was astounded, and stabbed with fresh worry about Clardy. It was amazing that the very men who drove Clardy away from Tennessee had wound up in the same locale to which he had fled.

  “Thias, you going to kill me?”

  “No,” Thias replied. “Me and you, we’re going to be together for a spell. We’re going to find Jack Waller and take back from him what he took from me. You helped him against me, and now you’ll help me against him.”

  “I’ll kill him for you, if you want,” French said. “Whatever you want, I’ll do, just like I used to do for Jack. You’ll be my new good friend.” French grinned. “You have a horse and rifle and such?”

  “Yes,” Thias replied. “Back at …” He slapped his brow with the heel of his hand. “Oh, no! I’m a fool, Billy. A great bloody fool!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I left my rifle and horse back at the tavern. But I can’t go back there and fetch them. I left there without paying, you see, and I’ve got nothing. If I go back to fetch all my truck, that landlord will be wanting his pay.”

  “I got nothing, too. No rifle, no money, no Daddy. He’s buried away. I made him such a nice grave, so wee and pretty … why’d they bust him, Thias? What did Daddy ever do to them?”

  “Well, I reckon that landlord is getting paid after all,” Thias mused darkly, ignoring French’s prattle. “More than paid. That was a prime horse and rifle both.”

  “We’ll steal some horses, Thias. Rifles, too.”

  There was a time not so long before when such a proposition would have been out of the question for Thias Tyler. But much had changed for him. He was impoverished, put upon by a hard world, and he resented it. He voiced no protest to the idea.

  “Come on, Billy,” he said. “Let’s find someplace to get
out of this rain.”

  They traveled on foot together for two days, and on the third day stole two horses from a farm that reminded Thias of the old homeplace back on Beaver Creek. That made it hard to go through with the theft, but he forced himself, justifying it on the grounds he was desperate and victimized far worse than whoever owned this place. He eased his conscience by telling himself that maybe he would come back after he got his money back from Jack Waller, or whatever would remain of it, and pay for the horses, but when he rode off, he made no effort to remember how to find this farm again.

  Later that same day, Billy French disappeared while Thias napped briefly beneath a tree. He awakened and thought French had simply absconded, but within half an hour French was back again, grinning, bearing two rifles, along with ammunition. Thias didn’t ask where or how he had obtained them. It was better not to know. He could only hope that whoever had owned these rifles had lost no more to French than the rifles themselves. Though simple and childish in many ways, French was also a hardened and criminal man, fully capable of murder.

  Right perculiar thing, Clardy. It was you who always talked of going to Kentucky to become a thief, and now it’s me who’s done it. Thias pondered the oddity of his situation. He would never have anticipated things turning out so. Only for now, he told himself. Just a brief turn off the straight road. When I’m on my feet again, I’ll become what I was before. I’ll be a good man … as soon as I can afford to be.

  As time went by, Thias grew happy he had encountered French. Having all but given up on finding Clardy, he’d been considering trying to find Waller instead, but had no notion of where to begin. French, though, knew Waller’s ways and the places he liked to go. With money in his pocket, certainly Waller would be drawn toward his favorite haunts—and among the most favored of these, according to French, was a certain string of riverside taverns up on the Ohio, places where liquor was plentiful, gambling was endless, and women were cheap.

  “I’ll kill him for you, if you want,” French offered again on the day they rode in sight of the closest of these taverns. “I don’t care to kill him at all.”