Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Sally Anne turned to the older woman. There was quiet dignity in her tone as she spoke. “It’s been a lovely visit, Aunt Em, but I believe it’s time I went home.” She glanced at the others. “If you will all excuse me, I will go and pack.”

  She turned and went into the house. Thomas Ward took a quick step after her. “Sally Anne?”

  The blonde woman did not look back, nor did she say good-bye.

  Lettie tapped on Aunt Em’s bedchamber door. She could not think what the ethics might be concerning what she was about to do. She knew very well that Johnny had thought she would respect his confidence, but she had not promised secrecy.

  She had also wrestled with her conscience over Johnny’s confession. His actions had led to the deaths of innocent people, and they had certainly been made with the knowledge that he was dealing with outlaws. But he had been forced into the role he had played against his will. So far as she could see, he was guilty of stupidity for getting mixed up with such evil men, but little more.

  Ranny’s friend needed help. She herself could not think where to turn to gain it for him. Aunt Em, with her calm manner and stout good sense, in spite of her habit of exclaiming, was one of the few people Lettie thought might give advice without either condemning Johnny or flying into a panic. That the older woman might feel he would be best served by calling in the sheriff was a chance that must be taken. It was not possible to sit back and do nothing, allowing him to continue on his present course. If he were not caught with some message and hanged for his involvement with the outlaws, he would inevitably be drawn deeper into their crimes. No, she must act.

  The older woman was dressed for bed. She invited Lettie in with the utmost cordiality, then shut the door and returned to her seat before her dressing table. Busily braiding the gray strands that hung over her shoulder, she nodded at a slipper chair. “Sit down, child, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Lettie did not hesitate but told her the details of Johnny’s dealings with the outlaws just as he had given them to her, as well as the suggestions the two of them had considered and discarded between them as a solution. “The thing is,” she said when she had finished, “I can’t think of anything else that might help.”

  “Goodness me,” Aunt Em said in pain and dismay. “To think of this going on right under my nose. Poor Johnny.”

  “Do you think he’s right about his mother? That seeing him in jail could kill her?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. She’s always been sickly.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  The other woman pursed her lips. “There is one last possibility that comes to mind.”

  “And that is?” Lettie urged.

  “You won’t like it.”

  “How can I not if it might work?”

  When Aunt Em only watched her with a shrewd, considering look in her eyes, a virulent doubt struck Lettie. She could not mean — no, it couldn’t be.

  “The Thorn.” Aunt Em raised a hand and went on before Lettie could open her mouth. “Now listen before you start. I know you think he’s Satan himself, but he has helped people. He did take old man Hathnell from the soldiers and get him across the line into Texas. What he did for him, he can do for Johnny. It’s not so far away that Johnny couldn’t send for his mother after everything dies down. The Thorn not only knows the back trails and hidden ways to cross the line, he might be able to give Johnny a disguise that would make it easier.”

  “He also might cut his throat if he’s the leader of these outlaws!”

  “Pshaw!” Aunt Em said with vigor. “They sound to me like a bunch of lawless men taking advantage of a lawless situation. There’s not a single story told of the Thorn that connects him with other men. He always plays a lone hand.”

  “That’s all very fine, but even if it would work, how is the Thorn supposed to know that Johnny needs help?”

  “I was talking to Widow Clements in town the other day, the woman, you remember, who got the money for her taxes from him. She told me a tale, just a whisper, mind, because we live near to Dink’s Pond. Seems that there’s a hollow tree where people can leave messages. I don’t know how she knew of it, unless the Thorn told her he could be reached that way in case of need. But it’s supposed to work.”

  “You are suggesting we just … write him a note telling him Johnny needs him, and that will be sufficient?”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to mention Johnny. The note could be found by someone else, you know. We could just say that we would meet him at an appointed place and time.”

  “Meet him!”

  “How else are we to explain?”

  “Perhaps you can do it, then.”

  “I don’t think that would work. It will have to be at night, and my vision isn’t too good after dark. Besides, the meeting place will have to be some distance away, somewhere safe for him.”

  “For him! What about us?”

  “I know it could be a bit dangerous. That’s what I’m saying, that it will be better if there are two of us.”

  “Or three. Or four. Or a maybe hundred?”

  “We would have Johnny with us on the way there. On the way back, I just don’t know.”

  “Johnny could go alone.”

  “So he could, but would he? I have a feeling that he might get to thinking about his mother and turn around and forget the whole thing. That wouldn’t help matters.”

  “No,” Lettie said with a defeated sigh. She would not think of what she would say when she was face-to-face with the Thorn again. Perhaps she need say nothing. Maybe she could stay in the wagon and let Aunt Em talk. “Very well. What are we going to put in this note?”

  By the time the thing was written, the oil in Aunt Em’s lamp had burned low and the wick was sputtering. The wording was simple, giving a time and place for the meeting and communicating the fact that the matter was urgent. It was agreed after some discussion that in order to prevent interference from anyone who might read the note by accident, the place of the meeting must be indicated in a way that only the Thorn would understand. There were a number of places Aunt Em knew of which had a connection with his past exploits, but the trouble was that other people also knew of them. Lettie ventured to suggest the spring as a site, but that was too distant as well as too difficult to hint at without giving it away.

  When Aunt Em suggested the corncrib where the house had burned near the ferry below Natchitoches, the same one she had spent the night in, Lettie knew a moment of panic. How could the older woman know the Thorn was aware of it since she had told no one of her adventure there with him? It seemed, however, that this was one of the places where it was rumored that he sometimes stabled a spare horse. Aunt Em thought it the very spot and suggested with some relish that they designate it for their purposes as the “place of the corn.” There was a terrible inevitability about it. Feeling as if caught in the coils of some monster of her own making, Lettie could only agree.

  It was the following afternoon, during the heat of the day when it was least likely that anyone would be stirring about, that Lettie set out for Dink’s Pond with the message in her apron pocket. It was not to be supposed that the Thorn would check the hollow tree before nightfall, if at all. The less time the note stayed in its hiding place, the better.

  Lettie had covered perhaps half the distance to the pond. With every stride, she grew more heated and less certain of what she was doing. The impulse to turn back was strong. It was only the thought of Johnny and the look in his eyes that drove her on. Learning people’s secrets meant assuming obligations, making one a hostage to compassion.

  So intent was she on the problem that she heard nothing until a soft footfall came behind her. She swallowed a cry and whirled.

  It was Ranny. “Don’t do that!” she snapped, made more incensed by his instant and gratified grin.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk.”

  “Can I come?”

  “I don’t think so.�
��

  “Why not?”

  The question was completely logical; still, it was annoying how quickly he could get to the point with his few words. “I would rather be alone.”

  “Are you meeting someone?”

  “No!”

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not. Why should you think such a thing?”

  “You don’t talk to me anymore. You get up and go away.”

  Lettie had not expected him to notice her attempts at withdrawal. That he had gave her a pang. She wondered if it was meant to, then dismissed the idea as unworthy. “I’m sorry.”

  Ransom gazed down at her, studying her face. She was too pale, and the spinsterish tightness of her features, nearly banished during the past weeks, had returned since that night on the veranda when Ranny had kissed her. He had sought to give her thoughts a new direction. It seemed he might have succeeded too well. He hovered now between an impulse to provoke her into a show of spirit and the need to discover why she was walking so purposefully toward Dink’s Pond with a square of paper very like a note showing through the fabric of her apron pocket. Curiosity won.

  “We can talk and walk now,” he suggested.

  She laughed at his single-mindedness. She could always send him on some errand while she found the hollow tree and completed what she had come to do.

  As it happened, it was Ranny who found it.

  Lettie, uncertain precisely what she was looking for, wandered in circles, peering here and there. She had, somehow, envisioned a dead trunk without leaves, some huge old sentinel impossible to miss. There was nothing in the area, nothing anywhere around the pond, that looked in the least like that.

  She glanced at Ranny, wondering if he knew of the proper tree, debating the wisdom of questioning him about it. A flash of inspiration came as a rabbit hopped out of the woods on the opposite side of the pond.

  “Where do rabbits stay in the winter? Do they hibernate this far south?”

  “Hibernate?”

  “Sleep for the winter.”

  “Oh. Don’t you know?”

  There was a faint tremor of humor in his tone, but she assumed it was amusement for her city ignorance. “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “They sleep some, come out on sunny days. They use brier thickets, piles of brush, things like that.”

  Exasperation touched her. She controlled it. “Hollow logs?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are there any around here?”

  “One,” he answered promptly. “It’s over there. I used to hide things in it.”

  She looked at him sharply. “Things?”

  “Fish flies. A chew of tobacco one time. I got sick. So did Martin and Johnny.”

  He led her toward a tree that looked perfectly sound, with a full canopy of leaves. At its base, however, was a cavity that looked as if it could easily be the den of some small animal, and a few feet above the ground was a narrow slot just big enough to admit a man’s hand. Lettie put her own hand into her apron pocket, fingering the note.

  “Do you suppose there’s a snake in there?” As he shook his head, she went on. “It looks like a good place for one to me.”

  “No. See?” He put his hand into the slit and pulled it out again.

  “Is it deep?”

  “You can see.”

  Carefully palming the note, she put her hand into the hole and drew it out again, empty. “You’re right. Thank you for showing it to me.”

  “My pleasure.” His voice was soft, the look in his eyes unaccountably warm.

  Lettie gave him a smile that barely curved the corners of her mouth. “Shall we go back to Splendora now?”

  11

  LETTIE HAD A FEELING ABOUT THE appointment with the Thorn, and it was not a good one. A dozen times she decided she would not go, and just as often, as she thought of the relief and hope that had appeared on Johnny’s face when she and Aunt Em had told him what they had done, she changed her mind again. It was extraordinary to her how much confidence both Johnny and Aunt Em could place in the Thorn, given the stories circulating about him. It was almost as if they were willfully ignoring his more discreditable exploits. She could not forget them, any more than she could forget the night in the corncrib. That she was returning there of her own will was beyond belief. She could not feel that any good would come of it. Ill-conceived, ill-fated, how could the entire project be anything but a disaster?

  She was not surprised when things began to go wrong during the morning of the day before the one that was set for the meeting.

  Aunt Em, going into the poultry yard to feed her flock, spotted a fat hen that looked perfect for a pot of chicken and dumplings for dinner. She gave chase in her most stealthy and experienced fashion. Just as she bent over to snatch the hen’s legs from under her, a pugnacious rooster came fluttering up in defense and spurted Aunt Em in the arm.

  The wound bled profusely but was not deep. On the older woman’s instructions, Lettie washed it with soap and water and tied it up with a bandage. Aunt Em went about her work. The hen was caught and put into the pot. By late evening, however, the older woman’s arm had swelled and was extremely tender. Aunt Em rested it upon the table and enjoyed her meal of dumplings.

  With the morning, Lettie’s landlady was listless, and she turned white around the mouth at the sight of food. She was feverish, and there were angry red streaks running up her arm. The doctor was sent for and, when he came, recommended soaking the arm in hot water to which a carbolic solution had been added. Aunt Em obeyed the instructions, also soaking it in hot salt water. The redness and swelling began to subside, but the fever and infection had made the older woman, as she herself put it, as weak as dishwater. She was obviously in no condition to go rambling over the countryside at night.

  So Johnny and Lettie set out alone. The two of them elected to ride instead of driving the buggy. It would not only be quieter and faster, but it would give them more freedom of movement should the need arise. The sidesaddle found for Lettie was an old one with most of the padding gone from the seat and knee rest, a lack she was going to feel come morning, but its benefits outweighed that drawback.

  The riding habit she had brought South with her was of wool crepe and much too heavy. She had pulled from the armoire instead a plain poplin skirt with a black band at the waist that she donned with a simple tucked lawn shirtwaist. If the fluttering of her skirt now and then showed the hem of her petticoat and the leather of her riding boot to the knee, it hardly mattered. The whole point of this evening’s excursion was that they be seen by as few people as possible.

  Accordingly, they crossed the river at Grand Ecore, avoiding the more direct and shorter route that led through Natchitoches. Once on the other side, Johnny took the lead, guiding them along the back roads. Lettie tried to watch the different turns he took and the branching cross-trails through the deep woods, but was soon hopelessly confused in the gathering darkness. Her only recourse on the return journey would be to go back by way of the ferry below Natchitoches, the one she had taken last time. That would also be the safest way for her, no doubt, once she was alone.

  They held their pace to a steady lope, one that ate up the miles but did not strain the horses or call too much attention to their passage. Lettie’s thoughts did not keep to such an even pace. She alternated between what she was going to say to the Thorn to persuade him to help Johnny and wondering if he would come; between what the man would think when he saw her and regret that she had not informed Thomas Ward of the meeting.

  It puzzled her that, since the means of contacting the Thorn was known, someone had not informed on him to the military before so that a trap could be set. Of course, it stood to reason that a man of his experience would be extremely wary of that possibility. He would be unlikely to approach any meeting without careful reconnoitering. Whatever else he might be, she did not make the mistake of thinking him a fool.

  The corncrib was just as she remembered it, squat and dark and ne
arly overgrown with briers, sumac saplings, and sedge grass. They pushed their way through to the lean-to and tied up the horses in its concealing shelter. They did not go inside but stayed instead with the animals, partly to keep them quiet and partly because Lettie preferred it.

  She and Johnny spoke now and then, though more for the sake of the sound of a human voice than because they had anything to say. Lettie was, for the most part, withdrawn, brooding. She refused to allow her mind to drift to what had happened to her inside the building behind them. There was no point in raking over the coals; she had burned herself enough at that task. She could not excuse her conduct, but neither did she see any benefit in exploring it yet again. Johnny was also morose, with a tendency to jump at every noise from the thud of a falling limb to the hoot of an owl. Long periods fell when they were silent, each wrapped in his own problems. At the same time they kept a sharp vigil.

  After an eternity, there came the distant sound of a wagon. It drew closer, rattling and squeaking and bumping as if it might fall apart before it could round the bend and come into sight. Above its noise came the cheerful quaver of an old woman singing a hymn at the top of her lungs.

  The wagon appeared around the curve. A lantern hanging on a hook on the wagon bed lighted its way, casting jiggling, bouncing shadows over the trees and revealing as ramshackle a rig as ever rolled down a road. The boards of the wagon bed jostled, the wheels wobbled on their axles, and the mule between the shafts was flop-eared, swaybacked, and appeared to be plodding along with his eyes closed. Between the woman, the equipage, and the steed, it was a sight to behold.

  The wagon came even with the track to the corncrib. Suddenly it swerved down the side trail. It was pulled to a halt with such wrenching ineptness that the mule nearly sat back on its shaky haunches. The old woman, still humming, climbed down and traipsed with high-stepping strides through the briers.

  “Yoo hoo! Oh, yoo hoo! Are you there?”