“I will not! I hate guns! You know I hate them. I’ve never fired a gun in my life!” Indeed, the only weapon I carried was a fine new Bowie knife which I stuck down in the top of my boot, just like a real Indian fighter. “Well, let’s not argue about this now. I’m famished. I’ll get out the last of the dried meat and cheese. Where’s the food sack?”
“I’m lying on it,” he said. And so he was, using it for a pillow.
“Please get up,” I said, standing over him.
“I don’t feel like getting up. Help me with my boots, will you, Rhawnie? My leg’s very stiff tonight.”
He actually raised his left leg a foot off the ground, as if he expected me to comply. I slapped at his boot angrily and said, “I won’t help you with anything! At least not until you come to your senses and stop acting like a silly child. For Heaven’s sake get up and let me have something to eat.”
“This is my food,” he said. “I very thoughtfully provided for my own needs on this trip, and I expected you to do the same. You had your shopping spree in Independence. It isn’t my fault you didn’t have the foresight to stock—”
I pulled my foot back and aimed a hard kick at his side. There was nothing wrong with his reflexes. He grabbed my ankle and lifted at the same time as he stood up. My other foot slipped out from under me and I went down, hard.
“Now don’t be childish, Rhawnie,” he said in a bored voice.
“Me! Childish!” I yelled. I pulled myself together and faced him squarely, half in a crouch like a fighter. “I suppose this is your way of taking revenge on me for the things I said to you back in our room in Independence.” I balled my hands into fists and shook them in his face. “What a goddamned bastard you are! I would never, never in my life believe that you and Steven were born of the same mother—”
“Let’s leave Steve out of this dispute,” he said coldly.
“No! It’s my dispute and I’ll drag in anyone and anything that I please. You think you can intimidate me and terrorize me and starve me and make me your slave again, but it won’t work! It won’t work!”
“You should have stayed behind,” he said. “It’s not too late for you to turn back. I’ll even take you back myself, as far as Kansas City. To protect you from harm,” he added smugly.
“Oh? And who will protect me from you, answer me that?” I demanded furiously. “What’s the matter with you? Are you afraid that I’ll think less of you if I see you cooking and washing your own shirts, or if you behave towards me like a human being instead of a—a gorilla? Listen, you couldn’t possibly sink lower in my estimation. I know everything about you that there is to know—”
“Do you?”
“Yes, everything that I need to know to know that you’re a black-hearted, evil scoundrel! You think you can break me, Seth Garrett—McClelland!—but you can’t. You tried before, over and over, and you failed. No man can bend me to his will! I’ll keep up with any pace you set. I’ll let you browbeat me. What do I care for your food? I’ll catch my own supper, damn you, and I hope—I hope you choke on your rotten dried meat!"
When I stopped ranting, I realized that I had been shouting at the top of my lungs and that I was even hopping up and down in my rage. Seth regarded me with silent interest, as if I were a curiosity at a sideshow, then he said, “Very impressive, Rhawnie. By all means, keep your voice in shape by shouting at me. There’s nothing more stimulating to the appetite than witnessing a nice prima donna rage, is there?"
I slapped at his face and he ducked, laughing. I stalked away to tell the horses my troubles, but they had eaten their fill and were dozing and they really weren’t interested. I threw myself down on the ground about fifty feet from the campfire and I fumed. I could hear him rustling around in the sack for his dinner, and my stomach growled. Of course I had provided myself with some food staples. But that wasn’t the issue. His selfishness, his refusal to share, his attempt to dominate me—“Rhawnie, take off my boots!“—that was the issue! Bah!
As I sat there, absolutely motionless but raging inside, a large fat rabbit hopped into view. He came closer, so unsuspecting, and he stopped only three feet away from me. Surprised, he blinked at me. Also surprised, I blinked at him. Then I made a fast dive, and I caught him. Poor little creature. How was he to know that he had crossed the path of that most deadly of all hunters, a hungry Gypsy?
I wrung his neck—a quick, merciful death—and I sat for a long moment savoring my good fortune. Then I pulled out my new knife and slit his belly, wishing it were Seth’s belly. I gutted and skinned him, throwing the pelt and the entrails to the coyotes and the vultures but reserving the heart and the liver for myself. Then I carried my prize, fully dressed, back to the fire.
Seth looked up, surprised. Of course he was surprised. There had been no shot, nothing. I gave him a quick, sneering glance, then I unpacked my cooking pot. I disjointed the rabbit, added an onion from my provision bag, a little salt, some wild garlic, and a bottle of Bordeaux that I had brought in St. Louis and somehow managed to keep Seth from drinking. Soon a fragrant lapin au vin was simmering over our stinking little fire of buffalo chips. The rabbit wouldn’t be ready for an hour, maybe two, but I could wait. I would be glad to wait and to savor that delicious aroma. I stole a look at Seth, who was still trying to chew his tough beef jerky while he pretended that it was the finest sirloin. Yes, I could wait. The longer the better.
He didn’t relent. The next day he roused me before dawn and ordered me to pack up and get ready to move out. We rode without stopping for close to fifteen hours. After I had eaten a little cold rabbit and had some wine, I wrapped myself in my cloak and blanket and went to sleep. The next morning the routine was the same. I really believe that he had decided to test my mettle by choosing the hardest trails over the roughest terrain. But I had bragged to him that I could take any punishment, endure any torture, and I would not back down.
Two more days passed like that, grueling, exhausting days. Then we caught up with a wagon train. My excitement mounted. Perhaps this was the end of our quest. We approached them. We hadn’t gotten very close when a rifle report sounded. Two dark figures appeared from behind a wagon and we pulled up our horses.
“Sorry, men,” one of them called. At that distance he could be excused for thinking me a man; after all, I was dressed like one, in high boots, cord breeches, a shapeless cloak and a floppy felt hat. “We can’t let you come any closer.”
“What’s the matter?” Seth shouted. “Sickness?”
“Cholera. It’s spreading through the wagons like wildfire.”
I felt a sinking sensation in my middle. Oh, Gabrielle! I looked over at Seth. He also looked worried.
“Is this the Murray train?” he asked. “We’re looking for a couple named Anderson.”
“No one here by that name,” one of the men answered. Seth described the fugitives, thinking that perhaps they had changed names again. But the answer was still the same. We breathed a sigh of relief.
“One of you isn’t a doctor, by any chance?”
Beside me, I could feel Seth stiffen slightly.
“We could sure use a doctor here. We’ve lost fifteen people already half of ‘em women and children.”
A light wind blew up, carrying the echoes of suffering from the bunched wagons. I heard moans and shrieks, the sounds of people in mortal pain. Our horses shifted nervously.
“Well?” I said to Seth. “Here’s your chance to do something for someone other than yourself.”
“Don’t be a little fool,” he snapped. “Sorry!” he shouted back. “Good luck!” He raised his rifle in a farewell salute and wheeled Blaze around.
“But you can’t leave them to die!” I cried. The screams of the dying tore at my heart. There were children in there. I urged Fire forwards and we trotted towards the wagons. I heard Seth’s angry shouts but I ignored them.
I was only a dozen yards from the outermost wagon when he came abreast of me and caught Fire’s reins.
“You can’t go in
there," he said angrily. “You couldn’t help and you’d probably catch it yourself. Do you know anything about cholera? It can kill a strong man in two days. It’s fatal half the time. And without medicine there’s no hope. You’d go in to nurse and stay to die."
“Is that why you don’t want to help? Because you’re afraid?"
He shook his head impatiently. “Without medicine there’s nothing I could do for them that they can’t do just as well themselves. Believe me, Rhawnie, I only—"
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anything you say!" I tried to pull the reins out of his hands. He held them fast. I began to fight him, to claw at his face and to beat at him with my fists. He pulled me off Fire’s back and we rolled on the ground. I screamed incoherently and cursed him in half a dozen languages.
“Coward! Beast! Selfish greedy animal!"
He held my wrists firmly and tried to talk calmly to me, to quiet me, but I wouldn’t listen to him. Finally his fist shot out and caught me under the chin. My head snapped back and the world went black.
He must have slung me over Fire’s back, for when I awoke I was lying on the prairie grass with the warm sun on my face and my stomach muscles ached like fury. I sat up and rubbed my swollen jaw. There wasn’t a wagon to be seen. Seth was near, at Blaze’s head. He stroked the horse’s nose and watched me.
“You didn’t have to do that," I said groggily.
“I had to do something to get you away from there and to quiet you down," he said without any hint of apology in his voice. “You wouldn’t listen to reason."
“No," I said bitterly, “I wouldn’t. And besides, it gave you a good opportunity to hit me. Seth McClelland, a great big fighting man, takes out his anger on weak, defenceless women!”
He grinned suddenly and said, “Well, you’re certainly a woman. But as for being weak or defenceless—”
“Shut up,” I growled, getting up and staggering over to Fire. “I’m in no mood to quarrel with you.”
“I never would have guessed,” he replied.
We pushed on, not stopping until well after sunset. The next morning we awoke to steady rainfall. I was limp and tired from a bad case of diarrhea, and I didn’t even try to keep up with Seth, I had to dismount frequently.
At one point, Seth came back to harangue me for slowing us down.
“What do you know about anything?” I snarled. “You’re not a woman!”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked.
“No, thank God. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” I waved him away.
The rain penetrated my cloak and soaked me to the skin. I felt cold and miserable. The horses dragged their feet on the soft turf. Thunder rumbled over our heads and once lightning struck so close to me that I could smell the scorch of the earth. I wished we could stop, but I didn’t want to ask. We plodded on. The terrain grew a little harder and rockier. We had reached the Platte River, three hundred and sixteen miles from Independence. Compared to the Mississippi the Platte wasn’t a river at all, but a swamp, a mile wide and unfordable because of quicksand.
But what did I care about quicksand? I felt awful, so weak and drained from my diarrhea that I could hardly sit up in the saddle. When next I dismounted it was to vomit. I straightened up and leaned heavily against Fire’s flank.
Seth rode up. “More nature calls?” he asked sarcastically. “Listen, Rhawnie, if you can’t keep up—”
I could barely hear him over the pelting noise of the rain and the roar of thunder, but I said as loudly as I could, “I’ll die in the saddle before—”
A bad cramp in my middle made me double up. I fell on my knees and vomited again. No food, only milky-colored water that the rain washed away at once.
Strong hands under my arms lifted me easily to my feet. A voice like the Day of Wrath boomed in my ear: “Have you had diarrhea? Well, have you?”
Sick as I was, I blushed and said with all the dignity that I could muster, “What kind of question is that? It’s none of your damned business.”
“It damned well is my business!” he shouted. I swear, his voice was louder than the loudest thunder. “Yes or no? Come on, answer me!”
“Yes.” I squirmed. Sure, the man had delivered my baby, but that didn’t give him any right to—
“When did it start?”
“Last night. I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Foolish question. Before I could reply the most excruciating pain seized my left leg while another grabbed my middle. I fell on my knees in the mud, and I bit my lower lip hard to keep from crying out. I vomited again and again.
I was dimly aware of Seth moving around, putting up our small canvas tent, building a small fire. I had to give him credit there. I have seen many a Gypsy trying to start a fire in the pouring rain, and Seth did it in an impressively short time. Of course he was so efficient that he probably carried a few dried buffalo chips inside his coat for just that purpose. He knew how to pitch a tent, too, on the highest point of the plateau, so that we wouldn’t catch any run-off from other slopes.
Within half an hour he had me tucked up inside that tent.
It was four feet high at the center, tall enough for a man to kneel up fairly straight.
He started to strip off all my clothes, everything, even my flimsy chemise and lacy pantaloons.
“What are you doing?” I asked. My voice sounded odd to my ears, husky and harsh and not a bit musical. And my mouth felt as dry as old bones.
“It will be easier to keep you clean if you soil yourself,” he said with ruthless matter-of-factness. I cringed. Where I came from men didn’t discuss a woman’s bodily functions like that. At least not in front of the woman. “ Also you’ll be sweating profusely and everything you have on will be wet—and cold.”
“Soil myself?” I muttered. “That’s a laugh. After last night there is nothing left. Only water. I am very thirsty. It must have been the lapin. Take my advice, Seth, don’t waste even cheap Bordeaux on these prairie rabbits. They’re as tough as old boots.”
“It wasn’t the rabbit,” he said, wrapping me in a blanket. “You have cholera.”
“Oh.” I thought about this and then I had a bad seizure, followed by vomiting. Seth held me under the shoulders and braced my forehead, and he wiped my mouth when I was finished. He helped me to lie back. “Am I going to die?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I told you, there’s a fifty percent mortality rate.”
Another cramp struck my abdomen. I screwed up my face and turned away from him so that he couldn’t see how I was suffering.
“Leave—me,” I gasped. I felt ashamed that anyone would see me like that, sick and weak and vulnerable and distorted by pain.
“Why don’t you scream?” he suggested. “You might feel better.”
“Me—Gypsy—scream?” Sweat poured off me. I waited for the seizure to pass. “No, gorgio. I cannot!”
He tried to take my hand but I wouldn’t let him. More cramps in my legs drove everything else from my mind. I was being crushed in a vice of pain. I felt hot, burning up, and so thirsty that I wanted to rip away the tent that sheltered us and drink the rain.
“Water,” I begged. ‘‘Please, Seth, water. So— thirsty.” I vomited again.
Seth helped me rise a little and to drink from a tin cup. He let me have only the smallest sip. I wanted more but he refused.
“You’d only vomit it again,” he said reasonably.
“So—cruel!” I gasped. “You are—oh!” More cramps, more vomiting.
“Listen, Rhawnie, do you have any drugs in that bag of ours? Any opium or laudanum? Something to arrest the—”
“What would I—be carrying stuff—like that for?” I moaned. “I am not sick. There is—Gypsy ointment.”
“No good. There’s got to be something,” I heard him mutter. “We’ve got to stop the vomiting.”
He m&oved around the cramped tent. It took all my strength not to cry out. I didn’t
want to show weakness or cowardice. After a while he raised me up slightly and made me swallow some powder. That was followed by a small sip of water. The taste of the stuff was unbelievably foul.
“What—was that?”
“I saw some hemp plants growing along the river,” he said, wiping my mouth and swabbing the rivulets of perspiration away from my face and out of my eyes. ‘‘The Indians use it as a sedative as well as a stimulant. And there were a couple of camphor balls in the bottom of your valise. Taken together, I hope they’ll have a mild, narcotic effect that should help arrest the vomiting. Try and keep it down as long as possible. Ah!” I vomited. “Come on, try again.”
I ate some more of his concoction and choked on it. He gave me a sip of water to wash it down.
“You sound—like a medical textbook,” I said.
“And where would you have seen a medical textbook, Gypsy?” he asked soothingly and mechanically as he wiped the sweat away. I decided that one of the aspects of his medical training had been, “Humoring the Patient.” I wondered why some of that hadn’t stayed with him and carried over into his private life.
“Couldn’t read—it anyway,” 1 rasped. My voice sounded ugly, so hoarse and scratchy. “Thirsty. Water, please.”
“Don’t talk so much,” he advised gently. “No, you can’t have more than a sip.”
“More,” I begged, “please, Seth.”
“No,” he said crisply. “It’s not good for you. I know it’s hard, but too much water will only irritate—oh, never mind. Just believe me when I tell you that I can’t let you have more water because it’s not in the prescribed treatment. Now take some more powder.”
“Doctors are fools,” I said. You hate me—because of Steven. Don’t you? Listen, Seth.” I grabbed feverishly at his shirt-front and looked up at him beseechingly. “I may be—dying. I will not lie to you. What—would be the point? I had lovers—after you left me. Not many. Before I met—Steven. But he—he was never my—lover. I swear this, Seth. May the hands of my dead—reach up and take me to Hell—if I do not speak the truth. Your brother—too much of a gentleman. He didn’t believe—in it, before marriage.” I released him and fell back. My mouth was so dry I could barely whisper. “Do you—do you believe me? I want you to understand—to make things better between you—before I die. Do you—believe?”
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