by Norah Hess
A yearning sadness came into his eyes. It would feel strange not to have Grandpop with him this winter. As far back as he could remember, the big, hearty man had been at his side. As they had ranged the forests of Pennsylvania and Massachusetts, his grandfather had shared his knowledge of the wilderness with him.
They had never stayed long in one place. As soon as a new settlement sprang up, the old man would remark, "It's gettin' too crowded around here, boy. Time we moved on."
Matt grinned. In his thirty-five years there must have been twice as many campsites. A year was the longest they had ever stayed in one place. He thought of the many huts they had thrown together and the clay ovens they had built.
His grin widened as he recalled the women who had shared those hovels. Since infancy, when the first squaw came to tend him after his parents' death, there had been a long line of them. Every spring a new one came to replace the old one. As a youngster growing up, he would have thought it strange not to see a woman in his grandfather's blankets. The thumping noise, as, the hardy man drove away at some squaw or white whore, was a peaceful lullaby to him.
When he was twelve or so, he became curious about what went on in the pile of blankets. From his bed of furs in the corner, he took to watching the grandfather and his woman. The naked female body would excite him, and he'd feel himself grow hard and rigid.
One night when his grandfather had finished with his bed partner of the season and was about to settle himself for sleep, his glance fell on his grandson. The taut, tensely held body caught his attention immediately. He reared back his head and roared with laughter.
"By all that's holy, only twelve seasons and already you're hankerin' for a woman."
He sat up in bed and shook the sleeping form beside him. "Wake up, gal. You ain't finished yet." He gave a pleased laugh. "You're gonna be one busy female from now on."
He grinned at Matt. "Come on, lad, shuck them britches. The girl here will show you that thing stickin' up between your legs has other functions besides takin' a leak through."
Matt recalled that he had hurried out of his homespuns and his grandfather had given a low whistle, exclaiming proudly, "You're a Barton, all right. You're already hung like a small pony."
He had stood up then, saying, "Lay right down here, lad. Tonight you become a man."
After that winter they had built their huts a little larger, to accommodate the extra woman that was needed. The elder Barton had pointed out, "Us two studs would wear one woman out."
When Matt reached seventeen, he was almost fullgrown. The tall, wide frame had only to fill out a bit. Each spring, when they hit a post to sell off the winter's catch, he was besieged with subtle offers of marriage. Mothers with giggling daughters would swoop down, inviting them into their homes. But Grandpop would kindly refuse their offers, mentioning that they were in a hurry this time but that they would be back in a week.
They had many good laughs together, visualizing the women planning excitedly for their return. Of course they never went back. Grandpop would say, "Keep away from them good ladies, Matt. They'll tie you to one place and eventually take away your very soul. If you should ever weaken to a point of wantin' a lifetime mate, search for a wilderness gal. She will understand you and make you a fit wife."
A ragged sigh escaped Matt. There would be no more Grandpop to ward off females with marriage on their minds. He wondered uneasily if he would be able to keep them at bay by himself.
The old man had been dead three months now, killed by an Indian's arrow. Matt had at first hung around their camp, trying to carry on in the usual manner. But the narrow quarters, with its sloping roof, had seemed to crowd in on him. He had even lost his desire for the two women and sent them away. He tried to pass the time by hunting squirrel, but every trail and stream reminded him of the old man. Finally, in desperation, he decided to move on. He would travel to a territory that would in no way resemble what he was used to gazing upon.
Early one morning he gathered his traps and gear, called the hound, Jawer, and struck off in a southwesterly direction. On the fourth day on the trail he topped a hill and spotted a small post below. His supplies were low, and he lifted the reins, sending the stallion down the wooded slope.
After he had made his purchases and tied the bundle to the bapk of the saddle, he made his way along a stump-strewn path to a tavern several yards away. The sun was hot, and a glass of ale would hit the spot. It would also be good to hear a human voice again.
It was a weekday, and at first he thought the long, dimly lit room was empty. But when his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw that he was not alone. Off in a dark corner were six hunters sitting around a rough plank table. He grinned. From their loud laughter and slurred speech, he imagined they had been there for some time.
His gaze went over them slowly. He knew two of them well enough to speak to. The others he had seen at some of the hunters' rendezvous. He wondered idly what they were doing so far away from home at this time of the year. The big hunt wouldn't start for at least another three months.
He moved to the bar and ordered his ale. He was half finished with it when one of the hunters spotted him. The man called across the room in a friendly fashion, "Howdy, Barton. What you doin' in these parts?"
Matt picked up his mug and answered as he moved to the table, "With the old man gone, I thought I'd move deeper into the wilderness... go where it's not so crowded."
The speaker slid over on the bench, making room for Matt to sit down. Matt settled his long frame in the empty space and nodded to the other men. Then, turning to the man sitting beside him, he inquired, "What are you doing so far from home, Caleb? Gettin' an early start on the hunt?"
Caleb's handsome face lit with a smile. "You might say that. We're on our way to a place called Kentucky. We hear tell the Indians are friendly there, and the game plentiful. It's nearly hunted out back home."
"That's a fact," Matt agreed. "Me and old Grandpop barely made provisions last year."
"I was sorry to hear about the old man's passin'," Caleb said. "You're gonna be lost without him, ain't you?"
Caleb gazed down thoughtfully at his drink a minute, and then, after a glance at his unaware friends, leaned closer to Matt. "Why don't you come in with us, Barton? We could sure use a man with your abilities. Ain't none of us really been this far away from home before. I'm not sure how we'll make out a hundred miles from nowhere. You and the old man traveled around so much, I don't expect territory makes much difference to you.,,
Matt toyed with his glass, tracing wet patterns on the tabletop. It had always been just him and the old man. How would he work out thrown in with a group of men? He and Grandpop had always respected each other's privacy, realizing that there were times when a man needed to be alone. Also, there was the question whether he could take orders. There had been no orders given between him and his grandfather. Each man had known his job and had done it. But with seven men together, there had to be a leader.
He looked up at the waiting Caleb. "Who bosses the outfit?"
Caleb gave a short laugh. "You joshin'? Ain't none of us could boss a herd of goats. We just go along, arguin' and fightin'."
Matt's forehead creased. "That's no way to go on a hunt, Caleb. There's got to be one man willin' to take on the responsibility of bringin' the men through and makin' some money. He has to lay down rules and regulations, then see that they are carried out. Otherwise you get no good results at all. You can spend an entire winter makin' only pennies."
Caleb's eyes gleamed excitedly. "Come along and be our leader, Matt."
His drink halfway to his lips, Matt turned surprised eyes to Caleb. "Who? Me?" His friend nodded, and he put the ale back down, untasted. Gazing thoughtfully into the pale liquid, he wondered if he wanted the bother of these hard-drinking, hard-living men. It was doubtful if any one of them had ever taken an order in his life. Caleb nudged his arm. "Well, Matt, what about it?"
"I don't know, Caleb. I never led any
body before. Anyhow, what makes you think the others would be agreeable?"
"We'll find out." His fist slammed down on the table, making the tin mugs bounce. Startled, the men were jerked to bleary-eyed attention. Grinning loosely, Caleb announced, "Matt Barton is gonna join up with us."
The news was greeted with slurred cries of "Hey, that's good"; "Glad to have you with us, Barton"; "We need an experienced hand along."
When their voices had died down, Caleb added, "He's gonna be the leader. He's gonna boss this bunch, and make us some money."
Again the added news was accepted with goodnatured willingness. Then, amid the cheering, Matt's glance fell on a face not in tune with the others. The big, paunched man sat silently, a dark, sullen gleam in his narrowed eyes. Fastening his dissatisfied gaze on Matt, he growled, "We never needed a leader before. Why put a stranger over us now? Why not one of our own men if you think it's so necessary?"
As Caleb and the others shouted down his objections, Matt studied the blotched, whiskey-bloated face. It wasn't hard to reach his mind. The dirty, bewhiskered man had intended to lead the men on the hunt.
Caleb, more sober than the others and irritated at the man's attitude, broke in sharply on the raucous chorus of the others. "Blast it, Corey, he's the best man here. He knows the wilderness inside out, and he knows the best places to set traps." He paused to grin crookedly. "Besides, he's the best fighter this side of England."
Corey's small eyes became more narrow, almost disappearing in the fat. "Just when was all these things proved?" he snarled disagreeably.
Caleb jumped to his feet to more ably give proof to his claim. Matt laid a silencing hand on his arm. His eyes glittering like flakes of ice, he rose slowly and leaned across the table, his face very close to Corey's. There was a long, tense moment as their eyes met. Vaguely Matt sensed the stoppage of activity and conversation among the men as they turned to watch them. Matt's voice jabbed into the silence. "Is this a showdown, Corey? Do we fight it out here and now?"
Called on to back up his words, the fat man wavered, his eyes shifting a jot from the menacing gleam boring in on him. He had heard of Matt Barton's powerful fists and his ability with the long, broad hunting knife. And even though he outweighed the younger man by twenty or thirty pounds, he wasn't ready to face him in a roughand-tumble.
A low snicker from one of the men brought an angry red to Corey's face. The bastards watched, ready to judge and compare. If he were going to be boss of this outfit, he'd have to take Barton on. Drawing on his shrinking courage, he bounded to his feet. "By God, yes," he blustered, his hand jabbing at the knife in his belt.
But even as his fingers closed over the hilt, a blurred movement had nestled Matt's knife in the palm of his hand. The blade shone ugly in the ray of light penetrating the dirty window behind him. In the deadly silence the men stared at it wide-eyed.
Corey's face blanched a dirty gray, and he was sweating freely, the beads gleaming on his forehead. He began backing away, his knife still in its sheath. All the fight had gone out of him, and when he came up against the wall, he blustered out, "Hell, if the men want you as their leader, Barton, I ain't gonna argue."
Matt's cold eyes studied the trembling bulk. Should he force the fight, put his knife between the ribs so handy to him? This incident wouldn't be the last one, he knew. He would have to watch him all the time. This type of man would bide his time and then put a knife in his back.
While the others watched intently, half hoping that Matt would finish off the quarrelsome Corey, Caleb approached Matt and slapped him on the back. "Glad to have you with us, boss."
Matt let his body relax slowly. He was alerted to the kind of man he had to deal with, and that gave him an edge. He returned the knife to his belt and grinned. "Thanks," he said.
Matt and Caleb left the tavern to make camp together, leaving the other hunters to partake of the ale and the whores.
The next morning they breakfasted early and broke camp, When they stopped at the tavern to gather their companions, the sun was quite high. It appeared from their sleep-puffed eyes that the men had just roused from sleep. They were a sorry-looking group, with their whisker-stubbled faces and ale-stained buckskins.
Caleb grabbed his nose and snorted, "Good Lord, you smell worse than them whores over there."
Three Indian women lay sprawled across the table in various stages of undress. Their slack mouths gaped open as they snored loudly.
As Matt and Caleb watched, Corey stamped over to the youngest woman and lifted her head by the hair. Her eyes opened slowly and she blinked up at him. Then recognition flooded her eyes and she shrank away from him. Corey jerked a thumb toward the door, snarling, "Climb on that roan out there."
With a look close to terror in her eyes, the girl shook her head. "Dove doesn't want to go with you. You are an evil man."
Corey jerked the girl to her feet and slapped her across the mouth. "Who cares what you want, bitch? You're gonna be my squaw this winter." He gave her a hard shove that sent her reeling toward the door.
As Corey started stalking after her, Henry stepped in front of him. "Corey, if she don't want to go with you, let her go. You can always find one who's willin'."
Still half drunk, Corey swept Henry aside and followed the girl outside. When Henry would have gone after him, Matt laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Let it go, Henry. I'd hate to see you laid up and maybe miss the hunt. The girl will slip away from him some night ... or put a knife in him."
Reluctantly Henry agreed, muttering that maybe he'd put a knife in the bastard some night.
Outside they heard the girl cry out, and when they left to mount up, she sat in front of Corey, a thin trickle of blood running from the corner of her lip.
The hunters and Corey's squaw had traveled at a leisurely pace, having plenty of time before the trapping season began. If they found a likely spot, they might stay as long as a week in the one place.
After a month or so the terrain began to change in appearance. The forest was thicker, with the sun coming through only in patches. The hills were steeper and the valleys more rolling. Many deep gullies and huge boulders were in evidence. Some of the towering granite rocks were three times the height of a cabin and several yards wide. The air was beginning to be cool and crisp, and Matt noted that before long snow would lie deep in these hills.
One night, camped at the end of a clear running river, he spoke his thoughts aloud.
"Men, from what I've heard talked about, I believe we're in Kentucky. The countryside fits the descriptions given me."
The Indian girl said, "We've been in Kentucky territory two days now."
Matt bent a doubtful eye on her. "How do you know, Dove?"
"My tribe lives about ten miles from here."
Matt tossed a chunk of wood on the fire. "Well, that being the case, I think this is a good spot to make permanent camp. All indications point to winter settlin' down anytime."
Everyone agreed heartily, thankful to be settling in one place at last. They were weary of the saddle. Mostly, a hunter walked.
As the men brought out a bottle to celebrate, Matt made one more observation. "You men can build your quarters as you please. Me, I'm gonna build my own personal hut."
When he rolled into his blankets a short time later, the men were still discussing whether to build private quarters or one community lodge.
Matt thought of this now as he rode toward camp. He still hadn't started his place. He would have had the hut thrown up by now if he hadn't been scouting the neighborhood for the past several days. It was his job to look for animal trace and trails, deciding where traps should be placed. As he rode, he had also kept his eyes open for a settlement or post in the territory. On the third day he had spotted a small settlement only ten or twelve miles from where they were camped. It lay at the foot of a valley and consisted of a tavern-store combination and a whorehouse. The discovery of whores had spread his lips in a wide grin. His men would shout at that news.
It's pretty country, he thought, letting his gaze travel over the frost-tipped maples that glistened in the last rays of sun. But the blue sparkle of the river winding through the valley outshone it all. His eyes lingered on the stream, and he wondered if the fish bit well in its fast-running waters. He would have to drop a line in it one of these days.
As he was about to move on, Matt's gaze was caught by a movement along the water's edge. He leaned forward, peering intently, then grinned. Evidently the fish did bite. Someone sat there now, dangling a line in the water. Since the fisherman was so close to their camp, he would ride down and introduce himself, he decided. It never hurt to be on good terms with the people around you.
The stallion moved soundlessly over the needlestrewn ground until they were almost upon the figure. Then the horse's hoof struck a rock, and the figure jumped and gave a startled cry.
Matt brought Sam to a halt, staring. A girl, wild and ragged looking, had sprung to her feet and crouched, like an animal at bay. Through a snarled mass of hair, startling blue eyes glared fiercely at him. The softness in him that seldomed surfaced was touched. The poor, woods queer girl was half frightened out of her wits. She had probably lived her entire life in this wilderness, and the solitude must have turned her strange.
He smiled kindly at her, speaking softly, "Don't be afraid, girl. I just want to introduce myself. My name is Matt Barton, and I'm a new neighbor."
If the girl understood him, she gave no indication, but only continued to watch him with threatening eyes through her matted hair. Matt wondered if the dirty face had ever seen soap and water. Giving an impatient grunt, he made to swing from the saddle. As though his action had released a spring in her, the girl gathered her skirt in slender brown fingers and sprinted down the rock-strewn shore. His foot still in the stirrup, Matt stared after the flashing brown legs in bewilderment. Shaking his head, he started to swing his leg back over the mount, muttering, "Let the wild thing go."
