by Norah Hess
He threw her one last glance, and at that moment the girl's feet slipped from under her. He waited for her to rise and flee on. Several moments passed and she didn't stir. A worried frown creased his forehead. She lay strangely quiet with her arms flung wide.
Pushing back his coonskin, Matt scratched his head. What should he do? Should he just go off and leave her, or should he check her for possible injuries? In the tavern that day he had found the Kentucky men friendly but unusually proud and touchy. He didn't want to do the wrong thing and have a pack of them on his trail.
Once again he stepped back to the ground. Hell, it wasn't right to go off and leave her lying there. She could be seriously hurt.
Trailing the lines, he walked over to the inert figure and stared down at her. He saw at once the large flat rock her head had struck. He hunkered down and shook her shoulder. "Hey, girl, wake up. Are you all right?"
She made no sound, and the thought leaped into his mind that she was dead. He sat back on his heels. Would he be blamed? "What in the hell am I supposed to do with you, you dirty girl?" he muttered aloud.
Looking back down at the girl, he gave a guilty start Her tilted eyes blazed with anger. His lips quirked at the corners. The ugly little thing had pride. "I'm sorry you heard that, girl," he apologized.
When the girl made no answer but to turn her head away, he continued, "I'm gonna put you on my horse now and take you home."
Gingerly he slid his hands beneath her knees and shoulders. She started to struggle, and he snapped impatiently, "Lay still or I'll clip you one."
He stood up and was surprised at how heavy she was. She looked so thin in her dirty rags. He began to move toward the mount, when a copperhead, thick as his wrist, sailed through the air toward him. He felt its poisonous fangs fasten into his thigh, then saw it drop to the ground and slither away.
He stood poised a moment, the girl still in his arms. As from a great distance he heard her whisper despairingly, "Oh, no."
She slipped from his arms as he sank slowly to the ground
Gradually Matt became aware of voices around him. Slowly and painfully he eased back to consciousness. He started to open his eyes, then shut them tightly against the light of a candle near his head.
A voice, grave and cracked, announced quietly, "He's comin' around."
He carefully opened his eyes again and stared into a wrinkled, leathery face. Wisps of gray-streaked hair hung down on either sunken cheek. He shrank back in the pillow. He was in the hands of a witch.
But there was a keen kindliness in the faded eyes, and when she smiled at him, he smiled back. She held out a work-worn hand. "I'm Hertha Aker. It's good to have you back with us, stranger."
Matt gripped the thin fingers and was surprised at their strength. "Matt Barton, ma'am."
Hertha nodded and gave his hand a firm shake. His glance was drawn to grimy knuckles and dirt-encrusted nails. Hurriedly she shoved them into her apron pocket, explaining, "I can't get them clean anymore. They've dug too many roots out of the earth."
"Thank God for that," Matt said kindly. "I'm sure your knowledge of medicine saved my life."
She cocked a bright eye at him. "I couldn't have done it if Marna hadn't worked on you as fast as she did. She had most of the poison out of you before we got you back here." She stood up and patted his shoulder. "You lay quiet, and I'll fix you a bowl of soup."
Matt closed his eyes. He felt so damned weak. When the night air coming through the window hit him, he was conscious that his body was wet with sweat. Evidently he'd run a high fever at some point.
His thoughts went back to the snake and he shivered. How he hated those rippling reptiles. Of all the things in the world, he hated and feared them most.
Through most of the shaky experience he had kept his consciousness to a degree. He remembered that wild girl stretching him out on the ground and then quickly slitting open his pants leg with his hunting knife. He had ground his teeth together when that knife made two swift cuts over the twin red marks.
Things had become fuzzy after that, but he had distinctly felt the girl's soft mouth close over the wound and draw out the poison. He had felt the pull of her lips, heard her spit, then felt her lips again. A half smile appeared on his face. To think that that wild, simple girl had saved his life.
His eyes fell on the hill girl, sitting quietly on the raised hearth. Her knees were drawn up under her skirt, and her arms were wrapped around them. She gazed into the flames, seemingly oblivious to those around her. Hertha came and squatted beside her and lifted a lid off a pot swinging over the flames. As she carefully filled a bowl from it, she remarked reprovingly, "Why did you stay away so long, Marnie? I was half out of my mind."
"I'm sorry, Grandma, I miscalculated the time," the girl said softly.
Matt's body went still at the sound of the throaty voice. There was a soft huskiness about it that sent a stirring in his loins. He caught himself straining to hear it again, and grew angry. He must-still be feverish. How could a man get hard just listening to a female voice?
Nevertheless it had happened, and he forced himself to shut out the voice beside the fire.
Then Hertha was back, carrying a steaming bowl of soup in her hand and dragging a chair behind her. She sat down and teased, "Can you feed yourself, or do you want me to spoon it to you?"
Matt grinned up at her. "I ain't no helpless babe. Just let me at it."
The soup was thick with pieces of meat and different herbs swimming in it, and he ate greedily. Hertha waited quietly until he had taken the edge off his hunger. Then, folding her hands in her lap, she asked, "Are you stayin' permanent in the settlement, Matt, or just passin' through?"
Matt laid down the spoon. "Me and six hunter friends are camped a few miles from here. We plan on spendin' the winter at least, huntin' and trappin'."
A pleased gleam flickered in the brown eyes, and she murmured, "I see."
When Matt had finished the soup and handed the bowl back to her, she inquired, "Do you have any women in your camp?"
Matt felt himself blush and became confused because of it. When in the world had he blushed last? Again he became angry with himself. Why should he care about this strange old woman's opinion? Still he avoided her eyes as he answered, "Just a squaw."
"Then you're not married," Hertha stated, a sound of relief in her voice.
"No, ma'am. I've been lucky so far," he laughed.
A grin, half teasing and half sympathetic, curved Hertha's lips. "Women pester you a lot, do they? To marry them, I mean."
"Yeah, pretty much."
"Well, I tell you, there's nothin' better than a good marriage."
"Yeah, and no worse hell than a bad one."
A film slid over the old woman's eyes and she murmured, "Ain't that the truth."
Matt gave a small laugh and was about to ask why she said it so gloomily, when a heavy tread sounded on the porch. Hertha's body went tense, and he could see her knuckles grow white as she clutched the bowl. He leaned up on an elbow and asked, "What it it? What has scared you?"
Hertha placed a finger on her lips, answering in a hushed whisper, "Shh, the old devil has come home." She jumped to her feet and hurried to stand beside the girl. Matt gazed wonderingly at her protective stance. Then his glance took in the girl, whose tightly clasped hands sought to still her trembling. He frowned darkly. What kind of man could drive these two women into such a fright?
The door banged open, and there came a laugh, a grating, ugly sound. From his dark corner Matt stared at the drunken man who swayed in the doorway.
Through the years Emery's way of life had dealt harshly with him. The evil within him shone plainly on his face and in his mean little eyes. And to add to his debauched appearance, there was a week's growth of whiskers on his splotched, bloated face.
He staggered to a chair, calling loudly, "Marne, get over here and take off my boots."
Hertha jumped in front of the girl. "I'll do it, Emery. Just sit there and
rest," she placated.
Emery peered up at Hertha, his bleary eyes focusing her in. His lips curved into a sneer as his fingers came out and sank into her bony shoulder. Ever so slowly his grip tightened until the old woman moaned her pain.
Matt jerked erect in the bed, his eyes searching furiously for his clothes. That bastard was crazy mean, and he was going to hurt his wife badly if he weren't stopped. But the girl had jumped to her feet and struck down the man's hand. Respect for the girl's courage surged through him. Good for you, you wild little animal, he thought.
Marna led Hertha to a chair, guided her down into it and gently rubbed the bruised shoulder. The husky voice urged, "Don't worry so about me, Grandma. I can take pretty good care of myself. You stay here now. I'm not afraid to be around him."
As she turned to her scowling grandfather, sprawled in the chair, Matt knew the girl lied. She was deathly afraid of the leering drunk. She stared down at him a minute, then knelt and began to unlace a mud-covered boot.
Emery leaned forward and watched her with intently probing eyes. When she had drawn off the boot and started on the other one, he growled suspiciously, "How old are you, gal?"
Matt's eyes swung to Hertha, and he saw her grow tense and sit forward as Mama answered, "Thirteen, Grandpa."
Emery's lips pulled back over yellow, stained teeth. "Like hell you are," he snarled. "Me and my friends have been doin' some figurin'. You got to be close to sixteen years." He jerked a thumb at his wife. "Old Hertha there, she's been lyin' to me."
"No, Grandpa, you're wrong. I'm only thirteen," Marna nervously insisted.
As she fumbled with a knot in the laces, Emery continued to study her. A crafty gleam slid into his eyes, and without warning his hand shot out to grab the top of her blouse. Marna jerked, and the material ripped to her waist.
Matt gasped. Marna's breasts, milky white and beautifully molded, were bared completely. "God," he whispered, his eyes clinging to the pink-tipped mounds.
Emery had jumped to his feet, shouting, "Ali ha, don't tell me them tits belong to a thirteen-year-old. Them are full growed and ripe, by God."
Matt forced his gaze to the girl's face. Utter loathing stared out of the tilted eyes. She was even unmindful that she stood bare to the waist and that a stranger stared at her nakedness hungrily. But when Emery reached a talon fingered hand toward her, she jumped away from his touch.
Emery laughed coarsely. "They'll be touched tomorrow night. My friends will be over, and they'll pay me good money to use that body." He peered into Hertha's pale, alarmed face and cackled shrilly, "We'll just throw somethin' over that ugly face, and the men will have them a time."
Staggering over to the table, he plopped down on a bench. Ignoring the plate set for him, he dipped dirty fingers into a pot of stew. As he crammed meat and biscuits into his mouth with one hand, his other hand brought a bottle of whiskey from a pocket. He gulped down the half-chewed food, then sucked noisily at the bottle.
When the drunken Emery finally collapsed on his bed and Marna had gone into her bedroom, Hertha picked up Matt's buckskins and came and sat down beside him. Her fingers skillfully wielding the needle in and out of the buckskin, she asked solemnly, "What are we gonna do, Matt?"
Startled, Matt looked at her. After a moment he said, "I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Aker."
Hertha gave him an impatient glance. "You heard what the old devil said about bringing his friends over here tomorrow night. Marna is of a delicate nature, Matt. Her mind would snap if she was used in such a manner."
Matt raised up on an elbow. "Look, Mrs. Aker, I'm sorry as can be for Marna, but I don't see how I can help her, outside of killing the rotten bastard."
Hertha put down her sewing and leveled an earnest look at him. "You owe the girl, Matt She saved your life."
Matt squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze. What the old woman said was true. Without the girl's quick thinking, they'd be planting him now. But to saddle him with her was asking too much payment. He looked into Hertha's waiting face and tried to explain.
"I know that I owe my life to Mama, but I don't know how I can help her. If I took her back to camp with me, she'd be in the same fix. My men ain't much better than your husband. I couldn't keep an eye on her all the time, and sooner or later they'd get her."
Hertha resumed her sewing, each stitch tiny and evenly placed. She came to the end and bit off the thread. Then, tossing the pants onto the bed, she said calmly, "They wouldn't bother her if she was your wife."
"My wife! Good Lord!" Matt almost shouted.
Hertha darted a nervous look over her shoulder, cautioning him with a finger to her lips. "Not so loud, Matt."
"Dammit," he whispered hoarsely, "you know how I feel about gettin' married. And especially to one so ug-" His tongue faltered, and he looked down in embarrassed confusion.
"As ugly as Marna, Matt? Was that what you were gonna say?"
When Matt nodded dumbly, she patted his hand and remarked, "There's more to bein' a wife than havin' a pretty face. A pretty face don't keep a man's cabin clean, his food cooked, and his buckskins mended. It's willin', able hands that make a wife."
She took her pipe from the small table and packed tobacco into it. Fumbling for her flint, she observed, "Marryin' my little girl has other benefits, too. A wife would come in mighty handy to keep those other women off your neck. You know, those who are always wantin' to get married. And there's another thing. Marna knows medicine almost as good as I do. That would come in mighty handy in a trapper's camp."
Hoping to induce him further, she added, "Marna knows how to read and write, too."
Matt looked up in surprise. "She knows that?"
"That's right. I also taught her how to speak proper. Hertha clamped the pipe stem between her teeth then and drew on it in little anxious jerks. She had brought out every good reason she could think of. She prayed the hunter would recognize all those good points.
Matt lay back on the pillows and stared up at the smoke-stained rafters. The old woman sure gave a good argument. A wife would keep those scheming women off his back. And the men were always brawling, either among themselves or in some tavern. The girl would come in handy to treat and bandage their knife wounds. He'd seen many a man die from lack of knowledgeable care.
His eyes narrowed tenaciously. If he married the girl, there was one thing he wanted to get straight from the beginning. She was to make no demands on his time. He would come and go as he pleased, and he would also sleep with squaws when he pleased. He would never be able to bed the old lady's granddaughter. It would be like laying with some wild creature.
He brought his gaze back to Hertha's waiting eyes. "If I should marry the girl, is it understood that I'll not change my way of living in any manner? That I'm only marryin' her to give her protection?"
Hertha nodded eagerly, her breath held tightly.
Matt sighed heavily. "It's against my better judgment, but I'll do it."
Hertha grabbed both his hands and squeezed them hard. "Thank you, Matt Barton. You'll never regret it My Marna will bring you happiness and contentment, you'll see."
Matt opened his mouth to say he didn't see how in the world that unattractive girl could bring him anything, then didn't have the heart in the face of the old woman's happiness.
She scooted her chair closer to him and whispered, "As soon as the old devil passes out, I'll go fetch the preacher. By tomorrow mornin' the swellin' will be out of your leg, and you and Marna can leave."
She started to leave, then sat back down. After a moment she asked quietly, "Will you treat her kindly?"
Matt's eyes rested on the old, worried face. He reached over and patted her knee. "You can rest easy on that score, Grandma. I promise you, I'll never lay a hand on her."
Tears ran down the leathery cheeks. "God bless you, Matt."
In her room Marna stood with an ear to a crack in the door. Her future was being planned out there, and a mixture of emotions ran through her. The big, hands
ome hunter was going to marry her, but his heart wasn't in it. She had clearly heard him say he wouldn't sleep with her. She had flinched at his words and pulled back. Her clenched fists came down on her knee. She was as pretty as the next woman. She had discovered that much early this summer.
Finding herself alone in the cabin one day, curiosity had been stronger than her grandmother's wishes. She had filled a pan with warm water and dropped a bar of Hertha's specially prepared soap into it. Standing in front of the scrap of mirror propped on the windowsill, she had scrubbed away the dirt and grime. She had just lifted back the tangled hair for a close look at her face when Emery's heavy tread hit the porch. Her grandmother's warning words had echoed in her mind. Keep your face dirty, child.
In a panic she scooped up a handful of cold ashes and charcoal from the fireplace and smeared them over her clean face. She had hurried to her room then, disappointed that she had been unable to scrutinize her face more closely. But the fast glimpse she'd had didn't look ugly to her.
Her doorknob turned quietly, and Hertha entered her room, holding a candle to light her way. Closing the door, she scolded gently, "I figured you'd be sittin' in here in the dark."
Sitting down next to her granddaughter, she took her cold hands into her own. In a voice mixed with regret and gladness, she said, "Marna, child, I have somethin' to tell you."
Marna squeezed her fingers. "I know, Grandma. I was listening at the door."
Noting the strain in the low-toned voice, Hertha sent her a fast glance. "Oh? An eavesdropper never hears any good of themselves, Marna."
Marna gave a short, bitter laugh. "That's the truth."
Pity for the girl washed over Hertha. "Did you hear everything?"
"Yes. The hunter is like everyone else. He thinks I'm
ugly."
Hertha was silent a moment, then said softly, "But we know he's mistaken, don't we?"
