by Norah Hess
He moved forward slowly, noting that the floor was reasonably even. He had gone several yards, making one bend, when a rush of fresh air hit his face. Good, he thought. There's another exit somewhere. Now if it's only big enough to get out through if a person had to.
After another few feet, he was pleased again. There had come to him the murmur of running water. Shortly he felt its wetness through his moccasins. A spring.
Holding the torch aloft, he spotted a wide trickle coming through a good-sized crack in the wall. It ran across the floor, then disappeared into a crack in the opposite wall. He grew more pleased with his idea.
Stepping across the small rivulet that flowed freely down the trench that years of water had worn out, Matt continued on. But after another few feet the ceiling began to slope, and finally he could go no farther without getting down on all fours. Squatting low, he peered into a small opening that led off into a tunnellike darkness. He grunted. A man could wiggle through there if he had to.
He retraced his steps, blinking rapidly as he stepped outside into the sunlight. He removed his gear and bed roll, then stripped the saddle off the stallion. When he had staked it in a patch of grass still remarkably green, he took up the torch and reentered the cave.
He had found his winter quarters. This cave would be wanner than any hut he could build. It was dry, and water couldn't be closer. He would build a door from sturdy poles that would keep out the weather and animals. And better yet, Sam would also be dry and warm.
Matt spent the rest of the day gathering cedar knots for light, wood for heat, and dried grass for Sam. That night he slept warmly, though a little nervously. The opening was still unbarred, and a bear or cat could be nosing around, not to mention Indians.
Early the next morning, after a hurried breakfast of dried venison and strong coffee, he was out in the forest with his hatchet. By sundown he had fashioned a door from slender maple poles.
He stood back, admiring it. At the door's top and bottom and through its center he had woven wide strips of deer hide, which a hunter and trapper was never without. He tested the lacing and was satisfied. It would hold against man or animal.
Dragging the door inside the cave, he wrestled it into position. It fit snugly, and he grinned as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The entrance walls bellied out, and he would have no trouble sliding the big frame back and forth as he came and went. In the evening, when he slept, two heavy logs would be propped against it. Now all he had to do was gather grass for Sam and chop wood for the winter.
The following two weeks the area rang with the sound of his ax. The cords of wood grew inside the cave, shrinking his living quarters. On Sam's side of the room, the dried grass was piled to the ceiling. Into the third week, Matt was satisfied that he was set for the coldest winter.
The days began to drag as he waited for the snow. He checked and rechecked his traps, even oiling them unnecessarily. He spent two days carrying in stones and damming the water into a small pool. Now his coffeepot filled readily when he dipped it into the shallow well.
To add to the heavy drag of waiting, his sleep was no longer peaceful. The previous nights when he rolled himself into the blankets, he had been too exhausted to think of anything but sleep. It was a different story when there was nothing left to vent his physical strength on. He found that more and more his thoughts turned to Marna. His restless sleep was filled with dreams of her. They formed a pattern that seldom varied. They began with him sitting in a dark corner, his eyes fastened on Marna and Caleb. Always they would be eating supper, and he would rage inside that he had built that table. Then they would move to the fire and sit there, laughing and talking. Then they would stand up, embrace, and retire to the big bed in the corner. In mental anguish then, he would cry out, his angry cries often awakening him.
After one particularly bad night, he sat down in the morning sun and laboriously wrote a letter to Hertha. He was careful, however, not to mention Marna. He dwelled mostly on how well he liked the country, and that he was glad he had come here. He did not write how much he missed the hills and the people living there.
He read over the short missive, then sealed it with a glob of wax. Saddling the stallion, he prepared to make his first visit to the sprawling hamlet in the fork of the rivers.
It was late morning when he arrived at the single street. The place was bustling with activity. Loud and rowdy river men, along with lean, bewhiskered long hunters, jostled and brushed shoulders with sullenfaced Indians. There was a thick uneasiness in the narrow, muddy street, and he found that it carried into the places of business. After posting his letter and pur chasing some coffee and salt, he was ready to leave. If he hung around this place, he'd get into a fight for sure.
Making his way through the press of riders, wagons, and pedestrians, he was acutely aware of the avid sidelong glances the stallion was drawing. When they gained the dubious protection of the forest, he spoke softly to the horse. "Any one of them would put a knife in my back to get you, fellow."
He reined Sam in and looked back. He had been mighty disappointed in the place. He hadn't realized there would be so many people. Hell, Grandpop wouldn't hang around there for five seconds. "For two cents I'd cut trail and go back to the hunters."
Then, angry at himself for even having such a thought, he kicked Sam unnecessarily hard, sending him off at breakneck speed. He slowly calmed the animal down to an easy canter, patting the sleek neck and apologizing for his actions. But the thought of home kept drumming in his mind with irritating insistence.
He was halfway to the cave when he sensed that he was being followed. He halted the horse and peered intently into the trees. He saw nothing unusual, but a feeling of impending danger settled around him.
Slowly he stepped from the saddle and stood close to a tree. Peering around the trunk, he started and shrank back. His glance had caught the hulking figure of an Indian just dodging out of sight. He waited a moment, then edged noiselessly around the tree and carefully scanned the area. Only stillness and emptiness spread before him. But those two things told him something important. The brave was still out there somewhere; otherwise, the birds would be singing and the squirrels would be scampering about.
Drawing his knife and moving slowly, making sure he didn't make the slightest sound, he crept to where the Indian had disappeared. He spotted him and was almost upon him when the crouching figure turned. The Indian's eyes widened and his knife came out. With an unearthly scream, he sprang to his feet and threw himself at his hated enemy.
The force of his thrust brought them both to the ground, rolling and tumbling. They came to rest against a tree trunk, Matt on top. He raised his arm, and then the broad, sharp knife flashed down.
The long red body stretched out, twitching. As Matt watched, hardly breathing, the brave's eyes glazed and he lay still.
Matt jerked the knife from the broad chest and stuck it into the ground to clean it. He glanced around hurriedly, every nerve and muscle keyed tight. There was no movement. Maybe the brave had been alone. He rose to his feet and moved to the mount.
But as he swung back into the saddle, he knew that others would be along. It wasn't this buck alone who had cast an eager eye on Sam.
But they came sooner than he'd expected, and in full force. He was nearly to the cave when he heard the rhythmic beat of hooves coming up behind him. With a yell and a sharp jab to the stallion's flank, he streaked for the cave. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and his heart raced. There were six ponies and riders coming up fast.
The jumble of boulders was before him and he brought Sam to a skidding halt, sending dirt and gravel flying. Jumping to the ground, he heard angry, bloodcurdling cries. They had found the slain brave. Quickly he struck Sam across the rump, yelling, "Run, you black devil, run. Don't let them get their paws on you.,,
With the speed of a swooping eagle, Sam raced off through the forest and disappeared from sight. Satisfied that the Indian ponies would never catch up with him, Matt
hurried inside the cave. Dragging the door across the opening, he propped the logs against it.
With a regretful look at the hay and wood he had labored at, he raced down the length of the cave. It would be useless for him to try to stay here now. He was a marked man. If not today, someday they would trap him outside, and that would be the end of Matt Barton. And he didn't want to die.
When he came to the slanting roof, he threw himself on all fours and began crawling down the narrow, dark tunnel. Hopefully it would lead him outside and to safety. He cursed himself for not having already explored the low passageway.
At first he moved easily, his back not even touching the stone roof. But gradually the way became more narrow and the roof much lower. For a stretch of several yards he had to lie flat and inch his way along. He drove from his mind the thought of becoming stuck or having to return to the enraged braves.
When he had just about given up hope of ever coming to the end of the black dungeon, a dim light shone ahead. Strength poured through him. In a short time he was worming his way out into a thick sumac bush. He cautiously rose to his feet and looked around. The sun was quite high, and he couldn't believe he had been in the tunnel such a short time. He'd have sworn he had crawled along in that smothering darkness for hours.
He took his direction from the sun, and with a long sigh for the miles ahead, took off in a long, easy stride. But his attitude was light. Not even the thought of sleeping on the ground without blankets dampened his spirits. Before too many days he would be able to see Marna, at least a glimpse of her. He was willing to snatch at crumbs now.
"Hell," he told himself as he stepped along, "if I can get up the nerve, I might even be able to convince her that I'm not such a bad fellow. I might even be able to make her believe that she could do worse."
But the gnawing fear that Marna had already set aside the marriage papers haunted him. Would he be able to live in the camp then? Could he stand the sight of Caleb going in and out of the cabin? Worse yet, could he stand the thought of them in bed together? Sometimes he could half console himself with the idea that his wife hadn't had time to do too much. She might still be mending.
Dark came on, bringing a stinging cold with it. Matt envisioned the fur-lined coat tied to Sam's saddle and wished for its warmth.
He climbed out of the valley just as the moon was creeping over the treetops. Leaning against a tree to rest, he looked back over his trail. Suddenly his body stiffened. He had seen a movement below. His eyes narrowed, and instinctively he dropped to the ground.
Had the Indians picked up his tracks already? He strained his eyes to focus on the point where he had seen the movement. Slowly then, his lips spread in a wide smile and he stood up.
It was his stallion coming toward him, up out of the shadowy valley and into the moonlight of the hill. Matt half ran to Sam and threw his arms around his neck. The animal was winded, and the quivering body was sweat-slicked. "They chased you good, didn't they, boy?" he crooned, combing at the tangled mane with his fingers.
Matt decided that they might as well camp where they were. The stallion needed rest, and so did he. He rummaged around in the near darkness and gathered enough dry grass to at least dull Sam's appetite a bit. Then, removing his coat from the saddle, he shrugged into it and lay down beneath a ground-hugging cedar.
The next morning, stiff and sore, he crawled from beneath his shelter at daybreak. The stallion was rested and eager to go. A couple of hours after sunrise, and about ten miles closer to home, Matt spotted a tangled mass of wild grapevines. Their gnarled stems struggled to climb a tall oak, and when he saw the clusters of tiny grapes glistening in the sun, his empty stomach rumbled.
While Sam cropped on what bits of grass he could find, Matt gorged himself on the sweet, tangy fruits.
It was the fifth day on the trail when Matt discovered he was being followed. Was it the same group of Indians? he wondered. When he came to a pine grove, its floor thick with needles, he turned in. They could not track him through this spongy mass.
Sam stood quietly, as he was trained to do. Minutes later two Indians rode by, only feet from where Matt waited. He sighed in relief. Only two. He could easily handle them if necessary.
But as he peered after the retreating backs of the braves, a twig snapped behind him, startlingly loud in the silence. He dropped to the ground, and with fantastic speed, pointed the long rifle.
Smoke and flames belched from the gun, and a scream rang out. Then hooves were racing toward him, and he barely had time to draw his knife and shove it between the ribs of the body hurtling at him. He struggled erect, his breath coming in pants. He was pouring powder into the rifle when the arrow whistled through the air, whanging into his back. He felt his body grow rigid; then he sank slowly to the ground. Were there more? he wondered, struggling against the blackness that tried to close in on him.
As if to answer his question, a pony thundered through the forest, coming to a skidding halt only inches from his face. Dirt and pine needles sprayed into his eyes, blinding him. As he clawed at the particles in his eyes, a hard, moccasined foot slammed into his side with the force of a hammer.
Involuntarily Matt yelled, and his eyes flew open. A young brave stood over him, his face heavy with war paint. In a low, guttural tone he spat out some words. Matt strove to understand, but his body was a flame of burning agony and it was all he could do to hang on to consciousness. He felt the warm blood running down his side and knew that his strength was ebbing. His body was covered in a cold sweat, and his last conscious thought was that he was dying.
Then a small, dirty face swam before him. The dark, tilted eyes seemed to beg, "Don't leave me, Matt."
He forced himself to return to the searing pain and the black hatred in the brave's eyes.
The Indian was squatting beside him now, and through eyes that were dull and heavy, Matt watched him unsheath his knife. He felt himself screaming, "No, no!" but no sound came through his lips.
Slowly the sinewy arm rose and the blade hung poised over his chest. While he waited for its thrust, holding his breath, the Indian hesitated. His arm was arrested as he struck a pose of intense listening. Faintly, the drumming of hoofbeats sounded from the east.
In one motion the brave was on his feet and springing onto the back of his shaggy pony. Matt turned his head and watched him disappear through the trees before he fainted.
Matt was vaguely aware of bumping along in a saddle and of his hands tightly gripping the horn. He was half conscious of a strong hand on his arm, keeping him steady in the seat. Then a deep voice called a halt to the stallion, and he felt himself slipping to the ground.
The softness of a bed enveloped him, and hands pulled off his buckskins and cut away his shirt In and out of awareness, he heard the familiar sounds of pouring water, a log being laid on a fire, and the scrape of a pot being set on a grate.
Then the comforting sounds ended. Strong yet gentle fingers began to probe the flesh of his back. He heard a sharp snap and recognized the sound of an arrow shaft being broken off. He knotted his fists, waiting for a knife to start cutting out the barbed head.
At the first gouge of the sharply pointed blade, he gave a deep groan and fainted again.
The creaking of a rocking chair brought Matt slowly awake. The first thing that met his gaze was a dry sink under a window. His eyes traveled up to the bright red curtains drawn over the panes. His eyes widened. He knew those curtains. The place belonged to Bill and Ann Roberts, a greenhorn couple he had met on his way to the Ohio.
Matt turned his head to the rocking figure and was about to call out a greeting, then his lips snapped shut. A large man, a stranger to Matt, sat staring into the flames. He raised his head, then closed his eyes against the pain he had aroused in his wound. When only a dull ache remained, he opened them to stare at the stranger.
The man was big of frame and well over six feet tall. There was a good amount of gray in the longish curly hair, and Matt judged him to be in his
early fifties. The stranger turned his head to glance his way. Through half-closed lids, Matt got a good look at the face. It showed signs of a fast and hard life, but it was still handsome in a rough sort of way.
The man, thinking that Matt still slept, turned back and resumed his slow rocking. Matt stared at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing in Bill Roberts's place. What had happened to the young pair? Could this stranger have done them harm.. .maybe killed them?
The man leaned over to poke at the fire. In the low, glowing light of the fire, his features stood out more clearly. Matt creased his forehead. The man looked familiar somehow. He reminded him of someone.
In a voice that was hoarse and hollow in the silence, he called out, "Stranger, where's the couple who owns this place?"
The man rose and moved to the bed. Matt studied him, noting again the faint remains of dissipation on the craggy face. This one had been around, it was clear.
He held a hand that was soft and smooth out to Matt. But when Matt gripped it, he was surprised at the strength in the fingers.
"Jake.. .Jake South," the man said, smiling.
"Matt Barton, Jake. I guess I can thank you for savin' my hide."
"I came along just in time, at that. That redskin has a hole in his head now. I chased him until I could put a bullet in him. Then I tossed him and the two you got into a ravine and covered them up with rocks. I didn't want any of his brothers findin' him around here. The English have them stirred up against us, and I'd just as soon they stay back in the Valley."
"I agree with you. I just come from there, and they're halfway on the warpath. I sure wouldn't care to have them carry their devilment into the hills."
Jake nodded agreement, then changed the subject. "How's your back feel? I had to go in pretty deep to get the arrow out."
