by Norah Hess
Dusk was coming on, and he halted the stallion and gazed down in the hollow that housed Washington's men.
Packed closely together in a small, stump-laden clearing, were several hastily erected cabins. Thin spirals of blue smoke rose straight up in the cold air. Looking to the north, where gray clouds tumbled and rolled, Matt was reminded of words his grandfather used to say: "Son, when the smoke goes straight up, you can depend on a big storm in the brewin'."
Matt smiled grimly. Just what the poor devils down there needed.
Word of the soldiers' suffering in Valley Forge had met him some days back on the trail. Looking down on the dismal camp, he wondered why he was going to join that pitiful group.
He sat the weary mount for several minutes, arguing with himself to turn around and get as far away as possible from this senseless war.
A dark scowl came over his face. He wouldn't be in this predictment if he hadn't lost his head over a woman. Under his breath he cursed the day he had seen the half-wild girl fishing in the river. If it hadn't been for her, he thought, he'd be running traps and getting drunk on Saturday nights with Caleb.
Since his discovery that Caleb had never been with his wife and that Marna had never loved Caleb, his anger at his friend had turned to pity. Didn't he know all too well himself how hard it was not to love the beautiful bitch.
The picture of Marna throwing herself in front of Jake flashed before him, and he winced. How could she love that old man? He grasped the reins tightly, pushing away the delicate face. Enough of this futile remembering.
He was about to urge Sam down the gentle slope when he heard the unmistakable sound of a trigger being cocked. Instinctively he hit the ground, rolling in the snow. Coming to rest behind a thick pile of brush, he waited a moment before cautiously rising to his elbows. Squinting his eyes and blinking against the red glare of the setting sun, he peered in the direction of the sound.
There was no movement, no sound, only total silence. When after several minutes there had been no sound, he sat back on his heels and grinned sheepishly. The cocking trigger had most likely been the snapping of a frozen branch.
He had just risen to his knees when he spotted the Indian on horseback, threading his way through the bare trees. The brave came to a halt in the shadow of a tree about ten yards from Matt's concealment He sat there for a moment, his head lifted, sniffing the air as an animal would. Matt crouched back to the ground, thankful that he was downwind from the rider. As he watched, the brave lowered his head, seemingly satisfied that his enemy had left. Lifting the rawhide halter, the Indian steered the pony in among the leafless trees and stopped in their shelter to gaze at the camp below.
Slowly and carefully Matt stood up. Then, crouching low, he ran quickly to the stallion. Drawing the rifle from the saddle, he returned to squat behind the brush again. The brave hadn't moved. Matt rose to one knee slowly. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he took careful aim, waited a minute, then gently squeezed the trigger.
Without a sound the brave bent forward, then in spasmodic jerks, tumbled to the ground. The startled pony squealed and ran aimlessly off through the forest
Matt drew his knife and cautiously approached the downed man. Although he was reasonably sure his shot had been lethal, the red man could still be shamming.
But the inert form didn't move a muscle as Matt rolled him onto his back with the toe of his moccasin. The sightless eyes stared blankly at the darkening skies.
Reloading the rifle, Matt swung back into the saddle. In a short time he overtook the pony, which had stopped to nibble on the tender bark of a maple. A young deer rode the haunches of the pony. Matt grinned as he reached down and grasped the trailing halter. The men below would appreciate some fresh meat, he was sure.
Large snowflakes were beginning to float in the air when Matt lifted the reins and once again started a descent into the shadowy valley.
As he neared the buildings, he could see through the white veil two sentries patrolling the area. Their heads were pulled down into their collars, muffled against the wind blowing out of the north. As they plodded along a snow-packed path, the rifle barrels thumped against their legs. Not once did they lift their heads from the snow-covered ground.
Matt reined Sam in, shaking his head. The entire British troop could come thundering in here, and they would never know it.
To his surprise, however, he was challenged by one of the guards as he approached the nearest cabin. "Halt and state your business," a hoarse and raspy voice ordered.
A slightly amused smile curved Matt's lips as it occurred to him that the poor bastard couldn't stop a rabbit from entering this poor excuse of a compound. He doubted if there were even any bullets in the rusting rifle gripped tightly in the young man's hand.
He stepped down slowly, being careful to let the soldier see that his rifle was still in its hold. "My name is Matt Barton. I've come from the Kentucky territory to join the fightin'."
As he talked to the soldier, the thinly clad youngster cast furtive looks at the slain deer. It was clear that the hungry soldier was more interested in food than he was in Matt's joining up.
Jerking his head over his shoulder, Matt grinned. "I took that off a buck up on the ridge. Where he's goin', he won't need it."
The soldier swallowed the saliva that had rushed into his mouth, embarrassed that his hunger had shown. He hastily stuck out a grimed, chapped hand and said, "Glad to have you with us, Barton. The men will sure be glad to see that fresh meat. We've been on dry rations for a couple of days now. Most of the men are sick, leaving only a handful to hunt for the whole camp."
"The men are sick, are they? Is it serious?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid it is. They've got the bloody flux. We've lost a lot of them." He waved a hand up the hollow. "Buried one this mornin'."
Matt's eyes followed the pointing hand. Several yards from the camp were a score or more rock-covered graves. The soldier nodded solemnly. "We piled rocks on the graves to keep the wolves from diggin' up the bodies. Them varmints are hungry, too."
An anxious frown gathered between Matt's eyes. "One of them fellows didn't have the handle Caleb, did he?"
"Caleb?" The boy chuckled drily. "Not likely. He's just about the only one round here that's got any strength left. If it wasn't for him, we'd all be dead by now. Soon as he got here he organized himself a group of four men, and every week they go huntin'. Sometimes it takes them three or four days to get back with anything. This area is about hunted out
"If you want to see him, he's over in number four cabin. Him and his men are fixin' to go on a hunt tomorrow mornin'."
"I'd like to take care of my mount first. Is there someplace where I can put him up and give him a bite to eat?"
"Over there at the edge of them trees is a stable of sorts. I guess you'll find some oats and hay. Caleb keeps some for his horse."
Matt rubbed the weary horse down with a handful of hay, then spread a blanket over the broad back. Of course the blanket would be gone tomorrow, he thought, forking some hay down for Sam. There were too many freezing men around here.
The snow was coming down in earnest as Matt made his way to number four cabin, the deer slung across his shoulder. It was nearly dark, and the faint lights shining through the slat-covered windows did little to light his way.
When the cabin loomed in front of him, he was relieved to see a goodly amount of wood stacked against its side. As he reached for the latch, he thought that at least it would be halfway warm inside.
The cold wind rushed in behind him, scattering ashes all over the dirt floor. "Shut the friggin' door," angry voices yelled at him.
He closed the door and leaned against it, accustoming his eyes to the gloom. He dimly made out four figures huddled closely around a poorly constructed fireplace. Shifting his gaze, he saw three others curled tightly beneath thin blankets on their bunks. The labored breathing of a dying man came from one of them.
While he stood gazing at the dismal quarters,
suddenly a gaunt, bearded man was upon him. The ragged fellow grabbed his hand and shook it heartily.
"Matt, you ole buzzard, where did you come from?"
Matt stared at the thin, bony face thrust close to his own. Snarled strands of hair hung to the soldier's shoulders, and an uncombed beard curled rebelliously around his lips and chin. His eyes traveled up to gaze into a pair of twinkling eyes.
"Caleb? Is it you?"
"It sure as hell is, you old tomcat," Caleb cried out, giving him a whack on the back.
Clasping him affectionately by the arm, Matt ex claimed back, "You look like a woolly bear, you old varmint. Did you lose your razor?"
"Now, I donated it to the doctor over at the dispensary." Caleb gave a short laugh. "He wore his knife plumb out, bleedin' everybody in sight. That's about all that bastard knows how to do."
"I heard you had some sickness here."
Caleb sighed heavily. "Yeah. It's bad, Matt. They're dyin' off fast. Come spring, there won't be a handful left to help Washington drive Howe out of Philadelphia."
"That's the plan, is it?"
"Yeah, I reckon. That's the rumor, anyhow."
Caleb reached for the deer still hanging over Matt's shoulder. "You sure knew what we needed, Matt."
Glancing toward the men grouped by the fire, he motioned to one of them. "Get this skinned as soon as possible, Jim. Then dole it out to the cabins. Tell the man in charge of cookie' to make broth out of most of it.,,
Turning back to Matt, he stated gloomily, `We're damned near _starving', Matt. It's good to have you and your rifle here."
Taking Matt by the arm, he said, "Take off your coat and come over by the fire. I want you to meet some friends."
Caleb's companions, though younger, were almost exact copies of himself. The same feverish, hungry eyes looked out of gaunt faces. One by one they shook Matt's hand, uttering words of welcome and declaring that his deer and rifle were the most welcomed things they had seen in days.
Matt sat down cross-legged on the floor and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. As he filled the well-charred bowl, he felt the men's eager eyes boring into the halffilled pouch. When he had tamped the pipe tight, he passed the pouch on to Caleb. He sighed inwardly. It was his last, and the pouch was sure to be empty when it returned to him.
When Caleb had his own pipe going to his satisfaction, he stretched out on an elbow and glanced over at Matt. "How's Mama? Who's lookin' after her while you're gone?"
There was a long moment of silence as Matt stared into the fire. Then, uncomfortably aware of Caleb's probing stare, he answered bitterly, "That one doesn't need me to take care of her. She's got herself a new man."
With no change of expression Caleb reached out and picked up a short stick. "Is that so?" he asked, turning over a log and sending showers of sparks up the chimney. "Is he anybody I know?"
"I don't think so. Wait, maybe you do know him, at that. He's an older man, name of Jake South."
"Hell, yes, I remember him. He was always hangin' round Marna. He seemed like a nice enough fellow."
"A nice fellow, hell," Matt barked testily. "He's nothin' but a wife stealer."
Caleb studied Matt carefully for a moment, then ventured," "Pardon my askin', Matt, but did you ever really make Marna your wife?"
Matt gave a short, sharp laugh. "Yeah, I was fool enough to be taken in by her one night."
Caleb looked back into the fire. Of course the stubborn fool had everything wrong. His wife loved him deeply. Without looking at Matt, he said quietly, "I can't think that Marna would take up with another man, Matt."
"Believe it. It's true. I know what I saw."
Caleb opened his mouth to question him more closely, then snapped it shut. He'd be wasting his breath. Instead, he grinned and said, "It's good to have you here, Matt. I've been missin' you. It will be good to have a strong man with me for a change. These fellows here are willin', but they're so damned young. They're mostly settler boys that's never been away from home before. I was sure I' tired, motherin' them all by myself."
Matt knocked his dead pipe out on the hearth. "We'll pull them through, Caleb. We're both head huntin' parties now."
Relief on his face, Caleb said, "We'd better get to bed, then. I planned on getting' an early start in the motherin'."
Egan Traver drew the team to a stop in front of his home, and the three women stared up at the two-story brick building. Like its owner, it was big and imposing. Flanking the huge oak door were two sets of long, narrow windows. On the second floor, beneath identical windows, was a balcony, its balustrade supported by intricately carved pillars. Differentiating it from its neighbors was a large sign suspended from the second floor, between the two balconies. In big, bold letters it proclaimed, "TRAVER'S GAMBLING PARLOUR."
"Oh, Egan, it's grand!" Betsy exclaimed, standing up in her excitement.
With a pleased smile wreathing his face, Egan jumped to the pavement and swung her down beside him. "And what do you say, Marna?" he asked, swinging her down.
"Oh, it is grand, Dad," she breathed in openmouthed wonder. "It makes four of my cabin."
"More like six," Hertha interposed, as Egan helped her down.
He led them up a brick walk, swept clean of all ice and snow. Grasping the the shiny brass doorknob, he swung wide the heavy door and stepped aside for them to enter.
Betsy led the way down a long hall, its floor heavily carpeted with a dark blue material. Hurrying along behind her, Marna glimpsed her reflection in wide strips of mirror fastened between the doors leading off the hall on either side. Their way was lighted by tall, fat candles in pewter reflectors, set above each door. Marna learned later that candles burned night and day there in the wintertime. Most days the Delaware sent dark gray fog into the city, shutting away the sun.
Indicating the highly polished doors, Egan explained, "They lead into the gambling rooms."
At the end of the hall he ushered them up a handsome staircase, carpeted in the same blue material. As Marna climbed behind Betsy, she marveled at the shine of the twin banisters rising upward, then curving back, forming two open hallways.
At the head of the stairs, Egan pushed open a door. He watched the women's faces eagerly as they stepped over the threshold.
Mama gasped in sheer delight as her feet sank into a light blue carpet with the texture of velvet. Her eyes flew from heavy drapery of the same color to beautiful high-backed, tapestry-covered chairs to a blue-andwhite flowered sofa. A cozy fire in the marble-topped fireplace cast a soft glow on rosewood tables placed handily about.
Egan's face beamed as he watched the wonder in her eyes. Hugging her to him, he demanded, "Didn't I tell you you'd live like a queen here in Philadelphia?"
"Oh, Dad," Marna exclaimed quietly, "I never knew such lovely things existed."
"This ain't _othing'," Egan informed her heartily. "Wait until I get you and Betsy all dressed up and take you to parties and balls and the theater. Boy, will we make them sit up and look."
Hearing a discreet cough behind him, Egan turned around. "Ali, Mrs. Brown." He smiled at a plump, middle-aged woman. "I was just going to go look for you. I want you to meet my three ladies." He took hold of Hertha's arm. "This is Hertha Akers, grandmother to my daughter, Mama, here." He smiled proudly at Marna. Then, not stopping at the woman's surprised look, he pulled Betsy forward, adding, "And this is Betsy."
The pleasant-faced woman had gained control of her shock and said how pleased she was to meet Mr. Traver's womenfolk. She turned to Egan then and asked, "Will you be having supper in, sir?"
Egan looked at the women questioningly. They nodded yes, with Betsy explaining, "We've had a long journey and I think we're all pretty tired. I, for one, intend to seek my bed early tonight."
The housekeeper murmured, "Very well, I' 11 go attend to it."
Egan overtook her at the door. "I was wonderin', Mrs. Brown, if you knew of any girls who would like to hire on as maids for my women?"
"Why, yes, I do.
I have three nieces who are real quick and willing."
"Two of them will be enough," Hertha called from across the room. "I've taken care of myself all my life. I don't need anyone to fetch and carry for me at this late date."
Marna would have added her refusal also, but Betsy caught her eye and shook her head imperceptibly. Her eyes seemed to say, "Let Egan do this for you. It's important to him." So Marna kept her silence, but she wondered what she would do with a personal maid.
Mrs. Brown said, "Yes, Mum," to Hertha, and closed the door softly behind her.
Marna hardly knew what she was eating that evening, so entranced was she with the white damask tablecloth, the fine china and silver gracing it, and the shining crystal reflected in the mirrored walls.
But none of this was new to Betsy. The dark-eyed beauty sparkled and glowed as she ate thinly sliced roast, whipped potatoes, and buttered peas. She went into such ecstasies over the plum pudding, Mrs. Brown blushed with pleasure.
A heavy drowsiness came over Marna, and as soon as dessert was finished, she asked for her room. Mrs. Brown took a candle and holder from the sideboard and, when Marna had kissed everyone good night, led her down one of the halls, stopping at the second door. "That is your father's room," she said, nodding toward the door closest to the drawing room.
The housekeeper opened the door into a small anteroom and moved through it into a bedroom. Marna walked more slowly, taking in the cozy sitting room. The sofa was small but looked very comfortable. She ran her fingers across the back of a padded rocker while her eyes took in the marquetry table beside it and then the kneehole desk in a corner. Again, the carpet was a shade of blue, and it extended on into the bedroom.
She stood admiringly in the bedroom door. It was completely furnished in delicate, dark mahogany. The tall tester bed against the wall waited, its blue coverlet laid back to expose smooth, white linen sheets.
