by Jeffrey Lent
Blood said, “I’ve this public house here. I’ll lose trade.”
The officer regarded him for the first time since he’d sent the regulars off with the spade. The intervening time he’d sat with one long boot hooked up over the pommel of his saddle while he smoked a pipe, gazing with mild disinterest at the hills around the lake. He’d said nothing when Cole and Chase went.
“If your records are meticulous you may petition His Majesty’s government for what custom you may lose.” He spoke mildly, as if uttering drollery.
Blood said, “It’s not that. I’ve a girl’ll tend things. I’d speak to her though, so she knows where I’m off to.”
“Call her out.”
Blood stepped to the open door and spoke her name. She came onto the threshold and without looking behind him Blood stopped her there. Swiftly he caught the thong around his neck and brought forth the pouch from under his blouse and handed it to her.
His voice low, he said, “You heard?”
She nodded.
“The small key in the pouch is to the strongbox under the counter. Go up this afternoon and find Van Landt. Don’t dicker with him but make him name a price. Don’t let him see any money first. What you got to do is get him to ride over with you to Hereford tomorrow and you bring the rest of the money with you. Make sure he comes with you. Don’t trust nobody, least of all Isaac Cole or them Chases. You got no choice but to leave the house open but move the rum into the storeroom. The other key fits that lock. And leave Luther shut in. Make sure you bring an extra horse so I don’t have to walk home. And listen. I don’t want nobody but Van Landt. There’s nobody can be trusted at all. But he understands money like none of the rest of these do. Is that clear?”
She nodded. Looking from him to the king’s troopers and back.
Blood said, “Sally. I ain’t got time to go over it twice.”
She said, “I can’t ride.”
“You just make sure you and Van Landt are in Hereford tomorrow noon. Not first thing in the morning and not at dusk. You understand me?”
“You trusting me with all that money?”
“I am.”
“You never did pay me that wolf bounty.”
“Jesus,” he said. “This ain’t the time for jests, Sally.”
“I weren’t jesting.” Then she nodded. “But if I break my neck trying to ride a horse to rescue you, you have the decency to put up a good stone for me, you hear?”
“Christ,” he said.
“Sally Blood,” she said. “No fancy words.”
“You ain’t going to break your neck. Or nothing else. At least as long as you’re in Hereford by noontime.”
“You got to promise.”
He looked over his shoulder at the officer who was smoking again. But this time watching the two of them.
Blood lowered his voice. “I promise.”
“You have no horse?”
“I do not.”
“You’ll have to ride pillion on the mule then.”
“It’s some load he’s got already. I’m not sure he’d want me up there.”
The officer smiled. “He’s a mule. The two of you aren’t the worst he’s carried before. The question is, do we tie you on or do you mount yourself?”
Blood on muleback surrounded by the troopers on their black or gray or bay horses—the horses on short reins so they moved in a shifting sideways trot, the essence of controlled dreadful power, the war-horses and their riders groomed spotless, all leather and metal to highest polish so they moved through the day as bright spangling alert precise machines of annihilation- and Blood on the blue mule that marched as if blind to the display about itself, whose only job was to convey whatever cumber was laid upon it and this day it was the wrapped body of a dead man hanging down head and feet on either side and perched behind that burden was the heavy short man who had no choice but to wrap his hands in the shroud-lacings and ride with his knees spread to nudge against the sides of the body before him. Blood riding thinking not so much of what was before him but trying to discern what lay behind. Chase and Cole lounging horseback the least of it. They were simply witness to what was ordained. So the question was not so much who had informed upon him but to what purpose? Not so he would name names, which was most certainly what the magistrate in Quebec would expect of him. And so, for what? He did not know. The mule’s backbone dug at his scrotum. For the moment there was no divining what design consigned him to this ride. The only probability seemed to be regardless of what he did or said in Hereford, his own words might be used to drive him from the country later. But to the peril of how many other men? Who would risk that? None of them, he was sure of that. Least of all the men who’d strung his riding partner from the rock maple. There was no sense to be seen in it. Yet there had to be, for here Blood rode along. What mind appointed Blood this role? He did not know. So he rode, the mute mule his only guide for the moment. The rest awaited.
He wondered if he could trust Sally. He thought so. He listened to the high far-distant geese.
It was an awful pile of money. Took both hands just to struggle the lockbox off the shelf below the counter and hug it against her chest to heave onto the plank countertop. This after barring the door and lighting a pair of candles in tin holders on the counter. She dug the smaller key from the pouch and opened the box. It was mostly filled with coins and a small sheaf of banknotes and a larger stack of promissory notes. She could tell the difference. The banknotes were in different colors and sizes but they were printed and engraved. The promise notes were handwritten on scraps of various papers. She set those aside first and then the banknotes. Then scooped out by the handful the assortment of specie. All she knew were dollars and their bits. There were more of those than she could count. As well as a jumbled pile of other coins of copper and silver and the mysterious gold, some round and some with many short flat edges to suggest roundness. Stamped with the heads of men or women and some had numbers raised on their surfaces and all had some legend running around their edges or in bold letters straight across the surface and she knew they were mostly foreign but had no knowledge of their worth. The whores in Portland had talked of such monies, debating the values of such pieces as if value was in constant flux and not of any steady account at all and she wished she’d paid more attention but hadn’t. All she knew was it was an awful pile of money.
She sat a time and moved the coins to stacks, the dollars first and then the others, by color and then by size, then back to color again. The least stack was gold. She’d not seen gold before but there was no mistaking it. It was a curious metal. Almost soft to the touch. When she closed her hand over one of the pieces it seemed to grow warm in her hand. She touched it to her cheek—it was still warm. As if something from her body ran out into the metal and stayed there. Soft to the skin but when she brought her teeth against it the metal was of a peculiar density, fooling her by its warmth and the softness to the touch. Her teeth struck another metal altogether, something hard and unforgiving.
Her first inclination was to take it and run. It was enough so she could go anywhere, do anything she wanted once she got there. But when she tried to picture where that would be all she could come up with was Portland. The only place she knew and the last place she wanted to return to. No money in the world would change her life there. Once she understood this the rest tumbled apart easily enough. Most apparent was that whatever his predicament Blood would one way or another work his way out of it and the very first thing he’d do was hunt her. And however far she might get in however much time she had would not be far enough. She thought I ain’t that stupid, just ignorant. But that’s enough. Whatever else he was, Blood was not ignorant.
She poured herself the smallest of drams. Sat on her stool and drank it in sips. So she couldn’t run. Not yet anyhow. What she wanted was some help. Some advice over how to proceed. Not yet ready to progress immediately to Van Landt. So she took three of the gold pieces and knotted them in a rag and put them in her a
pron pocket. Took a fourth and tucked it down inside her high shoe. Gathered the rest of the money and put it back in the lockbox. She used the other key and opened the fortress-storeroom and staggered in with the box of money and set it on the first powder keg inside. Considered Blood’s directive to remove the tavern rum to this room and out loud said I guess not and locked the room and hung the pouch of keys around her neck, down between her breasts.
She took down Blood’s rifle and the pouches of powder and balls and checked the charge and went to the door. The dog was beside her. She put a hand flat on his head and told him to stay. And stepped into the afternoon.
Peter Chase was squatting under the rock maple, the dry sunlight splintering down onto him through the inflamed leaves. He grinned when he saw her.
“Ain’t you open for business?”
“I got other things to do.”
“Didn’t Blood leave you to run things?”
“Blood left me with work to do.”
“You ain’t got a quarter hour for me? Before you go off on your business and leave the house open to all? Seems to me you’d want someone kind to watch things.”
She turned and spoke to Luther. “Anyone comes through this door ain’t me, you rip his throat out, you good dog you.” She pulled the door shut and turned again to Peter Chase.
“You can set there and watch the afternoon or you can walk down the road. It don’t matter to me. But you move toward me once I’ll blow your peckerheaded head off.” She swung the long gun toward him.
He kept his grin. He said, “You’re one riled bitch, idn’t that so?”
Sally brought the rifle to her shoulder and held the barrel without waver upon Chase. She said, “Riled idn’t the half of what I am. Now you get.” And stood there until Chase rose slow and laborious and moved out to the road and she followed him all the way with the steady swing of the barrel. Once on the road he paused and looked back at her.
He said, “Your friends can change all the sudden. Enemies too.”
She let the long gun down to her side, still pointed in an easy way at him. She said, “I got no friends, Peter Chase. Least of all the likes of you.”
She came up along the brook out of the woods into the open ground of the marsh and redwing blackbirds swarmed up out of the tall grasses and cattails, the birds thrusting up and then turning as one so the sun caught against their underbodies and they were silverblue a moment against the sky before they were gone over the woods, their cries hollow splinters of challenge against her intrusion. She walked among the hummocks and pools hot from her trek as disappointment surged to anger that he was not here. He had misled her or worse had left the country without returning once to see her, already what she thought she’d believed of him twisting over against herself—that she should have expected anyone would see her as anything but what she was, that what grace she believed had extended from him had been some other thing altogether. Sympathy for her was what she thought it must’ve been. Some pity for her that caused him to be kind, a false kindness she now saw. At best he’d felt some curiosity about her and had misunderstood that as attraction until he got close enough to see the taint upon her and then repulsed had covered himself with some peculiar effort of courtesy. Perhaps only for himself, so he might walk away feeling he’d not further despoiled her. And she saw herself thus and was bitter with self-hatred, a loathing so pure it had a taste. She was some rare kind of fool.
Then saw the camp back in the hemlocks, the once-white sailcloth canvas tea-stained with rain and mottled with fallen leaves so it seemed not on the land but within it, hidden neat. She recalled the rising birds and thought the brothers must not be there, perhaps hunting or on some ramble. She realized she had no way to know their days, their purpose within this place. Her mood did not soften but turned again over her presumption she could simply walk up here and find him waiting. So she was stricken, seeking trust with no reason she’d find it. What she was aware of now was wasting time, sidetracking up here instead of making her way to Van Landt’s. Of Blood taken, awaiting her, now looming in dismay and anger at her. It didn’t matter he’d only been gone an hour.
So at first when he came out of the canvas lean-to and made his way toward her, hair loose and matted, his hands up rubbing his face and working at his eyes to bring them to focus, when she first saw him she was again confused, distracted, without a clear idea why she was here, what she wanted of him. She watched him come, feeling rough peeled. Not how she’d imagined this. A sudden tumbling of events and thoughts that left her contrary and doubtful.
He said, “I was laying back on my blankets watching this pretty day and fell right to sleep. All them birds put to fright woke me. I ain’t used to a girl walking around in the woods. My, you look pretty this morning.”
He finger-combed his hair mostly free and pushed it back behind his ears. His eyelids still swollen from sleep but he was grinning at her.
“Where’s your brother?”
He heard her then. She saw his face converge fully upon her. “He’s back there sleeping likewise. What kind of trouble’s happened to you?”
“I ain’t in any trouble.”
“Well, what’re you doing walking around with that musket? Hunting some venison?”
“I ain’t the one in trouble. But I could use some help maybe.” Watching him, knowing the next moments would reveal much of him. And saw he understood this.
“I was wondering why you looked so distressed to see me.” He spoke with deliberation. “But if it’s help you need I’m pleased it was me you come to. What’s the matter?”
She told him of Laberge and Bacon, and the royal troopers ridden over from Canada after Blood, and how Chase and Cole had watched Blood being taken as if it was of only mild interest to them. How Peter Chase was waiting as she’d left to hike up here. Finally she told him of Blood’s directive to her, of Van Landt and the idea of horses and her uncertainty of taking that on alone.
He stood awhile considering all this. Sally was patient, wondering if it was luck or fate that had brought her here. If it was all a mistake. If she should’ve gone it alone, if she still should. This boy Fletcher with his face too open, his desires still intact, easy to read. Not the best for what she required.
Finally he said, “We better go wake my brother.”
This could be worse. She felt she’d already gone too far, said too much. “No. I don’t want anyone else to know about this. I already told you enough for Blood to kill me.”
He shook his head. He said, “Maybe you owe Blood enough to chase after what he says. But he’s got debts hisself. There’d be satisfaction in riding in with you to help him out of his scrape. But it’s not enough.”
“What do you mean?” Now agitated as much as confused. Afraid she was about to lose what control she had. And determined not to even as part of her was popping with interest keen.
Fletcher said, “Here,” and reached and took her hand. “Walk over here and meet my brother.” He did not lead her but walked beside her across the marsh toward the lean-to. She let him do this a moment and slipped her hand away—knowing she needed his attention but resolved not to encourage it. Not now for certain. And guessing his imagination would serve just fine without her provoking it. Some part of her already tender toward him. An odd feeling for her. Something new and not at all disagreeable.
There was something about the brother that disturbed her. It was, she decided, in his eyes. While Fletcher regarded her with eyes plainly prepared to hear and accept everything about her, this brother she knew as Russell bore eyes upon her with hot flicks of motion as she spoke, not her body which was usual to her but as if he followed her words out and caught them up each one by one and examined them in his own time and fashion. As if she might speak for hours and he would lose nothing of what was said but would come to his own conclusion. When they’d come up to the lean-to Fletcher held her hand again while he called forth his brother but then let go and left her to stand while he crossed over and
squatted next to the fire and said, “Sally. Tell him just exactly what you told me.” And she thought If it’s a mistake, I already made the jump and got no choice but to confide. And so she did.
When she was done she waited for Russell to speak and when he did not, she went on and said, “I don’t trust that Dutchman as much as Blood does. I don’t guess I got a choice but to get over there to Canada and bring what Blood wanted me to but I’m nervous about going it alone. I was thinking maybe you two might help someway.”
Russell stood considering all this. She waited patient. After a bit he leaned to the stone fire ring to turn the coals and add hemlock deadwood for a quick fire and moved a blackened kettle directly onto the coals. He was now a few short feet from her. She did not move away. He set out tin cups and measured tea and when the kettle boiled he threw in the tea and took the kettle from the flame and rested it on a stone to steep. Still he did not look at her. Fletcher watched her and once flashed a quick grin at her. As if he knew her discomfort and was pleading patience. Russell merely squatted and watched the kettle, as if penetrating the iron wall to gauge the progress of the tea. After a time he poured out three cups that steamed in the warm afternoon. He looked up at Sally then. His eyes had drifted a little. He almost seemed surprised to see her there.
He spread an open hand to indicate the circle of rocks. He said, “Set yourself and have a sup of tea.” Then, still serious said, “Lest you plan immediate destruction, you ought to lean that musket rifle up against something. It’s a considerable weight to stand clutching like that.”
She settled across from the brothers, facing them, her skirt tucked under her knees. She held the tea in her hand. The cup was hot through, too hot even to try against her lips.
