Zeb looked down at her, wondering how he could ever have doubted her. “You take that blanket and find a comfortable place to sleep. I’ll take the horse blanket and the canvas.”
She walked slowly around the campsite, holding the folded blanket against her chest. A carpet of brown leaves covered the forest floor. Clumps of ferns grew in the low places. She circled around the moss-covered area a couple of times and then shook her head. Except for the clump of birches, this part of the forest had very little undergrowth. The fallen oak provided the only protection.
She spread the blanket next to the fallen oak, rolled it around herself, and closed her eyes. Zeb took off his hat and hung it on the branch of a shrub nearby. He stretched out on the canvas and stared up into the branches of the tall trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky. This was the first time he had had a moment to stop and think.
Only a few hours ago, he and McPhee had stood nose to nose, shouting at each other. He had called McPhee a liar. He said that he would go and look for Grampa himself. McPhee’s face was purple with rage. Zeb could still hear his words: “Go ahead and try it! A boy like you wouldn’t make it one night on the Natchez Road.”
That impulse to scare McPhee had been stupid. Now McPhee would know exactly where he had gone. If his men weren’t too drunk, they could even be on their way tonight.
Hannah was going to be a big responsibility. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide open now, watching him. Must be wondering if she can trust me, he thought. Probably still thinks I’m an outlaw.
It was so quiet he could hear the scratching of wood mice under the blanket of leaves. Did Hannah know that there were panthers and bears in this area? He wished he could build a fire, but a fire would tell McPhee’s men just where they were. Stretching out his hand to be sure that the rifle and the two pistols were within easy reach, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
He awoke early the next morning to the loud tapping of a woodpecker nearby. Tiny beads of dew shimmered like jewels on spiderwebs stretched across the ferns. The familiar loamy smell of dead oak leaves and the bitter smell of ferns reminded him of hunting trips with his grampa. He sat up and looked around.
The trunk of the oak tree hid them from anyone following on the Natchez Road. He looked toward the birches. No one on the Natchez Road would be able to see Christmas.
His mouth dropped open as his eyes passed over the mossy spot where Hannah had been sitting. Three fairy rings of wild mushrooms glistened with dew. He recalled his mother saying that where fairies danced in the forest at night, rings of mushrooms grew the next morning.
Zeb felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Hannah stood with the rolled blanket in her arms, watching him. He looked over at the fairy rings and then back at her.
The girl had followed his glance. She grinned and whispered, “Maybe I am and maybe I ain’t.”
Even in the early morning light, it was still too dark in the forest to know what time it was. “We better leave as soon as possible,” he said quietly. “If you need to go, now’s the time.”
Hannah went down to the brook. When she got back, her face was clean, and her arms and legs were still wet from where she had tried to scrub up. She turned away from him. Zeb winced at the swollen, red switch marks on the backs of her legs.
They repacked the pots and pans with the little pieces of cloth between them and then rolled them up in the blanket with the rest of his gear. Zeb rolled the piece of canvas tightly around it. “You sure you can ride?” he said.
“I can ride anything. You ought to see Suba. Wild! Nobody can ride her but me. One day we’re gonna race her.”
“Suba?”
“Her name is Isuba Lusa, Choctaw for Black Horse. I was only six when I got her. Called her Suba. She’s all black. Not another color on her. A beautiful animal.”
“Since you’re such an expert on horses, you can help me saddle Christmas,” he said. “Throw that blanket over him and I’ll put the saddle on.”
She grabbed the blanket, but even standing on tiptoe, she wasn’t tall enough to reach his back. She tried tossing the blanket on, but it kept falling to the ground. Finally, she grasped one corner in each hand and swung the blanket out and over the big horse. Christmas flicked his ears back, turning his head toward her.
Zeb patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about the rest,” he said. “I’ll saddle Christmas.”
She let go of the blanket and stepped back. “Don’t treat me like a baby,” she said in a loud angry whisper. “I always saddle Suba. Never have any trouble. This plow horse of yours is too big for his own good!”
“Suba must be a little Indian pony,” he said, with a teasing smile. He picked up the saddle. “This is a real horse.”
“Suba is sixteen hands high. She’s no isuba ikitini. She’s no pony!”
He grinned.
“All right,” she said, “I have to stand on a box to saddle her and to climb into the saddle. But once I’m on, I can do anything with her. She’s the fastest horse alive!”
Zeb loved to hear folks boast about their horses. He never argued with people who thought their horses were faster than Christmas. He just raced them.
Zeb tossed the saddle up on the horse. Hannah stared at it. “What kind of saddle is that?” she asked.
“It’s just a standard English saddle, with some additions,” he replied as he tightened the girth. “Grampa had the saddle maker add this rifle holster and these straps at the back for the bedroll. These on the sides are for saddlebags. It even has this strap to hold a rope. Grampa has the saddles made up in Nashville. They have what we need for working with horses and for taking long trips.”
With the bedroll and rifle in place, Zeb climbed into the saddle. Lifting his foot out of the left stirrup, he leaned over and stretched his hand toward hers. “Put your foot in the stirrup and give me your hand. I’ll lift you up.”
She swung up easily behind him. Her thin arm circled his waist lightly as if she had ridden this way many times. He walked Christmas slowly, quietly. When they reached the bank above the Natchez Road, Zeb stopped the horse and waited, listening. Satisfied that no one was coming, he urged Christmas forward down onto the dirt road, sunk three feet below the forest floor.
The big horse’s front feet skidded down the clay bank, his hind legs bracing against the slide. Zeb expected Hannah to be nervous, but she sat the horse easily and didn’t even tighten her arm around his waist.
Huge trees towered overhead, letting in only mottled, filtered light. The narrow road was like a dark, quiet tunnel through the forest.
Zeb spoke in a low voice. “I’ve never traveled on the Natchez Road before,” he said. “But Grampa’s told me a lot about it. I think I know where most of the stands are. The Joslin stand should be only about an hour south of here. We’ll go there and try to get something to eat. Then we can talk. We’d better keep quiet while we’re riding.” Hannah tightened her arm around him and muffled a groan against his back as a tree branch whipped against her bare legs. Probably hurt like the devil against those switch marks, he thought. She’s been through a lot. Maybe I should take her farther than the first stand.
They rode without speaking, listening for other riders. Zeb was beginning to hope that this might be an uneventful journey. Suddenly, Hannah’s arm tightened around him. She put one hand on his shoulder and lifted up to whisper in his ear, “Somebody’s coming.” As she spoke, Christmas raised his head and twitched his ears.
Zeb pulled the pistol out of his belt and turned the horse off the trail. He urged Christmas back up the slope and into the forest, thankful that the thick leaf cover on the forest floor would leave no footprints. They made their way deep into the woods. “You’ve gotta be real quiet, Christmas,” he said.
Two horses approached at a fast trot, also going south. Hannah’s head turned against his back, following them. After the riders passed, Zeb whispered, “Could you see them?”
“No, I couldn’t,” s
he said. “I think I had my eyes closed.”
Zeb was about to move the horse back on the road to Natchez when Hannah jabbed a bony finger into his ribs. “Wait a minute,” she whispered. “Why are there men after you? Are they outlaws?”
Two horses approached at a fast trot, also going south.
Zeb shook his head. “No,” he said. “Those men don’t want me to get to Natchez. They said my grampa was killed by outlaws, but I don’t believe it. I’m going down to Natchez to try and find him.”
“You traveling all the way to Natchez alone? On the Natchez Road? I don’t know anyone crazy enough to do that. They don’t call it the Devil’s Backbone for nothing.”
“You’re on it alone.”
“Yes, but not because I want to be. I know what can happen to people traveling on this road. You’ve got two men looking for you, and outlaws are hiding in the forest just waiting for people riding alone like you.”
“I’ve gotta do it. When Daddy died of the fever three years ago, I took his place alongside Grampa at the farm. I don’t know what I’d do without Grampa. I just feel he’s still alive. He may be hurt. He may need me down there.”
“If you got people chasing you, how come you’re riding this plow horse?”
Zeb had to admit that Christmas was a funny looking horse. He had the big, broad head of a draft horse and the sleeker, muscular body of a race horse. He was bigger than most saddle horses, over seventeen hands high. No horse in Franklin could beat him. But Zeb was glad they still tried.
He turned and looked down at Hannah. “Maybe, one day, when we get to Yowani, we’ll race Christmas against Suba.”
Hannah snorted. “If we ever get there, you’ve got a big surprise coming.”
Zeb urged the horse forward. As they stepped down onto the narrow trail, he whispered, “I’m gonna keep him at a slow trot. Don’t want to overtake anyone. At this hour those two probably won’t spend more than a few minutes at the Joslin Stand. Whoever they are, they’ll want to make the Gordon Inn by nightfall. That’s a full day’s ride from here. Most folks goin’ south stay there and then take the Gordon Ferry across the Duck River. But we can’t take any chances.”
“How come you know so much about the Natchez Road if you’ve never traveled on it?” she whispered.
“Like I told you, Grampa travels on it about twice a year, buying and selling horses in Natchez and even down to New Orleans. Always comes back with stories. I think I know about every inch of it.”
They rode in silence. After about an hour, Christmas lifted his head again, his ears pricked forward. Zeb sniffed the air. “I think I smell smoke. The stand must be near here.”
He turned the horse to the right off the narrow trail and rode up into the forest. They wound through the trees just out of sight of the road. As soon as he could see the dark walls of the stand, he slipped off the horse and whispered to Hannah, “Sit in the saddle and wait here for me. I’ll whistle if everything is all right. Christmas’ll come right to me.”
Zeb drew the second pistol from the saddle holster and tucked it under his belt. He crept closer, careful not to make a sound. Slowly he pushed a branch down until he could see the door of the stand.
Two horses, wet with sweat, stood in front of the simple log cabin. Zeb recognized them immediately as the horses that Big Red and the Fiddler always rode. The fools hadn’t even taken them over to the water trough. The door slammed open. Zeb backed away, allowing the branch to rise slowly into place. Big Red shouted over his shoulder, “Remember, old man. We want that boy dead or alive. Tall, skinny, shaggy-haired boy ridin’ a big jug-headed horse. Stole two thousand dollars from McPhee. Stole his prize horse too. You’ll get a hundred dollars for his head!”
Zeb gulped. Dead or alive! A hundred dollars for his head! His mouth felt like he was spitting cotton.
The two men mounted and galloped south toward the Gordon Ferry. Zeb slipped quickly back through the trees to where he had left Hannah on Christmas. He stopped and looked around uncertainly. This was surely where he had left her. Hannah was nowhere in sight.
Zeb cursed himself for trusting her. Obviously, she was on her way to Yowani without him. He could whistle loudly and Christmas would come, but so would Big Red and the Fiddler. Zeb kicked at a tree stump, the soft rotten wood crumbling from the blow.
Some dry leaves rustled. Zeb stopped and held his breath, listening. Someone was coming. He ducked behind a tree and watched as a horse came into view. It was Christmas! Hannah sat him as if she had been riding him for years. She had her feet in the straps above the stirrups. He ran toward her, furious with himself and with her. He grabbed the reins. “What was that all about?” he hissed. “Where have you been?”
She leaned over to whisper back. “Christmas was getting restless. He started shuffling his feet. I was sure that he was going to neigh to the other horses. So I took him farther into the forest.”
Zeb was still holding the reins. She looked down at him. “You thought I left you, didn’t you? I wouldn’t do that. I need you…. Who were those men?”
“Tate McPhee’s hired hands—Big Red and the Fiddler. Big Red is the craziest and the meanest man I know. Always getting into fights. Usually wins. Only person he’s afraid of is Tate McPhee.”
“And the Fiddler?”
“He used to be a keelboat fiddler. He has a homemade fiddle—just a cigar box and a stick and four strings.”
“A keelboat fiddler?”
“On a keelboat, he would play while the rest of the men rowed, you know, to keep them all together. Got the same pay. That pretty much tells you what the fiddler is like. He’s not really violent himself, but he’s lazy and’ll do anything that Big Red tells him to do.”
“And now they’re willing to pay a reward for you dead or alive.”
“You can see why I’m sure that Grampa is alive. Those men followed me, and they planned to kill me to keep me from getting to Natchez. There has to be a reason.”
“They said you’re a wanted man.”
Zeb shook his head. “I’m not a wanted man. But we can’t talk about it now.” He looked up at Hannah. “I couldn’t really blame you if you did take off,” he said. “If you stay with me, you’re in real danger.”
He pointed in the direction of the log stand. “I don’t know what to do. Grampa and Joslin have been friends for years, but the old man doesn’t know me. He might shoot me on sight.”
“We can’t stay here, Zeb. Those men will be back when they find out you haven’t crossed at the Gordon Ferry.”
She slipped her feet out of the stirrup leathers, lifted her bare legs carefully from the saddle, and vaulted to the ground. “We can’t even wait and cross at the ferry later,” she whispered. “Those men’ll tell the ferrymen the same story, probably offer them the same reward.”
“We gotta think of something!” he whispered.
“The outlaws I was with never crossed at the ferry, Zeb. Too dangerous. Afraid someone might recognize them.”
She looked up into the trees, as if searching for something. “Why don’t we go downstream and look for some place where we can ford the river?”
Zeb didn’t pause. He climbed up on Christmas and reached out his hand to Hannah. She swung up behind him.
“What makes you think there’ll be a place to ford the river?”
Hannah peered into the higher branches of the tall trees. “That’s how the outlaws always got across. They’d look for some sign of a trail that leads to the river. There’s one at every stand.”
Hannah pointed over his shoulder. “Look!” she said. “I thought so. There’s the trail. See those blazes that someone has cut on the trees? All we have to do is follow them.”
They started down the trail. Zeb turned in the saddle and whispered, “Why are they so secret about the trail?”
“The men who run the stands try to hide their families from the Kaintucks.”
When they reached the bottom of the hill, they could see a farm just ahea
d of them, plowed and planted to corn and oats. Fall and winter vegetables grew in neat rows in a small garden.
The cabin was made of round logs, crudely notched on the ends. Some still had bark on them. The spaces between the logs were chinked with fresh mud, reminding Zeb that the cool weather of fall was just ahead. Colorful skirts and blouses were spread over blackberry bushes to dry.
“Stay out of sight,” Hannah whispered. “Those are Chickasaw clothes. If the woman in that house sees us, she’ll tell those men where we’ve gone.”
They moved past the cabin into the forest on the narrow farm road.
“Zeb?” Hannah said. She paused as if she were trying to get up her courage to say something.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking. You still think I’m an outlaw?”
“Maybe you are,” she said. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Crossing
Hannah poked Zeb in the ribs.
“Do you hear that?” she asked. “Must be the Duck River. Never heard it so loud.”
When they reached the river, Hannah slid off Christmas and ran to the river’s edge. “It was never this deep when we crossed it,” she shouted over the noise of the rushing water.
She walked along the bank and then made her way back to where Zeb was waiting with Christmas. “Look! See that stone? That was dry a few moments ago and now it’s already covered with water. The river is rising and rising fast!”
Zeb looked upriver, shading his eyes. “It’s sunny and dry here, but it must have been raining really hard up in the mountains. I don’t know whether we can cross it or not.”
Hannah looked behind them and back at the river. “I think we’d better cross while we still can. If those men come this way looking for us, we’ll have no place to run.”
The Devil's Highway Page 2
