The Devil's Highway

by Stan Applegate

  “I don’t know,” he shouted. “That water may be over Christmas’s head. River looks too violent to cross. If one of us slips off, we’re done for.”

  The river was wide, too wide to throw a stone across. The water was the rusty color of the clay banks. Logs and even whole trees rushed past them, sometimes catching on the banks for a moment and then breaking free. The earth they were standing on was damp with the spray and smelled like a freshly plowed field just after a summer shower.

  The farm road sloped gently to the water, at the only place on the bank where a horse could wade in easily. Directly across the river they could see the continuation of the road. About a hundred yards downstream, though, the river churned through a narrow gorge ten feet lower than the forest floor. If they were carried too far downstream, it would be impossible for Christmas to get up the steep, slippery bank.

  “We’ve got to try it,” Hannah said. She looked out over the raging river and back at Christmas.

  Zeb shouted over the roar of the river. “The minute we get into deep water, slip off, swing around me, and grab hold of the mane. You’ll float just like you’re swimming. We won’t be any weight on him and he’ll pull us across.”

  Hannah shook her head slowly, her eyes round and frightened.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t swim.”

  He tilted his hat off his head, the lanyard hanging loosely around his neck and closed his eyes for a moment. Will I be risking her life if we try to cross here? he wondered. Will I be risking both of our lives if I don’t try?

  “Hannah,” he said finally, “it’s up to you. I don’t think you’ll have a problem. But if you’re afraid, we won’t cross here.”

  Hannah nodded. “I think we better cross before it’s too late.”

  “All right. When the horse drops down into deep water, you slip off first, on the downstream side. Grab hold of the mane. I’ll hold onto you. You can do it.”

  Zeb vaulted up on the horse, reaching down to help Hannah mount. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and pressed her face hard against his back.

  Zeb directed Christmas to the upstream side of the sloping farm road. When he tried to coax Christmas into the water, the big horse balked, sidling along the bank. Zeb shouted back over the noise of the river, “I can’t blame him!”

  Zeb stroked the horse’s neck and talked to him. “You doin’ fine boy, jes fine! Ain’t nothin’ kin skeer you.”

  He turned back to Hannah. “He won’t pay me no mind ’less I speaks Kaintuck. You all right back there?”

  Hannah nodded her head against his back. Christmas put one foot and then another in the water, moving out slowly as it got deeper. When the water reached the horse’s belly, Christmas lifted his head, struggling to keep his balance. Hannah kept looking behind her. “If those men come along now,” she said, “we’ll be easy targets.”

  Suddenly Christmas dropped into deep water. He started swimming, churning his legs fiercely. Only his head and a bit of his upper neck were above the surface now. He snorted with each rapid breath. The water was up to Zeb’s waist and almost up to Hannah’s shoulders.

  Zeb yelled, “Slip off! I’ll hold you.”

  Hannah allowed the water to float her legs up behind her. She struggled to reach around Zeb for the horse’s mane, but it slipped through her fingers. Zeb held onto her arm and slid off with her. The force of the water yanked his boots off his feet. He reached down, grabbing a fistful of mane and trying to hold onto Hannah.

  Christmas jerked his head away from a floating branch, and Zeb lost his hold. The big horse swam away from them toward the opposite bank. The violent river carried Zeb and Hannah rapidly downstream and away from Christmas.

  Zeb’s hat, still hanging down his back, filled with water. The lanyard around his neck pulled his head under. He squirmed out of the lanyard and watched the hat spin away downstream.

  He felt Hannah slip from his wet fingers. He watched helplessly as she struggled against the current, gasping for air and splashing frantically.

  Zeb wasn’t sure he could save her. He wasn’t that good a swimmer himself. If he tried and failed, they might both drown. Her head disappeared under the water and then came up for a moment, only to go down again. Zeb looked back upstream, but Christmas was nowhere in sight. When he turned back, he couldn’t see Hannah anywhere.

  Suddenly her head broke the surface, already fifteen feet downstream of him but closer to the other bank. Her black hair was plastered to her head and her face was deathly white. She thrashed around until she caught sight of him, her eyes pleading with him.

  Zeb swam toward her as hard as he could, but when she was almost within his reach, her head went under again. He lost any sign of her. Just ahead of him he saw a huge tree lying in the water, twisting in the strong current. It had been uprooted by the flood waters and was clinging by only a few roots to the bank. He prayed that the tree would catch her.

  Zeb prayed that the tree would catch her.

  Just as Zeb reached the tree, Hannah’s head bobbed up again and she slammed against the trunk. She reached out blindly and held on with both arms, coughing up water and sobbing. Zeb inched his way toward her along the tree trunk and grabbed her.

  The tree shuddered. Some of the roots broke away from the clay bank.

  “Can you get up on the trunk if I give you a boost?” he shouted.

  She nodded, but she hardly seemed to have enough strength to hold on against the current.

  Zeb began to ease her up on top of the trunk, holding onto the tree with one hand and pushing her up with the other. Her dress was heavy with water. The trunk twisted and turned, tearing at the skin under his arms.

  For a moment, the tree lay almost still in the water, as if it were gathering its strength to continue the assault. Hannah grabbed the stub of a branch and pulled herself onto the trunk.

  Zeb climbed up behind her. The tree shuddered again as more roots began to tear away from the bank.

  “Move, Hannah! Move!” he shouted. “The last roots are gonna go!”

  She threw her body forward, wrapping her arms tightly around the trunk. They inched their way toward the bank. The tree twisted violently as more roots snapped. Zeb jumped off into the shallow water upstream of the tree and pulled Hannah with him. Together they struggled up the slippery mud, trying to get away from the huge, twisting mass.

  Just as they reached the top of the bank, the last of the roots were torn from the clay with a loud groan. The tree joined the wild current of the river.

  Hannah staggered a few feet away from the riverbank until her knees buckled under her. She collapsed, facedown, on the ground.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Making Camp

  Zeb grabbed hold of Hannah’s wrist, yanking her roughly to her feet. “C’mon!” he shouted over the roar of the river. “We’ve got to find Christmas!”

  He started to push through the dense undergrowth and brambles along the river’s edge and pulled Hannah, stumbling, behind him. She grabbed hold of his shirt. “Wait! … Wait a minute!” she gasped.

  She pointed to the open forest just thirty feet away. “Why don’t we go over there? There’re no vines or thorny bushes,” she said, heading in that direction. “It’ll be faster.”

  Zeb shouted after her, “You go ahead. See if you can get back up to the ford. Can you whistle?”

  She nodded.

  Zeb turned and began to force his body through the brambles again. He shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll keep moving along the bank, watching for Christmas in case he didn’t make it.”

  “If you see him in the water, are you going in after him?”

  Zeb looked down at the river just a few feet from where he was standing. The red, muddy water churned against the bank, tearing at the trees and underbrush. Zeb hated to think of Christmas struggling to keep alive.

  He had a sudden awful memory of those few seconds when he hadn’t been sure he could save Hannah. He had felt so
helpless. He wondered if she knew how close he had come to letting her be dragged under for good.

  It’d be foolhardy to jump in if Christmas were out of reach, he thought. But I know I would.

  “Yes,” he said, with a lot more assurance than he felt. “I’ll probably go in after him. He means a lot to me. I got him into this, and I’ll have to try to get him out. You go on now. Run up to the ford. Whistle if you find him.”

  Hannah slipped into the forest and disappeared. Zeb doubted he would be able to hear her whistle over the noise of the rushing water, but they could cover more ground if they split up. He fought his way through the thick undergrowth, his eyes on the river.

  He hadn’t gotten far when he heard a high shrill whistle. He pushed through the thicket away from the river and into the open forest. There it was again. He ran as fast as he could through the dead leaves, the ferns whipping against his ankles.

  When he reached the clearing, there stood Christmas, knee-deep in golden, late-summer grass, quietly grazing as if nothing had happened. Water still dripped from the muddy and matted mane and tail. His wet, dark-chestnut–colored coat glowed in the late afternoon sun. The big horse raised his head and looked at Zeb, and then lowered it again to pull at the grass.

  Zeb waded through the deep grass and threw his arms around the horse’s neck. He pressed his face against the warm wet skin. “I thought I lost you, Christmas.”

  He stroked the horse, running his hands all over Christmas’s coat and down each leg to check for cuts or other injuries. As he stood up, he looked around the clearing for Hannah. Then he heard it, a strange sound, almost like the cry of an injured animal.

  He walked carefully through the deep grass and found Hannah curled into a ball, with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She was sobbing. He knelt down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him. “I was so scared.”

  “I know how you feel, Hannah. I was scared too. I really didn’t think we would make it.”

  He looked toward the river. “There’s nothing to be afraid of now. Those two men will never be able to cross the ford.”

  “Do you think they’ll give up?”

  “Doubt it. They’ll go back to the Gordon Ferry, but they’ll be at least two days behind us.”

  She lay down again in her nest of grass. “I’m so tired. Can we rest for a little bit?”

  “Good idea. Christmas needs the rest too.”

  He called Christmas to him and removed the wet packs and saddle, red with river mud. “I know you don’t like the hobble, Christmas, but I don’t want no Chickasaw a’stealin’ you whilst we’uns is restin’.”

  He hobbled Christmas’s forelegs and removed the bridle. He patted the big horse. “Go on and eat, Christmas. Doubt we’ll see much grass from here on.”

  Christmas shuffled a short distance away and began to graze.

  Zeb walked round and round in a circle, flattening the tall grass, and then he stretched out on it.

  “When we catch our breath, I think we can set up camp in this clearing. I saw the remains of an old campfire over there by those rocks.” He glanced over his shoulder. Christmas was pulling at the grass. Zeb closed his eyes. He had never been so tired in his life.

  When he awoke, the sun was low in the west. He must have slept an hour or more! Christmas stood looking out toward the river, apparently having eaten his fill for now. Hannah was still asleep.

  Zeb rolled over and then stood up very slowly. Every muscle in his body ached. The skin under his arms was scratched and raw. His clothes were damp and cold. He picked up the saddle blanket, still heavy with water and mud, and hung it over a tree branch. He unrolled the canvas from around the bedroll and looked around for some place to put it where it might dry. Hannah opened her eyes and struggled to her feet. “What can I do?” she said.

  He looked upriver. The water was still churning as it roared past them. “The way I figure it, we’re about five miles west of the Natchez Road. You think there’ll be any outlaws or Kaintucks this far off the road?”

  “I don’t think so. The outlaws want to be close to the road to keep an eye out for travelers. The Kaintucks don’t want to get off the Natchez Road.”

  “Why not? Might be safer for them.”

  “They don’t want to get into Chickasaw territory. The Chickasaw are very violent.”

  She looked around at the long grass. “Anyone can see the Chickasaw haven’t been here for a while. My guess is that if they do show up, we’ll never even see them. They’ll probably leave us alone. We’re not taking any game or anything.”

  “In that case, I think we ought to stay here tonight.” He held up the canvas sheet. “If we can get a fire going, we might be able to dry these things and maybe even cook something to eat. We can do it after it gets darker so no one will see the smoke.”

  Hannah headed toward the woods. “I’ll look for kindling,” she said. “You take care of the wet gear.”

  As Hannah gathered dry sticks, Zeb kneeled on the ground and sorted through their wet supplies, hoping it would be possible to salvage something. When he lifted the bag of grain, water poured out of the bottom. “This stuff will be all right for Christmas tonight,” he mumbled to himself, “but I’ll have to leave what he doesn’t eat. By tomorrow it will start to rot.”

  He sat back, cross-legged, lifting the long rifle and balancing it on his knees. When he opened the pan in the flintlock mechanism, he wrinkled his nose at the sharp odor and groaned, “The powder is wet,” he muttered, “and I’m sure it’s wet in the pistols too.”

  He cleaned the remaining powder from the pan with his finger. He stood and swung the gun muzzle down, banging with his hand against the barrel. After several tries, the rifle ball slipped from the patch and out the end of the barrel. He put it next to his rifle kit. He poured out the wet powder, cleaned the bore thoroughly, and then ran a greased patch in the bore to prevent rust.

  Hannah appeared with an armload of kindling. She dropped the sticks next to the charred logs and stood watching him. Finally she kneeled down and picked up one of the little squares of cloth. “What are these for?” she asked.

  “They get wrapped around the rifle ball. Makes a tight fit and keeps the ball snug against the powder.”

  She turned back into the woods to hunt for more kindling.

  Zeb pulled the powder horn out of the saddlebag, glad now that he had double-wrapped it and sealed it in oilskin, a thin piece of deer hide rubbed over and over again with goose grease. He undid one layer and then the other and then lifted the beeswax seal. The powder was damp, but it looked as if it could be dried out. He wondered how long that would take.

  Hannah dumped another load of kindling on the ground. She stooped and picked up the tinderbox, groaning with dismay as she opened the cover. She held the box open for him to see. “The tinder is wet,” she said, “and the flint and steel are wet too. How’re we gonna start a fire?”

  Zeb pulled a handful of fine wood shavings out of the box and squeezed it. Soaking wet. He threw the wet tinder away. He wiped the piece of flint and the steel on his shirt. “I don’t think water will hurt them,” he said. “See if you can find a cedar tree. We can use some of fuzz off the bark. Or look for a bird’s nest. That will work too.” He pointed to the blackened logs. “Put some of the charcoal from those old fires in with it. That’ll make it catch faster.”

  Zeb watched Hannah as she moved toward the forest to gather the tinder. As tired as she was, she moved lightly, quietly on the balls of her feet. He remembered what his grampa had told him about the Choctaw, who could slip through the forest without making a sound. Hannah was able to do that. I wonder, he thought, if she does that naturally or if she learned it somehow?

  Before she stepped into the woods, Hannah turned and stared at Zeb. “How come you know so much about all this? You could be a Choctaw nakni, a brave!”

  “Then my grampa could be a Choctaw chief,” he said. “He knows a lot about surviving in
the forest. Never misses a chance to teach me when we’re out hunting. Now I wish I had paid more attention.”

  When Hannah got back with some cedar bark, Zeb showed her how to shred it and mix it with a little charcoal.

  He took the sticks she had gathered and built a little pile of kindling into a small lean-to against one of the partly burned logs. Then he made a nest of the tinder. When he hit the flint against the steel, sparks flew in all directions. The water hadn’t affected the flint and steel at all! A spark caught in the cedar-bark tinder. He blew on it gently. In seconds the tinder was aflame. He pushed the burning tinder under the kindling. They had the beginnings of a campfire.

  When the fire had burned a while, they took out two of the four potatoes that Zeb had brought from home, wrapped them with sassafras leaves, and then packed them in red mud from the riverbank. Hannah gently pushed the mud-covered potatoes into the hot coals with a piece of kindling.

  When the potatoes were done, Hannah pulled them out with a stick, rolling them along the ground away from the fire. They broke the red clay, baked hard around the potatoes, juggling the steaming potatoes in their hands. The skin was black but the inside was white and crumbly. They ate the potatoes, skin and all, grinning at each other.

  Full now and warm, Hannah and Zeb stretched out on the ground near the fire and watched the vapor rise from their still-damp clothes.

  The stars were clear in the black night, the moon still too low in the east to provide them with any light. Zeb turned on his side to let the fire dry the front of his clothes. Hannah was watching him. There was so much about Hannah that he didn’t know. She seemed to know lot about the Choctaw ways of doing things, but she spoke like an educated person. “You go to school in Yowani?” he asked.

  “No. When I’m in Yowani, I study with my father or my mother. There are no schools there. When we’re in Washington, near Natchez, I go to a friend’s house. Her name is Katie McGonnigal. A tutor comes every day for four hours to teach the six of us. Katie’s the oldest. She’s twelve. I’m the youngest.”