Читать книгу Rebel Siege - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 5

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The sun had passed its zenith and was starting its dip westward when Kin got home. Bonnie was standing in the shade of the gun shop, switching her tail to keep the flies away, but the split-rail pasture where his father's saddle horse grazed was still empty.

Kin threw himself down in the grass beside Bonnie. He put one hand over his eyes, and gave himself up to the bitterness within him. Ever since he and his father had come here to McKenzie's Gap his eyes and thoughts had been on the west, the wilderness that began here at their very door. It was glorious to know that, as soon as you were a man, you were free to go into that wilderness, and that only your own hardihood and courage limited what you could find there.

But the first, and almost the only, requisite of life in the west was a rifle. Kin had pictured himself leaving his father's home to join the Long Hunters who did everything that a man should do. But his rifle, as fine a one as could be found on the frontier, was an integral part of that picture. For him, no other gun could take its place.

Bonnie tossed her head when Kin sat up suddenly. He looked west, toward the Santaree, and his face set in the determination of the breed from which he had sprung.

"I'll get it back," he said. "No man will ever take my gun away from me and keep it."

Kin got to his feet, drove Bonnie to the milking station, and milked. He set the pail of milk in the spring and looked down the trail. Ian would be home soon. He would certainly be hungry, and a change from venison might help to soften the beating that was going to be Kin's when Ian found out about the lost rifle.

Kin took a fishhook, another of his father's products, and tied it on a line. He walked to the edge of the clearing, and lay full length on the bank of a sluggish little stream that wandered there. Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into the water and overturned a flat rock. A brown crayfish scuttled backward. Kin dropped his opened left hand behind it, and flicked a finger at the crayfish's claws. The little crustacean backed into his left hand. Kin closed it, brought his captive to land, and tied it on the hook.

He whirled the line about his head and cast. The crayfish splashed on the water, and the ripples were still spreading from the place where it hit when a bass rose to take it. The line moved slowly through the water, and Kin paid out more from the coil in his hand. When the line stopped moving he gave the bass fifteen seconds to swallow the crayfish and struck hard.

There was a mighty tug on the line's end as the hooked bass started upstream. Kin turned him. The bass leaped clear of the water in a vain effort to rid himself of the hook, and surged downstream. He fought mightily, with bulldog courage and endurance. But after ten minutes Kin played him in to shore and reached down to slip his fingers through the gills of a six-pound small-mouth.

He lifted the fish clear of the water and carried it to the cabin. With a hunting knife he removed its head and the spiny fin on its back, and split it to the tail. He took away the backbone, went out to the wood pile for a fresh piece of green ash, laid the fish on it, and set it on the embers at one side of the fireplace. The bass would cook, but the green wood would not burn through to let it scorch. Kin peeled a dozen potatoes, and dropped them into a kettle of boiling water. With a dish of butter in one hand and a knife in the other he sat on an upended block of wood basting the bass while darkness slowly descended. Then, suddenly, he reached down to shove the bass away from the embers and leap to the rifle rack on the wall.

Through the open door came the rapid pound of running horses on the trail. Kin took down a long rifle, and held it in his hand while he listened. It was hard to tell how many horses were coming, but there was more than one. Kin grasped another rifle, and slipped through the door. It wasn't Cherokees because they came like panthers in the night, unseen and unheard. But it might be more of the plundering British soldiers. Kin set his mouth. The British had all the plunder they were going to get from the McKenzies!

Keeping close to the dark wall, Kin crept to the end of the cabin and crouched behind an outjutting log. He rested a rifle on the log, and sighted toward the fire-lighted door. If whoever was coming intended to enter the cabin they would be framed for an instant in the light, and whatever action was necessary could be decided on in that instant. Then two horsemen came into the clearing, and Kin took the sighted rifle down. The leading horse was his father's roan, and nobody but Ian sat a saddle in exactly the way this rider was sitting. Twenty feet behind galloped a pure white horse with an unknown rider. They turned from the trail, and rode to the pasture. With a rifle in either hand Kin went forward, and reached the gate just as Ian was swinging from the saddle.

"Who's this coming?" the unknown rider asked sharply.

His hand dived into a saddle bag, and came up with a long pistol. Kin lifted a rifle with one hand, but Ian intervened.

"Meet my son, Kinross," he said. "Kinross, this is Mr. Elmo Bladen. He was venturin' to Gilbert Town, an' I knew he'd find but lean wayfarin' along the road this time of night. So I invited him to partake of our poor fare an' hospitality."

"It's not so poor," Kin answered sourly.

"The man's our guest!" Ian thundered. "Mind yer manners, laddie!"

Elmo Bladen laughed, a deep and hearty but somehow unpleasant sound like that of a grunting pig.

"The lad's got a ready tongue, eh, McKenzie? There's nought like spirit. I always did say that mine got me where I am today. An' I'll wager that he's got hot vittles ready for his tired father an' his father's com'ny too."

"I have, Mr. Bladen," Kin said with stiff politeness, "an' you're welcome to what there is."

"An' could I use it?" he guffawed. "I'll say I could!"

He dismounted, jerked the saddle and bridle from the white horse, slapped it on the rump as it passed through the pasture gate, and walked toward the cabin. Kin stood looking wonderingly at Ian, who was rubbing down the roan. It was unwritten law that a man should care for his horse before himself, yet Elmo Bladen had gone into the cabin apparently without even a thought for his sweating mount. Ian handed Kin the curry comb, and Kin curried the white horse.

When they entered the cabin Elmo Bladen was sitting before the fire with one of Ian's rifles across his knees. He wiped the corner of his mouth, down which a generous portion of the bass had just disappeared, and stood up. Kin looked at him, a fattish man with red cheeks and eyes and unkempt bristles of black hair.

"Nice gun ya got there, McKenzie," he said affably. "Ya wouldn't care to trade it, eh?"

"No."

Elmo Bladen shrugged. "Well, I'll get me a rifle of some kind when I get to Gilbert Town. Say, know what I'm gonna do when I get there?"

"If ye care to tell us."

"Sure I care," Elmo Bladen said expansively. "I'm gonna join the British, an' I bet I get me a commission in the militia before I'm done. Some of these rich rebel Whigs hereabouts is gonna have less land an' money when we get done with 'em. One thing I will say, you'll find Elmo Bladen on the winnin' side in any kind of ruckus."

"Ye seem sure the British will win."

"Faugh! How can they lose? Ya know that most of the damned rebels are bottled up in Charleston. After that falls who besides a few guerillas like this Sumter will be able to fight? The King, God bless him, will rule his own again!"

Ian's voice was low and strained. "General Lincoln surrendered Charleston on May 12, near seven weeks past."

"I told ya so! I told ya so!" Elmo Bladen cried exultantly. "Our side has won, an' the damned rebels are gone ganders. How come ya by this knowledge, friend McKenzie?"

"I found it out in Gilbert Town, where I journeyed today to swear anew my allegiance to the King. I would hae known it sooner, but I hae not been venturin' far from my gun makin'. Let us eat now."

Elmo Bladen grinned slyly as he sat down at the table. "Trust a Scot to land butter-side up, eh? I been back in the woods myself, doin' a little business with the Injuns an' gettin' furs dirt cheap. Who commands the British here?"

"Major Ferguson, an' a smartly turned-out soldier he is."

"How many does he command?"

"About a hundred an' fifty regulars, an' a body of militia, of which he's recrootin' more. They're flockin' in now that the army is here to protect 'em from the Whigs. An' on second thought, Bladen, though I wouldna hurry a guest from my house, mayhap ye had best start as soon as ye hae had yer fill o' food, if only to protect yer own interests. Every mother's son who's sidin' in wi' Ferguson expects a commission in the militia. There'll be naught left when ye get there."

Elmo Bladen thumped the table with his fist. "Sound advice, McKenzie! I'll start!"

He leaped up and, as he started for the door, calmly took up the Kentucky rifle that he had been examining.

Ian said steadily, "No doubt ye didna hear me when I said that I want to keep the rifle. It is no for trade or sale."

"Oh yes, oh yes," Elmo Bladen laughed, and laid the rifle down on the table. "But ya know how it is with a man who's mind is occupied. I had it in mind that we had already traded. I thought I gave ya my watch."

"A natural mistake. Good-bye, Bladen, an' good fortune."

"Good-bye, McKenzie."

He stamped out the door, and slammed it behind him. A moment later came the hoof beats of his horse, thudding away into the night. Ian sat gazing into the fire. His face was drawn, and when he looked up, inexpressibly weary.

"Kin," he said, "there goes as great a fool as ye'll ever see, an' as great a rogue. He would kill for gain."

"I didn't like him," Kin said.

"Nor did I. But I could do naught but ask him in. He was hungry, an' needed a rest. I'm ashamed that I even hinted he should leave. But I am happy that he didna spend the night."

Kin sat squirming on his chair. Ian had been tired when he came in, and occupied with a guest, and he hadn't yet looked toward the buck-horn rack where Kin's rifle usually rested. But he would look, and it was best to tell him what had happened rather than face his wrath and fumble for excuses when he found it out himself.

"I lost my rifle today," Kin blurted apprehensively.

Ian sat upright, and turned to face his son. "Well?"

"I went to hunt the pigeons that passed over yesterday," Kin said. "Tanse Willard was sittin' on a log by the Santaree. He was, he was watchin' somethin'. Stink-Hard Joe an' seven British soldiers was comin' up the creek. I shot through Tanse's hat to warn him. He got away. But the British took my rifle."

"Why did you warn Tanse?" Ian asked.

"He ... I like him."

Ian turned back to face the fire, and rested his chin in cupped hands. For a moment he was silent.

"Ye should hae a drubbin'," he said. "But I canna find it in me to give ye one. There are some qualities that must be kept if anythin' at all is worth livin' for, an' one is a man's feelin' for a friend. Ye did what I would hae done. But it's up to ye to get a new rifle for yerself."

For a moment Kin sat studying this unpredictable father of his who sometimes deviated so surprisingly from his normal routine. But the relief he felt was tempered by a new anxiety.

"Did you take the British pledge because you think they'll win?" he asked.

"Now ye do get a drubbin'!" Ian roared. He half rose, but settled back in his chair. "No. I guess not, Kin. It's little ye know what ye asked. I was born a subject o' the King, I pledged my loyalty to him before ye were on this earth. Ye do no swear on an' off such things lightly, remember that! Besides, it is no foregone conclusion that the British will win. I hae it in mind that Lord Cornwallis an' his officers know little enou' o' the temper o' the men with which they meddle. They're no coastal planters, who either want the King's protection or at the best make only a half-hearted resistance. The Whigs who have flocked to Sumter, who live on half rations when they can get 'em an' who sleep in the swamps, do that not because they love a yoke. The men who hae gone beyond the mountains went there because they want to be free to mind their own affairs. They would hae taken no part in this war had not short-sighted British stirred the Indians against 'em. But now that they are in it, 'twill be to the last man."

"Will there be fighting hereabouts?" Kin asked eagerly.

"Aye, an' bloody an' bitter it will be. Ye just saw a fair example o' what's gone off to join the British, unprincipled cut-throats who neither believe in God nor fear a devil so long as they hae enou' o' their kind to snarl wi' them. An' they are only part o' what the British will muster. There'll be wi' Ferguson Tories who believe as firmly in the King's cause as the Rebels do in theirs, an' they'll fight as hard for it. There'll be soldiers of the wind who care not how any battle goes so long as they get their fill of fightin' an' pillage. There will be the regulars, among a million pounds of which there's not an ounce of cowardice. Make no mistake about it, Ferguson will ha' wi' him as fierce a pack of wolves as ever fought over a deer. An' in no way whatever will they be better men than the Rebels. But go to bed now an' forget talk of war an' killin'. Ye hae work for the mornin', an' must be rested."

Kin went to his pallet, and lay watching Ian stare moodily into the dying fire. After ten minutes Ian rose, set the latch on the door, and sought his own bed. For half an hour he tossed about on the deer-skin mattress. Finally his gentle snoring and even breathing told that he was asleep.

But Kin could not sleep. His mind was a whirl of questions for which there were no proper answers. McKenzie's Gap had been a dull enough place, but Kin had not known until now that he would have lived no other place if he could. Every one of the great plans he had made for himself had his father's house as a starting point. From it he would go into the west, cast his lot with the men who had already gone there and help them do whatever they were doing to build the country up. Now the British were here to shape the country and its inhabitants to their own designs. They had taken his rifle, and would take more of what was not theirs if they so desired. And yet, for some reason that he could not fully understand, his father had gone off to swear allegiance to these red-coated invaders.

Kin rose on his pallet and stared steadily toward his father's bed. Ian was motionless, with one hand thrown over his eyes. When Kin stamped his bare foot on the floor, Ian stirred but did not awaken. Kin slipped softly from the pallet, and tiptoed across the room. He went to the door, lifted the latch, and walked into a moon-sprayed night. For a moment he stood staring across the clearing.

It seemed exactly the same as it had on every other moonlit night. The adze marks on the rough-hewn timbers in his father's work shop were very plain. The roan horse was standing with lowered head in one corner of the pasture. The trail to Gilbert Town was white under the moon, and the trees a silvery-yellow.

Kin walked from the house into the meadow, and the heavy dew on the grass was pleasantly cool to his bare feet. He went to the edge of the meadow, and on into the forest. He had no clear idea of what he was going to do, or why he was going. All he knew was that he wanted to be alone in his woods, to see if somehow and some way he might work out an answer to the baffling problems that confronted him.

But there was no peace in the woods tonight. From far off a rabbit squealed as a hunting fox or bobcat leaped on it. Even the animals were at war. Kin walked on to where a huge elm rose high above all the other trees in the forest, sat down on one of its knobby roots, and rested his cheek on his right hand. He had to get his rifle back from Lieutenant Allaire. Maybe he could go into the British camp and steal it. He could pick a pail of berries, and enter the camp on the pretense of selling them.

Kin rose suddenly, and backed against the elm's trunk as a shadowy figure appeared before him. He felt about with his bare feet for a club or rock, anything with which he might defend himself.

"Kin, it's me. Tanse."

Tanse Willard, who had come as silently as one of the stalking foxes or bobcats that made their lairs in the forest, walked nearer, and leaned on his long rifle. The reckless grin on his face was plain in the moonlight.

"Tanse!" Kin gasped. "What are you doin' here? It—it ain't safe! There's British soldiers hereabouts!"

"That's one reason I'm here," Tanse said casually. "The other reason is to sort of say much obliged for that shot you made over on the Santaree this mornin'. But I didn't cal'clate on seein' you before mornin'. You got any notion who told them British Molly an' me was there?"

"Stink-Hard Joe. Why?"

"Just somethin' for my memory book," Tanse said grimly. "I sort of like to keep such things. Now another thing, do you know how many men this Ferguson's got with him?"

"My father said a hundred an' fifty regulars, an' he's recruitin' militia. Tanse, you better get out of here. There was a man named Bladen at the house tonight. He's gone off to join Ferguson, an' he said the British was sure to win."

"Bladen, eh?" Tanse Willard said. "My memory book's buildin' up fast. But friend Bladen's sort of countin' his pat'idges before they're in the pot. Sumter's doin' a great job with what he has to do with. An' Gates is on his way with an army. We're kind of figurin' on chasin' Cornwallis an' all his little sojers right into the Atlantic when he gets here. Gates licked 'em at Saratoga, an' he'll lick 'em in Carolina."

He spoke with a profound conviction and a deep confidence that imparted itself to Kin. Gates must be a mighty man, to inspire such respect in Tanse Willard.

"Can Gates lick Cornwallis?" Kin asked.

"That he can—an' will. Kin, which side are you on?"

"On yours. But my father's with the British."

"That makes it all the better," Tanse said thoughtfully. "Nobody will be ready to suspect you. Kin, Ike Shelby an' Colonel McDowell are down from over the mountains with their riflemen. To help 'em, Clarke's comin' back from where he was chased into Georgia. Graham, Andy Hampton, an' Major Robertson will be with 'em. They'll have upwards of a thousand men amongst 'em, an' they aim to worry the British as much as they can until Gates comes. Then they'll join him for the final push. You're 'bout fourteen, ain't you?"

"Goin' on fifteen."

"There's thirteen-year-olders in the army. Sumter's got two dozen picked riflemen not more'n a year older'n you."

"Could I join Sumter?" Kin asked eagerly.

"No. You can't," Tanse interrupted. "We need you for somethin' else. I'm off on a scout to watch Cornwallis. When I come back I'll have news. If you hear a she fox yell like they do in matin' time, an' don't do in late summer, will you come to this tree as quick as your legs will carry you?"

"Yes," Kin breathed.

"Good. Well, I'll be trailin' along."

Tanse Willard melted into the forest and blended with the shadows. Kin stood staring after him, breathless and wildly happy. Everything was not lost, and Elmo Bladen didn't know what he was talking about. Gates was coming with a great army. He would drive the British away and all would be as it had been before. Kin strode dreamily back to the cabin and crawled on his pallet with a light heart.

As July melted slowly into the golden days of August, Kin worked about the clearing and helped his father make guns. Even when the long working day ended, he no longer followed his former habit of roaming through the forest. When Tanse called, he would not call in vain.

The call came suddenly and unexpectedly in the mist-ridden dimness of an early August dawn. Across the clearing it floated, the lonely wail of a she fox in want of a mate. Ian, who had grown even more haggard and tired in the past three weeks, looked up from his bowl of breakfast porridge and fell to eating again. Kin sat up, and tried to speak.

Ian looked up a second time.

"What's the worry, laddie? Did ye think yon fox a spook?"

"Can I go look for it?" Kin blurted.

"Aye. But be back within the hour."

Kin streaked through the door and raced toward the forest. He flashed among the trees to the great elm that was the appointed rendezvous, and drew up short.

A lathered brown horse stood beside the tree. Its head drooped, and great strips of froth trailed from its mouth. Tanse Willard leaned against the tree. One arm braced his body, but the other hung bloody and useless at his side. A bullet had plowed a furrow across his temple, and blood had caked in his beard. His eyes were fire-red, his face haggard and desperate. He saw Kin, and staggered toward him.

"Kin," he panted. "Go down to Reed Bowie's house! Tell him that Cornwallis met Gates at Camden yesterday, an' Gates' whole army was wiped out! Reed must get word to McDowell an' Shelby or they'll be cut off too! Kin, do you understand?"

Kin nodded dumbly, and passed an arm about Tanse's shoulder.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Tanse shouted. "I don't need help! I've got to warn Sumter! Go, man! Go!"

Kin turned around. Without looking back he started for Reed Bowie's cabin at a dead run.