Читать книгу Sweet Sarah Ross - Julie Tetel - Страница 7

Powell woke from fitful dreams of being chased by white-skinned women and red-skinned women around drawing rooms in Washington, D.C., and over the open prairie.

He cracked his eyes, his chest heaving from dream effort. His bone-dry eyes were soothed to perceive cool, blue moonlight after days of red-seared sunlight. He swallowed once over a painful knot in his throat, but he knew he had had water in the past few hours, and the pain in his throat this night was not as bad as it had been the night before. He figured he was ready for more water now without putting his battered body into shock. He needed a prolonged watering. Mmm. A thorough soaking would be nice.

In a hazy sort of way, he was sorry he wasn’t some kind of plant. He might choose to be a vine, and he imagined his legs, stretched out before him, turning into long tendrils. Then he would have only to wait for it to rain, and the backs of his legs could take root in the earth, and he could drink and drink and drink his fill without having to move an inch.

He breathed in. He breathed out. He came to the conclusion that he wasn’t a plant but an animal, and animals had to move around in order to find food and water. It was a pity. Especially since he had a fuzzy recollection that a source of water ran behind him quite a few yards away, and his feet were burning as if on fire and swollen to the size of huge squash. He couldn’t use his feet to get there, not a chance, but maybe he could slither over to the water. On that thought, he entertained feelings of deep envy for snakes who had no feet to plague them. Fish, too, who moved suspended in gallons and gallons of lovely water. And birds, who could get off their ridiculous unfleshly feet anytime they wanted—

Birds, fish, snakes, vines. He must be thirst-crazed to be having such thoughts, and the only way to restore his sanity was to get himself over to the water. He shifted from his seated position so that he could slide on his belly, and when he moved, he became aware of the lump of coarse material in his lap.

He fingered the lump and determined that it was some sort of clothing. Shirt. No. Trousers, maybe. Yes, trousers. He was reminded of something, and in order to discover what, he had a notion to look around the dark glade where he had taken refuge.

Moonlight dappled the dark and dotted a human form lying a few feet away from him. It was a woman, a white woman, to judge from the outlines of the clothing draped around her reclining body. Her head was pillowed on another piece of cloth—must be her bonnet—and long strands of golden hair turned silver in the moonlight had escaped whatever pins might have been holding them. As pretty as her hair was to contemplate, he was more interested in her skirts and underskirts. Not carnally but practically. He mentally cut up the superfluous yards of cotton she must be wearing and made snares and slingshots and bags and bandages.

He was so cheered by thoughts of all that good material that he began his slithery sliding toward the river. He thought of the woman and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what she was doing in the glade with him.

Then he remembered. She was the woman who had been wearing a shawl. Two things about her stood out in his mind. She was an idiot, and she was beautiful. A beautiful idiot. When he had first seen her, she had been bobbing around a tree, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that she was trying to attract his attention rather than conceal herself. The tree she had chosen couldn’t have been much more than a foot wide, and with her skirts sprouting out on either side of the base, he wasn’t likely to miss her once he had come ashore. That is, if he hadn’t already spotted her when he had rounded the bend in the river.

The river. It was all coming back to him. He winced at the flood of memories of capture and escape, of the brutal bruising his body had endured during his two days of flight. He had come to the riverbank, fearing at first it was a mirage. He had been heading for the Platte River, knowing it was ahead of him as he ran, thinking it would save him if he could just get there before the Sioux got their hands on him again.

He held a pretty good map of the territory in his head, but his hobbling had prevented him from making an accurate estimate of the ground he had paced out on foot. He had had an even better map of the territory on paper, but that map was in the ashes of a sacrificial fire, and he didn’t want to think yet about what had happened to all his surveying equipment. Probably offered to the Teton Sioux god of Wandering Souls, for all he knew. Why hadn’t he had the good fortune to run across the Mandans or the Pawnees, instead of the Tetons? He wasn’t a fur trader or a bison hunter or even a settler. It was just his luck to have run into the Tetons on a bad day in a bad mood.

And it was just his luck to have run into a beautiful idiot who didn’t understand the first thing about life on the frontier. He might even have said as much to her. But she had a pair of scissors in her bag and was wearing yards and yards of useful cloth, and now he had dragged himself over the twigs and the rocks and the sand and was at river’s edge and didn’t have a thing to worry about anymore.

He put his face in the water and drank. It was cold and bracing and provided as exquisite a pleasure-pain as he had ever experienced. He drank some more and then some more. The more he drank the thirstier he became, and he doubted that he could ever drink enough to have enough excess to piss ever again.

When he needed air more than he needed water, he lifted his head, turned his entire body. He picked the absurd flower-printed bandages off his feet, rinsed them out. Then he flopped over so that he could immerse his blazing members in the cold. The sizzling sting of the water on the open sores of his soles nearly killed him, but almost as quickly numbed his wretched feet, so that the overall effect was mercifully, outrageously sensual. He lay on his back in the sand, his feet in the water, his eyes on the clouds drifting across the diamond dust in the night sky, and thought, It’s good to be alive.

With his return to life came the return of his ability to plan for the future. He knew where he was. He knew who he was with. He knew his resources. He knew what he would be up against come morning. His chances didn’t look good.

Still, it was good to be alive.

He yielded to the pleasure of bathing his feet in icecold water and of witnessing the magnificent spill of stars high above. His well-trained eyes picked out the constellations, and he reckoned the lateness of the hour by the hunter Orion walking stiff-legged across the sky. He tried to find the Little Dipper by climbing up its tail from the polestar but lost it in a sky too milky with moonlight.

He could think of ways to improve his lot in life, and the first would be to spirit away the woman with the shawl to the drawing rooms of Washington, D.C. He could picture her perfectly there, chattering all day long with every other woman he had ever known who was exactly like her. He had, alas, no magical powers to transport her from here to there, and the more he accepted her presence in his immediate circumstances, the happier he was that he had a pair of trousers to wear.

Lying naked on the riverbed, he made a mental note to put those trousers on before the first rays of dawn would illuminate him, once again, in all his masculine glory.

Sarah snuffled half-awake to a rumbling in her stomach and a crick in her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but her room was flooded with disturbing daylight, suggesting that someone had forgotten to draw the curtains. And her bed was as hard as the earth. She groggily rehearsed the prettily worded complaint she would offer the hostess of the house party she must be attending.

Then she remembered that she was lying on the board she had for a bed in the wagon and regretted having turned down William’s offer of marriage. She sat bolt upright, put a hand to her neck and shook her head to alter the unpleasant illusion that she was seated directly on the ground in a clump of trees in the middle of nowhere and in the company of—

A man-beast who was sitting cross-legged with his back to her. He seemed to be tending something in front of him, but at the groan she emitted upon coming fully awake, he turned and looked at her. She was pleased that he was wearing the trousers she had retrieved for him, but the expression on his face did not encourage her to think that she would find him any more agreeable today than she had the day before.

Nevertheless, she greeted him properly. “Good morning, sir. I trust you are feeling better today than yesterday. May I ask if your feet are improved?”

A look of faint disbelief—or was it amusement?—crossed his features. “I’ll put it this way,” he answered her. “I’m no longer running the risk of fatal infection, but I’m not walking anywhere today. We’ll be staying put.”

The vision of a tedious day stretched before her. She sighed and felt the wreck of her coiffure, then patted the ground for precious pins that might have fallen while she slept. She picked up her bonnet, brushed it off, took out the stockings she had stuffed inside it. She folded these into the waistband of her skirts and rose to her feet, holding the bonnet by its ties so that it dangled from her hand.

“We’ve plenty to do,” he added, turning back around, “so don’t worry about remaining idle.”

This was not the first time he had accurately guessed her thoughts. “Do you fancy yourself something of a mind reader, sir?” she demanded, palming several hairpins.

He shook his head and occupied himself with whatever was in front of him. “No, but it’s plain you haven’t traveled much.” She was sorry that he had turned his back to her, for he missed her rather superior smile. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been to England and back.”

To that he made no response.

“Two years ago it was, and my chaperon was an elderly lady who needed more care than she gave. So I assure you that I have dealt with many demanding situations as a traveler abroad and proved myself equal to all occasions.”

“Ah. Now tell me. What language do they speak in England?”

Poor, ignorant man-beast! “They speak English, sir, and it is a version very similar to that which you and I speak.”

“The dwellings the English inhabit, what manner would they be? And what manner of conveyance do the English commonly use?”

“They live in houses, some of which are like palaces, and they often ride in carriages.”

“I see. Tell me something else. What language do the Sioux speak?”

“Indian, I suppose.”

“What manner of dwelling do they inhabit?”

“I have heard they live in rough tents called tepees.”

“And have you encountered any roads or carriageways in the past few days?”

She caught the man’s drift and was annoyed. “I gather it is your objective to emphasize the dissimilarities in my two traveling experiences,” she said evenly, “but I can tell you that crossing a vast ocean is a very demanding experience.”

“We’re not on the ocean now, we don’t enjoy the protection of a ship with a well-stocked hold, and we aren’t bound for familiar or friendly shores.”

Her response was frosty. “You have made your point, sir.”

This was hardly the ideal beginning to the day, which, she noted, had hardly dawned. She yawned, then stretched out the kinks in her back and neck. At that moment she caught a whiff of something malodorous. “What’s that I smell?”

“Breakfast.”

Approaching him, she looked over his shoulder and puzzled over the sight of a jumble of smoking rocks crisscrossed by sticks. “And what is for breakfast?”

“Tree frogs.”

She thought she detected a slightly gleeful note in his deep voice, like the kind a little boy might use when dangling a slimy worm before a little girl. Although her empty stomach recoiled when she perceived the outlines of the small, shriveled creatures skewered on sticks, she suppressed her revulsion in order to reply knowledgeably, “The French eat frogs. They are considered quite a delicacy.”

He took a stick and held up a wizened carcass. “Want one?”

She declined the French delicacy, citing customary lack of appetite first thing in the morning. She saw him take the frog off the stick and begin to eat it. Feeling nauseous, she looked away and announced her intention to go to the river. She added—with as much dignity as rumpled clothing and a ruined coiffure would allow—that she hoped she could be assured of her privacy.

To her back he said, “It’s all we have until lunch.”

She heard these words as a taunt and decided to defer the problem of finding suitable food in order to satisfy the most immediate of her bodily needs. She continued in the direction of the river. At the edge of the trees, a thought struck her. She paused and said, “You haven’t warned me about arrows in the heart and such, but I note that you’ve kept the fire low, which I suppose is to avoid giving the Sioux a sign that we’re here.”

“I’ve kept the fire low so as not to burn the frogs to a crisp, and I’m thinking the Sioux have no further interest in this area. But now that you mention possible dangers, keep your eye out for the prairie wolf stalking our campsite.”

Indians, rattlesnakes, prairie wolves. What next? “How kind of you to mention it,” she said with exaggerated civility, “for I had completely forgotten about the prairie wolves following your trail.”

“Wolf,” he corrected. “Just one. You’ll recognize him by his cropped ear. I think I saw him a couple of hours ago, but I can’t be sure. Not to worry, though. I’d say he weighs less than a hundred pounds, and wolves have always feared humans, so I’m guessing this one will keep his distance.”

“How reassuring,” she said, and resolutely left the shelter of the trees. As she made her way toward the river, she dared to wonder whether the man-beast had mentioned the wolf so that she wouldn’t run away from him and leave him to fend for himself. However, just in case he wasn’t the kind to stoop to scare tactics, she kept a nervous eye out for the wolf.

She saw nothing to disturb her at the river and performed her morning ablutions to the extent that the primitive conditions would allow. She dearly wished for a comb and a brush and a mirror, but made do with her fingers. She spent the whole of the time dressing her hair mentally arguing with that vexatious man-beast, who always seemed to be putting her in the wrong. She donned her bonnet, then knelt down by the river, cupped her hands and dipped them in the water. When she tasted the freshness on her tongue and the chill against her teeth, she was arrested by memories of the thoughts she had entertained the day before when drinking from the river at this very same spot.

She had judged the trip to be more like a pleasant outing? She had reckoned that difficulties might lie ahead?

Hah! She hadn’t guessed the half of it!

Then, an uneasy thought occurred to her. Was this the “Someday” that her mother had predicted for her? Had she, in some mysterious fashion, brought this present calamity upon herself?

Sarah recalled her mother’s reaction upon being informed that her daughter had turned down William’s offer of marriage. Her mother began gently enough. “Sarah, love, you’ve had everything your own way for too long, I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to tell you anymore except that you will simply have to stop leading these poor men on.”

“Now, Mother, I didn’t lead William on.”

Her mother’s normally serene expression had set into lines of disapproval. “You toyed with Mr. James’s affections as if he were a parlor poodle, and if you haven’t determined your effect on men by now—especially after all the ruckus you raised in England—”

“Gossip! Malicious gossip, all of it!”

“Then you are a far more insensitive young woman than I had ever imagined! And I don’t want to hear another word about ‘malicious gossip.’ A woman who looks like you and behaves like you can expect tongues to wag on occasion, and given your reputation, I can only wonder how poor Mr. James allowed himself to fall prey to your toils!”

Sarah had been unwise enough at this point to observe, somewhat flippantly, “William isn’t poor.”

“Indeed not!” her mother had instantly agreed. “Everyone knows he comes from one of the richest families in Baltimore, and he’s a fine-looking man, I might add. As much as I love you, I’m beginning to think that my love has been blind and that the gossips have been right. Could it be, young lady, that the only reason why you would crush such an eligible man beneath your heel is that you think far too highly of yourself?”

“But William dotes on me, Mother! I couldn’t bear a man who dotes on me all day long!”

“Since you don’t seem to be able to inspire in a man any other desire but to dote on you, you will be pleased to accompany us on the journey we must make to join Laurence and Cathy.”

Sarah had been aghast. “To the Oregon Territory? Me? You must be joking!”

But her mother hadn’t been joking, and nothing Sarah had said afterward had persuaded either her mother or her father from their unreasonable position. She had left that particular discussion angered by her mother’s gross mis-representation of her character.

And now, here she was, standing at the edge of a river in the middle of nowhere, recalling her mother’s final words. “Someday, Sarah Ross Harris,” her mother had said on a note of threat. “Someday, you will get what’s coming to you.”

For one hideous moment, Sarah was seized by the idea that she had been deliberately abandoned by her mother and father to the Sioux, the rattlesnakes, the prairie wolves and the man-beast. But then her reason reasserted itself. She hadn’t imagined the war whoops or the Widower Reynolds’s dead body, and her parents had had other opportunities before now to abandon her along the way. Besides which, they wouldn’t be capable of doing anything so despicably underhanded to her, would they. Would they?

She returned to the clump of trees, repeating to herself that she hadn’t wanted to come on this journey, no she hadn’t, which was proof enough in her mind that she wasn’t responsible for having brought any of her present misfortune upon herself. And the General? What would he have said about the events of the past day? Why, to be sure, he would have agreed that none of this was of her making, and he would have reminded her to be on her mettle.

Once within the shelter she noted that the man-beast had finished his breakfast, for the fire was banked, and he was sitting under his tree, his back against the trunk. The pieces of her shawl were wrapped around his feet, but they were no longer bloody. He looked as if he was about to say something to her, but since she was feeling hungry and out of sorts and unable to take one of his disagreeable comments just then, she said, “I’m going to return to the Widower Reynolds’s wagon and see what provisions may be there.”

“The Sioux would have already taken all of use and value.”

“They didn’t take his trousers.”

“They don’t tend to touch dead white men, and they’ve no need for white man’s clothing.”

“I’ve a mind to go to the wagon anyway.”

“Before you go, I want to—”

She held up a hand. “To warn me. I know. Rattlesnakes.”

He made no further comment. She left the glade, scrambled up the slope, where she discovered that the broken-down wagon had been picked clean, and returned to the shelter of the trees empty-handed. At least the man-beast didn’t annoy her with obvious remarks about having been right.

Instead, he asked, “How many petticoats are you wearing?”

She was so surprised by the question that she answered it. “Two.”

“Give me one.”

The ensuing discussion roused her indignation, which brought her out of her dejection and partially restored her spirits. It ended with the surrender of one of her petticoats, but she decided to make a virtue of necessity and offered up the white cotton as if it were a magnificent sacrifice. She soon discovered that its fate was even more ignominious than that of her shawl, for the half of it was reduced to long strips that she was told would serve as jackrabbit traps. The other half would be saved for the future.

She was put to work and obliged to carry out the man-beast’s instructions while he lounged against the tree trunk. She set up the rather ingenious traps, as directed, which were composed of sticks and strips of cloth and clover. She fetched the man-beast water in her shoes. She gathered the plants that he told her to gather. She flipped back the cuffs of her long-sleeved blouse and used the hem of her skirts to wipe the sweat from her brow. She found two stones he told her to find and kept them with her in case she might encounter the prairie wolf. She was not to use the stones as lancing objects. Rather, she was to chip away at one rock with the other. She was told that that was how Indians made arrowheads. She wasn’t expected to actually make an arrowhead, but the chipping sound made animals, like prairie wolves, wary, as wild animals are of anything strange.

The morning ran quickly into afternoon. The afternoon brought the capture of two jackrabbits. After that, the man-beast was busy with her scissors, skinning the rabbits and cooking them over a fire that gave almost no smoke. Then he set about fashioning the hide.

At one moment while the man-beast was involved in scraping out the rabbit skin, she was troubled enough to say, “I can’t understand why my family hasn’t returned to look for me. That is, if they escaped, which it seems they did. They should be worried about me, no?”

“They’re probably thankful you weren’t on hand during the attack yesterday afternoon. If they haven’t come back for you, it’s because they’re not able to come back for you.”

“Which makes me worried about them, then.”

“Of course.”

His response to her concern had been reasonable. No gushing sympathy. No unrealistic assurances of her family’s well-being, either. But he had offered her a kind of fellow understanding nonetheless, and she was inclined to judge the man-beast the better for it. She had too much to do, however, to dwell on her slightly improved opinion of her partner in misfortune.

In the course of her afternoon’s work, she didn’t encounter any wild animals, so she didn’t have occasion to chip away at her stones, although she was aware at odd times during the day of being watched. However, whenever she looked about her, she saw nothing. No Indians. No prairie wolves. She kept the rocks with her, and when she smoothed them in her palms, her jumping nerves steadied.

The afternoon was spent, and so were her energies. She went one last time to the river, removed her bonnet and splashed water on her face. Heedless of the fact that her hair was tumbling around her shoulders, hairpins askew, she returned to the glade and plopped down on the ground at the base of her tree. She was happy to empty her mind and stare into the lengthening evening shadows.

When the faintest twinklings could be seen in the sky through the leafy arches in the trees, the rude, inconsiderate man-beast tossed two rabbit skins into her lap and said, “It’s time to move on.”