Читать книгу Ghosts of the Green Swamp - Lee Gramling - Страница 9

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NOT THAT THERE WAS so awful much left to take stock of. My Ole Roan horse was gone, which was bad enough. But along with him was just about my entire outfit: a big Texas saddle with some good years of use left in it, a bedroll and saddlebags what carried a week’s worth of provisions that I’d bought only the day before yesterday when I got paid off from that cow-hunt an’ cattle-drivin’ job up to Lake City. And worst of all, my Winchester .44 in the saddle boot with a couple hundred rounds of spare ammunition.

My pistol belt had been stripped off too, along with the Bowie knife in its sheath at the side; and I knew there weren’t no point to go lookin’ for my Dragoon Colt now, what Jube had took and throwed on the ground. With them weapons missin’ I felt about as naked as if they’d done stole my pants an’ boots at the same time they was stealin’ everthing else.

Speakin’ of boots, I realized of a sudden I wasn’t wearing any. A quick look around showed ’em both layin’ off to the edge of the road next to my hat. So at least them no-counts had left me that much. But then I remembered somethin’ else had happened before Lila an’ them others rode away, and I started checkin’ through the pockets of my shirt and britches real careful-like, gruntin’ and cussin’ ever time I come acrost a bruise or some other hurt Jube had give me.

When I got done, I took my time and did a more thorough job of cussin’.

That Lila had cleaned me out en-tire, from my Barlow knife and whetstone to even the cigarette makin’s in my shirt pocket. ’Course there wasn’t no sign of the money I’d had left from what I bought in Lake City. And when I crawled over to fetch my hat an’ boots, I realized she’d found the gold double eagle I’d had hid inside there too.

Now, that made me mad. I’d been holding onto that gold coin special, meanin’ to pay back a loan from a certain lady over to the Gulf coast soon as I could make it up there again. Stealing from me was one thing, and it done a pretty good job of gettin’ my dander up all by its ownself. But takin’ something I’d thought of as belonging to a partic’lar good friend of mine was just addin’ insult to injury.

There was goin’ to be some settlin’ of accounts over this here business today, or my name wasn’t Tate Barkley. And it ain’t ever been anything else since my Mam an’ Pap brought me into the world.

It’s a name folks in some circles has found reason to fight shy of here an’ about. I been spoke of all the way from Arizona to the Florida panhandle as a feller what can become mighty unsociable once his toes get stepped on hard enough. And I could feel my corns startin’ to pain me, right about now.

Some might of thought it foolish for me to be havin’ ideas like that, considerin’ the shape I was in just then. And maybe they’d be right. Good sense ain’t never been commented upon as a partic’lar Barkley trait.

But on t’other hand, stubbornness is. And they’s only one way I ever heard of for a man to get from here to there, no matter where “here” an’ “there” turn out to be. That’s by hitchin’ up his galluses and startin’ in to set one foot before the other.

So once I’d put on my hat and stomped back into my boots, I just pointed my nose in that southward direction where them bushwhackers rode off after they got finished leavin’ me for dead, and I set out to walkin’.

If I passed that settlement Lila mentioned this side the river, I never did see it. They was a few scattered cabins here an’ about, most of ’em well back off the road. But nothin’ what struck me as lookin’ anything like a town. And no folks I could see close enough to holler to.

Not that it concerned me a awful lot right at the moment. I wasn’t in no mood for idle conversation, and there weren’t anything I wanted to know about them outlaws what couldn’t be read in the sand road at my feet. Their sign was plain enough, ’specially since Jube ’peared to be ridin’ a mule. And I’d of recognized the tracks of my Ole Roan horse anyplace.

I reckoned it was maybe nine or ten o’clock in the morning when Purv first stepped out from the trees with his shotgun to get my attention. And I didn’t figure the whippin’ and the robbin’ I’d got took much over half a hour afterwards. By the time I’d passed by the store at Old Leno and started makin’ my way south ’crost the Natural Bridge of the Santa Fe River, the sun had climbed up to where it was pretty near direct overhead.

I was some grateful for the coolness of the deep woods all around me ’bout then, ’cause that late September sun was hot enough to make the sweat run down into the cuts an’ hurts ole Jube had put on my face, which didn’t give me much pleasure a-tall. And Lila hadn’t even left me with a kerchief in my pockets to sop up the worst of it with.

The hills an’ ravines northwest of Newnansville was beginnin’ to get my feets’ attention too before long. I’d already covered maybe six, seven miles by the time I reached ’em, and those western boots I wore wasn’t exactly made with walkin’ comfort in mind. My earlier thoughts about achin’ corns was startin’ to take on a more realistic meaning as I imagined them blisters on my toes an’ heels beginnin’ to grow larger with ever step.

Weren’t much I could do about it though, since I’d a mind to keep close an’ steady on those bushwhackers’ trail as long as I was able. You never could tell when it might cloud up to rain in this Florida land, which would wash out their tracks completely.

I might of took off my boots and gone barefoot. But seemed like ever time I’d a thought about doin’ that, I’d come acrost a big patch of sandspurs or poison ivy or somethin’ else along the road, like a fresh snake trail windin’ through the sand, which just had a tendency to change my mind.

I managed to keep from dwellin’ on my present miseries so much by lettin’ my thoughts roam back over what-all was said an’ done there amongst Purv and Lila an’ Jube after they’d jumped me — things I might not of paid real close attention to the first time around. I knew pert’ near anything I could recall would be a help in runnin’ ’em to earth, ’cause it trackin’ ain’t so much a matter of readin’ sign on the ground, as it’s knowin’ where to look for the sign in the first place. And that means understandin’ the ways of whatever critter it is you’re huntin’, be it animal or bird or human.

Some of that talk back yonder I couldn’t hardly make no sense of. Like how come Purv had called me “Barkley” right off when he seen me, and what Barkley he thought I was that I turned out not to be. It ain’t a uncommon name, I reckon. But I didn’t know of no others in this Florida country my ownself. My folks been dead quite a number of years now, and the only brother I had took off from home pretty soon after Pap was killed back in ’63. Last time I heard from him was just after the war, when he was on his way to California with a deck of cards, a fast horse, and high hopes.

Anyhow, it seemed like that Barkley feller they’d mistook me for was somebody they knowed right well once upon a time — leastways Lila had — and they wanted him back mighty serious now, wherever they come from. What was it Purv had said? ’Bout leadin’ ’em a merry chase for more’n a hundred miles? I thought that over whilst I stopped by the side of the road and pulled out my shirt-tail to try dabbin’ the sweat away from my eyes with it.

Tell you the truth, I didn’t know my way about the central an’ south part of this Florida peninsula worth a hoot, for all that I was born an’ brought up in Taylor County and spent my first eighteen years of livin’ in the state. That cow hunt down to Otter Creek a couple weeks ago was the furthest south I reckon I’d ever been. Right now I was tryin’ to picture the rest of it in my mind, from travelers’ talk and a occasional peek at a map in some general store or railroad depot here an’ there.

’Peared to me a hundred mile ought to put the place them three started out from somewheres north of Tampa Bay on the west coast, or between Mosquito Inlet and Cape Canaveral in the east. That still left a heap of country to go huntin’ round in if I happened to lose sight of their tracks. But it could of been worse. I reckoned it was near four hundred miles from where I stood right now to Cape Sable at the farthest end of the state.

Purv’s earlier words to Jube about takin’ me home to the “hammock” didn’t mean a thing of course, ’cept their place was more’n likely somewheres back up in the woods. They was more high hammocks an’ low hammocks than you could shake a stick at, all the way from the St. Marys River to the Florida Keys.

After mullin’ things over a mite longer whilst I tucked in my shirt and started makin’ tracks again, I couldn’t think of nothin’ else that was said what would be any special use to me. Lila’s remark about her uncle Ravenant’s “rules,” an’ the fact they’d somethin’ to do with not takin’ nobody along what had friends or kin anywhere about, was enough to stir up a feller’s curiosity. But without a heap more knowledge than what I’d got at the moment, I couldn’t begin to make head nor tails of it.

’Peared like the best thing right now was to not waste no more time worryin’ about all them questions I didn’t have answers to, but to start lookin’ for ways to solve the problems which was closer at hand. Like what I meant to do when and if I managed to catch up to Lila an’ Purv an’ big Jube.

I could see from the way they was travelin’ south, keepin’ up a steady pace without pushin’ their mounts no more’n they had to, that they wasn’t too concerned about bein’ followed. Which didn’t surprise me, considerin’ they figured I was dead and there weren’t no witnesses to explain how it happened.

Oh, maybe there’d of been a embarrassin’ question or two asked if they’d been real close at hand when the body was found. But it was mighty doubtful anybody’d believe a woman as young an’ pretty and lady-lookin’ as that Lila could of had somethin’ to do with it. Womenfolks was right highly thought of hereabouts, and killin’ strangers in cold blood weren’t hardly no part of people’s expectations of ’em.

Which sort of got me to ponderin’ even more serious on what I’d do if I come across them three all to onct like I’d had in mind. Plannin’ ahead ain’t one of my long suits. I always been more the type to just cinch up my belt and walk in a-swingin’. But they was a couple good reasons now for doin’ a tad more calculatin’ than was generally my custom.

First o’ course, was the fact that they’d got a couple pistols, a shotgun, and my Winchester repeater, along with maybe some other hardware I might not of took inventory of in the earlier excitement. And I hadn’t got a solitary thing but the clothes on my back and my two bare hands. Which hadn’t done me a awful lot of good earlier, against just Jube by his lonesome.

So under the circumstances, it might be a deal more healthy if I was to set eyes on them three before they seen me, instead of the other way around. And right then I realized that the way I’d been stompin’ up the road like a ole bull through a thicket, without a bit more sense or caution than that dumb critter, was liable to get me kilt before I could do even the first thing towards gettin’ any of my goods back.

I’d spent enough time out west in Indian country to know better from the git-go. But I’d been so all-fired mad about the trouble an’ the hurts I’d got, which done a sight more damage to my pride than my body if I was to be truthful about it, that for a couple hours I’d sort of forgot to take time off from my stewin’ to do any thinking.

Well, it weren’t too late to make a change, fortunately.

I stepped over to the side of the road and took in a deep breath, lettin’ myself settle down a mite and have a good long listen, whilst I studied the territory ahead and behind me. I reckoned my need to catch up to them three wasn’t so pressin’ that I couldn’t manage to start tryin’ to use my noggin in the process. And maybe even come up with some kind of a plan for what I meant to do once I did run into ’em.

They was thick woods all around where I’d stopped, with hills and ravines what kept the road from goin’ straight even a hundred yards before it disappeared round a curve or up a rise or into some li’l draw. Could be it was that layout which sort of jogged my brain back to workin’ in the first place. ’Cause if I was lookin’ for a spot to ambush some unwary traveler, I sure couldn’t do no better than this right here.

But after several cautious minutes, I was pretty sure there weren’t nothing close by except a couple mockingbirds and some katydids back off in the trees. When I finally begun moving again, I done it a heap more quiet and watchful than before, with my ears pricked and my eyes tradin’ off between the road up ahead, the ground at my feet, and the woods on both sides.

It were a sight harder followin’ sign here than it had been earlier, too. Dead leaves an’ pine needles lay thick over the road ’most everwhere I looked. Still, them three horses an’ a mule couldn’t help but leave some marks of their passin’. And a good hard rain the night before had made the sand more inclined to hold its shape whenever I got a chance to see it. But it weren’t until I come into this open place at the crest of a ridge some two, three miles further on that I had any idea how far ahead them riders was, or what they was up to.

There was a fork in the road here, with the left branch headin’ southeast towards Newnansville and then on to Gainesville some fifteen mile beyond. I’d traveled that way a couple months before, whilst I was huntin’ work or some other means of puttin’ change in my pockets.

The second road led more south, and I’d heard it caught up with a old stage route from Newnansville to the railroad at Arredonda, and then past it to the town of Micanopy.

It was mid-afternoon now, and there’d been enough traffic since daybreak so that it took me some several minutes to sort through all the tracks at that crossroads and locate the ones I’d been followin’. Turned out when I did, they wasn’t headed for Newnansville a-tall. They’d took the right-hand fork towards Micanopy, and near as I could tell they was maybe two, three hours ahead of me by this time.

I happened to notice in passin’ that the gent an’ lady in the surrey had went the other way, and it almost made me sorry to see they had. I’d been half thinkin’ about meetin’ up with them folks someplace along the road, just long enough to explain to ’em that I wasn’t no drunkard, and maybe offer a opinion or two about what I thought of travelers who’d leave a man layin’ hurt on the ground, and go makin’ spiteful comments about him to boot.

But what I’d got to say to them two weren’t near as important as the business I’d got with Lila and her compadres. So I pointed my feet to the south just soon as I’d got finished makin’ certain of their trail.

A two-, three-hour lead weren’t hardly nothin’ over a long day’s trek like this. Their mounts would be needin’ to stop and rest a heap more than I would, and to graze too, sooner or later. That’s why a man afoot in tolerable good condition can run down just about any horse in time. You could ask the Apaches about that, or some of their Mex Injun neighbors who never did bother learnin’ to ride.

’Course I knew I wasn’t makin’ anything like the kind of speed a Indian might. I hadn’t much practice travelin’ on shank’s mare lately, and I weren’t accustomed to it. Besides, I didn’t know no Injun alive who’d be fool enough to wear riding boots whilst he were a-hoofin’ it. Though I meant to keep mine on, I’d got to admit they was something of a hindrance.

But I figured I’d catch up to them three before morning, regardless. They’d be wantin’ to make camp for the night somewheres, soon or late. And without no particular worries about what was on their back trail, I expected they might do it early, leavin’ theirselves plenty of time to fix a meal and settle in comfortable before it got too dark to see good.

Me, I hadn’t no plans for doin’ any of those things until I’d got my outfit and my Ole Roan horse back. An’ that there was enough of a thought to keep me hikin’ right steady an’ purposeful through the afternoon, blisters or no blisters.

When I was maybe two, three hours further along that south fork, still not seeing much in the way of folks except a occasional farmer with his mule way off in a field, I begun to hear this peculiar clatterin’ and clankin’ noise comin’ up the road behind me. It was kind of faint at first, but kept gettin’ louder an’ louder by the minute. Nearest thing I could liken it to was some kind of a altercation between two bull gators in a li’l ole kitchen shack piled high to the rafters with pots an’ pans.

I was out amongst some open rolling fields by this time, without no proper cover for a mile or better in any direction. There wasn’t no question of hidin’, even if I’d a notion that clankin’, creakin’ she-bang were something needed hidin’ from. And I’d a pretty fair idea it weren’t. Nothin’ what made that kind of a racket was goin’ to ever get close enough to do nobody harm, without their havin’ plenty of warnin’ and time to take measures to protect theirselves first.

But I was growin’ almighty curious to find out what it was. So I kept slowin’ my steps and peekin’ back over my shoulder, until finally I just stopped altogether and waited alongside the road whilst that unruly contraption come over the top of the rise behind me.