Thunder in the Valley Read online

  Zelda burned with fever. I forced a few more drops of liquor down her. Her breathing was shallow, her heart faint; she was too weak to open her eyes. Now and then she mumbled, the words too garbled to understand. Finally, she slept. If she lasted till daylight, the spitfire had a chance. I knew nothing else to do for her. I didn’t bother washing her wounds, sleep seemed more important for her that night.

  I roasted deer liver and heart on a stick, downed them, then cooked slices of front quarter and ate my fill. Afterwards, I brought Abel’s larder inside for safekeeping, stacked the silver pouches and fur bundles against the rendezvous tree, and heaped more wood on the outside fire.

  Worn-out and hurting all over, I dozed beside Zelda till past midnight. Wolf howling roused me. The horses stayed in place, nervous but too tired for venturesome doings. I built up the outside fire again, then slid the hearth log ahead inside.

  Sweat shone on Zelda’s forehead and cheeks. She awakened, looked at me without recognition and went right back to sleep. The fever had a powerful grip on her. Dawn would tell the story for her.

  Before sleeping again I wedged Zelda’s pot in hot coals beside the hearth log and boiled chunks of deer meat, preparing broth for the next awakening.

  First light found me chopping cane above camp. The early morning air was the warmest yet, and with some hearty blows I chopped a hole through the creek ice nearest the horses. While they chewed cane, I led them one at a time to the ice hole for a long drink.

  The horses were a solidly built lot, firmly muscled, free of pack sores and well gentled. Hasper had obviously lavished care on them, probably on strict orders from Abel. Stillwagon was known for better treatment of his horses than his fellowman or white women. Few folks beyond Fort Pitt would miss such a brute. It shamed me the Hannars had ever had any dealings with him for any reason, good or bad. Scheme with the devil and you might burn forever in the nether reaches of hell. As I might yet. The Fort Frye crowd wouldn’t heap any praise on me for killing Abel and forget other transgressions like the Injun trading and robbery, not by a long sight. Guilt was guilt to their way of reckoning.

  I stepped through the door hole expecting Zelda’s fever had lessened. The heat in her had worsened instead. Sweat poured down her face in rivulets. Her breathing seemed weaker. One look and I knew she needed more care. But what? I fought down a surge of helplessness and determined anything was better than nothing. When sick animals grew too cold, Jeremiah warmed then. When they got too hot, he cooled them.

  I grabbed the noggin, fetched cold water from the ice hole, and splashed her face and neck. The water washed away the dried blood. The cuts had dried over and showed no festering or proud flesh, signs Jeremiah always watched for. If Zelda hung on till the fever passed, she might survive.

  I carried water from the ice hole countless times. Every now and then she’d commence shivering and I’d hold her close and rock her. Soon as the burning took hold again, I plied her with cold water. At midday and twice well into the next evening and night she swallowed a few sips of meat broth. Through it all her eyes never opened.

  In between times, I gathered wood like a crazed squirrel collecting acorns and fed and watered each horse at least once at the creek. I slept in snatches of a few minutes here and there.

  Just before dawn the second day, a calm came over Zelda. Her breathing finally deepened and her cheeks were cool to the touch. I hated to leave her for any length of time, but I did long enough for a scout round about in all directions. We were alone in the midst of a white-blanketed wildemess beginning to run wet with melting snow. The sun had a brassy hue at daybreak.

  The outside fire burned down to coals. I fetched wood for the cooking fire and Zelda’s eyes were not only open, they followed my every move.

  She appeared terribly small beneath the folds of the greatcoat. Her features were white and drawn, green eyes hollow and rimmed with black.

  “I must look a sight,” Zelda murmured.

  “That you do,” I agreed. “But you’re alive nonetheless.” I dipped the noggin in the kettle and slipped down beside her. She managed three goodly swallows with me holding her upright. I wiped her chin and got her settled again.

  Zelda opened her mouth, but I shushed her, refilled the noggin, and talked while I chewed and sipped. “Stillwagon and Hasper-whatever are dead and gone. How doesn’t matter, they’re stiff as logs. That leaves me and you and four good pack animals. You’re mighty sick and will be weak for a long while. Best we get you home and a roof over your head. A thaw has set in and the weather will change. Trust me, it’ll come up a rain sure as sunrise and every creek twixt here and your cabin will be waist-deep with runoff in no time atall. We taken out of here early tomorrow and we can reach your place in three days before the worst of the wet weather hits.”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head side to side.

  Before she spoke, I started right in again. “I’ll cut that hide robe down so you’ll have a coat and tie you on a horse. We’ve got to move, girl. I can’t be sure the Injuns aren’t following Abel with a mind to steal back those hides he traded for. And your paw can tend you regular,” I added.

  Of the silver cache I made no mention. The riches in those pouches outside complicated things a mite. A sick and weakened Zelda had to be taken to the very doorstep of the Shaw cabin, increasing the danger someone would see me, and, if being spotted downriver was dangerous before, it was doubly so now. Suppose my shirttail cousin Hezekial Parsons had knowledge of Abel’s scheme to gain possession of the Injun silver. If Hezekial caught wind I was back with packhorses and no Stillwagon, he’d hire the Ballards and send them after me. Maybe he couldn’t deal with me out in the open and risk sharing a hanging rope, but Hezekial would try to steal the silver with others of his own ilk. His gold was as good as Colonel Van Hove’s where the Ballards were concerned. I wagged my head in dismay. I was still fleeing for my life, but now in the opposite direction with the Injuns behind and white men up ahead. Nobody’d believe my story on a deathbed.

  Before she could protest my speechifying, Zelda drifted off to sleep. Her breathing was steady, her color good but not flushed, and her forehead was clear of sweat. She looked as peaceful as an angel.

  I spent the morning gathering firewood, chopping a new hearth log, and cutting cane in a brake further upcreek. My snares held two rabbits, which I cleaned, skinned, and cut apart for stew. Along with the jerked meat and Injun pemmican in Abel’s larder, we’d enough food stock for a week on the trail.

  In the bottom of Abel’s larder pouch I discovered a muslin sack filled with ground meal. I switched the meal to a leather bag and washed the muslin cloth in the ice hole. Zelda would want to cover that ugly cut clean across her forehead soon as she made ready to leave the rendezvous tree. The collar of the buffalo robe was high enough to hide her neck wound. She set store by her appearance on occasion, and I wanted no delays when it was time for weighing anchor. She might still surprise the daylights out of me, but I was beginning to understand her some what. Just somewhat, not a lot. She certainly handled a lot easier flat sick on her back. Hard to be cantankerous with your eyes closed, don’t you know.

  Zelda slept the day through. I made a late afternoon scout, saw nothing of interest, and after feeding the pack animals, boiled a kettle of rabbit and deer stew seasoned with two handfuls of Abel’s meal and salt from one of Jeremiah’s little glass jars I’d had in my haversack since leaving our cabin way back when.

  At dusk Zelda’s eyes popped open and she ate like a starved woods rat, chewing fast and furious. She finished, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled wide. “Lordy, that was tasty.”

  I passed her the washed muslin cloth I’d dried over the fire before she awakened. Her eyes fairly shone at the sight of it. “For to cover your head wound,” I stammered.

  “I know, I know,” she exclaimed. In no time she had the cloth tied in place. Her appearance was much more pleasant with that nasty knife slash covered over.
/>   But even that little bit of excitement took its toll. She was suddenly tired and flopped back on the buffalo robe. “Lordy, I be all in and I’ve hardly moved a lick.”

  “I’ll carry you out to your horse in the morning,” I reassured her. “With your legs tied under him, you can ride up there like a king in his carriage and chew on dried meat and pemmican all the while. It’ll be the easiest chore you’ve faced in many a moon.”

  “It won’t be anything such, but if that’s how you see it, fine with me. I won’t be left behind, don’t you know,” she said.

  “Girl, if I never finish anything else in all my born days, you’ll live to see the smile on your paw’s face when we ride up in front of your cabin. Your brothers and Abel and Hasper and a passel of Injuns lay dead across half the country hereabouts, but you’re alive and kicking, somewhat feeble I admit, but still drawing breath, and I aim to be sure one good thing comes from all the killin’s been done, no matter who had a hand in it. Do we understand each other?”

  Either she was too tired to argue or didn’t figure she could win this time around. She nodded and said, “We’ll do it your way, tall man. It’s what I asked of you all along. Let me sleep till I’m hungry, won’t you now?”

  With that, she smacked her lips, buried a cheek in the hair of the buffalo robe, and dozed off.

  I heaved a big sigh and drank my way through a warm noggin of bark tea. I’d climbed back into that box with no lid: I’d made a promise I’d keep even if it cost me my life. Something about this slip of a girl-woman got deeper and deeper under a man’s skin the longer you were around her. She drew you to her like the heat of a fire on a cold night. There was no turning away without thinking a heap less of yourself.

  And with that realization I rekindled the night fire and fed the horses, stirred by my deep feelings for her, but at the same time awed by the fearful burden being responsible for another, particularly a woman down and hurting, placed on a man. She was the biggest challenge of my young life.

  Chapter 16

  January 24

  Zelda called for food short of midnight. She did herself proud, then squirmed deeper into the buffalo robe. I felt her cheek with the back of my hand and found it cool to the touch. My hand lingered and she gave me a soft warm-eyed smile before turning and falling asleep.

  All her rest was necessary. Once under way tomorrow, the nearest camp with good shelter was Rasher Morgan’s lean-to. Between here and there awaited a sight of open country.

  A thin crescent moon hung high and the melting snow glistened like crystal in the silver light. The air was warmer tonight than last as the thaw deepened. A few spotty clouds scuttled across the face of the narrow moon. Rain was a few days away, but coming nonetheless.

  During the night hours a new problem arose. The outside fire held those creatures who prowled the darkness at bay, well away from the hobbled horses. But across the creek where I’d dumpd the bodies of Abel and Hasper I heard movement and low growling. The thought of wolves and other varmints worrying their flesh sat poorly with me. Those were white men just like me, lying exposed for all comers to push the brush aside and gnaw on. Something had to be done for them.

  I set about a search of the fur bundles stacked by the rendezvous tree. Hidden deep in the last bundle I located what I was sure Abel had stashed somewhere in his cache—a small keg of powder. Old-war-horses like Stillwagon never lacked a powder supply when embarking on a long downriver journey. The keg of powder solved my problem come daylight.

  In the coldest part of the night just before dawn, I was hard at it preparing for a departure shortly after first light. Each horse had to be unhobbled, watered at the creek, led back, and tied in line. I positioned the wooden-treed pack saddles on each back and secured them with cross-strapping and belly cinches. Lumping the fur bundles in a single load freed a horse for Zelda. The silver pouches, hobbles, and sundry equipment made a second saddle full. The final riderless animal carried our food larder and the corn liquor. I left the pack animals lined out, munching the last of the cane, and went inside for Zelda.

  She sat upright beside the dying fire, buffalo robe about her shoulders, boiled rabbit meat in one hand and iron noggin in the other. “I’m ready,” she said quickly round a mouthful.

  “Good, we’ve got a twenty-mile ride ahead. Stand so I can make a coat for you.”

  With her hands full, the robe fell at her feet when she stood. I stepped behind her, held the robe full-length, and marked where she needed armholes with the point of my knife. A few fast slashes here and there and the robe was a coat complete with slots for a rope waist belt.

  She finished the rabbit, dropped the noggin in the kettle, and slipped both arms through while I held her new coat. Zelda knotted the rope belt and exclaimed, “It be heavy, but it feels good, tall man.”

  I pointed through the door hole and followed her. She waddled in the heavy robe-coat, but she’d not suffer from cold during daylight. The muslin cloth was a white band circling her head.

  I boosted her aboard the lead horse. Zelda took note of the soft pelt I’d· tied over the wooden centerpieces of the pack saddle as she swung her leg across the animal. Dressed in buckskin breeches, she rode astraddle like a man without any concern for appearance.

  Zelda raised an eyebrow and without a spoken word between us I retrieved her kettle from the rendezvous tree and tied it atop the food larder packed on the horse directly behind her. “I’ll probably be buried with the damn thing,” I muttered.

  She heard me and laughed heartily for the first time in days. She was as ready for a long ride as I could get her.

  I stepped to the head of her horse and fisted the lead rein, Abel’s long-rifle cradled in the crook of my off arm. I looked back at her. She knew by my expression my mood was suddenly serious. “I’ve a chore needs doing before we’re off. But first I’m gonna put you out of harm’s way.”

  I worked the pack train, tied head-to-tail, down the ice past the creek bend closest to camp and tied Zelda’ s horse to a tree trunk slanting out over the frozen water. The ice was thawing, but would hold horse weight another day at least.

  I handed Zelda the long rifle and backtracked upstream. Dragging Abel and Hasper free of the brush and back across the creek set me to sweating. I shed the greatcoat, pulled and tugged their stiffened bodies through the door hole, then placed them beside each other. After covering them with every last speck of remaining firewood, I fetched Abel’s powder keg, freed the stopper, and trailed a line of black powder twixt the entryway and their resting place. Next I wedged the keg between them, taking pains to ensure the powder trail ran right under the open hole in the upended keg.

  A thin branch burst into flame soon as I stuck it in the glowing embers of the cooking fire. At the doorway I stopped and lighted the powder trail. It flared and hissed and I grabbed my greatcoat and ran for Zelda and the horses.

  I drew near them, donning the greatcoat on the move. Before Zelda could ask for an explanation of my disappearance a deep, booming explosion shook the ground. A shaft of flame thrust above the trees and brush screening the camp. A column of black smoke billowed upward behind the widening fire ball, and the top of the rendezvous tree swayed but didn’t topple. The gun-broke pack animals fidgeted a bit and held steady. The crackling of a fast-burning fire reached us.

  “Matthan, what in hell’s name be you doin’? Any Injun within miles of here can spy that smoke and know where we be,” Zelda observed in her old tart-mouthed fashion.

  “Never you mind. I couldn’t leave even scoundrels like Stillwagon and bent-footed Hasper where the woods beasts could have at them. They was white men same as your brothers.”

  Hurtful memories dropped her head and she sat quietly while I tied her feet together beneath the belly of the horse. “We must get along right smart and put a heap of territory behind us. I won’t halt lessen you yell out. We’ll noon when we reach the high ground overlooking the Muskingum short of the Narrows and not before, you understand?”


  Zelda nodded and handed me the rifle. In return I pulled her brother’s pistol from a pocket of the greatcoat and handed the weapon to her. “It’s loaded. Stick it in the front of your coat. If anybody or anything waylays us, wait as long as you can, then shoot and hang on to those crosstrees till I reach your side.” She nodded again and followed orders. Her face had a wan look already. She was in for a mighty mean time of it.

  There wasn’t any grass growing under our feet, but I whistled up the horses and taken out of there downcreek.

  Despite his questionable and brutish character, at horse handling and training, Stillwagon was one of the best. The pack train clipped along steadily without any misbehavior, surefooted and big of heart; they worked at things right proper. Their breath puffed in the damp morning air. Before reaching the juncture of the creek and the Muskingum, we halted just once for load balancing and a tightening of holding straps and belly cinches. The morning sped by.

  Zelda rode slack-bodied, head bobbing when she slept briefly, hands locked on the saddle trees. No word of protest or complaint passed her lips: she’d do to ride the river with.

  At the Muskingum before we began the climb for high ground, I shook her awake, got a couple of jolts of corn liquor down her gullet, and, handed her a rabbit leg. Eyes watering from the liquor, she smiled her thanks, mighty weak but sincere as all get out.

  The longest and roughest part of the day’s journey awaited. The river ice showed dark patches here and there, sign frozen water was melting and weakening, and stretches of massed and jumbled ice chunks made for much zigzagging travel and wasted time. The high ground, while cut by a gully here and there and scored with piles of rock rubble at certain points, was safer and more favorable for pack train travel. So to high ground we went.

  It took some scrambling and hard breathing, but the horses made it up there. I gave the animals a blow, got them lined out again, tied one of Zelda’s wrists to a saddle tree so she wouldn’t tip over and hurt herself, then led off down the ridge line. The winding trail had softened in the weak winter sunlight but as yet hadn’t turned to slush and mud. That came tomorrow if the thaw persisted.