Dorothy Garlock - [Annie Lash 03] (22 page)

Ramon de la Vega was angry. He scanned the shoreline with his glass and saw nothing of the men who were to meet him at first light. Before daylight, risking damage to his craft, he had drifted a mile downriver to the meeting place.

Having been convinced the woman he sought was of rare beauty, he had sent three of his most reliable men with the German. The man she was with was a breed. Kruger had said that he insisted on bedding down with her away from the others, no doubt to satisfy his sexual perversions.

Four men should surely be able to handle one half-breed. But if the German had led the other men into a trap, and if he came out alive, he would wish he were dead long before he drew his last breath!

“Julio!”

“Si, señor.”

“Send Dixon ashore to look around.”

Julio hesitated, then asked, “Alone?”

“
Si,
you fool. How many men does it take to look around? Tell him to look for a sign they’ve been there and had to go on downriver.”

Julio turned away and kicked at one of the oarsmen sleeping on the deck. He sat up and turned on Julio with a clenched fist.

“Get up,” Julio said loudly and then hissed in a low voice. “Move or he’ll cut yore throat.” Loudly again, he said, “The
señor
want you to go ashore.”

“What for?”

“Look for sign. See if ya can see anything of the men sent to the homesteader’s. The
señor’s
workin’ hisself into a fit,” he added in a whisper.

Noah Dixon rose hurriedly to his feet, casting fearful glances at Vega. A few days after they left Natchez he had learned how cruel the man could be. Because Noah had grumbled about being at the oars for a twelve-hour stretch, the Spaniard had had the men hold him while he lopped off the end of Noah’s forefinger. The pain had sent him into a faint. He had come to only when Julio had held a hot iron to the end of his finger to stop the bleeding.

Dixon was slight, agile and young, still in his teens. He went over the side, into the canoe Kruger had brought downriver, and grabbed a paddle. He angled and tacked as he crossed the river, wishing to God he had the nerve to beach the canoe and head off through the woods to the homesteader’s place. He had heard Vega telling Julio they would not attack the homestead at this time, that he planned to return sometime later with a larger crew. The German had told Vega that there were two Negroes at MacMillan’s but could not recall their names. Vega thought one of them might be his runaway, Caleb.

The idea of deserting became more and more appealing to Dixon. He’d more than likely never make it back to Natchez anyway. If he was going to be killed, he would as soon it be by the homesteader as by the crazy, puffed-up little dandy who was so free with the whip and sword.

Vega had whipped one poor bastard nearly to death for grabbing at the Indian maid he’d set aside for his own personal use. In a fit of rage he had run another man through with his sword when the man had fallen asleep at the oars. Dixon had been ordered to help throw the body over the side and had watched it twisting and turning as it went downriver.

Noah freely admitted that he had committed his share of sins. He’d taken his turn with the white woman because he was horny as a two-peckered goat, and she had been willing. But more than that, he hadn’t wanted the men to tease him if he didn’t.

He tried to close his mind to the Indian maids who sat in an opium stupor in the cabin because there was nothing he could do. The trip downriver would take at least three weeks—less if they could use the sail. Would the women be alive when they reached Natchez?

He beached the canoe on a sandbar, looked back toward the keelboat and lifted his hand before he turned into the woods. He had no weapon; Vega kept them locked up, allowing the crew to carry only their eating knives unless the boat were attacked. Dixon had been so eager for a little time to himself that he had forgotten to ask Julio for a gun or a knife.

The woods were dim, cool and quiet. The wave of waterfowl that had flown up when he approached the bank had settled farther downriver. Well out of sight of the Spaniard’s spyglass, Dixon stopped and leaned against the trunk of a towering oak. His boots, stirring the dry leaves, made the only sound. What to do? This was the first time he had been alone since he had signed on to crew this hell-boat.

His eyes roamed the woods around him. Nothing moved except a squirrel busy packing away acorns for winter. He wondered what was keeping the men from returning to the boat. Had they failed to capture the woman? It was unlikely that four men would be unable to overpower one, if the German had told the straight of it. Dixon’s stomach churned at the thought of killing a man and stealing his wife to be used by that sorry piece of cow dung who was considered “quality” by the folks back home.

He thought of his ma and his sisters back on the bayou. Admittedly, he had traveled far from his ma’s teachings, had done things he hoped and prayed she would never find out about, but he had not dishonored a woman or killed a man except for a Delaware who was trying to kill him.

Having unconsciously made his decision, Dixon started off through the woods, stopping occasionally to listen for voices. What would he do if he met Rico and the men on their way back to the meeting place? They would be sure to kill him if they thought he was going to desert, and the homesteader would kill him on sight if the boatmen had taken the woman.

The thought caused Dixon to pause. Life was good back home. He didn’t want to die here in this lonely place. If he returned to the keelboat and told the Spaniard he had seen nothing and the man didn’t believe him, he would think no more of running him through with his sword than of swatting a fly.

Standing with his back to a large tree, with only the sounds of fluttering birds to break the silence, Noah felt a sudden chill of apprehension. Fear raised the hair on the back of his neck and on his arms. He tilted his head to listen and heard a slight rasping sound behind him. Before he could turn, a blow to the back of his head knocked him off his feet. His eyes crossed, his vision blurred and he sank into blackness.

*  *  *

After a morning meal of bread, hot gruel and tea, Light left Maggie and Aee fussing over Zee in the sickroom and walked down to the creek, where MacMillan said he would find Caleb. The huge Negro was skinning a large catfish. In his belt was a knife and a tomahawk. A strong bow and a quiver of arrows lay nearby. He grinned at Light as he approached.

Light found Caleb to be a strange blend of brawn and sharp native intelligence. His body, hardened by a lifetime of backbreaking labor, was all interlocking muscles, yet his hands were remarkably deft as he handled the fish-skinning knife. The large golden eyes had a soft sadness in their depths. He appeared to be cheerful by nature rather than bitter over his hard and degrading years as a slave.

Light nodded a greeting.

Caleb responded.

“You’ve got a good bow,” Light said, and lifted the five-foot-long shaft of carefully selected ash strung with two buffalo sinews twisted together for extra strength.

“Yas’sah.” Caleb chuckled. “Many Spots learn me how to make it an’ shoot it. Mista Mac show me how to shoot the gun, but I load the bow faster an’ I hits what I shoots at. It don’t make no racket an’ don’t let out no smoke.” He flourished his skinning knife. “An’ I ain’t havin’ to tote no lead balls, waddin’, firin’ pins, an’ gunpowder.”

A rare smile flashed across Light’s face, then lightning-fast, it disappeared as if it had no right to be there.

“Many Spots says that Vega moved downriver before daylight and tied up again. He’s waiting to rendezvous with the men he sent to kill me and take my wife.”

“That devil man ain’t goin’ t’ like it none a’tall if he be countin’ on gettin’ the little missy.”

“I’m not sure Kruger will return to the boat. He’ll take off downriver by himself, which means he’ll have to steal another canoe.”

“Devil man maybe kill him, he go back. If he don’t, he sure t’ cut off ears or nose.”

“What’s Vega’s next move? Do you think he will go back downriver when he finds out he lost three men?”

Caleb’s eyes went round with astonishment. No man other than Mr. Mac had ever asked his opinion on anything.

“No, sah. If that No-Hair man tell ’im Caleb here, he not go . . . yet. Them folks take it hard when a nigga run. He wants t’ get me back an’ cut me t’ pieces with dat whip. Dat’d make ’im feel good.”

“I understand he’s been here two other times and, each time, he asked about you.”

“Mis-put him a plenty dat I run an’ he ain’t found me yet.”

“If he started out with eight crewmen, he has five men left, four to row and one at the steering oar. I have an idea how we can make him even more short-handed than he is, if you and Many Spots will help me.”

“I ain’t talkin’ for Many Spots, Mista Light, but yo sho’ got my he’p.”

Light squatted down on his haunches and told Caleb his plan while he drew a map of the river in the dirt with a stick.

“If he’s tied up here”—Light poked the stick in the ground—“and Many Spots says he is, there is a sandbar that stretches out about twenty feet. Behind it is a thick stand of bushes and trees.”

“Yo kin get out a sight fast.”

“That’s the idea. We’ll be using you for bait, Caleb. I’m counting on Vega seeing you and sending some of his men to get you. Many Spots and I will be waiting for them.”

Caleb’s eyes danced with laughter. “I can sho be the drunkest nigga yo ever did see, Mista Light. An’ I can run like a scalded cat.”

Light smiled again. He liked the man more and more.

*  *  *

When they left the homestead, Light set a fast pace through the woods. Maggie was behind him; Many Spots and MacMillan brought up the rear. Paul, Eli and Linus were digging graves for the rivermen Linus and Caleb had brought in at daylight. Many Spots had been contemptuous of the burial, but MacMillan had insisted.

Aee was tending to Zee, who had developed a fever during the night, and was keeping an eye on the disgruntled Osage warriors who prowled about the homestead. They were disappointed that there had been no fighting, and they were eager to be on their ponies and away.

With Kruger roaming the woods, Light insisted on keeping Maggie with him, even though MacMillan questioned the decision.

“My wife goes where I go.” Light said the words with such finality that the homesteader said nothing further on the matter.

In her buckskin britches, her hair pushed up under her old hat, Maggie looked like a slim boy. Carrying her bow, her quiver of arrows on her shoulder, she easily kept pace with Light. She was happy. Light had explained to her what they planned to do. He was including her. She would stand beside him and make him proud. The woods were quiet and restful after the activity at the homestead. Maggie loved the woods, longed to let her feet take wings and run, run, run—

They walked steadily for half an hour, hearing only the sounds of birds, squirrels and pack rats scurrying through the mat of leaves. Many Spots veered off the trail to check on Caleb’s progress rowing downriver in a canoe with two jugs that, to Vega watching with the spyglass, would appear to be whiskey.

Abruptly, Light’s arm shot out to stop Maggie and push her into the thick undergrowth alongside the trail. MacMillan followed.

A long silent moment passed, then Light cautiously raised himself to a kneeling position so that nothing of him was visible from the trail. He waited a moment before motioning to Maggie and MacMillan.

“Something ahead. No birds.”

“Animal?”

“No.”

When he heard the chirping of birds again, Light beckoned and they moved silently once more along the trail. Maggie remembered to stay calm as she followed Light, her bow in her hand. Light had said nerves were a worse enemy than the meanest Delaware alive.

They had come around a thick stand of sumac and not a dozen yards ahead was a man lying on the ground. Once again they sidled off the trail and into the undergrowth and waited until Light motioned. Then they cautiously approached the still figure. MacMillan knelt down beside the man on the ground while Light’s sharp eyes searched for movement and his ears for the slightest sound.

“He ain’t dead. Gol-durnit, he ain’t no more’n a boy with peach fuzz on his jaws. Why ya reckon somebody hit ’im for?” MacMillan turned Dixon over. “Hellfire! If he had a gun or a knife, he ain’t got it now. He’s got nothin’ on him but a eatin’ knife.”

“I just betcha it was that mean old Kruger,” Maggie said.

“Wasn’t no tomahawk what done it. He’d a been dead.”

Many Spots trotted toward them from the river. “Caleb comin’. What this here?” He touched Dixon with his foot. “Want me kill ’im?”

“No, he be just a boy.”

“We must go,” Light said urgently. “We can tend him on the way back . . . if he’s here.”

“Whoever hit ’im heard us comin’.”

Before they came out of the woods above the river where Caleb was to beach his canoe, Light motioned the others to stay behind. He crept forward to peer through the bushes. Now he could hear Caleb coming along just outside the reeds. He appeared to be drunk and was singing what he called a “moaning” song.

Light melted back into the forest where the others waited.

“Caleb is almost there. If they send a boat out, he will pretend not to notice until they are almost ready to beach it, then he’ll run toward that tree.” Light pointed to a tree that had been uprooted during the last storm.

“We kill?” Many Spots asked.

“Depends,” Light said. “We’ll see what they do. Use only the bows. No gunfire. We want to keep Vega guessing for as long as we can.”

“What you want captives for?” Many Spots asked MacMillan.

MacMillan shrugged. “If they be like the German, I kill ’em. I can’t have that sort ’round my womenfolk.”

“Kill ’em now,” Many Spots said.

“Ya can see he ain’t got much use for rivermen,” MacMillan explained to Light. “It was rivermen who killed his two boys last year. He thinks it was men from Vega’s boat. The younguns was jist playin’ along the riverbank. Bastards used ’em t’ practice on.”