Love and Cherish Read online

  She would be ready for him, Cherish vowed. Taking a quick look to make sure that no one was watching, she unrolled the other blanket and took out the hand gun, the powder and shot. The gun was too large to conceal in her dress, so she made a sling from her shawl, placed the gun, powder and shot inside and looped the shawl over her shoulder. She sat back then, feeling a small measure of security.

  CHAPTER

  * 2 *

  It was dusk when Jess Burgess came back to camp. For one delicious moment hope sprang into Cherish’s heart that Roy had returned when she heard Jess laughing and talking with someone. Her joy died quickly when he came into view followed by two heavily bearded men dressed in soiled buckskins. They had large awkward packs of furs strapped on their backs.

  “Irm,” Jess called. “Get some grub on.”

  Mrs. Burgess came out from under the brush arbor scratching her stomach.

  “Where ya been?” she whined. “Who ya got there?” The small eyes in the fat face squinted against the smoke raised by the too-green wood that had been placed on the fire.

  “We got us some callers. Fix ’em some grub.”

  “Grub’s gettin’ low, Jess,” she complained. But the chance to listen to the men talk was irresistible, and she went without further protest to the meal sack and once again formed the soft, wet cakes.

  The trappers left their shoulder packs at the edge of the camp, but placed their rifles on the ground near at hand where they squatted by the fire. They looked openly at Cherish. From the way they smirked at her, she guessed that Jess had been discussing her with them.

  He passed a jug around and each man took a swig, wiping his mouth afterward with the back of his hand. A couple more rounds and the trappers were laughing and elbowing each other, having a great time regaling Jess and Jerd, who sat crosslegged near his father, with tall tales of their exploits in the wilderness. Mrs. Burgess passed out pone cakes and went back to sit beside her daughter. The jug made the rounds again . . . and again.

  The talk became crude and the men grinned inanely across the campfire at Cherish, who, filled with a growing uneasiness, edged as far away as it was possible to go and still remain in her shelter.

  The light was fading and so were Cherish’s spirits. Numb with fatigue, she sat silently and listened to the talk. She knew instinctively that she must not fall asleep, that she must keep her wits about her if she were to survive the night.

  Sometimes she actually found the conversation interesting. Jess was curious about the Indians. One of the trappers, older, heavy-set and with a scar near his right eye, had been in the area longer than the other one. He told about the Cherokee Indians being the finest thieves in the world.

  “Why, they can steal yore pack right out from under yore nose,” he said. “They can sneak up on a body and be not more’n spittin’ distance before ya know it. That is, down wind.” The trapper laughed loudly. “God, them Injins do stink.”

  “The only one I know of that beats an Injin in sneakin’ is that Frenchie and his damn dog.” The other trapper wanted to get in on the telling of the tale to the gullible Jess. “I swear he can move through the woods like a haint in a thicket. Injins don’t pay him no mind, him bein’ blood brother to some high muckamuck. Hit beats all, but they let him be.”

  Cherish was even more tired than she knew. She sat with her knees drawn up, arms hugging them. Gradually the men’s voices became a hypnotic drone in her ears. Her head began to nod—she jerked awake. She nodded off again—then jerked awake. Finally she gave in. Resting her head on her arms, she fell asleep.

  The snap of a twig woke her. She stirred ever so slightly, but did not raise her head. Jess had come to the edge of her shelter and stood looking down at her. Satisfied that she was asleep, he returned to the campfire. He leaned toward the trappers and began to talk rapidly, keeping his voice low. But not low enough. The drift of his conversation froze Cherish’s blood.

  He was talking about her.

  “Ya can have her for a price,” Jess was saying. “No more and no less’n a bag a powder, one a shot, ten pelts and that thar skinnin’ knife.”

  “Yo’re wantin’ a heap.”

  “She’ll keep yore bed warm on a cold night. Ain’t sure, but don’t think she been busted yet.”

  Cherish tried not to move, not to let them know that she was awake and listening.

  “Ya ain’t never seen no woman like ’er,” Jess said. “Ya ort to see her standin’ up in just her chimmy. Prettiest sight ya ever did see. Skin’s white as milk.” He paused to let them drink that in.

  “How’d ya know that?” The younger of the pair was eager to hear more.

  Jess laughed. “I touched it. Today. Down by the river. Kissed her too. Would’a done more, but my kid came bustin’ in. She got lips sweet as sorghum.”

  Cherish writhed inwardly.

  “I ain’t ever had me no white-skinned woman.”

  “Hell, I’m thinkin’ yore ma warn’t even one. Think ya was had by a grizzly bear.” The men laughed uproariously. “Iffn we get horny, we can buy us a woman from the Injins at the slave market.”

  “Not like ’er, Seth. They’s usually broke down.”

  “We might get us a young’un. They catch ’em and sell ’em all up along the Lakes, those that last long enough to get thar. Some’s real pert lookin’. Kind’a hard for us to get up there, though. Then we’d have to get ’er back past that Frenchie—”

  “But this ’n’s a real beaut!” Jess insisted.

  “Hit don’t make no difference in the dark.” The older trapper shook his head. “’Sides, she don’t look big enough to tote much,” he grumbled.

  “She ain’t big, but she’s stout when it comes to totin’ a load,” Jess insisted. He added craftily, “But if you ain’t satisfied, you won’t have no trouble sellin’ ’er.”

  “Ol’ Mote’d have ’er wore down to a nubbin in two day flat. Huh, Mote?”

  “Ya ain’t no slouch even if yo’re purt-nigh forty year old,” Mote retorted, and the other man laughed as if he had been paid a high compliment.

  Cherish’s nerves screamed as she listened. She sat tensely, her head on her arms, waiting for them to stop talking so she could think about getting away.

  “At your price we ort to see what we’re a gettin’,” suggested the younger of the trappers. He glanced toward the place where Cherish sat seemingly asleep.

  “No,” Jess said quickly. “Not in front of my old woman. She’s hell on wheels when she’s riled. Not that she cares ’bout the gal—thinks she’s a snooty bitch—but would think it her duty, ya know.” He jerked his head toward the place where Mrs. Burgess and Jerd had retreated long ago.

  The fire had burned low. Cherish chanced opening her eyes a slit to peek at the men. Actually she could smell them better than she could see them: a rank, greasy, rancid odor that she didn’t think even the Kentucky River would wash away. She peered at them sitting by the fire. They stank and acted like animals. Except that animals, she thought with disgust, were more decent and a lot cleaner.

  Almost sick with fear, she heard Jess tell them:

  “I’ll send ’er to the river come mornin’ to get water. Take ’er from there. Don’t pay no never mind to the ruckus she kicks up. She’ll take real good to tamin’, and come ’round to it right enough and be respectful-like.” He leered and elbowed the younger trapper, who responded by making an obscene gesture with his hands. “Ya can drop yore load anytime ya want.”

  Revulsion washed over Cherish in such an engulfing flood that she almost fainted. She pictured herself being dragged along with a thong tied around her neck, for that was surely the only way they could ever force her to accompany them. Horrible pictures flashed through her mind as she imagined herself struggling like a poor animal slowly dying in one of their cruel traps.

  With nerves taut as a drawn bowstring, she watched them bed down for the night, thankful that they came no closer but stayed across the campfire from her. Hot tears welled up
in her eyes, filled them, spilled over and ran unheeded down her cheeks. She licked the salt from her lips and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. At last she lay down on her side, her face to the fire, misery seeping into every pore and bone in her body.

  Tensely she waited for Jess and the trappers to fall asleep. She hoped that the warm night and the liquor would hurry the process. This was the worst of all, the waiting. She couldn’t help thinking of herself and what future she could have after spending any time in the woods with those two pitiful excuses for men. What decent man would want her in his home after that? Every time he looked at her he would remember. It made her feel unclean, made her shudder to think of what lay ahead of her if she could not make good her escape.

  The fire was dying down, its smoke drifting low. Cherish lay still, thinking hard. She would wait until the fire burned a little lower and try to count the snores of the men. She lay tense, not moving, listening intently.

  She must not miscalculate. She must be sure. Yes, she could hear the three distinct snores. She hoped and prayed that one of them didn’t belong to the boy, Jerd, or to Mrs. Burgess, or Unity. Picking up the blanket that held her possessions, she hugged it against her with one hand and quickly shaped the other blanket into a roll that would resemble her sleeping form should one of the men happen to wake and glance into her lean-to. Clutching the shawl-sling and the blanket, she began crawling, praying that she would make no more noise than the rustle of a leaf stirring in the wind.

  One of the sleeping men grunted and turned over. Cherish didn’t allow that to hurry her. She stopped until his breathing became even and regular. When she was sure that he was sound asleep again, she moved on, not more than a few inches at a time, shifting a hand or a knee, moving so slowly that it seemed to take hours to back out of the brush lean-to.

  Finally she was out. Resisting the impulse to stand up and run, she continued to crawl like a baby creeping across a floor. She would move, then stop and listen, testing each time she placed a hand or a knee on the ground. She must not snap a twig, or make any unnatural sound. Heart pounding, she reached the path and silently crawled toward the river.

  A plan was forming in her mind. She would head back toward the Ohio. With any luck she might run into a group of settlers who would help her get back to Virginia. She shouldn’t think about that now, she reminded herself. Knowing that the trappers would track her, she had to keep her mind on the present. She had to get four or five hours’ head start if she was to make good her getaway.

  Reaching the river, she got to her feet. Her knees and hands were scratched and bloody. Not daring to stop long enough to put on her shoes, she struck off through the trees, running cautiously, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the camp. On and on she ran, keeping to the river. If she was unable to see it, she made sure that she could hear it.

  Finally, gasping for breath, she sank down on the damp grass. Her feet hurt terribly. Lord, how they hurt! She wished she could stop and bathe them in the river, but there was no time. Shaking her head to clear it, she unrolled the blanket, took out her shoes and stockings and quickly put them on. It was painful to put her feet into the shoes, but she gritted her teeth and laced them up tightly around her ankles. Rolling the blanket again, she fitted it into the sling and eased it onto her back. Now her hands were free to ward off the tree limbs that continually hit her in the face.

  She ran on into the night, often afraid; but the thought of what lay behind her overcame the terror of being alone in the wilderness. In the dark, knowing only that she must stay near the river, she feared that she would blunder into a bog. Once she did, and the muck rose up around her legs.

  She stopped, frozen with terror. She was sure she was sinking, going to the bottom of the bog. Her fear turned to panic on hearing the sucking sounds as she tried to pull her feet from the thick mud. Terror seized her and she threw her head back to scream, but no sound came—and then her feet felt firm ground. She stopped to get her bearings. Holding her skirt high, she tried to wipe off some of the slimy mud with a handful of grass. Realizing the futility of the effort, she drew the skirt between her legs and, holding it in front of her, laboriously plodded on.

  Her feet hurt terribly in the wet shoes. At times she felt as if she could not take another step. She longed to stop and rest, but she did not know if she would be able to get up again and go on. Every inch of her body ached, and she was getting light-headed from lack of food. She stopped long enough to draw out a piece of dried meat and put it in her mouth. She realized that if she let herself get weak she could not keep going.

  Cherish didn’t know exactly when daybreak came. Suddenly it was dawn—and she was even more afraid. Back at camp they would have missed her by now and be on her trail. She was exhausted, but she kept going. She prayed she would meet someone, but not a trapper. Oh, God, no! Not a trapper. Were there no decent people in this country? Family people . . . with children?

  The time between dawn and daylight seemed like a dream to Cherish. She staggered on, her numb brain commanding her tired legs, and they obeyed. Her feet were in bad shape. Perhaps she should stop . . . but she was afraid. And oh, so thirsty.

  An hour after sunup she came to a small stream running along the surface of the ground. Tracing it to its source, she found a small spring seeping from between layers of rock. She stood stone-still for several minutes, listening intently for any unnatural sound, before she allowed herself the luxury of bending down, cupping the cool water in her hands and drinking.

  Ah . . . it was so good! She bathed her face and smoothed back the tangled hair that clung to her neck.

  “You must have been awfully thirsty, ma’am.” The voice came from behind her and she froze.

  Fear ran tingling down her spine and chilled her heart. She dropped her hand into the sling and came up with the pistol as she turned.

  Her heart beat wildly as she looked at the man. Even in her terror she found herself thinking how tall he was and that she had never seen such eyes as his: light gray fringed with black lashes. The man looked unconcerned.

  “You’ll not need that. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Who’er . . . who’er . . . you?”

  “Put down the gun,” he said dryly. “You might shoot yourself, or me. Brown and I have been looking forward to getting a cool drink from this spring.”

  Cherish’s eyes flicked down to the large brown dog standing motionless beside his master, its massive shaggy head tilted in an alert listening position.

  “They’re still a ways back, old boy,” the man told the dog. “We have time for a good drink before they get here.”

  At that, Cherish grabbed her blanket roll. “Who’s coming?” she asked breathlessly.

  “The two jaybirds who are trailing you,” the man said easily. “They’re about ten minutes away, I’d guess.”

  “Oh, no!” She gasped and darted away from the spring.

  “Hold on.” The man barred her way. “This is as good a place as any to face them.”

  “I’ve got to get away. That man . . . back there sold me to them. Please . . . I must go—” Tears filled her eyes. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.

  “Stay,” he said firmly. “They won’t take you if you don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t! Please, don’t let them—”

  “Calm down. You don’t have to face them alone. Brown and I are here.” With one finger he motioned to the dog. They moved to the spring, leaving her staring after them in bewilderment.

  The man was well over six feet, she guessed, broad in the shoulders, but lean and light on his feet. He wore no beard, but his tanned cheeks were shadowed with whiskers. Curly black hair clung to his head; it looked as if he had chopped it off at his neckline with a knife, for it squared off bluntly. The buckskin shirt and breeches he wore were clean, she noticed, and the large hand that held the barrel of the long gun was also clean.

  Watching him, Cherish held her breath u
ntil her chest hurt, then exhaled. A tightness crept into her throat. Am I foolish to trust him? I have the gun. His back is turned—

  He turned suddenly. “Better me than them,” he said gently, as if he had read her thoughts.

  She nodded in resignation, her eyes on his face.

  “Sit down and wait for them,” he said. “Brown and I will be over there, out of sight.”

  Cherish sat down obediently on a rock, then jumped up again.

  “You won’t go away?” she asked anxiously.

  He smiled, and the change in his quiet face was miraculous. Creases fanned out from his light eyes and a dimple appeared in each cheek as his lips parted. His low chuckle gave her confidence and she sat down again.

  “I promise,” he said and stepped back soundlessly into the woods, the dog at his side.

  Cherish could hear the trappers approaching. It took all her willpower to sit still and wait for them to find her when her nerves screamed at her to run and hide. They were cursing and grumbling as they entered the clearing—and stopped short when they spotted her sitting calmly on the rock. The face of the older man twisted into an angry mask as they came forward.

  “I’m a-goin’ ta beat the livin’ daylights outta ya, gal,” he snarled. “We been chasin’ ya half the night.”

  “Ya ain’t ort to make Seth mad. He be plumb looney when he’s riled. Come on, purty thin’. Ya just give old Mote a good ride, ’an he’ll treat ya right.”

  The words had no more than left his mouth when a huge, shaggy brown bundle came hurtling from the woods and landed between him and Cherish. Ears laid back, fangs bared, Brown hunched down ready to spring for the throat on command.

  “What the hell!” Mote fell back and tried to get his rifle in position to fire.

  “Don’t do anything foolish.” The dog’s master stepped from the woods, his rifle cradled in his arms.

  The trappers stared. A look of surprise mingled with the fear on their faces.