Louis L'Amour (3 page)

“Ah, she is almost a woman, that one! A woman? But of course! She was strong, quiet, remote.” He looked at me. “You would like her, Kin, witch or no.”

“I put no stock in witches.”

“You will when you see her. There's a strangeness about her and a difference. A kind of stillness and poise. She has a way of looking at you that makes you uneasy, as if she could see all you were and were meant to be. Yet there's a wildness in her, too.”

He chuckled suddenly. “The young men are afraid of her. She sews well, spins well, does all things well, but she looks on them with no interest, and lovely as she is, they become speechless when with her.”

At night we left our cooking fire and went on, then bedded down to a cold camp in the woods, not all together so we might not all be taken at once if the worst came.

Day after day retired behind us, and night after night we gave our smoke to the sky. We left tracks and dead fires behind us, moving on into the days, knowing there was little time and at the end, the Pequots.

We had fought other Indians, but these had a bloody name, a reputation for fierceness. Yet a man cannot think of death at such a time; he simply tries to do what needs to be done. Women of our kind had been taken, women of our family, since Yance was wed to Temperance.

I thought of the other one. The silent one who stands alone in the wind. There was something in the way Yance looked at me when he spoke of her.

We wore buckskins and wide-brimmed hats and Indian moccasins, for they were best for the woods, and we had not been back to Shooting Creek for some time. There was one of us there who could make boots, but we thought them not as well for the forest.

In a moccasin a man can feel a twig that might crack before he puts his weight upon it; he can feel the rocks with his feet, take a grip with his toes if need be. And each of us was skilled, as were the Indians, in the
making of moccasins, which was essential, for they wore out quickly.

Each night we plied Tenaco with questions about Plymouth, but he knew little of it. He had been there but spent most of his time with white men at Cape Ann or some of the outlying settlements or farms.

There was peace with his people, the Massachusetts. Before there was any settlement in his country, there had come a terrible sickness, which men called the plague, and it swept away most of his tribe, leaving them helpless before the attacks of their deadly enemies, the Narragansetts. Knowing their lands would be taken from them bit by bit by the Narragansetts and that his people would be destroyed, the chief of Tenaco's people went to the white men and invited them to come and settle in his land, and he gave them choice land between his people and the Narragansetts.

It was a cool, clear night when we came at last to the edge of the settlement. There were only a few cabins. “Show me their house,” I said to Tenaco. “I will speak with them.”

He showed me the house. It looked square, strong. “It's built of stone,” Yance said. “Her father was a stonemason in England.”

“Watch for me, but stay out of sight. I don't want you back in the stocks again.” A thought occurred to me. “Tenaco? Do the others in the settlement know they sent for us?”

He shrugged.

We squatted on our heels, watching the houses. Our horses were well back in the forest, picketed on meadow grass.

All was still. Nobody moved. It was not a good thing to go among such houses at night, particularly wearing buckskins, which Indians wore up here but no white man. It was a risk to be taken.

“All right,” I said, and was gone.

The Penney house was the garrison house, built with a slight overhang to fire upon Indians who came
to the doors or windows or tried to fire the house. Here was where the others would gather if trouble came.

A few chinks of light showed where other houses were. Doors were barred now, shutters closed against the night. I saw few corrals, a few fenced gardens. Walking swiftly, I came to the door and stepped lightly on the two boards that did for a stoop. I tapped lightly.

There had been a murmur within, suddenly stilled. Behind me in the woods an owl hooted. Nothing moved, then a faint rustle of clothing.

The latchstring was not out, nor had I expected it to be. I waited, then tapped again.

“Who comes?” A man's voice, low and a little shaken.

“Sackett,” I said, and I heard the bar lifted. The door opened a crack, and I stepped quickly in.

“You be not Yance.” The man was heavyset, not tall but a solid-looking man with an honest, open face.

“He waits,” I said, “with Tenaco.”

“Ah!” The man let his breath out, in relief, I thought. “We heard he was dead. Killed by the Pequot.”

“He was shot,” I said, “I cut out the musket ball myself. Do your Indians have muskets, then?”

“Not many.” He turned, gesturing toward a bench by the table. “Sit you. Will you have something?”

“Whatever,” I said.

“We expected Yance,” the woman said. She was a pleasant-faced woman, but there were lines of worry on her face now.

“He came, but we suspected all might not make him welcome, so I came down.”

“There would be risk for you, too, if they knew you were here.”

“I shall not be long,” I said, “if you will tell me what has happened.”

“They went to the woods,” the woman said. “Carrie was much with Diana Macklin. Diana was teaching her the herbs for medicine, and they went a-gathering.

“It is only a little way, a meadow yon. Diana often went to the woods and meadows and was not afeared, and Carrie was much with her.”

“I never wished it,” Penny said irritably. “That you know.”

“I don't care what they say!” Mother Penney replied somewhat sharply. “I like her. It's just that she is independent and speaks her own mind.”

“It is not that alone,” Penney said. “There's the dark look of her, the knowledge of herbs, and the books she reads.”

“Macklin reads. You do not speak of that!”

“He's a man. It is right for a man to read, although I speak no favor of the books he reads. Blasphemous, they are.”

“Let's get on with it!” I spoke irritably, for they wasted time. “They went a-gathering, and they did not come back, is that it?”

“Aye,” Penney said, “and the bloody Pequots have them. Dead they are by now, or worse.”

“Maybe not,” I replied. “This Diana you speak of sounds to be a shrewd woman. Such a one might find a way to survive, and for your daughter, also … Carrie, is it?”

“It is.”

“And Pequots, you say? Were they seen? Or their tracks?”

“No, but—”

“Then why Pequots? There are other Indians about and white men, too.”

He stared at me, aghast. “White men? You wouldn't for the world suspect—?”

“I would,” I said. “I know not your people, but there are ships along the shore, and all of their sailors be not angels from heaven. It may be Pequots, but if we are to find them, we must know.”

“Pittingel was sure. He said it had to be Pequots. He is a man with much knowledge of the world.”

“Good!” I replied. “Does he also know Indians?”

Penney looked uncomfortable. “He is a very important
man. A trader,” he said, “a man with ships of his own and a place on the council.”

“Good!” I said. “Why haven't you gone to him?”

“Well, we did. He tried to help. He looked, and he had his men out in the woods, searching high and low. They found nothing.”

And tramped over every track or bit of sign, I told myself, but then I said, “There was an organized search, then? The village turned out?”

Penney flushed. “Well—”

“Tell him the truth!” Mother Penney spoke sharply. “Nary a bit would they do but talk, talk, talk! And all they would say was ‘good riddance,' and not for my Carrie, mind you, but for Diana Macklin!”

“We had better know each other,” I said. “I am Kin Ring Sackett, brother to Yance.”

“I am Tom Penney—my wife Anna.” He paused, looking uneasy. “Others are coming.”

“Others?”

“Joseph Pittingel will come here himself. And Robert Macklin.”

Anna Penney looked at me. “Carrie has been gone for days upon days. We know not if she be alive or dead.”

“If she is alive,” I said, “we will bring her home. If she be dead, we will find where she lies.”

“I believe you will. When Carrie disappeared, it was Yance Sackett of whom I thought.”

Tom Penney interrupted, a shade of irritation in his voice, which led me to believe this had been much discussed and that he had not approved. “No doubt he is a hunter. But he is only a man. What can he do that we have not done?”

Ignoring him, I said to her, “You have had Indian trouble?”

“No, not recently. You see, Joseph Pittingel has much influence with the savages, and he has kept them from us.”

“Then he is the man to get them back, and by peaceful means. A voice lifted in their councils might
be all that is needed. Or, failing that, a ransom of goods.”

“We would pay,” Penney said, “although we have little to offer.”

“Oh!” Anna Penney put a hand to her mouth. “How awful of me! You have not eaten!”

“I am hungry,” I replied, “and the others are, also. If you could put something up, I'd carry it to them.”

She began putting dishes on the table. A bowl of hot stew and a mug of cider with fresh-made bread. I fell to, listening to Penney as he grumbled. Even as he talked, I could sense the fear in the man, fear for his daughter coupled with the helplessness of a man who knows not which way to turn.

There was a sharp rap at the door and an exchange of words, and the door opened. I felt the draught but did not look up.

Two men had come in, and I identified them at once by their voices. Pittingel's was that of authority, of a man assured of his position and a little contemptuous of those about him of lesser station or what he conceived to be so. The other man's voice was quiet, his accents those of an educated man.

“Sackett?” I looked up, then stood up. “This is Joseph Pittingel—and Robert Macklin.”

“Kin Sackett,” I said, “up from Carolina.”

“A brother to Yance Sackett, I believe,” Pittingel said. “A difficult man, your brother.”

“A very able man,” I replied coolly, “with perhaps ways that are different than yours.”

“It is regrettable,” Pittingel said, “that you have had your long march for nothing. All that could be done has been done. We made every effort, but by now they are far, far away, and the Pequots, well, they are a hard and bloody people.”

“I hear much talk of Pequots,” I said, sitting down again, “but nobody seems to have seen them.”

“Of course, they were here. I am told one does not often
see
Indians.”

“Too true,” I agreed. “And it might have been them.”

“A frightful people!” Pittingel said. “A vicious, murderous lot!”

“Nothing seems to prevail,” Macklin said quietly. “I am afraid our daughters will never be found, as the others were not.”

“There have been others?”

“I see no connection.” Pittingel dismissed the idea with a gesture. “No doubt they wandered off into the woods and were lost. There are swamps. Even hunters have been lost. And the last one was almost a year ago.”

“How many others?” I insisted.

“Three,” Macklin replied.

“All were maids?”

“True,” Penney said, “although I had not thought of it so. I thought of them as children—”

“Tomorrow,” I said, “I would like to be taken to where they were last seen.”

“They were gathering herbs,” Macklin said. “Diana knew much of herbs and their worth as food, medicine, or dyes. She was teaching the young miss—”

“It was a mistake,” Pittingel said sharply, “for which you have yourself to blame. You were warned. The Macklin girl was not fit company.”

Robert Macklin turned sharply around. “Joseph,” he said quietly, “you speak of my daughter.”

Pittingel flushed angrily. “Aye! Your daughter, Macklin, yours by birth, but whose in reality? The devil's own, I say, spawned in your wife's womb, but the devil's own!”

Macklin's features had stiffened. “Pittingel, you have no right—”

“Here, here!” Penney interrupted. “Let's not become heated over this. Argument will not get our girls back, and Joseph Pittingel turned out his whole lot, every mother's son of them to search! We owe him that, Macklin.”

“You are right, of course,” Macklin said quietly. “If you will excuse me—”

“No, it is I who must leave,” Pittingel interrupted. “I have business elsewhere.

“Sackett, if there's aught I can do, call on me. I have many men here and a ship due in any day now with her full crew. Anything I can do for my good friend Penney will be done.”

He went out, and the door closed behind him. For a moment there was silence.

“You should not incur his anger, Robert,” Penney warned. “He is a man of much influence with both the church and the council. It was only he who prevented them from having Diana up before the assizes. And with the evidence they have against her, it would mean burning.”

“Evidence!” Macklin scoffed. “They have not a paltry bit of evidence. Diana is a good girl, and a God-fearing one.”

“She was seen gathering mandrake,” Penney reminded, “and she walks alone by night. How much do they need? Did not Brother Gardner's cow go dry after he spoke angrily to Diana? Did not—?”

“Nonsense!” Macklin said. “Purely nonsense!”

“Nevertheless,” Penney said sharply, “that is why they will not look, Macklin, and you know it! They do not wish to find Diana, and my Carrie must suffer because of it! I was a fool to—!”

“Talk will not bring her back,” Anna Penney interrupted.