Norton, Andre - Novel 23 (34 page)

 
          
 
The Fox Lady clapped her hands and A-Han was
at her side. She spoke, giving some order and the old woman nodded eagerly,
beckoning to Saranna.

 
          
 
Back in the chamber behind the moon door both
Saranna and Damaris struggled out of the robes. A-Han produced a bundle of
dull-blue cloth which shook out into trousers and high-collared jackets.
Damaris pulled on hers with the ease of one who had done this before. But
Saranna, though seeing the advantage of such garments for one in haste, hated
to wear them.

 
          
 
"Hurry—I"

 
          
 
"But—these— Though Saranna fastened the
cord of the trousers about her waist, she felt very strange—almost undressed.

 
          
 
"You can run
better
in them,” Damaris pointed out tartly. "Come on!"

 
          
 
The old man who had drummed waited for them
beyond the edge of the terrace. The Fox Lady had dismissed them with a nod,
retreating to the inner chamber where once more she bowed her head before the
statue. Their guide did not take them back along the path which would or should
lead them straight into trouble. Instead, he struck on into that portion of the
garden lying directly before the other end of the terrace, weaving in and out
among the shrubs.

 
          
 
Saranna caught hasty glimpses of a stream, a
hump-backed bridge, of flowers and shrubs, but there was no time to really note
the wonders through which they hurried. Then they fronted the wall again, but
at a different point.

 
          
 
Their guide placed his dark, wrinkled hands on
two of the bricks and pushed them with all the might left in his shrunken body.
Slowly, a whole block of the closely fitted masonry pivoted leaving a narrow
space through which they could squeeze. Saranna would never have made it in
skirts, she admitted to herself as she struggled through. And it was true that
her legs were freer in these queer heathenish garments.

 
          
 
Then her feet found no solid ground and she
pitched forward, out and down, landing beside Damaris in a roadside ditch.
Behind them there was a crack of sound and Saranna guessed that the wall had
again closed, sealing the hidden door.

 
          
 
"Well now, ain't this a bit o'
luck!"

 
          
 
At first, Saranna cringed closer to the ground
like a small animal cornered by death. Rufus!

 
          
 
"Yes, siree—here's a pretty catch. Two of
them pesky
heathens
right in my hands, as the saying
goes."

 
          
 
"Damaris—run!" Saranna scrambled up
somehow, to face Rufus Parton. He held a shotgun in the crook of his arm as he
stood grinning down at her. If she could divert him only for a few seconds,
Damaris might get free.

 
          
 
"Let little Missie run," he agreed.
"She won't get far— Mrs. Whaley has her guards out. You're in a pretty
pickle, ain't you, m'girl?”

 
          
 
His bold eyes roved over her figure. Saranna
wanted to cringe again. But before Rufus—no, she would never do that!

 
          
 
"Now, you just come up out of that there
dirty hole, m'girl—"

 
          
 
She heard Damaris scuttle away to her right,
but she did not even turn her head to watch the younger girl run. Perhaps Rufus
was right. Damaris might be caught before she reached the edge of Tiensin land.
On the other hand, there was always a chance that she could elude Honora's
guards and reach Gerrad Fowke.
Though Saranna could not
believe in any rescue for herself now.

           
 
Rufus made no attempt to help her climb the
steep bank of the ditch. She would not have accepted his assistance anyway. But
as she stood at last on the narrow road, he laughed.

 
          
 
"
You wearing
them heathen clothes, girl, that sure can give a man ideas."

 
          
 
"Now," he added briskly, "you
jus’ start walkm', m'girl. I'll get you outta my hands back on the sloop and go
an' collect from Mrs. Whaley for takin' you away. Then we'll be off upriver to
where a parson's waitin'—"

 
          
 
"You can't marry me against my
will," Saranna found her tongue at last.

 
          
 
"Oh, you'll be willin', girl," he
said. "My mam, now, she knows a bit about fixin' up doses. I'll see you
get one of those and youll be meek as any lamb. Makes you think muzzy, them do.
If I tell you 'yes' then, you'll say 'yes.' Don't you worry
none
about that. Get a-movin'—"

 
          
 
He caught her by the upper arm, pushed her
around, and then applied a vicious shove which nearly sent her spinning to her
knees.

 
          
 
"You jus’ keep right on a-walkin'. Don't
take it all so hard, girl. You an' me, we can do right well for ourselves. I
won't never lift a hand to you 'less you try that lookin' down your nose like I
was dirt. You'll be m'wife and that's somethin' to be proud of—"

 
          
 
Saranna stumbled on, prodded by his fist
between her shoulder blades now and again. She recognized the road: this was
the one over which they had come from Queen's Pleasure on Sunday. It would have
guided them both back there. Damaris—could Damaris really reach Gerrad Fowke?
And what if she did and he came too late, after Rufus Parton had gotten his
promised fee from Honora and had taken the sloop upriver?

 
          
 
She tried to think clearly. But Rufus' sudden
appearance to halt their escape was such a shock that as yet she had not
adjusted to it. She was tired, so tired that it was impossible now to do more
than just endure.

 
          
 
"See?" queried her captor. "You
can be as nice and easy as the next girl, do a man handle you right. I tell
you, girl, where we're goin' you can be big as Mrs. Whaley. 'Cause I'm not
goin' to be any hired man. No, siree. I got me land and the cash to buy more!
Someday I'll have us a house as will make this here heathenish place look like
a stable! Jus’ you wait an' see!"

 
          
 
But Saranna was no longer listening to his
boasting. She thought she heard something else—the drum of hooves coming toward
them. Some of Honora's city
ruffians
now mounted to
ride sentry duty?

 
          
 
She dared not let herself believe that this
could herald the coming of some outsider who might be an aid to her.

 
          
 
"Wait up!" Rufus' voice held a
harsher note. "Someone's comin'! Get down!"

 
          
 
The heavy slam of his palm against her shoulders
tumbled her off the lane into the brush which masked the ditch, and once more
she sprawled into that. But this time Rufus joined her, pulling her farther
down into hiding.

 
          
 
Saranna thought by the vibration through the
ground that there was more than one rider. And it was quite apparent Rufus did
not expect the newcomers to be friendly. He had the shotgun ready, and was a
little way up the side of the ditch intent on sighting at whoever came into
view.

 
          
 
He was so intent that Saranna, her eyes fixed
upon his back to catch any move he might make, began, inch by inch, to slip
along the ditch. Not that she had any real chance of escape, but she would not
stay meekly there and wait Rufus' future pleasure.

 
          
 
At first she could not see up on the road as
did Rufus, as he was perched in a place where the brush was thinner. However,
as she edged farther and farther from him, there came another opening. Through
that, the riders came into sight.

 
          
 
There was a flash of blue—Damaris! Damaris
mounted before Gerrad Fowke on the gray horse he favored. Behind him were men,
armed with shotguns, pistols. Saranna recognized two of the riders as men she
had seen working the sloop upriver. What would Rufus—?

 
          
 
Saranna glanced quickly from the road to her
captor. He was grinning, that grin he had worn as he tormented the captured
fox. Whether he would ever have dared shoot she would never know. But with a
cry of warning, Saranna threw herself in his direction.

 
          
 
Rufus snarled as his head whipped around.
Saranna opened her mouth to scream a second warning and he struck at her, his
fist crashing against her cheekbone, the force of the blow sending her back and
down into the very bottom of the ditch. She only half-consciously heard
Damaris' high voice, the shouts of the men on the road.

 
          
 
Rufus crouched beside her, his hand on her
throat, closing, cutting off her breath. She saw him only through a haze of
pain as she tried to struggle free. Then, suddenly, he was gone as if some giant's
hand had plucked him away. She drew deep gasps of air into her empty lungs,
unable for the moment to care about anything but the fact that she could
breathe again.

 
          
 
"Saranna!
Saranna, did he hurt you?" Damaris was trying to raise her head, peering
into her face anxiously. There were threshing sounds from the road above,
grunting,
a
half-stifled cry.

 
          
 
"Mr. Fowke, I met him," Damaris
poured into her ear. "He had already heard there was trouble here, he was
coming. Oh, Saranna, did you see him? He just grabbed Rufe and jerked him up on
the road. Now he's pounding him— really licking him!"

 
          
 
She had pushed up to her knees to watch the
struggle beyond.

 
          
 
"There!" she added with great satisfaction.
"Rufe is just
laying
still while Sam Knight is
tying him up. Oh, Saranna, I never saw a real fight before—"

 
          
 
Apparently, that very unladylike exploit
fascinated her.

 
          
 
"Rufe—I'm so glad that he caught Rufe.
What was he going to do with you, Saranna?"

 
          
 
The older girl was gingerly rubbing her
throat. When she spoke her voice came out as a croak. "He said," she
returned in a half-whisper, "he was going to marry me—"

 
          
 
Suddenly she began to shake with broken
laughter. It all seemed wildly insane, like part of a nightmare. Yet she could
not wake up. Rufus' big plans which he had poured out with such self-importance
and confidence enough to frighten her—all brought to nothing in a moment or
two.

 
          
 
"He hurt you!" Damaris cried
indignantly. "There's a big red place on your cheek, and marks on your
throat. He was trying to choke you when Mr. Fowke caught him."

 
          
 
Saranna laughed until she found herself crying
instead. Each gasp she drew hurt her bruised throat.

 
          
 
"Saranna!"
Damaris' hand fell on her shoulders, shook her. "Please, Saranna, what is
the matter? I know he tried to hurt you, but he's gone now and—"

 
          
 
"It's all right, Damaris," a deeper
voice broke in upon hers. "Now you just move out of the way and let me
lift her—"

 
          
 
Damaris disappeared. In her place was someone
else whose firm grasp swung Saranna up and out of the ditch, but did not
restore her to her feet; instead, held her as if her body had no weight at all.

 
          
 
"It's all over," Gerrad Fowke
reassured her. "I'll get you to someplace quiet—“

 
          
 
"No!" She still could only
half-whisper, but now she remembered the urgency which had brought her into
this last near-fatal action. "The men Honora brought—they will overrun the
moon garden. The Fox Lady says she cannot hold them off a second time—"

 
          
 
"I know. Damaris told me. We have an
answer for that. Don't you
worry.
I'm going to send
you back to Queen's Pleasure with Lorenzo, both of you. I want you safely out
of this."

 
          
 
She heard Damaris protest and Gerrad Fowke's
authoritative answer. Then she was on a horse, arms about her, trotting down
the road. Her head had begun to ache again, the pain running from the place
Rufus' fist had landed. She felt queasy and sick, and wanted nothing more than
what Gerrad Fowke promised—to be safely out of all action.

 
          
 
There was a confused memory of a big black
woman who oh'ed and ah'ed and chattered, but who made her comfortable in a
strange bed. And then Saranna thankfully allowed herself to sink into a dark
world where, mercifully, there were no dreams this time.

 
          
 
"Now, Mr. Gerrad, don' you go wakin' up
this child. Just look at her face—that there big bruise a-turnin' green! I
declare, you is got no
feelin' 't
all—not 't all!"

 
          
 
Saranna moved her head on the pillow. The room
was light but this was not her chamber at Tiensin; it was smaller, paneled,
gave the feeling of a greater age. She could now see the broad back of a woman
whose head was tied up with a yellow turban scarf and who was vigorously
protesting, even as she backed into the room, apparently unable to withstand
the will of the one who confronted her.

 
          
 
"Now, Aunt Bet, you know I wouldn't be
here unless it was out of importance—"

 
          
 
Gerrad Fowke! It seemed to Saranna that she
had always known his voice, would know it even if she never saw his face. She
pulled herself high among the pillows, holding the quilt to her chin.