The Big Sky (3 page)

He wasn't a knowing hand with a boat, and the stream was high and strong, but by and by he got her nosed well into the current and felt her push ahead as he put his back to the oars. The shore faded to a dark rim, far and dim as a cloud in a night sky, and now there was only the river running black beneath him and the pull of it against the boat and the busy whisper of the water. The light ashore fell back and was gone, leaving no point by which he could judge his drift, but he felt the stronger muscle of the current as he came into the channel and knew that he was being carried far downstream. He kept at his oars, bending far forward and coming back with all the power of legs and back and arms, feeling the shuddering give of the blades as he brought them through. A second light peeped at him, distant on the other bank, and he took it for his guide and bent harder to the oars until the current let up and the shore rose like a wall before his eye. He eased her in, then, and pulled her up and tied her and, taking his rifle and bag, set out toward the light.

He tried to go quiet in the dark, feeling ahead with his feet before he let them down, but a tangle of short growth on the slope crackled under his softest step. From the direction of the house a dog began to bark.

Boone stopped and waited, hitching the rifle closer in the crook of his arm. He was trembling again, now that the hard work of rowing was over, but the cold didn't seem to touch him close. It was as if his body was numb, being too tired and hungry to feel. The dog kept barking, coming on as the silence made him braver. Boone leaned his rifle against a tree and from his bag took the onelegged carcass of the hen. He tore off the other leg, rewrapped the bird and put it back, and then stepped forward with his hand out while he whispered, "Here, boy! Here, boy!"

He felt the dog before he could see him, felt the cold nose and the food taken from his hand and heard the bones snapping. He stooped. "All right, boy." The dog's head came under his fingers. He scratched it around the ears. "Hush now!"

A square of light appeared ahead, and a man's figure lined itself in it and stood there silent for a moment. Then a voice said, "He's just barkin' a coon," and afterward it rose in a call, "Here, Blackie! Here!" The dog slipped from under Boone's hand and grew to be one with the darkness. The square of light narrowed to a ribbon and went out.

Boone hunched down, shivering, until after the gleam in the window itself had died. Then he edged ahead like a hunter and came to a small farmyard and made out the house and, to his right, the outline of a barn. He stole to the barn and felt for the door and let himself in.

The warm odor of cow came to his nose. He heard a soft breathing. "Saw, Boss!" he said under his breath, closing the door behind him. He stood without moving, letting the animal warmth of the place get to his skin, then shifted his bag to the arm that held his rifle and stepped forward, saying, "Saw! Saw!" His hand groped ahead, meeting nothing, and he wondered where the cow was, until his foot touched the soft hide and he realized she was lying down.

"Saw!" he said, expected her to rise. "Saw!" But she lay there, and he thrust his hand down to the warm hide, wondering at her gentleness. He felt in the straw at her side to see that it was dry, and brought himself around and eased down on his butt in the soft litter and snuggled his back against her.

He put his rifle down close to hand and opened his bag, taking out what was left of the hen. He ate it all, ending by crunching up the softer bones and sucking out the pockets of lights while the cow chewed on her cud and let him take of her warmth. Then he squirmed closer, pillowing his head on her flank, and with the familiar odor of the barn strong in his nostrils closed his eyes.

Out of the tired cloud of his mind Ma's face appeared, the dark and watery eyes, the broad nose, the pinched mouth, the sad look of having given up to work and worry and Pap. He saw Dan going to the barn and the woodpile doing chores -Dan who could get around Pap, but hadn't the spunk to face him. He saw the shagbark hickory back of the cabin, the worm fence, the smoke trailing from the chimney. Before he could stop it, a sob broke in his throat. He turned his face against the flank of the cow and let himself cry. "Good luck to you, too, Ma," he said.

After a while he sat up and gouged the tears from his eyes, feeling ashamed but relieved, too, and slowly almost cozy, safe and unseen in the dark barn with the gentle cow for company. He settled back against her.
 
 

The movement of the cow roused him. She came over on her belly and with a grunting sigh got her back legs under her and heaved her hindquarters up. He was wide awake at once, but cold and stiff clear to his bones. Still, he felt rested, and anxious to get on while the world still slept. He stood and gave himself time to stretch. He wondered how long it was until sunup. Three hours, he reckoned. Anyhow, he best be moving. First, though, he felt for his rifle and went over it with the sack that had held the hen. There was enough grease in the cloth to hold off rust. Afterwards he emptied the bullet pouch and counted the balls as he dropped them back, stuffed his bundle of clothes into the sack, and then found his way to the door and went out.

It had turned off clear. The stars were out, small and frosty. Almost straight overhead he could make out the Big Dipper lying upside down. A light streak showed along the eastern sky line. From somewhere came the thin chirp of a bird. In another hour it would be light.

Home would be to the east and north, to the left of the coming sun. He faced that way, seeing the cabin in his mind and the shagbark and the smoke trailing from the chimney. Inside, Ma was readying for breakfast, cooking side meat and eggs and hot bread. It could be he wouldn't see Ma again or ever eat her cooking. Maybe he would only remember, seeing her face always sad and tired, tasting her soup and sweetening and cuts of meat only by recollecting. She would be thinking and worrying about him now, most likely, but not saying much as long as Pap was around. He wished he could look at her just once more. Such a weakness came on him that he thought, for a little, he couldn't make himself go on. It was Pap that stiffened him, the thought of Pap mad as any bull, and of the unfair lick he'd hit and of the whoppings he had given before just for the fun he got. Probably Pap already was on his trail with the law along to help.

Boone moved off stiffly, less careful about noise now he was leaving, pointing back upstream to reach the turnpike that led from Frankfort to Louisville. When he found it, he turned and followed it to the right and buckled to the long, stiff rise out of the valley.

By the time he got to the top he was warm again and panting from the climb, and as he stopped to blow he looked back over the the dark bowl of the town. It was beginning to stir. Here and there a light showed. In the stillness he caught the small echo of a voice and the measured knock of an ax against wood. In the east the streak of light had broadened to a band. The stars were winking out.

He brought his rifle to the crook of his arm, lifted his bag, and set out again, walking in the middle of the wet and rutted road. It was early yet for travel, and now that he had crossed the river, he felt safer, though less at home. It was all strange country ahead; but somewhere to the west where the road led lay Louisville, and beyond it Greenville, Paoli, Vincennes, Carlyle, Lebanon, and St. Louis. He could hear Uncle Zeb calling out the names, going on west in his mind like a man with a spell on him. There wasn't any cause to leave the road yet, he decided, thinking maybe he would be safe to stay to it all day, except when he came to towns and tollhouses. He'd circle around them. And if he saw any travelers, he'd just cut out into the woods like a man hunting.

He wished he had something to eat. Corn bread and sorghum and salt pork, like his ma would give him if he was still home, or anything fit to put his teeth to. He had an empty ache in his stomach, and the spit came into his mouth just from thinking. He kept walking while the sky paled and the naked trees along the way stood black against the cold gray of morning. The sun edged up and looked over the rim of the world like a careful eye from behind a wall.

Glancing back, Boone saw a stage coming and so left the road and screened himself in the trees. He watched it go by, the four horses spanking along as the driver flicked them, the polished metal gleaming in the sun, the body swaying in its thoroughbraces as the wheels rose and fell in the rough trail. When it had gone from sight, he came back to the road and from a hill saw a settlement in the distance. The driver's trumpet sounded ahead, telling the townsmen the stage was coming in.

Boone cut around the town and circled back to the trail a half mile beyond it, having waited on a ridge until the coach had rolled on ahead.

As far as he could see, the road lay clear. He hitched up his jeans and took the rifle from under his arm and rested it on his shoulder and fell into stride again. He wondered how far it was to Louisville. He wondered whether Pap or the law was on that stage. He wished he had something to eat.

Wondering and wishing, he didn't hear the traveler behind him until it was too late.

"Where you headin'?" asked a friendly voice.

Boone's hand tightened on the butt of his rifle as he turned. The voice came from on top an old work wagon drawn by two sad mules.

"Down the road a piece."

"Hop up."

The driver had an open, friendly face, not old, twentyfive or thirty, maybe, but colored and lined by the weather as a man's face ought to be. He had an eye as bright blue as a summer sky. From underneath his worn cap a lock of red hair fell.

Boone got in.

"Goin' to Louisville myself," the driver said. "Wisht I could make her afore night, but it ain't no use. Time don't mean nothin' to a dead man, no more'n to a hog, but seems like it means a heap to his kin." He jerked his thumb toward the back of the wagon, and Boone, looking over his shoulder, saw a plank box there.

"Name's Deakins," said the man. "Jim Deakins. Live just several hollers from here."

The blue eyes asked a question. After a little Boone answered, "Zeb Calloway."

Deakins put out his hand. "Pleased to run into you, Zeb. Now, you take some fellers, it don't make ary difference if their company's dead or alive, but me, I can't get no pleasure out of a corpse."

He looked at Boone for a "Me, neither."

"They just lay back quiet," he went on, "never sayin' a word, and by and by you shut your mouth yourself, feelin' oneasy like as if what you said would be turned against you, in heaven or hell, one." He added, "A dead body's like someone sittin' in judgment."

He caught Boone's eye on the basket that stuck out from under the seat.

"Have an apple," he said, and reached down and got one for him.

"Reckon you been workin' with cows?" he asked, while his nose opened and his eyes went over Boone. His hand went out and flicked a piece of manure from Boone's sleeve.

"Uh-huh."

"You can nigh always tell what a man is by lookin' at him," said Deakins. "Now you take the old gentleman there in the box. He's got four women dead. Four. And a fifth one still livin' on the farm. And young! God Almighty! He's got chirren beyond countin'." He paused and gave Boone a solemn look. "And what would you say he ought to take after, with all them wives and a passel of young?"

When Boone didn't speak, he answered his own question. "He ought to look like a goat, I figger. And that's just what the old gentleman looks like. Got white whiskers that'll reach to his belly button.

"Me," he went on, "I got nary woman and nary a young'n -to tell about, leastways- so I keep the brush down pretty short. That, and my whiskers is kind of a dirty brindle. Have another apple."

Farther on a tollhouse came into sight.

"You'll get jolted around some," Deakins said, pulling his team out of the road. "At what I took this job for I can't be payin' no tolls, savin' one I can't get out of. Must be six or seven of 'em 'twixt here and Louisville, and it's twenty up to twenty-five cents every time. It don't take long to eat up three dollars."

Boone asked, "Why you takin' the dead man to Louisville?"

"When a feller's had a bunch of wives, he's sure enough got trouble, even after he can't hear 'em no more. The one that's livin' wanted to bury the old gentleman on the farm, but the chirren by the other wives wouldn't hear to it. They live at Louisville mostly, and when they hearn he was gone they come to the farm and give notice to the widder woman that he had to be put down proper, at Louisville. So they rastled around for two-three days, yellin' Pa would want this and Pa would want that. When Louisville won out, I got the job of haulin' his body in."

They jolted through the open fields, skirting the tolltaker's land. The wagon rocked and bumped and squeaked as the mules lagged ahead. The plank coffin screeched, sliding on the wagon bed.

"Got to take 'er slow on these here shun-pikes," Deakins explained. "Not that it hurts the old gentleman, but I can't deliver him bruised up too much. How would he feel, when they open the lid for a last look, if he had a couple of black eyes?" He grinned at Boone. "Don't hang back on them apples. That's what God made 'em for, to eat."

They came back to the road. Swinging an already frayedout switch, Deakins got the mules to step a little faster. "They say a mule'll always get you there," he said, beating on their rumps, "but time he does, like as not you don't want to go."

They came after a while to another tollgate and circled it and later to another that Deakins let the mules head for. "There's a crick tears through here," he explained, "and she's steep on both sides, and this here body will sure enough come out, whiskers and all, if we don't cross the bridge."

The tollkeeper came out of the house and stretched out his hand. "Two bits."

Deakins dug in his pocket, bringing out a thin handful of cut money. He offered a ragged, pie-shaped piece.

The tolltaker eyed it.

"She's cut finer'n a frog hair," Deakins said. "Quarter of a silver dollar, exact."