The Seekers (23 page)

“But I heard at least two voices!”

“Perhaps all they want is food.”

“You mustn’t go—you’ve only one charge in your rifle—”

“And this.”

He groped a hand toward the puncheon table, found his long-bladed Barlow knife of English steel. He tucked the knife in his right boot.

“I’ll be all right. They’ll probably run as soon as I show myself—a lot of them don’t own rifles or muskets.”

“But some do. I’ve heard people at the settlement say—”

“
Don’t raise your voice!
I’ve got to See what they’re up to—suppose they take a notion to fire the cabin? I tell you I’ll be all right,” he finished, sounding more certain than he felt.

He patted her hand, stole toward the door. He raised the latchstring slowly to free the bar from its bracket. He inched the plank door open.

“Lock yourself in, Elizabeth.”

He slipped outside.

He leaned against the cabin wall, drawing long, deep gulps of air. The leafless trees looked black and stark against the silver of the eastern horizon. A warbler trilled down by the river. The water purled over stones.

He heard the soft
chunk
of the bar being lowered back in place. Now he could move. Cautiously, he advanced to the corner of the cabin, then on around. The chimney jutting from the end of the cabin concealed the barn. He leaned toward the edge of the chimney, risked a glance—

He saw a black rectangle. Someone had opened the barn door. A moment later, a man laughed softly inside.

Questions tumbled through his mind. Were there really only two? How were they armed? He wished for his pistols, hanging on pegs inside. But they were useless, he remembered. He hadn’t loaded or primed them since the last time he fired them—

So it came down to the ball in his rifle, and his long knife. Against whatever the intruders might be carrying.

He decided to wait them out. Running to the barn, a clear target, would be foolish. He leaned his forehead against the chimney logs, listening.

He heard shuffling feet. An occasional word growled in an unfamiliar language. The two animals kept stamping. Time seemed to stretch out as the warbler sang down by the shore.

The light brightened. The outline of the barn became clearer. Suddenly Abraham sucked in a sibilant breath. A man had appeared in the barn door—

An Indian, right enough. Fat and toothless and old. His huge belly stretched his filthy army coat. The coat had been stolen from some other white man, Abraham assumed.

The old Indian trailed an ancient musket from one hand. A bedraggled wild turkey feather stuck up from the greased gray of his braided hair. He waved disgustedly for the benefit of someone still invisible in the barn.

Heart knocking faster than ever, Abraham kept one eye pressed to the chimney corner, hoping the poor light would prevent the Indian from spotting him. A second man lurched outside.

This one was younger, with a hard brown face and eyes like black stones. He wore hide trousers and a shirt. His only visible weapon was a spiked war club.

From the way the younger Indian weaved on his feet, Abraham guessed the pair had stolen whiskey somewhere, and now wanted more. He presumed they were Shawnee or Miami, but he couldn’t be positive. If he were lucky, they might abandon their search and slip away to try their thievery in another place—

The younger one barked words Abraham didn’t understand. He lifted his spiked club, pointed it toward the cabin. The meaning was unmistakable.

The fat one seemed hesitant. He finally shook his head, growled a reply that angered his companion. The younger one started walking—straight toward the jutting chimney where Abraham crouched.

He had to scare them off. But he didn’t dare expend his one rifle ball to do it. He screwed up his nerve, took another deep breath—

Stepped from concealment, the rifle aimed at the breastbone of the younger Indian.

The fat one yelped in surprise. Abraham’s nerve almost crumbled away when a cold smile curved the mouth of the younger one. The Indian was still a little drunk—

Abraham had seldom seen such hateful eyes.

“Meneluh,”
the Indian said.

Abraham shook his head to show he didn’t understand. The young brave’s smile vanished.

“Meneluh, meneluh!”
A sharp gesture with his spiked club. “Drink!”

Abraham drew in a quick breath. Though the young Indian articulated English with difficulty, at least he understood it; perhaps from encounters with itinerant traders. Certain less than scrupulous white men had discovered a new and profitable market by introducing alcohol among the tribes. Heedless of long-term consequences, such traders were frequent visitors at the Indian villages, supplying rum and whiskey in return for pelts. If the savage had learned bits of English in such meetings, at least Abraham had a chance of communicating. Trying to do that was better than launching into a fight.

Aware of how his legs trembled, he shook his head several times, then said slowly and clearly, “No whiskey.”

The young brave grinned. “Whis-key.
Meneluh!
”

Abraham shook his head again. “No. No. I do not have any whiskey.” He bobbed the rifle’s muzzle at the trees. “Go. Go into the woods. Get off my land.” He pointed at the ground. “This is mine.” He jabbed his thumb against his chest. “Mine. The Shawnee can only hunt where there are no settlers—”

The scowling Indian clearly didn’t comprehend the last word.

“No white men. White—” Abraham touched his face. The Shawnee continued to scowl. Abraham wasn’t certain whether the next thought would have any meaning. “The treaty says—”

“Trea-ty!” The young Shawnee spat on the ground. Then he pronounced a name Abraham couldn’t decipher.

“What?”

“Panther-Passing-Across. Panther-Passing-Across curses white man’s trea-ty. Curses
you!
”

“Who—who is the Panther?” Abraham asked, still stunned by the violent reaction.

“Chief. Tecumseh. Other”—a garbled, obviously derogatory word—“smoked
calumet
with Wayne.” Derisively, he pretended to puff an invisible pipe. “Not Shawanese. Not Tecumseh. This land not his—not yours—not any man’s to—” A hand darted outward. “Trade. Moneto gave to
all!
”

Another angry arc of the club made Abraham start. The fat old Indian giggled, revealing stumps of teeth in wrinkled gums.

“Moneto made land for all!” the young man repeated. “Cannot be”—again the outward gesture—“given.” He pointed his club at the breaking light in the east. “Can
kesathwa
be given?” Supple fingers pantomimed falling rain. “Can
gimewane
be given?” He shook his head. “So land cannot be given. Not by one—not by many!”

The Shawnee began walking forward, sensing Abraham’s gut fear now, and playing on it. He shook his head again, angrily. Then: “Woods people who took Wayne
calumet
—sat with Wayne”—more unintelligible phrases, savagely spoken and plainly showing what the young brave thought of those Indians who had negotiated with the general—“did not own this.” He stamped the earth. “Moneto’s land. For all. If we want—stay. If we want—go.” A sly smile. “Look there—” The club jabbed toward the cabin. “Whis-key.”

Abraham raised the rifle to his shoulder. “No. I’ll kill you. Do you understand? I’ll
kill
you.”

The Shawnee understood. Abraham jerked the rifle barrel toward the fields.

“Get away! Get off this—”

He was unprepared for the sudden whipping motion of the brave’s arm. The war club tumbled end over end toward his head. He lunged out of the way, stumbled, fell on his left side as the club struck the chimney logs and bounced away.

The young Shawnee reached the club in three long strides. He raised it over his head with both hands, brought it forward and down, the spike aimed at Abraham’s torso. On the ground, Abraham braced the rifle against his hip and fired.

Inside the cabin, Elizabeth screamed. The ball only slowed the downward arc of the war club. Abraham rolled to the left. The bone spike raked his shoulder—

The club dropped from the Indian’s hand. He seized the chimney logs for support, slowly sank to his knees. The shot had blown away his left eye and part of his cheek.

Vomit rose in Abraham’s throat. The young Shawnee’s trousers darkened as he urinated uncontrollably. On his knees, he moaned and slumped forward against the chimney. As he sagged all the way to the ground, his face left gore and bits of bone on the logs—

Abraham struggled to his feet, pulling his knife in case the fat Indian attacked. Marginally aware of a second voice raised in the cabin—Jared’s—he heard a sound that turned his bowels to water. The rattle of the door latch.

“Abraham?”

Damn it, he’d warned her to stay inside! Always, always, she defied advice, did as she wished
—

“Abraham?” she called again. She came running around the corner of the cabin, hair streaming at her shoulders.

“Elizabeth, stay ba—”

The fat Indian’s musket roared.

Abraham was facing his wife. He saw her literally fly backwards as the ball hit.

For a moment he stood numb, his gaze swinging back and forth between Elizabeth and the Indian. His wife lay on her back, a black hole oozing blood onto her right temple. The toothless old man lowered the musket as a curl of smoke drifted from the muzzle.

Howling, Abraham ran at the Indian, knife raised. The Indian wheeled and lumbered off around the barn, his grunts of fright trailing behind him.

Abraham pursued him only a dozen steps. Then he halted. Shock set his teeth to chattering. The Barlow knife fell from his fingers. He faced about; faced the sight of Elizabeth sprawled in her nightdress, her mouth open and her eyes too—

He knelt beside her, both palms on her cheeks. He heard Jared’s voice from the cabin doorway. “What’s wrong, Papa? Why is Mama lying there?”

“Go back inside!
Close the door!
”

Frightened by the wild look of his father’s face, Jared vanished. Abraham rocked back and forth on his knees, rubbing his wife’s face. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth—”

It became sobbing.
“Elizabeth, no. No, Elizabeth—”

The brightening dawn only heightened her waxy pallor, accented the color of the blood that flowed down past her eye to her ear, clotting in her fair hair. She had washed her hair to shiny brilliance just last night—

Still kneeling, Abraham cradled her corpse in his arms, speaking her name over and over. The cabin door stood slightly ajar. He never noticed.

Nor did he see the huge eyes of a small boy staring at the blood on his mother’s face.

In the pleasant March sunlight, Abraham walked the four miles downriver with Jared. His step was slow, his expression stony. The boy kept glancing up at his father, but never spoke.

When Abraham had finally carried Elizabeth’s body into the cabin, Jared had repeated his questions. Abraham answered in a dull voice, saying Elizabeth had gone away from them and would not be coming back.

Jared’s face showed his confusion: When Elizabeth’s still form lay before him, how was it possible for her to have left the cabin—?

Then and now, as Abraham and Jared walked, a forbidding expression on the father’s face kept the son from voicing any of the fear and turmoil the morning’s events had produced.

People stared at Abraham’s white face and feverish eyes as he led the boy to Clapper’s.

Waiting on a customer, Daniel Clapper immediately recognized that something dire had taken place. He bid the customer a quick good morning and followed Abraham into the rear of the cabin.

In a monotone, Abraham reported what had happened—producing a burst of tears from Clapper’s wife. She recovered quickly. She hugged Jared to her shapeless bosom, drew the boy aside to comfort him.

Abraham said to Clapper, “I’m going back to take care of her body and to collect my things.”

“Let me go with you, Abraham. You’re in no state to—”

“Yes, I am,” Abraham said, his face animating into fury. He pushed Clapper’s hand aside. “I’m going alone.”

Seated on a chair with Jared on her lap, Mrs. Clapper said to her husband, “Don’t let him, Daniel.”

“I’m all right!” Abraham insisted. “I’ll pack what Jared and I need for traveling and be right back.”

Clapper goggled. “My God, boy—your wife just got shot an’ you’re goin’ traveling?”

Abraham’s eyes burned. “What good can I do her by staying here?”

A long silence. Then Clapper asked, “Where you goin’?”

“East. Home. Away from this accursed place. I killed her bringing her out here.”

“A couple of drunken Shawnee killed—”

“I did.”

“Listen, Abraham, that little boy’s scairt to death—look at him!”

But Abraham wouldn’t. Jared burrowed his face in Edna Clapper’s shoulder, began to cry.

Clapper stepped close to Abraham, whispered, “I know it’s a grievous thing, Abraham, a grievous an’ terrible thing. But you’re carryin’ on like a crazy man. You got to take hold of—”

Clapper stopped. Abraham’s face was like a death’s-head.

“I’m going
alone
, Daniel. I’ll be back presently for Jared. Don’t chase after me or you’ll get hurt.”

Pivoting, he ripped the curtain aside and disappeared into the front of the store.

No one followed.

There was a demon in Abraham Kent that morning—a demon whose hate lent him the strength he needed to do what had to be done.

First he dragged the young Shawnee down to the river. Keeping his eyes away from the destroyed face, he lifted the corpse and flung it in the shallows. He broke off a tree limb, waded out and prodded the body into the current. When it was floating, moving slowly in the sun-dazzled water, Abraham threw the branch away and returned to the barn where he loaded his rifle.

The barn smelled of fresh manure. Abraham sighted down the muzzle to a spot between the horns of Henrietta Knox. The cow kept chewing slowly. Abraham began to tremble. At last he gave up, unable to pull the trigger.

He led Henrietta Knox outside. The ground was damp. The night’s frost had melted, moistening the black earth. He rubbed the cow’s back a moment, then let go of her rope and walked away. In similar fashion he brought the ox to the field and left it standing.