Longshadow's Woman

Counted the years of his age, that numbered twenty-nine—not as many as he would have liked, but as many as he was apt to see.

Counted the ships that had sunk beneath him, which, unfortunately, totaled three. Counted the shipmates lost at sea, too great a number to recount without pain, even though he had had no friends among them.

With a mixture of grief, anger and resignation, Jonah Longshadow counted the years it had taken him to save enough money to buy his land, fence it and stock it with a blooded stallion and a few good brood mares. He counted the number of foals he would never live to see and wondered who would eventually claim all that was his.

And when he was done counting all that, and counting the days his body could go without food, he turned to counting his chances of escaping the hangman’s noose.

The number was less than the number of hairs on a goose egg—less than the number of legs on a fish.

Hearing footsteps approaching his cell, Jonah suffered the indignity of eagerness. There might even be more than a crust of stale cornbread today. Yesterday’s chunk, no bigger than his thumb, had been soaked with something that hinted of ham and cabbage. He suspected either the caretaker or the jailer himself ate most of the food prepared for the prisoners, allowing them only enough to keep them alive for a trial.

The water he could abide. Even with a few wiggling worms, the kind that would turn into mosquitoes, it filled his belly. A man could live for a long time without food as long as he had water.

It was the jailer this time, not the young caretaker. He came empty-handed, and Jonah’s belly growled in protest. He sank back onto the matted straw that smelled of dog and crawled with fleas and waited to be told that the judge had finally arrived, had tried him without a hearing and sentenced him to hang for the crime of being a stranger, a half-breed. For being a survivor. With a streak of bitter amusement, he hoped it would be today, while he still had the strength to stand and face his executioner.

“On yer feet, Injun, got some good news fer ye.”

The sun was at its hottest by the time Carrie finished her business and turned toward home, her prisoner following along behind. Hobbled by leg irons, he couldn’t walk fast, but then, Sorry was in no great rush. She only hoped the poor wretch would be worth the two dollars he had cost her.

An Indian. She still couldn’t believe she had rented herself an Indian, after what had happened to her parents. But he’d been the only prisoner at the time, and she was determined not to go back empty-handed.

The jailer, a potbellied man with a drooping moustache and eyes that seemed to weigh her and find her wanting—which was nothing new in her life—had given her a small key, but warned her to keep the leg irons in place at all times. He’d told her to shoot the thieving bastard if he tried to escape, to feed him once a day and to keep a close eye on him. “Injuns are a tricky bunch, breeds are even worse. If I didn’t have to be gone all next week, I wouldn’t let you take him, but Noah’d likely end up either starving the poor devil or letting him escape.”

Carrie didn’t know who Noah was, nor did she care. All she wanted to do was get home before dark. Before she changed her mind. She had expected a prisoner to look meek and subdued, not like a wild animal, ferocious and furious at being held in captivity.

She had every intention of feeding her beast—her prisoner. Wild or not, she had paid two whole dollars for him and she fully intended to get her money’s worth, even if it meant breaking him to the harness herself. She might be a dreamer, but she was also a realist. She fed her chickens so they’d lay eggs. She fed Sorry, hoping to get a few hours of work out of the lazy beast. A man, even a miserable, flea-ridden creature like the one trailing behind the cart, his ankles hobbled by a short, heavy chain, wrists bound by a lead rope, would need food to keep up his strength.

According to the jailer, he had been imprisoned for robbery, but for all anyone knew, he could be a killer, too. She might have been smarter to put off clearing her field for another year, or at least to wait until her hand healed and she could do it all herself. But she’d already started the task, and it wasn’t in her to give up. Another year and the brush would be even thicker. If this was what it took, why then, she’d do it, second thoughts or not.

He was filthy. When he’d gotten close enough for her to get a whiff, she’d been reminded of the hides she’d nailed to the side of the barn to cure. Not that she was much cleaner herself after a day on the dusty road, but at least she’d started out the day with a washbowl and a chunk of lye soap.

It occurred to her that she didn’t know his name, didn’t even know if he had one. Well, of course he had a name—everyone had a name, but she hadn’t dared look him directly in the face, much less ask for an introduction. When it came right down to actually handing over money to rent a human being, with him not having any say in the matter, she’d been unexpectedly embarrassed. It was too much like buying a cow, or a horse.

Even so, she’d seen enough to know he looked mean and arrogant, as if being filthy and imprisoned was something to be proud of. Touching the rifle for reassurance, she tried to ignore the hatred she could practically feel burning into her back through layers of faded calico and coarse muslin.

Passing the small farmhouses between Currituck Courthouse and her turnoff in Shingle Landing, people stared and whispered at the sight of a man being led behind the cart like a cow. One little boy threw a rock and yelled something hateful. A woman taking wash off the line stopped to stare and call out a warning. “You be careful, there, girl—he don’t look none too trustable to me.”

He didn’t to Carrie, either. All the same, she cringed at hearing him discussed as if he were a dumb animal. She knew what it felt like to be passed around like an unwanted parcel, discussed as if her ears were no more than handles on a pitcher. She’d been only a child when it had happened to her. Her prisoner was a full-grown man—a thief, possibly worse. The jailer had let on that he was no better than a savage, didn’t even speak the King’s English. She’d heard the poor wretch muttering something under his breath in some heathen tongue while the jailer was tying him to the back of the cart and testing his knots by jerking them as hard as he could.

Carrie slapped the reins across Sorry’s rump, wiped the sweat from her eyes and wished she hadn’t already finished the jar of water she’d brought with her. There’d been creeks along the way where Sorry could drink, but Carrie wasn’t about to get down on her hands and knees and drink beside her mule. She could wait.

But what about her prisoner? She peered over her shoulder to make sure he was still following along behind the cart. It wouldn’t do either of them much good if he passed out from thirst without her noticing and she dragged him all the way home.

Sweat trickled between her breasts. August was so blessed hot! She was worn to a frazzle just from riding. She couldn’t imagine how he must feel, having to walk, especially with those heavy chains around his ankles. If his back itched, he wouldn’t even be able to scratch with his wrists bound together with the lead rope.

Once her conscience started to nag at her, it refused to let up. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she hauled short on the reins and climbed stiffly down off the high seat. Her left hand was throbbing, her bottom sore as a boil from the oak bench seat, but it was her conscience that bothered her most. It simply wasn’t in her to be cruel to anything, man or beast. The man might be a filthy, thieving heathen, but she hadn’t forgotten what the missionaries had taught her about being a Good Samaritan and doing unto others. She had to admit that even with a sore bottom, she’d sooner ride than have to walk all the way home, swallowing dust.

With a reassuring glance at the rifle, she signaled the man to come forward. Bishop Whittle would have been proud of her. He’d been real big on doing unto the least of them, and all that. A criminal would probably rank pretty far down on his list of leasts, but all the same…

“I reckon it won’t hurt if you ride the rest of the way on the back of the cart.”

If gray eyes could be said to blaze, his did. The words hung there between them, like that long, frayed lead rope. And then the man turned his back on her.

Carrie couldn’t believe it—the arrogant bastard actually turned his back! Indignant at having her good deed thrown back in her face, she snatched up the lead rope and gave it a hard yank. “Don’t you turn your back on me, you sorry, thieving—”

Jonah called on the pride that had brought him so far. The pride that was now battered almost beyond resurrection. Raising his manacled wrists, he jerked on his end of the rope, catching the stupid woman off guard. When she fell forward, landing face down in the dirt, he felt a fierce stab of satisfaction.

Which might be the last thing he felt, he told himself as she lunged up from the road and reached for her rifle. Furious at having been dragged along a public road, he was in a vengeful mood. From under a thatch of matted, vermin-infested hair, he glared at her, making no effort to hide his hatred. This small, drab creature with her sun-reddened nose was not responsible for a single stroke of his ill fortune, but he was in no mood to be reasonable, much less charitable.

They were evenly matched. His hands were bound, his legs in irons, but he was taller, stronger, and far craftier. She was a small woman with one hand wrapped in rags, but she had two distinct advantages. White skin and a Springfield rifle—even though the gun was almost too heavy for her to lift. Braced against the side of the wagon, she could hardly manage to hold it steady, but her eyes never left his. Grudgingly, he allowed her credit for a measure of pride, no matter how foolish.

He was a Kiowa warrior. She was merely a woman.

In the torpid heat of a late summer afternoon, they stood there for one endless moment, linked by misery, frustration and the birth of an awareness neither of them was willing to acknowledge. The mule, as pathetic a creature as Jonah could recall seeing, even here in the east—began to graze on the dried grass at the edge of the road. Jonah told himself he could stand in the middle of the road as long as she could. Unfortunately, he hadn’t eaten in far too long and he needed to make water.

So he did something to break the stalemate. Lifting his head, he closed his eyes and loosed the fierce, wild war cry that had once echoed across the plains.

Startled, the mule threw back its head and brayed, adding to the cacophony. A pair of crows erupted from the top of a dead pine. Jonah had the pleasure of seeing the woman’s face grow pale as milk from a starving cow.

It had been more than ten years since Carrie had heard such a cry. She had almost managed to block it out, to the point of renting a man who was part Indian. Now it came roaring back like a relentless nightmare. On that dreadful night so long ago she had barely escaped with her life. Hundreds of others, including both her parents, had been slaughtered, victims of the Minnesota Massacre, a wild rampage that had lasted more than a week.

Taking two steps forward, she jabbed him hard in the belly with the rifle barrel. “Don’t you ever do that again,” she hissed, as wild color rushed up to replace her pallor. “You can walk till you drop in your tracks for all I care, then I’ll drag you the rest of the way and feed what’s left of your miserable carcass to the hogs!”

Carry didn’t have a hog, but as a threat, it was about the worst she could think of. She only hoped he believed her. Having seen him up close—seen his eyes, which didn’t match the rest of him, even as they simmered with hatred—she was even more conflicted than when she’d stopped to offer him a ride.

The man was a prisoner, she reminded herself. An Indian, no different from the ones who had murdered nearly an entire settlement. He might not have been a part of that particular event, but he’d done something awful, else he wouldn’t have been in jail. Given half a chance, he’d probably wrap the rope around her neck and strangle her.

Just as well she’d had second thoughts about letting him ride with her. She was sorely tempted to turn around and drag him back to the jail. He could rot there for all she cared. The trouble was, she needed him—needed someone, at least, and he was the best she could do. Unless she was willing to wait another year to get her first field planted, it was this man or nothing.

With a show of boldness she was far from feeling, she tested the knot, nodded, and climbed back up in the cart, wincing as she settled her tender backside onto the hard, splintery seat. Her hand throbbed all the way up to her shoulder—she had a hardened criminal on the other end of a rope, and she was just now starting to wonder if she’d have the courage to let him off the leash long enough to do any work.

This might not have been one of her better ideas.

Just before she slapped Sorry into motion again, she turned and glared over her shoulder. “Out of the kindness of my heart, I was willing to let you ride. Well, you flat out used up any kindness I had to offer, so you can just damned well crawl, for all I care.”

As if he could understand a word she was saying. All the same, she said it because it needed saying. At least God, if He happened to be listening, would know her heart was in the right place.

Over her shoulder, she spoke again in a loud voice, enunciating each word clearly. “And just so you don’t go getting any crazy notions, I can shoot the toenail off a one-legged crow at a hundred yards. I’ll shoot you dead if you try to run away, you understand me?”

Jonah understood every word the woman spoke, but he had long since learned the advantage of keeping such knowledge to himself. The woman was weak and foolish. She lied. She was also afraid of him, but Jonah did not make war on women.

Uttering not a word, he weighed his options. He had been away from his farm for twelve days. His horses were pastured. There was grass. There was a creek for water. One of his mares was due to foal soon. He needed to be with her, for she was a foolish animal, but first he must retrieve the deed to his property and the bill of sale for his stock before his parole ended, which would be when the circuit judge arrived. Even then, his chances of convincing a judge of his honesty were low. He had paid for everything he possessed, but there was no way he could prove the money he had used had not been stolen.

Overpowering his captor would be easy, but would accomplish nothing. They’d been traveling somewhat west of north. By now he was beginning to recognize a few familiar landmarks. When they passed the one-lane road that led to his own property, he focused his mind on the thought that one way or another he would reclaim his freedom. He had not come this far and survived this much to give up now. He had no way of knowing where the woman was taking him, but he knew it could not be too much farther. She had not brought along food.

So he walked behind the cart, breathing in the sweet, dusty air of freedom. While his mind turned over various ways he might prove his innocence, his gaze rested on the straight, narrow back of the woman. When she lifted her ugly straw hat he saw that her hair was thick and pale and shorter than his own. Only children had hair so short. She was not a child, but she was young. Even with two good hands she would be no match for the willful mule. The mule knew it. The woman still held onto her illusions.

He studied her bandaged hand and wondered how grave the injury was. Though her arms were pink, he thought it was from the sun, not the telltale signs of an inflammation streaking up from under her wound. He had seen people die from such an inflammation.