The Soldier's Wife

“And what Mrs. Garth would that be?”

“Mrs. Thomas Henry Garth,” he said. “Sayer.”

“Sayer?”

“Yes.”

“They come from Thomas Henry? Is he dead?”

“Where can I find her?” Jack asked instead of answering.

“Is he dead?”

Jack didn’t say anything, and after a moment the door cracked open and a woman stepped outside. The musket was still trained on him, and he had no doubt that she would kill him if she thought it the least bit necessary.

“Is he dead?” she asked again.

“Yes,” he said, and the woman let the musket fall.

“Oh, no! Oh, no,” she said, lifting the musket slightly and then letting the barrel swing downward again. “That poor girl.”

“Can you tell me where to find her?”

“She ain’t here,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re on the wrong ridge.”

“I’ve come a long way,” he said. “I just want to give her the letters and then I’ll be gone.”

“I’ll take them to her—if she’s alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“They got sickness at the Garth cabin. The two little girls—I don’t know about Sayer. She didn’t holler this morning.”

“Holler?” Jack asked blankly.

“It’s how we know one another’s all right. Give a loud holler so whoever lives closest can hear you. You send it back to them and if there’s anybody else can hear you, you pass it on. She didn’t holler. Ain’t no smoke coming out the chimney, neither.”

“You can see the place from here?” he asked, looking around for a clearing in the trees.

The woman stared at him warily without answering.

“I don’t mean her any harm. I just want to give her the letters and tell her what happened.”

“You was with him at the end?”

“Yes.”

“He die easy?”

“No,” Jack said truthfully, mostly because she had lifted the musket again and because he thought that this old woman would spot the lie before he got it out.

“You ain’t going to tell her that.”

“No. I’m going to tell her what he—Thomas Henry—wanted me to say.”

“Who are you?” she asked, studying him hard, and they were back to that again.

But he still didn’t answer the question.

“You soldier with him?”

The horse was growing restless, giving him the opportunity to ignore that question, as well.

“You the one what killed him?” she asked bluntly, her voice louder now.

He stared back at her and drew a quiet breath. “I...don’t know.”

“Well, at least you ain’t a liar,” she said after a moment. “These here hills is full of liars and I can’t abide any of them.”

“Where’s the Garth cabin?” he asked, still hoping to get some information out of her.

“You going to help or hurt?”

“I told you. I don’t mean Thomas Henry’s wife or his little sisters any harm.”

She continued to stare at him and the minutes dragged on. “You wait for me,” she said abruptly, as if she’d suddenly made up her mind about something. “I’m going to get my sunbonnet. Make that there horse come up here by the porch.”

He considered it an encouraging sign that she left the musket leaning against the door frame, and he walked the horse forward. She returned shortly, wearing the blue-flowered cotton bonnet she’d gone to fetch and carrying a basket. The bonnet was faded but clean, and her withered face had disappeared into the deep brim. He thought she would have a horse of her own someplace to get her to wherever they were about to go, but she had other plans.

“Hold that,” she said, shoving the basket into his hand. “Well, let me grab your arm. How do you think I’m going to get up there?”

He shifted the basket and the reins to his other hand while she awkwardly caught him by the forearm and swung up behind him. She was much stronger than she looked. He expected to have to help her a lot more than he did.

“My name’s Rorie Conley,” she said when she was situated and he’d handed the basket back. “And yes, I already know—you ain’t got one. That’s Rorie Conley. Try to remember that. I’m a old widder woman and I don’t suffer fools gladly. That’s something else you need to remember. That way,” she added with a broad gesture that could have meant anything, and poking him in the ribs for emphasis.

He set the horse off in the direction she’d more or less indicated.

“That basket’s heavy. You got a revolver in it?” he asked after they’d gone a short way.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she countered.

“I would,” he said.

“I ain’t telling you.”

He waited for a time, but apparently she meant it.

“Well, they say ignorance is bliss. I’m not feeling particularly blissful, though.”