Wicked Temper Part 13

Lovell left the rail. He knelt before her. His fingers cupped her chins.

"Yer smart as a whip, honey. You did just the right thing."

Both hands came up fast, too fast, and clutched his.

"Mebbe I shoulda used lime. I coulda gotten some lime from w.i.l.l.y's store and covered the thing with that. It was such ugly sickness, Lovell. I keep sufferin dreams o'torment!"

Tough. He wanted to be tough. But n.o.body was tougher than a burnt baby or the whims of disease. He was afraid as she was. Fear put them silent. For several long minutes it gripped them, Lovell allowing her to clutch him while she wept feebly, eyes squeezed. When he spake, his feeling was genteel.

"Floy," he soothed, tearing from the clutch, "you have to go now."

A giant sob racked the porch swing. She yelped out, "I get scary. Can't you come on back to the boudoir, pet me, gimme deep nookie?"

Lovell stood suddenly, swept back his silvering locks. "Nope. That can't happen."

"Buy me perty-perties..."

Just as abruptly, revelation struck him. He finally woke up without a pill. Lovell told her to wait then disappeared into the house. She waited.

A sunny scrim dropped over Floy and her sorrowful gaze. She glided the swing. Dawn brushed across flowertops in the garden, slicing through the arbor, gleaming off a bell in a small belfry at the bottom of the yard. Ducks. Ducks went quack-quack nearby. What was this strange place, this big, spookhouse, this maze of trees and vine? Where was she? How had she gotten here? Her mind was going south. Floy sensed as much and felt more afraid.

Then, after a year and a half, Lovell was back on this strange porch. Returning to her. Returning from inside with his guitar. The devil's beard was gone. Wasn't that nice? Floy had never fancied his beard.

"Yer beard's gone--"

Lovell untied his rhinestone-braid guitar strap from the peg head, deftly unhooked the b.u.t.ton end.

"--you lookin nice."

Setting his electric axe aside, he lay the strap across Floy's lap, flipping it over to the leather backside. His fingers found the hidden seam and the zipper within. Unzipping the strap, he exposed a secret lining. It was flush with cash.

Floy's brow creased when she saw the folded money.

"Honey," he said, " you never knew, cause I couldn't afford to tell you. But I had a feller make this gitfiddle strap years ago, down in Chattanooger.

He made and sold money belts so I figgered he could sew me a rhinestone money strap just as good. There's almost a solid grand in h'yere. Nine hunert dollars at least. I saved it. Kept a few bills from ya ever week."

Floy shut-up, dried-up, looking from the inner green of the bills, then back to Lovell. He was fitting a pair of old tan bedslippers on her feet. They were tight.

"This is all I kin give ya, Floy," he was telling her, "these shoes and this blanket to cover ya proper, till you kin get home. These ain't walking shoes, the dude who wore em took a snugger fit in his wingtips. They'll have to do. Here, keep this blanket around ya, there ya go, no need fer everybody to see your bosoms is there?"

Lovell got her on her feet then walked Floy down the steps toward the road. She stumbled, hugging her blanket and strap beneath her chins. He made her hold the blanket tight. He told her the blanket was important, told her to keep her business out of the street.

"You take that money," he advised, "don't tell n.o.body about it. Tuck it away somewhere only you know about. Don't fergit where ya tuck it. I see things have changed fer you, Floy. But yer gonna have to do some more changin still. Just spend a little o'that green at a time. Only when you really need it..."

She stopped, turned and looked bluntly at him. It occurred to her that Lovell wasn't coming along. How could that be?

"...you gotta learn to live differnt than you ever have, hon. We all do. You save this cash. You git back on your feet. But you cain't never come back here. I cain't help you no more." He hated himself for saying it, but he said it. "Fergive me."

Lovell thought she might boo-hoo again, when he asked that. But she did not. Instead, Floy cheered, after a fas.h.i.+on--hooking stiff strands behind each ear, struggling for a brave face. Her snaggletoothed words finally came: "Don't be thinkin you wasn't anointed. You and that guitar you love. You was the jack o'spades."

Yes, he thought. But, no. "You ain't gotta be anointed to know whether love rubs right or wrong." That's all, he said.

"Thank you, doll."

"No problem."

"You bought me pertier perties than any man I ever knew."

"Gives me a strong feelin, knowin that."

Fionuala was sipping her special blend of chicory and cocoa when he found her in the Florida room. From the shade of the rubber tree her swollen eyes smiled. Kissing her lips lightly, he hummed a few bluesy notes. Sinking into his chair, b.u.t.toning his vest, he hummed a few more.

"You had company?" Fina whispered so tender.

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"You could have invited them in for Mad Rabbit Stew. Only if you wanted to."

He took up the guitar. Without voltage, Lovell chorded a slow-thumping blues. He sang, barely.

Lock up you cats, lock up yer kit, Whaaaaaaayh.e.l.l, Everbody lose they heads on the Axeman's s.h.i.+ft--

His riff soured, he stopped, then--TWAAAAAANG--he shot the D-string. Gleaming fire and bedevilment, Lovell gave her the eye.

"Whatcha want fer breakfast, Fionuala Brynn?" he asked, smacking his chops.

Fionuala leaned forth, warbled her own flat, airy melody: "Another aelspin song, sir...yes, another song...oooh yes, then another..."

His discharged axe tossed off a couple of spry boogies before she told him her secret. That little room with nursery carol wallpaper would soon be a nursery once again. Ten long seconds later he made a proposal. When the lawyer came on Wednesday he was introduced to Sir Lovell Starling of the Chesapeake Starlings.

They married that weekend down in Roanoke, swearing vows before a justice the lawyer knew well. They never exchanged rings. Neither Fionuala or Lovell saw the need. Two hours later they visited the doctor, a doctor Fina and the lawyer knew well, and the doc gave them both his blessing.

Winter crept in as she outgrew her dresses. November found him signing away the mineral rights to his Alabama parcel. The two were seen together more and more, sometimes even strolling through Ewe Springs and Cayuga Ridge. The expectant bird in her swathing and dark shades, cooing an arcane tongue to her swarthy gitpicker. It was quite a shock. They kept mostly to themselves in that twelve-gabled manorhouse up Six Bucket Run, especially once the snows reached full bl.u.s.ter. She could not travel easily by then, so they waited for Spring's gift. He carried good fuses in his pocket at all times. In the icicled evenings, tuning up before the woodfire, he thought he might get around to asking how her family made all of this loot. Maybe he should inquire

about her mother someday. These were just chords to ponder. Shortly, he began crooning boogaloos to that woodfire, boogaloos that turned into lullabies. She rocked easily. She looked out and sang along.

T U R P I T U D E.

Up from the lowlands they came, guns at ready. A blue, crystalline mist overtook the six hors.e.m.e.n. Ice trimmed their beards and made the timothy gra.s.s crisp under hoof, turning to snow by late morning. The riders avoided speaking, each fellow swaddled in his hidebound determination, a dozen brown eyes trained on the hills above, watching doggedly as they climbed ridge to ridge. Pursuit drove them into deep mountains, deeper snowdrifts. The bloodletter was not to escape. Under no circ.u.mstance.

His capture was the only thing Mrs. Arbogast could speak of, near the end. His capture cursed her lips, his slow, slow hanging; not her pony's misfortune, yesterday--and Mrs. Arbogast loved that piebald pony--not even her housegirl's skint babe consumed her fever anymore. All men would still be paid, she said, but the bloodletter must pay first. Over Sergeant Pritt's objections, Mrs. Arbogast signed a note. The money would be waiting back in Mug Jump. Her orders must stand. At dawn, shortly after she wrote these orders, Mrs. Arbogast was rolled into a blanket and buried. She did not specify how five dark gunmen and an olive-grey foreigner were to collect on a white man's corpse.

Now, in driving snow, Sergeant Pritt reread her note. He was dead serious, as always. Not a smile to his name. This was no laughing matter. Should they return with the bloodletter, across Kentucky and the Missouri River, the Sergeant would have to explain to whoever they met riding back. This was a real bad white man.

No sir, I don't mean no disrespect. Just pa.s.sing through. Me and my fellows, we was hired by a deceased widow lady--my old Major's widow. What's that? Yes sir, that there body is a white gentleman, his name was Robby Loy; but he weren't no gentleman, if you'll excuse my say so, sir. We buried the dear lady. Sir? Oh, he was a evil, soul-fed man, sir, a baby skinner. That's right, sir, a baby skinner. Cooked em. Et em. Took some of their tiny bones, left all the skins. A fearful thing, sir. Why, I don't justly understand, Mister Sheriff, sir. Yes, I rode with the 9th Buffalo Brigade out in Injun territories. No sir, Mister Sheriff, I was not lipping back at you. I meant no disrespect, sir. I've got a IOU paper from the lady--I mean--I woulda kilt him fer free, sir. Like I said, he was a real--I'm sorry, sir, yes, I heard you the first time. No. I did not know Mr. Loy personally. What's that? Sir? No. No. No, they wasn't no white babies he skint.

It was hopeless, of course. This life was mean. Folding the note, Sergeant Pritt had few delusions left. No white b.a.s.t.a.r.d's body was likely to look big enough or bad enough if black folk had him strung over a saddle. Perhaps the German would be an a.s.set. Perhaps not.

With only a few hour's sheen left for an advance party to reconnoiter, Sergeant Pritt dropped back from the lead. He slapped his broad-brimmed hat across his stirrup, shedding ice as he eyeballed Akando. Akando was the most proper Negro the Sergeant had ever known; the blade rode square-shouldered, erect and sullen. When Akando spake it was King's English or close to.

"Snow looks to be unkind this evening," the Sergeant said. His face hung bottom-heavy, grim eyes locked in chapped crinkles.

"Hate to marshall camp without effectual cover," Akando measured his words. This Pritt, he was a sober chap. A soldier. "Suppose Loy's privy to us, sir?"

"He's privy. Figger we've got daylight enough to top this ridge. We'll look fer rock er tree cover up beyond that notch yonder."

"Yes indeed sir." Akando's smile was a s.h.i.+ning thing. It asked for kins.h.i.+p.

Pritt frowned. "Akando, I'll keep rein on this trash we're ridin with. Ain't no need to sir me. Mizz Arbogast wanted you here. Good enough fer me."

Unlike Pritt's pony, the tall tracker's roan was not winded or foundering in the thickening drifts. Akando's smile softened. Akando gave nod, eyes skinned ahead; cat's eyes they were, golden moons under berry-black lids.

Sergeant Pritt could almost see Stone Major sanctioning this Akando. A proper man for a proper task. How long had those words been Pritt's creed, his inheritance from the finest officer he'd ever served? And this was proper duty. Rank, but proper. It had to be. The Stone Major had never tolerated idle bloodletting, muchless a baby's blood. Yes, time was, the late Major Arbogast would have commissioned a Nova Scotian n.i.g.g.e.r if he could ferret like this one here. Akando made sense. But then, without Stone Major out front, renegade Nate Forrest or any other klanriders would just as surely string and burn these two Yankee n.i.g.g.e.rs together. Sergeant and Sergeant's Royal Canadian boy. Blood or no blood. Stripes or no stripes.

Yes, Sergeant still wore the uniform. Mrs. Arbogast insisted. His blues and stripes might get them by, she said. So Pritt wore his rank, but hidden under leathers and longcoat. This was no joke. He had no real jurisdiction over these men.

The Sergeant inspected his unsworn troops, again, doing battle with the defeat in his belly, again. Oh, his silent roll calls always began with great promise. First there was this elegant critter sitting fine saddle alongside him in doeskin breeches and moccasin. Akando's flesh rippled, ebony-smooth, he was some breed of immaculate perfection. Second, Sergeant looked down at his own scarred hands, laced with proud flesh, white risen welts. His left arm ached from old puncture wounds. There was still an Apache musketball somewhere inside him. Too bad, Sergeant Pritt told himself, newly impressed by Akando's presentation. Too bad this upstanding trooper wasn't just the best of the Sergeant's lot; he just about was the lot.

Behind Sergeant Pritt, Seals and Kortsteinen rode. One thieving, b.u.t.t-ugly tanbark-shucking Negro and one pickled German schoolteach. Up ahead rode Seals' two sons, Stackhouse and Nothin' Bill. Sure enough, they were all game for the hunt; they were greedy for Mrs. Arbogast's bloodmoney and each wanted to slay a white devil. But each was lout stupid to boot. Come to think of it, Seals never had properly explained how he got his boy children off the County Farm, not to the Sergeant's satisfaction. All three would of made excellent cannon fodder at Petersburg. There was no mystery about the German, either; he was too old and besotted, too hacking noisy for true Cavalry service. Stone Major and Young Captain John often differed back then, but they'd never outfit a consumptive Prussian.

"Mister Pritt?" the tracker was saying, frost on his lashes, "those young men at point?"

"You be right, Akando. Ain't up to the mark, are they? Let's you and that hoss forge ahead, scout over that notch fer proper harbor. We'll need somethin betwixt us n'this storm tonight."

"Yes sir." And the black tracker was off, his roan highstepping through the snow. The Seals boys parted their horses and let him pa.s.s. They laughed, making sport of his royalty.

"Frikken yo nannygoat--" their daddy Seals was keening from down the trail. "--looky dat n.i.g.g.e.r runnin on. Say now, Saaargent, you fetchin dat boy after my yaller gal? Keep my bedroll warm tonight?"

The Sergeant reeled his pony, shooting daggers at Ugly Flagg Seals. "That'll do mister. Watch yer back before Robby Loy sets his blade in it, he's our concern, Seals. We're after that chile killer, er don't you recollect our bizness?"

Kortsteinen lifted his grey, burnsided face to the wind, s.h.i.+vering, tugging his buckskin away from Seals' mare.

Seals chuckled up the trail at the Sergeant. "I remembers well enough, Ma.r.s.e Pritt, I remembers my callin. You?"

Steeling himself with admirable constraint, Sergeant Pritt spun and gigged his pony betwixt Seals' craw-yucking boys. Without word Pritt retook the point. No sense in letting Robby Loy catch these foolish lads unaware. Sergeant Pritt would give his gold tooth right now for a steady corporal or two.

At least he had Akando.

Sergeant could barely make out the tracker and roan, amongst those rocks above, braving sharp flurries. Akando was just now cresting the ridge there, he disappeared into a hazy white notch. If that black prince heard Flagg Seals' vulgar slurs, the prince gave it no heed.

Over an hour went before Sergeant and Attachment reached the burnt hulk of a watermill. By then, they were in the blizzard's teeth, their weary mounts nearing the river gorge, heads low, drizzling s...o...b..rs. That roan had cut a fluffy path thus far; clearly visible, despite whitening onslaught, Akando's wake led smartly past the mill.

"I's rarin to whomp yo a.s.s, Nothin'," shouted Stack Seals at his brother. Brother's horse bit Big Stack's wolfhide coat, again. The coat smelled like cheese so Nothin' Bill always let his horse nibble. Stack saved his coat with a spur in the nibbler's snout and all dumb animals took a breather while Sergeant's point pony slogged off toward the bridge. Only one side of the big two-tiered mill was left standing. Most of the millhouse ashes were hidden under snow, no doubt, but the waterwheel was still intact and frozen into the ice-locked river below. Spanning across high bluffs, a plank footbridge had also survived. Akando was not rus.h.i.+ng out to greet them.

Sergeant took his pony across the bridge, saw the roan's track heading steeply up the far bluff, then Sergeant returned. With Akando unaccounted for and a bitter night crawling closer, Sergeant Pritt was in quandary. Here was the only decent windbreak they'd encountered for some time. The mill's surviving wall faced northerly and would supply some degree of cover from the element. Akando should have returned by now. The scout must have hoped for better refuge farther along.

Sergeant halted their push.

Tying their horses in tight against the inner mill wall, they attempted rough camp under the charred eaves of a loft floor, or what was left of the loft. The horses each got a few handfuls of oats. Beneath their loftroof sc.r.a.p and partial ladder, the men built a small fire then huddled inside the circle of beasts.

His s.h.a.ggy team ate jerked meat and raisins. Sergeant ate millet from his squaw pouch. The blizzard was ebbing, however briefly. Dusklight still shone upon the snow.

"Vot am I to do wid tese stockings?" Kortsteinen unb.u.t.toned his calf-high gaiters, just down to the boots. His long stockings were wet and he could not bear them wet all night. But removing one's boots in such harsh circ.u.mstances was a bad idea.

Ugly Flagg and sons watched the German's odd lip turn at the pitiful fire. Kortsteinen fished out his pewter flask and nipped from it, considering his options. Sergeant kept faith with his millet. Sergeant's hard palm felt those six last-charge bullets, keeping faith at the bottom of his squaw pouch, safe under his meal. Sergeant's mind ran with thoughts of Akando and Robby Loy.

"Ottto! Po me some o'dat corn juice," Stack Seals blurted, suddenly.

"Nein." Kortsteinen fell into a nasty cough, but managed to cap his flask.

Smack in the face, Ugly Flagg backhanded Stack.

"Mine yo manners, boy. Flagg raises you better'n dat." Ugly Flagg smiled his rottenest at the German. "Wait'll Mistuh Koatsteeen invites us to a lil sip."

Kortsteinen grunted at Flagg's challenge, ignoring the bait. The flask returned to his breast pocket; Kortsteinen's flamboyant eyebrows crooked toward the Sergeant. "Are vee beyondt civilization--now zat Madam Arbogast is deadt?"

Sergeant spake softly, a thoughtful fix on the foreigner's boots, jupecoat and arrowpoint nose, "Didn't hear of any settlements up this far. Bound to be a few mountain squatters. But, I doubt Eu-pean Society'll ever be too far afield--long as this party's in possession of a live German schoolmaster."

Kortsteinen coughed, bleakly rewrapping his grand lapels. "I vuz not alvays alt schoolmeister."

"h.e.l.l, you say," Pritt said, then saw Nothin' Bill gaping bluntly into the curve of his spoon. Funny thing about spooky, calm, speckledy-faced Bill: he wors.h.i.+pped that tin spoon. That spoon never left the lanyard or his neck. "Whatcha seein in there, young Bill?" the Sergeant asked.

"Nuffin." Then Nothin' Bill snickered at the Sergeant. Brother Stack snickered at Bill. And Ugly Dad Flagg snickered at the sickly German.

Sergeant Pritt actually liked Nothin' Bill, in a sad sort of way. Bill might be good for a laugh, in Sergeant's book. Not much else. Fortunately for Sergeant, Sergeant didn't afford much laughter these days.

"Where yo hightone n.i.g.g.e.r now, Ma.r.s.e Pritt?" Stack was saying, "mebbe he finds hisself another hoecake kitchen. Mebbe his hightone hoss takes a flip, breaks dat Akando's nut. Jez like po, po Mizz Aberga.s.ss."

Pritt's scarred fingers probed the millet bag. Mrs. Arbogast had made things easier. Most farms would have her into the house, her and Kortsteinen, though Kortsteinen refused to go. Pritt and the others usually got their cups filled with soup, something. One Quaker's wife baked hoecakes for the entire squad, with extra cakes to carry along. One farm widow told Mrs. Arbogast to get those G.o.ddam darkies off her place now. "I have the utmost confidence in Mr. Akando," the Sergeant told Stack. "And it's still po Mrs. Arbogast's coin you'll be spendin if we ever come to kill this man. You'll respect that. Or I'll kill you."