Something, some sound, some …
I listened, and seemed to hear something moving near me; there was a faint smell. Then the movement sound ceased, but the smell remained.
What was it? It smelled, faintly, like something wet and slimy. A crocodile? Or alligator? I doubted if there would be one this far north, but a body never knew, and they had been found in swamps and bayous off the Mississippi, but the smell was unlike what I would expect from them.
A wet smell, like a wet dog.
That was it! It was the smell of a wet dog, yet what would a dog be doing here, alone? Or was it alone? A dog was rarely a soliatry creature; dogs liked people, were happiest when with people.
My new rifle-gun lay beside me, my pistol was close to hand, the other Doune pistol was still in the carpetbag, also close by.
Something stirred among the leaves and I drew my pistol. I did not want to shoot, for a shot in the night can be heard a far piece, yet …
A few stars were out. I could make out the shadows of things, and through the leaves I could see the silver gleam of the river. I listened, straining my ears. All was quiet.
I wanted to be at home. I wanted to be in my own bed, getting up in the morning to familiar chores. I wanted to sit and talk with ma, I wanted to sew, to darn socks, I wanted to be home!
I was tired of running, tired of being hunted, tired of being forever watchful. I wanted to sit with a cup of coffee beside me and watch the shadows lift from the hills of home.
Regal seemed far away now, and Finian Chantry was in another world. I wanted to be home, among decent folks, I wanted to stand beside Ma in church of a Sunday and sing one of the old hymns or maybe set by the fireside of a night and sing “Greensleeves,” “Lord Lovell,” “Black Jack Davy,” or “Rickett’s Hornpipe.”
Something moved again, and I could just make him out. It was a dog, and he was lying near us, seeming to want company.
“It’s all right, boy,” I whispered. “Go to sleep now.”
And I did.
17
He was a shepherd dog, mostly black and brown but with some white on his chest and legs, and he looked like he’d been seeing hard times.
“Where’d he come from?” Dorian wanted to know.
“Joined us in the night. Looks like he’s been missing some meals.”
Archie was putting together a fire. “Coffee in a bit,” he said, “and we can broil some meat.”
The landing where we’d left the canoe was made of home-cut planks and was old, all gray and silvery and no place for a body to walk with bare feet. There was moss growing on the pilings and every sign it had been there for a long time.
What happened here? I wondered. It was a good place to live, with water and fine timber. Some fields had been cleared but lying unused for a long time now.
We fed the dog some scraps and when we climbed into the canoe he whined, wanting to come. Dorian looked over at me. “What do you think?”
“Why not?” I said, and Archie spoke to the dog and he hopped into the canoe like he’d ridden in one all his life.
“We may be stealing somebody’s dog,” Dorian said.
“He’s homeless,” Archie replied. “I can see it in him. Whoever his folks were, they’re gone.”
Dorian and Archie did most of the paddling but I’d spell first one, then t’other from time to time, giving them some rest. Once in a while there’d be a long straight stretch and we’d look back and see nothing. Nevertheless, I was worried.
“I’d like to ride this river down, sometime,” Archie said, “get back some of the work I’ve put in goin’ upriver.”
“There’s easier ways to go back,” I said, thinking of the steamboats that sometimes came up the river from the Ohio to Nashville.
“I can’t wait to get back,” Dorian said, and I just looked at him, not wishing for him to go at all.
“Have you a girl back there?” I tried to keep my voice casual.
“A few,” he said. “It’s a wide field and I play the field.”
Well, I told myself, that’s better than if there was a particular one.
“We’ll have you home soon,” he added. “Right back with your folks where you belong. Then I’m catching the first stage, steamer, or whatever back to Philadelphia.”
Archie glanced at me but he said nothing, nor did I. Maybe Dorian would be better off in Philadelphia. He did not look as handsome as when he started. His clothes were shabby now, and he hadn’t shaved in several days. He always combed his hair real careful and he took time to clean up from time to time.
“Even with the water runnin’ high,” I said, “we’re not goin’ much further with this canoe. This turns into just water runnin’ over rocks a mite further along.”
It was that shep dog who saved us. We’d swung wide to come around some drift-logs and brush gathered at a bend of the creek when that dog suddenly come to his feet, every hair bristling, and he began to bark.
“Backwater!” I yelled, most unladylike, and my voice was drowned in the crashing thunder of rifles firing. I dug in with my paddle and Archie with his. A bullet shattered the paddle in my hands, another ripped the front of the canoe, then the current had us back behind that point of driftlogs, the current and Archie’s quick reaction to my yell. There was another shot and then I heard swearing and somebody yelled, “… too soon, damn you!”
“Across the creek!” Archie spoke low but quick. “Into the trees!”
The river wasn’t wide here and the current helped. For a moment we were visible from upstream and somebody shot, but the bullet missed and then we were back of a timbered point.
We beached the canoe and piled out. “Leave it!” I said.
“Are you hurt?” Dorian was staring at my wrist, which had been cut by flying splinters when the paddle was shot from my hands.
“A scratch,” I said. “Let’s get away from here!”
They had been laying for us, all set to mow us down, and that shep dog had saved our bacon. When he jumped up and went to barking, he evidently caused those hiding men to shoot too quick. If we’d been a canoe length further up the creek, they’d have killed us all.
We dragged the canoe ashore, taken up our goods and went into the forest.
We had been days on the water and had paid little mind to the forest we were passing through, but this was big timber, giant sycamores, blue beech, river birch, and clumps of black willow, with here and there a table of rhododendrons. There was a game trail taken off toward the mountains, and we taken it, with me leading.
Maybe it was forward of me, bein’ a girl and all, but whilst Archie had a knowin’ way about him, I didn’t think Dorian when it came to trails would know come hither from go yonder, so totin’ my bag and my rifle, I just headed off into the tall timber.
What I wanted was a place to hole up and make a stand. Whoever fired on us would be wanting to finish us off, and I didn’t know how my outfit would do in an Injun fight amongst the trees. Back toward Pine Mountain there were rock formations, caves, and such. What I wanted was high ground with some rocks and timber, a place with a good field of fire.
I’d never been in a shootin’ fight but once, when I was ten, when some raidin’ Injuns had come through, but I’d heard Pa, Ethan, Regal, an’ them talk about what was needed.
That trail didn’t amount to much, but it was going our way and it was climbing along some limestone ridges and through the timber. Nor did the boys argue with me. They seemed to want to get shut of those folks back there just as bad as I did.
Who was it? How had they gotten ahead of us? Or was this Felix Horst with some of his old Natchez Trace outlaw friends?
“You’d better let me carry your carpetbag,” Dorian suggested. “Or your rifle.”
“Take the bag,” I said. “Nobody carries my weapon but me.”
Once, stopping to catch our breath after a climb through rocks and trees, I said, “We’d better do some thinkin’. They know where we’re a-goin’. They’ll cut across an’ get ahead of us again. Somewhere up yonder they’ll be waitin’ for us.”
“We lucked out this time,” Archie said. “That won’t happen again.”