Bringing Ezra Back (4 page)

Duffy and Winston pranced alongside Beckwith and me as we crossed the big pasture. When we reached the edge of the woods, I turned back. Molly and Pa were standing right where we'd left them, and I longed to be standing there, too, waving good-bye to Beckwith. When Duffy and Win left me to race back toward the cabin, I felt near as lonesome as I ever had.

3

I STARTED OUT
following Beckwith through the forest, reminding myself to keep a watchful eye for landmarks that would help me find my way when I returned with Ezra. My load was pretty light compared to the huge, oddly shaped pack the peddler had to wrestle with. It slowed him down considerable, as it reached up taller than his head and was forever getting caught on low-hanging branches. Every time it happened, he muttered under his breath—things I reckon Mama would not have wanted me to hear.

I scrambled over a fallen tree and Beckwith tried to follow. He lost his balance and fell backwards. Lying there, waving his arms, he looked as helpless as an overturned beetle.

“Come give a fellow a hand up,” he called.

After that he wanted to stop and rest, even though I figured we'd been walking for only a little over an hour. I wasn't halfway tired, but Beckwith took off his pack with a groan and lay down on his back, staring up through the treetops to the clear blue sky. “Someday there will be a road through this godforsaken, infernal wilderness, Nathan,” he said. “Peddlers will live a life of ease, traveling by wagon instead of like beasts of burden.”

I looked at the dense growth all around us and tried to picture a wagon making its way through. It didn't seem likely. I wondered if Beckwith was a liar, a dreamer, or just plain crazy. Besides, to me the woods weren't godforsaken or infernal, either. They were home.

“I heard of a road that goes across Ohio from western Virginia to Kentucky,” I said. “But folks say it's no more than an old Indian trail with some of the trees cut back. Good for travel by foot or on horseback, maybe, but—” I stopped, seeing that Beckwith had something to say on the subject.

“Zane's Trace is what you're talking about,” Beckwith said. “Your description's right, but it won't be a mere trail for long. There's wagons on it now, though it's rough going. Folks are going to keep coming this way. Soon there'll be roads, towns, even cities, in this very spot where we're standing.”

His words hung for a moment in the still, silent air. Then they were quickly swallowed by the trees and their shadows. The forest was deep and thick and spread on forever. Sitting in the midst of it all, I couldn't see it coming to an end, try as I might.

It was true that we'd got word some new folks were planning on settling out our way. And every time I went to town, it seemed a new building had sprung up. But, still, I figured the peddler was playing me for a fool.

“You ever been to a big city, Nathan?”

I shook my head.

“Well, you won't see the likes of Philadelphia or Boston on this journey,” he went on. “But depending how far you chase after this Ezra fellow, I expect you'll see towns bigger than you can imagine and sights that'll make your hair curl.”

He looked like he might start in telling tales to get my hair curling right then and there. Any other time, I might have been curious to hear them, even if they were most likely lies. But I wanted to get moving, toward Ezra.

“How long you reckon before we reach Pennsylvania?” I asked.

“Oh, four or five days' travel, if all goes well. But if there's one thing I've learned about life on the road, it's this: all will
not
go well. It never does.”

I hoped he was wrong about that, but what I said was, “Then we best get going.”

Beckwith rose with another loud groan and made a big show of settling his pack on his shoulders. Right off, we had to cross a stream, and he cussed considerable about getting his boots wet. I wondered who he complained to before I took up with him. The birds, maybe, or the trees.

We walked for a while without talking, the water squishing in our boots. It felt good on my itchy, swollen feet. I was worried some about what Beckwith would expect of me when we finally reached a town, and after a while I decided to ask. He brightened up as he explained how he figured it would go.

“The first town we come to calls itself Tullyville,” he began. “It's near about the same size as the town you're used to, maybe a little bigger. We'll get there tomorrow or the day after. We particularly want the ladies to be out and about, so it's best if we can show up in the middle of the day. Why do we want the ladies around, you might ask?”

I did wonder.

Beckwith gave me a foxy look and said, “Listen sharp, young man, for I'm about to let you in on the tricks of my trade. First of all, you must win over the ladies. Understand that they are out here in the midst of nowhere, cut off from the comforts and trappings of civilization. They hunger for the sight of beauty and color, for the feel of things soft and smooth, for the chance to possess something that will ease the hardship of their lives, or lighten the burden of their labors. A snippet of gay ribbon, a shiny brooch, some flower seeds, a silk shawl—such treasures can help a woman make it through a long, harsh winter.”

I could see the truth in what he was saying. I remembered Mama's pleasure in the things she'd been able to buy from Isaac, and Molly's face as she touched and smelled and gazed upon Beckwith's treasures.

“Think of what a cake of sweet-smelling soap means to a woman making do with the rough stuff she fashions from ashes and lye! Imagine the rewards of a washboard to a woman accustomed to kneeling by a stream to scrub her family's clothes on a rock. To these poor ladies the contents of my pack represent nothing short of hope, Nathan. And hope gives them the courage to go on, to face another year of weevils in the wheat and frightful weather and ailing children and constant weariness.”

We were walking up a pretty steady rise, and Beckwith had to stop to catch his breath. He glanced at me, I reckon to see how I was taking his fancy speech. I admit I was impressed by the way the words rolled off his tongue, like maybe he'd said them before just that way.

“Sometimes I carry letters, Nathan, missives from back east, from what used to be home. I watch the women's faces soften when they read those letters, and I know I'm due to make a sale, so grateful are they to get word from their loved ones.

“In the absence of a letter, I try to bring my own happy news, be it jokes or riddles or stories about folks from other places. People love a good story or bit of gossip, Nathan. And—mark this, now—with the women, the judicious use of flattery is a businessman's greatest weapon.”

I was trying to work out exactly what he was getting at, but Beckwith winked at me and kept on talking. I got his meaning soon enough.

“It's here that a most delicate balance must be struck. You must speak sincerely enough so that even the drabbest, homeliest, down-on-her-luck creature can believe you mean what you say about the color of her eyes, the fineness of her figure, the skill of her sewing, or the flavor of her cooking. At the same time, you mustn't go so far as to rile the menfolk. There's no point in making a man feel obliged to defend his lady's honor, or any of that nonsense. The object is to make a sale, Nathan, never forget it!”

I didn't say anything, as I was busy pondering the rush of words and trying to decide how I felt about them. It didn't matter if I spoke or not, anyhow. Orrin Beckwith didn't need much encouragement to keep talking.

“Now, the menfolk represent a different challenge, young Nathan, but not so different as you might first suspect. Of course, a man needs tools to use in his work, and to help him protect himself and his family. But it isn't only the fair sex that is prone to vanity, no, sir! You've got to appeal to a fellow's manhood. Then you've got to be alert to any particular need or weakness he's got, so you can offer a remedy. You see what I'm saying here, son?”

The truth was, I did see what he was saying, and I'd concluded I didn't much like it. He had it all worked out how he could skin folks out of their money. He didn't mean to do right by folks, only to make them think he did.

I let my mind go back to the night before, and I could see how Beckwith used every one of his tricks on Molly, and tried 'em on Pa and me, too. It made me feel mad and foolish at the same time. It was good that Molly got dyes to make red and blue for her quilt. But I was glad I hadn't pushed Pa to buy me the Barlow knife.

“A peddler's got to have a keen wit,” Beckwith was saying. He gave me another wink and added, “Folks would rather be shaved by a sharp razor than a dull one, Nathan, don't forget it.”

I didn't plan on letting anybody shave me one way or another. Maybe Pa wouldn't like to hear me say it, but I didn't trust Beckwith any better now than I had from the first, and I didn't much like him, either. Still, I needed him to get to Ezra.

4

WE PUSHED ON
that afternoon and the next day, with Beckwith doing most of the talking and me trying to keep him moving east as fast as possible. Come dark the second night, the weather turned cold and we sheltered under the boughs of a big spruce tree. I built us a fire, and Beckwith made coffee and heated up beans.

“If we had some ham, we could have ham and eggs, if we had some eggs,” he said. Then he peered at me to see how I liked his joke.

I had to smile, in spite of promising myself to stay cautious about the man.

After we ate, Beckwith asked me to play a bit on my fiddle, so I took it out, put some rosin on my bow, and commenced tuning. Eli, my teacher, used to say that fiddlers spent half their time tuning and the other half playing out of tune. I finally got it right, or close enough, anyhow.

I started with a few simple jigs I'd practiced a lot. Beckwith appeared happy enough with them, even tapping his toe in time to the music. He didn't seem to mind when I began working on some I was only just learning. I did appreciate that. Whenever I practiced at home, Molly made a show of running from the cabin with her hands over her ears. Pa said she was just teasing, but I wasn't altogether sure.

I reckon between the fiddle music and the crackling of the piney wood I'd gathered for the fire, we were making a fair racket. So when a man's voice came from the inky shadows outside the firelight, I pretty near jumped out of my britches.

“Well, well,” the voice said. “I knew you'd turn up sooner or later. Bad luck always does.”

I was on my feet quicker than a scalded cat. But Orrin Beckwith just leaned forward, stirred the fire with a stick, and said calmly, “You're the one turned up. I figure that makes
you
the bad luck.”

The man who had spoken stepped out of the darkness and into the ring of light from our fire. He wore no hat, and his white hair stood out kind of wild. I had the thought that his head looked like a dandylion flower that's gone to seed.

“You've got an answer for everything, haven't you, peddler? Well, answer me this: how come I was sicker'n two pukin' dogs after taking that medicine you sold me?”

Beckwith shrugged and said, “Reckon you'd have been a lot sicker without it. Might even be dead.” Then he dumped his coffee, wiped the cup on his trousers, poured a fresh cup, and held it out to the dandylion feller. “If you don't come in by the fire, old man, you'll be sick again. And this time you won't have anybody to blame but your own fool self.”

The man came closer, set his pack down, and took the cup from Beckwith. After a long slurp, he made a face and said, “If this is coffee, I'll have tea. If this is tea, then I'll have the coffee.”

“Call it whatever you like,” Beckwith answered. “It's all there is.”

I'd been standing still as a stone, watching and listening real close, sure there was going to be trouble.

“Who's this young fellow?” the man asked Beckwith. “And why is he glaring at me like he figures I just finished up murdering ten people with my bare hands?”

“He's kinda nervy,” Beckwith said matter-of-factly. “He'll settle down soon enough, once he sees you're too wore out to swat a fly.”

I sat then, though I reckon I was scowling at the both of them for talking about me like I wasn't right there.

Beckwith went on, “I'm willing to overlook you coming here and accusing me wrongful if you got something to contribute to our little gathering. A smoke of tobacco, perhaps? Or”—he sounded hopeful—“some whiskey?”

The man shook his head, mournful-like. “Whiskey would indeed be a comfort on a night such as this. But it appears I'll have to make do with your company instead. Yours and the fiddler boy's, that is.”

He sat and looked across the fire at me. “Got a name, fiddler boy?”

I couldn't see any good reason not to answer, so I said, “Nathan Fowler, sir.”

The man nodded. “Joseph R. Honeywell, artist, portrait painter, and silhouette cutter. Have you any money, Nathan Fowler?” It was his turn to look hopeful.

“No.” I didn't see any reason to tell him, or Beckwith, either, about Mama's gold coin. Then I repeated it louder. “No.”

“You sure 'bout that?” Honeywell asked.

I nodded.

“'Cause if you've got some money, I can make a likeness of you so real it'll convince your own mother she bore twins.”

Orrin Beckwith let out a guffaw at that. “Don't believe a word this scoundrel says, Nathan,” he cautioned. “And when he leaves, as I sincerely hope he will, check your pockets and count your fingers and toes to make sure they're all present and accounted for.”

Honeywell pretended to be affronted. “I don't have to sit here and have my honesty questioned,” he said.

“That's right,” Beckwith agreed. “You don't. And if you want to see how much we'll miss you when you go, stick your finger in the creek over there, pull it out, and look at the hole.”