Crow Mountain (8 page)

You just watched.

‘The others . . .'

You looked around, at the horses first. Further away, I could see now, one of them was still alive and struggling feebly, legs horribly broken. You ran a hand over its wet face, steadying it, speaking to it for a few seconds before standing and shooting it in the head. Its broken legs jerked frantically, then were still. Only then did you look for the other travellers.

Water trickled over my neck in an icy thread. It was rising fast and your trousers were soaked up to the knees as you walked around, soft boots sodden. Panic was compressing my chest worse than the wreckage. I began to wonder if perhaps you were one of the road agents Mr Goldsmith had told me about, and if you were more interested in our belongings, now scattered over a wide area and rapidly washing away. You walked past me to the place where I thought the teamster lay. Nudging him with your boot, you watched for a reaction. You turned his face from side to side and pressed your hand to his neck. Straightening, you clicked something on the rifle and shot him, right there on the river bed. I tried to rise and run. How had I been saved from the fall only to die at the hands of a looter? My legs gave out and I fell clumsily into the shallow
water on my back.

You came back and crouched next to me, elbows on your thighs, hands hanging slack in between. My teeth were chattering with fear and the glacial meltwater. I tried to push myself upwards, but the agony, and the strictures of the corset, sent me splashing back into the wet. You were still looking at me, your strange pale eyes unreadable. I felt the beginnings of a faint coming on. My vision darkening, my chest tight, I couldn't hear anything at all. I reached up, trying to take your hand, but your fingers slipped out of mine and I knew no more.

Sometime later, I woke. Behind my eyes, a pulse thudded. I blinked, things taking time to come into focus. Above me, faded whitewashed planks formed a pitched roof. My left thigh hurt and a cool breeze washed over my body, smelling of pine and flowers. I shivered. Beneath my back was a soft mattress, and my hands rested on my ribs over the thin linen chemise I'd put on in Fort Shaw.

I thought back, brain fumbling, trying to piece together the jumbled memories in my mind. Row upon row of tents in Fort Shaw. Indians. Soldiers. Campfires. Miss Adams in my room. Mr Goldsmith's rough hand on my elbow. The rumble of the wheels. The bridge giving way, the coach slipping, smashing, everything tumbling around inside. Black.

I tried to look around. The room was made of the same whitewashed wood. Beyond the open window, I could see blue studded with fluffy white and the smell of green, but
only that. A noise somewhere: wind through the trees or maybe water rushing. I swallowed, summoning moisture to my mouth, making my head spin. I breathed in and out slowly. How long had it been? Where was I?

A fly landed on my cheek and I tried to lift a hand to brush it away, but couldn't. I turned my head, wincing, and saw a canvas strap tied around each wrist. I panicked. Incoherent pleading crowded my throat.

A door banged and someone walked into the room.

‘Hey.' You pushed the dirty hair from my face.

‘Cold,' I stuttered, not really sure I was cold. Was it just that I was wearing only a thin underdress? With relief, I realized the stays had gone and I could breathe freely for what felt like the first time in many months.

You took a blanket, laying it over me. I strained against the straps around my wrists, drawing my knees up. You put a hand on the bed to one side of my waist, the other testing the heat of my forehead, face and throat, lifting an eyelid. It was the closest I'd ever been to a man, even my father.

I tried to swallow again. To speak. You held a tin cup to my mouth, the other hand cradling my sore head as I gulped.

‘Too fast.' You took it away.

The liquid trickled through my chest, cool and fresh. ‘Did I do something wrong?'

You shook your head. ‘Thought it better if you were out of it for the journey, but the drugs made you restless. Kept on trying to get up and falling. Seen it before, so I thought this would just keep you still for a little while. Do you hurt?'

I pulled against the straps. ‘Yes. Everything aches.'

‘You were lucky.' Your hand slipped behind my head as you offered the cup again. ‘Slowly.'

I drank, pulling in cautious sips. As I did, I tried to look up, to see you, but all I saw was a dark head, a shirt that might have been blue once, now grey, with the sleeves rolled up over dirt-brown arms.

You let my head go and it fell back on to the pillow, puffing up the smell of clean linen as the darkness claimed me again.

When I came to, it was morning. My eyelids snapped up. The window was still open but there was an acrid smell in the fresh air. I wriggled, feeling wetness. Beneath me there was a towel and layers of linen on an oilcloth, all wet. Every nerve recoiled. My hands wouldn't reach my face. I couldn't call for you. Was there a woman who could help me? Did you have a wife or a sister? Where was I?

Then you were there. I began to cry hot tears of humiliation. You rubbed a hand through your already tousled hair. ‘Had to happen sometime.'

I cried harder. ‘Not to me.'

‘We all think that. Until it does.' For a few minutes, you disappeared and I lay, distressed at the idea you would leave me like this. Then you returned, the straps gave and you looped my arm over your neck before carrying me outside on to a porch. You dunked me in a wooden tub that stood to the right of the door. I cried out as I hit the cold water, and the white linen dress floated up in the narrow spaces around me.

You straightened, watching me cower from you. ‘Ain't gonna get clean sitting like that.'

‘What about the others?' I couldn't be alone with you, surely?

‘All dead. Just you left.'

‘You killed that man, the teamster.'

You ran your fingers down the edge of your jaw. ‘He was more broke than a body can take. Figured it was kinder than leaving him to drown.'

‘But you shot him. Just like you shot the horse.'

‘Yeah, well, I ain't much for watching things suffer.'

‘Would you have done that to me?' My teeth were chattering with fear and cold.

There was a silence. ‘Lucky for us, we didn't have to decide.' You went inside, leaving me sitting in the water, cold and terrified.

The only sound was the birdsong and the wind. I looked down at myself. My underdress was not only soiled, it was filthy with perspiration and dirt. Leaves and mud clung to it in places. Disgusted, I pulled it over my head, wincing at the pain in my arms as I dropped it into a sopping pile on the planks.

A moment later you returned, silent in your soft boots, with a bar of strong-smelling soap and a bottle of liquid, placing them on a stool by the tub. Surprised by your sudden appearance, I hugged myself away from you.

‘There's some fancy hair soap in that. Last tenants left it behind.' With that, you disappeared again, just as quietly.

I blinked, trying to focus. We were on the side of a mountain, grassy tufts rolling away from the front of the cabin down to a thick stand of trees. Beyond was a vast and sparkling lake. As far as I could see were only more rocks, trees and dramatic black and white-capped mountains. I was so far from anything I had ever known.

Picking up the soap I began to wash, arms agony. Shuffling out of my drawers beneath the water, I hesitated, then dropped them on to the wet pile. My concepts of modesty were being abraded rapidly. Naked in the tub, my left thigh was one enormous bruise, black and yellowing. How long had it really been? You came back, clattering loudly by the doorway. I pulled my arms to my chest, crouching over my knees. Mama had told me many times that I should never let anyone see me naked.

You hunkered down by the tub. Your untidy dark hair fell into your face and you hadn't shaved for a few days. But your most remarkable feature was your clear, startling eyes of palest grey, almost silver. You reached over and picked up an enamel jug. ‘Eyes closed.'

I obeyed and you tipped the water over my head, your hand against my forehead to guide the stream away from my face. You were trying to be kind. When you handed me the bottle of soap I couldn't even unscrew the thin metal lid, my hands trembling and useless, so you took it from me and did it, pouring some into your palm and starting to wash my hair. I had no choice but to let you. The soap smelt of flowers. Your hands were gentle but I winced as you worked, the bump on
my head and strained neck protesting. I drew in a sharp breath and your touch lightened further.

You opened the spigot that sat at the side of the tub and water ran from it. ‘Can you get under there?'

I hunched beneath it, yelping in shock at the cold liquid racing down my spine. We rinsed my hair until it was clean. Then you examined the cut on my head. It felt sore and the flesh around it a little spongy. I felt your fingers grazing the scabbed welt beneath my shoulder blade.

‘Looks like you've had this one a while.'

I tried to pull away, wanting you to stop touching. It was wrong and my head was too crowded and everything ached so much. The mark on my back seemed trivial. ‘It's from the stays. The ends of the bones rub. It became worse with the travelling.'

You made a careful square around the sore with the tip of your finger. ‘That contraption did this? You know that ain't right?'

‘It's good for posture,' I managed to say.

‘Good for nothing now. Had to cut you out of it. Used it for kindling when we got back.' You put thin, creased towels on the stool. ‘You can manage?'

I nodded. You left. Truly, I was not sure at all that I could manage for I felt horribly unsteady on my feet as I tried to rise, and sat back with a bump and a splash. Gritting my teeth, I managed to reach the rough bench standing against the cabin wall.

After a painful effort, I was dry and cocooned in the
largest of the towels, covering me almost to my feet. The mountain breeze blew across my bare shoulders as I squeezed the water from my hair as best I could with the square of threadbare cotton. My arms were wretchedly painful and I began to cry. You came back and sat next to me. Then took the towel from my lap.

When you finished rubbing my head you slung the towel over your shoulder and began to comb my hair. ‘Well, look at this, I'm finding a use for all these things I have around the place and didn't know why. This comb, for instance. Ain't never had use for one a-them my whole life.'

Your clipped tenor is hard to capture on paper. You rarely finished your words –
talkin', laughin'
– and you placed odd stresses on some of them –
a-gane, no-body, sol-jers
. Sometimes you used French phrases arcane by the standards of even my aged tutor.

I cleared my throat. ‘How did you find me?'

‘Heard you hollering and saw the coach at the bottom of the river bed.' Silence. ‘Were they family?'

I shook my head.

‘A girl like you wasn't travelling that trail by herself, surely?'

‘No. The tall man and the woman, they were travelling with me.'

You waited.

‘They were taking me to my parents. In Oregon.'

‘London England to Oregon, that's aways.'

I looked over my shoulder, biting my lip at my sore neck.
‘How did you know I was from London?'

‘Asked the barkeep at the hotel. In Helena.'

My breath caught, fear tightening my chest. ‘Were you following us?'

There was a long, judgemental pause. ‘No. Was minding my own business when your team decided to risk that bridge. It's been shaky for a year now. Weren't close enough to stop them.' You finished combing my hair. ‘All done.'

‘Thank you,' I whispered.

‘Come on inside. No point letting you die of pneumonia now, is there?'

Inside the house I looked around, now that my vision had steadied and my feet were a little surer. They looked small and pale on the floorboards, leaving damp toe prints. The house was made up of two rooms. A massive stone fireplace and chimney sat back to back in the centre, the one fire heating both chambers. This room, the kitchen, was sparsely furnished with a big black stove sitting in one corner. There was a scrubbed table with just one chair. And a large, worn armchair by the hearth. Near it was a stool. Besides a few pegs on the wall, holding a rifle hanging by a strap, that was it. You went into the bedroom, which was only partially separated from the other room by the fireplace and chimney – no walls.

From a rough pine cupboard you pulled a shirt. ‘Afraid I don't have much in the way of ladywear, and your dress is probably a bit . . . unnecessary here.'

‘Where is it?'

‘Drying out back.' You held up a pair of trousers. ‘I suppose, if we roll these up real good and belt them . . . what do you think?'

No one had ever asked me what I wanted to wear before. My clothes were chosen for me by Mama and planned a week in advance, more for special occasions. And now I stood wrapped in only a towel as a strange man offered me clothes I would expect to see on a London beggar. A man whose intentions weren't clear at all.

‘I ain't gonna hurt you,' you said, reading my thoughts. In the clear light, your eyes were icy: dark blue circles ringing Arctic irises. You held the shirt and trousers out, pulling off your belt. The leather was warm from your body. ‘Here. It's not pretty, but it'll do.'

I dressed in the bedroom after you left, sitting on the edge of the mattress to pull the trousers on, legs still untrustworthy. The bed had been remade and the oilcloth removed. You'd guessed it would happen . . . Tears prickled behind my eyes. My new clothes smelt of outdoors and soap, drowning me. I belted the trousers by tying the leather back on itself through the buckle as there was no hole far enough in, and bent to roll the legs up several times. Three of me would have fitted inside the shirt; the top button was missing when my cold fingers fumbled for it. I looked like a pauper. I walked to the cabin door, hand hesitant on the brass door knob. Outside, over a small campfire, you had made not the compulsory foul coffee, but tea.