Preacher (6 page)

When they stopped that night to make camp, there were no other wagons around. Younger griped a bit about the fact that nobody else was there.

“You'd think for sure there'd be some travelers here,” he complained. “They's a goodly supply of wood, grass, and water. The land is flat, makin' for easy campin'. Seems to me like it's the perfect place to stop, only ain't nary a traveler in sight.”

Jennie didn't say a word, but Art knew that she was happy they were alone. That meant she didn't have to entertain any men.

After supper, Younger asked Art to come with him to look for some dewberries. “I seen me some back a ways, so there's likely to be more around here some'ers. Iffen we can gather us up a mess of berries, I'll have the missus make a dewberry pie. I reckon both of you young'uns would like that.”

Art thought of the blackberry pies and cobblers his mother used to make, and his stomach growled. It had been quite a while now since he had anything like that.

“Yes, sir, I'd like it a lot,” he said.

“Well, then let's get to lookin',” Younger ordered.

The two left the campsite, Younger carrying a shovel with him, while Art had two empty buckets. Younger indicated that they should go out into the woods, so they left the wagon trail. To Art fell the job of breaking through the brush, while Younger had the somewhat easier task of following along behind.

They were nearly half a mile deep into the woods when Art saw several of the fruit-laden bushes. “There are some over there,” Art said, pointing, already tasting the dewberry pie.

“No, them's too little to make a good pie,” Younger said. “Let's walk on down a little farther and see what we can find. The bigger and fatter the berry, the sweeter it is. And the sweeter the berry, the better the pie.”

“Little? If you think those berries are little, they must grow awful big here. Those are about as big as any I've ever seen,” Art said.

“Don't be smart-mouthin' your elders, boy,” Younger said.

Art was surprised by Younger's vitriolic response.

“Sorry, didn't mean nothin' by it,” he said.

“Uh-huh. And I suppose you didn't mean nothin' by tryin' to talk Jennie into runnin' away with you when you got to St. Louis either.”

Art didn't answer.

“You prob'ly thought I didn't hear what you was sayin' to her. But I got ears like an old hound dog and I heard ever' word.”

“It ain't right, what you're makin' her do,” Art said. “She don't like it, and 1 don't think it's right.”

“You don't think it's right, do you?”

“No, sir. Not even a little bit,” Art said resolutely.

“Well, let me tell you somethin', boy. It ain't none of your business what I do with her. That girl belongs to me, bought and paid for.”

“I don't hold with no kind of slavery either. Black or white,” Art said.

“Yeah, well, what you think don't matter. And you already showed me that you ain't goin' to be worth a damn when it comes to takin' advantage of the lay of the land, so to speak. Iffen you had acted quicker when I told you to take that cow, like as not we would've been long gone before them folks discovered what happened. What you almost done was get me hung.”

“That ain't right, Mr. Younger, and you know it,” Art said. “In the first place, even if I had gotten that cow the first time you told me, they would have still caught up with us. And in the second place, what you done wasn't right. I don't hold with stealing, and those men were right to be mad.”

“So what you are telling me is, you're planning on traveling with us, but you don't plan to help out along the way. Is that right?”

“Not if helping out means stealing.”

“Uh-huh. I sort of thought that,” Younger said. “That's why I aim to leave you here for the buzzards to pick over your bones.”

During the entire conversation, Younger had been walking just behind Art. Now these words, coming from behind him as they were, had a chilling effect, and Art turned.

“What do you mean, leaving me here for the buzzards to pick over my bones?” he asked.

Younger answered Art by swinging his shovel at him. Art threw up his arm at the last minute, but it did little to ward off the blow. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, then a smashing blow to the side of his head.

* * *

Younger looked down on Art's still form.

“I should'a left you lyin' alongside the privy back there in New Madrid. But you had near fourteen dollars on you and I figured anybody as young as you, with that much money, must be a pretty enterprisin' fella. Too bad you turned out like you done. A young boy like you would'a been pretty good at stealin' and such. We could'a made out pretty well along the trail, if you'd'a had enough sense to listen to me. But some folks are just too hardheaded to listen.”

Younger began digging a grave then. He started it with every intention of making the grave six feet deep, but after a few minutes he got tired of digging. He looked at the hole he had dug, then at Art's still form. Figuring it was deep enough, he rolled Art's body over into the hole, and started covering him with dirt.

It began to rain . . . just a few drops at first, then the rain came harder, and harder still.

“Shit!” Younger swore loudly. He looked down at Art's body. It was only half covered with dirt from the waist down. “Shit, shit, shit!” He sighed. “Well, don't blame me for leavin' you for the wolves and sech,” he said. “I was goin' to bury you proper, but I ain't goin' to stay out in no downpour to do it.”

Picking up the two empty buckets and throwing the shovel over his shoulder, Younger started back toward the wagon. He didn't look back at the melancholy sight behind him.

The rain continued to fall, drumming into the trees, sifting down through the limbs, and causing little rivulets to run and form pools on the ground below.

* * *

* * *

When Art opened his eyes, he saw, not the roof over his bedroom, but the low-bending limb of a nearby tree. Because of the darkness, that was all he could see. He felt a weight on the bottom half of his body and, sitting up, saw that he was covered with dirt.

Suddenly it all came back to him. Younger had tried to kill him . . . in fact, Younger thought he
had
killed him, and left him half-buried in the woods. He didn't know why Younger had only half-buried him, but he was grateful that he had, for if Younger had finished the job, he would surely be dead by now.

Pulling himself out of the grave, Art fought the dizziness for a few minutes until he felt good enough to walk. Then he started back toward the wagon. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do when he got there Younger did have a rifle, after all, while Art had no weapon of any kind. But he would do something, even if it was no more than stealing Jennie away from him and setting her free.

But Art learned rather quickly that it wasn't going to be as easy getting back to the wagon as he thought it would be. In the first place, he could still feel the pain of the blow from the shovel. And that pain, coupled with the dizziness it caused, compounded by the pitch-black darkness, made it difficult for him to retrace their path. In addition, it was raining, and dark, and he was in totally unfamiliar territory.

Somewhere along the way he became completely disoriented. He walked for two or three miles before he realized that if he had been going in the right direction, he would have been to the wagon long before now.

Frustrated, and now nauseous, both from the blow on the head and the physical exertion, he saw a large, flat rock protruding from the side of a little hill. Crawling under the rock, he lifted his knees to his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs in an unsuccessful attempt to stay warm and dry. He was cold, wet, tired, and miserable.

He thought of his home, back in Ohio. The entire family would be asleep now, warm, snug, and dry in bed, under cover, while rain beat down upon the roof and against the windows. He had always liked the sound of rain at night; he liked the idea of being inside, in a warm, dry bed, while it was cold and wet outside.

Outside.

Where he was right now.

Art felt a choking in his throat, a stinging of the eyes, and warm drops of water joining the cold rain, sliding down his cheeks. They were tears, and he was crying.

Damn it, he was crying!

“No!” he shouted, shaking his fist at the heavens. “No! I am not going to cry like a two-year-old baby! I put myself here, and whatever it takes to survive, I'll do. If I have to steal, then as God is my witness, I will steal! And if I have to kill again, I'll kill again, but by all that's holy, I will survive!”

* * *

“Where's Art?” Jennie asked when Younger returned to the wagon alone.

“It ain't none of your concern where he is.”

“Where is he?” Bess Younger asked, looking over Younger's shoulder back into the woods.

“If you must know, the sonofabitch ran away,” Younger said. “That's the thanks you get for trying to help someone.”

“Why would he do that?” Bess asked. “I thought he was anxious to go to St. Louis.”

“You tell me why he would do that,” Younger replied. “We've been providing him with three good meals a day, a place to sleep at night, and a safe way of travel. So how does he repay us? By running off like a thief in the night.” Younger put the two buckets and the shovel into the wagon. “Well, let's get goin'. What with the rain and all, I'd like to find us a better place to stay.”

“What?” Bess asked in surprise. “I thought we were going to stay the night here. The team has already been unhitched and I've started rolling out the dough for tomorrow. Besides, you said yourself this was a good place to stay.”

“Yeah, well, I must've been wrong,” Younger said. “There ain't nobody else here; they must know somethin' we don't know. If you ask me, this may be a floodplain. Could be that with a good rain, there could come a flood and we'd find ourselves under water come mornin'. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

“No,” Bess agreed.

“Then do what you got to do to get ready to go. I'll hitch the team up.”

Jennie helped Bess tidy up the wagon as Younger hitched up the team. When she moved the buckets and shovel, she noticed something on the end of the shovel blade. She examined it closer, then she gasped.

“What is it?” Bess asked.

“Miz Younger, they's blood on the shovel,” Jennie said. “Oh, Lord, it's Art's blood, ain't it? Mr. Younger done killed Art.”

“Hush you mouth, girl,” Bess said sharply. “He didn't do no such thing.”

“Then whose blood is that?”

Bess picked up a rag and wiped off the stain, then held up the rag for a closer examination. “Hmmph,” she said. “It's not blood at all. It's nothing more than the stain of a few berries.”

“Are you sure?”

“You're not questioning me, are you, girl?”

“No, ma'am, I reckon not.”

“You just finish tidying up and don't worry your mind anymore about that boy. Truth to tell, he's prob'ly better off on his own. Looked to me like him 'n Mr. Younger was goin' to get cross-wise with each other one of these days.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jennie said.

* * *

As the wagon rolled through the night and the rain, Jennie sat in the right, rear corner, trying to stay dry and warm. If Art really did run away, it would be the best thing for him. But was that really what had happened? And was worry about a flood the real reason for pulling out in the dark? As long as she had been with the Youngers, they had never moved on in the dark.

She was also concerned about the stain on the shovel. Mrs. Younger had insisted that it was nothing but a berry stain, but it looked too red for that. On the other hand, Mrs. Younger wasn't an evil woman. She was actually kind to Jennie, and it was obvious that she didn't approve of what Younger made her do. From time to time Jennie had overheard them arguing, with Mrs. Younger begging him to stop forcing Jennie to be with men. Her entreaties had always fallen on deaf ears, but the very fact that she had championed Jennie's case improved her standing in Jennie's eyes.

Maybe Mrs. Younger was right. Maybe it was just berry stain. Jennie didn't know if God would listen to prayers from a sinner like her, but she prayed, fervently, that Art hadn't been killed.

Finding Younger was easy. The rain had left the trail soft, and Younger's wagon wheels cut ruts that were easy to follow. Nevertheless, it was nightfall of the following day before Art came upon a small encampment area filled with travelers. Nearly ten wagons and as many riders were gathered together for the night.

Moving up closer to the campground, Art used the light of a dozen fires to study the wagons. Then he saw what he was looking for: a canvas-covered wagon marked by a red streamer. Though it was sitting aside from the others, it wasn't isolated, for several men were queued up behind the wagon, just as before. Younger was standing at the back, collecting money from the men who were just arriving, then directing them to the end of the line. Mrs. Younger was in front of the wagon, sitting on the tongue, staring into the fire. Art knew she didn't approve of all this, but he also didn't believe she tried hard enough to prevent it.

Lying on his belly under a bush, Art fought mosquitoes and insects while he watched long into the night. Finally the last man who had entered the wagon came crawling out. After exchanging a few words with Younger, the man drifted away, disappearing into a night that was now lit only by the moon, since most of the fires had burned down to a few glowing coals.

“All right, Jennie, girl, that there was the last 'un,” Art heard Younger call. “You can come on down now. Bess? Bess, come on out now.”

It wasn't until then that Art realized that Mrs. Younger had gone to bed in Jennie's little nest beneath the wagon. He watched as Mrs. Younger and Jennie traded places, Mrs. Younger climbing up into the wagon, while Jennie crawled into the little canvas-drop area underneath. Younger climbed into the wagon behind his wife; then all movement stopped.

Art stayed where he was, waiting at least another hour, until he was absolutely certain everyone in the camp was asleep. Then he made his move, starting toward the wagon. The moon was so bright that he decided not to cross the opening upright, but to crawl on all fours until he reached the right front wheel. There he stopped and waited a few minutes longer, just to make sure no one had seen him. Not until he knew with absolute certainty that he was alone did he call out.

“Jennie,” he whispered.

No answer.

“Jennie. It's me, Art!”

A small stirring came from behind the canvas. “Art?” Jennie replied.

Above him, inside the wagon, Art heard Younger groan and move.

“Shh!” Art cautioned.

The canvas parted and Jennie stuck her head out. “I saw blood on the shovel and I was afraid you were dead!” she said. “But Mr. Younger said you ran away, and I guess he was right.”

“He was only partly right,” Art said. “And you were almost right.” He put his hand to the back of his head. “The blood on his shovel was mine. He tried to kill me with it, and must've thought that he had.”

“What are you doing here?” Jennie asked.

“I came to get you.”

“No, I can't go. I told you, I belong to Younger. I'm his slave.”

“Even if you are his slave, he doesn't have the right to treat you like this. Especially with what he makes you do. Come on, I'm going to take you out of here.”

“Where will we go? What will we do?” Jennie asked.

“I don't rightly know,” Art admitted. “I haven't figured that part out yet, but anything has to be better than this.”

Jennie crawled out from under the little shelter. “Wait,” she said. “What about my things?”

“You're wearing your clothes. What else do you need?”

Jennie looked back toward the little tent. Art was right. She didn't need anything else.

“Let's go,” she said.

Holding his finger up to his lips as a caution to be quiet, Art led her down into the woods.

“Hey! Come back here!
”

Younger's sudden and unexpected call startled them.

“Run!” Art shouted, and the two of them ran into the woods. They ran for several minutes before Art said they could stop running. They stood there then, leaning against a tree, gasping for breath.

Jennie started to say something, but Art held up his hand, signaling her to be quiet. He listened for a long moment before he was satisfied that Younger wasn't coming after them.

“All right, you don't have to be so quiet now,” he said. “He's not coming.”

“Oh!” Jennie squealed happily. She threw her arms around Art in a spontaneous embrace. “Oh, you are wonderful!”

“Yeah, well, no call for you to do all that,” Art said uneasily, backing away from her embrace.

“I know, it's just that I'm free,” she said. “I'm free!”

* * *

Younger wasn't sure what woke him up. It wasn't anything he heard as much as it was something he felt. He sat up quickly.

“What is it?” Bess asked.

“Nothin',” he said gruffly. “Go back to sleep.”

He started to lie down again, then decided that as long as he was awake, he might as well get out of the wagon and take a leak. He had just reached the ground when he saw, by the light of the moon, two people moving toward the edge of the woods. He didn't have to look twice to identify them. They were Jennie and Art.

How could it be Art? He was certain he had killed him.

“What is it?” Bess called down from the wagon. “What's going on?”

“Give me my rifle.”

“What?”

“My rifle, goddamnit! Give it to me!” Younger shouted.

By now the commotion had awakened some people in adjacent wagons.

“What is it, Indians?” someone asked.

“Indians?” another repeated.

“Indians!” a third shouted, giving the alarm.

Younger took the rifle from Bess and aimed it toward the woods. He didn't even have a real target now, for they had disappeared in the trees. He was so angry that all he wanted to do was shoot and hope he hit one of them. And he didn't care which one it was.

He pulled the trigger, but heard only the snap of the hammer striking the pan. When he reached up to pull the hammer back, his thumb felt the powder in the pan and he realized that it was still damp from last night's rain. He hadn't bothered to clean his gun and replace the powder.

“Damn you, boy!” he shouted. “Damn you!”

By now, half-a-dozen other armed men had raced to the scene.

“Where are the Indians?” one of them asked.

“Indians?” Younger replied, confused by the question. “What Indians are you talking about?”

“The Indians you saw!”

“I didn't see no Indians.”

“Then what the hell were you just trying to shoot at?”

“My slave girl got stole from me,” Younger said. “I was trying to shoot the son of a bitch what stole her.”

“You talking about the little girl you was whoring?” one of the others asked.

“Yes.”

“By God, if I'd'a known that, I'd'a never got out of bed. I'll be damned if I'll help you get back a slave girl you ain't doin' nothin' with but whoring.”

Grumbling, the others started back toward their wagons. The self-appointed spokesman of the group turned back toward Younger.

“Mister, I don't think decent folks want your company anymore. It might be better if you would leave camp before breakfast in the morning.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Younger asked.

“Because if you don't, we may just tie you to a tree and give you a good whipping.”

* * *

Like New Madrid, Tywappiti was a river town, consisting of two streets that ran parallel with the river, intersected by three streets than ran perpendicular. All the buildings were of brick construction, a residual benefit of the fact that Tywappiti's main industry was brick-making.

Younger was still griping about losing Jennie when he pulled into town.

“If you ask me, I'm just as glad she's gone,” Bess said. “What you was makin' that girl do wasn't Christian.”

“She's a colored girl. It ain't the same with colored girls,” Younger insisted. “Why, they's some farms that breeds 'em like breedin' animals. Leastwise, I wasn't doin' that.”

“She isn't colored.”

“Her grandma is pure-blood African, and that means she's a fourth colored. Even someone who is one-eighth is the same as colored,” Younger said. He stopped the wagon in front of a general store. “Anyhow, you been a'wantin' to get into a town so's you could buy a few things, ain't you? Well, here we are. And we got money for you to buy because of what I was doin' with that girl. So don't you go puttin' me down because of it.”

While Bess was in the general store, Younger went into the saloon. As it happened, a couple of men who had been his customers a week or so earlier were in there as well.

“Younger!” one of them called. “Come, have a drink with us!”

Nodding, Younger joined them. “Whiskey,” he told the barkeep.

“Hey, I'm glad to see you've made it as far as Tywappiti. You goin' to be settin' up business here? 'Cause if you are, I plan to pay that little ole' girl of your'n a visit.”

“What girl is that?” one of the others in the saloon asked.

“He's got him a Creole girl, prettiest little thing you ever seed,” the first man explained.

“She's gone,” Younger said.

“Gone? You mean you sold her?”

Younger shook his head. “No, she got stole from me.”

“Well, hell, that ain't no problem. We got us some slave chasers in this town can find anyone.”

“Problem is, she don't look colored. She could pass for white, folks would never find her.”

“Ain't that many places around here she could go. Believe me, if she can be found, Boyd Jensen can find her.”

“How much will it cost me?”

“Sometimes it don't cost nothin'. Sometimes he just buys the slaves before he goes lookin' for 'em. Course, he gets 'em at a bargain rate. Then, once he finds 'em, he makes his money when he sells 'em.

* * *

When Younger drove his wagon north out of Tywappiti later that day, he was much less agitated about the loss of Jennie. Bess commented on it.

“I'm glad to see you ain't mad anymore.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, you can't stay mad forever.”

Younger reached his hand around and felt the fat purse in his pocket. He was 250 dollars richer than he had been when they rode into town, the result of a deal he made with Boyd Jensen. He planned to keep that little transaction secret from his wife. No sense in letting her know of his windfall. And no sense in letting her know how he had handled the situation with Art. He had come up with a brilliant solution. It was not only satisfying, it was profitable.

* * *

Art and Jennie were exhausted and starving. In the six days since they left, they had eaten nothing but berries. They had found a patch of mushrooms, but Art knew that some mushrooms were poison, and he didn't want to take a chance on getting the wrong kind. Thus it was that when the three riders came upon them, Art would have been unable to resist them, even if he had known their purpose.

Though he had no idea of the immediate danger they posed to him, their very appearance was somewhat alarming. All three were rough-looking men, bearded and dirty with ragged looking clothes. But it wasn't the state of their clothes that caught Art's attention. It was the pistols stuck in their belts and rifles protruding from saddle sheaths.

The leader of the group had narrow, gray eyes, a three-corner puff of a scar on his forehead, and terrible-looking, twisted, yellow teeth.

“Well, now, lookie here,” he said. “You folks must be Art and Jennie.”

Art was about to deny it, thinking it couldn't be a good sign that these men knew who they were. But before he could deny it, Jennie gave them away.

“How do you know our names?” she asked.

Art groaned inwardly.

The leader of the group chuckled. “Well, missy, we know your names because you are both slaves, and we are slave hunters by profession. Anytime we go after runaway slaves, we purt' near always know their names.”

“I'm no slave!” Art said sharply.

“You got papers to prove that you ain't?”

“Papers? No, I'm white! Why would I have to have papers provin' I'm not a slave?”

“ 'Cause I got papers provin' that you are,” the leader of the group said. He pulled a paper from his pocket, then opened it up and began to read. “Bill of sale from Lucas Younger to Boyd Jensen.” He looked up and smiled,. “Boyd Jensen, that's me.”

He continued reading. “Two white-skinned slaves, a Creole girl, Jennie, age fourteen, and a high-yella boy named Art, age thirteen.” He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. “Jennie and Art,” he said, pointing to the two. “A Creole girl and a high-yella boy. White-skinned slaves, that's you. You did belong to Lucas Younger, but I bought you, so now you both belong to me.”

Pulling his pistol, Jensen pointed it directly at Art. “Now, you ain't goin' to give your new owner any trouble, are you, boy?”

“No,” Art said.

Jensen cocked his pistol, and the metallic click of the hammer coming back made a chilling sound. “Didn't think you was. Boys, put 'em in shackles.”

The other two riders climbed down from their horses, each of them carrying a length of chain and shackles. One of them went over to Jennie, who stuck her hands out without question. Obviously, she had been through this before. Art left his hands by his side.