Rivers West (7 page)

Jambe-de-Bois and I stayed in the rear, leaving Miss Majoribanks free of our company. She had paid off readily enough, and so had Kimball, the portly horse dealer, although he paid off with a sour expression and bad grace.

“Lucky for you that Purdy is dead,” he told me. “He would have killed you.”

“He might have. But he didn't kill Macklem, did he?”

Kimball knew nothing of Macklem, but Macklem was much on my mind. Jambe-de-Bois had warned me of him, but I had expected nothing like this. A man who could defeat and kill such a man as Purdy was someone to beware of. Well, our paths had parted. Nor had I regrets.

Tate dropped back as we neared Somersworth. “You will be going the same way as Miss Majoribanks,” he suggested. “Macaire is a good man, but that other fellow…he doesn't measure up. Though he believes he does, and she believes him.”

“It's none of my affair. I shall go to Pittsburgh. What they do is their own trouble.”

“But you could keep an eye on them, could you not? She's very young, John Daniel, with much to learn, but she's also bold and fearless. She knows nothing of the world save from her reading. She rides daringly in it only because she has always been protected.

“If aught should happen to Macaire, I fear for her. She's like one of my own, John Daniel, and I've known her since childhood.”

“She will have none of me. Anyway, I'm simply an artisan. I'm not a landed man—”

He glanced at me, sharply, I thought. “No? I have it on good authority that if you lived in France and had your just dues, you'd be at least a count…and a man of substance.”

“Now who has been telling you that?” I was exasperated. “I am a simple workman. A man good with tools, and nothing more.”

“Have it your own way. But you will be going where she is going…at least as far as Pittsburgh. If you can help her, please do so.”

“All right,” I agreed, not grudgingly.

He left us shortly after and took the coast road to Portsmouth and thence to Boston.

We, on the other hand, started south toward Haverhill, to then turn westward toward the Connecticut River. Our party was now five people. In Haverhill Miss Majoribanks expected to be joined by a companion, a lady whom she had previously known and with whom she had corresponded when she first began her plans to go west and search for her brother.

Jambe-de-Bois and I brought up the rear, riding some three horse lengths behind them and keeping our distance.

In Berwick there was much talk of the recent fight between Sam Purdy, who had been well known in the area, and the stranger, Macklem. Too late, the law had considered arresting Macklem, at least for an inquiry, but he had departed the town, and nobody saw fit to pursue either him or the issue. Everyone seemed more than pleased that Purdy was out of the way with no harm done to local people.

A hostler shook his head. “Lad, I never hope to see such a thing again. I never liked Purdy. He was a rough, violent man, given to brutality, and no one was ever at ease when he was about. But the way of it!

“Oh, believe me! It was the fault of Purdy! He was ugly and looking for trouble. I think he'd had a drink or two, and this stranger was too neat, too upstanding for his taste.

“Purdy started the trouble but…well, the manner of it. The stranger
destroyed
him. Literally, sir. Macklem destroyed him. You never saw anything like it. It was steady, deliberate, and efficient, almost without effort.

“No panting, no struggle, no cursing. He simply demolished Purdy. He must have struck him a dozen times, and a bone broken for each strike. Sometimes with fists, often with only the edge of the hand. But he wiped him out.

“Purdy was no coward. With a broken shoulder, the side of his face smashed in, he still tried. Then the man broke his neck. They can say what they wish…and most say it was accident. I say, sir—and I have seen many a fight—that it was deliberate. It was calculated, efficient, deliberate. Macklem knew he was going to break his neck, knew he was going to kill the man.

“And he did it, sir. Broke his neck and killed him, and Macklem with not a hair mussed. He simply tucked his shirt in a bit when it was over and made some comment about self-defense. Within minutes he was gone from the town.”

Jambe-de-Bois listened, scowling a little. When we were away from the hostler, he said, “I told you, lad, the man is evil incarnate. We must avoid him. He will be the death of us, I tell you, and you…you're too confident.”

I was nettled. I did not like being disposed of so lightly. At the same time, the hostler's words were shocking. It is one thing to fight, even to kill. It is another when one does it deliberately, and without hesitation or remorse.

When the next day came, we passed over country which had only lately been settled. Although now the farmhouses were clustered more thickly together, there were still areas of dense evergreen forest as well as great boulders and rocks. The river was crossed by a remarkable bridge of which I had heard, as had many who work with heavy timber.

The Piscataqua Bridge was a really splendid structure, at least 2600 feet long, with 26 piers set in the water and on the banks. The bridge was laid out in three sections, two of them horizontal and one arched. The arch itself was said to contain seventy tons of timber. I could easily believe it, and took the time to stop, go under the bridge, and examine the work. It was beautifully fitted and assembled.

We stayed the night in Exeter, and not a word passed between myself and Miss Majoribanks, although Macaire was pleasant, and I finally had a word or two with the younger man.

He was really quite a handsome fellow, although he had a way about him I did not trust. His name was Edwin Hale.

“I understood you were going to Boston?” he suggested.

“It was a thought we had, but I am a builder, and the western waters are the place for me.”

“The western waters? Or is it Miss Majoribanks who is the attraction?”

“I have scarcely spoken to her.”

He shrugged, looking at me with a sly, rather taunting smile. “You mean, she has scarcely spoken to you.”

“If you prefer.”

He seemed ready to provoke a quarrel so I walked away from him.

The inns we found were remarkably clean and well kept, the owners of them usually men of some importance in their communities. The food was, for the most part, excellent.

At daybreak each morning we were off and riding. As before, Miss Majoribanks took the lead, and Jambe-de-Bois and I dropped farther behind. None of the roads were good. Most were only a few years old and heavily rutted from rains. But we kept to the grass along the shoulder and made good time.

The horses I'd won in my bet with Kimball were good, stalwart animals, not showy, but they were stayers. At the end of the day, they seemed to have as much stamina as at the beginning.

We stopped to eat at high noon in the village of Kingston, eighteen miles upon our way. It was a small place of some scattered houses, a church, and several stores.

Macaire dropped back with us. We rode for several minutes, and then he said suddenly, “John Daniel, are you carrying money?”

At my obvious surprise, he said, “It is not my business, but in Kingston I came to the street afore you and a man I saw. He was no one to like the looks of, and he turned away so quickly, I think he was not wishing to be seen. It's a notion of mine he's following us.”

“No, I have little money,” I said. I thought back to the snake-eyed man from the upper Maine woods, the one who'd been at the inn after I'd found the body of Foulsham. And I thought of Macklem. “But it is a good thing to know.”

Somebody had stood over me that night in the cabin. Somebody had wanted to kill me…and perhaps they still did.

We rode quietly along, but now I kept a closer eye on the trail behind and the brush along the way. We talked of many things, for Macaire was a man who kept himself informed, and was keen in his judgments. And there was much to talk about. A man had just introduced the tin can into the United States, and was canning food. Some men named Daggett and Kensett were talking of canning fish in New York. And somebody wanted to introduce a bill that would permit Catholics to vote in Massachusetts. James Monroe was running for a second term.

The next inn was a pleasant place, surrounded by great old trees. We drew up in the shade, and several men were sitting on a bench in front of the place.

I had ridden on ahead. Miss Majoribanks drew up shortly. “Will you take my horse, please?” she asked.

I did so.

“Please rub him down most carefully. And walk him a little before you put him in the stable.” It was an order.

“I do not work for you, Miss Majoribanks.”

“What? Who do you work for? I thought you were someone Macaire hired.”

She knew better than that, but I simply said, “I work for no one. When I work it is as an independent contractor. If you ask me to care for your horse as a favor, I should be pleased to do so.”

“As a
favor
? Of course not!” She turned sharply away. “Do not do it then. Macaire will handle her for me.”

Her shoulders were very straight, and I watched her go with pleasure at her beauty and irritation at her manner. She seemed determined to consider me a menial, and I refused the category. There was no work a menial might do that I would not willingly do myself…or had not done. It was her attitude that irritated me.

When we'd put our own horses away, I joined Macaire, who was caring for the others. “Have you seen him again?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No…but I like it not still. The country is alive with thieves and highwaymen.”

“We are a strong party,” I said. “It is not likely we'll be attacked.”

Macaire considered my statement and agreed. “You carry yourself well, with your rifle always handy. As for the big man with you,” he gave me a quick, thoughtful look, “he looks like a pirate.”

“Jambe-de-Bois? I think he is a man to leave alone, Macaire.”

“You do not know him?”

“We met on the road, and we travel the same way.” I hesitated, but I trusted Macaire and liked him. “Sometimes I do believe he knows more about me than he should. I mean…well, perhaps when we met it was not altogether an accident.”

Macaire gave me a thoughtful glance. “You are a shipwright, you say? Why, then? Why would any man be following a shipwright?”

I shrugged and said nothing. Macaire worked carefully, grooming Miss Majoribanks' horse. I liked the way he worked, swiftly, easily, with no wasted motions. It was a thing I valued, for it was so I had been taught.

“John Daniel,” Macaire said. “It is a good name, but there is much going on here I do not understand.”

I shrugged again. “It is simple enough, Macaire. By chance we have met. Your Miss Majoribanks goes to seek her brother, who believes he has discovered a plot against his country, in which a man named Torville is involved.

“On my way south, I find a man who has been stabbed and left for dead, attacked by that same Torville, or someone kin to him. He was or had been a British officer, perhaps a British agent. Now what was he doing on that lonely road from Canada?”

I had a new thought.

“Was he following someone? Or was he, perhaps, on his way to see Miss Majoribanks?”

Macaire straightened up, staring at me. His motion ceased. “Now why would the man be doing that?”

“Charles Majoribanks wrote to his sister. He may have sent information elsewhere as well. Foulsham may have been going to meet your sister…perhaps even with a message.”

I was putting it all together as I spoke, and, of course, it was speculation, no more than that. Yet the coincidence would be great otherwise, and as much as coincidence interferes in all our lives, I did not like it.

Nor did Macaire. He went back to currying the horse, and I stood by, thinking as I watched him.

“One thing we know, Macaire,” I suggested, “we are not alone on the road. One man has been killed, another attacked—”

He glanced up, and then I told him about the man who stood over me that night at the inn.

“We must be careful,” he said, “very careful. I'd want no harm to come to the lady.”

“Nor I,” I said, and he looked at me, not too surprised, I think.

Chapter 8

M
ORNING CAME WITH an uneasy sense of something impending, of something about to happen for which I was unprepared.

The common room of the inn was empty when I came down the steps from the room where I had slept.

It was a warm, friendly room with a large table, several chairs and a fireplace in which a small fire smoldered uneasily, as if unsure whether it intended to burn or not.

The floor looked washed and clean, and there were curtains at the windows. I went to a window and peered out. The inn yard was empty; it was hard-packed earth fringed by the green of new grass. There was nothing to allow for the feeling I carried, and when I straightened a voice said, “Looking for Indians?”

Startled, I turned, having heard no sound.

The man was lean, taller than me, and somewhat stooped. What his age was I could not say, although I guessed him along in his thirties. He might have been older. He wore buckskins, fringed, with a wide-brimmed hat, and moccasins on his feet. He, too, carried a rifle.

His gray eyes carried an amused look, but a friendly one. I grinned back at him. “You never can tell,” I said. “An Indian might be any place.”

He chuckled. “I reckon you'll do.” He walked to the fireplace and took up the blackened pot beside the coals. At a sideboard he got down two cups. “Been here before,” he said. “Know my way around.”

He filled the cups. “You the ones goin' west?”

Briefly, I hesitated. But I liked the man, liked his style and manner. “Yes,” I said, “I'm going to Pittsburgh.”