Gone to Texas (23 page)

A blow to the head sent bright lights dancing across Christopher's eys, and he sagged, head lolling forward on his chest. He wasn't unconscious, but pretended to be, hoping that by playing possum he would escape further punishment. But the wrathful woman wasn't satisfied. She came around in front of him and raised the stick. He lashed out in desperation with a foot and kicked her squarely in the face, and she went down. The crowd cheered, thinking he had been intentionally devious, concocting a ruse to lure her into range, and they appreciated cunning subterfuge. Stunned, the woman lay in the dirt, drooling blood. When she raised her head to look up at Christopher there was such naked malice in her eyes that he knew she was going to kill him if she could.

Pouncing to her feet, she spat a mouthful of blood at Christopher. Then she grabbed a knife from the belt of a man who stood nearby, acting so swiftly that he had no chance to stop her. Turning on Christopher, she muttered something that he was certain was no compliment. The crowd fell silent, smiles frozen in place. Christopher thought,
She's going to cut me open, like these pirates did to Krueger. What a way to die. What a place to die
.

And, oddly, he wondered what Greta Inskilling was doing at this moment—the last moment of his life . . .

A man and a woman emerged from the crowd as Christopher's tormentor advanced on him, brandishing the long, wicked blade. The man lunged forward and tripped her by sticking the cane he was carrying between her legs. She fell, bounced to her feet, and whirled, still holding the knife, but when she recognized the man she shrank away, terrified, and dropped the knife as though it were hot and singed her fingers.

Christopher took a closer look at the man. It was Morrell. He hadn't recognized him at first. Down at the river Morrell had been virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the pirate crew. But today he was dressed like a real gentleman, green claw hammer coat, broad-brimmed white planter's hat, doeskin trousers tucked into high black boots. Christopher wondered what dead man Morrell had taken those clothes from.

Morrell spoke curtly to the woman in fluent Spanish. She answered him, her anger flashing again as she gestured curtly at Christopher. The man they called the Reverend Devil barked back at her, and she sulked away. Morrell scanned the press of onlookers with cold blue eyes.

"Go about your business," he said brusquely.

The crowd despersed.

Christopher got his first good look at the man who was the terror of the Mississippi River Valley. Morrell had a muscular build and stood nearly six feet tall. His hair was black and unruly. Long side-whiskers framed a square-cut face. He would not be considered handsome by even the most generous of standards—his features were too fleshy, and the nose was crooked like that of a bird of prey, and the cold blue eyes were set too close together beneath bushy black brows which formed a solid line, meeting across the bridge of the nose. There was an animal grace to his movements, and an aura of brutality. Christopher figured Morrell had to be a ruthless and violent individual to keep such a cutthroat band as this in line. He could see that they feared him, and jumped to do his bidding.

"So," said Morrell, looking Christopher over with dark amusement, "you have got some fight left in you, I see."

"Cut me loose and I'll show you."

Morrell threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Wagh! What do you think of that, Noelle?"

The woman smiled. "I think he is very brave."

"Yes, and brave men deserve to die well, don't they?"

Christopher scarcely heard Morrell's last remark. He was suddenly mesmerized by the woman named Noelle. She was striking. Tall and willowy, her flawless skin was a fetching café au lait color. She was mulatto, half-Negro and half-white, and she had been blessed with the best physical attributes of both races. Her curly hair, black as a raven's wing, was loose and unbound and fell to her shoulders. Her hazel eyes were sultry, eyes that, as the poets said, a man could drown in. Her nose was aquiline, her lips full and finely sculptured, slightly parted to reveal a glimmer of white teeth. She wore a pale yellow chemise and a layered skirt of white muslin. Her feet were bare. She wore a peculiar talisman around her neck, fashioned from pure silver, of a serpent entwined in a human skull.

She was, Christopher decided, quite simply the most beautiful and alluring woman he had ever seen—next to Greta—and the most sensuous bar none.

He was embarrassed by his nakedness. But there was nothing he could do about that, and he tried to put it out of his mind. His helplessness infuriated him. He was past the point of being scared. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he was going to die. Once a man is resigned to his fate he can master his fear. Morrell, studying him with the curious detachment of a scientest examining a specimen, could discern this.

"What is your name, my brave friend?"

"Christopher Groves." He saw no reason to keep his identity a secret.

"Groves?" This was Noelle. "Are you from Kentucky?"

"I am."

"Do you know this man?" Morrell asked, and there was a lurid light in his eye which informed Christopher that he was jealously possessive of Noelle.

"No. But I have heard of the Groves of Kentucky. Haven't you?"

"Enlighten me, my dear."

"They are a family of wealth and influence."

"Are they indeed."

"You have me confused with someone else," said Christopher.

Morrell was watching Noelle like a hawk. "Are you suggesting that I might ransom this young man?"

Noelle shrugged, seemingly indifferent. "What you do with him is up to you. But why have you kept him alive if you did not think he might be worth something to you?"

Christopher had been wondering the same thing himself.

Morrell chuckled, cupping Noelle's chin in his hand. "You are as intelligent as you are beautiful, sweet Noelle. I like to know what a man is worth before I kill him. All this young fellow had was a rifle, a pistol, and the clothes on his back. Rather ordinary clothes, too, though the boots were handsomely made, I must say."

"Speaking of clothes," said Christopher, "I'd like mine returned."

"Unfortunately, they have found new owners." Morrell gestured at the crowd of men gathered between two shacks, where the game of chance was apparently still going on. He paid no attention to the body of the dead man fifty feet away.

"We found no money, though," continued Morrell, as though he were scolding Christopher for his empty pockets.

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"So tell me, what were you doing in the woods last night, Christopher Groves?"

He wasn't sure why, but Christopher glanced at Noelle before answering.
I have heard of the Groves of Kentucky. . . . They are a family of wealth and influence
. He
was certain that there were no other Groves in Kentucky, especially influential ones. Was she merely mistaken? Or was she playing some kind of a game? She was watching him intently, but her expression was unfathomable.

It was becoming clear to him that Morrell and his river pirates were unaware of the existence of his mother and Nathaniel and the others. That was a tremendous relief to Christopher, and he was determined to keep it that way.

"I was out hunting," he said, "and got lost. By the time I got back to where my boat had been moored, they were gone."

"They?"

"The people I was with."

"How many of them are there?"

"Twenty-two," said Christopher, picking a number out of thin air.

"And they just left you behind?"

"I was more than twenty-four hours overdue. I'm sure they sent out search parties. When they couldn't find me they pushed on."

"And what were you and these men doing on the river?"

"We were going to Texas. Looking for adventure." Christopher managed a convincingly rueful smile. "We had heard there was going to be a fight down there."

"Looking for adventure," murmured Morrell. "I'd say you have found more adventure than you bargained for, Mr. Groves. Maybe you should have stayed home. So tell me. What are you worth? What would your family pay to have you back safe and more or less sound?"

Again Christopher glanced at Noelle, and again he could not read her expression.

"Nothing," he replied, "to the likes of you, Morrell."

Morrell's grin was not a pretty sigh. "We will see
about that," he snapped, and turned abruptly on his heel. "Come, Noelle."

Walking away, her arm in Morrell's, Noelle glanced over her shoulder at Christopher, an engimatic glance that left him thoroughly mystified.

He was left to hang there throughout the remainder of the day, tormented to the brink of madness by the flies, ants, and mosquitoes. When, finally, the sun went down—blessed relief for Christopher's blistered flesh—an old hag brought him a plate of food. At least he thought it was food—a thin and bitter gruel. She spoonfed him, and said not a word during the entire process, chewing methodically on a mouthful of shag tobacco instead, occasionally expectorating a stream of yellowish brown juice. Christopher considered himself fortunate that she didn't spit on him.

It was well into the evening before the village quieted down. There was a shot fired, drunken voices raised, dogs howling, a woman's scream, several scuffles. Under cover of darkness someone came and wept over the body of the dead man fifty feet away, and then another shadowy figure appeared, and the two dragged the corpse away. Christopher had no way of marking the passage of the hours, as clouds had rolled in to blot out the stars. He told God that he could have used those clouds during the heat of the afternoon. But he didn't really think God was listening to him anymore—understandable skepticism from a man in his predicament. Eventually it began to rain, a drizzle at first, strengthening into a good strong downpour, soothing his tortured body, quenching his thirst. Christopher didn't mind it at first, as it also kept the insects away, but the rain was cold, and before very long he was shivering uncontrollably.

He did not see or even hear her approach. But suddenly and quite unexpectedly he was falling, and only as
he lay facedown in the viscous, sour-tasting mud did he realize that he was no longer lashed to the post. He tried to stand, but he could not push himself to his feet because his arms were numb from shoulder points to fingertips, and completely useless until the circulation was restored to them.

A cloaked figure loomed above him, then knelt to help him up into a sitting position. Strong, limber fingers removed the rope from his raw, blood-caked hands.

"Who are you?" gasped Christopher. A hood concealed his benefactor's face.

She looked up at him, so that he could see her features.

Noelle!

"Why?" Christopher was too stunned by this unexpected succor to think of anything else to say.

"No time for talking now. Come. We must hurry. Can you walk?"

"I'll do better than walk," he said, comprehending. "I'll run."

"Here." She draped a soggy blanket around his shoulders. "It is all I could find. And this."

She handed him a pistol. Although he was fairly sure that the powder was soaking wet by now, Christopher did feel better with a weapon in his hand.

"I have a horse waiting. Come on."

She helped him to his feet. The blood was coursing through his arms now, and the pain was excruciating, but he ignored it. Clutching the blanket around him, he followed Noelle, stumbling in the muck as they slipped past several darkened shanties, thinking that whatever happened he would not be taken back to that hellish post alive. He could not endure another hour strung up there like a side of beef.

They reached the horse. It was bridled, but there was no saddle. Christopher took the reins and crawled onto its back, then held out a hand to help hoist Noelle on
behind him. He knew the Mississippi had to lie to the east, and he knew which way to go now to make for the river, having marked the agonizingly slow passage of the sun across yesterday's sky.

"How far to the river?" he asked her.

"About ten miles. We mustn't waste time. Morrell will be after us with every man and dog he has. His dogs are manhunters. They have been used to track runaway slaves."

"He'll want you back more than he wants me, I'll wager."

"Yes. He has told me that he would kill me if I ever tried to leave him."

"Then why . . ."

"Later. We must go."

He kicked the horse into motion, and they plunged into the dark and dripping canebrake, following a narrow footpath. An hour later Christopher began to wonder if there was an end to the cane. Eventually they reached a strip of forest. Beyond that was a marsh. The horse could not carry them both through the bog. Christopher dismounted. The blanket tied around his waist now, he led the horse, wading through stinking black water that sometimes reached hip level. He was exhausted, weakened by his ordeal on the post, but he pressed on, reaching down deep to find the strength to go on.

Dawn's early light found them emerging from the swamp into a hilly stretch of pine barrens. Christopher listened in vain for the murmur of the river, which lay somewhere up ahead—and for the sound of pursuit from the direction whence they had come. He heard neither.

At Noelle's insistence they paused for a few minutes. She could tell he desperately needed rest, although he refused to concede as much. Hard ground had never felt so good to him. He stretched out under a tree and
watched low gray wisps of cloud drifting like smoke through the tops of the pines.

Dozing off, he woke with a start and was alarmed to find that the sun was out, shooting golden shafts of light through the trees. Noelle was sitting beside him, leaning back against the trunk of the tree.

"How long did I sleep?"

"Not long. About an hour."

"An hour! Why didn't you wake me?"

"You need the rest. How do you feel?"

In fact, Christopher felt awful. His body ached from head to toe. His eyes burned, and he was light-headed.

"I feel fine," he lied.

She shook her head, her smile one of gentle reproof. "We must always be truthful with each other."