Joelle's Secret (3 page)

Finally she heard a horse approach, and she stiffened. She lay there frightened and heard the front door close. She waited and heard the heavy tread of Burl Harper coming down the hall. “Let him go by this room,” she prayed in a thin whisper.

But that didn’t happen. She heard the steps pause outside her door, and then she heard Burl Harper say, “You awake in there?”

Joelle threw the cover back. She got the shotgun and backed away from the door. “Go away, Harper. Leave me alone.”

She heard him try the door, and he cursed. “You think you’ll lock me out? You think a door will stop me?” She heard a crash, and the door sprang back, the hasp ripped out. Burl stepped inside. His face was flushed with drink, and his speech
was slurred. “You can’t lock me out. Ain’t no door will stop me.” He took one step toward her and then stopped. “Put that gun down, girl.”

“Get out of here, Harper. I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.”

Harper wanted to advance, but the shotgun was steady and pointed right at his chest. He knew the damage a 12-gauge shotgun could do. He had seen it.

“Get out of here!”

Harper laughed harshly. “You can’t have that shotgun all the time. That’s OK though. I like spirit in a woman. Be like breaking a horse.” He laughed crudely and said something profane, then turned and moved unsteadily out the door. Joelle shut the door at once. The hasp was broken, and she knew she would stay up all night, or at least until he went to sleep. She sat down in a chair and saw that her hands were shaking.

“You can’t let him do this to you, Joelle Mitchell,” she whispered. “You know you’ve got to be strong, so stop whimpering and stop shaking.” She watched the door and was listening as she heard Harper thumping around in his room. Something tipped over and made a crash, and she heard him curse. Finally all grew quiet, and Joelle Mitchell sat alone in a house that she had learned to fear and dread.

THE OIL LAMP CAST an amber corona of light over the bedroom, and silence possessed the house, which was ominous and frightening. Joelle was standing at the window, looking out into the darkness while still holding the shotgun, which was still loaded. A sudden shadow outside caused her to react, and straining her eyes she saw a large owl float by noiselessly. It disappeared, and Joelle turned away from the window and looked at the door. With the hasp broken there was nothing to keep Harper from coming in.

I can’t stay awake forever. The thought came to Joelle quickly, and she gripped the barrel of the shotgun tighter. Finally she walked over to the door, lifted the shotgun, holding it in the crook of her arm, and put her finger on the trigger. Opening the door slowly so that it didn’t creak, she stepped out into the hall. She wore heavy woolen socks and moved like a wraith down the hall until she stood before the bedroom where Harper slept. She put her ear close to the door and heard heavy snoring.

Relief rushed through her. He always passed out after drinking, and turning quickly, she moved back down the hall.

As soon as she entered her bedroom and shut the door, she moved to the table and leaned the shotgun against it.

Sitting down in the rocker, she picked up the Bible. It fell open almost by itself, and she saw that her mother had put a marker and drawn a line beside the third psalm, or part of it. Something was written faintly in the margin, and she leaned forward and held the Bible up to the light. It was dated two days before her mother had died, and beneath the date was written in a spidery handwriting, “For Joelle.”

Tears rose to Joelle’s eyes, and she allowed them to run down her cheeks. Life had not been pleasant for her since her father had died, but her mother had always been there. Now she was gone, and the sense of isolation and loneliness seemed to envelop her like a sable cloak of sinister darkness.

She whispered as she read out loud, “Psalm 3. A Psalm of David when he fled from Absalom his son.” Joelle knew that story well, and the pastor had preached on it only a few weeks ago. She remembered his stressing how David had loved everything he had, including his son who had turned on him and was trying to kill him. She began to read, whispering the words in a faint voice: “Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! Many are they that rise up against me. Many there be which say of my soul, there is no help for him in God.”

The next verses, 3 and 4, were underlined, and she read them slowly: “But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head. I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill.”

For a moment she sat there, and then she remembered that Brother Campbell had read verse 5 and said, “Here is a man who had lost everything. He was running in fear for his life
from his beloved son Absalom. His whole life had collapsed about his head, and now he who had been king of Israel and had it all had nothing. And what did he do? As we just read, he cried unto the Lord. And then what? You read verses 5 and 6, ‘I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me. I will not be afraid.”

Suddenly, from a source that had to be God, Joelle Mitchell felt a sense of peace and security. “I will not be afraid,” she read again, and as she read it, she suddenly knew that God was in the room. She read through that verse again and again, and as she read it, something began to form in her mind:
David
had fled, but the Lord sustained him. I have to leave here—and I
have to believe that God will take care of me.

The thought came almost as clearly as if it were printed in heavy black type against a luminescent white background.

“I have to leave here!”

She spoke the words aloud, and for the first time since her mother’s death a sense of rightness of direction and of decision came to her. She read the entire psalm again, then closed the Bible and put it down. “Ma, you told me to go stay with Aunt Rita in Fort Smith,” she whispered, “and that’s what I’m going to do.”

With the decision formed in her mind, Joelle rose and for a moment was thankful that Harper was in a drunken state. She dressed quickly in a divided riding skirt she had made for herself and her high-heeled boots. She put on a woolen shirt and then a fingertip-length coat that she had bought earlier in the winter.

She knew she was going to take Blackie, so she moved into the living room. She lit the lamp on the table, and going to the
desk that contained all the papers, she searched through them until she found the bill of sale. When her father had bought Blackie as a foal, he had named her as the owner, and she had been so proud!

There was a great deal of money in the box with the papers, and she stared at it for a moment. Then without hesitation she closed the box and put it back in the desk. Picking up the lamp, she went down the hall to the stairs. She knew that the fourth step that led to the attic always squeaked so she skipped it. Going into the attic, she retrieved the hidden box, put the bottom drawer back, and went downstairs. She knew she could not take a suitcase so she retrieved a canvas bag she used from time to time to carry supplies on long hunting trips. It had a drawstring, and she packed one dress, underclothes, and a few other things.

A thought came to her. She returned to the living room, opened the desk again, and stared at the chrome-plated .38 with a beautifully designed ivory handle that had been her father’s. She picked it up along with a box of cartridges. Going back to her room, she put the gun in the sack, then her mother’s Bible.

She carried the lamp into the kitchen and set it on the table. She selected what food she could carry, mostly canned goods, but also a large portion of smoked bacon. She added a frying pan, saucepan, tin plate, sharp knife, fork, and spoon. She put in the coffee she had bought that day and closed the sack. She gave one quick look around the room, then without hesitation doused the light and moved toward the door.

As she stepped outside, the cold bit at her face. At the corral she called softly, “Blackie.” Instantly the horse came to
her. She opened the gate, and he followed her into the barn. She lit the lantern, saddled Blackie, packed what she could in the saddlebag, and hesitated for a moment. She filled a feed sack halfway with the grain Blackie would need. Balancing it over his back, she tied it down with the thongs attached to the saddle, doused the light, and then stepped into the saddle.

“Come on, Blackie, we’re going.” The gelding immediately obeyed. Joelle Mitchell didn’t look back as she left the yard, though she knew full well she was saying good-bye to many things she had treasured.

She guided the horse by the faint light of the crescent moon overhead. Looking up, she could see that the stars were cold and brittle like frozen diamonds in the sky, but she paid no heed. She spoke to Blackie and touched him with her heels, and the big black horse broke into a fast walk. She touched him again, and Blackie broke into a gallop.

OVERHEAD, BRILLIANT STARS WERE beginning to fade, and as Joelle looked over her shoulder, she saw a faint line of light on the eastern horizon. She had ridden at a fast pace since leaving the farm, and now she was beginning to feel the tension that had built up since making her decision. Five minutes later she ran across a small creek that had thin ice across the top. She moved off the road for thirty yards, stepped down, and then took out Blackie’s nose bag and fed him from the grain. She tied him on a long line and began to gather sticks. She made a small pyramid, and striking a match, she waited until a small flame was blazing, added more fuel, and took out her cooking utensils. She filled the coffeepot with water from the creek, added coffee, and put it on to boil.

The air was cold, and she shivered from time to time, drawing her coat closer and pulling her hat down over her head. She didn’t want to think about the future, nor was the past something to dwell on, so she concentrated on frying bacon, and when it was crisp, she let it cool on the tin plate. The coffee was boiling so she poured herself a cupful, then sat down to eat.

She chewed slowly, and the coffee seemed to warm her all the way to her bones. When she finished, she quickly cleaned her utensils and pulled the map out of the saddlebag. The light was stronger now, but she had to wait until the sun came through the trees and fell on the map.

Blackie nudged her, and she removed the feed bag and smiled. “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.” He whickered and nodded his head as if he understood. She went back to studying the map.

“We’ve got to cross the Mississippi up in Memphis, Blackie, but I don’t know how to get to Fort Smith.” She searched on the map, but it wasn’t marked. She stared at the map, nodded, and spoke again to the gelding. “There’s got to be a railroad that goes from Little Rock to Fort Smith. I’ve always heard they were the biggest towns in Arkansas. I wonder if they take horses?”

She pulled out her mother’s Bible. She read the Twenty-third Psalm aloud and nodded. “Blackie, that’s a good psalm.” She got to her feet, packed her gear, and then mounted. “We’ve got to cross the Mississippi River on a ferry at Memphis, and then we’ve got to get to Little Rock. I hope we can catch a train from there, boy.” She touched him with her heels, and he moved quickly back toward the road and broke into a gallop.

* * *

MEMPHIS WAS A HUGE place to Joelle. She had been there once before, but that had been years ago, and she had been only nine. Her father and mother had brought her, and she remembered they had gone to a circus. She remembered every
detail—the clowns, the acrobats, and the elephants. Those memories had lived all of these years.

But now the city seemed to have grown. She moved into town cautiously, half-afraid someone would call out to her, for she knew that Harper would not give up. He would find a way to try to get her back.

Finally she asked an old man hobbling on crutches where the ferry was. He had looked at her with sharp black eyes. “Right down there, girlie. You gonna cross the river?”

“I guess so.” She hurried away quickly, not wanting to get into a conversation. The old man’s vague direction proved to be accurate. She came upon the Mississippi River and was awed at the width of it. It nearly took her breath away. Steamboats were coming and going, the smoke from their stacks rising in tall columns into the sky. As she approached, she heard the cries of men. To her left was a vessel with
Lady Belle
painted on the side. It was an ornate steamboat that carried passengers. She ignored that and moved down the line until finally she found a man wearing what looked like a captain’s hat.

“Excuse me, sir. How can I get across the river?”

“If you got fifty cents, you get on that boat right there. Give it to that fellow wearing the tall hat.”

Following his instructions, Joelle paid her fifty cents and led Blackie onto the deck. It was a side-wheeler, and they had to wait for two hours, but finally the engines began to roar, and the wheel began to turn. She stood beside Blackie, holding him. His eyes were wide as the boat trembled beneath his hooves. Finally the ferry landed, and she got off. The man who opened the gate looked at her, and she asked, “Do you know how far it is to Fort Smith?”

“Fort Smith? Why, that’s a long way. You’re in the eastern part of Arkansas. Fort Smith is way out there to the west. Roads are pretty bad. Besides, a woman don’t need to be traveling through there. Some folks can be dangerous.”

“Well, how would you get there?”

“Was I you, I’d go to Little Rock. It’s near about a hundred miles or so. The road ain’t too bad, and there’s a railroad that goes from Little Rock right into Fort Smith.” He cocked his head to one side and said, “Ain’t you got a pa or a husband maybe?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you be careful, missy. Lots of bad folks around, especially around Fort Smith.”

“Thank you.” Joelle swung into the saddle and rode Blackie off the ramp, and soon found the road that led to Little Rock. She rode until dark, stopping at noon to rest and to eat from her sparse supplies—more bacon, biscuits, and peaches from a can. As it grew dark, she pulled up beside a house that was off the road about a hundred yards. It looked run-down, but when she called out, a woman came out on the porch.

“I’m looking for a place to stay the night. I can pay.”

“You can stay the night. Put your horse in the barn.”

“Thank you.” Joelle led Blackie into the barn, fed him, and went into the house.

“You et yet?” the woman asked. She was a tall, raw-boned woman with worn features and weary eyes.

“Not yet.”

“I just made some venison stew. It ain’t bad. I got some fresh bread.”

“That sounds good.”

“I’m Elmus Jeeter.”

“I’m Jo Ann Jones.” Joelle made up a name quickly and then at Mrs. Jeeter’s bidding sat down at the table. “This is good stew,” she said as she ate hungrily and accepted another bowl.

“Where you bound for, missy?”

“Oh, I’m going to Little Rock.”

“You got family there?”

“No, not there. I’ll be going farther on. What are the roads like?”

“Well, they been snowed-under, but that’s mostly melted. Bad time to be on the roads.”

Joelle ate the stew and then a big wedge of apple pie and washed it down with coffee. She made her excuses and went to the bedroom that Mrs. Jeeter showed her. She had not brought a nightgown so she took off her outer clothes and shivered under the blanket but went to sleep almost at once.

* * *

JOELLE WOKE UP THE next day feeling rested but still nervous. When she went downstairs, Mrs. Jeeter said, “I got ham and some eggs. Day before Christmas. Not much of a Christmas meal.”

“It smells so good.” Joelle ate the breakfast, paid the woman, and asked, “What’s the next town?”

“Forrest City. Ain’t much of a town though.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeeter.”

Joelle saddled Blackie, mounted, and left. She rode all that day, passing through Forrest City, and late that night she found
a vacant barn. She wanted to see as few people as possible so if Harper put out word on her, nobody would remember her. She made a fire inside the old barn. The house itself had burned down, leaving only a chimney standing, pointing like a skinny finger at the sky. She was getting low on supplies, but she ate what she had and wrapped herself in her blanket. She lay awake for a long time and thought,
Tomorrow’s Christmas.

As usual, when she thought of Christmas, she thought of her father who took such a delight in the holiday when she was growing up. She remembered stringing red berries with a needle and thread for decoration. The thought of her father made her sad, and then the loss of her mother came home to her, and she resolutely turned over and forced herself to sleep.

She rose at dawn and passed through several very small towns consisting mostly of a few stores and scattered houses. The road was firm, and she rode all day. She slept in another abandoned barn. Blackie’s food was gone, and Joelle knew she would have to stop and buy supplies.

The next day she passed through a few more small towns but got into Little Rock late at night. She didn’t know what to do, but finally she found a livery stable and had a young boy take Blackie, saying, “Grain him and rub him down, will you?”

“Sure will, ma’am. You staying long?”

“No, I’ll be pulling out in the morning. Do you know if there’s a train that leaves here for Fort Smith?”

“Yes, ma’am. Leaves every morning at 8:33.”

“Thank you.”

“Need a place to stay? There’s a boardinghouse right across the street.”

“Guess I’ll look into that.” She moved across the wide street and soon rented a room for the night from a very fat woman who said, “We got grub if you got a dollar.”

“That would be nice.”

She ate greasy pork chops and boiled potatoes for supper and went to bed. She dreamed that night of her mother and then of her father, so her night was restless.

The next morning she got up and didn’t want anymore cooking at the boardinghouse. It was only six o’clock, and the train would not leave until 8:33 so she found a café and had breakfast there. Afterward she walked down the street and passed by an office where two men were talking. One of them said, “Boy, that’d be easy money, wouldn’t it?”

The other man, a tall, thin individual wearing a plaid mackinaw, said, “Yeah, five hundred dollars. Think what we’d do with that, George!”

“Read that to me again.”

Evidently the smaller man could not read, for the other said, “Joelle Lynn Mitchell, age sixteen. Auburn hair, blue eyes. Probably riding a black gelding. Wanted for grand larceny. Reward five hundred dollars. Contact Burl Harper, in care of sheriff’s office River Bend, Tennessee.”

Joelle froze, then hurried away. The two men were still talking about the reward. “We better keep our eyes peeled for her. I’d purely love to have that money!”

Joelle returned at once to the stable, and the boy was gone. She sat down on a box, and her mind whirled.
I’ll get
caught,
she thought.
Sure as the world, somebody will see me.
I’ll have to do something. He’ll have a poster at every town along
the way.

She sat there for a long time, confused and frightened. Then she began to pack and took out her mother’s Bible. As she did, the copy of Shakespeare’s play
As You Like It
was there. She held the book tightly and tried to think, but her mind was nearly paralyzed. She looked down at the book, and suddenly the story leaped into her mind. Rosalind disguised herself as a man!
I could do that. If I were a man, nobody would notice me!

Joelle had a quick mind and a fertile imagination. She began to think at once how it could be done, and her idea fell into place. She went to the general store. The clerk, a fat man with several cuts on his face, where he had recently shaved rather unskillfully, was grumpy. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to get some clothes for a young fellow. Just working clothes.”

“There they are, right over there.”

Quickly she found a pair of overalls too large for her, a pair of wool pants, also too big, and two shirts. Everything she picked was oversized. She also bought a fingertip-length mackinaw that looked warm. She found a wide-brimmed rather shapeless hat. She tried it on and cast a glance at the clerk who was reading a newspaper and paying no attention to her. The hat was for a small man evidently, but its broad, floppy brim would come down over her face. She bought two pairs of underwear, making sure that the tops were too small. Gathering the things together, she went back to the counter, and the man added up the cost. “That’ll be twelve dollars and sixteen cents.”

She paid the man and asked, “Do you have a sack I could put all this in?”

“I reckon so.”

“Oh, do you have a pair of scissors?”

“Right over there in the hardware section.”

Joelle picked out a pair of inexpensive scissors. He added, “That’ll be another fifteen cents.”

Joelle paid the man, took the sack, and left. She went at once back to pick up Blackie. The young boy was there, and he said, “You want me to saddle your horse?”

“Oh, I can do that. Here, how much do I owe you?”

He named a price, and she gave him a coin, then she said, “I’ve got to wait for a little while.”

“Well, I got to leave. I’ll be gone for about two hours. Make yourself at home.”

Joelle watched the boy go and went into the back section. The stable was deserted, and she laid out the clothes and then took the scissors. She sheared her hair, cutting it roughly. Her heart was grieved, for her hair, she had always thought, was her best feature. Then she stepped out of her dress and riding skirt and put on the trousers she had bought. She put on the tight knit underwear, which flattened her upper body somewhat, one of the shirts, and finally the coat. She pulled the hat down over her eyes. She felt suddenly like a fool. “This will never work,” she muttered, “but I’ve got to try it.” She packed her things quickly, including the dress and the riding skirt, saddled Blackie, and moved out.

She rode directly down the middle of the street until she found the railroad tracks, and there to her left was the station. She approached and noticed a man standing at the corral, looking at a group of horses inside. She had been worried about how to get Blackie to Fort Smith. She pulled over and said, “Howdy.”

“Hello, bub.” The man, tall, lean, and tan, was probably in his late fifties. “That’s a nice-looking horse you got there.”

“Thanks, he’s a good one.”

“I’m taking this bunch to Fort Smith.”

“That’s where I want to go. I didn’t know how to take my horse though.”

The man suddenly laughed. “They’ll skin you alive. It’s scandalous the prices they charge for me to move these horses to Fort Smith.”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of money.”

“Tell you what, bub. What’s your name by the way?”

Joelle had a sudden thought.
If I call myself “Jo,” people will
think it’s “Joe,” and I’ll be hearing a name some have always
called me.