Marna (16 page)

Finally he reined in the stallion and sat gazing at a
cave situated in a jumble of large boulders. Its opening
was narrow, but tall. He reached down and patted
Sam's neck. "I think you could get through there,
fellow."

He swung down and tied the mount to a bushy hazelnut bush. Then, after searching awhile beneath the
dense cedar that surrounded the pile of stones, he gave
a satisfied grunt and picked up a long, large cedar
knot. It was about eighteen inches long and dry to his
touch. Kneeling down, he scraped together some dry
twigs and leaves, then struck a spark from his flint. When the material burst into flames, he added larger
pieces of wood until he had a brightly burning fire.
Laying the oil-filled knot on the fire, he waited until it
flamed, then picked it back up and moved to the cave.

As he stood in the dark opening, warm musty air
floated against his face. He took a step inside and almost dropped the torch as the beating wings of an owl
or a bat swept past him. He grinned in self-amusement
at the fluttering of his heart. Then, holding the torch
above his shoulder, its bright light throwing wavering
shadows on the stone walls, he looked around. He
judged the room to be about fifteen feet across and the
ceiling a good foot taller than himself. But the length of
the smooth, dry walls extended beyond the reach of his
light.

He moved forward slowly, noting that the floor was
reasonably even. He had gone several yards, making
one bend, when a rush of fresh air hit his face. Good,
he thought. There's another exit somewhere. Now if it's
only big enough to get out through if a person had
to.

After another few feet, he was pleased again. There
had come to him the murmur of running water. Shortly
he felt its wetness through his moccasins. A spring.

Holding the torch aloft, he spotted a wide trickle
coming through a good-sized crack in the wall. It ran
across the floor, then disappeared into a crack in the
opposite wall. He grew more pleased with his idea.

Stepping across the small rivulet that flowed freely
down the trench that years of water had worn out, Matt
continued on. But after another few feet the ceiling
began to slope, and finally he could go no farther without getting down on all fours. Squatting low, he peered
into a small opening that led off into a tunnellike darkness. He grunted. A man could wiggle through there if
he had to.

He retraced his steps, blinking rapidly as he stepped
outside into the sunlight. He removed his gear and bed roll, then stripped the saddle off the stallion. When he
had staked it in a patch of grass still remarkably green,
he took up the torch and reentered the cave.

He had found his winter quarters. This cave would
be wanner than any hut he could build. It was dry, and
water couldn't be closer. He would build a door from
sturdy poles that would keep out the weather and animals. And better yet, Sam would also be dry and warm.

Matt spent the rest of the day gathering cedar knots
for light, wood for heat, and dried grass for Sam. That
night he slept warmly, though a little nervously. The
opening was still unbarred, and a bear or cat could be
nosing around, not to mention Indians.

Early the next morning, after a hurried breakfast of
dried venison and strong coffee, he was out in the forest
with his hatchet. By sundown he had fashioned a door
from slender maple poles.

He stood back, admiring it. At the door's top and
bottom and through its center he had woven wide strips
of deer hide, which a hunter and trapper was never
without. He tested the lacing and was satisfied. It would
hold against man or animal.

Dragging the door inside the cave, he wrestled it into
position. It fit snugly, and he grinned as he wiped the
sweat from his brow. The entrance walls bellied out,
and he would have no trouble sliding the big frame
back and forth as he came and went. In the evening,
when he slept, two heavy logs would be propped
against it. Now all he had to do was gather grass for
Sam and chop wood for the winter.

The following two weeks the area rang with the sound
of his ax. The cords of wood grew inside the cave,
shrinking his living quarters. On Sam's side of the room,
the dried grass was piled to the ceiling. Into the third
week, Matt was satisfied that he was set for the coldest
winter.

The days began to drag as he waited for the snow.
He checked and rechecked his traps, even oiling them unnecessarily. He spent two days carrying in stones and
damming the water into a small pool. Now his coffeepot filled readily when he dipped it into the shallow
well.

To add to the heavy drag of waiting, his sleep was no
longer peaceful. The previous nights when he rolled
himself into the blankets, he had been too exhausted to
think of anything but sleep. It was a different story
when there was nothing left to vent his physical
strength on. He found that more and more his thoughts
turned to Marna. His restless sleep was filled with
dreams of her. They formed a pattern that seldom
varied. They began with him sitting in a dark corner,
his eyes fastened on Marna and Caleb. Always they
would be eating supper, and he would rage inside that
he had built that table. Then they would move to the
fire and sit there, laughing and talking. Then they
would stand up, embrace, and retire to the big bed in
the corner. In mental anguish then, he would cry out,
his angry cries often awakening him.

After one particularly bad night, he sat down in the
morning sun and laboriously wrote a letter to Hertha.
He was careful, however, not to mention Marna. He
dwelled mostly on how well he liked the country, and
that he was glad he had come here. He did not write
how much he missed the hills and the people living
there.

He read over the short missive, then sealed it with a
glob of wax. Saddling the stallion, he prepared to make
his first visit to the sprawling hamlet in the fork of the
rivers.

It was late morning when he arrived at the single
street. The place was bustling with activity. Loud and
rowdy river men, along with lean, bewhiskered long
hunters, jostled and brushed shoulders with sullenfaced Indians. There was a thick uneasiness in the narrow, muddy street, and he found that it carried into
the places of business. After posting his letter and pur chasing some coffee and salt, he was ready to leave. If
he hung around this place, he'd get into a fight for
sure.

Making his way through the press of riders, wagons,
and pedestrians, he was acutely aware of the avid sidelong glances the stallion was drawing. When they
gained the dubious protection of the forest, he spoke
softly to the horse. "Any one of them would put a knife
in my back to get you, fellow."

He reined Sam in and looked back. He had been
mighty disappointed in the place. He hadn't realized
there would be so many people. Hell, Grandpop
wouldn't hang around there for five seconds. "For two
cents I'd cut trail and go back to the hunters."

Then, angry at himself for even having such a
thought, he kicked Sam unnecessarily hard, sending
him off at breakneck speed. He slowly calmed the animal down to an easy canter, patting the sleek neck and
apologizing for his actions. But the thought of home
kept drumming in his mind with irritating insistence.

He was halfway to the cave when he sensed that he
was being followed. He halted the horse and peered
intently into the trees. He saw nothing unusual, but a
feeling of impending danger settled around him.

Slowly he stepped from the saddle and stood close to
a tree. Peering around the trunk, he started and shrank
back. His glance had caught the hulking figure of an
Indian just dodging out of sight. He waited a moment,
then edged noiselessly around the tree and carefully
scanned the area. Only stillness and emptiness spread
before him. But those two things told him something
important. The brave was still out there somewhere;
otherwise, the birds would be singing and the squirrels
would be scampering about.

Drawing his knife and moving slowly, making sure
he didn't make the slightest sound, he crept to where
the Indian had disappeared. He spotted him and was
almost upon him when the crouching figure turned. The Indian's eyes widened and his knife came out. With an
unearthly scream, he sprang to his feet and threw himself at his hated enemy.

The force of his thrust brought them both to the
ground, rolling and tumbling. They came to rest against
a tree trunk, Matt on top. He raised his arm, and then
the broad, sharp knife flashed down.

The long red body stretched out, twitching. As Matt
watched, hardly breathing, the brave's eyes glazed and
he lay still.

Matt jerked the knife from the broad chest and stuck
it into the ground to clean it. He glanced around hurriedly, every nerve and muscle keyed tight. There was
no movement. Maybe the brave had been alone. He
rose to his feet and moved to the mount.

But as he swung back into the saddle, he knew that
others would be along. It wasn't this buck alone who
had cast an eager eye on Sam.

But they came sooner than he'd expected, and in full
force. He was nearly to the cave when he heard the
rhythmic beat of hooves coming up behind him. With a
yell and a sharp jab to the stallion's flank, he streaked
for the cave. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and
his heart raced. There were six ponies and riders coming up fast.

The jumble of boulders was before him and he
brought Sam to a skidding halt, sending dirt and gravel
flying. Jumping to the ground, he heard angry, bloodcurdling cries. They had found the slain brave. Quickly
he struck Sam across the rump, yelling, "Run, you
black devil, run. Don't let them get their paws on you.,,

With the speed of a swooping eagle, Sam raced off
through the forest and disappeared from sight. Satisfied
that the Indian ponies would never catch up with him,
Matt hurried inside the cave. Dragging the door across
the opening, he propped the logs against it.

With a regretful look at the hay and wood he had
labored at, he raced down the length of the cave. It would be useless for him to try to stay here now. He
was a marked man. If not today, someday they would
trap him outside, and that would be the end of Matt
Barton. And he didn't want to die.

When he came to the slanting roof, he threw himself
on all fours and began crawling down the narrow, dark
tunnel. Hopefully it would lead him outside and to
safety. He cursed himself for not having already explored the low passageway.

At first he moved easily, his back not even touching
the stone roof. But gradually the way became more
narrow and the roof much lower. For a stretch of several yards he had to lie flat and inch his way along. He
drove from his mind the thought of becoming stuck or
having to return to the enraged braves.

When he had just about given up hope of ever coming to the end of the black dungeon, a dim light shone
ahead. Strength poured through him. In a short time he
was worming his way out into a thick sumac bush. He
cautiously rose to his feet and looked around. The sun
was quite high, and he couldn't believe he had been in
the tunnel such a short time. He'd have sworn he had
crawled along in that smothering darkness for hours.

He took his direction from the sun, and with a long
sigh for the miles ahead, took off in a long, easy stride.
But his attitude was light. Not even the thought of
sleeping on the ground without blankets dampened his
spirits. Before too many days he would be able to see
Marna, at least a glimpse of her. He was willing to
snatch at crumbs now.

"Hell," he told himself as he stepped along, "if I can
get up the nerve, I might even be able to convince her
that I'm not such a bad fellow. I might even be able to
make her believe that she could do worse."

But the gnawing fear that Marna had already set
aside the marriage papers haunted him. Would he be
able to live in the camp then? Could he stand the sight
of Caleb going in and out of the cabin? Worse yet, could he stand the thought of them in bed together?
Sometimes he could half console himself with the idea
that his wife hadn't had time to do too much. She might
still be mending.

Dark came on, bringing a stinging cold with it. Matt
envisioned the fur-lined coat tied to Sam's saddle and
wished for its warmth.

He climbed out of the valley just as the moon was
creeping over the treetops. Leaning against a tree to
rest, he looked back over his trail. Suddenly his body
stiffened. He had seen a movement below. His eyes
narrowed, and instinctively he dropped to the ground.

Had the Indians picked up his tracks already? He
strained his eyes to focus on the point where he had
seen the movement. Slowly then, his lips spread in a
wide smile and he stood up.

It was his stallion coming toward him, up out of the
shadowy valley and into the moonlight of the hill. Matt
half ran to Sam and threw his arms around his neck.
The animal was winded, and the quivering body was
sweat-slicked. "They chased you good, didn't they,
boy?" he crooned, combing at the tangled mane with
his fingers.

Matt decided that they might as well camp where
they were. The stallion needed rest, and so did he. He
rummaged around in the near darkness and gathered
enough dry grass to at least dull Sam's appetite a bit.
Then, removing his coat from the saddle, he shrugged
into it and lay down beneath a ground-hugging cedar.

The next morning, stiff and sore, he crawled from
beneath his shelter at daybreak. The stallion was rested
and eager to go. A couple of hours after sunrise, and
about ten miles closer to home, Matt spotted a tangled
mass of wild grapevines. Their gnarled stems struggled
to climb a tall oak, and when he saw the clusters of tiny
grapes glistening in the sun, his empty stomach rumbled.