Marna (26 page)

Betsy gave an easy, understanding laugh and put her
arm around Marna's shoulders. "Don't be frightened,
honey, you'll get used to it."

Over the raucous voices of drivers swearing at teams
and the angry cries of pedestrians who narrowly missed
being run over, Marna shook her head vehemently. "I'll
never get used to this noise and confusion." Her gaze
swept the tall brick buildings pressing in on both sides
of the street. "I feel so penned in, like I can't hardly
breathe. And so many people. I didn't think there were
that many in the world," she concluded, watching the
jam of people pushing their way down the wooden sidewalk.

The flow would thin a bit as some turned into different shops or into taverns, which outnumbered the other
establishments two to one. Fancily dressed women, fur
collars pulled high around their chins, strolled in and
out of shops, sometimes stopping to gaze at the creations in a millinery window. Used only to wearing a
poke bonnet, when she remembered to put it on, Marna
gazed wide-eyed at the pieces of rolled netting, fancy
feathers, and artificial flowers. How would she look in
one of them? she wondered.

She glanced up at Hertha, and the old woman's eyes
were as wide as her own as she watched red-coated
British shove and be shoved by blanket-draped Indians
who sought their place among Philadelphia's populace. Her lips curved. Grandma didn't like it here, either.
Much had changed since she had lived here as a young
woman.

Gradually Marna became aware of the glances, and
sometimes outright stares, being sent her way. Unaware
of the effect that her fresh young beauty was having on
the jaded, disillusioned men, she tried to hide herself
between Betsy and Hertha. What a fright she must look
in her soiled buckskins and woodsy coat.

Betsy caught her movement and, understanding,
leaned forward and tapped Egan's shoulder. "Are we
about there, Egan? We're beginning to draw quite a bit
of attention."

Egan turned to cast a look at his white-faced daughter. Pity for his woods girl stirred inside him. She
looked scared to death. And why shouldn't she be? he
asked himself. She's probably never seen more than a
dozen people together in her life.

He smiled encouragement at Marna and pointed
down the street with his whip. "We're just about there,
honey. That red brick building in the middle of the
block."

Darkness was approaching when Matt rode the stallion
into a stretch of broken country, with boulders large as
cabins, ravines both wide and narrow, and stunted
pines. It wore such a look of utter desolation, Matt
shivered.

Matt was headed for Valley Forge. He hoped to lose
himself in that unknown world of the soldier and forget
the girl with the tip-tilted eyes.

He sighed and lifted the reins.

After an hour of steady loping he was in unfamilar
country. He slackened his pace and gave his whole attention to the new surroundings. He also kept an alert
eye on the stallion's ears. The animal would see or hear
trouble long before he would, and the. twitching ears
would alert him.

He was ready to cross a river and make camp when
he saw the moccasin tracks in the snow. They were
fresh and sharp, maybe only minutes old. The hair on
the back of his neck rose. Even now he could be
watched.

Letting Sam lower his head and crop at some bushes,
Matt took the opportunity to run his eyes over the opposite bank. Nothing stirred. Had the Indians climbed
into a boat here and gone down - or upriver?

Peering intently at the patterns on the snow, he could
make nothing of them. Should he leave the safety of
Sam's back and study the prints more closely?

He decided not. It would be dark soon, and he was
cold and hungry. They were probably miles away by
now, anyhow.

He was about to edge Sam into the water when from
behind him, back in the forest, there came the guttural
voices of Indians. He turned the stallion around, steering him into a tall, dense thicket of black haws. Reaching down, he clamped a hand over the flaring nostrils
and waited.

In a short time six braves, jabbering excitedly,
passed within feet of his scanty shelter. From their unkept appearance and the ragged blankets around their
shoulders, he placed them as renegades. The shaggy,
half-starved ponies looked beat and ready to drop in
their tracks.

On the back of the last pony a deer swayed loosely.
Matt sighed in relief. Only a hunting party. The rest of
the tribe could be miles away. He waited until they
were well out of sight and hearing before he put Sam
into the water. Matt kicked his feet free of the stirrups
as the swiftly flowing water mixed with chunks of ice
rose almost to Sam's belly.

As Sam lunged onto the gravelly beach, the sun disappeared behind the tree line. It was time to camp.
Spotting a thick stand of cedar a few yards away, Matt
grunted, "That's as good a place as any."

It was totally dark by the time he had stripped the
saddle off Sam and staked him nearby. After giving him
a handful of corn from his saddlebag, he hunkered
down beneath a tree and munched his cold supper of
dried beef. He would have liked the comfort of a fire,
but he didn't dare build one. The renegade braves might
be camped nearby.

Later, rolled in his blankets, it occurred to him that
it would be ironic if he got killed before he even joined
the fighting. When Matt finally did sleep, his rest was
disturbed with dreams of Marna. The next day, when
he spotted Valley Forge in the distance, he breathed a
sigh of relief. Maybe now he'd be so busy his sleep
would be dreamless.

Dusk was coming on, and he halted the stallion and
gazed down in the hollow that housed Washington's
men.

Packed closely together in a small, stump-laden
clearing, were several hastily erected cabins. Thin
spirals of blue smoke rose straight up in the cold air.
Looking to the north, where gray clouds tumbled and
rolled, Matt was reminded of words his grandfather
used to say: "Son, when the smoke goes straight up,
you can depend on a big storm in the brewin'."

Matt smiled grimly. Just what the poor devils down
there needed.

Word of the soldiers' suffering in Valley Forge had
met him some days back on the trail. Looking down on
the dismal camp, he wondered why he was going to join
that pitiful group.

He sat the weary mount for several minutes, arguing
with himself to turn around and get as far away as
possible from this senseless war.

A dark scowl came over his face. He wouldn't be in
this predictment if he hadn't lost his head over a
woman. Under his breath he cursed the day he had seen
the half-wild girl fishing in the river. If it hadn't been
for her, he thought, he'd be running traps and getting
drunk on Saturday nights with Caleb.

Since his discovery that Caleb had never been with
his wife and that Marna had never loved Caleb, his
anger at his friend had turned to pity. Didn't he know
all too well himself how hard it was not to love the
beautiful bitch.

The picture of Marna throwing herself in front of
Jake flashed before him, and he winced. How could she
love that old man? He grasped the reins tightly, pushing
away the delicate face. Enough of this futile remembering.

He was about to urge Sam down the gentle slope
when he heard the unmistakable sound of a trigger being cocked. Instinctively he hit the ground, rolling in
the snow. Coming to rest behind a thick pile of brush,
he waited a moment before cautiously rising to his
elbows. Squinting his eyes and blinking against the red
glare of the setting sun, he peered in the direction of the
sound.

There was no movement, no sound, only total silence. When after several minutes there had been no
sound, he sat back on his heels and grinned sheepishly.
The cocking trigger had most likely been the snapping
of a frozen branch.

He had just risen to his knees when he spotted the
Indian on horseback, threading his way through the
bare trees. The brave came to a halt in the shadow of a
tree about ten yards from Matt's concealment He sat
there for a moment, his head lifted, sniffing the air as
an animal would. Matt crouched back to the ground,
thankful that he was downwind from the rider. As he
watched, the brave lowered his head, seemingly satisfied that his enemy had left. Lifting the rawhide halter,
the Indian steered the pony in among the leafless trees
and stopped in their shelter to gaze at the camp below.

Slowly and carefully Matt stood up. Then, crouching
low, he ran quickly to the stallion. Drawing the rifle
from the saddle, he returned to squat behind the brush
again. The brave hadn't moved. Matt rose to one knee
slowly. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, he took careful aim, waited a minute, then gently squeezed the
trigger.

Without a sound the brave bent forward, then in
spasmodic jerks, tumbled to the ground. The startled
pony squealed and ran aimlessly off through the forest

Matt drew his knife and cautiously approached the
downed man. Although he was reasonably sure his shot
had been lethal, the red man could still be shamming.

But the inert form didn't move a muscle as Matt
rolled him onto his back with the toe of his moccasin.
The sightless eyes stared blankly at the darkening skies.

Reloading the rifle, Matt swung back into the saddle.
In a short time he overtook the pony, which had
stopped to nibble on the tender bark of a maple. A
young deer rode the haunches of the pony. Matt
grinned as he reached down and grasped the trailing
halter. The men below would appreciate some fresh
meat, he was sure.

Large snowflakes were beginning to float in the air
when Matt lifted the reins and once again started a
descent into the shadowy valley.

As he neared the buildings, he could see through
the white veil two sentries patrolling the area. Their
heads were pulled down into their collars, muffled
against the wind blowing out of the north. As they
plodded along a snow-packed path, the rifle barrels
thumped against their legs. Not once did they lift their
heads from the snow-covered ground.

Matt reined Sam in, shaking his head. The entire
British troop could come thundering in here, and they
would never know it.

To his surprise, however, he was challenged by one
of the guards as he approached the nearest cabin. "Halt
and state your business," a hoarse and raspy voice
ordered.

A slightly amused smile curved Matt's lips as it occurred to him that the poor bastard couldn't stop a
rabbit from entering this poor excuse of a compound.
He doubted if there were even any bullets in the rusting
rifle gripped tightly in the young man's hand.

He stepped down slowly, being careful to let the soldier see that his rifle was still in its hold. "My name is
Matt Barton. I've come from the Kentucky territory to
join the fightin'."

As he talked to the soldier, the thinly clad youngster
cast furtive looks at the slain deer. It was clear that the
hungry soldier was more interested in food than he was
in Matt's joining up.

Jerking his head over his shoulder, Matt grinned. "I took that off a buck up on the ridge. Where he's goin',
he won't need it."

The soldier swallowed the saliva that had rushed into
his mouth, embarrassed that his hunger had shown. He
hastily stuck out a grimed, chapped hand and said,
"Glad to have you with us, Barton. The men will sure
be glad to see that fresh meat. We've been on dry rations for a couple of days now. Most of the men are
sick, leaving only a handful to hunt for the whole
camp."

"The men are sick, are they? Is it serious?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid it is. They've got the bloody flux.
We've lost a lot of them." He waved a hand up the
hollow. "Buried one this mornin'."

Matt's eyes followed the pointing hand. Several yards
from the camp were a score or more rock-covered
graves. The soldier nodded solemnly. "We piled rocks
on the graves to keep the wolves from diggin' up the
bodies. Them varmints are hungry, too."

An anxious frown gathered between Matt's eyes.
"One of them fellows didn't have the handle Caleb, did
he?"

"Caleb?" The boy chuckled drily. "Not likely. He's
just about the only one round here that's got any
strength left. If it wasn't for him, we'd all be dead by
now. Soon as he got here he organized himself a group
of four men, and every week they go huntin'. Sometimes it takes them three or four days to get back with
anything. This area is about hunted out

"If you want to see him, he's over in number four
cabin. Him and his men are fixin' to go on a hunt
tomorrow mornin'."

"I'd like to take care of my mount first. Is there
someplace where I can put him up and give him a bite
to eat?"

"Over there at the edge of them trees is a stable of
sorts. I guess you'll find some oats and hay. Caleb
keeps some for his horse."