Marna (6 page)

She made no sound, and the thought leaped into his
mind that she was dead. He sat back on his heels.
Would he be blamed? "What in the hell am I supposed
to do with you, you dirty girl?" he muttered aloud.

Looking back down at the girl, he gave a guilty start
Her tilted eyes blazed with anger. His lips quirked at
the corners. The ugly little thing had pride. "I'm sorry
you heard that, girl," he apologized.

When the girl made no answer but to turn her head
away, he continued, "I'm gonna put you on my horse
now and take you home."

Gingerly he slid his hands beneath her knees and
shoulders. She started to struggle, and he snapped impatiently, "Lay still or I'll clip you one."

He stood up and was surprised at how heavy she
was. She looked so thin in her dirty rags. He began to
move toward the mount, when a copperhead, thick as
his wrist, sailed through the air toward him. He felt its
poisonous fangs fasten into his thigh, then saw it drop
to the ground and slither away.

He stood poised a moment, the girl still in his arms.
As from a great distance he heard her whisper despairingly, "Oh, no."

She slipped from his arms as he sank slowly to the
ground

Gradually Matt became aware of voices around him.
Slowly and painfully he eased back to consciousness.
He started to open his eyes, then shut them tightly
against the light of a candle near his head.

A voice, grave and cracked, announced quietly,
"He's comin' around."

He carefully opened his eyes again and stared into a
wrinkled, leathery face. Wisps of gray-streaked hair
hung down on either sunken cheek. He shrank back in
the pillow. He was in the hands of a witch.

But there was a keen kindliness in the faded eyes,
and when she smiled at him, he smiled back. She held
out a work-worn hand. "I'm Hertha Aker. It's good
to have you back with us, stranger."

Matt gripped the thin fingers and was surprised at
their strength. "Matt Barton, ma'am."

Hertha nodded and gave his hand a firm shake. His
glance was drawn to grimy knuckles and dirt-encrusted
nails. Hurriedly she shoved them into her apron pocket,
explaining, "I can't get them clean anymore. They've
dug too many roots out of the earth."

"Thank God for that," Matt said kindly. "I'm sure
your knowledge of medicine saved my life."

She cocked a bright eye at him. "I couldn't have
done it if Marna hadn't worked on you as fast as she
did. She had most of the poison out of you before we
got you back here." She stood up and patted his shoulder. "You lay quiet, and I'll fix you a bowl of soup."

Matt closed his eyes. He felt so damned weak. When the night air coming through the window hit him, he
was conscious that his body was wet with sweat. Evidently he'd run a high fever at some point.

His thoughts went back to the snake and he shivered.
How he hated those rippling reptiles. Of all the things
in the world, he hated and feared them most.

Through most of the shaky experience he had kept
his consciousness to a degree. He remembered that wild
girl stretching him out on the ground and then quickly
slitting open his pants leg with his hunting knife. He
had ground his teeth together when that knife made two
swift cuts over the twin red marks.

Things had become fuzzy after that, but he had distinctly felt the girl's soft mouth close over the wound
and draw out the poison. He had felt the pull of her
lips, heard her spit, then felt her lips again. A half smile
appeared on his face. To think that that wild, simple
girl had saved his life.

His eyes fell on the hill girl, sitting quietly on the
raised hearth. Her knees were drawn up under her skirt,
and her arms were wrapped around them. She gazed
into the flames, seemingly oblivious to those around
her. Hertha came and squatted beside her and lifted a
lid off a pot swinging over the flames. As she carefully
filled a bowl from it, she remarked reprovingly, "Why
did you stay away so long, Marnie? I was half out of
my mind."

"I'm sorry, Grandma, I miscalculated the time," the
girl said softly.

Matt's body went still at the sound of the throaty
voice. There was a soft huskiness about it that sent a
stirring in his loins. He caught himself straining to hear
it again, and grew angry. He must-still be feverish. How
could a man get hard just listening to a female voice?

Nevertheless it had happened, and he forced himself
to shut out the voice beside the fire.

Then Hertha was back, carrying a steaming bowl of soup in her hand and dragging a chair behind her. She
sat down and teased, "Can you feed yourself, or do you
want me to spoon it to you?"

Matt grinned up at her. "I ain't no helpless babe.
Just let me at it."

The soup was thick with pieces of meat and different
herbs swimming in it, and he ate greedily. Hertha
waited quietly until he had taken the edge off his
hunger. Then, folding her hands in her lap, she asked,
"Are you stayin' permanent in the settlement, Matt, or
just passin' through?"

Matt laid down the spoon. "Me and six hunter
friends are camped a few miles from here. We plan on
spendin' the winter at least, huntin' and trappin'."

A pleased gleam flickered in the brown eyes, and she
murmured, "I see."

When Matt had finished the soup and handed the
bowl back to her, she inquired, "Do you have any
women in your camp?"

Matt felt himself blush and became confused because
of it. When in the world had he blushed last? Again he
became angry with himself. Why should he care about
this strange old woman's opinion? Still he avoided her
eyes as he answered, "Just a squaw."

"Then you're not married," Hertha stated, a sound
of relief in her voice.

"No, ma'am. I've been lucky so far," he laughed.

A grin, half teasing and half sympathetic, curved
Hertha's lips. "Women pester you a lot, do they? To
marry them, I mean."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Well, I tell you, there's nothin' better than a good
marriage."

"Yeah, and no worse hell than a bad one."

A film slid over the old woman's eyes and she murmured, "Ain't that the truth."

Matt gave a small laugh and was about to ask why
she said it so gloomily, when a heavy tread sounded on the porch. Hertha's body went tense, and he could see
her knuckles grow white as she clutched the bowl. He
leaned up on an elbow and asked, "What it it? What
has scared you?"

Hertha placed a finger on her lips, answering in a
hushed whisper, "Shh, the old devil has come home."
She jumped to her feet and hurried to stand beside the
girl. Matt gazed wonderingly at her protective stance.
Then his glance took in the girl, whose tightly clasped
hands sought to still her trembling. He frowned darkly.
What kind of man could drive these two women into
such a fright?

The door banged open, and there came a laugh, a
grating, ugly sound. From his dark corner Matt stared
at the drunken man who swayed in the doorway.

Through the years Emery's way of life had dealt
harshly with him. The evil within him shone plainly on
his face and in his mean little eyes. And to add to his
debauched appearance, there was a week's growth of
whiskers on his splotched, bloated face.

He staggered to a chair, calling loudly, "Marne, get
over here and take off my boots."

Hertha jumped in front of the girl. "I'll do it, Emery.
Just sit there and rest," she placated.

Emery peered up at Hertha, his bleary eyes focusing
her in. His lips curved into a sneer as his fingers came
out and sank into her bony shoulder. Ever so slowly his
grip tightened until the old woman moaned her pain.

Matt jerked erect in the bed, his eyes searching furiously for his clothes. That bastard was crazy mean,
and he was going to hurt his wife badly if he weren't
stopped. But the girl had jumped to her feet and struck
down the man's hand. Respect for the girl's courage
surged through him. Good for you, you wild little
animal, he thought.

Marna led Hertha to a chair, guided her down into it
and gently rubbed the bruised shoulder. The husky
voice urged, "Don't worry so about me, Grandma. I can take pretty good care of myself. You stay here now.
I'm not afraid to be around him."

As she turned to her scowling grandfather, sprawled
in the chair, Matt knew the girl lied. She was deathly
afraid of the leering drunk. She stared down at him a
minute, then knelt and began to unlace a mud-covered
boot.

Emery leaned forward and watched her with intently
probing eyes. When she had drawn off the boot and
started on the other one, he growled suspiciously,
"How old are you, gal?"

Matt's eyes swung to Hertha, and he saw her grow
tense and sit forward as Mama answered, "Thirteen,
Grandpa."

Emery's lips pulled back over yellow, stained teeth.
"Like hell you are," he snarled. "Me and my friends
have been doin' some figurin'. You got to be close to
sixteen years." He jerked a thumb at his wife. "Old
Hertha there, she's been lyin' to me."

"No, Grandpa, you're wrong. I'm only thirteen,"
Marna nervously insisted.

As she fumbled with a knot in the laces, Emery continued to study her. A crafty gleam slid into his eyes,
and without warning his hand shot out to grab the top
of her blouse. Marna jerked, and the material ripped to
her waist.

Matt gasped. Marna's breasts, milky white and beautifully molded, were bared completely. "God," he whispered, his eyes clinging to the pink-tipped mounds.

Emery had jumped to his feet, shouting, "Ali ha, don't
tell me them tits belong to a thirteen-year-old. Them
are full growed and ripe, by God."

Matt forced his gaze to the girl's face. Utter loathing
stared out of the tilted eyes. She was even unmindful
that she stood bare to the waist and that a stranger
stared at her nakedness hungrily. But when Emery
reached a talon fingered hand toward her, she jumped
away from his touch.

Emery laughed coarsely. "They'll be touched tomorrow night. My friends will be over, and they'll pay me
good money to use that body." He peered into Hertha's
pale, alarmed face and cackled shrilly, "We'll just
throw somethin' over that ugly face, and the men will
have them a time."

Staggering over to the table, he plopped down on a
bench. Ignoring the plate set for him, he dipped dirty
fingers into a pot of stew. As he crammed meat and
biscuits into his mouth with one hand, his other hand
brought a bottle of whiskey from a pocket. He gulped
down the half-chewed food, then sucked noisily at the
bottle.

When the drunken Emery finally collapsed on his
bed and Marna had gone into her bedroom, Hertha
picked up Matt's buckskins and came and sat down
beside him. Her fingers skillfully wielding the needle in
and out of the buckskin, she asked solemnly, "What are
we gonna do, Matt?"

Startled, Matt looked at her. After a moment he said,
"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Aker."

Hertha gave him an impatient glance. "You heard
what the old devil said about bringing his friends over
here tomorrow night. Marna is of a delicate nature,
Matt. Her mind would snap if she was used in such a
manner."

Matt raised up on an elbow. "Look, Mrs. Aker, I'm
sorry as can be for Marna, but I don't see how I can
help her, outside of killing the rotten bastard."

Hertha put down her sewing and leveled an earnest
look at him. "You owe the girl, Matt She saved your
life."

Matt squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze. What
the old woman said was true. Without the girl's quick
thinking, they'd be planting him now. But to saddle him
with her was asking too much payment. He looked into
Hertha's waiting face and tried to explain.

"I know that I owe my life to Mama, but I don't know how I can help her. If I took her back to camp
with me, she'd be in the same fix. My men ain't much
better than your husband. I couldn't keep an eye on her
all the time, and sooner or later they'd get her."

Hertha resumed her sewing, each stitch tiny and
evenly placed. She came to the end and bit off the
thread. Then, tossing the pants onto the bed, she said
calmly, "They wouldn't bother her if she was your
wife."

"My wife! Good Lord!" Matt almost shouted.

Hertha darted a nervous look over her shoulder, cautioning him with a finger to her lips. "Not so loud,
Matt."

"Dammit," he whispered hoarsely, "you know how I
feel about gettin' married. And especially to one so
ug-" His tongue faltered, and he looked down in embarrassed confusion.

"As ugly as Marna, Matt? Was that what you were
gonna say?"

When Matt nodded dumbly, she patted his hand and
remarked, "There's more to bein' a wife than havin' a
pretty face. A pretty face don't keep a man's cabin
clean, his food cooked, and his buckskins mended. It's
willin', able hands that make a wife."