Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (5 page)

“In bed?” Addie’s eyebrows rose. “Why on earth would he want to do that?”

“ ’Cause he’s a nasty man, that’s why. Ya been here on this place all yore life an’ ya ain’t knowin’ what all is goin’ in Orleans an’ Natchez an’ on them riverboats.” Trisha threw up her hands. “If’n I spelled it out fer ya what all I seen with my own eyes, ya’d swear I was a-tellin’ ya a windy, and then ya’d puke.”

Addie studied Trisha’s beautiful face. She had been no more than fifteen when she had come out of the woods, cold, hungry, and sick. Since that time she had been away from the farm not more than a half-dozen times. Addie wondered what she had seen to make her so bitter about men.

Trisha seldom mentioned her former life, but once she had told Addie that her grandmother had been a beautiful quadroon, her mother an octoroon. Her father, a plantation owner, had loved her mother but couldn’t marry her. Trisha and her mother had lived in a small house in New Orleans until she was ten years old. After her mother died, her father had brought her to the big house to work in the kitchens. When he went off to war, his wife, whom he’d married to get an heir, had sold her.

“Bad thin’s go on. Badder than ya ever thought of.” Trisha’s long, curly hair framed her worried-looking face. “There’s high-tone
gentlemen
that’s worser than ruttin’ hogs, an’ there’s them that’ll steal women an’ younguns for them high-tones to play with. Some of ’em tie up naked women an’ whip their butts with a willow switch an’ do nasty thin’s to little boys like Dillon an’ Colin an’ little girls like Jane Ann—”

“Trisha!” Addie gasped, stunned. “I can’t believe—”

“Ya better hear me. ’Tis what ol’ Renshaw wants with Colin.”

“But . . . how?”

“He’ll make ’im . . . play with his . . . thing! He already made him touch it.”

“Oh, dear God! Dear God!” Addie sank down in a chair and looked up at Trisha. “They do
that?
I never dreamed—”

“Course ya didn’t know.” Trisha was about to offer more details when she suddenly stopped speaking and tilted her head toward the door. “Shhh . . .” Then, fast as a cat, she sprang to the table and blew out the lamp. “Somebody comin’.”

“I’ll get the front door.” Addie heard Trisha close the kitchen door and drop the bar. She thanked God for the girl’s sharp ears, because Addie hadn’t heard a thing.

She grabbed the rifle on her way to the door to pull it closed, leaving only a crack so she could look out. Now she heard the low murmur of masculine voices and saw the dark shapes of two riders coming up the lane. The sound of their horses’ hooves were muted by the deep sand. The riders walked their horses up to the porch, allowing the animals to trample Addie’s precious flower beds. She gasped in outrage and quietly eased the door shut.

“Tol’ ya I saw a light.”

The coarse voice that reached the ear Addie had pressed to the door was that of one of the men who had accosted them in town.

“If’n they think that li’l ol’ door’ll keep us out, they’s barkin’ up the wrong tree.
Haw-haw!
” This voice was high with excitement.

“Ya can have the nigger gal. I’m goin’ ta take the strut outa that hoity-toity woman what turned her nose up.”

“She called ya horse-dung.
Haw-haw-haw!
” The man laughed as he pounded on the door so hard that it shook.

“Rotten, dirty drunkards!” Addie whispered.

The outside noise brought Colin running from his bed. “Miss Addie, what is it?”

“Some liquored-up swine, Colin. They’ll leave in a little bit.”

“Pur . . . ty la . . . dy. Open the door. Ya got comp . . . nee!”
Thump! Thump!
“We goin’ ta give ya a real good time.”

“C’mon, ma’am. Ya ain’t got no customers in there.”

“You’d better leave before you get yourselves in serious trouble. You can find your pleasure in town,” Addie called loudly through the closed door.

“We done rode all this way out here an’ we ain’t goin’ back till mornin’.”

“You’re wasting your time here. Go back to town or wherever you came from.” Addie was prepared to use the gun to protect her home and family.

“Open the door! Gawddammit! I ain’t a-tellin’ ya again.” Anger was in the voice now. “Ya been puttin’ the fellers ta that nigger gal fer worthless Reb paper. We got Yankee coin to pay.”

Rage rose like a geyser in Addie.
Crude, vulgar beasts.
How dare they come to my home and spout such filth!

“Get away from here or I’ll unload both barrels of this buffalo gun right through the door,” she shouted.

“Ain’t no reason to get all riled up. We’s wantin’ ta get our ashes hauled, is all.”

“You low-life, chicken-livered polecats!” Addie yelled, her voice shrill. “Get your filthy, rotten carcasses off my porch.”

“Git outta the way, Miss Addie,” Trisha said as she moved to lift the bar. “I’ll blow that trash clear down to the road.”

“Don’t open the door,” Addie hissed.

“Ain’t no hockey-head gonna talk ta ya that way—”

Trisha’s word were cut off as heavy boots struck the bottom of the door, causing it to strain against the bar.

“If’n ya don’t open this door we’ll break out ever’ winder in this house. We didn’t ride out here ta be turned away by the likes of a whore and a nigger. If’n ya don’t—”

Bang!

At the sound of the shot at close range, Addie froze and Trisha drew in a gasping breath. A hush followed; then a man’s voice broke the stillness:

“The lady said you’re not welcome. Get on your horses and ride out.”

“Well . . . ah . . . by Gawd!”

“Who’er you?”

“A man with a gun pointed at that lump sittin’ on your shoulders.”

“If ya had pleasurin’ in mind, mister, we can all take us a turn. Reckon the two of ’em could give us some sport.”

“Who is it?” Colin whispered.

“I don’t know. Shhh!”

“Ride out now or go with a few holes in your hide.”

“Now see here—”

“He’s a-wantin’ ’em hisself!”

“I’ve no use for cowards who force themselves on women. Are you going or do I start shooting?”

“If’n yore wantin’ the nigger an’ the whore—yore welcome to ’em.”

Bang!

“Ohhh, Gawd! Ya shot me!”

“This time it was your hat. Next time, your head.”

“Why’d ya do that fer?”

“So you’ll be more careful with your mouth when talking about a lady.”

“They ain’t—”

“C’mon. Let’s go. That crazy son of a bitch’ll kill us over a couple of split-tails.”

The sound of creaking saddle leather reached Addie, then fading masculine voices.

“They’re gone.”

“Who’s that man?” Trisha whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Did he leave?”

“I don’t know that either.” Addie eased the door open a crack. “Mister,” she called. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am.” On hearing the male voice, a sharp new pang of apprehension went through Addie.

“Thank you.”

“Was a pleasure.”

“Who are you?”

After a pause, he said, “Just a passerby. Do I have your permission to bed down in your barn?”

“Well . . . yes, if you want to.”

Addie waited, and when he said nothing more, she motioned for Trisha to go to the back window.

“What do you think, Colin? Can we trust him?”

“Yes’m. I’m thinkin’ so.”

“I wonder who he is.”

“Might be that big man that helped us in town.”

“Could be.”

“Why do men come here?” Colin asked.

“They want to come in and . . . drink, and . . talk.” Addie fumbled for words.

“When I get full-growed there ain’t nobody goin’ to bother you and Trisha.”

“Oh, Colin. Your mama would be so proud of you, just as I am.”

She put her arms around the boy and hugged him. He allowed the show of affection because it was dark. For a long moment he leaned against her. She held his wiry little body close and smoothed the hair back from his face. Her heart ached for him. He turned his face to her neck for an instant before moving away, then he took the rifle out of her hand and stood it by the door.

“That man put his horse in the pen. He’s gonna bed down under the pecan tree by the porch,” Trisha said as she slipped back into the room.

“It’s so dark,” Addie said, peering out the window. “For the life of me, I don’t see how you can see anything.”

“It’s my nigger blood,” Trisha said dryly. “It ort ta be good for somethin’.”

“Trisha, for goodness’ sake!”

“Goodness ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” Trisha replied with a nervous giggle.

“I suppose we might as well be in bed as sitting here in the dark.”

“I ain’t a-shuttin’ my eyes with that ‘passerby’ out there.”

“If he wanted to come in he would have tried it by now.”

“He might get him a notion later on.”

“It would take a battering ram to break down that door. Surely one of us would hear it or the breaking of glass if he tried the window.”

Still grumbling, Trisha went to the room where she slept with Jane Ann. Colin, in his long sleeping gown, followed and lay down on the trundle bed. Addie lingered in the doorway.

“He ain’t comin’ in,” Colin said. “I know he ain’t, but if he tries it, I’ll hear and come with the buffalo gun.”

“You’re a dear sweet boy. You have ears like a fox and Trisha has eyes like an owl. Do you reckon that stranger out there knows what he’s up against?”

Fully dressed, Addie lay down on the bed beside her son. It had been an eventful day—the end of one important chapter in her life and the beginning of another. For the past few years she had been marking time, waiting to see if Kirby would come back. In the interim she had learned a lot, grown stronger and more confident. It seemed to her that she had now been cut loose to decide which direction her life and that of her family would take.

She remembered a proverb often quoted by her father: “Yesterday will not be called upon again.” A thought came to mind as her eyelids drooped and her mouth opened in a yawn.
Yesteryear is gone; tomorrow is a window waiting to
be opened.

*  *  *

John Tallman turned his horse into a split-rail enclosure where three sheep fled to the far corner and eyed him suspiciously and a black-and-white cow stood patiently chewing her cud. He carried his saddle and blanket roll to the tall pecan tree beside the porch and dropped them on the ground.

Sheep! The only thing he liked about them was what was made from their wool. They were stupid, smelly creatures that, when turned on their backs, would lie there and die because they didn’t have the sense to roll over and get back on their feet.

John flipped out his blanket, sat down on the end of it, and removed his calf-high soft leather moccasins and his socks. He dug into his saddlebag and pulled out a pair of the wool socks he had bought at the store. His father had told him at an early age to take care of his feet: “You never know when you’ll have to depend on them to save your life.” Therefore, he wore good thick-soled moccasins and changed his socks every two or three days. Mrs. Hyde made a mighty fine pair of socks, he thought as he pulled them on. They were smooth and without the ridges that made sore spots.

He hadn’t realized that the violet-eyed woman was so firmly entrenched in his mind until he became infuriated by the talk he heard about her in the tavern where he’d eaten supper.

“I heared that nigger gal eats at the table with ’em.” The man spoke as if it was the strangest thing he had ever been told. “Now don’t
that
beat all?”

The remark had caused John to stab his fork hard into his meat. He had no patience for ignorance and bigotry.

“Ain’t no decent white woman I ever heard of allowin’ that. Ya know what they say—water seeks its own level.”

“—And birds of a kind flock together.”

“No tellin’ what they been up to out there. Could be they was runnin’ one of them underground-railroad stops, helpin’ slaves escape to the North.”

“I just betcha that was what she was doin’.”

“She ain’t doin’ it now. She’s doin’ somethin’ else. We’re goin’ out there tonight, by golly damn.”

“Stay away from Mrs. Hyde. Hear?” The bartender wiped a wet cloth over the bar and moved to wait on an impatient customer. “There ain’t no truth in what you’re saying about her.”

The men continued to talk. “Heard her man ain’t comin’ back . . . that’s if she ever had one.
Haw-haw-haw!
”

“Horse hockey! She’s had one. Heard a feller say a slack-handed free-wheeler stayed out thar one summer and left her a-breedin’ when he joined up.”

“She ain’t breedin’ now, less’n one a them fellers that’s been goin’ out thar to see the high-yeller got in
her
drawers. Ya can have the snooty bitch. I aim to get me a juicy piece a that hot little colored twat.”

“All yore goin’ on is hearsay,” the bartender said. “There ain’t a man jack among ya that can stand here and tell me ya got a welcome from Mrs. Hyde . . . so hush yore mouths, else get outa my place!”

“What ya gettin’ so het up for? Ya wantin’ to go a-courtin’ the widder Hyde an’re ’fraid we’ll muddy the hole?
Haw-
haw-haw!
”

“Shut yore foul mouth. Better yet—get yore butt out an’ don’t come back!”

John Tallman finished his coffee and rose from the table. He wanted to plant his fist in the man’s filthy mouth. But then he told himself that he didn’t need to get into a fight over a woman with whom he had exchanged only a few words, and placed some coins on the table and walked out. He was standing on the porch when the two men came out bragging about the trip they were going to make to the widow Hyde’s farm.

Now, lying on his blanket with his hands beneath his head, John was glad he had followed them. He looked at the dark shape of the modest house with its flower beds, carefully tended vegetable garden, and neat woodpile. The zigzag, split-rail fence had been mended with deadfalls. A piece of tin had been nailed over a hole in the barn roof. The cow stall was clean, the chickens penned for the night.

Addie Hyde was a woman of quality, just as he had thought her to be when he had seen her in the store.