Marna (4 page)

The next morning a local homesteader came to take
away the bull calf. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he explained
shamefacedly before Hertha's dismay, "but I paid your
husband for the animal yesterday."

Gulping back her disappointed tears, Hertha lied
quietly. "Yes, I know. Emery told me."

The spring days rolled along, and Hertha plowed and
planted as much as her strength would permit. Emery
spent all his time at the tavern, drinking and carousing
with his new and dubious friends. Each day he was a
little later getting home, and he finally stayed away for
days on end. Before summer was over he had sold off
the young shoats and drunk up the profit.

"I guess it's just as well, Lord," Hertha said in her
prayers one night."I wouldn't have any feed for them,
anyhow. I'll do well to feed the rest of the stock."

Their first winter on the hilltop wasn't too bad. They
butchered the sow, and along with the beans and potatoes that Hertha had grown they ate well Occasionally
Emery shot some game, and the fresh meat was always
appreciated.

Unknown to Emery, Hertha's sympathizing friend
and her husband had made monthly trips up to the
cabin bringing cornmeal and other staples. But by
spring of the following year Hertha's money was gone,
and the couple now came only to visit.

Hertha had known after the first week on the small
homestead that Emery would never work the place and
provide for her and Marna. She was unable to do a
man's work, and she could not sleep nights wondering
where to turn next Her path to survival came about in
a strange way.

One June morning, with Marna in one arm and a
basket on the other, she set out to pick the dewberries
that grew in thick clusters at the edge of the clearing.
Within a few yards of her porch, she stumbled and
almost fell over the body of a young Indian brave. She
gave a frightened cry and stepped back.

The red man lay inert, moaning softly. He wore
nothing but a loincloth, and her eyes fell instantly on
the bronze, muscular leg that was swelling rapidly. Setting Marna down, she knelt at the Indian's side. Peering
closely at his leg, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a snake slithering from sight beneath a
rotting log. "He's been bitten by a copperhead," she
whispered fearfully.

Swooping up the little girl, she ran swiftly to the
cabin. She placed Marna in the middle of the bed and
cautioned her to stay there. Jerking open a cabinet
door, she chose her sharpest knife, laid it in a pan of
water, and set the flames to boil. She reached on a high
shelf and brought down a pouch of herbs and roots and
powders. When the water bubbled, she mixed some
with the herbs and powder, forming a thick paste. Then
she gingerly lifted the knife from the water, folded
everything into a clean white cloth, and hurried outside.

Kneeling again beside the brave, she made two deep
slices across the tiny puncture marks that glared redly
on the dark skin. Thick, almost black blood spurted
upward, then ran freely. She let it flow a moment, letting the poison drain from his veins. Then, scooping up
a handful of the herb mixture, she spread it thickly over
the wound.

The spring sun shone brightly, beating down on the
young brave's face. She cut some branches from a
maple tree and erected a shade over his head. Hurrying
back to the cabin, she fetched a pan of cold water and
bathed the leg, which was burning to her touch.

Within an hour the swelling was going down and the
Indian had ceased his moaning. In the early afternoon
he opened his eyes, and Hertha was ready with a bowl
of squirrel broth.

At first the brave stared at her suspiciously, the
black, piercing eyes making her tremble. Then, as his
glance took in the plaster and his nose recognized the
aroma of familiar herbs, he relaxed and said, "Wolf
thanks white woman for saving his life."

"No need for thanks," Hertha answered, her voice
coming out in a tiny squeak.

She started to spoon the broth to him, but the red
man took the bowl from her and lifted it to his lips. He handed it back, empty, then wordlessly lay back down
and closed his eyes.

A couple of hours later, after Hertha had fed Marna
and milked the cow, she went to check on Wolf. Only
the bent grass where he had lain gave any proof that he
had been there.

Regularly after that, it was not unusual to find on her
porch a string of fish or a couple of fat squirrels, sometimes a brace of quail, and occasionally even a haunch
of deer. And, through the Indian, word of Hertha's
ability with herbs spread through the settlement and
countryside. At any hour, night or day, a knock would
come on the door, from someone seeking her help.

Hertha's involvement with nature's cures dated back
to her childhood in England. Her mother had been a
well-known apothecary, and through the years she had
meticulously passed on her knowledge of medicine to
her daughter. Each spring and fall she had insisted that
Hertha join her on forages into the forest. At an early
age the young daughter knew all the plants and roots
and what ailments they cured. When Hertha came to
the new country, she brought with her the thin, muchused book of recipes. Realizing now the need of medicine in the hills, she studied the book at every opportunity. In it she also entered and described many new
plants and roots that she learned about from the Indians.

Her mind became more at ease. At last she had the
means of providing a living for herself and Marna. She
seldom took money for her ministering, preferring instead that she be paid with meat and other foods, because money would be taken away from her and drunk
up at the tavern. She treated many hunters, however,
whose only way of paying was with money. Whenever
possible, she hoarded this money, keeping it safely
hidden from Emery's clutching fingers.

The years went by and Hertha roamed the wooded
hills in the summer, searching for the supplies she would cure and mix in the winter. The hill people loved
the strange, bent old woman and hated her evil husband
just as strongly. Emery had lost all sense of decency in
the passing years and was now tolerated only by his
drinking companions in the tavern.

It was Emery and his friends who had caused Hertha
to go looking for her granddaughter on this fine fall
day. No female was safe from them if she should be
caught out alone.

Hertha made her fourth trip onto the porch, staring
out toward the wilderness, an anxious look in her eyes.
Where was that child?

As Matt Barton rode through the darkening forest, he
kept his eyes roving. This country was new to him, and
supposedly the Indians were friendly. But in the part of
the wilderness he had left some time ago, the Indian
was the white man's enemy.

A yearning sadness came into his eyes. It would feel
strange not to have Grandpop with him this winter. As
far back as he could remember, the big, hearty man had
been at his side. As they had ranged the forests of
Pennsylvania and Massachusetts, his grandfather had
shared his knowledge of the wilderness with him.

They had never stayed long in one place. As soon as
a new settlement sprang up, the old man would remark,
"It's gettin' too crowded around here, boy. Time we
moved on."

Matt grinned. In his thirty-five years there must have
been twice as many campsites. A year was the longest
they had ever stayed in one place. He thought of the
many huts they had thrown together and the clay ovens
they had built.

His grin widened as he recalled the women who had
shared those hovels. Since infancy, when the first squaw
came to tend him after his parents' death, there had
been a long line of them. Every spring a new one came
to replace the old one. As a youngster growing up, he
would have thought it strange not to see a woman in his
grandfather's blankets. The thumping noise, as, the
hardy man drove away at some squaw or white whore,
was a peaceful lullaby to him.

When he was twelve or so, he became curious about what went on in the pile of blankets. From his bed of
furs in the corner, he took to watching the grandfather
and his woman. The naked female body would excite
him, and he'd feel himself grow hard and rigid.

One night when his grandfather had finished with his
bed partner of the season and was about to settle himself for sleep, his glance fell on his grandson. The taut,
tensely held body caught his attention immediately. He
reared back his head and roared with laughter.

"By all that's holy, only twelve seasons and already
you're hankerin' for a woman."

He sat up in bed and shook the sleeping form beside
him. "Wake up, gal. You ain't finished yet." He gave a
pleased laugh. "You're gonna be one busy female from
now on."

He grinned at Matt. "Come on, lad, shuck them
britches. The girl here will show you that thing stickin'
up between your legs has other functions besides takin'
a leak through."

Matt recalled that he had hurried out of his homespuns and his grandfather had given a low whistle, exclaiming proudly, "You're a Barton, all right. You're
already hung like a small pony."

He had stood up then, saying, "Lay right down here,
lad. Tonight you become a man."

After that winter they had built their huts a little
larger, to accommodate the extra woman that was
needed. The elder Barton had pointed out, "Us two
studs would wear one woman out."

When Matt reached seventeen, he was almost fullgrown. The tall, wide frame had only to fill out a bit.
Each spring, when they hit a post to sell off the winter's
catch, he was besieged with subtle offers of marriage.
Mothers with giggling daughters would swoop down,
inviting them into their homes. But Grandpop would
kindly refuse their offers, mentioning that they were in
a hurry this time but that they would be back in a
week.

They had many good laughs together, visualizing the
women planning excitedly for their return. Of course
they never went back. Grandpop would say, "Keep
away from them good ladies, Matt. They'll tie you to
one place and eventually take away your very soul. If
you should ever weaken to a point of wantin' a lifetime
mate, search for a wilderness gal. She will understand
you and make you a fit wife."

A ragged sigh escaped Matt. There would be no
more Grandpop to ward off females with marriage on
their minds. He wondered uneasily if he would be able
to keep them at bay by himself.

The old man had been dead three months now, killed
by an Indian's arrow. Matt had at first hung around
their camp, trying to carry on in the usual manner. But
the narrow quarters, with its sloping roof, had seemed
to crowd in on him. He had even lost his desire for the
two women and sent them away. He tried to pass the
time by hunting squirrel, but every trail and stream
reminded him of the old man. Finally, in desperation, he
decided to move on. He would travel to a territory that
would in no way resemble what he was used to gazing
upon.

Early one morning he gathered his traps and gear,
called the hound, Jawer, and struck off in a southwesterly direction. On the fourth day on the trail he
topped a hill and spotted a small post below. His supplies were low, and he lifted the reins, sending the stallion down the wooded slope.

After he had made his purchases and tied the bundle
to the bapk of the saddle, he made his way along a
stump-strewn path to a tavern several yards away. The
sun was hot, and a glass of ale would hit the spot. It
would also be good to hear a human voice again.

It was a weekday, and at first he thought the long,
dimly lit room was empty. But when his eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, he saw that he was not alone.
Off in a dark corner were six hunters sitting around a rough plank table. He grinned. From their loud laughter and slurred speech, he imagined they had been there
for some time.

His gaze went over them slowly. He knew two of
them well enough to speak to. The others he had seen
at some of the hunters' rendezvous. He wondered idly
what they were doing so far away from home at this
time of the year. The big hunt wouldn't start for at least
another three months.

He moved to the bar and ordered his ale. He was
half finished with it when one of the hunters spotted
him. The man called across the room in a friendly
fashion, "Howdy, Barton. What you doin' in these
parts?"

Matt picked up his mug and answered as he moved
to the table, "With the old man gone, I thought I'd
move deeper into the wilderness... go where it's not so
crowded."

The speaker slid over on the bench, making room for
Matt to sit down. Matt settled his long frame in the
empty space and nodded to the other men. Then, turning to the man sitting beside him, he inquired, "What
are you doing so far from home, Caleb? Gettin' an
early start on the hunt?"

Caleb's handsome face lit with a smile. "You might
say that. We're on our way to a place called Kentucky.
We hear tell the Indians are friendly there, and the
game plentiful. It's nearly hunted out back home."