The Homesman (8 page)

She moved a step closer, into the shade of the tree, considering what to do, and then, as though suspended herself, was dropped down, down, by an idea.

“Suppose I do,” she said. “Suppose I save your life. What will you do for me?”

His eyes opened. “Any. Thing.”

The more she thought, the more possible it seemed, and the more it seemed she had no choice.

“If I set you free, you'll do anything I ask. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So you say. Swear it.”

“Swear.”

“Swear to Almighty God.”

“Swear to God.”

She stood a minute more, shaken by the risk, angry that she had no alternative. “All right,” she said. “I'll save you. I have a job of work for you. But if you make one move to harm me, I'll shoot you.”

It was said. She circled him to the sycamore trunk, stood rifle against it, slipped the knot, and unwound the rope. At the release, the jumper's chin dropped. She moved out from the tree and eased the rope down from the fork until it was free and on the ground. She approached horse and rider, and squatting, rifle propped against her, untied his ankles, then rose and untied his wrists, then backed off quickly, rifle up.

“Take off the noose,” she said.

He raised one arm, and the other, awkwardly, as though it pained his joints, and fumbled at the noose until he could lift it over his head and let it slide. His horse had not moved. Next he tried to dismount, but raising his right leg unbalanced him and he toppled off the horse and crashed into the snow and lay as though unconscious. She waited. After a bit, still on his back, he moved arms and legs up, down, and sideways to restore circulation, and when he had, dragged himself onto his knees and with a hand on the horse's flank helped himself to his feet and stood turning his head to get the kinks out of his neck.

Mary Bee watched him like a hawk.

He did a strange thing. He coiled the rope. Either he was not a man to waste good rope or he wanted this as a memento.

“Need to go house,” he said hoarsely, hanging the coil over a forearm. “Find some things.”

“Go,” she said.

“Get your wagon,” he said.

She frowned but started out and around the tree and after only a few steps heard him. He was passing water on the sycamore trunk. Either he had to or he wanted to show contempt.

By the time she got up on the wagon, rifle on the seat beside her, and had the mules moving again, he was leading his horse by the halter up the narrowing ravine, plodding barefoot through the snow. Twice he stopped to have a coughing fit and blow his nose with his fingers, a man's habit she hated, that and spitting. When they reached Andy's place he led his horse on into the stable, presumably to give it a feed, then returned to the ruined dugout. She sat on the wagon waiting, rifle across her lap, and watched him hunt around beyond the half-wall of sod for whatever useful he could find. She couldn't believe herself. What in sin and salvation had Mary Bee Cuddy gone and done? What did an oath sworn on a stack of Bibles mean to a claim-jumper? Only the Lord knew how many other kinds of criminal he was. Would he rape her or kill her or both? Or simply leave her with a laugh? What might he do when she had to tell him, eventually, where they were going and why? Should she whip the mules away, now, and pay alone, on the trail, the price of her idiocy? The sun passed beyond the western rim of the ravine and she sat in shadow, shivering.

He came out of the dugout dressed, his face as smudged as ever. He had found a slouch hat, boots, a ragged red scarf to sling around his neck, a coat of cowhide worn in places down to the leather, and something in each hand. He came toward the wagon, dropping what appeared to be a tin of sardines into a pocket, and then, opening his coat, shoved under his belt a big repeating pistol with a blackened wooden grip.

“You can put away the rifle,” he said. “I can blow you off that seat anytime I'm a mind to. What kind of rig is this?”

“A frame wagon. For passengers.”

He turned and walked away to the stable and returned leading his horse, saddled, and slung the coil of rope on top of the wagon, then mounted up and looked straight at Mary Bee. He had eyes as brown and bottomless as ponds in a marsh.

“Well?” he said.

“We'll go to my place. Is your name Briggs?”

“Might be.”

“We'll stay the night there and set out first thing in the morning.”

“You said a job of work.”

“I'll tell you when I'm a mind to.”

•   •   •

If she did once, she looked back over her shoulder twenty times to see if he was still there, following, riding that rat-tailed roan, and every time, he was.

When they topped the rise to her place she told Briggs to unhitch the mules and stable and feed them, and also her mare and his horse, and also see to her other stock.

He sat his horse and stared at her. She might as well have been talking Hottentot. She knew a loner when she met one. Of course a loner wouldn't understand an order, or even a suggestion, but what was exasperating, he had never heard of cooperation either. Such a man lived by himself on the globe and believed it turned for his comfort and convenience. She jumped down.

“Or if you don't care to, I will,” she said. “And then your supper'll be an hour late.”

She took her rifle and went on into the house, and from a window watched him unhitching the mules. When he led them to the stable, she went to the outhouse. By the time he came back for the other animals, she was busy at the stove. When, later, his chores done, he started toward the house, she met him at the door, barring his way with soap, basin, and a towel. He washed, but triumphed—he went to the outhouse after washing rather than before. Entering the kitchen, he handed her basin and towel ceremoniously, and took off scarf and cowcoat to reveal a black, rusty suitcoat ripped at one sleeve and two sizes too big for him. This he left on, as though he were dining formally, and pulling the pistol from his belt and placing it on the table, he sat down, ready to be served.

She gave him a decent supper: fried salt pork, green beans she had grown and dried, corn bread and sorghum, and coffee, which he sipped repeatedly to convince himself it was real, then gulped down and pushed his cup at her for more. He wolfed his food. He had abominable manners, using only his knife and fingers, spilling beans on the floor and eating them anyway, and when his plate was empty, and he had sopped it with bread and eaten that, he tilted onto the back legs of her good chair and belched.

It was darkening. She lit a candle and finished her own meal while the jumper appraised the furnishings of her house.

“This job of work,” he said as she put down her cutlery. “Time I knew what I'm in for.”

“I'd be grateful,” she said, “if you'd not use my good chair that way.”

He let the front legs down with a thud and planted elbows on the table. “Well?”

“My name is Cuddy. Mary Bee Cuddy.”

“Where's Cuddy?”

“I am single.”

He discovered something between his teeth, dislodged it with a fingernail, decided it was edible, and added it to his supper. “The job.”

“Very well. Over this winter, four women, wives, in the neighborhood have lost their minds. Their husbands can't care for them properly. They must be taken to Iowa, where some church people will take them on to their families. It—it's a very sad situation. They were fine women, they still are. It's just that, well.” She reproved herself with a frown. “Well, anyway, I offered to take them across the river. The husbands went in together and provided me with the mules, the frame wagon, and supplies for the trip. I plan to start in the morning.”

“You saying the Missouri?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Hell, that's five weeks from here.”

“Mr. Briggs, I am as particular of my ears as I am of my chairs. This is my house, and I will not sit still for profanity in it.”

“Hell.”

“When I sit at your table, you may turn the air blue if you wish. But not at mine.”

“I can see why you're single.”

Had she been a man, Mary Bee would have thrown him bodily out the door. And his clothing after him. And his gun.

“To continue,” she said, “I know I can't do this service by myself. Not and care for the women, too. I must have someone who can guide, and hunt, and spell me at the reins, and help me with the animals. That's why I set you free. That's your job. And you have sworn to do it.”

She waited. She fixed her gaze on his big repeater, and on the walnut grip, which had been so badly singed by the explosion that it must blacken his hand every time he touched it.

“Five weeks,” he said. “Four crazy women. A lot more'n I bargained for.”

“But worth your life, surely.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what comes along.”

“I see. That's another thing. I will have to depend on you, and so will the women. If you have any intention of abandoning us somewhere on the trail, I want to hear it now. You are a man of low character, Mr. Briggs. If you've lied to me, tell me now, before it's too late.”

Briggs regarded her. For a moment she feared she had gone too far. But if she had insulted him, he would deny her any satisfaction from it. She recalled his passing water on the sycamore tree as a sign of contempt. He regarded her now with a look which had in it elements both of that contempt and of indifference. He was a man in control. He feared nothing, even words. And the source of his strength was his ignorance. Finally he got to his feet, slowly, took his weapon from the table, and belted it. “Thanks for the kind words, Sister,” he said. “You are no prize yourself, though. You are plain as an old tin pail and you have got a viper in your mouth.” He slung his scarf and cowcoat over a shoulder. “This is the most tomfool traipse I ever heard of—and a lot more'n you can swing alone.” He placed his slouch hat on his head at a slight, almost comic, angle. “But you sleep easy. I'll set out with you because I said I would. Might as well—I'd be on the run around here anyhow. And I'll look out for your cuckoo clocks the best I'm able. However, I will up and leave when, where, and if I please. Now, if you don't mind my asking, where's my goddam bed?”

Mary Bee sprang up, face burning, marched into her bedroom, tore a blanket from the bed, marched back, and pushed it at him.

“Your bed's in the stable,” she snapped. “Goodnight and good riddance!”

He accepted the blanket, turned, eased himself out the door, then kicked it shut with a thud.

She heated water and did the dishes. Then, hoping he had been to the outhouse, she went to it herself, worrying every step there and back.

At last she had an opportunity to read the letter from her sister she had picked up in Loup that morning. Dorothy was well, as were Harold, her doctor-husband, and Adam, their six-year-old, and guess what, she was expecting again!

A hard tap at a window and Mary Bee fairly jumped out of her skin. She took the candle over and it was Briggs, of course, wanting in. The night was cold, he shouted, and he had the catarrh bad. She said no, absolutely not.

He replied he was coming in anyway. She must have a bed in the loft.

She took up the rifle and threatened to shoot him if he entered.

He entered, blanket about him, and climbed the ladder to the loft while she stood, finger on trigger, like a complete ninny.

Her situation, as she saw it now, was desperate. Not only was he a fearless man, he was a brazen. He had called her bluff, and safely could again. If she shot and killed him, he couldn't help her; if she didn't, he could help himself—to whatever he desired. Big and strong she might be, as tall as he, but she would be no match for him in the end. She fled into her bed fully clothed, candle near, rifle at her side and pointed at the doorway. She dared not close her eyes. And sure enough, in the wee hours, she heard the ladder creak. The wolf on the fold. She sat up and aimed the gun.

“What're you doing?” she cried out.

He came to the doorway.

“Going out to pee!” he hissed.

After he had done so, outside her front door no doubt, and climbed back into the loft, she was so humiliated that she fell asleep, and when she woke it was light and he was descending the ladder and closing the outside door.

She made flapjacks for breakfast, or as some called them, “suckeyes.” Occasionally she watched the jumper through the window. After chores he filled from her well the wagon water keg, then moved back and forth bringing various items from the stable and stowing them in the box under the front seat. She called him in, and when he was seated at the table she set a stack before him. He drenched it with molasses. She brought her own stack.

“The sleeve of your coat's torn,” she said, declaring a truce. “Would you like it mended?”

He shook his head.

“What were you putting in the wagon?”

“Hammer. Nails. Shovel. Ax. Stakes. So forth.” His mouth was full. She had to reach for the molasses. “This morning?”

“Yes. We'll stop in Loup first.”

That stopped his fork.

“Why?”

“I have an idea. You said last night you'd leave us whenever you please. I can't have that. So I've thought of a way to keep you with us to the Missouri. To make the job worth your while.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you in Loup.”

“Then where?”

She went to the stove and poured the last of her batter. “I have it mapped in my mind. You should know their names. Mrs. Petzke, Mrs. Sours, Mrs. Svendsen, and Mrs. Belknap. We'll pick them up in that order, two today, two tomorrow—they live far apart. Can you eat another flapjack?”

He nodded.

She brought his plate, served him, filled his cup and her own, and sat down again.

“I think you should know something about our four passengers,” she said. “I'll start with Theoline Belknap, my nearest neighbor to the west and a dear friend. Let me tell you what happened.” She sipped coffee. “A couple of weeks ago, during a blizzard, Theoline had a baby girl. She is forty-three. It was her sixth child. Her husband was in town and she gave birth without help. She then took the baby to the outhouse and put it down the hole. Her husband found it later, dead. Now she is completely out of her mind. She can't speak or feed herself.”