The Prettiest Girl in the Land (The Traherns #3) (13 page)

Watch
for:   #8 Appaloosa Blues, coming in April 2013.

A short pioneer story by
Nancy Radke

(The Traherns Series)

I hitched my creaky old rocker out onto the wooden porch of my
old home and set a bit, watching the early summer sun fall down over the
Tennessee mountains. There was no one around to ask me to get them a bite to
eat, or for help, or for anything. I was all alone on the mountain.

Mallory Buchanan hadn’t been gone two days and already I missed
that gal. I missed the knowledge of her being there, just a few miles away on
the other side of the mountain. She should be almost in Kentucky, if she took
the most direct trail to Missouri.

Mally was the last of ‘em, God bless ‘er. With my husband,
Jacob, gone five years now, alive or dead I had no way of knowing, and all my
boys off to this war between the states or the western lands, I had a whole
mountain to myself. I was used to loneliness, but this here went a mite too
far.

“Well, Abigail Courtney, what you gonna do now?” My voice
sounded strange. I was used to talking to the animals, but not much to myself.

I had the rest of the summer to answer my question. I needed to
be off this mountain before winter, for I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t live
through another one. Last winter had just about done me in. Mally had come over
to help me drag in some firewood. Said she had thought about me, and wondered
how I was, so left off nursing her sick mother and come to see if I was still
kickin’.

The wood had froze to the ground, complements of an ice storm,
and we hacked at it until we had enough broke loose I could rebuild my fire. It
had gone out two days before, and I hadn’t been able to cook or keep warm. I had
finally decided I was going to have to pull down some of the barn siding, when
she came.

When Mally and her mom had been next door, we women would get
together to do the heavy lifting and hauling. Now they were gone. Although I
didn’t need them at the moment, I sure would later on. Should I even try to
keep farming through the summer? Sooner or later I was gonna have to leave.

The mountain farm had been my home ever since my man Jacob had
brought me here as a new bride, and tears watered my eyes at the thought of
leaving it. He’d built it strong to withstand the mountain storms. A strong
house for a strong man. It had stood against the storms for many years, but
things needed done to it that a woman couldn’t rightly do. There’d been a few
shingles blown off and the door didn’t quite close snug anymore, so the wind
howled as it passed through. Two windows needed repair, and a new post put on
the porch roof.

Also, I’d lived here so long, I figured the rest of the world
had passed me by whilst I was raising my brood. I had no idea what the world
was like, apart from the small settlements at the base of the mountains.

I had me a dilemma. I was too old to pick up and move out and
too young to stay. I was still in my forties. A woman needs a man, just as a
man needs a woman. But I was too old to put up with another man—and
didn’t want to—and too young to want to live alone any longer.

The breeze blowing past was cooler than before and I looked over
that way at some gathering clouds, black and billowing.

“Storm blowin’ up and you aint got yer pigs in. Or the cow
milked. Best rustle along and get things rounded up.”

Trouble was, I was tireder than a three-legged mule with the
field only halfway plowed. I’d been trying to cut fence poles with a dull axe.
When the raiders come last winter, one of them had relieved me of my whetstone.
There’s nothing more dangerous than a dull axe, for it tends to bounce rather
than cut. You had to swing it harder to dent the wood, and if it bounced onto
your leg, you landed yourself in a heap of trouble.

I had walked over to Mally’s old house yesterday and gathered a
few of the blankets she’d left. Mally had also left a sharp axe, along with a
good whetting stone, and I latched onto them like a tick onto a dog. First
thing this morning I’d taken that stone to my tools, sharpening my hoe, my
knife, my axe and my sickle. Then I’d whacked away at the trees with great
zeal, got several poles cut and blisters to show for them.

The cow bawled and I forced myself to move. I grabbed my bucket
with the big dent in it where she’d put her foot last week, and took it down to
where she was waiting impatiently.

Old Aggie was standing next to the milking station, ready to
have her grain while I milked.

“Too bad, old girl. There aint any more.” I had some, but I
needed it for seed.

I wiped her udder down with an old rag, straightened up the
one-legged milking stool, put the bucket between my knees and commenced to
milk.

I put my head in her flank while I watched the milk shoot into
the bucket, a hard shot of milk with each squeeze. Squirt, squirt, squirt,
squirt. The rhythm was always soothing. I did my best thinking, milking cows.

 Jacob used to give our cats milk, a squirt to their open
mouths. I had never perfected the art. Also, our cats were all gone, probably
eaten by the wolves. Even our ole hound dog, the one Jacob had trained, had
passed away last fall.

I missed that dog. He was a good hunter. Jacob would take him
out and bring back meat every time. Sometimes ducks. Sometimes deer. With Jacob
gone, that dog would still go out and bring me back a quail or a duck. He’d
just hunt on his own. I never had to feed him.

I had hid Old Aggie all during the war, taking her down into a
hidden root cellar and staying with her while the raiders passed through. I’d
hear ‘em comin’ and have just enough time to grab Aggie’s collar and hurry her
over to the cellar. They’d stole my chickens and ridden over my young corn. Of
the rest of the animals, only the pigs survived, hiding in the tangled brush as
pigs know how to do. I didn’t even have a gun to defend myself if they’d have
found me.

I’d been living on Aggie’s milk for many days now. I had no
mule, but I wondered if maybe I could get her to pull a plow, just enough to
put in the last of my seed grain that I’d refused to eat. I had been able to
train her pretty quick to lead with that collar, which was just a strap around
her neck.

This farm needed a man. Mine had all skedaddled. You’d think a
woman who had raised five strapping boys would have had at least one stay to
help her. But they wouldn’t stay. Each had gotten bit by the wandering bug, and
when the restlessness was too great, they’d pack a kit, promise to come back,
and vanish down the trail. The first two had left within a month of Jacob’s
leaving, and later that year, when Paralee turned sixteen, he took off too.

I stripped the last milk out onto the ground, picked up my
bucket and kicked the milk stool over by the gate.

The bucket was only half full, but it would supply my wants.
Aggie trotted out into the pasture, and like all cows, promptly put her head
through the fence to check out the grass on the other side. I’d been repairing
that fence, and she seemed to be able to find the weak spots and work on it
until she pushed it down again.

I’d gotten most of the poles put back up, but needed some new
posts. Until then, I really didn’t have a way to keep her inside, except she
wasn’t much to wander far. But I had to have a fence up before I put in any
crops, because she would eat them right down to the nubbin.

I took the milk back to the house, poured it through a cloth
into a bowl, covered it with another cloth and put it in the cooler. Jacob had
made the cooler by running a hollow log from our spring so that water would
drip over a tin container he’d bought from some ship that was being outfitted
in Norfolk. He was always so good with his hands. The water kept the sides
cool. I loved that cooler, especially during the summer. Everything stayed
fresh.

Then I went back to the pasture to get Aggie and the pigs. Aggie
walked into the barn with no trouble, but the pigs didn’t want to go in,
ducking and dodging until I finally just closed the barn door and hoped those
pigs would have enough sense to take shelter when the storm hit.

I pulled my rocker inside and shoved my shoulder against the
cabin door just as the storm front hit, slamming into the side of the hill like
it was trying to wallop me one. I barely got the bar dropped. It brought heavy
rain with it, and I prayed that Mally was off the mountain where she was
supposed to be.

The chill entered the room something fierce, and I built me a
fire, small, but it gave off some heat and I put the kettle on to fix me some
coffee. Once I was the only one cutting and splitting the firewood, I wasn’t so
generous with the size of the fires. Putting on a coat was easier than cutting
down a tree.

I’d had to cut up some of my fence poles for firewood during the
deep snow. I’d need to cut wood all summer long to have enough to last the
winter again. How was I to do that and also tend a crop?

If I left here and went down into the settlements, what would I
do? With the war over, there would only be widows there, a few broken soldiers,
and ruined farms. The war hadn’t landed lightly on the South.

That night I read my Bible as I always did, hoping for comfort.
And I prayed for guidance. I surely needed it. I was afraid if I left, and the
boys come looking, they wouldn’t be able to find me.

The next morning I milked Aggie, then decided to go down the
mountain to see who had survived and if there were anyway I could wrangle help
for myself. I was looking for an old man, or some youngster who had been too
young for the war, who could come up when I needed plowing done. Just how I’d
pay for the help, I had no way of knowin, but a person didn’t know until they
asked.

‘Bout then the pigs showed up. They’d probably burrowed in the
bush when the storm went by. I looked at them and realized that, if nothing
else, I could trade a pig for work done.

Before going down to the settlement, I put on my best dress. My
work dress had so many holes in it, patched over, that it resembled the
patchwork quilt I’d taken apart to mend it with.

The settlement down in the closest holler was gone, the tiny
store burned to the ground and the house with it. The other three houses were
empty and you could tell no one had lived in them for awhile. I walked around
and called, but no one answered. I could walk on to the next village, somewhat
larger, but I’d have to hurry. It was almost noon and I needed to get back to
milk Aggie tonight.

The road between the two wasn’t as rough as my mountain path,
and I walked as fast as I could, forcing myself to cover the distance. Twenty
miles. I was probably on a fool’s errand.

From the ridge above I could see no movement and just about
didn’t go down. Then a whip of smoke rose—or was it fog?

There it came again, steady enough that it held the promise of a
fire. And people.

I ran down into the holler looking for the source and finding a
small cabin. It looked like it had been set on fire once, but the people who
lived there had put it out, so only a smidgin was burnt.

“Hello, the house!” I called, walking up to it.

My long time friend, Jessica, stepped out, saw me and squealed.
She was always thin as a fence post, and was even more so now. “Abigail!” She
ran to me and we hugged. I hadn’t been down the mountain since fall, it being
the war and all. It was a time to stay close to home.

“We thought you were dead,” she said.

“I will be if’n I have to work that farm alone. You got any help
extra here with you?”

“Not really. Jest my husband, Simon. He’s out in the barn. He’s
only got one hand, Abigail.”

“I remember. That’s why he didn’t go to war. You had you a
boy—”

She shook her head. “The Battle of Nashville. He was in Hood’s army.
I got his hat back and some of his letters, but he was amongst the first killed
there. Your boys?”

I shook my head. “I’ve no idea. I aint seed hide nor hair of ‘em
for three-four years.”

“Come in and rest.”

“Cain’t. Got to go home and milk Aggie. I came to see who was
left. I don’t reckon I kin work that farm by myself. Was hoping I could hire
someone to come help me now and then. I got me a pig I’d trade.”

“You live up next to ol’ stone face don’t cha? The one that
looks like a man with a beard?”

“Yes’m.”

“I’ll ask Simon if he kin go up once in a while. That’s a fur
piece to walk and still have time to put in a day’s work. The men are still
coming back, Abigail. Maybe one of them boys of yourn will return.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not bettin’ on it.”

“I thought the Buchanans lived the other side of you.”

I told her how the missus Buchanan got sick and just gave up on
life, and when the mister got home and she died soon after, he shot himself. I
said how Mally had left once her folks were gone. “Mally was a good shot. Me, I
let the boys do all the shooting. I can’t hit the broad side of a barn when
it’s sitting in front of the barrel. So I cain’t hunt for food.”

“Have you tried trapping?”