The Reaper's Song (46 page)

“Man, he’s a beaut,” Manda breathed.

“Stay out of his way!”

“What’s got into you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You got a burr under yer saddle or some ’at?” She planted her hands on her hips, ready to take on the world. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Just get out of the way.” Zeb spoke from between clenched teeth.

Manda backed up, then followed a few paces behind as Zeb led the stallion into a box stall. “I put in hay and water. You want me to get oats?”

No answer.

She raised her voice. “I put—”

“I . . . heard . . . you!” Each word made a separate statement.

“Katy and Deborah are over to Bjorklunds. We din’t expect you back so soon.”

A grunt was his only response.

“A man came lookin’ to buy a team.” She waited. Nothing. “I told him to come back in ten years.”

Still nothing.

She stepped closer and looked over the door to the box stall. Zeb slumped with his forehead resting on the arched neck of the bay stallion.

Manda tiptoed out of the barn. “Somethin’s really wrong,” she whispered to the sandy-haired dog who whimpered at her side. “I sure wish I knew what it was.” She sank down in the shade of the barn and hugged the dog to her.

“Manda?”

“Here.” She left off petting the dog and stood.

“How about going after Katy?”

“She’ll be back before dark.”

“Well, you could go over there and tell her I’m home.”

“I s’pose.”

“Take your horse.”

“A’course.” She looked at him carefully. “You look sick.”

“Just do as I ask, please.”

“All right, but Katy’s gonna be right disappointed you don’t come too.”

Keeping himself upright with every bit of strength he could muster, he walked off to the house. In a few minutes he heard Manda’s horse loping out of the yard.

Hurry! While his mind gave the right orders, his body refused to function at any more than a step at a time. He gathered food, his rifle, a change of clothes, and rolled them in his quilt.
Get out of here before Lubelle comes.
Like an army drummer leading the troops, his brain ticked away.
Get out. Get out.

Need shells.
He groaned when he took down the tin that held his ammunition.

He laid the letter he’d written the night before on the table as his last act of blessing.

Saddling his horse brought the sweat already beading his forehead into running rivulets, like spring freshets in the mountains. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and only if he squinted could he narrow his vision to one horse, not two.

He finally led Buster to a bench, and with one arm clenched to keep his side from erupting, he struggled into the saddle. He put his horse at a dead run to put as much distance as possible between him and home before Katy returned. He headed due north, not west as he’d said in the letter.

“Maybe he rode over to talk with Haakan.” Manda sneaked a peek at the hooks where Zeb had hung his rifle. The wall looked naked without the gun in place.

Katy followed Manda’s gaze. “Now what would he want with his rifle?”

“Maybe he went hunting. We need some meat.”

“Let’s just go about our chores. We’ll give him what for when he gets back, you can count on that.” Katy set to bustling around the kitchen, frying bacon and plopping eggs in the snapping grease.

“Ow!” She drew back and wiped the spatter off on her apron. Tears came to her eyes and she dashed them away.

Manda knew the tears weren’t for the burn on her hand. Right about now she could cheerfully whup Mister Zebulun MacCallister with his own leather reins. What had got into that man? She wandered into Katy and Zeb’s bedroom. The envelope propped against the pillow caught her attention immediately. She snatched it up and ran back into the kitchen.

“Katy, read this!”

“Now what?” Katy turned from her cooking. “Oh, Lord in heaven, what has that man gone and done now?” She pushed the frying pan to the cool side of the stove and, taking the letter, sank onto one of the benches. Fingers trembling, she opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper.

Dear Katy, Manda, and Deborah,

First of all, know that I love you all with a love that only God can give, and that is why I have to leave. Many times I have wanted to tell you what sent me from home to the west. I shot a neighbor. No matter that it was self-defense, we figured the only way out was for me to leave home. I did, and finally found another home with you, and this one is far harder to leave.

But the family of the man I shot is still after me. I met up with one of them in Cincinnati, and she shot me. It is only a flesh wound, but I cannot have them coming for you, so I am heading farther west. May our God keep you safe in His loving arms. Maybe someday I can come home again, but do not wait for me. Go on with your life with my blessing. I love you far too much to keep you from whatever happiness is in store for you.

Your loving husband and father, Zebulun MacCallister

“So that’s why he looked so peaked,” Manda said, rubbing the inside of her cheek with the tip of her tongue. “He looked right bad.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Katy grabbed her arm. “Manda!”

“’Cause he said to get on over there and get you and so I did. Never thought he’d leave.” Manda choked on the last word. “I’m sorry, Katy.” She struggled against the tears, her body rigid with the effort.

Katy put an arm around Manda’s waist and drew her close.
“Manda dear, this isn’t your fault. You can’t take care of the whole world.”

“But, but if’n I—” The tears came in earnest. She buried her face in Katy’s shoulder.

“If’n nothing. Zeb made this choice, and now we have to deal with that.” Katy bit back her own tears. Right now there was no place she would rather be than held by
her
mor as she was holding Manda.

Guess this means you’re all grown up, my girl
. While she still struggled with speaking English, all her thoughts played out in Norwegian. “Uff da!” One minute she wanted to strangle the man and the next her heart broke for want of him.
He must be sore afraid. But he’s afraid for me and the girls too. Letter said so. What kind of people are there who . . .
But she knew what kind. Norwegians could seek a vendetta too. Like the Book said, the sins of the fathers are visited unto the third and fourth generation.

Father God, help! I don’t even know how to pray. Help us. Please help us.
The “please” continued as she hugged Manda again and got to her feet. “Come, saddle our horses. We have some serious riding to do.”

“What? What are we gonna do?” Manda snagged both of their hats off the pegs by the door.

“We’re going after him, that’s what. If he’s as sick as you thought, he won’t get far.”

“How will you track him? You know how to do that?”

“No, but Metiz and Baptiste do.” She slammed the door behind them.

They rode into the yard at Ingeborg’s at a dead gallop.

As soon as she told the story, Ingeborg sent Thorliff to saddle horses and sent Baptiste for his grandmere. “The men are all at Baards’ harvesting.”

“That’s okay. We don’t need them. Manda, you stay here and watch out for Deborah.” She hugged the smaller girl to her. “We’ll be home soon as we can, so you stay here with Andrew, as you did today.” She ticked things off on her fingers. “You’ll need to go home, though, and care for the livestock. Ingeborg, can I take some things from your medicinals? He said he’d been shot, so I’ll need bandages and whatever else you think.”

“Of course.” Ingeborg gathered up what she knew to be necessary, including a small kettle, and filled a canvas pouch with them. Another bag she filled with meat, cheese, and bread. “Andrew, get a
jug of water from the well.” She looked up.

Metiz trotted up the steps and into the house. “Me ready.”

“Metiz, you have a flint along?”

The old woman nodded. “And simples.”

“Inge, will you tell my mor what is happening when she comes back from Penny’s?”

“Ja, I will.” Ingeborg took a woolen blanket off the bed and wrapped everything in it. She handed it to Katy. “Go with God.”

“He always go with us.” Metiz slung her bags over her shoulder.

“The horses are ready,” Baptiste called from outside.

Within seconds the three were mounted and loping down the road. When they reached the horse farm, they circled, looking for tracks.

“Trail easy to see.” Metiz pointed to hoofprints spaced far apart, with dirt thrown up at the road. “He riding hard. North, not west like he say.”

They crossed the ford on the Park River, near its confluence with the Red River, and continued north along the banks of the Red River. With the sun sinking beyond the horizon and setting the world and clouds on fire, Katy continued her prayers.
Help us! Help us!
kept time with the pounding hooves and with her heartbeat.

Was he still alive? They hadn’t come across a body yet. If he was going to Canada, due north was the easiest track. And while she could no longer see hoofprints in the growing darkness, Metiz seemed positive they were on the right track.

Stars sprinkled the heavens when they heard a horse whinny. Katy’s horse answered.

“That’s Zeb’s horse. These two became fast friends.” Katy pulled her mount to a halt.

“Zeb! Where are you?”

Only the wind rustling the cottonwood leaves along the bank of the Red River answered.

Katy called again. This time a horse answered. They followed the sound.

Even in the dark, the horse looked darker, standing under the arms of a huge oak. Buster nickered, the sound friendly in the night. He bent his head and nosed the body lying at his feet.

Katy hit the ground before her horse stopped.
God, don’t let him be dead. Please.
She knelt at his side and took his hand. Still warm. Touched the side of his neck and felt a pulse.

“He’s alive.”

Metiz knelt beside her. “Not his fault.”

Baptiste tethered the horses and joined them. “How bad is he?”

“Some bad.” Metiz listened to Zeb’s chest and felt his head. “Hot.” She turned to her grandson. “Dig hole for fire.” To Katy. “Make him drink.” Getting to her feet, she brought the canteen from the horse, along with her bags. Handing the water to Katy, she muttered, “I get wood. More water.”

She returned quickly and poured water from a deerskin pouch, soaking Zeb’s shirt and pants. “Cool him.”

Katy brushed the mosquitoes away and put an arm under Zeb’s neck. “Come on, Zebulun MacCallister, you got to drink. And don’t you go dying on me, you hear?” When he moaned in response, she put the canteen to his mouth and trickled a bit of water over his lips. When he licked it away, she did the same again. “If you’d open your mouth, you stubborn thing, you could drink better. Metiz says you got to drink a whole lot.”

He did as told without opening his eyes.

In a few minutes Metiz and Baptiste had a small fire crackling in a shallow hole. Baptiste used a branch to clear the brush and dried grass away from the fire pit. At the same time he fed small sticks to the growing flame.

In the flickering light, Metiz knelt beside Zeb again. She slit his shirt with the tip of her knife and peeled it back. The blood-crusted bandage stunk. Gently she cut the bandage in half and let Katy peel that back. “Bring lighted stick.”

Baptiste pulled a burning brand from the fire and held it for them to see better.

“Bad.”

“What will you do?”

“Burn with knife.”

“Oh.” Katy swallowed hard. She leaned back to get a breath of clean air. “Will that be enough?”

“Great Spirit knows.” Metiz set the end of the knife in the hottest part of the fire. Baptiste already had water near to boiling in the kettle. “You wash him.”

Katy took the hard lump of soap and a rag from the pouch, dipped them in the hot water, and worked up a lather. She sponged gently at the edges of the wound until she realized Zeb was still unconscious. Then she scrubbed harder, keeping herself from gagging at the smell only by superhuman will.

“Hold him.” Metiz beckoned to both Katy and Baptiste. The boy
took one arm and, crossing it over the man’s chest, clung to them both. Katy sat on his feet.

Metiz looked skyward, murmured something unintelligible, and applied the flat side of the knife to the wound. The flesh sizzled. Zeb shrieked and bucked against the pain.

Baptiste lay across his belly. Katy picked herself up from the pummeled grass and took hold of his boots again. Her arm pounded where he had kicked her.

Metiz held the knife back in the fire.

Crickets sang their song of summer. Mosquitoes swarmed, their whine loud in Katy’s ears. “Again?” She knew the answer before she asked.

This time both she and Baptiste were better prepared. But this time Zeb screamed in agony. Tears streamed down her face, dropping on his pants leg.

Metiz sniffed the wound before answering.

When the old woman shook her, Katy collapsed across Zeb’s lower body but only for a moment. “What do you need me to do?” She pushed herself to her knees.