She began squeaking, no doubt expecting to be rewarded with food, and when she was not, she started to scurry away. I clicked my tongue as LaFarge had done to call her back, but the sound was so stifled by my gag that I doubted she could hear it. When she jumped off the tabletop, I was sure I would never see her again, but in the next moment I felt her scampering up my pant leg. She perched on my knee as I continued to make a clicking sound, tilting her head from side to side as though to get the measure of me. I must have passed muster, for she proceeded to tiptoe up my torso and perch on the ledge of my shoulder. She took in the view from there for a time, then curled herself up against my neck. There she stayed. I assume she fell asleep.
Giving peace and comfort to another creature made me feel less helpless. Told myself that I would somehow find a way out of my woeful predicament, being far too young and hearty to die. Such optimism dimmed considerably when I recalled the Negro called Caleb lying at the base of Devil's Perch. He too had been young and robust, yet his life had been snuffed out prematurely by the same brute who was now coming to murder me. How it galled me that a man I so scorned would end my existence.
Could not allow that ugly notion to take hold of my mind. To blot it out, I conjured up the most lovely images I couldâthe Tuttle apple orchard in bloom, a trout's stippled flank, swallows dipping over waving hay. Then I saw before my eyes the most lovely image of allâJulia Bell. Recalled every detail I could of her face and form, from the sweep of her lashes to the graceful movements of her limbs. Reviewed every expression I had observed upon her mobile countenance these last few weeks, especially the upward tilt of her mouth when I made her smile.
Next I began to envision what I had never seen of Juliaâher unclothed body. Reveries of conjugal intimacy between us followed. Could not control such imaginings. Nor did I want to. Their compelling vividness made me consider the possibility that we had experienced such intimacies many times before, in a hundred or a thousand lives we had shared going as far back as the Egyptians and even farther, to a time when we twined together under thick mastodon robes by a fire in a cave. These were just fancies, not actual remembrances, and I did not come to believe in Reincarnation during my long wait in the cellar. But I did arrive at a greater certainty of conviction that Julia and I were meant to spend this present life on earth together. Pledged there and then to marry my cousin, despite the Walker curse, if I survived this ordeal.
Began to twist against my bonds with renewed energy. The only result my strenuous efforts produced was pain as the rope cut ever deeper into my flesh. Even more painful was the dawning realization that I would never see Julia again, much less have her as my wife. My poor soaring heart came crashing down. The mouse, disturbed by my futile gyrations, skittered off my shoulder, down my body, and into the darkness beyond the small pool of lamplight. All I had left was the light.
And then I didn't. It seemed I merely blinked, but I must have dozed, for the next time I opened my eyes all was darkness. It covered me like a suffocating shroud, and my breaths came short and shallow. Because my limbs were bound so tightly, my entire body had grown numb, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of my own heart. As time passed sensory deprivation caused me to lose all sense of my own selfhood, and I felt that my very soul had been cast into oblivion. Despair overwhelmed me. I hung my head and gave myself up to it. Never had I experienced such an anguished state. To lose hope is to lose everything.
But suddenly I felt a presence penetrate the blackness. As it came toward me, a sweet, familiar scent infused the musty cellar atmosphere. 'Twas the scent of honey. The gentle touch of a hand on my cheek convinced me that this unseen yet deeply felt presence was my dear, departed mother.
“
All shall be well
,” she communed to me.
“But how can that be so, Mother?” I silently responded. “I am going to die soon!”
“
All shall be well,”
she again communed.
From whence had she come to deliver this simple message to me? From heaven, from another time and place, from my own imaginings? It did not matter. What mattered was that I believed what she told me. All
would
be well in the end, even if I should die most miserably, for my soul could never be hurt or destroyed. The moment I acknowledged this everlasting truth, I felt my mother's spirit depart and my own spirit return full force. I no longer despaired. I merely waited.
Did not know if it was night or day when I heard the object over the trapdoor being slid aside. A square of light appeared when the door was raised, and I could not help but welcome the sight of it even though I knew my death could soon follow. Heard heavy boots descending. Then saw a swaying lantern. Before I saw the man who carried it, I knew for sure it was Badger. I could smell him.
He ignored me at first and went about the cellar lighting lamps, a little smile on his bristly, rough-hewn countenance. “There. Ain't that better?” he said, finally turning his full attention to me. “Got to see what I'm doing, don't I?” His gravelly voice expressed a devilish glee. “If I'm not careful with my sport I just might knock out your brains too quick. Got to show some restraint. That's the word the captain used to caution me more than once. Restraint. Well, never did get the hang of that, but I do intend to try. Why cut short my fun?”
But before he could begin his fun, the tail-less mouse distracted him. Scampering onto the table again, she began squeaking at this new visitor to her domain, expecting a treat, no doubt. Poor, trusting creature. Badger snaked out his thick hand, grabbed her in his fist, and laughing with delight over his own speed and nimbleness, he yanked off her head. He threw it at me, and as it bounced off my cheek I felt a trickle of warm blood slide down my cheek like a teardrop. Then Badger slapped my face so hard he near wrenched my jaw off its sockets.
“That's for making me look a fool at town ball,” he said. His next slap was even harder. “And that's for stopping my fun with that little trick of a farm girl.” He struck again, an open hand to my ear that almost split my eardrum. “That's pay back for the lucky clout you gave me in the sugar shed.” He then hammered a fist into my stomach so deep it felt like his knuckles drove clear back to my spine. “That's for keeping me from killing the Injun.” He paused as if reviewing his list of grievances against me. “And here's for calling me a liar at the tavern.” He punched my stomach again. Bile rose up my throat, and I prayed I would not choke on it. Even knowing more pain lay ahead for me, I did not want to die quite yet.
He stepped back toward the stairs to study his handiwork, and I saw he was full of joy, his smile now wide across his face. “How I do so like to hit a man,” he needlessly declared. “But we's just started.Yes, we have.”
He proceeded to extract his bowie knife from his boot, and fear raced through me like an inferno, igniting every cell in my body. He saw the panic in my eyes and snickered. I told myself that I must not be afraid or it would go worse for me.
All shall be well in the end
.
At that moment I saw an apparition descend from above and silently inch its way down the stairs. But this was not my mother's spirit returning. This was the figure of a man. Was I hallucinating? Or was I actually staring at Trump the Indian? How could that be? Trump was locked up in the Powder House back in Plumford. Or had he died and become a specter? Gaunt, shrouded in torn, filthy raiment, his dirt-caked face a rigid mask, he did indeed look as though he had just risen from a fresh grave. His eyes gleamed coal-red with hate as he stared at Badger's broad back. Midway down the stairs, he suddenly leapt off them with a powerful push and landed on Badger's shoulders.
I knew then that he was no apparition, for his flesh and blood weight slammed Badger off balance, and he crashed to the floor. Staying atop him, Trump wrapped his arms around Badger's head and twisted it with enough force to break a normal man's neck. But not Badger's. He violently threw Trump off his back and rose up like a mountain, bowie knife still in hand. Trump, armed with nothing but rage, cast about for a weapon of his own. For want of anything better, he picked up the three-legged stool beside my chair. Badger snorted in derision and went at him. Trump held the stool in front of him as Badger slashed away at its legs, sending slivers of wood in every direction, and it looked like he would just whittle it down to nothing and have his man. It took but one careless thrust, however, for Trump to entangle Badger's forearm between the legs of the stool and thereby force the blade from Badger's grasp. Badger howled in surprise and pulled his arm back, yanking the stool from Trump.
Trump reached down for the knife on the floor, but before he could get hold of it, Badger threw the stool at him with such force Trump was knocked off his feet. Badger lurched at him and tried to kick him in the head, but Trump rolled away under the table and came up on the other side. Badger retrieved his knife and headed round the table to get at Trump. Trump vaulted over the top of it, and then feinted as if to run toward the stairs. When Badger rushed after him, Trump suddenly wheeled and kicked his boot up into the bigger man's face. His heel met Badger's nose with a crack so clear and loud I knew the cartilage was crushed flat. Badger's nostrils burst gouts of blood, and he staggered back. Trump kicked again, this time aiming at the hand gripping the knife, but Badger, despite the stunning kick to his face, reacted quickly enough to grab Trump's ankle with his other hand and yank him off balance. As Trump went down, Badger slashed at him. Trump twisted away, just eluding the blade before it sliced into his chest. He sprang to his feet again, clutching a piece of rope he'd found on the floor. He wrapped one end of it around his hand and whipped the other end at Badger's face, cutting open his cheek and forehead but missing his eyes. Demonstrating the same dexterity he had shown when he captured the mouse, Badger captured the whistling end of the rope in his grip and began pulling Trump to him. Trump, unable to free his hand from the taut rope wrapped around it, pulled back in the opposite direction. But he was no match in size for Badger, and he struggled like a fish caught at the end of a line as Badger stepped back with one leg and yanked with all his might to bring Trump to his waiting knife.
It was when Badger took that step back in my direction that I saw my opportunity. Flung myself sideways in my chair with all the force I could call forth, and despite being constrained in a crouch by my bonds, managed to pitch myself against the back of Badger's knees. This caused him to fall backwards and tumble on top of me as my chair tipped over and crashed to the floor. He landed on his back, with his legs tangled over my lower half, our torsos side by side. He twisted to face me, his small eyes red with rage, and raised his knife to thrust it into my chest. Trump jumped forward, kicked the knife from Badger's fist, and bent down to get it. Just as he got hold of the knife, Badger reached up and grabbed him by the throat. His enormous hand near encircling the Indian's neck, Badger began to choke the life out of him. As he gasped for air, Trump slashed the knife deep into the muscles of Badger's arm, and his grip gave way. Trump then plunged the knife into Badger's opposite shoulder, making his other arm useless too.
My face was close enough to Badger's so that I could smell his fetid expulsion of breath and see fear creep into his eyes. He knew he was done for now, flat on his back with both arms useless. I looked up at Trump and saw no mercy in his countenance. I had not expected to. But neither had I expected the savagery that followed.
Trump straddled Badger's chest, grabbed hold of his thick, greasy hair, and yanked back his head to expose his neck. His eyes never leaving Badger's, he placed the cruelly curved tip of the bowie knife below his enemy's left ear, sank it in deep, and very slowly sliced his way toward the other ear. I could feel Badger's legs, still draped over mine, kick out in a death dance. I could smell the blood spewing out of his mouth and pouring from his neck. And I could see Trump watching with the rapt attention of a hawk as the light dimmed from his prey's eyes.
When Badger gurgled out his last breath, however, Trump was not done with him. Still grasping the dead man's hair in one hand and his knife in the other, Trump stood and yanked the half-decapitated head upright. As he made a deep incision in the forehead, I guessed what was going to follow and bellowed a protest through my gag. Trump paid me no mind. All that existed for him at that moment was his vanquished enemy. Perchance the ghosts of his murdered family and his ancestors were also present as he chanted softly and cut round Badger's head. Knife work completed, he dropped the bowie and got a good hold of Badger's hair with both hands. He wrenched upward, and the scalp came off with a sucking sound as a viscous slither of blood and tissue flowed forth. He held it up, regarded it for a moment, then wiped it on the dead man's shirt and tucked it inside his own shirt.
He then pulled me from under the bloody corpse's legs and set my chair upright. When he untied my gag I said nothing, for what I'd just witnessed left me speechless. Trump did not speak either. We just stared at each other. I saw no remorse in his eyes. No gladness either. Only exhaustion and relief. And he could not have seen censure in my own eyes, for all I felt was gratitude. Trump had saved my life, after all, and if he believed that it had been his right, his duty, and his destiny to avenge the deaths of his family members, then so too did I.
He reached over Badger's body, reclaimed the bowie knife, and started to cut through the ropes that bound me to the chair. But before he could free me we heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Had Vail sent another henchman? Trump leaped behind the stairway and crouched in the shadows, knife raised.