“We’re in Armstrong County now,” says Katy, sounding a little worried there behind me. “We’re gettin’ close to the river.”
“Don’t worry, Katy,” I say, patting her knee. “We’ll take it slow.”
We have, in the past days, crossed some seriously high mountains, and while the views were breathtaking and the weather generally good, I am glad we are getting close to the water. We grow ever more weary of riding, of bedding down in strange houses or in the tent by the wayside, of trying to find grain for the horses, of this whole landlocked journey. Oh, how I yearn for some open water, some far vistas where not everything is trees, trees, and more trees. I am sick of green and yearn for blue. I want a proper bath. Note to self: Stop whining. Still, it’s the truth.
I’m beginning to wonder if this idea of mine was a good one—this country is just so damned huge.
We are down from the last mountain and have come into a river valley. The forest finally begins to thin out and farmland reappears. I can sense the usually unshakable Katy growing more and more nervous. I guess she’s wondering what she’s gonna do when she gets to her old place. I think I know what she’s thinking: Will he still be there? Will he try to come at me to dirty on me ag’in? Did he tell the folks hereabouts that I’d whacked him in the head with a shovel and then run away, leaving him out cold in the dirt?
Katy has kept her bow strung this day, and the new leather quiver that hangs on her back contains an even dozen good, straight arrows. These arrows, unlike the ones she fashioned on the Bloodhound, have well-shaped flint arrowheads, the edges of which are sharp as razors. Not that the ones she had made on that vile slaver were not deadly, oh, no. They proved quite deadly, as many, many rats, including those human rats Bo’sun Chubbuck and First Mate Dunphy, found out to their infinite sorrow. No, it’s just that on the ship, she had to make do with nails for arrowheads and split wooden battens for the shafts. And I don’t think we could have done without her, no, I don’t.
The road takes a turn and I spy a girl coming across a field, leading a lowing cow. It looks like she means to lead it back to the barn, the top of which we can see over the next small hill. Katy spies the girl, too.
“Hold up here,” she says. We do and she calls out, “Gert! Gertrude Mueller!”
The girl’s head jerks around and she looks like she’s about to fly away in fear.
I feel Katy slip off the horse, behind me. She walks over to the edge of the field and stands there, straight. “Wait, Gertie. It’s me, Katy Deere.”
The girl stops, then leads the cow over in our direction.
“Katy Deere,” says the girl, wide-eyed, when she is close enough. But not too close, I notice. There are the other three strangers on these horses, and I do not blame her for being careful.
“Where you been, Katy?”
“’Round the world and back again, I reckon,” says Katy.
“Huh!” says Gertie.
“Our old place. Our farm. My uncle. He still there?”
“Sorry, Katy, t’ tell you, but he’s dead and laid in the grave.”
“Huh! How’d he die?”
“Took some infection from a cut on the back o’ his head, near as folks could tell when they found him. He was lying there dead fer a good long spell.”
“How’d he git the cut on the back of his head?”
“Dunno. He warn’t around no more t’ tell it.”
“Anybody there now?”
“Don’t think so.”
“What about me?”
“Ever’one thought some Injuns come and took ya.”
“Huh!”
“What you gonna do, Katy?”
“Go on up t’ our farm, I reckon. These here are my friends.”
Gertrude Mueller looks at us as if we were creatures from another world, us bristling with pistols and rifles and strange clothing and all.
“Uh-huh,” she says doubtfully.
Katy comes back and swings up behind me again. “Good seein’ you, Gertie. Give my respects t’ yer ma and pa.”
“I will, Katy.”
And with that, we are off again at a slow walk.
I sense a much more relaxed Katy Deere behind me now.
“Looks like you already killed him,” says I.
“Uh-huh . . . Glad of it, too,” says Katy.
“Where away, Katy?” I ask.
“Up ahead, there’ll be a fork to the right. Take it.”
And we do.
We dismount and lead the horses through the last half mile to the place that was all the home that Katy Deere ever knew.
We come at last to a crude gate and Katy goes up and throws back the bar and we go through into the farmyard.
“Hard t’ believe it’s only been a year. Not even that,” says Katy, all quiet, looking around at how overgrown with weeds the place has become. “Poor Mama, she was always so particular ’bout how her front yard looked. In case anyone should come visit and all.” She leans down and picks up a small branch that had fallen from the tree that looms overhead, then she tosses it into the bushes. “Don’t mean nuthin’ now, that’s fer sure.”
Higgins and Jim and I know to be real silent now as Katy walks across the yard. It’s strange to see her dressed in the uniform of a Lawson Peabody serving girl out here on the frontier: white blouse and black vest and black skirt and stockings and all. Certainly ain’t the way they dress around here. Around here, seems like most of the girls’ clothes are made from feed sacks. But who am I, child of the London slum streets, to say nay to that?
There’s a house, sort of, made of rough planks that look like they’ve been split off of rough logs with wedge and ax, the bark still clinging to the edges. There is mud and clay crammed into the spaces between. There are two wooden steps up to a door. The roof is made of rough shakes, like shingles split off a short log.
There’s a barn, with a door barely hanging on its leather hinges, and Jim goes to take the horses there, as we know we will spend the night here, but Katy says, “Let ’em graze out here for a while, Jim, as they ain’t gonna find no hay nor oats in there now, that’s fer sure.”
Jim nods, then takes the packs and the saddles off the horses. He puts a rope hobble around each horse’s front ankles so’s they can’t run off, but the horses don’t seem to mind. No, they heave great horsey sighs of relief at having us off their poor backs and they settle into pulling at and chewing the abundant grasses.
Katy doesn’t go right into the house. No, instead she walks over to the side of the yard, her arms crossed on her chest. She stops and stares down and I walk over next to her. I see that she is gazing down at three graves. There’s a wooden slab at the head of each, but there ain’t no writing on them. I don’t say anything.
“That’s Father over there, ’cause he went first. Then Mama. Then him.” Saying that she kicks over her uncle’s marker and sends it flying into the weeds. “I wisht I could dig him up and feed what’s left of him to the pigs. But I guess there ain’t no good in that.”
She turns and goes back toward the house. “Just don’t like the idea of him layin’ close to Mama and Father, is all.” She goes up the few steps and pushes the door open all the way. She goes in and I follow. Jim starts to come with us, but I see Higgins’s gentle restraint on his arm and he stops, and they both remain outside. Though Katy shows not the slightest bit of emotion, Higgins knows that this is hard on her.
She walks through the front room, a simple room with a table and some chairs made from black birch saplings. It looks like small animals have been here—and maybe some large animals as well, because there seems to be nothing of value left in the place. There is a cloth strung across a doorway, and she pulls it to the side and looks in. I see that it is a small room with only enough space for a bed, a bed that still has its mattress.
“I was born in that bed. My father died in that bed. My mama died in that bed . . .”
“And you and I shall sleep in that same bed tonight, Katy Deere, and take comfort in each other’s presence,” says I, grabbing her by her shoulders and turning her around to face me. “What do you mean to do here, Katy?”
She looks away. “I dunno. It’s early enough to get a crop in. Prolly ask some neighbors for help. Maybe find the best man I can around here and marry up with him so I can get some constant help. Prolly—”
“Is that what you want, Katy, in your heart? Is that what you really want?” I have to stand on my tippy-toes to look into her eyes. Still she shies away and looks down.
“No, I reckon I don’t,” she says quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ fer me here, neither, ain’t nothin’ fer me.”
“Then come with us, Katy, and see what lies ahead. Will you do that? I need you, as I ain’t got no notion of this great land, and you can help.” I give her shoulders a shake.
She stands deep in thought for a while. Then she straightens up and shakes off my hands, and says, “Yeah, I reckon I’ll go with you. See what’s out there, anyways.”
“Good girl,” I say, leaning up and putting a kiss on her forehead. “Now let’s get settled for the night. Higgins. Jim. Come on in. Tomorrow, the river!”