Savage

  That’s when I saw her breasts. I was hunched over, staring straight down at them. The first thing I thought was that they’d swollen up huge from soaking in the river so long. I also figured the water—or death itself—had leached the color out of them. These looked as if they’d never been darkened by sunshine, whereas Jesse’s had been pretty near as dark as her face.

  The hair on the head of the corpse didn’t seem right, either. Too dark and straight and long.

  Still, I figured this had to be Jesse. I was only just troubled by her odd appearance.

  I bent lower and looked at the face. I was seeing it upside down. It was an awful shade of purple and the lips looked almost black. The mouth was drooping open. The eyes were shut, but one lid was rather sunk in, as if it had no eye underneath it.

  I studied the face, knowing this was Jesse, trying to find something familiar about the hideous visage.

  All of a sudden, ice chased up my back.

  I cried out, “Yeeah!”

  I dropped her and staggered back a few steps, shocked, appalled. I’d been hauling at a stranger!

  Not a stranger, exactly.

  But not Jesse.

  The German’s wife.

  The river started to swing her away. I sure didn’t want to touch her again. Not this awful dead thing that wasn’t Jesse. I wished I’d never handled her at all.

  But I’d brought her along this far, and it didn’t seem right just to let her go. So I splashed after her and grabbed an arm and commenced to pull her toward shore.

  It gave me an awful case of the fantods, touching her. Now that she wasn’t Jesse.

  When I almost had her ashore, I squealed out another yell.

  For she wasn’t alone.

  In her other hand, she held the hand of a boy. The kid who’d been riding along behind her in the buckboard. Her son, more than likely.

  She’d had him all along, must’ve. Even when she was pinned, legs up, in the fork of the tree. He’d been under there, clutched in his mother’s dead hand.

  It was purely amazing and awful.

  I dragged the woman, and she kept her grip on the boy. They both came out of the river and onto the dry rocks.

  Neither one of them wore a stitch of clothes. Neither did I, for all of that. But I knew how come I was naked.

  I sat nearby, gazing at them, wondering. Trying to figure out what had happened to their clothes, but mostly imagining how their final moments must’ve been, the mother clinging to the boy’s hand as they both got carried to their deaths by the monster wave.

  I wondered what had happened to her eye. A stick had likely poked it in. I hoped she was already dead when that happened.

  The boy didn’t appear to be banged up or maimed, but I didn’t get near enough to study him. I wished I’d never seen him or the woman.

  I gave some thought to burying them. It seemed the decent thing to do. Pile some rocks atop them, maybe. If I went to do that, though, it’d mean getting in close and seeing more of them. I’d already seen more of these two than I could hardly stand.

  Besides, there was no telling where the man might be. He was probably as dead as this pair. I scanned about. There was no sign of him or his wagon or his team. They’d likely been swept far off downriver. But suppose he’d lived through it? He might come wandering along and find me, naked as the day I was born, mucking about with his woman and boy. And me with my guns across the river.

  Wasn’t worth the risk.

  He’d seemed like a mean sort of bloke, and I didn’t hardly know these people anyhow. They meant nothing to me, and they weren’t likely to notice, one way or another, whether I covered them over or not.

  I got to my feet and brushed the grit off my bum.

  Then I bent down and took a stone in each hand and walked over and set them down on either side of the woman’s head. Much as I wanted shut of these two, I just couldn’t leave them sprawled out bare and dead for the vultures that were sure to come.

  I roamed about the shore, gathering more stones and hauling them back and setting them down beside the woman. I figured I would start with her, and get to the boy afterward.

  I hadn’t been at it more than a few minutes, though, when I happened upon my own beaver hat. The sight of it, resting atop a boulder off in the distance, just about knocked my breath out. I rushed over and picked it up, then searched around for Jesse and called her name.

  She didn’t answer.

  Alive or dead, she was nowhere to be seen.

  I put the hat on my head. It hurt me some where she’d clobbered me with the rock the day before, and suddenly I just had to find her. It was foolishness to waste time covering a couple of strangers while Jesse was somewhere, maybe dead and needing a burial, maybe alive and hurt and needing help. Bloody foolishness.

  So I ran to the river and waded in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I Find Jesse

  Though the current was still quite swift, the water never rose much above my waist and I was able to stay on my feet all the way to the other side.

  I raced along the shore to where I’d left my duds, got into them quick as I could, strapped on my gunbelt, picked up my rifle and saddlebags, then hurried on over to General, who was having himself a drink, and climbed onto him. It was tough to do, what with a rifle in one hand and him without a saddle, but I flung myself aboard, grabbed his mane and hauled his head around. Then I dug in my heels and we were off at a gallop.

  Why the all-fired rush, I’m not quite sure. Somehow, it was on account of finding my hat. It had been on Jesse’s head, last time I’d seen her. It made me reckon she might be nearby, though there really wasn’t a good reason for believing any such thing. Nearby, and needing me. I had to find her straight away. Every second mattered, or so it seemed to me though I’ll be blamed if I know why.

  General fairly dashed along the river bank, hooves thundering, mane afly. We hadn’t made such speed since the time we were with McSween, the posse giving chase. That time, though, I’d had a saddle under me. Now all I could do was hang onto his mane one-handed and grip his sides with my legs and hope for the best.

  What with the rush and the way it all jarred me, I couldn’t get much of a look at the shores. It crossed my mind that we might race past Jesse and leave her behind. The notion didn’t worry me, though. I simply knew we’d find her, and soon.

  And it happened just that way.

  The river took a turn to the east, and we no sooner galloped around a bluff near the bend than straight in front of us was a buckboard overturned with its wheels in the air and Jesse sitting on the ground, leaning back against it.

  Alive and watching me come.

  Golden hair, golden skin agleam in the sunlight.

  Wearing her boots and dungarees, and no shirt.

  I wanted to let out a whoop, but anger and alarm got mixed in with my joy.

  Her legs were tied together at her ankles. Her arms were stretched overhead, roped to the wheel rim.

  Nobody else seemed to be about.

  I pulled General to a halt, leaped down and rushed for Jesse. “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Went off to hunt for his family.”

  “Keep a lookout.” Crouching, I propped the rifle up against the buckboard. Then I reached for the top of Jesse’s boot, figuring to use her knife on the ropes.

  “He took it off me. Don’t reckon I’d be in this fix if I still had my Bowie knife.”

  With a glance over my shoulder, I saw that General had wandered off a piece. My knife was in the saddlebags across his back. Not wanting to waste time, I commenced to pluck at the bundle of knots by Jesse’s wrists.

  “Figured you was drowned,” she said.

  “I thought the same of you.”

  “Came right close to it. Grabbed ahold of a tree and rode it like a raft.”

  “Was it the German who got you?”

  “Varmint found me sleeping. He’s got himself a Henry. Poked me awake with it. Figured I’d slice him anyh
ow, so I went for my knife and he jammed the damn muzzle halfway through to my backbone.”

  “Bloody swine,” I muttered. The last of the knots came loose. Jesse squirmed her hands out of the coils while I backed away toward her feet.

  Smack in the center of her belly, just under her ribcage, her skin was bruised bright red and purple from the muzzle of the Henry rifle.

  She lowered her arms. She rubbed her wrists.

  “How long has he been gone?” I asked, and started on the knots between her boots.

  “I ain’t been keeping track of the time, Trevor.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Brung me here, what do you think?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Oh, he was just as gentle as a lamb on Easter Sunday. What’s the matter with you? Sure he hurt me.”

  “He took your shirt?”

  “The flood got that off me. If it hadn’t, he would’ve. Put his hands all over me, the dirty snake.”

  The last bit of knot was too tight. I couldn’t work it loose with my fingers, so I hunched down low and went at it with my teeth. The feel and taste of the rope put me in mind of when I’d chewed Trudy’s knots aboard the yacht. I suddenly remembered all that had happened to that poor woman, and how useless I’d been when it came to saving her.

  Jesse broke into my thoughts, and I was glad to have them stopped. “The damn sidewinder was happier than a thirsty tick on the hind end of a hound dog. Should’ve seen how he pawed at me. Put his damn mouth all over me, too, once he had me tied good. Don’t know how come he didn’t go on and do the rest of what he wanted. Just stopped and grinned and said, ‘Vee haff you later, yah? I must Eva and Heinrich find.’”

  The knot came apart in my teeth. I unhunched and pulled at the rope.

  “Then he wandered off downstream,” she said.

  “He should’ve gone upstream,” I said. “That’s where they are.”

  “You seen ‘em?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “That oughta suit him. I reckon he aimed to shoot his wife, anyhow, if she wasn’t drowned. He was looking mighty peculiar and sly when he went off.”

  I flung the rope away and stood up. “We’d best light out before he…”

  Jesse made a quick grab for the Winchester. Just as she shouldered it, a gunshot blasted the stillness. A section of one spoke on the wagon wheel exploded, throwing splinters into her hair. I was whirling around grabbing iron when she fired.

  Her bullet took out the German’s knee. He was standing in the open about forty paces south of us, levering a fresh round into his Henry. The slug smacked his trouser leg and drilled through. Blood splashed out. He squealed and lurched backward. When he came down on the hit leg, his knee folded.

  That’s when my first bullet hit him. It punched his forearm. The stock of his rifle jumped and knocked him in the chin. His head flew back. He flung out his arms. The rifle started to fall. I put a bullet into his stomach. He was still up, but going down fast. Before he hit the ground, I laid three slugs into his chest. He landed flat on his back and jerked about and shuddered. Then a rifle went off behind me. The bullet got him under the jaw. He flinched and went still.

  Turning around, I found Jesse was standing, the Winchester at her shoulder as she worked the lever. She sighted in on the German, but only just stood there and didn’t fire. By and by, she lowered the rifle. She looked at me. Her green eyes were wild and fierce, and didn’t show a bit of the fun that had nearly always been there before. She took a deep breath. When she let it out, I could see her shoulders tremble some.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She nodded. Then she clamped the rifle stock tight under her arm. It rather flattened the side of her breast and pushed the whole mound outward a bit. The sight stirred me up. I didn’t let on, though, and looked away quick.

  We walked over to the dead German. We stood above him and gazed at him, not saying anything. I went about reloading. My hands shook.

  “You’ll need a shirt,” I said.

  “You shot his full of holes.” Jesse squatted beside him, set down the rifle, and pulled her Bowie knife out of his belt. She shoved its blade down the side of her boot. Then she commenced to unbutton his shirt. It was drenched and red. “Reckon I can wash off the blood.”

  “You can wear mine, if you like.”

  “This one’ll do me fine.”

  After the buttons were open, I wrestled the body up and slumped it forward over its outstretched legs. I held it that way while Jesse pulled off the shirt. Then I let it down. We went to the shore and Jesse crouched on a rock and scrubbed the shirt.

  I watched her.

  We’d just killed a man. I’d just spent a good part of the morning with the dead woman and her son.

  I’d spent the night figuring Jesse was dead.

  But here she was, alive and washing the blood off a shirt.

  I felt rather dazed and sick, sore with pains all over my body.

  But standing there, watching Jesse, I felt quite wonderful. Her dungarees hung low on her hips. Her moist back glistened in the sunlight. It was smooth and slick, though scratched and bruised here and there. The bumps of her spine pushed out at her skin. Her shoulder blades slid about. Some damp ringlets of hair curled against the nape of her neck. I could see the side of one breast, and watched how it jiggled just a little as she worked. Sometimes, the nipple brushed against her knee.

  When she finished, she stood up and shook open the shirt and raised it toward the sky. The worst of the blood was gone. Only some rusty stains remained. “Good enough,” she said. Turning around to face me, she swept the shirt behind her back and pushed her arms through its sleeves.

  “You don’t mind wearing a dead man’s shirt?” I asked, knowing how it was. I’d spent a lot of time in the clothes of dead men.

  “After what he done to me—and what he was fixing to do? I like it.”

  She fastened the buttons. The shirt was far too large for her. As she went to roll up the sleeves, she looked down to study herself. Her skin showed behind the bullet holes. The nipple of her left breast poked out through one of them. When she saw that, she laughed. “Shoot,” she said. “Reckon we better trade off, or you’ll wear out your eyes staring at me.”

  “That one’s quite fetching, actually.”

  With a playful smirk, she showed me her fist. “Give,” she said.

  So we both shucked off our shirts and traded. The German’s was wet and cool. It felt good on my hot skin, but gave me a squirmy feeling.

  I followed Jesse back to the body. She took the dead man’s belt. It had cartridges in loops for his Henry and his revolver, but no holster. His Colt was tucked into a front pocket of his trousers that was lined with leather. Jesse cinched the belt around her waist, checked to see that the revolver was loaded, then pushed it down under the belt at her left hip, butt forward for a cross-draw.

  “Too bad he don’t have no hat,” she said.

  “I’ll let you wear mine.”

  She looked up at it, squinting against the sun. “Where’d you find that?”

  “Oh, it washed ashore.”

  As I reached for it, she said, “No, you keep it on your own head. I already lost it once for you. Anyhow, I’ve got me an idea.”

  She pulled her knife and slit a leg of the German’s trousers all the way up the side. She cut it off from around his thigh. Being none too careful, she gashed him once. The blade opened a raw pink furrow in his skin.

  She sliced and tore at the cloth, getting it to the proper size, then wrapped it around her head and tucked in the loose end. When she finished, the bundle of checkered cloth atop her head resembled a turban.

  Still, she wasn’t done with the German. She pulled off his boots, checked inside them, and tossed them aside. Then she went through his pockets. She found a folding knife, a handful of coins, and a leather pouch.

  “This is for you,” she said, and tossed the knife to me.

  Sh
e kept the money.

  She opened the pouch. Inside was tobacco, cigarette papers and matches. She grinned up at me. “Let’s have us a smoke.”

  She got to her feet. I picked up both the rifles and we wandered over toward the buckboard.

  “Are they dry?” I asked.

  “He never got his feet wet,” Jesse said. “Told me as how he was up in the rocks when the flood hit. Carried off everything but him.”

  We sat down and leaned back against the wagon. Jesse rolled herself a cigarette. She passed the makings to me, and I did the same. She waited for me to finish before striking a match, and used it to light both our smokes.

  She drew in on hers, and sighed. “What ever come of all that there bad luck you was telling me about, Trevor?” The glint was in her eyes again.

  I was sure glad to see it. I felt uncommon fine to be sitting there next to Jesse, having a smoke, nobody about who might cause us harm, the sky cloudless and blue.

  But I reckoned there’d be trouble ahead.

  “I shouldn’t be calling the flood good luck. Not this morning’s business, either.”

  “Whatever befalls you is good luck if you come through it kicking. We come through it right handy, appears to me.”

  “We lost everything.”

  “Didn’t lose General. Nor your saddlebags and guns. Didn’t lose each other, either.” She reached over and gave my leg a pat. “Fact is, we gained us a good Henry rifle and a fair .45, a folding knife, a handful of change, and some fine smokes. A gunshot shirt, too,” she added, and nudged my side with her elbow.

  “We lost my water bag,” I told her.

  “That don’t amount to much.”

  “It’ll amount to quite a good deal if we try to carry on down the trail.”

  “You sure are a worrier, Trevor Bentley.”

  “It helps me stay alive.”

  “We’ll do fine, long as we stay here. I’m too tuckered out for travel, anyhow.”

  “I didn’t sleep all night, myself.”

  “Let’s get us some shut-eye.”

  “Now?” I nodded toward the body.

  “Oh, he ain’t likely to cause no trouble.”