Savage. Part 20

Sarah rushed into the kitchen. She saw me standing there fl.u.s.tered. Then she fetched a glance at the open bathroom door. Then her cheeks colored considerable and her mouth dropped. "Oh, my," she said.

Mable must've heard her. "You get in here right now now and shut the door! That horrid child's been and shut the door! That horrid child's been spying spying on me!" on me!"

Sarah went into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard Mable rail on at her for a spell, and Sarah talking soft and reasonable, explaining the mistake. By and by, Mable settled down and Sarah came out.

She met my eyes. She was blushing fierce. "It's all right," she told me. "In the future, we'll both need to be more careful. It must've been horribly embarra.s.sing for you."

"I do hope Mable will forgive me."

"I made it clear that you had no intention of spying on her, and that the bath was intended for you."

"I never...meant to look at her."

"Oh, I know, I know." Smiling a bit sadly, Sarah stroked my hair. "After all, you've had every opportunity to spy on me me, if your inclination leaned toward such things. You've never done that, have you?"

"Why, no. Certainly not."

"I'm sure you haven't," she said, but the look she gave me was uncommon peculiar and set my face burning. Pretty soon, she said, "You'd best have your bath another day."

Then we went over to the sink, and Sarah pumped water into a pot. I added some wood to the stove, working up my courage, then asked, "What happened to Mable's legs?"

She hoisted an eyebrow.

"I only glimpsed her for a blink, really, but..."

"Grandpa's never told you about that? All those nights you sneak downstairs and talk with him till all hours?"

I hadn't known Sarah was aware of all that. She'd done some spying herself, apparently.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"If Grandpa hasn't told you, perhaps he'd rather you not know."

"I suppose I might ask him about it tonight," I said.

"Don't you dare. For heaven's sake, Trevor."

"I won't, then."

She set the pot of water on the stove to heat it. I figured she'd had her say on the subject of Mable's legs, but then she led me to the table and we sat down.

"It happened just after the end of the Civil War. Grandpa had been rea.s.signed to a post in the West. He and Grandma were traveling there, just the two of them on horseback, when they were ambushed by a war party of Apaches near Tucson. Before they knew what was happening, Grandpa was shot off his horse. An arrow took him in the shoulder. When he fell, he struck his head on a rock. The blow rendered him unconscious, so he was completely unaware of all that happened afterward. I believe he's never forgiven himself for that, though it certainly was no fault of his. That's likely why he hasn't told you the story. He's never spoken a word of it to me, either. I only know about it because I once asked my father about Mable's limp. I've kept it secret from Grandpa that I know, and you must promise to do the same."

"I promise," I told her.

"What Mable did, she saw that Grandpa was down so she leaped off her mount and ran to his side. The way Papa told it, arrows were flying all about her. None hit her, though."

"The Indians likely wanted to take her alive," I said.

"That's exactly what Papa told me. And it seems to be the only reason they weren't both killed that day. What Grandma did, though, she drew out Grandpa's service revolver and emptied it at the Apaches. She got one of them, too. Then she was empty, and the savages were closing in. Fortunately, her shots were heard by a squad of cavalry patrolling nearby. She didn't know that, though. Besides, the soldiers were still a distance off. Grandma didn't have time to reload, so she dragged Grandpa across the ground to a hole in the rocks. It was like a cave. She shoved him all the way in, but there wasn't quite room enough for both of them. She wedged herself into the rocks as best she could. Her legs and...hindquarters...wouldn't fit. I guess the Indians had plenty of time to rush in and drag her out, but they didn't do that. Instead, they stayed back and poured arrows into Grandma. They made a game of it. The way Papa told it, they were prancing about laughing and whooping it up and sailing arrows into her when the soldiers came riding in and scattered them."

Well, that story changed my outlook on the General and Mable both. I could see why he'd never told me about it, and why he always went on the way he did about Indian tortures and how you had a duty to save your women even if it meant killing them. He must've seen it that he'd failed Mable. The Apaches hadn't taken her off, but they'd damaged her considerable, and the fact it didn't turn out worse was only due to luck. The whole thing made me feel sorry for the General, and like him all the more.

As for Mable, I never again looked on her as an obnoxious old nuisance, and felt rather ashamed forever thinking bad thoughts about her. It was just bully, picturing her crouched at the General's side, blazing away at the redskins. Then she'd dragged him to safety, even though he was near twice her size, and caught a heap of arrows in the backside for her troubles. She was a heroine to me after I found out about all that.

Of course, I couldn't let on that I knew. But I treated her extra nice from that time on. More than likely, she laid it down to my blunder of barging into the bathroom, and figured I was trying to win myself back into her good graces. That wasn't it, though. The reason I turned so friendly was simply because I admired her awfully for the gumption she'd shown against the Apaches.

When the General mentioned that she hadn't bathed in a fortnight, I knew it had to be on account of me. It weighed on me some while I got into my slicker and hurried off to the stable with Sarah. I wanted to be Mable's friend, and not someone who gave her troubles.

We harnessed Howitzer to one of the carriages and set off in the rain toward town. That was the direction Mable always took when she wandered off. There'd usually been snow on the ground, the other times, so we'd worried about her freezing up. We'd always found her in time, though, and she'd never seemed the worse for wear. I figured she could handle some rain, so I wasn't much concerned.

Not till I saw her.

Mable was sprawled face down by the side of the road, on a stretch between their place and the house of the nearest neighbor. Even from a distance, I could see she wasn't moving. But I couldn't see the puddle till we reined in Howitzer and jumped down and ran to her.

It wasn't much of a puddle, actually.

No more than a yard around and a couple of inches deep.

But it had drowned her.

Or maybe it hadn't, and she'd keeled over dead and her face just happened happened to land in the water. to land in the water.

Either way, Mable was dead.

I hunched down and rolled her over. She tumbled, all loose, like she didn't have any bones. Her face was gray with muddy water. The rain cleaned it off, and fell into her mouth. Her eyes were open, staring. The raindrops splashed on her eyeb.a.l.l.s, but she didn't blink.

"Oh, dear Lord," Sarah murmured.

She closed Mable's lids, and then I picked up the poor limp body. Mable'd been a bit shorter than me, and skinnier. It surprised me, how heavy she felt. I managed, anyhow, and took her to the carriage and put her down across the rear seats. We climbed aboard, then turned for home.

We didn't say a thing. We didn't cry or carry on, either. I wasn't feeling any particular sorrow, just then. Mostly, I felt rather afraid and sick, and guilty we hadn't gotten to Mable in time to save her. And I dreaded how the General would take to the loss of his wife.

Much as he always complained about her, I didn't suppose he'd be glad to have her gone.

We left the carriage in front of the porch. Sarah, she went in ahead of me. I followed, holding Mable's body. We found the General in the parlor.

He rose from his chair. His mouth dropped open, then shut again. Not speaking a word, he stepped over to us and put a hand on Mable's cheek.

"I'm so sorry," Sarah told him, her voice quivery.

"I appreciate your bringing her back to me, dear." He gave me a sorry glance, nodded, and took the body from my arms. "I'll put her to bed," he told us.

We both just stood there, silent, while he carried her away. I heard the fire crackling and popping, heard the stairs groan under the General's slow footfalls.

Pretty soon, along came the gunshot.

We both jumped.

I looked quick at the fireplace mantel. The General's revolver was there, where he always kept it.

Sarah and I raced upstairs.

I knew what we'd be finding, but we had to go and see for ourselves, anyhow.

In the room, Mable and the General were stretched out side by side on their bed. It almost looked like they'd laid down for a nap, except for the b.l.o.o.d.y mess on the headboard behind the General.

He was holding one of Mable's hands.

His other hand hung over the side of the bed.

I didn't see any gun.

But he had a string looped around the toe of his right house slipper.

I stepped past the end of the bed. The string dangled down from his foot to a rifle on the floor, where it was tied to the trigger. The rifle must've been thrown off him by the recoil.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Mourning and Night Sarah was their only surviving relation, but the General and Mable had a pa.s.sel of friends she had to notify. About thirty of them showed up, mostly old men, some with their wives in tow. Just about all the men came in full dress uniform. They looked just splendid, sabers hanging at their sides, chests full of medals.

A service was held at the local Methodist church. One old fellow after another stood up front and eulogized the General and Mable. They had some mighty fine things to say about the couple.

When it came time to pay our last respects, we all lined up and filed past the coffins. Mable, she was rouged up pretty good and looked peculiar, but she was dressed in a fine satin gown like she was on her way to a party. The General looked ready to escort her there. A military ball, maybe. He was decked out in his uniform. He had more medals than most of the mourners put together. He'd shot himself through the mouth, so he didn't have any holes that showed.

I tucked one of his briar pipes into the coffin with him.

Sarah, she kissed each of her grandparents on the forehead.

They were planted in a graveyard behind the church. A powdered lady wearing more rouge than Mable sang "Nearer My G.o.d to Thee" and then a skinny little soldier who looked older than dirt raised a bugle to his lips and played "Taps." It was a sunny afternoon, but we all watered the gra.s.s something awful.

When that part was over, everybody came to the house. There was more food laid out than I'd ever seen in one place. We all ate, and the men got liquored up. Later on, some of the folks cleared out. Others stayed on, though. Some servants Sarah'd hired for the occasion made up guest rooms for them.

There wasn't a bedroom left for me, so I figured I'd settle down in the parlor. A drunk with a white beard down to his belt buckle snored on the sofa. I sat in the General's old chair. Its cushions were all sunken in from him.

The snoring wouldn't let me fall asleep, so I just sat there missing him and Mable, and wishing I'd known them better. By and by, I lit up one of the General's pipes. I figured he wouldn't mind. Back when he was alive and we'd sat up talking, he'd offered to let me smoke one. I'd always turned him down, but now I wished I'd smoked with him. When the pipe died out, I fetched the General's bottle of rum. That stuff always had a way of making me doze off. So I took a few sips of it, judging I'd need some help if I was to get any sleep at all.

I tucked the bottle out of sight quick when Sarah suddenly wandered in. She came silently through the parlor, her hair down and gleaming, her white nightdress ashiver with the firelight, floating soft around her. She looked just lovely.

Leaning down over me, she whispered, "You don't want to spend the night in a chair."

"It's quite all right, really."

"I know a better place," she said, and took my hand.

She hadn't brought a lamp along with her, so after we left the parlor we had to navigate our way in the dark. She kept hold of my hand, and didn't utter a sound as we climbed the stairs and started down the hallway.

I figured there must be a spare room, after all. But she led me to hers. She let us in, then shut the door real easy so as not to make a sound. Over by the bed, her lamp was burning.

"This should be much more comfortable for you," she said in a hushed voice.

"It's your your bed," I told her. bed," I told her.

"It's roomy enough for both of us." With that, she went to it and stepped out of her slippers and climbed aboard. She pulled the covers over her, then scooched to one side. "I brought in your nightshirt," she said. Taking out an arm, she pointed to a chair by the wall. My flannel nightshirt was neatly folded on top of it.

Well, I didn't hanker to strip down in front of Sarah even if she had been a regular visitor during my baths. Those times, I'd been sitting in a tubful of water. So I doused the lamp before getting out of my funeral duds and slipping into the nightshirt.

I eased under the covers and lay on my back, close to the mattress edge so as not to bother her. The rum I'd drunk made my head a trifle foggy, but I felt so strange about being in the same bed as Sarah that I was wide awake. My heart wouldn't slow down, and I was shaking some even though the bed was warm and cozy.

By and by, Sarah's hand snuck over and found mine. She gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm so very glad you're here," she whispered.

"This is vastly more comfortable than a chair, isn't it?" I said.

"You're all I have, now."

When she said that, I feared she'd take to weeping. But she didn't. She rolled over warm against my side and said, "Hold me. Please."

So I turned and hooked an arm over her back, and she snuggled against me. "It'll be all right," I told her. I wanted to cheer her up. More than that, though, I needed to talk and take my mind off the feel of her. Sarah's head was tucked against the side of my neck, her breath tickling me. The way we were stretched out, she was pressing me tight all the way down to our knees. There wasn't a thing but our nightclothes between us. Her skin was hot through the cloth. I could feel every breath she took, and even her heartbeats.

"It'll be all right," I said again, stroking her back. "You'll see."

Right off, I could tell that talking wouldn't do the job. I bent myself away from her and hoped she hadn't noticed the reason for it.

"Why," I went on, "I imagine you'll find yourself a husband in no time at all and you'll have a whole houseful of children."

"If only that were so."

"Just wait and see."

"It's too late for me, Trevor. I'll never marry. I'll be an old spinster."

"Don't talk that way. Why, I should think there must be fifty fifty men in town who fancy you. There's Henry at the general store, for one. And the chap who owns the pharmacy. I could see just by how they..." men in town who fancy you. There's Henry at the general store, for one. And the chap who owns the pharmacy. I could see just by how they..."

"I'll be twenty-seven years old, come October."

"That isn't old. old. Besides, you're beautiful. I've not seen another woman in the whole town who could hold a candle to you, in the way of looks." Besides, you're beautiful. I've not seen another woman in the whole town who could hold a candle to you, in the way of looks."

"You're so sweet, Trevor." She kissed the side of my neck. It sent shivers down to my toes.

I tried not to think about that.

"If you should set your mind to it," I hurried on, "I've no doubt but that you could find yourself married before summer. No doubt at all. I'll help you. We'll pick out a fine chap for you, and..."