Into the Wilderness
Page 168
She tucked the compass into her belt and went down on one knee to retie a moccasin, feeling her hair, dry now, falling in a veil past her cheek and shoulder to touch the ground. It was a strange feeling to wear her hair loose, almost as disconcerting as it would be to walk naked through the meadow. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Elizabeth stood.
"Not so long ago, the Indians would have fought over those long curls of yours," said a voice behind her. "Killed each other for the privilege of scalping you. But of course, your hair is magnificent, Madame Bonner."
Elizabeth drew one very slow and deep breath. She turned, her thoughts churning as fast as the racing of her heart.
Jack Lingo. He was directly before her; she could see the individual hairs in the eyebrow which he raised in a quizzical arch.
"I see I have surprised you."
His gaze flickered away, over her shoulder. Behind them Treenie was growling, a sound which would have made Elizabeth's hair stand on end in other circumstances. The trapper pursed his lips.
"Your animal?" he asked, bringing up the barrel of his rifle.
"Yes," Elizabeth said hoarsely. The clack of the hammer striking the lock seemed very loud. With the hiss of the primer powder, she simply reached out and pushed the barrel hard to one side and held it there in her fist. She felt it jerk in her hand with the blast of sound and smoke. Above her own coughing, the other sounds came all together: Lingo's curse, and the dog's scream. She turned in time to see the flash of one red haunch disappearing into the trees.
Elizabeth turned on her heel to go after her, but Lingo had her by the wrist with a grip that did not yet hurt, but soon would.
"Let me go," Elizabeth said.
"It was just a graze, thanks to your foolish intervention. You needn't worry about the animal."
Elizabeth stilled suddenly.
The eyebrow peaked again. "You don't believe me, and why should you? But in this case I am telling the truth. She has gone off to tend her wound. She may live."
He jerked with his head toward a log on the ground, letting go of her wrist.
"Sit."
She stood, and watched his face cloud with something she could not name. Not anger. Anticipation. Her stomach rose and turned in on itself
"Mr. Lingo," she said, and faltered.
"Sit," he repeated. "We may have a long wait ahead of us. And please, you must call me Jacques."
"Jacques," she said. "Please let me go."
At that he gave her a broad smile. His teeth were very white and even, overlarge in his face. "Do you beg me already? You disappointed me last time, madame. This time I will wait for your good husband to come and confront him myself; perhaps with your assistance we can finally resolve this misunderstanding between us."
Elizabeth could not gather her thoughts. He intended to keep her here with him; she could not be delayed. Perspiration trickled down her face.
He was looking at her sharply. "Unless you are already widowed?"
She jumped. "No."
Lingo reached over and took the useless musket out of her belt. He tapped the muzzle against one tooth, thoughtfully. "So soon tired of married life? No, I thought not. He has a way with the women, does Nathaniel. There was a little wench up in Good Pasture, she would have followed him anywhere once he had her. But he was not interested in a wife at that time. Or shall we say, not in a poor wife. But I bore you."
"Mr. Lingo." began Elizabeth. "Come along with me if you must, but I have an errand that cannot wait."
"Cannot wait?"
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably, using all her concentration to set her face in neutral lines. To tell this man that Nathaniel lay wounded and defenseless a day and a half's walk away did not appeal to her at all. On the other hand, if she did not tell him he might keep her here all day, which would be disastrous. She had no doubt that he could outrun her, even with his limp. Remembering the look on Nathaniel's face when he had found her after her last conversation with Lingo, she knew that she was in very serious trouble.
"I have to fetch Robbie," she said finally. "There was an accident. Richard Todd was hurt. Nathaniel can't carry him out, alone."
The blue eyes narrowed. "I have no patience with lying women," he said. "I have relieved more than one of that breed of their tongues."
Elizabeth drew herself up, and called forth every bit of dignity she possessed. "Richard Todd is injured, and I am on my way to Robbie. I'd like my musket back, please."
She regretted that please. It had sparked an unpleasant smile.
"Mais non, you cannot leave so soon. And it would not do you any good. Robbie is away."
"Away?" She cleared her throat. "If he is walking his trap lines, he will be back soon enough. Now." She nodded and took a step backward. "Excuse me—”
“but I most certainly do not," said Jack Lingo. "Look, here comes an old friend of yours. Perhaps you will find his conversation more to your liking."
Even in total darkness, the smell would have been enough to put a name to the man who came up behind her.
"Dutch Ton," said Lingo. "The beautiful Madame Bonner, of whom you speak so often. I think we will make camp right here, don't you?"
* * *
In the late afternoon she made her first attempt at escape, and failed. The men had been drinking for hours, quarreling and singing in turns; sometimes they seemed to forget her, and other times they discussed her openly, as if she were not capable of understanding their comments.
"Not so long ago, the Indians would have fought over those long curls of yours," said a voice behind her. "Killed each other for the privilege of scalping you. But of course, your hair is magnificent, Madame Bonner."
Elizabeth drew one very slow and deep breath. She turned, her thoughts churning as fast as the racing of her heart.
Jack Lingo. He was directly before her; she could see the individual hairs in the eyebrow which he raised in a quizzical arch.
"I see I have surprised you."
His gaze flickered away, over her shoulder. Behind them Treenie was growling, a sound which would have made Elizabeth's hair stand on end in other circumstances. The trapper pursed his lips.
"Your animal?" he asked, bringing up the barrel of his rifle.
"Yes," Elizabeth said hoarsely. The clack of the hammer striking the lock seemed very loud. With the hiss of the primer powder, she simply reached out and pushed the barrel hard to one side and held it there in her fist. She felt it jerk in her hand with the blast of sound and smoke. Above her own coughing, the other sounds came all together: Lingo's curse, and the dog's scream. She turned in time to see the flash of one red haunch disappearing into the trees.
Elizabeth turned on her heel to go after her, but Lingo had her by the wrist with a grip that did not yet hurt, but soon would.
"Let me go," Elizabeth said.
"It was just a graze, thanks to your foolish intervention. You needn't worry about the animal."
Elizabeth stilled suddenly.
The eyebrow peaked again. "You don't believe me, and why should you? But in this case I am telling the truth. She has gone off to tend her wound. She may live."
He jerked with his head toward a log on the ground, letting go of her wrist.
"Sit."
She stood, and watched his face cloud with something she could not name. Not anger. Anticipation. Her stomach rose and turned in on itself
"Mr. Lingo," she said, and faltered.
"Sit," he repeated. "We may have a long wait ahead of us. And please, you must call me Jacques."
"Jacques," she said. "Please let me go."
At that he gave her a broad smile. His teeth were very white and even, overlarge in his face. "Do you beg me already? You disappointed me last time, madame. This time I will wait for your good husband to come and confront him myself; perhaps with your assistance we can finally resolve this misunderstanding between us."
Elizabeth could not gather her thoughts. He intended to keep her here with him; she could not be delayed. Perspiration trickled down her face.
He was looking at her sharply. "Unless you are already widowed?"
She jumped. "No."
Lingo reached over and took the useless musket out of her belt. He tapped the muzzle against one tooth, thoughtfully. "So soon tired of married life? No, I thought not. He has a way with the women, does Nathaniel. There was a little wench up in Good Pasture, she would have followed him anywhere once he had her. But he was not interested in a wife at that time. Or shall we say, not in a poor wife. But I bore you."
"Mr. Lingo." began Elizabeth. "Come along with me if you must, but I have an errand that cannot wait."
"Cannot wait?"
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably, using all her concentration to set her face in neutral lines. To tell this man that Nathaniel lay wounded and defenseless a day and a half's walk away did not appeal to her at all. On the other hand, if she did not tell him he might keep her here all day, which would be disastrous. She had no doubt that he could outrun her, even with his limp. Remembering the look on Nathaniel's face when he had found her after her last conversation with Lingo, she knew that she was in very serious trouble.
"I have to fetch Robbie," she said finally. "There was an accident. Richard Todd was hurt. Nathaniel can't carry him out, alone."
The blue eyes narrowed. "I have no patience with lying women," he said. "I have relieved more than one of that breed of their tongues."
Elizabeth drew herself up, and called forth every bit of dignity she possessed. "Richard Todd is injured, and I am on my way to Robbie. I'd like my musket back, please."
She regretted that please. It had sparked an unpleasant smile.
"Mais non, you cannot leave so soon. And it would not do you any good. Robbie is away."
"Away?" She cleared her throat. "If he is walking his trap lines, he will be back soon enough. Now." She nodded and took a step backward. "Excuse me—”
“but I most certainly do not," said Jack Lingo. "Look, here comes an old friend of yours. Perhaps you will find his conversation more to your liking."
Even in total darkness, the smell would have been enough to put a name to the man who came up behind her.
"Dutch Ton," said Lingo. "The beautiful Madame Bonner, of whom you speak so often. I think we will make camp right here, don't you?"
* * *
In the late afternoon she made her first attempt at escape, and failed. The men had been drinking for hours, quarreling and singing in turns; sometimes they seemed to forget her, and other times they discussed her openly, as if she were not capable of understanding their comments.
