The Reaper's Song Read online

  “You said floating. You sure it weren’t swimming?”

  “Not on its side like that.” He hated to give her more bad news. It looked like she’d had too much of that already in her short life.

  “Oh.” She slumped and after a deep sigh looked up again. “Look like any chance if’n I snagged it, we could butcher it out?”

  Zeb thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not bloated like that.”

  She appeared to be studying the mane in front of her hands, but when her shoulders began to twitch, Zeb knew she was crying. Now what to do? He couldn’t go off and leave her like this. And yet—he let out a sigh, much like the one she’d given. No way did he want to get mixed up with . . . with what? A family in trouble? As if he wasn’t in enough trouble of his own. But his mother had taught him well. “Do thou unto others as thou would have them do unto thee.” She’d burned the golden rule into his mind and heart from the time he could lisp his first verse.

  “Look, miss.”

  “I ain’t ‘miss.’ And I don’t need no one’s pity. So the old cow was stupid enough to go drink in a flooding river. I was tired of milking her anyway for the little she gave. Thankee.” She jerked her horse into a spin and drummed her heels on his sides. One hand clapping the hat in place and the other working the reins, she headed back the way she came.

  “Well, that settles that.” Zeb glanced up as a gust of wind tried jerking his jacket off his back. The thunderheads seemed to be racing each other eastward, with him directly in their path. He turned his horse and loped downriver in the hopes that he’d find a friendly settler before the storm found him.

  He hadn’t gone twenty paces when he stopped and looked heavenward. “Din’t you hear my bargain?” He chewed the edge of his mustache. “You know this ain’t my idea, don’t you?” He shook his head and reined his horse around again. “What if I can’t find her farm?” But the feeling didn’t let up. It was as if God had him lassoed and was dragging him west after that youngster who hadn’t even a nodding acquaintance with soap and water. And who’d been much too proud to let him see her cry. The quaking shoulders had done it in spite of her.

  Drops the size of teacups were soaking him by the time he heard a dog bark, which was the only thing that kept him from riding on by the soddy that lay half buried in the side of a small hill. Since it faced south, the hillock had about hid it from sight, until he followed the sound of the barking dog and nearly rode right over the roof. He swung off on a curve and rode into what might have been called a yard at one time. A corral, or what was left of it, stuck out on both sides of the sod wall that housed a door with one window beside it. Zeb had seen other dugouts like this in the Sand Hills of Nebraska. People used whatever they could to create a shelter from the harsh climate. Right now, he and his horse could use some shelter all right. But there was no barn in sight, and the door to the soddy never opened in welcome. Was this the right place?

  “Halloo the house?” He waited. A horse whinnied and Buster answered. Was the horse inside the dugout? Zeb debated for about a second more, then swung off his mount, his slicker dumping a river of icy rainwater down his neck. He grumbled to himself as he led Buster through the missing fence section and up to the door. He hated to tie his horse out in a downpour like this, but what other choice did he have?

  He pounded on the door with a gloved fist. “Anyone home?”

  The dog slunk out from wherever he’d disappeared to when Zeb rode up. “Some watchdog you are.” The dog whined, his ears and tail perking only a mite at the sound of the man’s voice.

  Zeb knocked again. Nothing. The law of the prairie said a man was welcome to an empty home if he needed shelter. Lightning slashed and thunder crashed. He reached for the latchstring, only to realize there wasn’t one, or it had been pulled in.

  The door creaked open just enough to show part of a face and a hand clutching a rifle. “Whatcha want?”

  Along with the lack of soap and water went a lack of manners. Where he came from, the two were gospel. “If I could get out of the rain?”

  “Don’t allow strangers in here. Pa said.”

  “Well, tell your pa I ain’t no stranger. I helped you find your cow.” He knew that was stretching the truth, but he’d at least saved her further looking.

  “Cain’t.”

  “Look, my name is Zebulun MacCallister. I just want a place out of the rain, and since your house is the only one around, I had hoped to shelter here. Land sakes, young lady. . .”

  She waved the gun at him as though she might actually use it. “Is your pa here?” he quickly asked.

  “No. Gone to get supplies. That’s why I cain’t open the door to strangers.”

  “How about sick folk?” He sneezed once and then again.

  The door cracked open a bit more. The dog slunk in, leaving Zeb wishing he could do the same. He knew he could push the door open. The thought had already crossed his mind more than once. “Well, then, miss . . .” He waited, hoping she would give a name. “Thank you for nothing. Tell your pa you did indeed abide by his wishes.” He turned and, flipping his reins around his horse’s neck, reached for the saddle horn. The seat ran water. He shoulda just stayed in it and headed east like he wanted. Must not have been hearing right, thinking the Lord wanted him to come here. One more strike against the Almighty.

  “You can come on in. No room for your horse, though.” “Pardon me?” He turned back to the doorway.

  “I said come in, but you’ll have to tie your horse to the fence. Only got room for one in here.”

  “May I bring in my saddle?”

  “If’n you want.”

  He did want. Jerking a rope out of the saddlebags, he tied it around his horse’s neck and then to the one fence post that looked as if it might last out the storm. He slid the bridle off and looped it over his shoulder, but his gloves were so wet, he could barely unthread the cinch. After several attempts, he pulled one glove off with his teeth and jerked the latigo loose. Swinging the saddle over his shoulder, he headed for the house.

  Once inside the door, he breathed in the smell of damp dirt, horse manure, and flickering smoke from the stub of a candle melting on the tabletop. The light reached not much farther than the table on which the candle sat. Zeb let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimness and set his saddle on the dirt floor by the door. A horse snorted back in the darkness.

  “Manda?” A voice so frail he wasn’t sure if it came from a child or an adult broke the silence.

  “Hush now.” Her voice curt, the girl faced Zeb from across the table, her gun at the ready.

  “Look.” Zeb spread his hands in front of him.

  “Don’t you go movin’ any.” She raised the barrel of the rifle. “Yer outa the rain and that’s what ya wanted.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” He hoped to lighten the mood, but the frown she wore informed him it hadn’t worked. “Look, Miss Manda.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? Where I come from, Miss Manda is the polite form of address. My mother taught me that, along with verses from the Good Book and even some poetry. Now, you wouldn’t want to cause my mother any distress in thinking that her son might be disrespectful, would you?”

  He watched the inner argument chase its way across her face. The gun barrel wobbled. Swift as the water moccasins he’d caught in the swamps back home, he grabbed the rifle, making sure it pointed upward, and jerked it out of her hands. Setting the stock on the dirt floor, he kept the rifle beside his leg.

  “What you go doing that for?” She came at him, tipping the flimsy table in her surge for the rifle. The candle died at the same time as she hit him in the solar plexus with the top of her head. The force of it drove him back a couple of paces. He tripped over his saddle, and the two of them crashed to the floor.

  It was all he could do to keep hold of the rifle with one hand and try to fend her off with the other. She sat on his chest, pounding her fists into whatever part of his flesh she could co
nnect with.

  “Ow. Stop that! I wasn’t going to hurt you or take anything, and you darn well know it. Stop that now.” His cheek stung. His nose ran wet, and still he couldn’t get a good hold on her.

  “You gimme that rifle and I’ll let you up!”

  “Let me up?” He gave a mighty heave and, tipping her to the side, wrapped one leg around her torso and pinned her to the ground. Never in his entire life had he treated a female like this. His ears burned at the thought of what his mother would say. Or did they burn because the girl lambasted him on the way over?

  He finally managed to clamp hold of one of her wrists and twisted it until she yelped. Now his ears burned from the stream of invectives she hurled at him.

  “If you’d quit trying to break my head, I’d let you up.” “Gimme my rifle, you. . . !”

  He tried to ignore the remainder of her sentence.

  “I will not give you the rifle until you calm down. You might accidentally set the thing off, and—”

  “I don’t never accidentally fire that rifle.” The sneer in the word, in spite of her bound condition, nearly made him laugh. Spitfire didn’t begin to describe the courage of the girl he held. When she elbowed him below the belt, he left off laughing and roared instead.

  “Now you done it.” Ignoring the pain, he shoved the rifle off toward the wall and used both hands to clamp her arms tight against her sides. He used her as a brace to get his feet under him and surged to his feet, pulling her up with him.

  She drummed her heels against his shins, her breath now coming in gulps.

  A sobbing whimper from the back of the dugout froze them both.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I said ‘hush.’ ”

  They both spoke at the same time.

  He set her on the floor, keeping a strong arm about her waist and her arms locked against her sides. “Now, if you can promise to behave yourself, I am going to—”

  She stomped on his foot, her heel catching him right across the toes.

  Zeb gritted his teeth. He hoisted her under one arm, opened the door, and shoved her outside. “You can come back in when you’ve cooled off enough to talk some sense.” He leaned against the door, taking a deep breath. She hammered the door with her fists, calling him every name he’d ever heard and then some.

  “Mother, please forgive me. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.” He wiped one finger under his nose and off on his pant leg. Sure as shooting, she’d given him a nosebleed.

  The silence from outside made him uneasy. What was she up to now?

  “M-m-manda?” Surely it was the voice of a child.

  “Manda will be back in a minute. Soon’s she can learn to be a bit more welcoming to a stranger.”

  “M-m-man-d-da.” Sobs floated through the stillness, sobs so weak they near to broke his heart.

  “Who are you, child?”

  No answer, only sobs and sniffles. The creak of a rope-strung bed told of the child’s movements.

  “Where’s your ma?”

  Hiccups.

  “Your pa?”

  Silence. A sniff. Nothing from outside.

  What to do? Zeb realized he’d rather stir up a nest of rattlers than open the door to see what Manda had in store for him. He felt around for a board to bar the door. Locating it off to the side, he slid the bar in place. He was safe on this side at least.

  The storm had passed, letting more light in the small window. He made out the outline of the fallen table and righted it. He could now make out the rope-slung bed in a corner of the small dugout. Then the daylight went out. He turned to see Manda at the window, or at least the outline of her that was visible through the greased paper covering the small square.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Manda, I’m not ruining the place, just putting it to rights. You can come back in if you can behave.” He kept his voice conversational, hoping the tone, if nothing else, would soothe both her and the whimpering child. It worked with horses anyway.

  Manda pounded on the door with something more than her fists. “I’m a’gonna let your horse loose.”

  “Be my guest, if that will make you happy.” Zeb knew he could summon Buster with a whistle. He’d taught him to come that way before the animal was weaned.

  He stopped at the side of the bed and looked down on a body so slight it didn’t even raise the covers. Peeling back the tattered quilt, he flinched at the sour smell that assaulted his nostrils. “Oh, dear God.” He sank down on his knees and laid a gentle hand on the small head. “You poor baby.” While he couldn’t see the child’s eyes in the dimness, he could feel the body shrink away from his touch.

  “Now, I’m not going to hurt you, but I know 1 can help. You think we can get Manda to calm down so I can let her back in the house?” “N-no.”

  “I didn’t think so, either. What is your name? I don’t want to keep calling you ‘child.’ You do have a name, don’t you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Zeb waited. The smell nearly gagged him. The horse shifted restlessly, jangling the bit. Manda hadn’t even had time to remove that.

  “I-I-I’m Deborah.”

  He almost missed the name, it came so softly.

  “Deborah. That’s a lovely name. Right from the Bible.” His mind sped through all he could remember of the Deborahs in the Scriptures. “Deborah was a strong woman, but once she was a little girl like you. How old might you be?”

  No answer.

  “How long since you had anything to eat?” The thought of these children starving out here on the plains made him choke worse than the stench.

  “M-Manda shot a rabbit. We ate that.”

  She talked too well for a baby, but the size of her body . . . He’d seen skeletons with more flesh on them than she had.

  “Look, I’m going outside to see if I can talk sense with Manda. You stay right here, all right?”

  “Yes.”

  His knees cracked as he stood. At least up here the air was a bit better. While there wasn’t a whole lot in his saddlebags, he’d bet that rifle he had more food than these two did. Or had had for a long time. Where were their folks?

  “Miss Manda, I’m coming out. You going to talk to me civil-like?”

  No answer.

  What was the matter with that girl? Couldn’t she figure out by now that he didn’t plan to hurt them? If anyone had been hurt, it was him. He fingered a swollen lower lip. His nose felt puffy too. At least it had quit bleeding.

  “Lord above, you’re going to have to help out here. I sure as fired don’t know what to do.” He waited, hoping for some sign, but knowing that hope was in vain. God didn’t seem to send burning bushes or talking donkeys these days. “You must figure we got enough sense now to figure some things out for ourselves.” Shoot. He reminded himself he didn’t aim to converse with the Almighty anymore. Got to get out of the habit.

  But what to do about this mess? He shook his head. Sure wish I’d rode the other way.

  “Prayin’ don’t work.” The weak voice spoke from the bed.

  He knelt back down to be able to see at least the outline of the child’s face. “Why do you say that?” Even though he now agreed with her, he wasn’t about to tell the child that.

  “Manda prayed and our ma died anyway.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Deborah was surely older than the three or four he’d figured. “What about your pa?”

  She shook her head. “Manda said not to tell anyone.”

  “Oh.” If he were a betting man, he’d win this one hands down. Their pa had gone on to his reward too. “How long since you saw your pa?”

  No answer.

  “I have some cornmeal in my saddlebags, beans too. You think you and Manda might know what to do with it if I made us up some vittles?”

  “What’s that . . . v-vittles?”

  “Supper.”

  He could feel the little one quiver. “How long since you ate?”

  No answer.

  He stood again.
How was it that a kid like Manda could flimflam him to the point he couldn’t do what he knew was best—for him anyway. Pride, that’s all it was.

  “Well, the Book says pride goeth before a fall, and Miss Manda, you are about to fall.” He muttered but kept it quiet and quick enough so that Deborah wouldn’t catch his drift. Between the two of them they had enough pride to start a war. Or sheer guts and backbone. He thought of his sisters back home. What would Mary Martha do in a fix like this? He shook his head again. She wouldn’t be in this fix because she would have sweet-talked that wild one out there into scrubbing her face, sitting down at the table, and saying “please” and “thank you,” nice as pie.

  Manda had said thank you when she rode off after he gave her the news about the cow.

  What to do?

  He heard a rustling behind him, and then the horse nudged him in the back. Without further thought, he took the hint and led the animal toward the door. Careful as he could, he lifted the bar and set it aside. Then, with a jerk he pulled the door open and slapped the horse on the rump. Out the door it leaped. Manda shrieked, dropped whatever she’d had in her hands—to clobber him with no doubt—and leaped for the animal.

  Zeb followed right behind the critter in time to see Manda swing aboard, in spite of her skirts, by only grasping a hank of mane. She stopped the horse by some unseen means and turned back to the soddy.

  Zeb stood in the doorway, the rifle held across his chest. “Now let’s get one thing straight here. I am not going to do you or your sister any harm. My ma would skin me alive for not helping out when I can.”

  “We don’t need no help.”

  “Yes, you do. We all need help at some point or another. Now I got some beans and cornmeal in my saddlebags, and I’m willing to bet either you or I could bag another rabbit or some such without too much trouble. Prairie chicken would taste mighty good, don’t you think?”

  She stared at him, no sign of her thoughts crossing her face.

  “So . . . you want to start the fire? You want to go hunting, or should I? The beans need to cook awhile anyways. A’course, we could eat the dog.”

  That got a rise out of her. “I ain’t eatin’ the dog.”