Read Online Deserter by Paul Bagdon - Free Book Online Page B

Pa?”
    Mr. Sinclair took a long drink. When he looked back at his son his eyes were strangely sad, as if he’d just heard some very bad news. “You go on out and look inon the horses, Jake—make sure the hands gave each of them fresh water. We’ll talk again about this.”
    Jake swallowed the questions he had. On the way to the barn the scent of roasting pork reached him from the mansion’s kitchen, and two of the cook’s young children chased one another about, naked, laughing, as carefree as a pair of puppies.
The Bible and the way of the South are good enough for me,
Jake thought.
Good enough for all of us. Maybe some things a fellow just doesn’t question.
    Jake moved sluggishly, carefully, keeping his throbbing head as still as possible. He stripped at the shore of the creek, waded out to the center, and sat down, his body and head completely submerged; the sudden, sharp chill and the pressure of the current were almost orgasmic in their intensity. The rushing water not only washed away the sweat and dirt; it lessened the pain in his head to a barely noticeable dull throb. He spent a half hour in the stream, alternating between sitting on the bottom and whooshing into the sun to gulp air. When he left the creek and stood on the sand, dripping, squeezing the water from his hair, the residue of the whiskey in his system had been scrubbed away. As he dressed he noticed that some meat-eater had gotten to the corpse of the scavenger. Jake turned away quickly and didn’t look back.
    He led the mare from where she’d been foraging to the stream and let her drink before he saddled her. His hunger didn’t amount to much and the sight of the partially ravaged dead body hadn’t helped. Jake ate a handful of beef jerky, washed it down with stream water, and mounted up. Picking a true course through adense forest was impossible, but he rode generally west, becoming acclimated to the saddle, marveling at the quality of it: There was no squeaking of leather that there would be in a lesser piece of gear, and the cut of the seat and placement of the stirrups felt as if the saddle had been crafted specifically for him.
    Mare—he’d begun calling her by that unimaginative name—proved to be a superior trail horse. Agile and smooth-gaited, she moved through the patches of thick brush and trees surefootedly, head up, alert, ears in almost constant motion. Jake gave her all the rein she needed to wend her way, checking her rarely to keep her pointed west. About midday they crossed another stream, this one smaller and narrower than the other, and not flowing as rapidly. Nevertheless, the water was clear and cold, and man and horse drank thirstily. It was about then that Jake’s hunger began to nag at him.
A rabbit would be good—or a pheasant, or even a damned old woodchuck. I have matches. I’d chance a fire without worrying about smoke. I haven’t heard nor seen a sign of civilization in two days.
Another thought struck him.
And so what if someone does see smoke and show up at my camp? I’m just a drifter passing through—no more and no less.
    Jake lifted the flap on the holster and drew the pistol. Again the weight of the weapon felt good in his hand, the bone grips warm. He reholstered the .44 and urged Mare ahead, following the shore of the creek, noticing the tracks of small animals etched in the sand. When he came to a wider spot, about the size of a good, big dinner table, he urged his mount fifty yards into the trees, struck a small clearing, and hobbled her there, leaving her free to graze. He loosened the frontcinch before walking back toward the stream. He left the rifle he’d taken from the scavenger in the saddle scabbard. It wasn’t a Sharps, and it—and any rifle other than a Sharps—would never feel right, never perform right. He decided that he needed to learn to use the pistol, at least well enough to pot supper with.
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