Read Online Louisa Rawlings by Forever Wild - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Forever Wild
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slammed a cartridge into the breech. She whirled angrily to the men.
“Toss up that rock, Mr. Heyson.”
George Heyson looked shocked, his eyes widening at the sight of the rifle barrel pointing in his direction. “Now just a minute, young woman…”
“Go it, Marcy!” Laughing, Drew strode to Heyson, pulled the stone from his limp fingers, and flung it high in the air. Marcy swung the rifle to her shoulder, sighting and squeezing the trigger simultaneously. There was a loud crack, and the rock shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Well done!” said Stafford. “I for one think we can use you on this jaunt.” By the look in his eye, Marcy wasn’t quite sure what he meant.
“I agree,” said Mrs. Marshall, taking charge once more. “But I trust you will all remember you are gentlemen. And while Marcy scarcely has the refinements of young ladies of our class, she is, nevertheless, a member of the fairer sex, and as such merits the proper behavior you would all show toward your own mothers and sweethearts.” She turned to Collins. “Now, Edward. Are you agreeable that the girl and her uncle should ride with you?”
Collins looked petulant. “I don’t fancy having a girl show me up every time we go out for deer. And if there’s some hard paddling to be done, I’d just as soon not have the extra weight in the boat.”
“I’ll switch places with you. You can have Alonzo.” Drew’s voice was a humorous drawl. “I’d be delighted to have Marcy do my shooting for me. And if she can spell me at the oars now and again, so much the better!”
Mrs. Marshall sniffed her disapproval. “That’s not a very manly view.”
Drew scratched his ear. “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
Impatiently, Old Jack picked up a large knapsack from the beach and tossed it over one shoulder. “If we don’t pack up right soon, we’ll lose the daylight long before we reach Clear Pond!” While the sportsmen watched and supervised, the guides began to load their boats. Each man had a carpetbag or a soft leather valise, loaded with his clothing and blankets. The hunting and fishing gear—fly-rods and creels and ammunition—packed into knapsacks, was stowed in the flat-bottomed boats. Their provisions and cooking utensils were carried in ash-splint baskets, some two by three feet, which could easily be strapped to a man’s back for the carries between lakes. The Abenaki Indians were skilled in the weaving of these baskets; often Marcy had sat with Tom Sabattis’s kin while they twined the supple splints and told stories of the old times and the old ways.
His mouth pinched tight in disapproval, George Heyson insisted that Jack repack his gear, while Mrs. Marshall flapped about like a large hen in the barnyard, her net veil fluttering, worried that she had not brought enough warm clothing. Ed Collins had already removed his top hat and frock coat, and was now pacing the dock and complaining about the heat while he mopped the inside of his hatband with a handkerchief.
Only Drewry, his hat and coat thrown aside, worked alongside Marcy and Old Jack, carrying his own rifle and carpetbag down to the boat and returning for his painting supplies—a worn satchel filled with rolled-up canvas, sketch pads, a paint box, and a handful of brushes and pencils tied up with string.
Marcy stooped and reached for the straps of the provision basket, grunting as she lifted it, and swung it onto her back. Fresh-stocked for the journey with coffee, tea, flour, and other staples, as well as pots and plates, the basket weighed almost seventy pounds. But she was strong and had carried heavier loads.
“Here. I’ll take that. You take my painting gear.” Drew bent down, his blue eyes warm with concern.
Marcy felt her body go hot just from the look in his eyes. Dang him! she thought. She was angry—angry at him for looking the way he did, angry at herself for allowing him to have such an effect on her.
“Bosh!” she snapped, adjusting the basket
“Toss up that rock, Mr. Heyson.”
George Heyson looked shocked, his eyes widening at the sight of the rifle barrel pointing in his direction. “Now just a minute, young woman…”
“Go it, Marcy!” Laughing, Drew strode to Heyson, pulled the stone from his limp fingers, and flung it high in the air. Marcy swung the rifle to her shoulder, sighting and squeezing the trigger simultaneously. There was a loud crack, and the rock shattered into a thousand pieces.
“Well done!” said Stafford. “I for one think we can use you on this jaunt.” By the look in his eye, Marcy wasn’t quite sure what he meant.
“I agree,” said Mrs. Marshall, taking charge once more. “But I trust you will all remember you are gentlemen. And while Marcy scarcely has the refinements of young ladies of our class, she is, nevertheless, a member of the fairer sex, and as such merits the proper behavior you would all show toward your own mothers and sweethearts.” She turned to Collins. “Now, Edward. Are you agreeable that the girl and her uncle should ride with you?”
Collins looked petulant. “I don’t fancy having a girl show me up every time we go out for deer. And if there’s some hard paddling to be done, I’d just as soon not have the extra weight in the boat.”
“I’ll switch places with you. You can have Alonzo.” Drew’s voice was a humorous drawl. “I’d be delighted to have Marcy do my shooting for me. And if she can spell me at the oars now and again, so much the better!”
Mrs. Marshall sniffed her disapproval. “That’s not a very manly view.”
Drew scratched his ear. “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
Impatiently, Old Jack picked up a large knapsack from the beach and tossed it over one shoulder. “If we don’t pack up right soon, we’ll lose the daylight long before we reach Clear Pond!” While the sportsmen watched and supervised, the guides began to load their boats. Each man had a carpetbag or a soft leather valise, loaded with his clothing and blankets. The hunting and fishing gear—fly-rods and creels and ammunition—packed into knapsacks, was stowed in the flat-bottomed boats. Their provisions and cooking utensils were carried in ash-splint baskets, some two by three feet, which could easily be strapped to a man’s back for the carries between lakes. The Abenaki Indians were skilled in the weaving of these baskets; often Marcy had sat with Tom Sabattis’s kin while they twined the supple splints and told stories of the old times and the old ways.
His mouth pinched tight in disapproval, George Heyson insisted that Jack repack his gear, while Mrs. Marshall flapped about like a large hen in the barnyard, her net veil fluttering, worried that she had not brought enough warm clothing. Ed Collins had already removed his top hat and frock coat, and was now pacing the dock and complaining about the heat while he mopped the inside of his hatband with a handkerchief.
Only Drewry, his hat and coat thrown aside, worked alongside Marcy and Old Jack, carrying his own rifle and carpetbag down to the boat and returning for his painting supplies—a worn satchel filled with rolled-up canvas, sketch pads, a paint box, and a handful of brushes and pencils tied up with string.
Marcy stooped and reached for the straps of the provision basket, grunting as she lifted it, and swung it onto her back. Fresh-stocked for the journey with coffee, tea, flour, and other staples, as well as pots and plates, the basket weighed almost seventy pounds. But she was strong and had carried heavier loads.
“Here. I’ll take that. You take my painting gear.” Drew bent down, his blue eyes warm with concern.
Marcy felt her body go hot just from the look in his eyes. Dang him! she thought. She was angry—angry at him for looking the way he did, angry at herself for allowing him to have such an effect on her.
“Bosh!” she snapped, adjusting the basket
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