Read Online Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Frazier
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rivermen at the table looked at each other and then folded and rose as well. Their thought was to leave the pot to Featherstone as tribute. I took it that this was a known ploy of Featherstone’s when he had been losing. There were just the two of us left. The other men stood watching.
—You playing on? Featherstone said.
I reasoned that a wise man would walk away. But I was half drunk for the first time in my life and tired, and I was looking at three queens, a king, and a deuce. I firmly understood that combination to be a pretty good hand under almost any circumstance. And I was weary of Featherstone’s ways. Something made me throw down the deuce and draw from the deck.
—What manner of fool are you? Featherstone said.
I sat looking at a second king. I fanned my cards on the table, face up. All around, everybody’s expression changed.
—Now’s when you lay down your hand, I said.
Featherstone spread his cards. A pair of fours.
Featherstone looked at his cards and then at mine. He started laughing.
—Why, hellfire, he said. You’re the first one of these hens that ever called me.
I raked over the various specie with the crook of my hand and wrist. It was a bright and lively pile indeed.
—It’s the rule of the game. You have to give me a shot at recouping, Featherstone said.
—Well, I said.
—We could play the game where if I win I kill you, and if you win you kill me.
—I thought that’s what we just played, I said. And if I understand this game right, the object is to win something you want. I don’t want to kill you.
—All right. How about the one where if I win you lose everything you’ve got, all your winnings, that horse you say is yours, the clothes on your back if I have a mind to take them. And if you win you get a girl of mine for yours. I’ve got one to spare. She’s outside in the springhouse, for she didn’t care to expose herself to this trash.
—Your deal, I said.
AN HOUR LATER I walked toward the springhouse. The narrow rectangle straddled the springhead and the first ten feet of its stream. It was built open-slatted to let air move through it. Candlelight shone yellow through the slats until I was near enough for the sound of my footsteps to be heard inside. Then the candle was blown out and only the moon shone down. I opened the door and stepped in. Shelves on one side filled with brown crockery. Milk jugs sitting up to their shoulders in cool water. The spring rose up from its deep source and smelled of wet earth and the stones at the center of the world. Whatever you believe and whatever god you pray to, a place where clean water rises from the earth is someway sacred.
But overlying that holy fragrance, and at great odds with it, was the clabbered smell of milk and cheese. Moonlight fell in bars through the slatted walls, and all I could see was the form of a girl in a loose shift dress. A table and chair, a book and a smoking dead candle. There was no color to anything, just the blue of moonlight and the black of shadow. The girl took a step back, away from me, and the bars of moonlight and dark moved up her form. I could see her pale bare feet below the dress. And then her wrists and hands, but not her face. Her head was down, hair forward.
I didn’t know how to account for myself. Saying
I won you from your daddy in a card game
seemed a poor start.
The barred light glinted on silver bracelets circling her thin wrists. The only sound was the water rising from the seams in earth and the bracelets ringing against one another as she took another step away from me.
I was not a tall boy, and the hem of my long wool coat nearly swept the ground. It was warm and stout with a deep collar and wide lapels so that when I buttoned it to the top, it covered my face almost to the eyes. It still had some of the lanolin in the wool and would turn a light rain, though in the sun it smelled strongly of sheep.
I’m cold, she said. She was shivering, and her
—You playing on? Featherstone said.
I reasoned that a wise man would walk away. But I was half drunk for the first time in my life and tired, and I was looking at three queens, a king, and a deuce. I firmly understood that combination to be a pretty good hand under almost any circumstance. And I was weary of Featherstone’s ways. Something made me throw down the deuce and draw from the deck.
—What manner of fool are you? Featherstone said.
I sat looking at a second king. I fanned my cards on the table, face up. All around, everybody’s expression changed.
—Now’s when you lay down your hand, I said.
Featherstone spread his cards. A pair of fours.
Featherstone looked at his cards and then at mine. He started laughing.
—Why, hellfire, he said. You’re the first one of these hens that ever called me.
I raked over the various specie with the crook of my hand and wrist. It was a bright and lively pile indeed.
—It’s the rule of the game. You have to give me a shot at recouping, Featherstone said.
—Well, I said.
—We could play the game where if I win I kill you, and if you win you kill me.
—I thought that’s what we just played, I said. And if I understand this game right, the object is to win something you want. I don’t want to kill you.
—All right. How about the one where if I win you lose everything you’ve got, all your winnings, that horse you say is yours, the clothes on your back if I have a mind to take them. And if you win you get a girl of mine for yours. I’ve got one to spare. She’s outside in the springhouse, for she didn’t care to expose herself to this trash.
—Your deal, I said.
AN HOUR LATER I walked toward the springhouse. The narrow rectangle straddled the springhead and the first ten feet of its stream. It was built open-slatted to let air move through it. Candlelight shone yellow through the slats until I was near enough for the sound of my footsteps to be heard inside. Then the candle was blown out and only the moon shone down. I opened the door and stepped in. Shelves on one side filled with brown crockery. Milk jugs sitting up to their shoulders in cool water. The spring rose up from its deep source and smelled of wet earth and the stones at the center of the world. Whatever you believe and whatever god you pray to, a place where clean water rises from the earth is someway sacred.
But overlying that holy fragrance, and at great odds with it, was the clabbered smell of milk and cheese. Moonlight fell in bars through the slatted walls, and all I could see was the form of a girl in a loose shift dress. A table and chair, a book and a smoking dead candle. There was no color to anything, just the blue of moonlight and the black of shadow. The girl took a step back, away from me, and the bars of moonlight and dark moved up her form. I could see her pale bare feet below the dress. And then her wrists and hands, but not her face. Her head was down, hair forward.
I didn’t know how to account for myself. Saying
I won you from your daddy in a card game
seemed a poor start.
The barred light glinted on silver bracelets circling her thin wrists. The only sound was the water rising from the seams in earth and the bracelets ringing against one another as she took another step away from me.
I was not a tall boy, and the hem of my long wool coat nearly swept the ground. It was warm and stout with a deep collar and wide lapels so that when I buttoned it to the top, it covered my face almost to the eyes. It still had some of the lanolin in the wool and would turn a light rain, though in the sun it smelled strongly of sheep.
I’m cold, she said. She was shivering, and her
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