The Winds of Autumn by Jim R. Woolard

Author:Jim R. Woolard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-07-11T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

September 16

Considering fright and pain had flavored my recent eye openings, I came alive with a start and sought my bearings with utmost diligence.

Forked limbs at bow and stern propped the canoe’s hull at a steep angle, open side facing Salt Creek. High above the angled hull white clouds scudded across an otherwise blue sky. Closer by, sunlight slanted through treetops laced with late-morning mist. The smell of wood smoke swiveled my eyes toward the water. What I saw wasn’t what I expected. I expected to find Hannah Ferrenden cooking vittles taken from Meek and Stick Injun over an open fire. I looked at her morning bath instead.

I didn’t want to spy on her, but the enticing sight ruled my eyes and stole my breath. The white skin of her back from shoulder to waist was flawless and unscarred. Thick black hair, brushed free of mats and tangles, swept below the nape of her neck. She was dressed in nothing except what appeared to be white linen drawers that ended at the knee.

She dipped her cloth in a round metal pot resting short of the fire and swabbed her breasts and naked belly. The heat in my face stung and I turned my head away, fearful she would hear me panting, thankful the blankets covered my middle. She obviously believed I was still asleep, and I had no desire to embarrass or anger her. I closed my eyes and thought of other things, anything but the look and shape of her.

Her camp arrangement bespoke planning and several forays afield. The fire burned beneath the hovering shade of the hackberries, yet near enough to the creek bank that she could watch upstream and down. The fire itself, smaller than my hands with the fingers spread, flamed with little smoke, the wood therefore white oak or ash and gathered dry despite the storm. A tin noggin with closed lid nestled in red coals. A small skillet with a broken branch thrust in the holding ring for a handle flanked the opposite side of the flames and reeked of fried meat.

What pleased me most was her awareness that we camped in country never esteemed for its friendliness to white eyes, dressed or undressed. One quick step from her fire, Meek’s trade musket and Stick Injun’s Brown Bess leaned against the largest of the hackberries. Shot pouches and horns hung from their muzzles. Bright fittings and glossy stocks gave evidence of thorough cleaning. I knew without inquiry that if she’d recovered and cleaned the muskets, they were balled and primed. She so fascinated me, this wealthy judge’s daughter who understood the hunting camp, the cooking fire, the long rifle and the whipping of fever, that I lost the will to keep my eyes elsewhere.

I peeked with a slitted eye, and luck was with me. She still faced the creek, and was busy cropping her hair with Stick Injun’s wide-bladed knife. She cut in measured slice and pitched each handful in the fire. At the finish, not a hair on her head exceeded the length of my middle finger.

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