fought harder? What had she done to deserve this? What made them think they
could treat her that way? Was she what they said, a dirty little whore?
It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. They are evil. They are evil.
They are evil. They will be punished. They will be punished. They will bepunished.
She soon regretted that she hadn’t eaten and hadn’t taken the skin of water.
She felt faint and the trail stretched endlessly. She wanted desperately to arrive
home, to find Mourning standing outside, waving his floppy hat at her. Would she tell him what they’d done to her? How could such a thing be said in words?
Would she ever be able to put those sentences together? And if she did, would he
believe her? Would anyone?
Feeling dizzy, she stopped under a tree. The long grass around its roots was
soft and dry, and she lay down and curled up in it for a few minutes. Her hands
clutched her belly. Could a woman feel it? Know? All Olivia felt was torn up.
She forced herself to her feet and continued stumbling toward home. When
she’d walked this trail a week ago had there been so many branches and roots grabbing at her ankles? Clumsy, she fell several more times before she at last
came to the clearing and then the stream. She gratefully threw herself down on its bank and lay in the mud, scooping water into her mouth and over her head,
before getting to her feet and continuing around the bend. She let out a cry when
the squat little cabin came into sight, but even from a distance it looked deserted.
The door was standing open, creaking on its hinges.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Olivia began shouting hysterically. “Mourning! Mourning! Are you here?
Where are you?”
She could see the handle of his precious hoe sticking up out in the field.
Something had made him leave it; he would never have gone off and abandoned
a precious iron tool to the rain. She ran to the barn, shouting his name. The oxen
were in there. The trough was full of water and a small pile of hay stood next to
it. Dixby and Dougan turned stupid, indifferent eyes toward her.
She went back out to the yard and shouted Mourning’s name a few more
times, but there was no response. There was no sound at all, other than birds twittering in the trees. She entered the cabin and looked around. Everything
seemed to be as she had left it, except there was no shotgun behind the door.
Who had taken it, Filmore or Mourning? What about the pistol? What would she
do without a weapon? She frantically kicked aside the rug, opened the trapdoor,
and scrambled down the ladder.
She hadn’t taken the time to light a lantern and the cellar was dark and foul
smelling. She heard the scurry of mice and impatiently clapped her hands and yelled “Shoo!” before groping her way to the crate that stood against the far wall.
Relief flooded over her. The pistol was where she’d hidden it, behind the
crate. So was her possibles bag. Mourning must have taken it down there. Let Filmore come now. She’d be waiting for him. Then her hand touched something
else metallic. She wrapped her fingers around it and lifted. Thank God, it was the muzzle of the shotgun. Olivia pulled it out and cradled it in her lap. The fact
that Mourning had hidden these things meant he was all right, didn’t it? Filmore
couldn’t have just ridden up and shot him. She could imagine no scenario in which Filmore would have hidden the shotgun in the cellar. So Mourning must
be alive.
