Olivia couldn’t manage the ladder while carrying both the pistol and shotgun,
so she made two trips. Then she took the shotgun outside and sat on a stump chair while she cleaned and oiled it, measured black powder down both barrels,
rammed a wad and shot down each, and raised it to her shoulder. She squinted
into its sights and imagined Filmore coming up the path, as he was sure to do tomorrow. Nothing would be easier than squeezing off two loads of buckshot.
Splat in his face. She aimed at one of the trees and fired one barrel and then the
other, taking comfort in the loud explosions. She’d always hated the smell of black powder, but today its scent was sweet. She was safe. She could protect herself. She was never going to be helpless again.
Now she could begin her search for Mourning. With the reloaded shotgun over her shoulder, she spent the rest of the day methodically walking around the
cabin, in increasingly wider circles, and periodically calling his name.
“Mourning! Mourning, it’s all right. It’s me, Olivia. I’m alone. I’m going to
be real quiet now. Make any kind of noise that you can. Just move your foot in
the leaves. I’ll come and find you.”
It was dusk before she gave up, hoarse and exhausted. Mourning was gone.
She dragged her feet back to the desolate cabin, where she numbly lit
lanterns, removed her clothing, and threw it in a heap on the floor. The scent of
Filmore seemed to be oozing out of her pores and she felt as if she might be sick.
She wrapped herself in a towel and took the shotgun with her down to the
riverbank, where she immersed herself in the cold water, oblivious to the sharp
stones on her bare feet. A week ago she had worried about water moccasins
slithering past her; now there seemed to be nothing left that could frighten her.
She crouched in the deepest part, letting the swift current wash Filmore
downstream with the other waste. She splashed gallons of water over her head and then faced upstream and lay back to let the river run through her hair. There
she remained until she was nearly frozen and her teeth were chattering so hard
they hurt. She climbed out and wrapped the towel around her, then returned to the cabin and slipped naked under the covers, keeping one hand on the gun.
What am I going to do? She answered herself: Go back to Five Rocks. There’s nothing else you can do.
It was not a solution. What would she do in Five Rocks, in all likelihood
pregnant and not knowing what color the baby would be? But she couldn’t think
about that now. Right now all that mattered was getting away from here. And isn’t that where Mourning would have gone? Back to the place he felt safe,
where Mr. Carmichael looked out for him and everyone knew him?
While cleansing herself in the river her mind had settled into a decision: she
was never going to tell anyone what they’d done to her. Not Mourning, not
Tobey, not some sheriff, not anyone. Not ever. She couldn’t say it out loud.
Saying it out loud would only make it real, harder to forget. No one would believe her anyway. It wouldn’t do any good.
All right. I’m going back to Five Rocks and I’m not going to tell anyone what
happened. But then what? I can go home for a while, but if I am carrying a child
I’ll have to go to one of those places for wayward girls. It sounded simple when she spelled it out like that. She clung to the comfort of knowing she still had enough money to live on for a while.
The money! She had forgotten to check if her gold coins were still there. She
jumped up, pulled on a shirt and trousers, took a lantern, and scrambled back
down to the cellar. She crawled to the far corner and felt for the loose earth, digging frantically with her bare hands, until her fingers touched the burlap she
had wrapped around the red velvet bag. She took it back upstairs, poured the coins on the table, and counted them. There should have been $380; there were
$300. She counted again and stared at the coins for a long while, thinking. Then
