she smiled. If a band of thieves or the Stubblefields had found the bag, they would have taken it all. It could only be Mourning. He had needed some money
to get away. That was sure proof he was alive.
Remembering her emergency money, she lifted the mattress and ripped open
the seam that she had loosely sewn back together. The fifty dollars that she’d kept hidden, even from Mourning, were still there. She stooped to pull one of her
wicker baskets from under the bed, retrieved the money belt she had sewn for the trip, poured all the coins into it, and tied it around her waist. She filled a skin
with water and set it by the door. Then she tucked the loaded shotgun and pistol
and her possibles bag under the covers. No one was going to surprise her in the
night, and she was ready to leave in an instant, if she had to.
She picked up the lantern and started out to the barn to check on the oxen.
Halfway there she turned back for the shotgun. She wasn’t going anywhere
without it, ever again. She stroked Dixby’s neck and added another bucket of water to the trough. It felt good to do something normal. If only she could get up
in the morning and blister her hands splitting firewood. Make Mourning’s
dinner. Try to catch a fish for supper. Complain about the way the laundry soap
burned.
She knew she wouldn’t sleep and so stacked kindling and wood in the fire pit
and lit them with one of the precious matches. No point in saving them any more; scavengers would soon take whatever she left behind. She waited
anxiously for the flames to take the logs, part of her still hoping that Mourning
was hiding in the woods and would see or smell the fire and come to see who it
was. She went inside, picked the dress she had been wearing and Iola’s drawers
off the floor, and fed them into the flames. She watched the clothing go up in smoke, her only physical tie to that barn. Then she went to look for something to
eat and sat on a stump chair with some jerky and two apples. She kept the gun by
her feet and peered at the blackness that surrounded her.
She had stopped asking herself what she had done to deserve this, for she at
last believed her answer to that question: Nothing. She had also found the frighteningly simple answer to the question, what had made them decide to do it
to her? Because they believed they could. It was a horrible realization. Was the world filled with people who wouldn’t hesitate to do evil, as long as they thought
they could get away with it?
That’s what religion is supposed to be for, she thought. It’s a brilliant attemptto make us think we can’t get away with anything. God is up there watching. But
it doesn’t seem to work very well. The Stubblefields consider themselves goodChristians. They simply convinced themselves they were saving my soul. Andplenty of devout Christians own slaves. First they decide they need some slaves,
then they come up with the excuses. Olivia had never given much thought to what it would feel like to be a slave. Now she knew. Like being locked in that
barn from the day you’re born until the day you die.
She stared in the direction of the Stubblefield cabin, knowing they were over
there going about their lives. Laughing. Planning. Having their supper. Filmore
greedily licking grease from his fingers. Iola probably couldn’t stop yapping
about their baby. They were pleased with themselves. Everything had gone as
planned. They would sleep well tonight.
Olivia set her face hard. All right. That goes both ways. You thought it was all
right for you to do whatever you did to Mourning and to steal my life away, just
because you could? Well, I can do things too. I have more than one weapon and
I’m a great shot. I could walk back over there right now and blow your uglyheads off. Bam. First barrel for Filmore. Bam. Right in Iola’s face. Who’s going
to suspect me? Why on earth would I kill the nice neighbors who bring me milk
