The Kentucky Trace: A Novel of the American Revolution

14.

169 14 His world had changed. The world about him had not. The creek was still there. The hill across the creek no longer glittered in the morning sunlight; the frost was going, but the hill was still there. Leaves and nuts were still falling straight into their own eternities, no wind to carry them hither and yon to give them a make-believe life for a little while. He saw the pot of honey he’d brought to the creek. Why? He shook his head. He’d brought the honey because he’d wanted to wash the bail, dirty from his honey-smeared hands. The bail was clean now. He’d been cleaning his knife with sand. Had he stuck it, smeared with sand and honey, back into its sheath and dirtied the sheath? No, he’d stuck it in his hunting shirt tie where it had done no harm. And how could a lingering fever kill Sadie? He couldn’t think of her getting sick enough to die any more than he could imagine a lusty young white oak keeling over in a light wind. There was no ague in the mountains; had the distemper been smallpox Jethro would have said so. He held out his knife; it now shone clean and sharp. He would take the honey to his rockhouse, then go to work; but first he ought to round up the horses Jethro had brought and give them a good going-over. Rose had a tender back; she could have the beginnings of a saddle sore; Jethro had 170 made a packhorse out of her. He shook his head and picked up the honey; the horses were somewhere up the hill close to his rockhouse. Cupid whined and nosed his hand. He put down the kettle, ashamed of himself. The dogs had come so far, been happy to find him, and he hadn’t spoken to either except to call them off Little Brother. He was comforting the dogs as they told him their troubles when Jethro came. He had changed from his fancy dress but wore the same look of sorrow, dignified as the black clothing carried on his shoulders. His hands and arms were filled with other things, among them a steaming pot. He put down part of his load, carefully spread the clothing on a low-hanging sycamore limb, then turned to Leslie. “At a time like this you need to shave and shift. Rachel let me have some hot water.” He took out the wicked-looking razor and, holding the strop with his teeth and left hand, began to play a tune as he stropped. “I wont be long. Over there’s a nice rock. If you’ll please sit on it. I’m aimen to shave you.” Leslie snorted. “Since when did you start shaven me? I’ll do my own shaven.” Jethro’s only answer was to work up a lather with a strange-smelling soap. Finished, he advanced brush in hand. Leslie sat on the rock indicated. Face lathered, he opened the door by asking in an offhand way how Jethro had come by the soap. “It’s a long sad story, suh. Please now hold real still. I’m not the best hand in the world at shaven and your whiskers are long and they look tough.” The whiskers were tough and in the sunlight the lather dried quickly. Jethro took his time both in the shaving and the story. “First, about Miss Sadie; I reckon you’d like to know. Nobody can ever think she or the boy was ever neglected. The Weavers was mighty good to come and help tend Sadie. And lots a times they’d send their help. But, Lord, I didn’t need em. We got along; and the old woman was there—most a the time. “The boy took us by surprise. Like I said, he was dyen fore anybody thought he was real sick. Miss Sadie wanted her mama and papa. Mr. Weaver sent Buck. And he sure took plenty a time on the way; the old woman never got there till more’n a week after the boy was dead and buried.” Leslie said: “Ouch.” 171 Jethro apologized; the lather was dry. Making fresh, he sighed heavily. “Miss Sadie wasn’t bad sick when the old woman got there. The day before she’d been out pullen flax...