Read The Big Sky for Free Online Page B

which a slow branch flowed. He piled dead wood at the edge of his camp site and built a fire, sprinkling gunpowder over a handful of dry rot, lighting it with a spark from his flint and feeding the flame with twigs. When he had it going well he stepped to the stream and skinned and gutted the rabbit. He found a flat rock at the edge of the creek and angled it up from the fire, then went to the bank again and with his bloody hands molded four balls of meal and water. He cut the carcass of the rabbit into small pieces and with the ball of his thumb tagged them onto the angled stone, which he moved closer to the fire. The cakes he dropped into the coals. It wasn't much meal for a hungry man, he thought, and so cut two slices from his piece of salt meat. He dangled them in his poke of meal and laid them on the rock beside the rabbit's flesh, which already was drawing with the heat.
    He sat back to wait, the knife held in his hand, hearing the creek moving, the breeze singing in the bare tree tops, and fire hissing at a wet spot in the wood. The heat on his face and chest was good. He nodded in it.
    "Evenin', sir," said a soft voice. It went on quickly, "No harm intended," for Boone had scrambled up and seized his rifle from the tree against which he had leaned it. He swung around in a half crouch.
    "The night caught us," the voice explained, "and I hanker for company." In the dark Boone made out the outlines of a horse and rider. The horse let out a quivering snort.
    "Git down, then," said Boone, "and come where I kin see you."
    "Sure," the man said amiably and swung from his horse. "Here I am," he continued, holding his arms wide under the cape of a dove greatcoat. He took off his high white beaver hat and came toward the fire. "Friend, tell me if I qualify." He stood silent, making a figure in his greatcoat and the cutaway beneath it, in the trousers that hugged his thighs and calves and were held snug by straps that looped under his boots. As he waited, his long nose caught the smell of the roasting meat, and he let out a sigh that stank the air with alcohol. His gaze ran everywhere, to Boone, to the fire, to the slanted stone, to the trees about them, to the gun that Boone held at ready. "A beautiful iron," he said, as if the eye of the rifle wasn't fixed on him. "On my saddle," he said when Boone did not speak, "I have a jug of very fine Monongahela. Would you care for a swallow before your meal?" He did not wait for an answer. The jug gurgled as he brought it forward.
    "A part of it is gone," he said. "A small part. But enough is left for two." He held out the jug. After a long look Boone rested his rifle on his shoulder. He strangled a little as his throat tightened against the bite of the liquor. He squeezed out "Thank ye" and returned the jug, which the other upended. "My name," the man said as he brought the back of his hand across his mouth, "is Jonathan Bedwell, late of New Orleans."
    Boone made a little gesture toward the fire. "It's no more'n a rabbit. I didn't see nothin' better, but I can put some more side meat on." As the man looked at him he added, "There's johnnycakes."
    The fire flared up, lighting Bedwell's facgafle smiled a wide, long smile. "Why, we'll make out, friend:" He patted the jug and motioned toward the fire."Between this and that. Have another."
    "Thanks again, mister."
    Bedwell drank and put the jug on the ground. "I'll unsaddle my horse and picket him." He turned and went back. He and his horse were shadows moving at the edge of darkness. Boone put his rifle back against the tree and cut more meat. He turned the slices already on the stone. They were done when Bedwell returned carrying his rigging. Bedwell picked up the jug and offered it again. After their meal they built up the fire and gathered more wood and settled on the ground. Bedwell's eyes were busy again. They gleamed wetly in the fire light. "I'm glad to see one man," he said, "that knows a cap and ball is better than a flintlock." He