Crucifixion River - By Marcia Muller & Bill Pronzini Page 0,4
my mood. Naturally optimistic fellow, that’s me, always looking on the bright side. Survival was a given in any troublesome situation, after all, and this one no different than any other. A minor setback in River Bend, a minor setback on the open road. Never fear! Providence had served me well and would continue to do so.
And it did, not more than twenty minutes later.
By then the downpour was torrential. I could scarcely see more than a few rods past the mare’s nose and the road was nearly awash. The wagon slewed around a bend in the road, and there, by grab, was salvation dead ahead.
Roadhouse, livery barn, ferry barge. And beyond the wide slough, all but hidden now by rain and misty cloud, a continuation of the road that would lead, eventually, to Stockton and points south. Ah, but not this night. Not for Nell and me, and not for the driver and passengers in the Concord coach drawn up before the roadhouse. There would be no crossings until the frenzy of the storm abated and the slough waters calmed. I had been on enough delta ferries to determine that from the look of the wind-lashed slough waters and the cable strung above them.
Well, no matter. Sanctuary from the storm was the important thing—a dry stall and hay for Nell, a warm fire and hot food for Ben Shock’s son. Heigh-ho! There might even be a dollar or three to be made from the ferryman’s family and the stage passengers.
Annabelle Murdock
I leaned against the buckboard, blinking away angry tears and saying words no young lady should utter.
Lady? I thought bitterly. When had I had an opportunity to learn and polish ladylike skills in this godforsaken delta? Now it might even be the death of me. At seventeen, before I’d ever have the chance to experience all the good things life had to offer in such places as San Francisco.
I’d tarried late at the River Bend general store, lingering over fancy dress fabrics that I couldn’t buy and might never wear, reluctant as always to return to Crucifixion Crossing. The storm had come more quickly than anybody’d expected, and by the time I left town, the rain had started. Now it was pouring down something fierce. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a few minutes ago the front wheel hub had loosened and then jammed and the wheel had nearly come off. The spindle nut was jammed so tightly I couldn’t loosen it with the wrench from the toolbox. If no one came along soon, I’d have no choice but to walk home—more than five miles, with the storm worsening by the minute.
I raised my arms to the sky and shouted: “I hate it here! I hate my life!” Maudie, our tired old bay mare, turned her wet head and gave me a sorrowful look. “I hate you, too!” I yelled at her. And then I burst out crying.
I was still sobbing, beating on the nut with the wrench like a demented person, when the man on horseback appeared around the bend behind me. Rescued! I was never so glad to see anybody in my life, even if he was a complete stranger.
He reined up and called out: “Miss? Are you all right?”
“Yes. It’s the wheel.” I banged on the hub again. “I can’t get the spindle nut free to tighten it.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Quickly he dismounted and came up next to me to have a look. “If you’ll let me have that wrench, I think I can do the job.”
And he did. In less than ten minutes he had the nut tight again so the wheel no longer wobbled. I smiled at him, my best smile. He was a good-looking man with a bushy mustache and bright blue eyes. And he had nice manners, almost courtly. Old, though. Older than Dad. He must have been at least forty. His name, he said, was Boone Nesbitt.
I told him mine and said: “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Mister Nesbitt.”
“My pleasure. We’re both heading in the same direction, Miss Murdock. Would you mind if I rode along with you? That wheel should hold, but in this weather…”
“I’d be grateful if you would.”
He tied his piebald horse to the buckboard and climbed up next to me on the seat. I let him take the reins. Usually I can do anything a man can, even work the ferry winch, but I was wet and miserable, and,