Uncertain Justice

Chapter 42

Though a healthy youngster, he'd been too slight to participate in sandlot football games as a child. He'd been too uncoordinated to play baseball and even Sally from two blocks over had run faster than he had. His one sports injury had been a twisted ankle caused by an unseen croquet ball left behind on the back lawn. He'd never had to endure much pain before and certainly not for such an extended period. But these days, the pain from the neck wound was always there, grinding down his endurance and inflaming a surly temper he hadn't known he had.

Father and Mum were no longer around to straighten out such things now. He was personally going to see that Miles Underwood got what was coming to him. Oh, yes ... he was going to make sure the insolent thug was well taken care of. Waiting for the analgesic to take effect, he smiled for the first time that morning.

§

Mid-morning came and went before Miles was without some critical need he had to address. Shelter had been taken care of by the spacious cave but survival depended on him finding food too. A quick search along the river revealed some bushes carrying full loads of ripe berries. He picked about a quart of the ripest and stored them in the fanny pack while he explored the riverbank south of the cavern.

Scrambling over wet rocks to get beyond the southern cliff point, he found some tall cattails growing in the slow moving water of a wide bend there and harvested a half dozen of the youngest. On the way back, he found a patch of wild onions growing up against the cliff and pulled a number of them from the loose earth. By the time he got ready to climb the slope back up to the cavern, he was carrying an overflowing fanny pack of wild fruits and vegetables and there were more in the hat he was carrying now instead of wearing.

Brunch consisted of berries, raw cattail root, and strips of deer jerky washed down with mouthfuls of cold water. There were enough onions and leftover cattail roots for supper and at least breakfast tomorrow. With tonight's food and shelter already provided for, there was nothing he absolutely had to do for the time being. He relished the sensation of being rested, comfortably full, and having nothing in particular that required his attention.

The stone house caught his eye. A loose shutter on the side window flapped idly in the breeze, seeming to wave him over. So he did. Capping the canteen, Miles grabbed his flashlight and strolled over to the debris-filled terrace to examine the ruin of the stone house.

It was immediately clear there wasn't very much ruin to it. Everything looked as solid as the day it was built. Most of the 'debris' on the terrace was nothing more than broken and dead branches from pine or fir trees. Most of them had already crumbled into dust, but a couple still had a fragile integrity--enough to show what they'd once been. With a good shovel and broom, he could clear everything off in half an hour.

He thumped one of the vertical posts that supported what had been a roof with the heel of his hand. If the stout beam gave at all, he couldn't see it.

Miles rubbed his abused hand with the other. This wooden column wasn't about to crumble anytime soon ... as in this millennium.

He had some really crazy dreams last night; in his mind's eye, he could see the supports that ran from column to column and column to house overlaid with aromatic pine boughs. Rebuilding the overhead roof with limbs hacked from trees he could see just across the river would give him a shaded terrace in late afternoons and it'd be a snap to do.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. Where the hell had that idea come from? Until this moment, he hadn't thought of staying in the little valley any longer than it took to find a way out. He considered the house more closely.

What if he did stay here for a while? The valley had enough fish and other game to keep him well fed for some time. He could enjoy living in the sturdy, primitive house for a while.

He squinted, imagining himself sitting in a chair on the front terrace of this old house, kicking back and gazing out over the stream and the valley floor beyond. The picture had more than a little appeal. It would be good to stay in one place for a while--kind of like a home away from home.

Shaking off the vision, Miles climbed the broad steps from the cavern floor up to the terrace and shuffled through the remains of the tree limbs. The flat stones had been fitted together in the little courtyard as tightly as had the ones in the stone house itself ... and whoever had done it had made the patio as horizontal as anyone could wish.

The door was made of rough, thick boards split from whole tree trunks and bound together with rusty iron straps attached with crude nails. Large, clumsy iron hinges were bolted to the left side near the top and bottom. The overall impression was one of unsophisticated solidity. It wasn't pretty, but the door undoubtedly did the job it was designed for.

Miles put his hands on the right side of the door and pushed tentatively. It moved inward a little, and then stopped. When he pressed harder, the door gave a bit more but was obviously blocked by something he couldn't see. He pushed harder and heard wood creak loudly in protest, but the door didn't move any further. He stepped back to look things over.

On the right side of the door near the top, a small hole caught his eye. Protruding from it was a short, narrow length of rawhide. He didn't know what it was, but it fairly begged to be pulled. Shrugging, he pulled gently on the thin leather string. Miles could hear and feel something rasping against the wood as it moved on the inside of the door. He pulled several inches of the rawhide through the hole in the door before the dried-out strip broke just above his fingertips.

"No!" The shout echoed crazily around the cavern as Miles' left hand flew up to catch the string before it disappeared. Slapping at the hole in the door with an open palm, he captured the last inch of the rawhide strip between his little finger and the door.

Carefully, he used the fingernails of his right hand to pry the string from the surface until he could get a good grip. He got a secure hold on the brittle rawhide at the entrance to the hole and lifted as he pulled to reduce the friction between the rawhide and the wood. Slowly he nursed it out, careful to avoid jerking on the fragile remnant. He was rewarded with the sound of something rubbing against something else behind the door.

Abruptly the scraping noise ceased and the door swung inward. It opened slowly on squealing rusty hinges and bright sunshine lit the interior. Assured the entry was open, Miles released the rawhide and watched a bar fall through an arc on the inside of the door. If the door had been closed, it would have been captured and held by a U-shaped piece of iron he could see attached on the inside of the doorframe.

The latch was crude, but effective, he mused. It wouldn't have been strong enough to keep him out if he'd put the full weight of his body into forcing the door open, but he hadn't known that from the outside. There was a larger iron hook a couple of feet above the latch and another one below. Presumably, companion pieces on the other side were hidden behind the door. They were big enough to hold bars much thicker and stronger. They would have undoubtedly provided greater security.

"Interesting," Miles remarked. "So you were just keeping the rain out huh? Mind if I come inside for a bit?"

The door creaked as it opened wider.

Miles' eyes widened at the apparent reply to his question. Then he shook it off. He grinned. The breeze had pushed against the door. It had ruffled the shorthairs on the back of his neck too, giving him a chill before it died. That was all it was.

"We be telling ghost stories 'round the camp fire tonight," he joked to himself. In passing, he wondered what had happened to the resolution to quit talking to himself. He never quite managed to stop.

He stepped across the threshold to find the cabin surprisingly well lit. The sun shone brightly through the large, open doorway and less brightly through the windows too.

The rock and adobe walls were stout--easily a foot thick, maybe more. The inside of the walls were covered with a coating of light tan-colored adobe that had been carefully worked to be smooth and appealing. The interior of the hut was cool and promised to be comfortable through the warmest summer days.

A table was pushed into the corner of the house on his left, behind the door, where light from both windows would provide the best light when the door was closed. A crude chair was shoved against the table, its back to the interior of the house. Between the table and the door, there was a sturdy wooden peg holding a heavy coat. Brown and shaggy, it looked like a furry rug. Miles let his fingertips brush across the coarse hair, but he didn't dare take it off its hook.

On the other side of the room, nearly in the middle of the northern wall, was a large elevated fireplace. The wide stone hearth that wrapped completely around it was a couple feet off the floor. A big upended kettle, well blackened from frequent use in open fires, sat there as if it had been recently washed and set aside to dry. The pothook, upon which the kettle would be hung, stood ready to swing into the fireplace. Above the fireplace mantle, an old flintlock rifle rested on pegs set into the chimney. He palmed his flashlight and clicked it on to probe the far corners of the room.

The reason for the stone house sharing a corner with the cavern wall was obvious now. A slow flowing spring in the corner delivered water from a c***k in the living rock to a natural stone tank whose upper surface was almost waist high.

A channel had been chiseled into the stones of the cabin's outside wall to carry the overflow from the tank down to a small hole bored through the side of the house. This was obviously the source of the trickle of water outside. Whoever had built the house had ingeniously assured themselves of a ready supply of running water that didn't have to be carried up the long grade from the river.

Between the water reservoir and the fireplace stood a delicate little table with a dust covered marble top about eighteen inches on a side. It was the only piece of professionally finished furniture in the room. A large shallow bowl and a pitcher made of fired clay sat on the table. They were arranged meticulously in the middle of the top surface, ready for instant use. A dingy mirror with an intricately carved frame hung on the wall behind the table and a narrow marble shelf was mounted immediately below. It had obviously been built as a companion piece to the table below. The fragile, almost dainty, appearance of the washstand and mirror was startlingly out of place in the primitive dwelling. Miles grinned. It made the unknown builder more human.

Staring hard into the shadows, he was sure he saw an old fashioned straight razor laying on the marble shelf. He rubbed the whiskers on his face and chin and resolved to check out the razor soon.

Against the back wall was a bunk with a pile of faded blankets heaped on it. One end was only a few feet from the water cistern. Pegs on the wall at the foot of the bed still held some crumbling, tattered scraps of clothing. There was a pile of paraphernalia on the floor at the foot of the bed between it and the southern wall. A large ax stood out, but he couldn't tell what the other things were.

"Excellent," he breathed, smiling happily. He was going to have fun sorting through all the treasures in the little hut. From surprise at himself for thinking to stay in the valley for any length of time, he'd shifted to eager anticipation. This was a good place. He liked it.