Sky Eyes

Vik Alta slipped out of his varnished Wellington boots and his mustard-colored tights. He eased into the trough of hot water a little reluctantly, a little embarrassed by the rugged roustabouts who eyed him rakishly as they busied themselves with shaving, hair-trims, shining their foot-wear, and having their traveling regalia dusted of that fine Mississippi loam which settled persistently on every stagecoach traveler from New Orleans to Kentucky.

He lathered up, using an enormous wad of soap from hog-fat and lye, and watched curiously as the hot water, a pale green, bubbled down the length of the pine wood through and under the wall.

The trough was fed by the Pearl River. The water flowed through a sluice into a boiling pot and then emptied into the bathing trough. All with the compliments of the Les Fleurs Bluff trading post, which accommodated weary travelers from the distant ports of Biloxi, New Orleans, Memphis, and far up as Atlanta.

And they all seemed to be here in this elongated room, thought Vik, as he took advantage of the tonsorial facilities. Mountain crackers, swamp Cajun and Tennessee hillbillies rubbed elbows (and behinds) with aristocratic cotton plantation kings, merchants and bankers.

The place was like a mad-house, or, rather, like a saloon on Saturday night. There was much hollering, drinking, laughing, joke telling, and many impatient commands to the little Negro they referred to as "Ice Cream" to shine their boots, brush their top-coats, to iron a damp shirt. Added to the noise was the rancid smell of unwashed male bodies, stale sweat, pelts, gun powder, tobacco, rum, lye soap, and cologne, all mixed with the steam from the hot water and thickened in quantity and potency.

What a drastic change from his theatre days in New Orleans, the little dressing room behind the stage, the marble bath, the shining glass decanters of perfumes, the fluffy white towels, the French waiter. But he didn't mind the savagery of this mob, actually. In fact, he curiously enjoyed the change, enjoyed roughing it, for he realized it was but a momentary interlude in his life.

In another week, if his luck held out and there were no more Indian uprisings, he would be out of this primeval territory, traveling toward New York and embarked on a career with the Shakespearean acting group. It would be a long awaited event. But God! He deserved this break! Acting, especially the classics, was not the best kind of life for a man of twenty four, or of any age, for that matter, unless he was on top, a recognized star. But, he shrugged, revealing in the hot water flowing past his tired, naked body, by next year of 1831, if he worked hard enough and sacrificed, he had an excellent chance of playing the lead in Henry the Eight. Had not Baron Bonne of New Orleans said as much? And if anyone knew acting... the Baron knew!

Lost in his own thoughts, ignoring completely the motly crew who milled about, sloshing water as they scrubbed their mangy hides, Vik was lifted up as easily as if by sleight of hand.

"Your arm pulling me," Vik said gratefully, "is like the Sunday school tale of Jesus Christ and Peter on the wild wet sea... me being Peter."

The man looked down at him, unexpectedly, as if to take notice if he was in earnest and, finding that he was, changed the subject of religion.

"Boy, you got the yellowest head of hair ah ever saw," he said, with admiration in his deeply masculine voice.

"I'm Swedish," Vik explained, tossing back his long blond locks with a careless shake of his head. "My father came from Katrineholm in 1810, came to the America's to make his fortune, and I be born in this emerald land, on the banks of the Mississippi."

"Saw only one other person with hair like that," the stranger added, his dark mellow eyes following Vik's every move, like a preying cat at a mouse hole. "That was a saloon at Natchez below the hill. A dancing woman. Said she used lye."

"No lye or no other concoctions blended this to the gold color that it is," Vik denied, taking up a rough towel and rubbing his naked arms."It's the blending of nature and naught else," he finished flatly.

"Well, you're a strange one," the man said; "for these parts like a gum-tree leaf in Indian summer lodged in a black-thorn."

At that Vik turned and gazed at him, for the first time. The man towered over his five-foot-two height, broad of shoulders thick of biceps and forearms. He was stripped to the waist, and his hard, rounded chestplates were covered with a riot of wild, black, curly hair, almost like a mat. His nipples stood out, piercing, dark-toned like polished mahogany. He was wearing worn buckskins, boots, and the muscles of his thighs and calves showed, like the sinews of a panther through their coating of fur. The hair on his head was black, straight as a horse's mane, and brushed until it shown from the light in the pine rafters above. He was clean shaven, a rarity among these hill country men who boasted beards, mustaches, or mutton-jaws and side burns. His lips cut a clean, red line across his face, as shapely as a woman's.


He was one of the handsomest men Vik had ever seen, especially when he smiled that lazy, indolent smile with an inner grace, almost like that of a prowling animal.

"I'm Vik Alta," he introduced himself, and, feeling something of protection in the shadow of this male giant, Vik thrust out an eager hand. "My destination is New York... the classic stage."

The man gave him a ready glance. His dark, liquid eyes roved from the top of Vik's wheat-colored head to his water-soaked toes, all in the fleeting fraction of a second.

"Thought as much," he grunted, though he smiled. "I knew you wasn't one of the rough and readies. I'm Rafe Savage, territorial guide for the stage line. From Yalobusha way... to Yazoo City."

Vik eyed him with growing interest. "Will that be up the Natchez Trace?"

The man nodded. "So... we ride the stage together."

"I'd like that," Vik said, and he meant it. Riding the stage up from New Orleans had been no picnic. Most of the travelers had only grunted when he attempted to engage them in conversation. It would be a relief having someone like this gallant Rafe Savage to sit beside him on the rickety stage, to talk to and keep his mind off the Indians... those heathenistic apemen! Not that Vik had ever seen one. But he had heard repeatedly what demons they were, and he shivered at the very thought of Indians.

"What's the matter?" Rafe asked, protectively concerned, "A cuckle bur caught in your drying rag?"

"Just chilled standing here naked as the day I was born," Vik said, attributing his trembling at the thought of Indians to his embarrassing condition.

"Here... er... Vik, boy," Rafe said, taking the towel in strong brown hands and rubbing his wet chest and abdomen thoroughly. "Let me give you a helping hand. The stage will be in from Columbia in half and hour. You can't go to New York ass-naked!"

At that Vik turned crimson. But he allowed himself to be rubbed down, and the man took every liberty as if Vik were an animal being carefully groomed... and not a full-grown man exposed to the goggling eyes of all these filthy hillbillies.

"You're like a young colt," Rafe said, getting to Vik's inner thighs and around his rounded buttocks. "Strong and firm. You'll beget sons and daughters with strength, stamina. They won't be like these Mississippi crackers... their spirits broken from hard field labor before they're fourteen... with broken arches from following a plow barefoot, hump-backed from stooping in the cotton rows. Your sons will be like young fawns.

He slapped Vik playfully on the rump. "Smooth as a lady's garter!"

He laughed, displaying two rows of even, white teeth. His dark eyes smiled too, like two tiny lights down in a dark well.

Vik smiled back, shyly, in that innocent Swedish manner of his, and a warmth flooded his being, a strange, inner warmth which made him feel that he had known this friendly man for a long time, instead of only a few minutes while exchanging brief, casual words.

In his travels, Vik had found most Mississippians aloof, distant, a little hostile by nature. Even when they weakened their reserve and carried on a mild conversation with him they seemed to hold back, as if they harbored a secret that even threat of death could not reveal.

This Rafe Savage was different. But in what way? Vik was not sure. Warm. That was part of it. Rafe was warm. And in that warmth there was surely understanding. Both of these qualities made Vik realize, suddenly, that he needed to depend on Rafe, but for what... Vik was not certain.

When they finished with their dressing he followed Rafe out of the bath house and stood with him for a moment on the front elevated gallery while they awaited the next stage.

The fort was set on a high bluff overlooking Pearl River which wound its way lazily through the autumn foliage like a sleepy snake. The breeze from the green water was cool and fragrant upon their faces. Gold and scarlet autumn leaves waved like gorgeous plumes in the tree tops, and the dark green of the sable pines shimmered in the distance. On the river, near the wharf, canoes and flatboats were moored in silent groups.

Dock-hands went to and fro like ants, loading a battered sternwheeler bound for Biloxi and the Gulf of Mexico. Guards rimmed the high towers of the fort, rifles at the ready, their eyes locked on the shimmering blue distance. Sentinels, their rifles at trail, walked their coarse, weather-beaten, chatted as they waited for their destined stage, and in front, in the red dust of the road children played with the fox hounds and pickaninnies.

Friendly Indians, decked out in white men's attire but with their black hair still long like that of the Incan ancestors dragged in pole sleds tied to their spotted ponies. The sledges were loaded with pelts- fox, coon, rabbit, bear, deer - to be traded at the fort in sugar,seedcorn, tobacco, whiskey, brightly-patterned cloth and trinkets.

"Harmless urchins," Vik remarked, as he watched one Indian, a mere youth with a loin cloth tied over his trousers who was bringing an arm load of gaudy-colored earthernware to sell to the waiting travelers.

"That one, yes," Rafe agreed, lifting his black, wide-brimmed hat with the beaten silver band and setting it over one eye in a cocky fashion. "He's a Pontotoc. His Pa was a white man. He's tame as a collie. But once we get beyond Madison County, into the Choctaw nation, things will perk up a bit. Got your shooting iron?"

Vik trembled again.

"Got my Derringer," he said, taking it out of his wine-silk waistcoat. "Papa gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday."

"You couldn't snip off their balls with that!" Rafe said, with a know-it-all-smile. "What you need is a trusty Lefaucheux Brevete revolver."

Taking the pistol out of the holster strapped to his hugh thigh, Rafe held it out to Vik to examine, the late sun glittering off the end of the long barrel. The gun was elaborate by Vik's conservative Swedish standards, wrought with filligree, as delicate as lace.

"It looks dangerous!" Vik said, in awe of its shiny beauty.

"It is dangerous," Rafe said, returning it to its holster. "Just pointing it at an Indian scares hell outa them. Then they start running. All you see of them is their ass-holes and their elbows."

Vik went crimson. "Eh... do you think we will encounter some of them?" he asked, changing the subject quickly.

"Don't fret, Vik boy," he answered calmly. Then he frowned, his face like the sun going under a cloud. He put his arms around Vik's shoulder. "Ah'll look out for you, and be right beside you every step of the way. Ah'll do the shooting for the both of us."

There was that warmth again! Vik was puzzled. He had never met a man quite like this Rafe. But he dismissed the reflection hurriedly as he considered the Indians. Because of the Indians he had almost cancelled his trip to New York. He would have done so, had he not sacrificed so much of his time and energy in the Tabaray's theatre on St. Peter's street in New Orleans, without getting anywhere. He simply could not let this opportunity slip by, Indians or no Indians. But... the mere thought of them turned his blood cold!

There were not enough Indians in Louisiana to be of much concern, and the lower Mississippi valley was safe, even as far as south Alabama and the wastelands of Florida. But there were only fourteen Counties in Mississippi governed by the white man.

To the north lay the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian nations. Every traveler was at the mercy of these primitives.

It was through this wild and haunted region that the Natchez Trace passed. Authorization for opening the Trace was contained in separate treaties signed by General James Wilkinson, in command of the U.S. troops at Natchez and Fort Adams, in mutual agreement with the Chickasaw and Choctaw tribes. The treaty spelled out the terms under which an open and convenient wagon road was to be constructed between the settlements of the Mero district in the state of Tennessee and those of Natchez in the Mississippi territory. It was the old trail blazed by General Andrew Jackson in his march to New Orleans during the war of 1812, which had given him the title of "Old Hickory."

It was over this rough trail, cut through virgin timberland, around rugged hillsides, along the Big Black river and the Yalobusha, that Vik was to make his way to acting fame or... at least that was his ambition.

Now, standing on the wide, planked veranda of Fort Le Fleur, gazing down the steep, sandy bluff to Pearl River, overlooking the site that was later to become Jackson, the capitol city of Mississippi, Vik was watching the haggard, half-animal forms of "friendly" Indians infiltrating the crowds or drowsing sleepily in the shade of the low eaves, in motley groups around the saddle and pack horses which stood patiently at tether.

The only thing that held Vik's nervousness in check was the tall, dark man beside him, this handsome stranger, this stalwart sun-tanned giant who looked as if he finished what he started. It was Rafe standing so close, so warmly near, so obviously protective that kept Vik from changing his mind, and taking the next south-bound stage to New Orleans.

Glancing up, wrapped in his fears, Vik noticed the dark profile silhouetted against the sun. Vik was frightened so ill at ease, so worried about his plans, and ambitions, that Rafe seemed to him a glorious god, an immortal straight out of the classics. Vik said without thinking, "Rafe... Rafe... do you think we'll make it... safely? I've got to get through!"

Rafe turned and gazed down at him pensively. For a tense moment their eyes locked and held. There was a faint trace of a smile on Rafe's lips. "You'll make it Vik, ah swear."

"I don't know anything about guns," Vik went on, desperately, "and I can tell you know what you're doing. I'll hire you to keep them off me... pay you what you ask... till I make it through to Tennessee..."

Rafe laughed a sly laugh.

"Vik, my boy, keep your gold. Ah'm going that way anyway. And you're safe... as long as there's breath in my body... you're safe!

Vik glanced away, thoughtful, then glanced back. Their eyes locked again, as if they were under a spell.

"You really mean that, don't you, Rafe Savage?"

"Ah'll keep my word."

Vik let out a contented sigh. He eyed the Lefaucheaux Brevete revolver strapped to that muscular thigh as hard as iron, and a sense of relief swept over Vik like a protective hand.

Rafe understood his fear of the unfamiliar and his face became a mask of concern. "You wait here, boy," he said, gripping Vik's arm, "Ah'll go fetch us a mug of Java. make you feel better."

Vik nodded, and obediently waited. He allowed his gaze to wander over to the other side of the river where the old sternwheeler, now loaded until its deck rode but a few inches above the water was moving sedately out to the mid-stream.

On the hillsides flamed bright carpets of rhododendrons going up the walls of dark pines. Pale closed Gentians were blending with the breeze and Vik listened quietly to the white-breasted nuthatch in a far off cedar; the joyful laughter of the children scuffling in the dust. He whispered low, beneath his breath: "Let those love now, who never loved before: And those who always loved, now love more..."

Rafe came up to his side unexpectedly, with two mugs of steaming coffee sloshing over. Like most masculine men he was not domestically inclined and he made quick apologies - as he would gallantly make to a beautiful woman.

"It's like the nectar of the gods," Vik said, taking one of the mugs and sipping sparingly.

"It'll warm our guts till we get to Yazoo," Rafe said, his voice low, emotional, almost a tremor. "There's a stage post there. We can eat, and there's a room where we can sleep."

Their eyes met magnetically in the golden afternoon light, the look filled with unspoken meaning as a mocking bird called from the hollow.