The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  Davis shuddered, leaned over the edge of the bunk, and retched. Nothing came up except more of the bitter taste that filled his mouth. He lifted a trembling hand, wiped the back of it across his lips. He shook his head.

  "No," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "He did it."

  "Why in God's name would your brother kill your wife?"

  "He was—"

  Davis stopped. He could not bring himself to say the words, could not describe for Abernathy the scene he had found inside the cabin when he got back from Bristow's place. How could he tell this man, this stranger, about that image of Andrew and Faith on the bed, wrapped in the quilts and each other? How could he explain what he had felt then, what he felt now?

  "I didn't hurt Faith. I would never have hurt Faith, no matter what she did."

  "What about Paxton? He sounded like he was afraid for his life, afraid you'd turn on him next."

  Again the words lodged in Davis's throat. If he told Abernathy that he had intended to take his knife to Andrew's face, that would only convince the constable even more that he was insane. And it might not have stopped there, Davis knew. He might have killed Andrew. He had been that angry.

  He was able to swing his legs off the bunk and rest his feet on the floor. He sat up, making the jail cell and the rest of the world spin crazily around him for a moment before he put his head in his hands and held on tightly. His stomach lurched again, but he swallowed the bile.

  Abernathy went to the heavy wooden door of the cell, which stood open on the other side of the tiny room. There was a small barred window in the door. He said, "There's no point in talking. You can tell your story to the magistrate, and he'll decide what to do with you. But I can tell you now, Hallam, you'll swing for what you did. They might as well start building the gibbet now."

  He went out and the door slammed shut behind him. Davis jumped a little at the sound. Then a thought occurred to him and made his head jerk up sharply. He got to his feet, staggered a little, then caught his balance and went to the door. His fingers were slippery with sweat as he wrapped them around the iron bars in the window. "Abernathy!" he shouted. "Abernathy, where are my children?"

  No answer came back, and Davis slumped against the door, his grip on the bars the only thing that kept him from collapsing onto the damp, fetid stone floor.

  * * *

  The weak sunlight filtering in through the window gradually faded, leaving the cell in darkness that was relieved only when Constable Abernathy brought in a stub of candle, a cup of water, a chunk of bread, and a thick slice of ham.

  "There's your supper," Abernathy told him. "The candle should last until you're finished eating."

  "Where are my children?" Davis asked, paying no attention to the food Abernathy handed to him. The bread and ham might as well have been stone for all the interest Davis showed in them.

  "You gave up your right to worry about your children when you killed their mother, I'd say."

  "I didn't—" Davis stopped. Abernathy had made up his mind about the guilt of his prisoner, and he was not going to be swayed by denials. Instead, Davis said, "Just tell me if they're all right."

  "Your brother took them in. He'll see that they're cared for."

  Davis closed his eyes and his fingers tightened on the chunk of bread until they dug deeply into it. His children—poor Mary and Laurel and Theodore—were in the hands of the man who had really killed their mother. Andrew had no doubt told them the same lie he had told Abernathy about Davis killing Faith. He would fill their heads with that lie, Davis thought, until there was no room in their minds for the truth.

  Would he hurt them? After all, he had killed their mother.

  Davis took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. The shot that had killed Faith had been intended for him. Her death had been an accident. The entire incident was engraved indelibly on Davis's brain, and he remembered the look of stunned surprise on Andrew's face as the blood spurted from Faith's throat. Davis had no doubt that Andrew had been trying to kill him.

  So there was no reason for him to hurt the children, none at all. If anything, it would make him look better and make his story seem more convincing if he took good care of them.

  He was a quick one, Andrew was, as quick as a fox. Before Faith had even slumped lifelessly to the floor, Andrew had been plotting and scheming to turn the blame from himself onto his half-brother. But surely somewhere there was someone who would believe him. If he could only talk to the children, he could convince them of his innocence. He was sure of it.

  "I want to see them," he said.

  Abernathy shook his head. "That wouldn't be a good idea. You've done enough damage, man. Leave those poor motherless little ones alone from now on."

  Davis sat down on the bunk and stared up at the constable. "You don't understand," he said. "I have to see them. I have to talk to them."

  "No."

  For a second Davis thought about leaping up and throwing himself at the man. He could beat some understanding into Abernathy's head. But Abernathy had a short, stout club tucked into his belt, and if Davis attacked him, he wouldn't hesitate to use that club on the prisoner. Davis was sure of that. From the look in Abernathy's cold eyes, he was fairly certain that the constable might well beat him to death and save everyone the trouble of a trial. Abernathy had completely accepted Andrew's story.

  Or perhaps that wasn't it, Davis thought suddenly. He said, "How much is Andrew paying you to help protect him and get rid of me?"

  He knew that was a mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Abernathy's already grim mouth tightened even more, and he stepped over to the window to set the candle and the cup down on the sill. His long fingers wrapped around the handle of the bludgeon. "You're going to be sorry you said that, Hallam."

  Davis saw the blow coming, but he could not get out of the way in time. He dropped the bread and ham onto the bunk and tried to duck, but the cudgel caught him on the shoulder and drove him back against the wall. Pain flared through him, paralyzing him.

  Abernathy stepped back. "I'm sworn to uphold the law," he said. "No one pays me except the county. Now, you can eat your supper while that candle is still burning, or you can eat it in the dark. I don't care a whit either way. But you'd best be quiet in here tonight. If there's a lot of shouting or crying, I'll come back and you'll get a taste of this club again, do you understand?"

  Davis managed to nod. He clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand, hanging on tightly as if that would somehow make the pain go away. It didn't.

  Abernathy went out, locking the door behind him.

  Davis huddled on the bunk for several minutes, waiting for the agony in his shoulder and arm to subside. Finally, when it did, he was able to pick up the bread and gnaw off a bite. It was stale and hard and tasteless, and when he tried the ham, the grease that clung to it cloyed in his mouth and almost gagged him. The meat tasted a little rancid, too, but he knew it was all he would get. He forced himself to eat, although he could not think of any reason to do so.

  The candle flame guttered out about the same time as he swallowed the last bites of the food and washed them down with the water.

  He had already found the wooden bucket under the bunk that served as a slops jar for the cell. He dug it out now, relieved himself, and put the bucket in a corner instead of replacing it underneath the bunk. The smell from it only added to the unwholesome stench that filled the air of the cell.

  The stink of despair, he thought. It had soaked into these stones until they fairly reeked with it. And he was certainly adding his share to it, he added bitterly to himself.

  The cell had been cold when Davis first awoke there, but with the coming of night the temperature dropped even more. He couldn't sit back on the bunk and lean against the wall because the stones seemed to suck every bit of warmth from him.

  The bunk had one thin blanket on it; Davis wrapped up in it as best he could, drawing his feet up off the floor and curling up as tightly a
s possible. The darkness in the cell was relieved only by what faint starlight filtered in through the barred window. No light came through the window in the door, leading Davis to believe that yet another door shut off the cell block from Abernathy's office.

  That night was the longest Davis had ever spent. He could not have said if he ever slept. Surely a few times he dozed off, but when the square opening of the window turned from black to gray and then brightened even more with the approach of dawn, he was wide awake, staring across the little cell at the door without really seeing it.

  This time when Abernathy brought food into the cell—a bowl of thin gruel—Davis kept his mouth shut. Abernathy didn't say anything either, and when he was gone Davis ate hungrily. His body still had an appetite despite the stunned condition of his mind.

  He was just finishing the gruel when Abernathy unlocked the cell door and stepped inside. "You have a visitor," he said.

  Davis looked up in surprise. "A visitor?" he repeated, confused. He couldn't think of anyone who would come to visit him in jail.

  Unless . . . unless it was Andrew. Davis's fingers tightened on the bowl in his hands. He had not been given a spoon, probably for fear that he would try to use it as a weapon. Well, that was wise, he decided, because if Andrew stepped through that door and Davis had had a spoon in his hands, he might have used it to dig out what passed for the bastard's heart . . .

  Jonas Kirby came into the cell behind Abernathy. Davis's neighbor glowered at him. "How could you do such a thing, Hallam?" he said.

  "I didn't."

  Abernathy chuckled humorlessly, as dry a sound as a man's boots scuffing through fallen leaves in the autumn. "I told you that's what he'd say, Kirby."

  "When I left you after we'd been down to Bristow's, I thought we were starting to be friends— even though you've always been a sour, bitter man, Hallam."

  That wasn't true, Davis thought. He was just quiet, the sort of man who pondered before he spoke. Not like most folks who just spouted whatever came to mind.

  But Kirby's visit might give him a chance to convince someone of his innocence. Davis stood up, placing the empty bowl on the bunk, and said, "Think about what happened yesterday, Jonas. You were with me right up until the time I went back to my cabin and supposedly killed my wife and attacked my half-brother. Did I seem insane to you when we parted company?"

  Kirby hesitated before answering, pulling on his chin whiskers as he thought. Finally, he said, "Well, I reckon not. But I was only a few hundred yards down the road when I heard the most awful shout from back at your place. It sounded like the cry of a madman, right enough."

  Davis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was going to have to tell them what had really happened, painful though it might be to put the experience into words. He opened his eyes and looked at Abernathy and Kirby and said, "I shouted, all right. You would, too, if you had found your wife in bed with your own brother."

  Both men looked shocked and angry. "Don't speak ill of the dead!" Kirby said. "Have you no shame?"

  "It was Faith who had no shame," Davis said, pressing on while he still possessed the strength to do so. "I tell you I found them there together, and of course I yelled in anger. I had my knife, and I might have taken it to Andrew after we scuffled a bit, I admit that. I don't know what I might have done. But he had a gun, a little pistol, hidden underneath his breeches. He picked it up and tried to shoot me. Faith got between us just as Andrew fired."

  "You mean that Paxton killed your wife, but he was trying to kill you?" Abernathy said.

  Davis nodded. "That's right."

  "Well, it sounds perfectly logical . . ."

  Davis's hopes rose.

  "But it's still a damned lie," Abernathy finished.

  His hands clenching into fists, Davis stepped forward. Abernathy reached for his club, but when Davis stopped, the constable did not pull the weapon from behind his belt. Abernathy kept hold of it, however.

  "Why?" Davis asked. "Why do you believe Andrew and not me? I'm telling the truth."

  "It's true that your wife was . . . unclothed," Abernathy said. "But that was only because you ripped her garments from her when you attacked her. Paxton explained all that, and I believe him. Perhaps you only imagined that you saw the two of them together. A man who is losing his mind sometimes sees things that aren't there."

  Davis felt his hopes flowing out of him like water. Nothing he said was going to change Abernathy's mind, and Kirby seemed to be just as stubborn in his belief that Davis was guilty of the awful crime.

  "You didn't answer my question," Davis said quietly. "Why do you believe Andrew and not me?"

  "If Paxton was guilty, he wouldn't have come riding to find me like all the demons of Hades were after him, now would he?" Abernathy said. "Besides, your children have told me how you and your wife had been unhappy with each other and how angry you were at your brother."

  "You've been talking to my children about this?" Davis was outraged.

  "They saw what you did to their mother. It's a bit late to be worrying about what they know or don't know."

  Davis turned away, unable to bear the accusatory stares any longer. He went to the window, raised his hands, and grasped the iron bars in the aperture just above his head. He hung there, leaning against the wall, his weight on his hands, as great shudders shook his body. Despite everything they said, he had not been insane.

  But he might be before this was all over.

  When he was able to speak again, he asked without turning around, "Will there be a trial?"

  "Tomorrow morning," Abernathy said. "Magistrate Symms will preside."

  "Perhaps he'll listen to reason. Someone is bound to believe me sooner or later."

  "I wouldn't count on it, Hallam," Kirby said.

  "Nor would I," Abernathy added. "My guess is that by tomorrow night, you'll be swinging from the gibbet, and deservedly so. We can't have people going around murdering their wives in fits of mad rage."

  Kirby came closer and laid a hand on Davis's shoulder. Davis pulled away. "For what it's worth," Kirby said, "my wife and I have agreed to take in your children and care for them as if they were our own. They're the truly innocent ones in this whole terrible business."

  "I . . . I thought they were with Andrew," Davis said.

  "An unmarried man cannot care for small children," Kirby said. "If he finds a wife, perhaps they will go back to live with him and his bride. Until then, you can rest assured your young ones will be looked after properly, Hallam."

  "By a man who helped condemn their father to hang."

  Kirby moved back to the cell door, his face taut with anger. "Think what you will. The truth is, I'm sorry about this, damned sorry—for all of you."

  Kirby went out and Abernathy followed him, closing and locking the door behind them, and Davis stayed where he was under the window. He leaned back a little and looked out through the opening. The sky was a dull, leaden gray again today, but his mind wasn't really on the weather.

  A thought too strong to be denied forced itself into his brain, intruding its evil image until that was all Davis could see.

  Himself . . . on the end of a hangman's rope.

  Chapter 4

  Davis stared down at his hands. They seemed not even to belong to him. They were strange, alien things, the paws of a beast, not a man. He twisted his wrists a little, making the chain connecting the manacles clink slightly.

  The iron was cold against his skin, which was nothing unusual. Davis had been cold for a long time now, such a long time that he had trouble recalling what it was like to be warm. Surely more than just two days had passed since the awful afternoon that had changed his life forever. It seemed more like a year at least, he thought, or perhaps two.

  "On your feet, Hallam," Peter Abernathy said.

  For a moment, the words seemed as foreign to Davis as the sight of his own manacled hands. The constable might as well have been speaking German, like those Hessian mercenaries old George II
I had brought over to fight for him during the Revolution.

  "I said get up." Abernathy's voice was like the ice on a pond, hard and thin and brittle. He stood in the doorway of the cell, his hand on the polished wooden butt of the pistol tucked behind his wide black belt. He frowned at Davis. "You're not going to give me trouble, are you?"

  Davis took a deep breath out of sheer weariness. The stink of the cell filled his lungs, made him want to gag. He swallowed the reflex and put his hands on his knees. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Abernathy moved back out of the doorway, still holding his hand on the pistol. "That's good. Come along peacefully, and I won't put the irons on your legs. I never liked putting irons on a man's legs."

  Before the shackles had been locked into place around Davis's wrists, Abernathy had allowed him to put on his coat. It would be a chilly walk from the jail to the meeting hall where the trial would take place. Davis had thought that he could jump the constable, knock him unconscious, and escape from the grip of the evil that had closed around him like a giant, callused hand.

  But there were three men waiting just outside the cell, all of them armed with muskets. Abernathy had deputized them to serve as guards while he was taking Davis to the trial. The idea of escape had departed Davis's head as quickly as it came.

  The three men backed off to give him room to emerge from the cell, just as Abernathy was doing. Abernathy had seen enough tragedy in his life to be able to keep his face expressionless. The same didn't hold true of the three deputies. Their gazes slid over Davis, paused for an instant, then darted quickly away, as if they had accidentally seen something foul.

  Murderer. Wife-killer. Those were the names they knew him by now. Davis Hallam was a forgotten man. Only the killer remained.

  Once again Davis had to take a deep breath, this time as a shudder passed through him. Perhaps the magistrate, old Albertus Symms, would believe him when he explained what had happened.