The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  Then wings will sprout from my back, Davis thought, and I will fly over the Shenandoah Valley and far away beyond the Blue Ridge. That was just about as likely as Symms believing him.

  Davis hadn't seen any of this building except the cell he had occupied since his arrest. As he had suspected, there was a corridor outside the cell, with another thick wooden door at the end of it. This door had no window in it. Abernathy moved past him and opened the door.

  The constable's office was considerably warmer than the cell. The air was smoky from the burning logs in the stone fireplace on one wall of the room. Heat from the blaze pushed unpleasantly against Davis's face. After two days in the dank cell, this sudden, stifling heat was just as uncomfortable to him as the cold.

  The office was dominated by a massive rolltop desk. Davis had to wonder how much it had cost to have that monster freighted over the Blue Ridge in a wagon. A couple of muskets hung on the wall on pegs, and powderhorns and shot pouches dangled from their barrels. Other than that, the room was sparsely furnished. Its usual occupant was a sparse man.

  Abernathy opened the front door and gestured curtly. "Outside now."

  Sunlight slanted in through the door and stabbed like thorns into Davis's eyes. After the perpetual gloom of the past two days, the brightness was almost unbearable. As unbearable as the thought that the sun was shining down on a world where his wife no longer lived.

  He turned to Abernathy and said, "My wife . . . her funeral . . ."

  "The services were yesterday," Abernathy said stiffly. "She was laid to rest in the churchyard down the road."

  Davis nodded. He was almost thankful at that moment that his story had not been believed. If the sexton had known how Faith had died with the stain of adultery on her soul, he might not have allowed her to be buried in sacred ground. Despite everything that had happened, Davis was glad she had been laid to rest in a decent fashion.

  Elkton was a small village of less than a hundred people, but it was the largest settlement in this part of the Shenandoah Valley. As Davis moved out of the constable's office and down three steps to the muddy street, he looked around at the scattering of log structures. A trading post, a blacksmith shop, a church, the meeting hall where Magistrate Symms held court, a dozen cabins. That was the extent of Elkton.

  And in front of nearly every building stood small clusters of people watching him. Their heads turned to follow him as he walked down the street toward the meeting hall, trailed by Abernathy and the deputies.

  With each step, his boots made an ugly sucking sound as they pulled free of the thick mud left behind when the sun melted the snowfall.

  There had been a time when Davis would have found a day like today beautiful. The crisp air moving in a light breeze that ruffled the thatch of brown hair on his bare head, the burnished glow of the sunlight, the deep blue of the sky dotted with white clouds that reminded him of bolls of cotton in the fields of the Tidewater plantations . . .

  Memory was like that chain between his wrists, one link leading inexorably to the next. The thought of plantation cotton linked with Faith, who had grown up on just such a vast estate, and the beauty of the day turned to ashes. Davis turned his eyes down to the thick brown mud of the street.

  "Keep moving," Abernathy ordered. "Magistrate Symms is waiting."

  Davis plodded on toward the meeting hall, feeling the eyes of the watchers, wondering why so many of these people were quick to presume his guilt. Some of them knew him, some didn't, but from what he had seen during that glance along the street, the expressions on the faces of everyone in the settlement had been of condemnation.

  The mere accusation of killing his wife had been enough to convict him in their eyes.

  He reached the broad wooden steps of the meeting hall, and went up them one by one. There was a verandah along the front of the building. Davis crossed it and went through the door Abernathy held open. He wasn't accustomed to having someone open doors for him. Abernathy wasn't doing it to be polite, of course.

  Davis's steps echoed on the raised puncheon floor of the meeting hall. The building had no windows, only narrow slits where rifles could be fired, relics of the time when this land had belonged to the Indians and the white settlers had wrested it away from them.

  The big, high-ceilinged room was lit by several lamps and by a fireplace in the back wall. In front of the fireplace was a long table, and seated at it, with the flames crackling and leaping behind him, was Albertus Symms, the magistrate.

  He was a thick-bodied man with a red, beefy face and graying red hair, wearing a dusty black suit that made him look as much like a minister as a magistrate. On the table in front of him lay a Bible and a tricorn hat, the thick black book reinforcing the image of the man as a preacher.

  Davis knew that Symms was hardly a holy man. Symms brewed corn whiskey and was his own best customer. What was left over he sold to Herring over at the trading post. It was rumored that at one time Symms had even sold whiskey to the Indians, but that had never been proven and it was long in the past, anyway. These days he upheld the law, for the most part, instead of breaking it.

  Symms shifted a plug of tobacco from one cheek to the other, then said to Abernathy, "Is this the man?"

  "Yes, Magistrate," the constable replied. "His name is Davis Hallam."

  Symms nodded. He had met Davis on at least four occasions, but he had a notoriously bad memory for names and faces. Davis wasn't sure how Symms had wound up occupying such an important post as magistrate. He knew he had never voted for Symms in any sort of election.

  "Step forward, Master Hallam," Symms said.

  Behind Davis, men were filing into the hall to watch the trial. The womenfolk would have to stay outside; they were allowed to gossip about what was going on in the hall but not actually witness it.

  Davis heard the happy shout of a child at play as he stepped forward, the sound drifting in through the open door of the hall, and it reminded him so much of his own children that a pang of loss shot through him and made him stumble a bit.

  Symms glowered at Abernathy. "Do you allow drinking in your jail now, Constable?"

  "No, sir," Abernathy answered quickly. "Hallam's had not a single jot of spirits since I locked him up."

  "Perhaps 'twas guilt made him misstep," Symms said. "We'll soon find out. Read the charge, Constable."

  Abernathy had no documents in his hands. He simply said, "The sovereign State of Virginia charges Davis Hallam with the crime of murder in the death of his wife, Faith Elizabeth Larrimore Hallam, may God rest her soul. And the sovereign State of Virginia also charges him with the crime of attempted murder in the attack on his brother, Andrew Paxton."

  "Half-brother," Davis muttered under his breath.

  "Hold your tongue, prisoner," Symms snapped. "You'll have your chance to speak."

  Little good that chance would do him, Davis thought. The magistrate had obviously already made up his mind about the facts of the case, just like everyone else in Elkton.

  "Are there witnesses to these heinous crimes?" Symms asked Abernathy.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Bring 'em forward, then."

  Abernathy turned and called out, "Jonas Kirby, step forward."

  The tall, rawboned farmer shouldered his way through the crowd and came up to the front of the room. He cast a glance at Davis that was half-regret, half-defiance, then stood and faced Symms, twisting his hat nervously in his hands.

  "You're Jonas Kirby, a neighbor of the accused man?" Abernathy asked, strictly for appearance's sake.

  "Aye," Kirby said with a nod.

  "And you were with Davis Hallam two days ago when he returned to his farm?"

  "I was."

  "Where had the two of you been?" Abernathy asked.

  "Down to the Bristow place. William Bristow has a hurt leg, and me and Hallam been helping him and his family with their chores while he's laid up."

  "That seems a neighborly thing to do," Symms said.

  Kirby nod
ded. "Aye. Hallam has always been a good neighbor."

  Symms just grunted, as if even that was in doubt. He waved at Abernathy, indicating that the constable should continue with the questioning.

  "What happened when the two of you reached Hallam's farm?"

  "We parted ways on the lane. Hallam rode to his place, while I went on toward my own."

  "And then?"

  Kirby turned his head a little, just enough to glance at Davis again. "A couple of minutes later, I heard a shout."

  "What sort of shout?"

  "An angry one."

  "What did you do?"

  "I turned my horse around and looked back at Hallam's cabin. I couldn't see anything except his children, playing outside in the snow. Then. . . " Kirby took a deep breath. "Then there was a shot, from inside the cabin. I figured something was wrong, so I rode back as fast as I could."

  "What did you find?"

  "Before I got there, Andrew Paxton came out of the cabin. He was yelling about how Hallam had killed his wife."

  "Hallam's wife, you mean, not Paxton's?"

  "Paxton's not married. I meant Hallam's wife. Faith."

  Davis closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Kirby's voice, harsh and unyielding as always, softened a bit when he pronounced Faith's name. She had had that effect on people, Davis thought. She had brought beauty and elegance into a hard and unforgiving land, and most folks had loved her for it. Davis certainly had.

  And so had Andrew.

  "You didn't see Hallam shoot his wife?" Symms asked.

  Kirby shook his head. "No, sir, I didn't. But when I looked through the door of the cabin, I could see her there on the floor."

  Davis closed his eyes. Don't say it, he implored silently. Don't say that she was lying there as naked as a harlot.

  "She had been shot," Kirby said.

  Davis heaved a sigh of relief.

  Symms shot him a frown, clearly taking Davis's reaction for something else. Abernathy said, "That will be all, Kirby."

  With a nod, Kirby moved back away from the magistrate's table. He faded into the crowd, pushing his way toward the door.

  "You have another witness, Constable?" Symms asked.

  "Yes, sir, but before I call him, I want to tell you what I discovered from talking to Hallam's children."

  Davis's head jerked up and his lips pulled back from his teeth in an angry grimace as he looked at Abernathy. "You've no right to bring them into this!"

  "Quiet!" Symms thundered. "I told you you'd have your chance to speak. Go ahead, Constable."

  "I don't want to bring innocent children into a court of law," Abernathy said, "so I questioned them at the home of Jonas Kirby and his wife, who are caring for them. Mary Hallam, the oldest child, told me that her mother and father were often angry with each other and that she thought her father hated her uncle Andrew."

  "That's not true!" Hallam couldn't stop the outburst. "Faith and I loved each other! We quarreled no more than any married couple."

  But he was shading the truth himself, and he knew it. There had been serious trouble in their marriage. How could he deny it? If everything had truly been all right, Faith never would have given herself to Andrew that way.

  "And what about your brother?" Abernathy snapped. "Can you say that you did not hate him?"

  "He . . . he was my brother."

  "That's not an answer to the question I asked."

  Davis looked down at the floor, studying the grain of the split logs that formed the puncheons. "There were times I . . . hated him," he said quietly, barely recognizing his own voice. "But he was still my brother."

  "Proceed, Constable," Symms said. "You've established what Hallam's daughter told you."

  Abernathy nodded. "In that case, I call Andrew Paxton forward."

  The stir that went through the crowd was a thing with a life of its own. Men stepped aside, and Andrew walked through the gap they left him. Davis turned to look at him, saw the pale, handsome face, the dark eyes, the expensive coat and shirt and breeches. Homespun was not good enough for Andrew. It never had been.

  Maybe they were right to have him on trial, Davis thought, because at this moment, he truly wanted to kill Andrew, to wrap his hands around the throat of his half-brother and squeeze until those pleasing features were mottled with blue and his tongue was protruding from his mouth and his eyes were wide and bulging with the horror of death. Davis's fingers trembled with the need.

  Abernathy must have been able to read that on Davis's face, because he put his hand on the butt of his pistol again and said, "Step back, Hallam. Step back, by God, or I'll—"

  Davis moved aside to give Andrew the room to come forward. Abernathy relaxed slightly, but he still watched Davis closely.

  "You're Andrew Paxton, brother of Davis Hallam?" Abernathy said.

  "Half-brother," Andrew replied.

  "Of course. Mr. Paxton, did you come to the Shenandoah Valley because your half-brother had settled here?"

  Andrew looked over at Davis and said, "Naturally. I thought he would welcome me."

  "And did he?"

  "No, he seemed to . . . resent my presence. I never felt really comfortable in his home, at least not when Davis was there."

  "Then you visited your brother's home when he was not there?"

  Andrew's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "Occasionally. Whenever I rode over, I had no way of knowing if Davis would be home or not, and when he wasn't, I saw no harm in visiting with my sister-in-law and playing with my nieces and nephew. On a cold day, I might share a cup of tea with them."

  "And that was all?"

  "Of course!"

  "There was nothing between you and your sister-in-law?"

  Andrew's face hardened into angry lines. "Faith was a married woman, a decent woman. I enjoyed her company, yes, but in a totally innocent manner. We shared some things in common in our background. We had both spent a great deal of our younger years in more, shall we say, civilized surroundings."

  The magistrate's face darkened, and Davis knew that Andrew had just slipped a bit in Symms's estimation with his indirectly disparaging remark about the Shenandoah Valley. But the facts of the case were all that really mattered, and Symms still seemed to believe Andrew's version of them.

  "What happened on the afternoon of the day before last?" Abernathy asked.

  "I rode over to Davis's house, but he wasn't there. Faith said he had gone down to Bristow's place. I wasn't surprised. I thought I would wait there for a bit and see if Davis returned."

  "Was there a specific reason you wanted to see your brother?"

  "No, not really. It was just a visit."

  "What did you and Mrs. Hallam do?"

  "We had some tea and talked, while the children played outside; as I mentioned before, that was our custom."

  The untruths came so easily from his lips, Davis thought, the words spoken with all the sincerity and conviction of a man who utterly believed everything he was saying. Davis wanted to shout out that he was lying, but he forced himself to remain calm.

  "What happened next?" Abernathy asked quietly. The other men in the room were completely silent now, save for the soft sounds of their breathing.

  "I . . . I didn't hear Davis ride up," Andrew went on, "but then suddenly he jerked the door of the cabin open and rushed in. He was waving a knife around and shouting. I had no idea what he was so upset about, but after a moment I realized he was calling his wife some vile names."

  "Such as?" the constable prompted.

  "He called her a . . . trollop. He said she was no better than a harlot, and he accused her of . . . of committing the sin of adultery."

  "With whom?"

  Andrew's voice was little more than a whisper. "With me."

  A groan escaped from Davis's lips. This was wrong, so terribly wrong. Why couldn't anyone see that Andrew was lying?

  The intensity of Andrew's story seemed to have shaken even the usually imperturbable Peter Abernathy. He asked, "What did Hall
am do then?"

  "He grabbed hold of her dress and began to . . . to rip her clothing off her."

  "What did you do?"

  "I told him to stop, and when he ignored me, I tried to force him to stop by taking hold of his arms."

  "What happened next?"

  "He threw me aside. I . . . I struck my head against the wall. I was almost knocked senseless."

  Abernathy looked over at Davis, then back at Andrew. "But you saw what happened then?"

  Andrew swallowed and nodded shakily. "I had taken out my pistol earlier and placed it on the table, not wanting to have it in my pocket while I was sitting and talking with Faith. Davis picked it up, and when Faith came toward him again, trying to get him to stop what he was doing, he . . . he shot her."

  The bold, lying accusation rang in Davis's ears like a clap of thunder. He felt a great shudder building inside him, and at the same time, he seemed to be rising up out of his body, so that he could look down and watch what was happening below him.

  He saw himself lunge toward Andrew, his manacled hands outstretched, the fingers hooked like claws. Oddly detached from it all, he observed as Abernathy moved between him and Andrew. The constable brought up the pistol from his belt, but he didn't fire. Instead he lashed out with the barrel at Davis's head.

  Davis's sense of detachment went away abruptly as the heavy iron barrel slammed into the side of his head above the left ear. The impact set off red explosions behind his eyes and dropped him onto his hands and knees. Splinters from the wooden floor dug painfully into his palms as he caught himself. He opened his mouth but no sound came from him.

  A second later, strong hands caught hold of his arms and hauled him to his feet. Two of the men Abernathy had deputized held him while the third man stepped in front of him and drove the butt of his musket into Davis's stomach. A spasm of pain and nausea shook him like a tree in a strong wind.

  "That's enough!" Abernathy called sharply. "Let him go and stand back!"

  Without the support of the deputies, Davis sagged to his knees again and hunkered there, bent over almost double against the pain flooding through his midsection.

  Vaguely, he heard the excited hubbub of the spectators in the meeting hall, but the sounds seemed to be coming from far, far away. He remembered a time as a child when he and his brothers had been swimming in the creek near their home, and he had gone under the water. A current had caught hold of him and tugged him far beneath the surface. The creek had closed in around his head, dimming his vision and cutting his ears off from sounds, and that was the way he felt now, only he was not underwater.