The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  "My sincere regrets on the loss of your daughter, madam," he said.

  Mrs. Larrimore returned his nod. Her face was so pale, her blue eyes so wispy, that she was barely there, Abernathy thought. Obviously, the death of her daughter had been a terrible blow to her.

  "Thank you, Constable," she said, her voice as fragile as her features. "We would never have been able to endure this ordeal without the kindness of compassionate people such as yourself."

  That was all she said to him during the brief ride to the church. She lifted a lace handkerchief to her face and kept it there, withdrawing behind it as if the gossamer lace was as thick and sturdy as a stone wall.

  Larrimore was silent, too, and Abernathy remained so as well. Let them think their own thoughts, the constable told himself. Surely there had been much to sort through during the long trip from the Tidewater.

  When the coach reached the church and came to a stop, Abernathy opened the door and stepped out first, holding it for the Larrimores against the wind that threatened to catch it and slam it. Larrimore emerged from the vehicle and reached up to assist his wife.

  When they were both on the ground, Abernathy closed the door softly and ushered them toward the church, which was built of whitewashed planks that had been freighted inland all the way from Richmond. To one side of the church was the cemetery, surrounded by a fence made of sturdy posts. Hammond Larrimore and his wife walked directly to the churchyard, bypassing the sanctuary itself.

  Abernathy opened the gate in the fence, then stepped back to give the grieving couple their privacy. Mrs. Larrimore stumbled a bit, but her husband was there beside her to take her arm and steady her.

  Abernathy was unable to tell if her misstep had been because of the roughness of the ground, or the sorrow that filled her eyes with tears and left no room for anything else inside her.

  In a small settlement such as Elkton, word of anything unusual got around quickly, and the arrival of a fancy coach bearing two strangers certainly qualified as news. Abernathy heard voices and looked over his shoulder to see several of the town's wives coming out of their cabins, pulling shawls around their shoulders and chattering among themselves.

  The men who generally loafed on the porch of the trading post had taken an interest in the new arrivals and left their benches to amble toward the church.

  Abernathy turned to face them squarely, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head as he directed a firm glare toward the townspeople. Everyone interpreted the look correctly, and since no one wanted to cross Abernathy, they backed off to allow the Larrimores to mourn in peace.

  Once he was satisfied that the visitors to Elkton would not be disturbed, Abernathy turned toward the churchyard again. He saw the two of them standing in front of the gravestone. Elizabeth Larrimore reached out, tentatively at first, and placed her hand on the stone. A shudder went through her, as if the coldness of the grave was traveling directly from the stone into her body through her hand and leeching the last vestiges of warmth and humanity from her.

  Her husband put his arm around her shoulders and held her tightly. He leaned his head close to hers and spoke, the words much too quiet for Abernathy to hear them. That was all right. Whatever was being said, it was between husband and wife, mother and father, and he had no right to be privy to the conversation.

  After a few minutes, Larrimore seemed to be trying gently to urge his wife away from the grave of their daughter. Elizabeth wasn't budging, though. Larrimore spoke to her again, then his shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. He patted her on the back and turned away, coming toward the churchyard gate with slow steps.

  "My wife wants a few minutes more with Faith," Larrimore said quietly as he joined Abernathy outside the fence. "This has been very . . . difficult for her."

  "Of course," Abernathy murmured.

  "If only Davis Hallam had never come to the Tidewater."

  "What was he doing there?" Abernathy asked, thinking that it might do Larrimore some good to talk about it while his wife was grieving. He was genuinely curious, too. "I didn't know the man well, but I thought he was simply a farmer."

  "That's all he ever was," Larrimore said. "I was acquainted with his stepfather, a man named Henry Paxton who has a shipping concern. Evidently Hallam was a bit of an embarrassment to Paxton, who gave him a letter of introduction to me in hopes that I would find a place on my plantation for him. I made him an assistant overseer."

  Abernathy shook his head. "Hard to imagine Hallam as an overseer. He was a quiet man. Almost too quiet."

  "Indeed. As I said, he was a farmer at heart, and he might have made a good overseer, given time. But he wasn't content to merely do his job and see that the slaves did the work. He went into the fields with them! Said that he needed the dirt on his hands, that he could judge the tobacco better if he helped plant it and care for it himself. Utter nonsense, of course. I couldn't have such a thing. I told him he would have to leave."

  Larrimore winced, as if he had just felt a physical pain. "But it was too late. By that time Faith was smitten with him, and he with her. He had a dream of having his own farm, and he had convinced her to share that dream. I did everything I could to discourage the match—" Again Larrimore's hands clenched into fists. "No words of mine could reach her. She was determined to marry Hallam and come with him to this backwoods valley . . . I beg your pardon, Constable. I meant no offense to your home."

  "That's quite all right, sir. I understand completely."

  Larrimore sighed, as he had done in the churchyard. "So she came with him and bore his children and . . . and now she lies there cold in the ground because of him. By God, if I had Davis Hallam here before me, I wouldn't wait for the hangman! I'd choke the life out of that blackhearted devil myself!"

  Since Abernathy had experienced that same feeling many times himself over the past few weeks, he couldn't blame Hammond Larrimore for the outburst. He simply nodded and said nothing, and after a moment, Larrimore went on in a more controlled voice, "Is there suitable lodging for the night here in Elkton?"

  "There's an inn," Abernathy told him. "Nothing fancy, mind you, just some rooms on the second floor over Perry's tavern. But the place is fairly clean, and I'll speak to Jeremiah Perry myself, to insure that you and Mrs. Larrimore will not be disturbed."

  Larrimore nodded in appreciation. "That's very kind of you, Constable." He looked intently at Abernathy, his eyes narrowed in thought. "I'd like to speak to you later. I have a feeling you regard Davis Hallam in much the same light as do I."

  "I can come down to Perry's place," Abernathy offered.

  "No, I'll pay a visit to you in your office, if I may. After supper, perhaps."

  Abernathy nodded. "That will be fine. Whatever you wish, Mr. Larrimore."

  "I wish my daughter were still alive," Larrimore said. "But oftentimes, we don't get what we wish for, do we, Constable?"

  Abernathy thought about the way Davis Hallam had escaped. "No, sir, we don't," he said. "We certainly do not."

  * * *

  Larrimore was finally able to persuade his wife to leave Faith's grave. Abernathy had been growing concerned that Mrs. Larrimore would have to be physically removed from the churchyard, which probably would have required his assistance. He was grateful such an unpleasant scene had been avoided.

  After taking the Larrimores to the inn and making sure Jeremiah Perry understood how they were to be treated, Abernathy returned to his office.

  It was late afternoon, and he could have gone to the small cabin behind the building, where he was allowed to live since he was the constable. But the visit to the churchyard had taken away whatever appetite he might have had, and besides, Larrimore had mentioned that he would come to the office to see him later. So Abernathy poured himself a cup of wine and sat behind the desk, brooding. From time to time he distractedly massaged his left arm, where the mending bone still ached.

  He wasn't really aware of the grayness outside turning into the black of night, b
ut when the door opened later and Abernathy looked up, he saw that darkness had indeed fallen. The wind had picked up even more, and its cold fingers curled around him. Hammond Larrimore stepped into the office, his normally ruddy face even more flushed than it had been earlier, and pushed the door closed behind him against the wind. Abernathy stood up to greet him.

  Larrimore waved the constable back into the chair. "Do you have another cup?" he asked, nodding toward the jug of wine sitting on the desk.

  "Of course," Abernathy said, taking a cup from the drawer and filling it with wine. He pushed it across to Larrimore, who settled down in the room's other chair.

  Larrimore took a healthy swallow of the wine, then inhaled deeply. "My wife has gone to sleep," he said. "Thank God for that. I feared that the visit to Faith's grave would keep her up all night."

  "Your daughter's death was a dreadful thing," Abernathy murmured. "Just dreadful."

  "We lost three children in infancy," Larrimore said. "Faith was the only one who survived. She was a grown woman, she lived her life, she made her own choices that led to her death. That should make it . . . easier somehow. Easier than putting those helpless little ones in the ground. But it's not." He shuddered. "Dear God, it's not."

  A couple of moments passed in silence. Abernathy did not know what to say to this man to comfort him. Such things had never come easily to him.

  "Well, Constable," Larrimore finally said. "I came down here to ask you what was done about finding Davis Hallam."

  "We trailed him as best we could the night he escaped. It was a dark night, though, and we were unable to keep up with him. Nor could we find him the next day." Abernathy poured more wine into his cup. "I had men looking for him for the next week, but he was gone, of course. Far and away, I would imagine. We have a journeyman printer here, and I had him make up those posters you saw. I sent them to all the settlements in the area." His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "That was all I could do. I'm sorry, Mr. Larrimore."

  "I understand. You were injured," Larrimore said gruffly. "But what about since then?"

  "My duties keep me here. I'm Elkton's constable. I have a responsibility to the town."

  "Because the townspeople pay your wages, give you a place to live."

  "Well . . . yes."

  "Then I suggest," Larrimore said, "that it's time you change employers, Constable."

  Abernathy frowned. "Just what do you mean by that, sir?"

  Larrimore reached inside his coat and brought out a small leather pouch. He set it down on Abernathy's desk, hard enough so that the clink of coins from within was clearly heard. "I mean that I will pay you handsomely to track down Davis Hallam and bring him to justice, Constable Abernathy," he said.

  Abernathy looked from the planter's grim features to the bag of coins, and his gaze lingered there for a long moment. When he lifted his eyes to Larrimore's face again, he asked, "You're saying that I should give up my job here and work for you?"

  "Exactly."

  "And you'll pay me for finding and capturing Hallam?"

  "Naturally."

  "Or for killing him?"

  "Whatever is necessary to bring about justice for my daughter's death," Larrimore said, his voice flat and cold.

  Abernathy took a deep breath. "I see."

  Larrimore untied the string at the top of the pouch and upended it so that the gold coins within poured out onto the desk. "Now you see," he said.

  For a second, Abernathy felt insulted. Larrimore was obviously accustomed to getting whatever he wanted just because he had money and power. Neither of those things had helped, though, when his daughter had decided to marry Davis Hallam and come with him to the Shenandoah Valley. Nor could they ever bring Faith back to life. But it was clear that Larrimore still thought justice could be bought.

  And perhaps he was right . . .

  Abernathy took a deep breath. "I've served this settlement well—" he began.

  "I know that," Larrimore said. "I talked to people who know you, or know of your reputation, before Mrs. Larrimore and I ever came here. I decided that you were the man to track down Hallam. I'm convinced that no one else can do it."

  "There are other men, long hunters, who know the frontier lands better than I."

  "None of them had Hallam escape from their jail. None of them had their arm broken by the man."

  A thin, humorless smile touched Abernathy's lips. "So you think that because my pride was wounded, I would pursue Hallam more diligently than anyone else?"

  Larrimore returned the smile, but his eyes were just as cold as the constable's. "Isn't that the case?"

  After a couple of seconds, Abernathy nodded abruptly. "I suppose it is."

  "Then take the job," Larrimore urged. "Resign your position as constable. Magistrate Symms can find someone else to take over. I need you, Abernathy. My daughter demands justice."

  "All right," Abernathy said, although the words sounded to him as if they were coming from someone else's mouth. "I'll do it."

  Larrimore sat back in his chair, sipped his wine, and said smugly, "Good. I knew you'd see things my way."

  Abernathy reached out, scooped the coins back into the pouch, and pulled the cord tight, closing it. He dropped it in the drawer of his desk. "When do you want me to start?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "Tomorrow," Abernathy said. "I'll speak to the magistrate in the morning."

  "Excellent." Larrimore looked as if a thought had occurred to him. "If I remember correctly from Symms's letter, Hallam's brother was involved somehow in all of this."

  "Half-brother," Abernathy corrected. "His name was Andrew Paxton. Did you know him?"

  Larrimore shook his head. "No, I can't say that I ever met the lad, though I may have heard Henry mention him from time to time. What happened to him?"

  "He disappeared the same night Hallam escaped. It was at Paxton's cabin, in fact, that we almost caught up to Hallam."

  Larrimore frowned. "Do you think Hallam killed him, too?"

  "There was no sign of a body in or around the cabin," Abernathy replied with a shake of his head. He hesitated, then asked, "How much do you know of the actual events of the case?"

  Larrimore sat forward in his chair. "The magistrate was very discreet in his letter. And sympathetic, of course."

  "Then it falls to me to be blunt, sir. Davis Hallam claimed that your daughter was involved with his half-brother. He said that he found the two of them . . . together . . . and that Andrew Paxton was really the one who killed her. Hallam claimed the death was accidental, that Paxton was actually trying to shoot him."

  Larrimore's face had reddened even more as Abernathy spoke, and a thunderous frown creased his forehead. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "Faith was a good Christian woman. She would never be an . . . an adulteress!"

  Abernathy nodded. "That was my feeling as well, Mr. Larrimore, and all the evidence supported that conclusion. Andrew Paxton was devastated by Mrs. Hallam's death and by his brother's wild accusations. I believe that, when the trial was over, he simply decided to leave the area and put the whole tragic affair behind him. It's entirely possible he doesn't even know that Hallam escaped."

  Larrimore settled back. "Then there's no chance this Andrew Paxton might have helped Hallam, hidden him or anything like that?"

  "Absolutely none. Hallam's lunacy made the two of them bitter enemies."

  Larrimore sighed and said, "Well, then, there's no help there."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Larrimore. I'll find Hallam."

  "You sound convinced of that."

  "I am." Abernathy grasped his left arm, rubbed at the aching bone. "He'll not escape me again."

  Larrimore lifted his cup of wine. "Let us drink, then, to justice."

  "To justice," Abernathy echoed as he raised his own cup.

  But both men knew what they were really drinking to, and it wasn't justice at all.

  It was revenge. And it was going to be sweet . . .

  Chapter 10


  Two days after passing the Cumberland Gap, the group was working in a particularly thick stretch of woods on either side of the trail. The weather had turned quite warm and humid, with a strong breeze that swayed the tops of the trees but did little to relieve the discomfort of the men on the ground. Davis was sweating as he swung his ax at the thick trunk of a tree. Winter, though only recently over, was already beginning to seem almost like a memory.

  The thud of hoofbeats made Davis pause in his work and look back along the trail. He knew that both Colonel Welles and Conn Powell were farther along the road, and no one else was mounted. The pace of the approaching rider made it clear that it was one man on horseback, not the wagons that brought up the rear of the party every day.

  Sure enough, a man on a big bay horse rounded a bend in the trail and rode toward the workers. He was wearing buckskins and a broad-brimmed hat.

  Most of the men stopped working to watch him as he trotted up to them and reined in.

  "Hello, boys," he said in a hearty voice. "I'm lookin' for a fella named Welles, supposed to be in charge of this outfit."

  Bill Grimsby pointed along the trail toward the west. "You'll find him up thataway, 'bout half a mile or so, scoutin' out our work for tomorrow."

  The stranger grinned. "Scoutin' is what I'm doin', too. Name's Mather. I'm guidin' the wagon train that's comin' up the trail behind you."

  That statement brought several excited questions from the men. Davis's interest perked up, too. He hadn't known anything about a wagon train following along behind them on the Wilderness Road. And yet. that was why they were widening the trail, wasn't it? So that immigrant wagons could get through more easily and carry more and more settlers into the land of Kentucky? Obviously, the people in the caravan being led by Mather wanted to be the first ones to take advantage of the improved route.

  The men in the work party weren't thinking about that, however, Davis figured. They were thinking that after several weeks in the wilderness, it was going to be good to see other people again— including the women who were no doubt with the wagon train.