by Pamela Morsi
Hannah wanted their mouths full, because she intended to be doing most of the talking. When she saw that they had what they needed and were all busily consuming their unexpected treat, she picked up her Bible from the counter where she had laid it and began reading from the passages that she had marked.
"And they shall say unto the elders of his city, this our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton and a drunkard, and all men of the city shall stone him with stones. "
Pathkiller stopped chewing abruptly and nearly choked on the tasty morsel he was consuming. He looked at the other two, who were just as astonished as himself. He thought that he had seen everything, but he had never heard of having the Bible read to you when you visited the whiskey peddler.
"But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way." Hannah continued her reading without pause. These men might not be led away from their chosen path, but she was sure that hearing the words of the Good Book could do them nothing but good.
"They are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgment ..."
Tom Quick sat patiently in the woods. He had been as surprised as the others at her invitation and worried that it might be a trick. Now after better than half an hour waiting for them to come back out of the house, he was getting a little concerned.
He heard Miller coming up behind him and turned his attention to the deputy.
"Have you found that still?" he asked.
"Marshal, I'm not sure there is one."
"Of course there is one. Do you think he makes this liquor from thin air?"
"Well," the deputy told him firmly, "it must be in the house or one of the outbuildings. We've searched every inch of ground within a mile. There is no shack, no dugout, nothing."
Tom Quick's face was a mask of displeasure. He had counted on finding that still before they nailed Watson. It would insure that he had no bargaining chips. He looked off over the horizon toward the road. He didn't see any sign of Watson. Perhaps there was time to find it yet.
"The Indians are all in the house. I don't know what they are doing, but they're bound to keep that woman occupied. You and your men scout around those outbuildings."
The deputy nodded as the old man continued.
"Get some long sticks and check for hidden cellars under those buildings. I want everything including the outhouse looked over completely."
"Yes, sir," the deputy replied.
"And get somebody up to have a look in that cabin, they've been in there too long. I want to know what's going on."
"I'll do it myself," he replied and headed off to give the men their orders.
Quick continued to keep watch. Within a few minutes he could see the deputies making their way stealthily to the outbuildings. He saw Miller slowly moving from obstacle to obstacle trying to get closer to the house. Finally he was on the ground near the back door. He remained seated there for several minutes as the marshal watched. Then he made his slow careful retreat in the same manner in which he had come.
The marshal waited patiently as the minutes dragged on, knowing that Miller could not afford to hurry and be seen. Finally he heard him coming back through the woods.
"What's happening in there?"
"They're having a damn prayer meeting!"
"What?"
"She's reading the Bible and they're singing hymns. You wouldn't believe it. Hell, I'd never a guessed that Pathkiller could sing like that."
Tom Quick stared at his deputy, totally dumbfounded. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw movement on the horizon. He turned his attention that way and Miller quickly followed his glance. The whiskey man was returning home.
Henry Lee held the horse at a leisurely pace as he scanned the horizon. He was nervous, but then he had a right to be. There were men out there watching him. Men who wanted to put him in jail. He had better plans for his future than that.
Following his instinct may have saved him, that and a few friends. If he hadn't had such a terrible feeling about the note, he might well have ignored it. That would have been a disaster.
When he'd arrived at Zanola's, her place was just closing up. She was surprised to see him.
"I sent a boy out to your house," she told him. "He says he left you a note."
"He did." Henry Lee pulled the note out of his pocket and showed it to her. "I can't read, so I came to find out what it says."
"You best be getting someone to teach you, this is too dangerous a world to go about it like a blind man."
She invited him into the tack room of the barn, which doubled as the office for her business.
"A man come riding in this afternoon from Okmulgee," she told him. "Seems he works for a friend of yours name of Harjo." Henry Lee felt a wave of anxiety wash over him.
"This Harjo fellow's got a boy at Bacone College, and that boy done heard another boy bragging that he was working for the U.S. marshals. The marshals got a big plan, and the boy's to be a part of it. He's going to pretend he's a bad drunk Indian. Going to catch him a whiskey man name of Watson."
Henry Lee listened to the plan, both surprised and not a little concerned. It was not good to have a man like Tom Quick on your bad side. Quick was like a toothless bulldog; he might never draw blood, but once he clamped those jaws on you, he could be a long-term nuisance.
He'd sat up most of the night, thinking, worrying, making plans on his own. He had purposely stayed away from his place this morning, knowing that they would spend the long day in the hot sun, waiting for him to come home.
That was both good and bad. The long wait would make them tired and careless, he hoped. But it could also give them time. The time they needed to locate the still. If they found the still, Henry Lee would go to jail. It was as simple as that.
If he had been his father, he would have ridden over to Guthrie or maybe even further west and waited for things to cool down. But he wasn't Skut Watson. He wanted to have this confrontation, get it over with, for good or bad, and get on with his life. He would as soon spend time in jail as spend time hiding out from the law.
Of course, he would rather do neither. If he could have what he wanted, he'd spend all his days with Hannah. But that was up to Hannah, she had to make her own choice. Right now, Henry Lee just hoped that he wouldn't be locked up in the penitentiary when she decided.
As Henry Lee rode up into the yard, his face broke out in a cold sweat. He expected Quick and his men to be hiding in the woods, but there were three horses tied at his hitching post. That could mean that they had found the still and no longer saw any reason to try to catch him in the act of selling whiskey.
In that moment of uncertainty, when he was trying to hastily reevaluate the situation, a sound from the house captured his ear.
"I have found a friend in Jesus,
He's everything to me,
He's the fairest of ten thousand to my soul;
He's the Lily of the Valley,
In Him alone I see.
All I need to cleanse and make me fully whole.
In sorrow He's my comfort,
In trouble He's my stay,
He tells me ev'ry care on Him to roll ..."
Henry Lee sat on the wagon seat listening in disbelief for several minutes. Then in the midst of the deep male baritone and the poorly tuned tenors, he heard the throaty beer-garden soprano that he loved. Hannah was home.
Henry Lee pulled on the hand brake and jumped down from the wagon. With a lightness of his heart that was inexplicable in the current dangerous situation, he made his way to the house.
From the doorway he surveyed the scene in wonder. Hannah stood at the head of the table, her Bible clasped in one hand, the other moving rhythmically up and down marking time of the music for the singing. At the table sat three disreputable-looking Indians. Studying them, he easily picked out the young college boy and silently thanked him for his braggart ways and his big mouth. Th
e quartet was mismatched and discordant, but it sounded heavenly to Henry Lee.
"He's the Lily of the Valley,
The bright and morning star,
He's the fairest of ten thousand to my soul."
“Amen!" Henry Lee called loudly from the doorway as the song ended.
All four jumped slightly, but all Henry Lee saw was Hannah's face. Delight at seeing him warred with trepidation for her interference. Henry Lee wanted to set her straight immediately. Ignoring the men at the table, Henry Lee walked directly to his wife and pulled her tenderly into his arms brushing her lips with his own.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson," he whispered huskily. "Nothing could make me happier than hearing you sing again in this kitchen."
At his words, the little bubble of apprehension that had been plaguing Hannah for the past few hours burst into warm sparks of happiness. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off him, and she couldn't stop smiling.
Hearing one of the Indians moving uncomfortably in his chair, Henry Lee remembered what he was about and decided that it was time he took charge of the situation.
Releasing Hannah, he turned to the man he assumed to be the leader, a nondescript Cherokee of indeterminate age. He offered his hand.
"Welcome to my home. I'm Henry Lee Watson, you've already met my wife, Hannah."
"Pathkiller," the man answered to the implied question, but didn't volunteer the names of the other men. He didn't like the way things were going here. He'd had a bad feeling about the operation as soon as the woman had invited them into the house. And now, after an hour of Bible reading and hymn singing, he was even more sure that things were going terribly wrong.
"We know who you are, Whiskey Man. Friends have told us that you make the finest corn liquor in the territory, and we've come to buy some." His smile didn't quite make it to his eyes, but Henry Lee knew that he would never have noticed it had he not been warned.
"I'm afraid your friends have led you wrong," he answered, keeping his voice friendly and purposely not looking at Hannah. He hoped that she wouldn't say anything to contradict him, or give him away with a facial expression. There was no time to warn her, he would simply have to trust her to trust him.
"You won't sell us your whiskey?"
"I don't sell whiskey," Henry Lee answered him calmly. "And I don't own a still."
Pathkiller stood up. Pulling a bag from inside his coat, he poured out coins of silver and gold onto the table.
"We have money," he said angrily, fruitlessly, already knowing that the trap had not worked.
"I'm sure your money's good," Henry Lee agreed. "But I have nothing to sell, unless you'd be willing to buy some of my wife's blackberry preserves?"
Pathkiller picked up his money and prepared to leave. He knew when the game was over. When a man couldn't win he made a dignified retreat.
Tom Quick, who with his deputies had come quietly up to the house, listened with anger at the interchange between the two men. Watson had already got the best of him once and he would be damned if he'd let him do it again without a fight. With all the pent-up anger of a man who's been sitting patiently in the hot sun all day, Quick burst into the kitchen.
Hannah gave a little startled scream before she recognized the angry marshal. Henry Lee drew her to him protectively. He had hoped they would accept defeat and just go away, but he could see that Quick was too enraged to do that.
"You don't get off that easily, Watson," the marshal barked angrily.
"Marshal," Henry Lee said, refusing to act surprised that he was there. Henry Lee just hoped that he hadn't found the still. If there was no still, there was no way he could take him to jail. The marshal's next words caused Henry Lee to give an inaudible sigh of relief.
"It's got to be here in the house," he said to his deputies. "You men search every inch of this place, I want that still found!"
The men began turning over the furniture, pulling things out of the cabinets and generally creating havoc in Hannah's well-ordered house. When one of the deputies carelessly knocked over the dainty little milk pitcher that belonged to her mother, she moved to stop them. Henry Lee's strong arms came around her and held her fast.
"Let the men do their job, Hannah," he told her, planting a consoling kiss on the top of her head. As his arms held her, she relaxed. Having a group of lawmen tear up your house is not a pleasant experience, but being cuddled in Henry Lee's arms made it bearable.
The mattress off the bed was lying in the middle of the sitting room, her clothes from the wardrobe were scattered everywhere. The deputies had a field day figuring out the Dufold. Hannah hoped it was not permanently ruined.
The men were stomping around on the floors when one said, "Marshal Quick, there's a cellar beneath this kitchen."
"Where's the door?"
"Don't see one, sir."
"Miller," he called out. "Go get an axe and bust open this floor."
"No!" Hannah screamed furiously. Pulling away from Henry Lee she spoke sharply to the man called Miller. "For heaven's sake, there is no need to tear up my floor! The door to the cellar is right over here. Follow me and I'll light a candle."
As Hannah opened the well-hidden door, she led the deputy down inside. Picking up a candle and matches from the stock kept back behind the ladder, she lighted his way. The deputy looked around for several minutes, noting the well-stocked shelves of vegetables and examining the rows of potatoes and barrels of cured meats. He finally nodded and they returned upstairs.
"Well?" Quick boomed the question at him.
"Looks about like my mother's cellar," the young deputy answered.
Quick was mad as well as disgusted.
"We must have missed it," he told the men roughly. "Get back out there and search this place again, and I don't want to hear from you until you've found it."
Deputy Miller shot Pathkiller a look and a bond of understanding emerged between the two of them.
"Marshal," Miller told his superior. "There is no still here. He knew we were coming. I don't know how he knew but he knew. Do you think that he would still be here if there was evidence to be found? He'd be sitting in Amarillo resting his can if there was anything to find."
Quick realized that his deputy had the right of it. And cursed himself that he hadn't realized the truth himself without having to be told by a whippersnapper still wet behind the ears.
The marshal turned to Henry Lee. He didn't look much like his father, the old man thought. None of the snake-eyed evilness showed in this one. And he was a hell of a lot smarter, that was for sure. He could almost have liked him, if he hadn't been a lawbreaker.
"Watson, I guess luck was with you again this time. But it won't always be. I don't like wasting the taxpayers' money trying to catch no-accounts at their thieving business. If I so much as catch you spitting on the sidewalk, I'll throw you in jail and toss away the key."
"I'll keep that in mind, Marshal."
As the men filed out and headed on their way, Henry Lee turned to Hannah.
"Wasn't much of a welcome home, darlin'." His voice was a loving, velvet caress. "But I'm glad you're here."
Hannah was still slightly overwhelmed by the events of the last hour. But she, too, was glad to be home. No matter how unlawful, or frightening, or dangerous, she wanted to be with Henry Lee. Without a word she stepped eagerly into his embrace.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sunlight was fading as Hannah hung the last of the soiled curtains on the clothesline and used the hot soapy water in the huge black kettle to douse the fire in the outdoor hearth.
After Tom Quick and his men had made their angry exit, she and Henry Lee had spent the better part of the day trying to put the house back in order.
Henry Lee told her the whole story, from the indecipherable note to the decision not to run away, but to risk imprisonment by standing his ground.
Once Henry Lee got her to see the funny side of it, they laughed together until Hannah couldn't stop. The shock the law
men must have suffered at going to the whiskey peddler's to attend Sunday prayer service was enough to make her clutch her side in painful hilarity. When she could no longer stand she collapsed on the Dufold.
When Henry Lee lay down beside her and pulled her to his chest, the laughter gently subsided.
"I love you, Hannah," he stated firmly. "Last night I hadn't the courage to say it to your face, but I do have it now. I love you and I'm so glad you've come back to me.
Hannah smiled at the memory of the love that had shone in his eyes. He had been quick to loose her. The sparks that flew between them were too volatile to ignite unintentionally. They had laughed together and worked in harmony, taking care of the place they both now called home. They exchanged bashful blushes and confident looks as they both dutifully took care of responsibilities and secretly indulged in fantasies of the night to come. Hannah glanced toward the western horizon. She had never known the sun to take so long to go down!
Henry Lee brought down the last load from the cave to the small clearing in the woods. The cave would remain a secret. He would never tell a soul about it. Well, he reconsidered, perhaps he would tell Hannah. The wedding whiskey was still there. Carefully stored in barrels, he planned to let it age a good long time. Maybe for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he'd take her there and they'd break into a barrel. He imagined the two of them, hiding out from a flock of grandchildren and making love in the afternoon when everyone thought them busy at work. The idea made him smile. Any idea of making love to Hannah could put him in a good mood.
They had talked at the wellhouse about their lack of a proper courtship. Well, perhaps it was too late for a proper one, but Henry Lee could easily imagine a very improper courtship between the woman he loved and himself.
With that in mind, as he started toward the cabin, he began looking around for wildflowers in the grass. It was hopeless. Too late in the year, too hot and too dry for wildflowers. He did, however, see a big ugly brown-faced sunflower staring at him from the corner of the pigsty.
