Grace of a Hawk

by Williams, Abbie;

  You are a goddamn, lowdown fool, I raged, rolling restlessly to my right side, away from the fire. My face was hot enough as it was; my body swelled with insistent need, almost against my will. You don’t deserve her. She is a lady and even imagining such wanton, lustful things about her is wrong.

  I aim to reach my family, my uncle, the last of my kin.

  I get where I set out to get. Carters do not give up.

  And then a new thought struck, and I flopped to the opposite side, studying the embers.

  Perhaps you ain’t the marrying kind, like Captain Coll.

  The thought, once expressed by a former commanding officer, set my jaw in a firm line; Captain Coll was a seasoned leader but admittedly altar-shy. Even nearing two score in age, he had never settled down with any one woman. When asked why, he laughed and said, I ain’t the marrying kind, boys. I want my women when I want ’em, God love ’em, an’ I don’t want no fussing, when not. Henpecked, that’s what married men are. You boys ready to be henpecked all your livin’ lives?

  At the time, I admitted I was most assuredly not ready for any such thing. Over six years ago that was, and I’d since been with more women than I could rightly remember. Seemed there were always willing girls for the right price, as I’d been told as a green young recruit. Never once had I felt something stronger than lust for any of them – lust being a formidable temptation I had trouble resisting, I’d not deny – and all of these things contributed now to my understanding that Rebecca was far too good a woman, decent and pure and ladylike, to truly consider the likes of me.

  Not everyone can have what Sawyer an’ Lorie have. There ain’t many that do, you know this is true. Lorie accepted Sawyer even though he’s been with women too, though not near as many as you. Not for the ladies’ lack of trying with him, of course.

  I paused in my thoughts, realizing I considered Lorie nothing less than a proper lady. It was more that I could not think of her as a whore; the word I’d never flickered an eyelash over using now seemed base and offensive. It made me wriggle like a hooked worm to think on it, but certainly Lorie had lain with far more men than Sawyer had with women. Girls had always fought over Sawyer, even in our boyhoods; the night we’d first met Lorie in St. Louis, two of the whores in the fancy, lantern-lit saloon came close to blows over him, I saw with my own eyes. I’d always teased Sawyer about being a ladies’ man, even though Ethan was the true ladies’ man; no one got under more skirts in our growing years than Ethan Davis. It seemed all Eth had to do was offer a few compliments in the Irish that he, Sawyer, and Jere had learned as boys and girls went all breathless and doe-eyed. I’d been jealous as hell.

  Sawyer, unlike his younger brother, had never been much for sweet-talking and had contented himself with only a few dalliances during our soldiering years, when he could bear the pain and solitude no longer and sought momentary comfort, whereas I was a downright fool for the company of whores. Until now, I’d not felt more than a nudge of guilt over it. But Lorie, who was the closest I’d ever come to a blood-kin sister, had worked as a whore for near on three years. It pained me something fierce to picture Lorie doing any of the lusty things I’d done with those whorehouse girls.

  Aw, Jesus. You’d kill someone for trying to take advantage of Lorie that way, now. For even lookin’ at her like they meant to think of her that way.

  What would Rebecca have to say, if you told her these things? Would she cringe away from you? If she was your wife, would you have the courage to tell her the truth about all them women in your past? All them whores…

  She ain’t never gonna be your wife, so’s there no point thinking on it. Shit, you gotta figure out how you’s gonna get ten dollars to buy a land voucher.

  This last thought left me sicker still. I was a Carter, near the last of my daddy’s line, and I meant to do him proud.

  You taught me everything you could, my father. How to be a man, a good an’ decent man. I mighta failed in some regards, but I aim to make you proud. I want you to be proud of me. I swear if I ever marry, my first son’ll be named in your honor.

  I drifted, near to dreaming though not fully asleep, thinking on my father; for a spell I thought he was really sitting alongside the fire and there seemed to be two of him, the one in my mind and the one lit by embers. He sat whittling a chunk of blackgum wood, shaping it with his smallest paring knife. His features were highlighted by the red blaze, lit from beneath; his nose created a long shadow and his pupils were tinted orange. Goddamn, he muttered, and used the knife to skillfully nick a little mistake from the wood in his hands. Humming under his breath, as he always did.

  Daddy, I whispered, and my boots twitched as though to get up, scraping the ground with a quick jerk. I wanted to go to him and feel him put his hand over my shoulder. When he put his hand over my shoulder I felt safer than a fox snug in its den for the winter. I felt loved, and cherished. I felt as though my life meant something beyond what it probably rightly did. And it had been so damn long since I’d felt that way. I craved it, the way a body craves a soft bed and a solid night’s rest. A different craving than for that of a woman, but equally as potent, in its own way.

  My boy, Daddy whispered, and seemed to be crouching near my head now, the glittering ruby mass of embers visible between his boots. And I was his boy in that instant, no longer a former soldier and full-grown, but a boy who wished to burrow and be enclosed in the protection of his father’s embrace. I fancied, half-asleep, that I had been poured into a warm cup, neatly contained and unable to be harmed, from that moment forth. I wanted my daddy to take that cup and hold it between his palms, forever.

  A man ain’t nothing without a family, you hear me, boy?

  He spoke in his low voice, close to my ear. I caught the familiar, comforting scents of him, tobacco leaf from his clothes and whiskey on his breath; I was exhausted and slipped a few inches further along the low grade that descended into the cavern of sleep. I tried to ask him another question, but my jaws wouldn’t flap. Eyes closed, I promised, I hear you, Daddy.

  Wake up, son. Wake up, he insisted, and I heard the sudden marked change in his tone, now urgent. He put his hand on my shoulder and shook, his gaze directed away from me now, out into the prairie.

  The boy Theodore made a small groaning sound and kicked in his sleep, jerking me to sudden full consciousness. I sat upright, staring wildly about for my father, but of course he was gone – a dream, nothing more. Conjured up to comfort myself as I lay in a doze. The prairie was dark as a length of cloth cut for a burying suit, the nearly-full moon having tumbled beyond the western edge of the world. Turning away from the fire sent a chill over my exposed skin and I made certain that Malcolm was rolled tightly in his blanket. He was, and snoring as usual, the last of the red glow highlighting his freckles and serving to clench up my heart – he looked his age, younger even, in sleep, and it scared me.

  Beyond me, a few dozen steps away, Fortune whickered as if she knew I was awake. Crickets scraped their tuneless song and all around the tall grass sighed and rustled; I reminded myself, twice, that I was no longer a soldier. No more would Federals, real or imagined, creep close as I slept, wishing to pierce my ribs with a musket blade. I sighed and rolled back into my blanket, but hardly a minute ticked past before I relented, admitting that I could not shake the distinct sense of watchful eyes somewhere out in the darkness. I leaned and drew my rifle closer to my body, keeping a hand curled loosely about the receiver, and felt a measure safer.

  Then, uncertain exactly why other than to quiet a small but persistent voice in my head, I rose without making a sound and stepped deliberately away from the fire’s faint glow, allowing nothing more than a gut feeling to guide my feet. Keeping my rifle in the crook of my arm, aimed low, and the fire where my brother slept at the corner of my sight, I crept southeast, staring intently as my eyes adjusted, peering at the wavering line where the grass met the sky. Mundane objects, trees and the like, took on monstrous forms – just as they had when I was soldie
ring and the half-sick fear I’d felt at any given moment distorted the natural shape of things. Treading with care over the uneven ground, slightly hunched, grass scratching knee-high at my trousers, I thought, Where the hell are you? I know you’s out there.

  My silent, wary steps carried me well away from the fire; I felt as though I was hunting, stalking game that might at any given second spring to motion before my eyes. Not wanting to seem a fool and yet unable to cease the motion, I went to one knee and swiped a handful of loose, dusty dirt, spreading this carefully along the barrel of my piece, to smudge out any telltale metallic glinting. I brought the stock to my shoulder, sweeping to the right, peering down the barrel. I wanted to taunt, to call into the night that I knew he was there, but that would give away my exact position. Whoever in the goddamn hell he was, I longed to flush him as I would quarry – quarry I would then corner and claim. Despite the chill in the night’s air, a belligerent stubborn heat kept my bones adequately warm.

  You’s acting right ridiculous. Letting your wits get addled, like you always done as a boy. Acting no older than Malcolm, an’ even he’d know better than to let his imagination take hold this way.

  I swept the barrel slowly to the left.

  Nothing.

  The night was still. I strained to listen, ripples of awareness creeping along my scalp. He was close. I hunkered lower and it was then that I heard the low, muted hoot of an owl – my hair near stood on end – and immediately after, the faint but distinct sound of shifting grass stalks. Someone was out there, trying to muffle the rustlings as he crept along the prairie. Not far south of my position – I’d been right in this assumption; someone tailed us. Sweat slid down my temples and dampened my neck.

  I’ll find you, bastard, I thought, edging closer. For once in my sorry life, I took no satisfaction in being proven right. If I caught him in my sights, I would take him out – no time for questions. Shoot first, ask questions later, in my opinion. My heart galloped, striking my ribs as solidly as a horse’s rearing hooves. I crept forward, watching for any hint of movement ahead.

  Where are you?

  Who are you?

  And then, sudden as a deer bolting from cover, he flew to his feet, a smudge only a little darker than the night sky, roughly ten yards from my position. The crack of a discharging rifle shattered the quiet and I roared in anger, the sound lost in the bullet’s report. I returned fire, the stock slapping my shoulder with gratifying power. I chambered a second round and fired after his retreating figure, to no avail – some hell of a shot you are – and then I was in pursuit. I heard nothing but the swollen bursts of my angry breath, my ears muffled from both shots, the world narrowing to a furious, red-gray corridor.

  The ground slammed the soles of my boots, my throat dry and tight, the rifle slick in my grasp. He fled afoot, a blur of motion only paces ahead, the both of us trampling prairie grass as we ran. My free hand bunched into a hard fist, ready to beat him to death the moment I clenched hold. He was a fleet sumbitch, I’d give him that, and this thought had scarce cleared my mind before he leaped to the side, seeming to disappear. My brain stumbled to the conclusion faster than my feet; I skidded to a halt and then to a instant crouch – not a moment too soon, as his rifle discharged again. The bullet made a high-pitched zinging whine in its deadly flight. I prayed, Please let Malcolm stay put.

  The round struck the dirt only arm’s length from my right side.

  Goddammit, the bastard is a good shot.

  I cursed, ducking lower still, my blood hopping. A few seconds passed, in which I heard only my labored breath. Then another few, until an unmistakable sound met my ears.

  A horse.

  I surged to my feet to spy him running again. His mount was tethered out there, waiting. He appeared scarcely bigger than the top joint of my thumb by now, a blur in the distance; he’d bought time by firing at me. I knew I had no hope of running many yards back to Fortune and then overtaking him on horseback, especially in the dark. I aimed the rifle as squarely as I was able on a moving target and fired. My shot missed its mark; he kept running. I wasted another round, cursing the darkness, but he was out of sight.

  The excited stir occasioned by my shooting match allowed for no chance at stealing a few hours’ sleep. Malcolm ran to meet me as I stalked back to the fire; he was hollering fit to wake those already dead and buried, clutching Gus’s rifle. His eyes were wide and agitated; he insisted upon knowing everything that had happened before I could even open my yap. Kristian stood over Theodore with his pistol at the ready – the boy cowered low to the ground, surely at Kristian’s instructions – both father and son watching me with stun as I neared, Malcolm dogging my elbow.

  I ran a hand through my sweating hair and admitted, “I don’t know what in the hell just happened.”

  “Someone was shooting at you, that is what happened,” Kristian said, his voice shaking with concern, but I detected anger as well. “Who was shooting at you?”

  Irrational though it might be, my temper flared. I yelled, “Whoever the hell it was intended to kill us while we slept, for all I know! Likely I saved us!”

  “It is my belief that ill luck stalks you.” Kristian holstered his piece and motioned to the boy. “Come, Teddy, let us go. We will stay no longer with these people.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. “What do you mean, ill luck?”

  Collecting their gear, clearly preparing to depart despite the early hour, Kristian kept his eyes averted. “Storms destroy your belongings and steal your money, and now men shoot at you in the night hours. I have not heard of such ill luck striking one man in a week’s time and this is why we will take our leave from you now. Son, fetch your mule,” he said, more kindly, and in short order the two of them were ready to ride.

  Rigid with angry energy, I watched in speechless disbelief; even Malcolm had no words. Kristian made sure the boy was settled before claiming his own saddle and then regarded us with a long face. Theodore watched silently. Consternated, I offered no farewell.

  “May better fortunes find you,” Kristian said somberly, and heeled his mount.

  A cold thread seemed to tighten around the bones in my spine, but I refused to let his words otherwise upset me. Malcolm and I stood side-by-side and watched them depart. Theodore, his mule trailing a step or two behind, looked back once before they disappeared from our sight.

  CAROLINE HEMMING STRAINED with knees bent and spine curled forward, loose hair hanging lank across her forehead, obscuring her vision as she labored with chin bent to chest. Teeth bared, eyes closed, she issued a low, continuous grunt that I had come to anticipate as indicative that delivery was eminent. Sweat darkened her birthing gown in wide rings. The room smelled of boiled onions and bacon fat from their earlier dinner, prepared by the eldest daughter, a girl of eight years. Outside, beneath a crisp, late-October sunshine, the children now waited for my word to return indoors; I’d told the girl to mind her younger siblings and keep them from wandering from the dooryard.

  “Good work,” I murmured to Caroline, then repeated myself in a louder tone when I understood she had not heard, watching as a steady trickle of pink liquid emerged from between her thighs, followed almost immediately by the crown of the newborn’s head, bald and wrinkled, the slit from which he would shortly be born bulging to a preposterous girth, stretching the mother’s tender skin. Even having viewed the event nearly a dozen times, I felt a distinct twinge in my nether regions, a sharp recognition of a woman’s extraordinary ability to bring a child forth from her body.

  Next spring this will be you was a thought never far from my consciousness.

  Often, riding home on the wagon with Tilson, I reflected and indeed marveled upon the notion, however obvious, that all people, through all time, had entered the world in just such a manner. I found it difficult to believe that I had never actually witnessed a birth before that of Letty Dawes’ twins. It seemed to me that babies must never cease to be born, that at any one moment hundreds, if not tho
usands, of them were being brought forth into existence. I’d witnessed many a foal enter the world, forelegs emerging first if the birth was routine, followed by the hindquarters, usually still encased in the birthing sack before the new colt or filly broke free and attempted to rise to its delicate hooves for the first time; that I viewed such earthy events had unendingly offended my mother’s refined sensibilities. I reflected that I would teach my daughters the ways of nature in a more straightforward fashion than Mama, and briefly rested a palm upon my swelling belly, fancying that I knew with certainty the child within was a girl.

  I promise, little one, I will teach you the ways of the world, without compunctions. And I will protect you to my last breath.

  It’s a real sight, ain’t it? Tilson had asked after the second birth in which I’d assisted him. Both of us exhausted, he let Kingfisher, his pinto gelding, take his own pace along the road home. Tilson had mused, Kinda unpleasant at times, but beautiful, too. Downright miraculous, wouldn’t you say, honey?

  “He’s crowning!” I announced, applying another fingertip of chamomile oil from a nearby wooden bowl, earlier prepared, to the ring of widening flesh, as Tilson had demonstrated; it aided in preventing a woman’s tearing and eased the child’s way. I was proud of how I’d shed all qualms regarding that which was required of me, though I continued to depend very heavily upon Tilson himself, so far graced with routine births and all in his reassuring company. In the event of a complication, I would not know the proper course of action and would be forced to rely completely upon the entities of common sense and pure instinct; fortunately for all concerned, Caroline’s fifth child was not proving difficult.

  Tilson, called out before dawn to treat what sounded like a possible ruptured stomach, was therefore unavailable when Caroline’s middle son came calling for the doc; in this way, it was the first birth I’d attended without him. The boy waited with little patience, hopping foot to foot while Sawyer helped me to hitch Whistler to the smaller buggy, rather than the heavy buckboard; though I knew his head was aching he smiled as I took the reins, one hand resting on Whistler’s rust-and-cream neck. He understood well the nervous energy gathering within me at the prospect of delivering a child with no assistance from Tilson, though Rebecca agreed at once to accompany me. Because the Hemmings’ claim shanty sat within town limits rather than one of the outlying homesteads, and it was early in the day, I’d elected to drive the buggy into Iowa City.