Grace of a Hawk

by Williams, Abbie;

  West, I decided. First thing, by mornin’ light. If they ride due west, keeping the river in sight, sure as shooting they’ll reach the fort settlement on its banks. Malcolm can get them there. They’s sure to find help. I’ll tell the boy to find men that’ll come back here for me.

  A sudden onslaught of panic struck the bridge of my nose and flooded my limbs from there; I knew I’d be dead when they returned, if any men would even be willing to venture after a stranger. God willing, Cora and the boy could find shelter for the winter at the fort; they were only children, no threat to anyone, and would inspire sympathy. Malcolm would eventually realize his only option was returning to Sawyer and Lorie, and he would be able to make that journey come next spring, I had faith. He was a Carter, and Carters had constitution. Carters were stubborn as hell. But he could not think of returning eastward until next spring, and I must impress this truth upon him.

  And then I could not help but wonder if he would leave my body here on the Territory prairie.

  Of course he would; necessity would dictate his actions.

  He ain’t able to haul your carcass back to Iowa or Minnesota. Not today, not next month. He’ll bury you here, along with Grady an’ Quill, with this goddamn fucking oak tree the only grave marker the three of you will have.

  No. Please, no.

  Rebecca darlin’, oh Jesus, I was coming for you and you’ll never know.

  I want them to see me one last time. Even in death. I want them to bury me in a place they might all visit.

  In the space of a day and night, I’d grown macabre. But far worse than the fear of being laid to rest in the wilds of this place, far from any home or soul I’d ever known, was the thought of witnessing Malcolm, the last of my brothers, ride away from me. I didn’t mind dying alone so much as knowing he’d be left without me. He would be the last of the Carters.

  He’s so young. He ain’t ready for this kind of burden, or this responsibility.

  Forgive me, Daddy. I pray you’ll forgive me.

  Maybe I’ll be seein’ you soon.

  I HEARD Malcolm say, “We oughta say a few words, don’t you s’pose?”

  He and Cora had settled me in the wagon, leveling the damn thing as best they could manage, shifting the remaining tins to one side and arranging the two blankets left in our possession so I was allowed an improvised bed in its confines. The canvas covering bore roughly a dozen bullet holes, star-shaped rends in the fabric; the entire covering flapped on its wooden support bows as the wind increased. The cold was reduced inside the wagon and I demanded that they join me once they’d spoken over Grady and Quill. Evening advanced; the wagon’s interior grew dim and blurred. I hurt too much to do a thing but lay my head, fixing my gaze on the arch of canvas directly above. I felt as helpless as a suckling babe. The picture of my body reduced to its bones wouldn’t stray from my head.

  I heard Cora say, “Grady and Quill were kind to me, and cared for my pa. I loved them. I won’t ever forget them, either one.”

  I imagined Malcolm latching an arm about her waist. He spoke into the silence left behind by Cora’s soft words. “Grady Ballard and Quill Dobbs was murdered here in this place. It’s an injustice.” His voice hardened with a resolve that I was thankful to hear – it was this iron which would get him and Cora to safety. Malcolm vowed, “I aim to find those men. I aim to kill them. I ask forgiveness for being unable to save good men from being kilt before my eyes.”

  The three of us lay huddled as the wind increased through the night. I was uncomfortable to the point of madness, gritting my teeth, finding no position that did not sear my battered flesh. The flapping canvas became a noise I could not bear; I imagined tearing it from its moorings if only to stop the constant flap. Malcolm had it in his head that by morning’s light he would have formed a plan to save the three of us – he spoke of repairing the wagon wheels, of hitching Aces and hauling us to safety. I felt near the end of my ability to reason with him and loathed to fight with the boy on what was our last night in each other’s company, whether he knew it or not. Any hope of rest vanished.

  “You an’ Cora will ride Aces to the fort due west,” I said for the hundredth time.

  Cora kept silent as Malcolm and I bickered, curled near my hip and appearing asleep, though I knew she lay listening. Malcolm sat facing us, bracing his heels to keep from sliding, no more than a smudged gray outline in the darkness. I felt the strength of his desire to convince me otherwise, to allow him to try to haul me along with the two of them.

  “I ain’t leaving you behind.” No room for argument in his tone, a sound I knew well. But when it came to it, I was eldest. No matter that I could hardly sit upright, let alone walk or make good on any threat to strap his disobedient hide.

  “Boy,” I warned. My tongue flapped big and dry in my mouth; I needed water. I thought, What’s it matter if you take water, when you’s gonna be dead by this time next week? Knowing I could convince him best by mentioning her, I said, “Cora is your responsibility. You get her to safety an’ then, only then, you think about comin’ back for me, d’you hear me? I’ll keep here in the wagon. You leave me with a fire an’ water. Y’all ride for the fort on the Missouri. If you don’t take Cora an’ ride out, all three of us’ll die here.” He did not at once respond; I sensed my advantage and pressed, “You know I’m right. You get Cora to safety before anything else.”

  Cora lay tense as a threatened fawn. Malcolm was silent; he remained wordless for so long that at last I barked, “Did you hear me?”

  He whispered, “The thought of leaving you behind near kills me, Boyd,” and it was the admission of a young boy terrified beyond imagining, hesitant to admit this when he so badly longed for me to view him as a man. He did not want to ride away from me because I was all the security he had in this world. Far as we were from Sawyer and Lorie, from Rebecca, from Jacob and Hannah and any hope of family, in a wild territory not officially part of the United States, I was all he had.

  I reached my hand towards him and he clutched tightly, the bones of his fingers still narrow and fragile-seeming in my grip. Malcolm’s palm was warm against mine, roughened with calluses, his fingernails so ragged and dirty that Lorie would scold him from here to perdition. I squeezed with my remaining strength. I hated like poison to lie to him, but I said, “I’ll be here when you return.” I thought of something else. “If Virgil an’ them show up at the fort, you pretend you don’t know them, you hear? Don’t confront the bastards. Hide from them. No one’s gonna believe a boy over a group of grown men. I ain’t got no reason to think they’ll winter at the fort, but just in case. You hear?”

  “I hear,” Malcolm muttered, wiping errant tears on his shoulder. “I always hear you, Boyd, even when you think I don’t, I swear.”

  “C’mere,” I ordered, and he came near, burrowing with great care, resting his temple to my shoulder. I thought of our parents, of Daddy and Mama waiting in the beyond, of the way Mama used to stroke Malcolm’s curls, her precious baby she never dreamed of leaving behind. I knew the boy’s memories of Daddy and Mama were dear, cherished close to his true heart, but he was only a young’un when they passed; I’d been his sole parent for over three years, since having returned from the War. At his age I’d have shit myself many times over at the thought of being without my kin. For all my youthful blustering and bragging, I’d depended greatly upon my family; if I’d been asked to ride away from the last of them, could I have mustered the strength to do so?

  I rested my free hand upon Cora; it was almost as long and wide as her back. A shudder wracked her spine; she was a child lost, flung to the mercy of strangers. If not for this outlandish little girl with her two-colored eyes, who’d found Quill’s knife and sawed through my bindings, Malcolm would be dead this night, I had no doubt. She would save Malcolm twofold, I understood; if not for her presence, he would not be convinced to leave me behind. And therefore I owed Cora her own life, in exchange. Malcolm would survive because of her, and I could never be thank
ful enough for this instance, however unexpected, of grace.

  A NEW DAWN loomed on the horizon, casting out the bleak gray of night. The wind’s force had died out over the course of the past hour and if I didn’t mistake it, this day would shine with a fair sky. I woke, cringing with physical agony, to hear Malcolm outside saddling Aces, speaking to the chestnut in a muted voice. Cora sat straight with a start, elbow jabbing my gut, for which she apologized even as she cast about with her eyes, in search of Malcolm. Perhaps she’d dreamed he left without her, life robbing her of the one bit of happiness she could claim.

  “He’s just outside,” I murmured, and she nodded, scrambling into her shawl, tugging tighter the laces of her battered boots.

  “Mr. Boyd, I hate to leave you behind,” she whispered, and her gentle fingertips fluttered over my cheeks, two small birds with white wings. She touched me as one laying hands upon a corpse, the way she’d likely touched her daddy before they took him to be buried.

  I cast aside this thought and asked quietly, “What did Virgil mean when he said you seen him?”

  Her movements stilled as she retreated behind a closing door in her head. Her eyes fixed on a point above my prone body as she was suddenly yanked to a moment in the past she no doubt wished to forget, were such a thing possible. Her hands fell to her sides.

  Knowing it was my last chance, I pressed, “What did he mean?”

  But she only shook her head.

  MALCOLM BUILT a fire on the south side of the broken wagon, using matches from Quill’s haversack, which I insisted he and Cora bring with them. Malcolm was not satisfied until he had gathered a substantial pile of kindling and branches, toting these and settling them under the wagon within my reach. He emptied the flour tin and filled it with water; I assured him I could fetch water when it ran dry, though my limbs were slack as empty sails. Sun lifted and stretched across the icy prairie; I prayed it would melt the thin layer of crunching snow for their journey westward. I thought, Malcolm will get them there, I believe this to be true. The boy will come through.

  “I’m right glad I ain’t got no mirror,” I said, hoping to coax a smile as Cora arranged one of the two blankets over my lap.

  “Are you hurting terribly?” she worried, crouching at my knees. She’d bundled into layers far too large for her slender frame, as had Malcolm, salvaging garments from the wagon. The final layer was her shawl, knotted at the seam of her ribs.

  “I ain’t,” I lied. “Don’t you worry, honey.”

  “Get!” I heard Malcolm holler from the far side of the oak, and he chucked a rock; a buzzard flapped but a few dozen paces before landing once more. Malcolm issued a low growling sound and chucked another rock, aiming for the ugly creature’s bald head. My bowels went watery at the sight of buzzards flying in lazy circles just above; it was our misfortune that they hadn’t yet flown south for winter. There wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do to prevent them from going after Grady and Quill; soon enough, my own flesh would be their dinner.

  “Boy!” I called, as panic began to edge aside my will. “You best get to gettin’ ’fore you lose any more daylight.”

  Malcolm came near and stood in silence, his face solemn and set in its lines, as though he was determined not to show weakness – to convince me that he was worthy of this task. But his dark eyes burned with the agony of what was required. He crouched, slow in his movements as an old man, so our faces were on a level. He whispered, “I will return for you, my brother.”

  I said what I had to say. “Do not press for St. Paul until spring. We are more’n a month gone from there.” When Malcolm failed to reply, eyes having clouded as though witnessing a horror visible only to him, I asked more sharply, “Do you hear me?”

  He blinked, losing the fixed stare, and nodded with two curt bobs of his chin. Cora kissed my cheek and Malcolm wrapped me in his arms, holding fast, not allowing the tears I could hear in his throat to glide from his eyes. He choked, “I love you, Boyd.”

  “I know,” I whispered, and caught his elbow to keep him a moment longer. His face appeared pale and wan, freckles like nutmeg sprinkled over his cheekbones. His eyes were the deep, oaken brown of all the Carter men I’d ever known; Daddy and Uncle Malcolm, Beaumont and Grafton, and my own. Flecks of lighter brown shone through, faint hints of gold. He blinked once, lashes fanning his cheeks. “You’s the bravest lad I ever knew, Malcolm. You make me proud.”

  His lips twisted in what was meant to be a smile but tears streaked his cheeks, sliding through the dirt and grime in shiny tracks. Cora watched him with concern pinching her features.

  Thank you, Malcolm tried to say, but could not. He leaned near and pressed his mouth to my forehead for the space of a breath, palms resting on my shoulders.

  “Go now,” I whispered. “Ride hard. Keep due west. You’ll get there.”

  He nodded and stood, unsteady with distress, with hunger and fatigue. But he reached for Cora’s hand and took it securely between both of his. “I’ll return for you, I swear to you, Boyd.”

  Aces High kept still, allowing Cora to mount with Malcolm’s help; he settled behind her on the saddle, anchoring her body to his with both arms about her waist. He caught up the reins and kept his eyes from the buzzards. Turning Aces westward, my brother vowed again, “I’ll return.”

  He resettled his hat and then heeled the chestnut into a walk, jaws clenched, bundled into Grady’s coat along with his own, appearing twice his size with the extra bulk. I watched them grow ever smaller, until they were no more than a blurry speck; Malcolm looked back three times, longer with each look, until they disappeared over the edge of the horizon.

  THE BUZZARDS converged on Grady and Quill, and there wasn’t a goddamn fucking thing I could do. I’d sent my brother unarmed into the Territory prairie; the bastards had taken our every armament, and now I sat equally as unprotected. If I had my pistol and a handful of rounds, I could have cleared out the death-eating creatures with their miserable bald heads and hunching wings. I shouted at them and attempted to drag myself upright but could not manage, cursing my unfortified position, the weakness in both voice and limbs.

  I was no doc, but had borne witness to uncountable injuries during my time as a soldier, enough to realize that bones in my body were damaged. As the day wore on, sun straying over the pitiful remains of our camp, I was certain I’d a cracked rib or two. The realizing of it did less than no good, did nothing to ease the pain, or my helplessness. I hurt as though beaten with a hefty branch; of being dragged behind the half-breed’s horse, I could recall very little, only a series of bumping and blurred images, the nighttime prairie racing past on all sides. I remembered a sense of twisting and turning, of trying to protect my face. The torn-up skin all along my back side suggested I’d spent the majority of the ride in that position.

  “Dead, dead, dead,” I muttered, referring to the half-breed, as if I was capable of a thing beyond talk. I was the one who’d be dead, dead, dead and I fooled myself thinking otherwise.

  I sipped water from the dented tin, wishing to God that it was whiskey.

  I stared at the crackling fire, wishing I would hurry up and die so I could stop thinking on it.

  Some fucking soldier you are.

  My leg is bad. It’s bad as hell. The binding is already ripe.

  It was Fallon following us back in Iowa, all along.

  I shoulda figured. A boy seeking revenge for his father. I woulda done the same, I can’t deny.

  Fallon said his father lost an arm. Malcolm’s shot disabled the bastard.

  I wish it had killed the son of a bitch.

  Did Fallon choose to follow us on his own? Or did Yancy provoke him into taking action?

  The thought of what had occurred in Iowa in our absence plagued me anew, now that I knew Fallon Yancy had been the one on our tail, trailing us from Iowa City. Had his father dared to return to there? Sawyer and Tilson were more than capable of protecting the homestead, of protecting the women. But as my terror grew and
my hold on the here and now waned, I imagined a hundred different scenes – I saw Yancy attacking in the night as he’d done once before, shooting them all dead and then rousing his eldest son to ride in pursuit of Malcolm and me, to carry out the last of his revenge. I thought hard, fumbling over words, watching the fire eat up the pile of oak branches, keeping the cold at bay only so long. Fallon had said to Malcolm that his father was in disgrace; he’d lost his arm on account of the shot. This meant Yancy had been in contact with his sons, who’d been…

  I struggled to recall.

  Staying with the Rawleys, I remembered.

  For a time my eyes sank shut, against my better judgment. I drifted through a hazy mishmash of wavering images, as if I stood looking at a reflection on the surface of a windy pond. I heard Rebecca calling for me when I knew damn well this weren’t possible.

  Boyd! Urgency rang in her sweet, familiar voice. Boyd Carter! Where are you? Tell me where you are!

  I’m here, darlin’. But my response was nothing more than a sigh of wind.

  Feathers brushed my cheeks. I thought Malcolm had returned and jerked awake, ready to lit into him for disobeying, startled at the press of darkness against my face; fool that I was, I’d slept and let the fire burn low. It was nigh on evening, the prairie cold as a tomb. No more than a few strides distant, the flock of buzzards appeared a solid mass of blackness; no amount of rocks could keep the critters from their obscene feast. I was no stranger to birds of death, carrion-eaters; battlefield creatures. And then I yelped, thrashing at the one that had strayed near me and my low-burning fire. It lifted its wings in a menacing hunker and shuffled away mere steps. I leaned, fetching a branch from the kindling pile and taking a swipe at the loathsome thing. But I was weak as a newborn foal; even a bird didn’t fear me.

  “Get!” I muttered.

  I built up the fire, knowing I needed to gather more wood before morning. I had no food and had not felt the need to make water all through the day, which meant I’d not been taking enough. The dented tin held about a dipper’s worth of river water. I attempted to maneuver into a crouch, intending to fetch a drink, and immediately stumbled, unable to bear my own weight. The pain in my leg was intolerable; I was no squeamish boy never before hurt but this was as agonizing a wound as I’d ever sustained. I gritted my teeth, slowly bending my knee and twisting my leg to expose the raw gashes to the fire’s light; I sucked a sharp breath to spy the festering. The entry point appeared the worst, red and ugly, oozing like a rabid critter’s mouth, a sight that would have spurred a field doc to swipe at his sweating forehead, curse, and take up his bone saw.