Grace of a Hawk

by Williams, Abbie;

  “There’s a girl,” I murmured, the task so familiar to my fingers I found it calming, a spell for my mind to simply drift without thinking, smelling the stacked hay and the scent of animal hides, hearing the hushed, repetitive whirring of milk striking the sides of the tin bucket. I drank straight from the rim, proceeding to spill and soak my ragged beard, but the goat’s milk was warm and flavorful, and I felt as though I’d not eaten in weeks. The mule, tethered near the goat with no stalls to separate them, nosed at my ribs, snuffling for a bite of food. He was a big, sturdy mule and I wondered if he’d been the one to carry me back here, along with the old trapper; I saw no sign of wagon or flatbed. I patted his neck and muttered, “Thanks, fella.”

  I fed them and then stirred the stock trough with the shovel handle, clearing away the thin crackle of ice that formed along the top. The trapper’s supply of hay looked substantial, perhaps enough to last the winter. Noon sun by now, glittering on the ice to blind my eyes, though it was dim in the little stone barn. Chores accomplished, I thought of my brother, praying he was well and that he and Cora had reached the settlement before the storm. I would be fit enough to sit the saddle within a few days’ time, I’d pray this ice would melt some, and then I would ride out. I would find Malcolm in this damnable enormous prairie.

  I’d been gifted with food, with firearms and ammunition. I would care for the old trapper’s body, I would butcher the goat – rather than allow her to starve slowly to death in my absence – and then the mule and I would ride out. I patted the mule’s jaw, plagued by the memory of Fortune, my beautiful, prized mare who’d carried me all the way from Tennessee. I understood I would never see her again and my heart ached at this knowledge, I was not too proud to admit; I’d dearly loved my horse. But come hell or high water, I would find my brother and Cora.

  I muttered to the mule, “I believe I’ll call you Trapper.”

  HAVING LOST my own hat, my clothing in tatters, I felt justified in borrowing replacements from the old trapper. Though I would never know his given name, I called him Josiah because he brought to mind someone of the same name, a man I remembered from my boyhood. Old Josiah Fuller whittled all the livelong day as he sat on his front porch in Suttonville, stoop-shouldered and, like most of the elderly folks who daily partook of their tobacco pipes, with a perfect circle worn between his yellowed front teeth, so that his pipe stem could be neatly inserted between without requiring Josiah to open his mouth. He spoke around his pipe, calling in a hoary voice to Beau and Graf and me as we made our way to fetch up the Davis boys from the livery stable. That sun-warm Tennessee earth, dust swirling rust-red over our bare toes, the heat of the noontide sky pressing on our shoulders, was strong in my memory as I wrapped the old trapper into his blankets, my movements careful with respect.

  I spoke to him as I worked, telling him of Josiah Fuller, and of the Bledsoe holler, and my brothers and me fighting over the best fish hook. Of helping Sawyer and the twins with cleaning the stalls so they could come play all the sooner. The seven of us running for the creek with a stone jar of lemon water slung on a rope over one of our shoulders; once at the creek, the jar would be kept cold by resting it in the water after tying the rope to nearby scrub brush. Old Josiah would holler at us to catch him a trout or two, that he’d pay us for a bit of fresh fish; he was a widower long before I was born, never remarried. We’d always bring him a couple of fillets and he’d pay us with a pinch of chewing tobacco, warning us not to tell our mamas, or a piece of fruit tart if one of his many daughters had come to bake for him that afternoon.

  He had been graced with seven daughters, no sons, and enjoyed our rowdy company, I’d sensed even then. Often he’d say, Boys, tell yer daddy I’d like me a snort of that hooch he’s so fond of distillin’. I got me a right hankerin’. And Daddy would walk over to Josiah’s after the day’s work was done, with me tagging along, and sometimes Uncle Malcolm and one or two of my cousins, to gift old Josiah with a jug. We’d sit on Josiah’s porch in the dusty-gold balm of a summer evening, the men sipping while the first stars rose above the eastern ridge. I’d get real quiet then, listening to Daddy’s low, laughing voice and Josiah’s gruff responses, resting my cheek on my bent forearms atop the porch rail, swiping at moths. Nightingales would call, bats would start to flutter. The air was scented so thick with honeysuckle and camellia I could almost taste the blossoms. And I’d been happy as a boy has a right to be. Josiah always said to Daddy, Bless you, Bainbridge.

  I buried the old trapper in the stacked-stone barn, where the ground was not ice-covered and where I could sink the blade of the shovel into dirt not yet frozen over. I dug a hole at the edge of the structure, well away from the animals, though both watched, chewing their hay, the mule swishing his tail, whistling between my teeth as I did so, a tuneless refrain. I sweat like the dickens, lightheaded and resting often, and drank water from the bucket, wishing to Christ that the liquor bottle had been full. Wishing I was sitting on Josiah’s porch, old enough now to sip ’shine along with the men. Like my folks, Josiah had passed during the War; we’d learned this upon returning home in ’sixty-five. Though he’d been long-lived and his death expected, it seemed more a symbol of the death of the old way of life, that which could never be again. A death of boyhood things, like innocence, and belief in the older generation – that they were invincible, and possessed all the answers. I swiped at my brow, leaning on the shovel handle, thinking, If I am lucky enough to return to those I love, I will never travel more’n a mile from our home the rest of my life.

  And on the heels of that, But where is home, now?

  A coldness settled low in my gut as I recognized I would never reach Rebecca before she married Marshal Quade, not now. I damned Fallon Yancy for many reasons, and would kill him were he ever unlucky enough to be again in my sights – not the least of which because he’d prevented me from riding to Iowa as Malcolm and I had intended. I wondered where Fallon’s sorry hide existed just now, if he and his party had reached the Lawsons’ spread and sold Royal Lawson their story; having no experience with the man himself, I could not gauge whether Royal was a reasonable enough soul to question such a tale. Of course, he knew Virgil, and Virgil’s presence would give the entire episode credibility. I vowed I would kill the one-handed bastard slowly if I ever found him again, I would make him pay. He would curse the day our paths ever crossed.

  I waited until the next morning to haul the trapper’s rigid body to the hole I’d prepared, unwilling to risk dropping him if I slipped on the ice. Though it was by no means warm, yesterday’s unrelieved sun had done a fair job of softening the ice, allowing me to walk without fear of falling. I’d shrouded his body, now gone stiff as a pike, and placed him into the grave with care, as though he was my own kin. I had no lengths of wood for which to make a cross or grave marker; I buried him with his liquor bottle and the small bible I’d found in a trunk; though old and much-worn, it contained no identification, not even a name penciled upon the inside cover. I looked down at him before covering over the body with dirt, unable to stop from shivering; likely I’d buried as many souls as any gravedigger, and me not yet five-and-twenty years. I felt my jaw bulge and knew I could not stand here woolgathering over a dead stranger, much as I owed him.

  I reached to remove my hat before recalling it had been lost; instead I bent my head and said, “Sir, I thank you. I do not know your given name an’ for that I am truly sorry. I hope you’s been reacquainted with your kin in the afterlife. I hope you know how grateful I am for your help an’ supplies, an’ that you don’t begrudge me the use of your firearms an’ your fine mule. Nor your saddle.” I paused and drew a deep breath, before whispering, “Amen.”

  THE GOAT meat, though stringy, provided a feast the likes of which I’d not consumed in weeks; I ate my fill and then wrapped up the leftover meat in a scrap of linen, to haul along. Early the fourth morning, when I could set weight on my leg with tolerable pain, I packed the saddle bags with salt pork, corn dodgers, matches and
striker, and all of the ammunition I could carry; I strapped the trapper’s gun belt about my hips, along with a boning knife in a small scabbard, settled the pistol in a cross holster (what a goddamn comforting heft its wooden grip was in my hand) and secured the big Henry to the back of the saddle. I bundled up the one quilt I’d not used to bury the old man, binding it with twine; at last, ready to depart, I pressed a palm to the earthen wall of the home he’d built here in the Territory, and said again, “I thank you, sir, more than you could ever know.”

  I did not look back. I could not afford to look back – I must keep my gaze forward now, must determine first my position to the Missouri River. To my great surprise, I did not ride more than five miles southwest before encountering the sight of both the river and the giant oak on its banks. I heeled the mule with a hard thrust and rode near, eyes roving wildly over the scene – there was Grady and Quill, the rocks meant to protect them now scattered, their flesh picked to the bone. Upon seeing the burned-out husk of the wagon, I could guess what had occurred; the trapper, spying the thick smoke such a blaze would have occasioned, rode near and discovered my sorry carcass. None other than me could have set fire to the wagon, though I did not recall doing so.

  I dismounted, leading Trapper, and crouched between Grady and Quill, forcing myself to look upon their distorted forms. “I will do my best to avenge you, I swear. You was done a rotten turn here. I’ll have you know that I blame myself. Yancy was looking for me an’ Malcolm. You didn’t deserve this, none of this, an’ I am so sorry.” I bent my head, clutching the lower half of my face, momentarily overwhelmed. But then I thought of my brother and the picture of him sustained me. I rested my fingertips to Grady’s torn shoulder, then Quill’s forehead, whispering, “Farewell,” and left behind the oak, the wagon, and the men who had been my friends.

  “To think a homestead was but an hour’s ride from here,” I muttered to Trapper as we rode due west, at a clip, like I’d instructed Malcolm, though how many days had passed since he and Cora rode away was unknown to me; I estimated less than two weeks had elapsed. Ice still clung to the tall prairie grass, creating the illusion of thousands of spyglasses trained upon me, the sun glinting from their metallic casings. The stalks bent with the burden of ice and the going was cold but not unduly treacherous; I made good time despite the aching in my leg. I imagined I looked a sight worse for the wear, but damned if that was the least of my concerns. I kept the river to my right, stopping to chip ice from the ground to allow Trapper a greater range upon which to graze – not that the remaining grass was tender or green, but it was enough to sustain him.

  I rode until dusk each night and then only dared to sleep for a few hours at a time, Trapper’s reins gripped tightly in my fist, huddled into my single blanket near a low-burning blaze. I was hard-pressed to find kindling and spent two freezing nights, waking so stiff and chilled I could scarcely take the saddle, my body dusted with snow. My toes went numb, my fingers cramped; I passed the hours curling and uncurling them around the reins. Trapper was of sturdy stock and I thanked God for him many times a day. And then, at long last, as the sun ascended on the third day since leaving the dugout, I spied a wooden stockade wall in the distance.

  EMELINE AND ALBIE was teaching Cora how to work the corn grinder. The three of them sat in the bright, cold sunshine near the Darvells’ wigwam, on a mat woven of rush that they’d dragged over to the grinding rock. The girls and Cora took a keen liking to each other. Since being their guests, we’d learned all manner of things about the Darvell family, which was part French and the other part Ojibwe, or Anishinabeg, as Fern said, the long and graceful word rolling from her tongue smooth as butter. It took me many a try to say it proper. Xavier was Fern’s second husband and she was his second wife – Xavier liked his drink and was fond of a-rambling when in a bottle, same as my daddy had been. Xavier also had him two grown children, these two all parts white. Their mama had been a French lady from Ontario, same as him.

  Not quite a week had passed by since Cora and me arrived at the fort. Fern and Xavier wanted to know what had happened, why we’d ridden so far alone without food or armaments, or someone to look after us. Cora let me do the talking and I knew without her saying so that she would go along with anything I told them about how we’d come to be at this fort. Though me and Boyd had not discussed it, I figured he would wish for me to tell the truth as best I could. I hardly knew where to start and therefore told a story much shorter than the whole – I said our company of cattle drivers was attacked and our livestock stolen. I said two men was killed and my brother wounded. I did not say a word about Fallon, eldest son of a man I’d shot, following us from Minnesota. When Fern asked after the red crosshatch marks on my gullet, I said one of the men roped my neck and tugged me down, but they’d tired of the sport and ridden away.

  Xavier wanted to know what men, and what they’d looked like, but I said it was too dark for me to get a good look, which was an outright lie. Xavier asked, “Why were you with a cattle-driving party this late in the season?”

  I explained about the storm that cleaned out me and Boyd, which seemed about a hundred years ago now, and our need for money, and how we hoped to reach Uncle Jacob’s homestead by next summer. That hope seemed as tiny as a speck of dust dancing in a sunbeam; I felt as if Minnesota was as far away as the sliver of moon peering down like a pale, whitewashed eye, open only a slit. I felt we’d never get there and despair ate away at my insides. Even after my explanations Xavier would not let me ride after Boyd, as the ice stayed heavy enough to require chipping, and then it snowed atop this bright sparkle of ice.

  I hurt so at being unable to ride for him, at being so weak and helpless, I could scarce walk upright. The hurt was centered in my heart and my stomach, spreading thick between the two like spilled gravy. Cora knew how I hurt and curled up next to me to sleep as was her habit, even after Emeline begged Cora to sleep between her and Albie instead. I felt Cora’s heart fluttering against my forearm as she lay on it, fluttering along like that even after she slept, so it seemed it would take wing and fly away. The thought scared me and I pulled the blankets more secure around her at night, to keep her from rising right up into the sky.

  I thought about running away and going after Boyd, no matter what harm might come to me. I thought about it all the time, even when Pierpont and me played. Pierpont was a great talker, same as me, and I liked him right fine. He could talk in three languages instead of just one – French, English, and his mother’s Anishinabeg, which I liked hearing him speak. The words sounded like a creek flowing along, swift and cheerful. He taught me the Anishinabeg words for friend, snow, brother, horse, and fire. He had a butternut-colored pony name of Otter, a small, bristly-haired fellow with short sturdy legs. Otter was shorter at the withers than Aces High by a good two hands, but I could tell the little pony had him a feisty spirit. Pierpont insisted Otter could outrun Aces, an offense I would have straightaway set out to correct if I wasn’t so worried and we wasn’t so stuck here in the fort.

  I said, “He could not,” and Pierpont said, “He could, too.”

  The two of us was outside the fort gate, around back, on the side facing away from the river, skipping pebbles over the ice. I crouched down as Pierpont took aim, bending sideways over his throwing arm. He wore beaded moccasins and a tasseled woolen cap like his father’s, and carried a small wooden crossbow fashioned for him by his mother’s brother. It was right bonny, and could be strapped over his midsection the way Boyd carried his rifle on its big chest holster. Boyd’s rifle that was now in Fallon’s possession or one of the cur-dogs he rode with. I tried to find the room to be grateful that mine and Cora’s bellies were full and we slept near a fire in a warm, safe shelter with dozens of others nearby, friendly folks both red and white – the same folks who asked a hundred-some questions the first day but shortly after paid us little attention. But I mostly felt shame that I was safe and Boyd was not.

  Forgive me, I told my brother, day and night.
Forgive me. I will come for you as soon as I can.

  French people, mostly trappers and prospectors, and In’jun people from many different In’jun groups wintered in and near the fort, groups Albie named for me, her being able to tell what sort of In’jun was which just by looking. Albie seemed to giggle an awful lot, even for a girl, when I tried to repeat the names she taught me: Mandan and Hidatsa, Arapaho and Cheyenne, Lakota and Crow. I liked Crow, thinking of the name I’d picked for myself when in the company of the Rawley boys last summer. When I’d told Albie about the name, she plucked at my hair and crinkled up her mouth. Then she said in a contrary voice, “Non. Your hair is too light and curly for a crow.”

  “Ain’t neither,” I grumbled, slouching away from her teasing touch. Of course she just giggled more and ruffled my hair the way a big bossy sister would. And so when I heard her voice calling for me and Pierpont, coming around the stockade wall just now, I turned so that I wouldn’t have to see the laughing in her eyes. Albie thought I was about the funniest thing she ever did see.

  But “A dead man is here!” was what she said and my chin jerked around.

  “What dead man?” I cried, but I was already running, Pierpont and Albie on my bootheels. One word slammed and slammed around my head.

  Boyd…

  Just inside the gate a group stood in a shifting cluster around a man on horseback, who was leading a second horse with a man draped over it, tied belly-down. Without a word I weaseled between elbows. I had to see. And then my breath lodged in my craw and I fell still. The horse carrying the dead man was a roan gelding and I knew it. I’d seen it before. The dead man was the Yankee that Boyd had beat beneath the oak tree. The Yankee’s skin had gone slack and gray, arms and legs dangling. I shrank away, easing backward, keeping my face hidden from the other man, but when I stole a look I saw that he and his horse were unfamiliar. The man was big and bearded, waving one arm about as he spoke. His words sounded like gibberish to my frightened ears.