Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  Flames licked at my cheeks. I demanded, “What of my opinion on the matter? What if I believe we should go after them without delay?”

  Recognizing potential danger as would any sensible man when confronted with his angry wife, Sawyer softened his tone. “The fact remains that winter is fast approaching. You are carrying our child, love. I will not risk harm to you or our babe, as you well know.”

  My heart scraped over a small, sharp rock and I cupped his jaws, overcome. I whispered, “I know. I know, Sawyer.”

  He decided, “We will ride in the morning, to Iowa City. We’ll write to Jacob. And next, the land office in St. Paul. Perhaps we can even wire the land office, rather than wait for a letter to arrive. We’ll begin there.”

  SEPTEMBER THE FIRST,” Malcolm recited with great deliberation, holding aloft a daily circular printed with fancy script reading Saint Paul Dispatch. His other hand remained wrapped about Aces’ halter rope.

  “That’s yesterday’s date, if I don’t mistake.” I slid my boot free of the stirrup and braced it against the hitching rail; I remained astride Fortune, stretching my sore back, taking a moment to marvel at the sprawl around us. St. Paul appeared a bustling river town, much like St. Louis far to the south, situated near limestone cliffs that soared in a majestic fashion, catching my eye. The wide Mississippi churned grandly through the center of town, the wide levee of its banks a crowded network of bridges and dock works, steamboats and paddlewheels, and many people. I’d not seen so many folks gathered in one place in a damn long time, not since my soldiering days; I prayed that amongst them I would find a man to pay me for work. Ten dollars’ worth and God only knew how long it might take to save that amount. My head ached just considering.

  Exhausted and drooping after my relentless push to reach this place, Malcolm stood quietly and examined the circular, his solemn eyes roving with care over the printed words as he shuffled his boots on the dusty ground. He murmured, “It’s all talk of the election.”

  “I s’pose it is,” I said, twisting at the waist and then hunching my shoulders. I felt raw and knew I’d pushed the boy and our mounts too hard with this ride, reaching St. Paul in only two days. Fortune and Aces High were in need of care, Malcolm and me in severe want of a bath and rest, in that order; we all four needed food. I had not a penny to my name. I felt cold and desolate despite the hot evening sun spilling over the river’s murky surface, blinding my eyes. And then I felt a slash of guilt at the word blind. Never again could I use that word without being reminded of my oldest and dearest friend; reminded, and greatly humbled.

  What I wouldn’t give to talk with you, Sawyer, I thought, grim and sad. Goddamn, I miss you. You always put things in perspective for me. You coulda sat up with me nights, waitin’ for the bastard following us, an’ I woulda felt all the better for you at my side, as always.

  I would post a letter to him and Lorie, as soon as I was able. Today, if possible. Malcolm and I had drawn to a halt before a wood-framed storefront in the downtown district; passersby spoke in a variety of languages. I beheld ladies with parasols, men in stiff, fitted collars and brown hats with narrower brims than mine or Malcolm’s, folks who appeared proper. Amongst these genteel persons were men dressed much rougher, in stained trousers and dusty boots, some with buckskin leggings; there walked a man with tightly-rolled silver cones dangling from his ear and a line of tattooing across his forehead. I spied a stout man rolling a barrel, trailed by two youngsters. There were indeed many children, and dogs, horses, and mules; buggies, buckboards and canvas-topped wagons and rising dust, an array of color and clicketyclacking sound. I felt a jolt of dizzy confusion. My vision tilted and swam.

  Malcolm dropped the circular and put his hand on my leg. He questioned, “Boyd?” and I heard the way he begged me to be all right, with just that one word.

  I bit hard on the insides of my cheeks and sat straight, with effort. I hadn’t eaten proper in days, and my bowels were all the worse for this fact. Keeping my voice steady, I muttered, “I just had me a twinge, is all.”

  “Can we get us a meal?” he begged.

  “Wait here,” I said, dismounting and tying Fortune to the hitching rail. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Right here an’ not a step away. I’ll be back directly.”

  Malcolm nodded, absently patting Aces’ nose, leaning against his horse for the familiar comfort of it as I climbed the front steps leading to the general store. The interior of the structure proved muggy and crowded; the air a jumble of strong scents. I smelled over-ripe fruit, molasses and wheaten flour, starch, tobacco leaf, lye and lavender oil, hair pomade, and unwashed bodies. That, in particular, threw my soldiering days to the forefront of my mind but I girded my nerves and moved through the crush of people and items, to the front counter, where stood a man with waxed mustaches.

  “Sir?” I inquired.

  He looked my way as fast as he’d flick a gnat and said dismissively, “Saloons are a block west, nearer the river.”

  “I need a job,” I attempted to explain, but he moved farther down the counter, unreachable from my current position. I bit down on the anger ready to well to the surface; when I considered it, a saloon might be a better bet for employment, anyway. The penny candy, as bright as promises, snared my gaze on the way out of the store and I wanted suddenly to smash the line of round-bellied jars to unsalvageable shards. The goddamn things represented nothing so much as my failure. My failure to provide for my own brother, whose face had appeared so fearful just now. He depended upon me and I must be stronger than this. It was my duty to see us through; there was no one else, no matter how I longed for my daddy to ride in and save our skins.

  Malcolm followed me one block west, the two of us leading our horses. We passed many buildings, including a grain depository, a seed store, feed lots and boardinghouses, the jail and the sheriff’s office, establishments of both wood-frame and stone construction. The saloon district was only steps from the steep, narrow paths leading to and fro from the levee. A flow of foot traffic moved steadily, men enjoying both the fair weather and the promise of a drink and a woman. I knew these pleasures well and had once craved them but there was nothing on my mind this night save finding work. Piano music and the sawing of a fiddle met our ears, and the sounds of laughter.

  “Wait here,” I told the boy for the second time, feeling the sting of guilt as he sighed and slumped against Aces High, resting his temple on the chestnut’s long neck. I entered the nearest saloon, The Steam House, a squat stone structure; it was immediately cooler as I stepped inside. The space was dim and packed, as noisy as the general store, but a different kind of noise. The sounds in this place suggested the absence of restraint. I shouldered my way to the bar, where a man, bald as an egg and wrapped in a bibbed white cloth such as a butcher might wear, gave me no more than a moment’s attention before being diverted by the raucous group before him. I wanted to slam my fist to the bar, or perhaps his shiny head, and prayed for the grace not to do so.

  Before I could command the barkeep’s attention a warm hand snaked about my waist, anchoring along my ribs. I turned to see a woman upon whose mouth was pasted a smile I knew all too well. She was skinny, the lines of her face sharp and angular. A gold-painted feather danced in her pinned-up hair, as if caught in a breeze. She did not appear much older than Lorie and my insides got all the worse twisted up, for noticing. I wondered things I never would have considered when I was a younger man – where this poor skinny girl had come from, what miserable circumstances led to her working in this dingy saloon in a river town.

  “You new in town, mister? I swear I know all the regulars, and you ain’t one,” she said, pressing a pointy hip against my side. I caught the scent of whiskey on her lips.

  I drew a deep breath, expanding my torso so that she was forced slightly away. I didn’t want to be ill-mannered, but I hadn’t the time for this. “I just arrived, yes, ma’am.” Figuring it couldn’t hurt, I elaborated, “I’m lookin’ for work. You know of anyone –”<
br />
  But she interrupted, “Ain’t that funny? I’m looking for work, myself. I got a room right out back of here…”

  “Work, you say?” A man loomed beyond the girl’s shoulder.

  “Shoo, Bill,” she scolded. “This feller ain’t looking to skin buffalo for you.”

  I set the girl gently to the side, where she pouted at my distraction, moving on down the bar. The man who’d asked regarded me from beneath a battered hat with one narrowed eye, as if appraising horseflesh. He wore dusty leathers that spoke of hard riding and I did not appreciate such a speculative gaze, squaring both my jaw and my shoulders; he lost the expression but continued to study me.

  “I am in need of it,” I explained, taking note of the scarring on his left cheek, a small entry point with a larger, triangular exit a finger-length away, the surrounding skin patched with small black powder grains no water would ever serve to remove; I recognized the wound left by a musket ball. He’d been damn lucky to survive such a shot to the face.

  “A Southerner,” he observed, without answering my question. He drew out the word, his tone bordering on confrontational, and I thought, Goddammit to hell. Not now.

  “That’s right,” I said evenly. I felt a muscle in my cheek twitch. I was in no mood.

  “Why’s a Southern boy looking for work this far up-country?” he wondered next, shifting so that his right hand was nearer his holster; he’d emphasized the word boy, hoping to provoke something. I couldn’t see his pistol but knew it was there; was this bastard itching that much for a fight? I glanced beyond him, at the exit with an oblong patch of outside light showing above its swinging doors. I was not any too keen to brawl, not when I had so many other concerns weighting my mind.

  The skinny girl with the feather in her hair reappeared and tugged at my shirtsleeve. Tense as banded wire, I sprang to my feet and half the heads on the saloon floor snapped our direction. I barked at her, “I ain’t got the time!”

  She looked wounded and retreated several steps, and I felt like a right lout, speaking so rudely to the poor thing. Before I could apologize she lifted her chin and spoke with quiet dignity. “I only meant to tell you that Luc Beaupré might need a hand in his saloon, The Dolly Belle, two doors down yonder,” and she indicated by pointing west. “My friend Emilia used to work there, see.”

  “Thank you kindly,” I said, after a beat of silence. I felt doubly guilty for being so impolite and offered her a smile, ignoring the man with the musket scar as I took my leave, refusing to relent to the urge to drive my shoulder into him as I walked past.

  “So long, Johnny!” he called to my back, his tone that of jeering gaiety; there was a low ripple of laughter. My footsteps faltered. I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that I wanted to turn on my heel and slam the bastard’s ugly face repeatedly against the edge of the bar counter, feel his teeth splinter with the impact –

  “I’d rather have a Reb cock than yours, Bill,” the girl proclaimed loudly, inspiring riotous laughter.

  I did turn then, and tipped my hat with all the courtesy I could muster, keeping my gaze fixed on her as I said, “Thank you, ma’am,” before exiting the place, glad twofold; one, that I’d kept hold of my temper, and two, that Malcolm had not borne witness to such a foul exchange. I found him waiting outside, scuffing the toes of his boots in the dust, one after the other. Forcing a bit of cheer, I said, “C’mon, there’s a fella in the saloon over there that might need help.”

  The front entrance of the saloon two doors down, bearing the grand name of The Dolly Belle, was strung with red paper lanterns that seemed to sway to the rollicking thump of a piano. The sun resembled a sliced melon as Malcolm and I made our way there, its scarlet light casting the town in a fiery glow, bathing our faces. We tied Fortune and Aces out front and I debated only seconds before deciding, “C’mon inside,” not wishing to leave the boy alone in the gathering darkness or the bustling, rowdy streets.

  Malcolm could not help but whistle faintly through his teeth as we entered, his wondering eyes roving without letup over the wall opposite the batwing doors – a wall whitewashed rafters to floorboards and adorned with a large and ornately-framed painting of a woman sprawled naked upon her back in a field of flowers. Both plump arms were raised above her head, ample breasts with nipples red as raspberries, legs spread just enough to allow the briefest glimpse of that heaven which lay between; she reclined as though drifting in dream, eyes half-closed and lips parted. For a split second even I hesitated to gape before shaking my head, cursing myself for allowing the boy inside. But neither could I leave him out of my sight as night descended.

  The mood in this place was even more raucous than the last. A woman with red garters beneath her skirts twirled upon a small platform in the corner. Other girls circulated the floor. Men pressed close, cat-calling and drinking, laughing and jostling one another to gawk. I imagined Lorie present in just such a space, alone and afraid as she must surely have been in that saloon back in St. Louis, and my gut felt kicked. I thought of Rebecca seeing what I was seeing at this very moment, and wanted to cover my face in shame. It was bad enough Malcolm witness it; ten times worse was the way I once would have reveled in just such a night’s activity. Though, I’d not ever seen the likes of the nude painting on the opposite wall.

  “Messieurs, quel est votre plaisir?” inquired a voice to the left, and a bearded man with a blue headscarf and hammered-copper hoops in either ear swooped near and bowed elaborately, giving Malcolm a wink. The silver adornments pinned to his scarf clinked like tiny bells. In heavily-accented English he observed, “A bit young, non? Vous avez de la chance! Ici, il n’y a pas de règles!”

  “I am looking for Luc Beaupré,” I said, not about to be distracted from my course, aware that my own accent distorted the French surname. I waited for this gaudy man to comment upon my Southern origins, but he did not.

  “You like my Dolly Belle, do you not?” he asked Malcolm, gesturing at the painting with a grand sweep of his arm. “She is a lady of no secrets, non?”

  Malcolm’s earnest eyes remained wide, fixed on the naked woman. “A lady oughta have a few secrets, I’m of a mind to believe.” And then, worried his words may have caused offense, he said, “But she is beautiful as a starry sky, that’s for certain!”

  I pressed, “Sir, do you know this fellow?”

  The man was too busy laughing at Malcolm’s words to respond and I had the sense that everything he did was calculated to earn the most attention possible; even now, he made a show of his merriment. He clapped Malcolm’s shoulder. “Wise words from a boy so young.”

  I reached to commandeer my brother from this bizarre man’s grasp when he observed my growing anger. He beamed anew and extended his hand to shake mine, gushing, “Monsieur, forgive me. I am Jean Luc, and this is my établissement. You and I were once young and so innocent as the boy, non?”

  I shook with him and his grip was firm, despite his simpering mannerisms. He held my gaze and his handshake suggested he was not a man easily crossed, but I would have said the same thing of myself, with no false pride.

  “Boyd Carter. The boy is my brother, Malcolm.” I withdrew my hand. “I need work an’ was told to talk to you by a gal across the way.”

  Jean Luc clamped his lower lip with his top row of teeth, restraining a smile. He explained this immediately, saying, “Monsieur Carter, I hate to disappoint, but you have been misinformed about the nature of the work. You see, I am short a girl since the lovely Emilia sought employment elsewhere, and you, sir, are most certainly not a female.”

  I snorted a surprised laugh and then laughed even harder, the man’s outrageous humor and my own exhaustion combining to bend me forward with mirth. Malcolm was shocked, I could tell, but I could not regain control. Jean Luc joined me in laughter, clapping my back. “May I offer you a drink, at the very least?”

  I gathered my wits. “No, thank you. We ain’t got time.”

  “C’est gratuit, pour ce soir. For your trouble. On
the house for tonight, I insist!”

  In short order, Malcolm and I found ourselves at a small round table near the dancing woman, her red garters flashing. Malcolm was all eyes. Jean Luc glided behind his bar and procured two shot glasses and a brown bottle, setting all three upon the tabletop with elaborate ceremony; I reached and curled my hand over the one he’d placed before Malcolm. Mesmerized by swirling skirts and flashing legs, the boy did not notice, let alone protest.

  I said in an undertone, “Thank you kindly, but none for the boy.”

  “I understand,” he said graciously, glancing with amusement at my brother; Malcolm had turned his chair sideways to better observe the dancing woman. Jean Luc noted, “You have the look of hard travels and the sound of the Southern lands, most uncommon here. Where are you bound? Why do you seek work in this town? I am most curious, forgive my questions.”

  He filled a glass for me, with a flourish but still neatly, not wasting a single drop. I brought the alcohol to my nose and inhaled with a twinge of pleasure. I was not one to accept charity but found myself unable to resist the offer of such fine Kentucky bourbon; I would have known its origins even without seeing the bottle’s black label. I drained the glass, pressed my lips together to fully savor the silken liquid, and then sighed, allowing a measure, however small, of indulgence. The bourbon was smooth as melted butter. My shoulders relaxed a mite and Jean Luc poured a second round.

  “We was caught in a twister, a piece back,” I said as the Frenchman settled upon the chair opposite. “We lost our supplies, our tent, and our money, including the ten-dollar note I’d brought to file for land. We’s in a fix.” Two shots of bourbon on an empty stomach had loosened my tongue. “I intend to get us farther north, to our uncle, but I can’t with no means. I need to earn enough for the filing fee an’ a few supplies. The boy ain’t got a soul but me to look after him.”