Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  “I would like that,” Malcolm said, drawing my attention back to him and the matter at hand.

  Cora shifted position, reaching to pet Aces’ neck with a tentative hand, but shied away as he nickered and poked his curious nose in her direction. Her abrupt withdrawal startled the chestnut and he danced to the side, neighing; she hissed a frightened sound in response. I stepped back and decided, “Maybe later this morning.”

  Malcolm’s shoulders drooped with disappointment.

  Quill invited, “Cora, you join me and we’ll watch young Malcolm take the saddle. Mayhap he’ll stay near and keep us entertained.”

  “Sure thing,” Malcolm said, mounting with his usual grace, gathering the reins.

  Virgil had disappeared within the wagon.

  I set Cora atop the wagon seat and told my brother, “Ride with me for a spell, first.”

  “THESE ARE some fine horses,” Malcolm said, admiring the remuda as the sun climbed our spines; for as chill as the night hours proved, the days remained warm and pleasant.

  “I’d like to propose somethin’,” I said.

  Malcolm squinted one eye and looked my way. He snickered. “You meanin’ to ask for my hand?”

  “Don’t make me kick you,” I groused, freeing my right boot from the stirrup and jabbing at his lower leg.

  “What you proposing, then? You ain’t gotta be sore at me,” he said, making like he meant to knock my hat askew.

  “I aim to go back,” I said, and Malcolm swung in the saddle to face me, lips dropping open as he heard the quiet sincerity in my tone.

  “Back to Iowa, you mean? Oh, Boyd, truly? When? This day?”

  His brimming enthusiasm heartened me; gladness swelled anew in my chest. “I figure as soon as we deliver this here livestock to Cora’s uncle. We signed on with Grady to do that an’ it shouldn’t be more’n a week now. We’ll collect the pay an’ then ride south. I mean to ride hard, get there fast. What do you say?”

  Malcolm bounced on his saddle, causing Aces to snort and toss his head. Further agitating the gelding, he yelped, “I say, yessir! You can finally tell Mrs. Rebecca you mean to marry her…” He threw a concerned glance my way and hurried to ask, “Ain’t that right? You mean to marry her, don’t you?”

  I grinned at these words, proclaiming, “I surely do,” momentarily giddy. Relief slid over Malcolm’s face like warm water. He nodded joyful agreement. But then, fast as spring snowmelt, his mood took a turn. I reckoned I read my brother’s expressions better than anyone else in the wide world; I knew his thoughts had turned to Cora, and sure enough, he angled to peer over his right shoulder at the wagon lagging far behind.

  He squared his shoulders. “I ain’t leaving her behind.”

  I looked heavenward, hoping for inspiration – oughtn’t I to tell the boy what I planned? Or would it only cause him more hurt if Royal Lawson denied my request, as he would surely do? Wait, my sensibility cautioned. Wait until you’s talked to Lawson before you go making promises.

  And then, for no other reason than a small stab of instinct, I asked, “Does Cora ever talk of Grady and Virgil?”

  Malcolm pursed his lips in consideration, forehead beetling, wondering where I was leading our conversation. “Some. More of Grady, I reckon. I do most of the talkin’ when we’s together, but Cora don’t mind that, she told me. She likes my stories.”

  Not without caution, feeling a mite foolish, I pressed, “She don’t seem scairt of anyone, does she? That you’s seen?”

  Malcolm’s brows knitted and I knew my question caught him unaware, offering me a sense of relief. Surely, as close as they were, Malcolm would suspect if Cora feared any of our traveling companions. Instead of asking why the hell I wondered such a thing, he blurted, “I ain’t spoken of what happened the night we camped at the Hagebaks’ fire, when someone shot at you, I swear I ain’t, Boyd.”

  It addled me that he was worried I might be angered over this, or figured I was goading him into a confession. “That ain’t what I meant, boy. I know you wouldn’t say a word about that.”

  “Me an’ you ain’t spoke much of it,” Malcolm acknowledged, and hesitation slowed his words. “About what went on that night or who you think mighta done it.”

  I nodded, unease stirring in my gut; yet another poor decision I’d made, keeping something of such significance from Grady or the others. I finally said, “It’s because I don’t rightly know what to make of it. I thought at first perhaps Yancy had it in him to follow us from Iowa. We don’t know his fate an’ that’s troubled me since the night he rode from Tilson’s yard.” I wished again for the capability of conversing with Sawyer, of knowing what had transpired in Iowa in our absence; we had no hope of a word from them, which tormented my imagination. What if Yancy had returned there, in our absence? What if they were still in danger?

  They ain’t unprotected. Sawyer is there, and Tilson, and even Quade, I thought, though I despised the notion of Leverett Quade being the one to offer Rebecca his protection; I wanted her protected, no matter what, but I hated the self-assured poise Marshal Quade had always exhibited, like a skunk trailing its scent. Despair tore at my senses, washing away the foolish giddiness. Goddamn fool that you are. If you get there too late, if they’s already wed, it’s no less than you deserve.

  “I don’t believe Yancy was kilt.” Malcolm spoke quietly but a fire burned in his voice as he continued speaking, standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs. “But I wish otherwise. I wish my shot woulda pierced his rotten heart.”

  Instead of reprimanding, which I had done in Iowa when Malcolm made a similar proclamation, I muttered, “I wish so too, boy, I ain’t gonna lie. I wish I woulda shot that bastard Crawford to death before he took out Sawyer’s eye. I ain’t likely to forgive myself for that. I pray Sawyer can forgive me.”

  “It ain’t your fault. Sawyer knows that,” Malcolm admonished. “It ain’t, Boyd.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s the reason he an’ Lorie had to stay behind. He’s half-blind now. He ain’t ever gonna be the same.” The thought left me ill with guilt. It was unjust on a level I could not accept and the fact remained if I had fired my pistol with truer aim that night, Zeb would have been dead all the faster.

  “It don’t matter to Lorie,” Malcolm insisted. “She don’t blame you, nor does Sawyer.”

  “It matters to me,” I whispered, then challenged, “Close your left eye an’ give sittin’ the saddle a crack.”

  Malcolm did so at once, cocking his head to the side, birdlike. He rode for perhaps a quarter-mile before reopening his eye. He muttered, “It makes me dizzy as a fish.”

  “A fish?” I repeated, amused.

  “When I open both eyes under the water I get right dizzy. I expect it’s how a fish feels.” He blinked, then studied me. “You think it was Yancy, bird-dogging us in Minnesota?”

  “I do not.” I was certain of this; I’d spent many a sleepless night thinking on the matter. “I don’t believe a marshal, and him a former soldier, would tail us so ineffective-like. Besides, he woulda taken me out from a distance, would not have risked creeping near a fire where at least two armed men slept. I’d sensed someone following us for a good few days before that night with the Hagebaks. A marshal wouldn’t draw it out that way, not if he was so close to his quarry. Makes me think whoever he was, he was questioning the best course of action. Not rightly sure of himself.”

  “But if not Yancy, then who?” persisted Malcolm. “Who would tail us for days on end? Ain’t no one in them parts knew us from Adam. We hadn’t a lick to steal, neither!”

  “I wish I knew,” I muttered.

  “Granny used to say, ‘If wishes was horses,’” Malcolm remembered, drawing from me a small smile.

  “‘Beggars would ride,’” I finished.

  The mention of his horse sent Malcolm’s thoughts in other directions and he picked up the thread of our earlier conversation. With no room for argument, he stated, “I ain’t leaving Cora behind when we ride for Iow
a.”

  “I know you worry for her, and so do I. I care for her, a great deal. But she ain’t our kin, Malcolm Alastair. We can’t rightly claim responsibility for her, especially when she’s got family to care for her.”

  His jaw bulged with a stubborn set I knew all too well; it was a purely Carter trait. He understood how serious I was simply from my use of his given names and therefore went right for the kill. “Lorie an’ Mrs. Rebecca would care for her, you know they would, Boyd. When you an’ Sawyer went after Lorie and I stayed with Mrs. Rebecca, she told me how she always wanted a daughter.”

  I gripped the reins all the harder. God willing, I will give her daughters. And sons. More young’uns than we could count. And then I begged, Dear God, allow this to happen. Please, don’t let this be too much to ask.

  I chose my words with care. “Cora belongs with her family, with her kin. You know this better’n anybody.”

  Malcolm rode in silence; I watched from the corner of my gaze, wary of an outburst of emotion. His lips made a tight line; he chewed on the lower. Just when I thought I might get lucky and he’d let the matter drop for now, he threw me a whopper. With all manner of calm he announced, “Well then, I expect I’ll marry her. Cora’ll be kin to us once we’s wed, ain’t nobody can say otherwise.”

  I refrained from sighing, gritting my teeth instead, unable to think of a reasonable reply.

  Malcolm continued, gaining momentum. “We’s a mite young, I know, but Mama an’ Daddy wed when Mama was but fifteen, she done told me many a time. Daddy said he knew Mama was the girl for him the first he clapped eyes on her.”

  “I know the story,” I said on a sigh, quiet and tired. “They loved each other something fierce, ain’t no one could deny.” I paused before asking gently, “You believe Cora is the girl for you?”

  Malcolm nodded vigorous agreement.

  He was so damn young, and would not admit to any sort of fickleness; even so, I felt compelled to point out, “What about Lorie? Wasn’t you fixin’ to marry her, last we spoke? Ain’t she your girl?”

  “She’s my sister,” Malcolm said, the emphasis suggesting my stupidity. “Besides, I do believe Sawyer might have a thing or two to say on the matter.”

  “You’s right about that,” I muttered.

  “Boyd, c’mon! I ain’t gonna leave Cora behind.” There was a plaintive earnestness in his tone I could not doubt.

  I tried for a different approach. “Can you rightly imagine explaining to Uncle Jacob that you brought along a wife? A boy of thirteen years, with no money or means, an’ his bride even younger? You gonna build your own cabin, homestead your own acres?”

  “We can be promised then,” Malcolm insisted, and there just weren’t any point arguing with him in this state of mind.

  “Go on now, go on back an’ ride by the wagon,” I griped, unwilling to further discuss the matter. “We can chaw on this later.” Malcolm couldn’t quench the angry glint in his eyes but he wisely said nothing, angling Aces around and heeling him into a swift and graceful canter.

  “Much later,” I muttered, then heeled Fortune to catch up with Grady and Quartermain, the two of them riding a few hundred paces ahead, at point. Might as well let Grady know my plan before Malcolm blathered word to everyone.

  “You know the route well enough?” was the first thing Grady asked, somewhat taken aback at my announcement. He studied me from beneath his hat’s wide brim, furry yellow brows lofted high. “The weather’s been fair and I don’t reckon we’ll be forced to spend the winter at Royal’s. Why not ride back to St. Paul with Quill and Virg and me? We’ll make fine time without the herd. Why lit out on a path you ain’t familiar with, Tennessee?”

  “It’s what I must do.” I was unwavering now that I’d set my course. If I was too late, everything else be damned; I knew, down to my bones, I must try. Grady’s opinion was of value to me but I would not be swayed. There was, however, another matter I wanted his estimation upon. “What of Cora? Will she be welcomed into her uncle’s home?”

  Grady heaved a sigh, swiping at his forehead. He admitted, “I been wondering that, myself. I do hope so. Dyer loved her dearly, I know, and Cora doted on her pa. Virg insisted we oughta leave her behind, as you know, said we oughtn’t to trouble ourselves for a girl not relation to any of us, but I hadn’t the heart to abandon her. She meant the world to her pa and I wanted to do right by him.”

  “You served under her uncle? You know him for a good man?” I asked, seeking reassurance. “I don’t much care for the thought of leaving Cora with folks she don’t know, kin or otherwise.”

  “Royal is a decent man, I’ve no doubt. He spoke often, and with fondness, of his wife. They’ve five or six of their own young’uns, I can’t rightly remember the exact count. And Royal is well appointed nowadays, what with cattle prices. One more child in his house won’t cause too much a stir, I don’t believe.”

  “She’s grown so attached to Malcolm,” I said, torturing myself. “He told me just now he’d be willing to marry her so she could stay with us,” and Grady snorted a laugh.

  “Aw, it’s a fine heart that boy has,” he acknowledged, with affection. “I admire the little feller. And Cora has taken strong to him, there’s no denying. It’s a shame to separate them.”

  “That’s why I figured I’d ask Lawson if she might stay with us, return to Iowa in our company. If you’d be willing to put in a good word for me, might be that Lawson would agree.”

  Grady’s surprise was evident as his side whiskers, but he shrugged and said, “I s’pose it’s worth a try. Though, Cora ain’t up for the hard riding you’ll need to do to get back south before snow flies. I can’t imagine Royal agreeing it would be a wise decision.”

  I feared this was true, but I was determined to try.

  Grady persisted, “What about Malcolm? Is he up to such a long ride?”

  “He’ll be right as the rain. We’ll rest up once we’s home.”

  Home. The word rolled from my tongue without a thought. Home was where Rebecca was, and Sawyer and Lorie. Our home, mine and Malcolm’s, was with them, I understood. They were not blood kin but our ties were every bit as strong. Perhaps even stronger. If we never made it to northern Minnesota, I finally understood I could live with that decision. It had taken a twister and hundreds of miles of separation for this truth to bore through my thick skull. My gaze roving southward, I thought, I’d bear any hardship at this point, just to get home.

  But I should have known worlds better than to make such a bold declaration, even an unspoken one.

  IT’S CALLED MUMBLETY-PEG,” I explained to Cora the next evening, after we set up camp at the edge of a long, bowl-shaped depression in the earth, which Grady called a buffalo wallow. This particular wallow stretched a good half-mile, ample space for Royal Lawson’s cattle to gather so that we could see the entire herd at one time, allowing Virgil the leisure of spending the evening at the fire rather than horseback. The setting sun glowed in a particularly pretty fashion along the western horizon, spilling violet light over us. Clouds lay in piles, stacked high, which suggested an overnight soaking, but we’d been rightly spoiled this journey, riding along through weeks of mainly clear, dry skies.

  “Mumblety-peg?” Cora repeated, faltering a little over the unfamiliar words, sitting on her heels at my left and watching as I held my pocketknife by its short blade; the girl’s gaze proved steady as a hawk’s. The flow of the river was pleasant in the background. She asked, “Is it a game?”

  I nodded and then knelt, better to demonstrate the technique. Malcolm, munching a hunk of hard cheese, watched with amusement; well-acquainted was he with the pastime. Quill and Grady held their own knives, ready to best me once I threw down, while Virgil lounged against his saddle with a second cup of coffee. I’d been on guard since yesterday morning, paying careful attention to how Cora reacted to Virgil’s presence. His routine was opposite of the rest of us; he slept through the days and was a more solitary soul than either Quill or Grady
, and as such I’d never witnessed anything amiss in his interactions with Cora. In fact, he tended to avoid speaking directly to her at all. I did notice that Cora took care not to sit near him, and kept her gaze from him; but then, she was shy as a fawn and perhaps I read too much into her reticence. But, then again…

  “Who found Dyer?” I had wondered aloud to Quill only this morning. I’d accompanied him on his daily scavenge for eggs, figuring I could ask a question or two without anyone else hearing the exchange. “Did Cora see her father dead?”

  Moving deliberately through the waist-high grasses just ahead of me, using a walking stick taller than his person to hold aside stalks in his search for breakfast, Quill paused at my words. I felt at ease in his presence, more so than ever since the night we’d spoken of his lost Ellie, and was therefore slack-jawed around him; when he didn’t answer immediately, I feared over-stepping my bounds. He finally said, “Cora saw Dyer as Grady carried him to his room at the boardinghouse that night, but we kept her from any other sight, figured it would hurt her too much to see her pa so damaged. It was Grady who found Dyer in a stall at the livery barn with his head stove in, earlier that afternoon. Dyer was a fair hand with horses and it was a piece of ill luck, I figure. Horses can be unpredictable, that’s for certain. He was mighty trampled. Poor mare was agitated at the blood, stomping about in her stall. But Grady hauled him out of there.”

  “Dyer was still alive at that point?”

  “He were, for a spell. A shame the doc weren’t in town. Dyer passed at the boardinghouse before dawn, with Virg at the bedside. Virg and Grady knew Dyer, along with Royal, during their time as soldiers. Both of them drove cattle up from Kansas with Dyer last spring and I figure it was a comfort to Dyer to have someone he knew at his side when he left this world. It was Virgil come to tell us the news that early morning, but when we entered Dyer’s room, Cora was there ahead of us, weeping over his body.”