Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  A chill passed over the back of my neck as he spoke. Quill knelt to retrieve eggs from the shallow roosting of a prairie fowl; I could hear the fretful chirping of the hen from somewhere nearby as her nest was thusly robbed. The tint of the morning light seemed garish, hurting my eyes; the prairie fowl’s distress swelled – or was I only imagining it? Hearing instead the escalation of my own misgivings?

  I muttered, “That would be a comfort to any man, yessir.”

  In the lavender light of advancing evening, hours since our breakfast of eggs, I thought again of what Quill had told me this morning, of Cora at her daddy’s deathbed; I glanced at the little girl, whose dark eyebrows drew inward in concentration as she observed my mumblety-peg lesson. I found her far too serious for a game intended for levity, and decided at once to change my hold. In the back of my mind was the picture of her daddy with his head lolling as he was carried to the room where he would die within a few hours’ time; I wanted to banish the grave expression from the little one’s face, to see it replaced with lightheartedness. I recalled how she’d giggled yesterday when Malcolm and I introduced her to Aces High.

  “I ain’t got the right stance yet,” I said, pretending to be deep in thought; I scratched my head with the knife handle, twisting up my mouth, and then wrapped my right arm around my head, positioning the handle near my left ear. Next I gripped my right ear with my left hand, hold Number Four if I remembered rightly, thinking back to long summer evenings in Georgia with the Second Corps. For better effect, I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue.

  “See here?” I tried to say, hampered by my tongue. Malcolm laughed and Cora smiled shyly, ducking her head; I grinned in response and, this time with nothing in the way, announced, “Then, you chuck your knife.”

  So saying, I stood, holding the throwing position, awkward though it was, and tossed the knife with a precise movement. It sank blade-first into the earth, almost dead center of the circle I’d scraped into the dust at the base of an old, lone oak tree which, based on its substantial size, had likely been growing since the previous century. Nodding at my knife, I said smugly, “I ain’t gonna lie, I’m a bit of an expert.”

  Grady snorted and all of them laughed; Cora beamed in response.

  “Scoot over, Tennessee,” Grady ordered, shouldering me to the side and positioning for a throw. He bent one arm for showmanship and braced his knife on his elbow; the blade sank cleanly, only an inch or so from mine.

  “That’s near a tie,” said Malcolm, who was keeping score. “You’s up, Quill.”

  Quill’s knife knocked mine askew, giving him the edge on me. We threw twice more each before Quill and I determined that we’d beat Grady, fair and square.

  “You want to do the honors?” Quill asked, nodding at the small stick lying near the rim of the circle scratched into the dust.

  “Surely do,” I said, using the handle of my knife to pound the stick as far into the ground as I could; losers were forced to retrieve it from the dirt with their teeth. Just for show, I asked Quill, “Might I use yours?”

  He handed over his knife, with a grin.

  “All yours, Ballard,” I said, with a gracious gesture; the top of the stick was barely visible in the dirt thanks to my efforts and Grady heaved a long-suffering sigh.

  “What’s he must do?” Cora asked, puzzled, as I wiped my hands on my thighs, folding Quill’s knife back into its sheath before setting it aside.

  “Fetch up the stick with my teeth, like a critter,” Grady explained, giving her a wink.

  “Ain’t fun,” Malcolm said knowingly. “I always get dirt in my mouth.”

  “Might I try?” Cora asked. She’d tied back her long hair with a bit of twine, her sweet, pretty face glowing with what I was gladdened to recognize as gathering determination. The last of the sun brought forth a sheen of gold in each of her different-colored eyes, in a way that lessened the strangeness of them; Malcolm had gone still and silent, and this drew my gaze his way as he leaned on his elbow a few paces away, studying her with an expression almost severe in its intensity. Despite his youth and decided lack of experience, I realized with a start that he looked just like our father. It was a look I’d observed many a time upon Daddy’s face, when he settled his sights on Mama.

  A twinge tightened my guts.

  “Cora-bell, you don’t want to pull that stick from the ground,” Grady admonished. “I lost the game, hon, so it’s my duty.”

  “Mightn’t I try throwing, I meant,” she corrected, indicating my pocket-knife, which I wiped clean on my trousers.

  “You surely may,” I said, swallowing my qualms, with some difficulty. “Grady can eat dust a bit later.”

  Cora practiced while the light leached from the sky, politely accepting enthusiastic suggestions. Grady, Quill, and I took our places around the fire, contenting ourselves with coffee, while Malcolm dusted his hands on his trousers and stood, demonstrating techniques; he was careful with his touch, guiding her hands as gently as he was able. Her fingers were so slight she struggled at first to position the blade and I flinched to imagine it cutting into her, but with Malcolm’s help she proved a fast learner; at last we determined her to be a novice mumblety-peg player.

  “One biscuit left,” Quill said, lifting the lid on the small, deep-sided iron pan he used for baking. He eyed Malcolm. “Got your name on it, son, if I don’t mistake.”

  “You wanna split it?” Malcolm asked Cora, who nodded; the two of them sat close, Malcolm cleaving the biscuit with his fingers, offering her the larger half, while Cora swept her skirts to the side and settled on the ground, smiling up at him with such trust, such naked and vulnerable loyalty, that my chest hurt.

  Virgil was also watching them, the firelight casting shadows over his narrow, mustached face.

  An unbidden question rose within me like acrid smoke.

  Stop this. You can’t go about accusing a man of something you ain’t even able to put words to. Wrongly accusing blame is itself a crime.

  Dyer Lawson was horse-kicked. It ain’t as though Virgil could make that happen…

  Unless…

  As though aware of my troubled thoughts, Virgil shifted, looking my way.

  “Fine evening, ain’t it?” I asked, level as a tabletop; his expression remained bland, not a hint of suspicion present.

  “It is pretty out here,” Grady agreed, surveying the land to the west. A faint afterglow remained in the wake of the sunset, though the clouds had slowly bulked and grown, overtaking the sky to the west. “Always liked the sight of this here wallow. Violets grow in it, in the spring months. Almost like a purple carpet, then. You recall, Virg?”

  “I do, indeed,” Virgil said.

  “I can see why Royal would choose the Territory for his home,” Grady continued. “It ain’t exactly in the midst of civilization, but a man can appreciate that.”

  “Might we sing a few songs?” Malcolm begged; I figured it was purely innocent the way he sat so near to Cora that her skirts brushed his hip and spilled onto his lap. He added, for the countless time, “I wish you had your fiddle, Boyd. I miss me the sound of it.”

  My fingers twitched at just the mention of the instrument. “Me, as well.”

  Quill possessed a harmonica, which he’d fetched from the wagon many a night, blowing out tunes of a joyful nature; Grady, Malcolm, and I sang gamely along on those occasions, my right hand aching to hold my bow, wishing for the familiar feel of the fiddle Uncle Malcolm had crafted long ago resting beneath my chin. I could sense the music in my fingertips and would play along with Quill even though my hands remained empty.

  Malcolm sang well, as did Grady; the rest of us were only middling, but never failed to add our voices. Virgil was always on night watch and so Cora was the only one who did not join in the singing, instead watching our faces, each in turn, as if searching for clues known only to her.

  “Not tonight, little feller. We’ve a soaking coming our way, I do believe,” and the old cook nodded at the we
stern sky. To Cora he said, “You best climb in the wagon, little one. Where’s your wool cloak?”

  “Might Malcolm join me?” she implored, and the cinch strap constricted its hold around my heart.

  “Get in there,” I ordered my brother. The air grew increasingly chill and rain splattered the ground; he did not have to be told twice.

  “Quill, you take the spot beneath tonight,” I invited. The wagon was crowded with belongings, tools, and cooking implements, or I would have suggested he climb inside as well.

  “Fellas, we best saddle up,” Grady said, nodding westward. “Rising storm could startle them into a stampede. Tennessee, you mind joining us this night?”

  “You got it,” I said, settling my hat low over my ears. I saddled Fortune only to find her agitated, and rested my palms to her square jaws before mounting. I muttered, “What’s the matter, girl?”

  Of course I didn’t expect an answer but I’d trusted my horse’s instincts for a damn long time. I scratched the sides of her neck, watching her eyeball the restless sky. I saw no sign of any funnel-shaped clouds amongst those gathering and so let my shoulders relax. I led my mare by her halter as I checked the remuda, patting flanks and speaking soothingly; I was accustomed to large numbers of horses, if not cattle, and drew comfort from their presence. So very many horses had I witnessed cut down in battle, enough to spawn nightmares for the remainder of my life, horses bloody and limping, with ribs blown apart, shrill with distress; after a battle, they sprawled dead and bloated, immovable, at times diverting the flow of streams.

  “You’s a good boy,” I said to a bay I particularly liked, a solid yearling marked with black patches; one such patch appeared to blot out his right eye and ear, and he reminded me of the first horse I’d ever called my own, back in the holler. I put the images of broken horses from my head, concentrating on the here and now, as Gus had always encouraged Sawyer and me to do, resting my forehead against the bay’s warm brown neck. Three others crowded each other for my attention, as would large dogs, and I smiled at their antics. I nudged aside long, questing noses and climbed atop Fortune before my saddle grew too wet. I muttered, “Hold tight, you-all, I don’t expect it’ll rain all night.”

  Despite my assurances, the rain increased from drizzle to shower. Having reclaimed the saddle, prepared to join Grady and Virgil, I found myself suddenly wary. Fortune snorted and tossed her head, echoing this unease.

  There’s no twister, it’s only raining. So what the hell is wrong?

  I looked at once to the wagon, roughly twenty galloping strides distant; I heeled Fortune in that direction, straining to see through the murky haze of falling rain. The mumblety-peg circle beneath the oak had washed away, the embers hissing as the rain smote them to darkness. Near to them as I now was, I could hear Malcolm murmuring to Cora; Quill’s boots stuck out from beneath the wagon. Nothing appeared to be amiss, and Grady and Virgil would be expecting me to join them for this night’s watch. But my blood would not quiet.

  Stop this foolishness. It’s only the rain, addling your senses.

  “Everything all right?” Quill called in a hushed voice. He’d stretched out to sleep, though sleep seemed unlikely in the damp.

  “Yessir,” I responded; I knew Quill slept with his pistol nearby, nonetheless. But no sooner had I spoken when a crawling chill centered itself as squarely upon my spine as someone taking a bead.

  He’s here, I thought, reining Fortune in a tight circle, scanning the entire area as fast as I was able; there was no logic to the assumption, only instinct. He’s near. He followed you.

  With instant reproach, I raged, You’s crazy as a jaybird! He ain’t here! We’s weeks gone from Minnesota! There’s no one out there!

  I slid my repeater from its scabbard and heeled Fortune in a new direction, taking her southeast, away from both the cattle and our camp. I roved in a loose half-circle, keeping the wagon in periphery as I searched the landscape for signs of someone lurking, angered at the way the rain muted my senses. I couldn’t hear a thing beyond the dripping prairie grasses; there was no wind, but the deluge worked to dampen sounds the length of the landscape, as well as my spirits. I considered the conversation with Malcolm yesterday morning, regarding the events in Minnesota, and guilt thumped anew, buzzing in my skull. Surely Grady long ago deserved to know that the man he had hired for a job constituted possible danger to his entire party.

  Ill luck, I heard Kristian Hagebak mutter.

  You can go straight to hell, I thought viciously, not sure if I meant Kristian or the man who’d been following us, who’d shot at me in the darkness.

  “I’ll send you there, in fact,” I muttered, peering through the wet gloom as I rode.

  It was too quiet. I knew it was a harebrained notion when it was raining, but it was the sort of quietness that rose from the belly, in warning; something was wrong, something beyond my suspicions about Dyer Lawson’s death or any threat of approaching storm. I sheathed my piece in its scabbard and gathered up the reins, cantering Fortune to the cattle, coming abreast of Grady and Virgil, both sitting watch to the west of the herd, chatting with mounts drawn near; despite the rain, Virg was in the process of lighting a smoke, keeping the match protected beneath his hat brim.

  “Fellas,” I said, drawing Fortune to a halt on Quartermain’s left flank.

  At the urgency in my voice both men looked my way, conversation ceasing.

  “Tennessee?” Grady questioned, twitching the left rein to ease Quartermain closer to Fortune and me; the palomino gracefully sidestepped, her fair hide gleaming even in the gloom. Grady sat the saddle as well as any Southerner I’d ever known, and I admired this. I would never fail to believe that he was, above all else, a decent man.

  “Something’s amiss,” I said, looking hard at Grady. I felt the need to confess rising up like floodwater.

  “What do you mean?” Virgil demanded in a steely tone I’d never before heard from him, steering his raindrop gelding in a half-turn so he could see my face. “What are you talking about, Carter?”

  Rain slipped beneath my collar. I would have told them everything, I intended to do just that, but before I could speak a word Quill bellowed, “Ballard!”

  A discharging pistol split the air; my spine jerked, the sound drawing our attention as swiftly as would the detonation of mortar rounds. Quill, hunched near the tailgate, fired his piece to the east; I saw the spark of flame from its muzzle as it discharged a second time, near the wagon. Gunfire was returned from the darkness. I heard hostile, shouted threats, making little sense of the words.

  Malcolm, I thought, single-minded with purpose, heeling Fortune with no other thought than to get to him, charging up the edge of the wallow to the wagon, fetching up my rifle as I rode. I dismounted before Fortune’s hooves ceased movement, holding her lead line in one hand and racing for the oval-shaped opening in the wagon cover. I positioned myself there, backing up and holding my repeater at the ready, ignoring Malcolm’s frightful questions, ordering him and Cora to stay put. Blood charged through my body; I saw things in tiniest detail, even before I could rightly make sense of them.

  Quill was dead. He lay flat on his back, hat askew and rain striking his face; a bullet had taken him in the cheek. Practicality, and years of existing as a soldier, intruded and I thought, Grab his piece before they do, catching it up from the ground, tucking it into my trousers. Rain poured from my hat brim. Sweat burned my eyes. I swore violently, hearing men shouting and rounds cracking the air. A rumbling as of thunder trembled up from the soles of my boots; it took me seconds to understand the cattle were running. Horses and riders unknown to me converged from the east. Fortune reared, almost ripping my arm from its socket. I let go her lead line and used my body to block the entrance to the wagon, expecting at any second to be pierced dead by a round.

  “Boyd!” Malcolm loomed behind me, trying to peer out into the night.

  “Get down!” I shoved him out of sight, cursing the meager, pitiful protection the
wagon offered. “And stay down!”

  Despite the lack of a good shot or stationary target, I fired my repeater eastward, its shells striking my forearms. Between rounds and over the sound of the stampeding cattle, an aggressive voice ordered, “Drop that Yellow Boy, go on now!”

  A Yankee, only a stone’s throw from my position, made this demand. His voice was unfamiliar; not Yancy, I thought. Instead of obeying, I crept around the edge of the wagon, easing to a crouch behind the back wheel, and chambered a new round.

  “Come an’ get me!” I bellowed. Fury blazed across my vision, tinting red the entire nightmarish scene. “You sonsabitches, come an’ get me!”

  Malcolm, oh Jesus, my brother. I couldn’t protect you…

  I will die trying…

  “Carter!” I heard from the right, a desperate call for my attention, and I stalled, unwilling to fire on Grady. And then I spied him and Virgil approaching on foot from the wallow, stripped of all weaponry, flanked by a man on horseback. A rifle was trained on their backs. The cattle were scattered across the prairie as effectively as if hurled by a giant’s hand. Virgil had lost his hat. We were plainly outnumbered. I tightened my grip on the repeater, finger slick on the trigger. In the sudden absence of gunfire, the sound of the rain swelled in my battle-numbed ears.

  From a short distance away the Yankee hollered, “Drop that piece, kick it away! And the pistol and your blades, go on now!”

  The rider with the rifle centered the barrel on my chest and I had no choice but to submit, praying Malcolm and Cora stayed put in the wagon. Effectively stripped to the bone, it hurt to obey as I tossed aside pistol, rifle, and knives. I lifted my hands in surrender as another stranger rode into our camp, halting his mount only a few paces from where I stood. He had spared a moment to light and hold aloft a small lantern and so it was that I saw, and cursed myself to the lowest pit of hell; I was the sorriest goddamn fool that ever walked the soil, a field mouse in the sights of a striking hawk. Not a stranger, after all.

  “Is this your man?” the Yankee inquired of his companion.