Fallon Yancy’s face was slim, almost delicate beneath the brim of his hat, an oblong shape with dark holes for eyes, unblinking as they held mine. He was just a boy, and yet he was not; the hairs on my nape rose, recognizing threat as swiftly as any prey animal. Rather than answer the query directed at him, Fallon inquired, “Where is your brother?”
“I will die before I let you have him,” I vowed.
Behind me, but a few steps away, Malcolm climbed from the wagon, tailgate chain jangling with his passage.
“Get. Back. In there,” I ordered, hardly able to speak for the brace of dread in my throat.
“We’ll lose the stock,” said the man with the rifle, a Federal-issued Springfield, using it to gesture in the direction of the dispersed cattle. His way of speaking and his coloring both suggested a person of some mixed breeding; he was clad in the shirt, jacket, and trousers of a white man, but moccasins encased his feet rather than boots and he wore his hair in a long, fur-wrapped braid, shaved to the scalp on either side above his ears. A quiver of arrows was strapped to his back and a small crossbow, the sort folks in the holler had used for short-range hunting, was lashed to his saddle.
The Yankee said, “Hoyt’s rounding up the herd. It ain’t as big as we figured. He don’t need our help.”
“I can help you,” Virgil said suddenly, addressing Fallon.
Grady stepped forward, as if uncertain concerning Virgil’s intent; surely he could not have guessed what was coming. Grady lifted his chin into the rain, arms bent in a fighter’s tense hold, and spoke at a heated clip. “We’re delivering these cattle to my employer, Royal Lawson. We mean harm to no one. You’ve killed our cook. Explain yourselves.”
“You’re traveling with a pair of criminals, feller,” the Yankee said, loading the words with sarcasm, shifting position on his saddle.
Fallon refused to break his gaze from Malcolm.
“Explain that statement,” Grady demanded, as irate as I’d ever heard him.
“This here Reb and his brother,” the Yankee clarified, gesturing at me with his pistol. “They shot to kill a federal marshal back in Iowa last summer, blew the man’s elbow to bits. Marshal Yancy lost the arm on account of it.” Indicating Fallon, he added, “This here boy is his eldest.”
Grady gaped at me, speechless at these pronouncements.
Quicker to calculate his own odds, Virgil repeated, “I can help you men.”
“I shot that marshal, not my brother,” Malcolm announced.
“Get back in the goddamn wagon.” I spoke through my teeth but Malcolm stood his ground alongside me, bareheaded and with shoulders thrown back, unwavering beneath Fallon’s regard.
“Help us how?” the Yankee asked, walking his horse a few steps closer; I could have closed my fist around his gelding’s lead rein, but all three, Fallon and both men, kept their firearms in play, not about to be caught off guard. The half-breed slipped the crossbow over his right forearm in a gesture so effortless that in other circumstances I might have marveled.
“I am known to Royal Lawson,” Virgil said, in a hurry now, avoiding Grady’s eye. “I will vouch for you men. We can divide the pay. Lawson is a generous sort unless you cross him. Don’t risk stealing this herd. Lawson will hunt you down like dogs, I assure you.”
“Virg,” Grady said, aghast.
Virgil pressed, “Do what you will with the Reb and his brother, but don’t risk cattle theft. I can lead you to Lawson’s, I know the way.”
“You son of a bitch,” I said, anger rising hot and strong, thrumming along my arms and into my fists, displacing the chill of rain and disbelief. “You fucking weasel-faced son of a bitch.”
“Shut your trap,” ordered the Yankee on horseback, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, as one irritated by an unexpected decision.
Fallon said, “Prove it.”
“Come again?” Virgil asked, cocking his head; he’d stepped away from me, putting distance between us, perceiving my intent to cause him harm if given the slightest chance.
“Prove it,” Fallon repeated, and nodded at Grady. “Shoot him. If you’re willing to help us, as you claim, you’ll shoot him dead, and therefore prove it.”
“Jesus Christ,” I uttered.
Without a hint of discomposure Virgil said, “Let me kill the Reb,” and nodded my way.
“I have plans for him,” Fallon said. “Shoot the other. You can use Church Talk’s bow.”
A beat of hellish silence hung thick in the air.
Virgil nodded curt acceptance of this condition and a jackal’s grin bared Fallon’s teeth.
Before I could draw my next breath, Grady lunged at Virgil, taking the slighter man to the ground. Seizing our meager advantage, I yelped at my brother, “Get down!” and dragged the Yankee from horseback before he had a hope of firing at me, using the momentum of his falling body to slam him to the earth. Malcolm scrabbled for the pistol the Yankee unwittingly released. In the confusion, Fallon’s horse reared; he sawed at the reins. The half-breed heeled his mount with a vicious double kick, striking Malcolm’s head with the stock of the Springfield before my brother could close his fingers around the dropped pistol; Malcolm sprawled to his belly without a sound.
“Malcolm!” I roared, but the Yankee rolled into a crouch as I was distracted, driving a hard shoulder into my side. I descended into a fighter’s narrow focus, throwing my weight into his attack, curling my knuckles into weapons and slamming his face, aiming for nose and eyes, the weakest points. I heard a discharging shotgun. I heard bones crunching like kindling twigs. I watched as the Yankee crumpled beneath my assault, his gullet a pale, bowed arch.
“Contain him!” Fallon shouted.
Caught in the crush of hooves, I tried to crawl to Malcolm’s side but a white-hot poker speared my lower leg; I was sure if I looked over my shoulder, I would behold a quivering iron spike driven into the ground. Before I could react a knee jabbed my spine, a cattle rope cinched my upper body. I cursed, twisting against the confinement, and the half-breed cuffed my jaw.
“Drag him,” Fallon ordered, somewhere beyond my line of sight.
THE RAIN HAD stopped.
I was not dead, though I would have instigated my own death to prevent what was happening, if it could have helped.
“Her eyes are bad. I won’t kill her,” said the half-breed. I lay sprawled on the ground near his gelding’s hooves, unable for the moment to move, the camp churned to mud around us. The half-breed was greatly bothered by Cora’s eyes, holding the lantern closer to her face to steal another fascinated look but refusing to touch her.
“Don’t matter. She won’t last long out here,” mumbled the Yankee, words distorted by his split lower lip and the pocket handkerchief stuffed up his bleeding nose.
From my position in the mud I watched Fallon Yancy approach. My wrists and ankles were bound with lengths of thick rope intended to keep horses hobbled. Blood smeared my face and my right leg was numb, a broken crossbow shaft still embedded there, my skin lacerated in a hundred places; the half-breed had dragged me along the prairie with his gelding at a canter, until I couldn’t tell up from down, day from night, keeping the pace until he tired of the sport. But just now rage overpowered all physical pain, so potent I felt feverish; Grady was dead, facedown near the wagon with two bullet holes creating dark, bloody patches on his back, and Virgil was not in sight. I did not know if Virgil had been the one to kill Grady. Of my multiple wounds I felt little – no damage they inflicted upon my body could hurt as bad as harm to Malcolm.
“There ain’t a place you can hide from me,” I vowed to Fallon, tasting the rust of fresh blood in my mouth. “I will find you an’ kill you like the fucking vermin you are.”
Fallon only shrugged, unconcerned. “You’ll be dead,” he replied. No heat in his words as there had been that morning at Charley Rawley’s homestead when he and Malcolm fought over an insult; Fallon was unmoved by my wrath, considering our deaths a foregone conclusion.
The half-breed eyed me, shaking his head side to side. He said, “Big talk for a dead man. ‘Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time, their foot will slip.’” And then he laughed.
The Yankee muttered, “Long as it ain’t my goddamn foot.”
Malcolm remained silent. Aces High gave a quiet whicker. I turned from Fallon to speak to my brother’s horse. My voice shook as I begged, “Hold up, fella.”
“I’ll kill her,” Fallon said, and I had no doubt he would; he was not someone to dither over a decision. With unmistakable derision, he added, “If you can’t.”
“You won’t, you young pup,” barked the half-breed, all traces of good humor gone.
“Kill me,” I said, changing tactic, imploring the Yankee. I’d beaten him severely and he appeared unsteady on his saddle, listing to the right. He wanted me dead as it was; I begged, “Kill me an’ leave the boy. He’s just a boy.”
Fallon dared to step between the Yankee and me and drove a boot into my ribs. I could not stifle a gasping groan. He said, “I would accept that offer, Reb, except there’s no more chance for suffering once you’re dead. And I don’t believe you have suffered enough just yet.”
“Hold your tongues, all of you,” the Yankee ordered through his broken mouth, with pure exasperation. At last he decided, “Leave the girl-child be, I ain’t killing a white girl-child, and anyhow, she won’t survive a day out here with no protection.”
Fallon held his ground, face hard as February ice as he grappled with the order, and I tensed further. I was helpless. Malcolm was helpless. It seemed the magnitude of my rage should have the power to slay Fallon where he stood, even with the distance between us.
The Yankee, not about to be trifled with by a boy, let his right hand skim closer to his holstered pistol and offered a flat-eyed challenge, stern despite the swelling that made one of his eyes a slit. His impatient posture asked, How far do you want this to go?
Fallon clenched his jaws but was intelligent enough to relent. He muttered, “Tie him to the tree, or he could stop the horse.”
“Turnbull, get up here!” hollered the Yankee, and then directed his next order at the half-breed. “Tie what’s left of this goddamn Reb to the tree.”
The clouds had since shredded away, allowing a grim and murky moon to beam. At this summoning, Virgil appeared on his raindrop gelding from the direction of the wallow; he’d been working with a fourth man to regroup the herd. Upon seeing Malcolm sitting atop Aces and with a noose around his neck, Virgil’s lower jaw went slack with surprise, which he immediately contained. The men had resituated us beneath the lone oak tree with its limbs reaching outward like arms; the other end of the hanging rope was secured on one of its long, low branches. I could hear the Missouri as it coursed along in the nearby gloom.
“Get this Reb up and tied to that oak,” ordered the Yankee. As though just deciding, he added, “And that there girl.”
Virgil and the half-breed yanked me upright; I took care not to react, or to fight them, as sudden movements might startle Aces High. I could not think ahead more than a second at a time – at this second, my only concern was keeping Aces calm until I could think what to do. Blood collected in my mouth, the taste of iron creeping over my tongue. I wanted to tell Virgil that I would come for him, that I would find his traitor hide, ram a pistol down his gullet and empty the entire chamber there, but I didn’t waste words, not now.
Malcolm sat stiff as a pike, wrists bound behind his back, chin lifted to accommodate the heavy rope about his slim neck. His hair was damp with rainwater and falling over his forehead; he watched as they led me to the tree’s massive trunk, following with just his eyes, until we were behind him and out of his range of sight. I would rather be drawn and quartered, flayed alive, than see him hung. Anguish tore at me but I kept my voice steady as I said to my brother, “Keep still.”
They’d had Malcolm trussed up and seated on Aces before the half-breed dragged me back to the camp, his right temple already discolored by a bulging bruise.
I said again, “Keep still.”
Fallon took care not to come too near me, even bound like a hog as I was, as he’d rightly seen the promise of his death in my eyes. I would gut him like a carcass if allowed the slightest opportunity, and he knew this. Cora made not a sound as Virgil led her to the tree, docile as a lamb being brought to slaughter. It took both Virgil and the half-breed to hold me in position and wind a new length of rope about the oak, tying me upright against its trunk. I struggled to stay afoot, my wrists and ankles bound; my hands and feet might as well have been severed from my body. They made certain that I faced Malcolm and Aces High, whose chestnut rump twitched as I watched.
“Hold steady,” I begged the animal.
“Her eyes are bad.” The half-breed gestured again at Cora.
Fallon said, “Tie her like a dog,” and smiled at his own order.
Finished with me, they wasted little time on Cora; the half-breed refused to touch her and so it was Virgil who latched a rope about her neck and tied her low to the ground, on the opposite side of the tree, allowing her perhaps two feet of leeway; she could not have crawled around to get Malcolm in her sights even had she wished, tied so low standing was impossible; she hunkered instead on her heels. She’d retreated into herself to a degree that she seemed unaware of what was actually happening. From the corner of my gaze I saw Virgil crouch to her level; she turned her chin away from him but he murmured, “You knew, didn’t you?”
Before I could consider what he meant my attention was diverted elsewhere as Fallon approached my brother. My vision closed inward on all sides, my lungs collapsed, gurgling in my ears. I knew Fallon’s intent was to quirt Aces into forward motion, thereby allowing Malcolm to drop into empty air.
“No,” I choked. “Jesus, please no.”
“You shot my father,” Fallon whispered, staring up at my brother; I could only see the back of Malcolm’s curly head and could not begin to guess his expression. Fallon’s face appeared as a death mask to my terrorized gaze, skeletal and inhuman as he continued speaking. “He lost his arm. He nearly died. He is in exile. This is because of you.”
Malcolm lifted his chin and I imagined his dark eyes flashing with righteous fire. He leaned forward as much as the noose would allow and spoke low and clear. “Your daddy is a criminal, through an’ through. An’ I’ll live to see him die, I swear to you this night.”
The throbbing in my brain redoubled. Malcolm sounded exactly like our father. For the span of several heartbeats, I was sure that he was our father.
Fallon stepped closer to Malcolm’s left boot. He put his hand on my brother’s knee and said with certainty, “Your brother is going to watch you die this night. I hope your horse stands here for a good long time while you wait for your neck to crack, I really do.”
And then they rode out.
THE CATTLE herd faded away at last, every single one of them disappearing along the line of the western horizon, their mournful lowing drifting back to our ears. The land grew still and quiet with deepest night, and after a brief spell it was as though none of the men who’d stolen them, who’d killed Quill and Grady and left us for dead, even existed. I couldn’t think about myself, or the girl tied like a dog, or that every last head of livestock was now gone, excepting Aces High, who held my brother’s life on his back. I was beyond rage, beyond anything but saving Malcolm. They’d left us alive and I clung to this. Soon enough we’d likely be dead, but we were alive right now.
“Malcolm, sit tight,” I said, struggling as aggressively against my bindings as I could. I bled from both wrists as they chafed against the bristling ropes and prayed the slick wetness would help ease free my hands. Aces was a good boy and dutifully remained standing with Malcolm settled on the saddle, but the horse was not likely to stay content in this stance much longer. His back hooves stomped in succession, one after the other, despite my brother’s murmurings to him, encouraging him to stay put. I knew the animal could smell the blood
and it distressed him.
“Boyd,” Malcolm said, and his voice was small and hollow; no longer did he sound like Daddy. He wobbled over the words. “He’s gonna walk…”
“Sit tight,” I growled. “I am gonna get you outta this, I swear on my life.”
“Mr. Boyd.” Cora’s urgent whisper startled me; I’d almost forgotten she was there. I couldn’t see her because she was tied on the other side of the trunk. “Mr. Boyd. It’s Quill’s knife, here under the tree. I see it.”
I hissed, “Can you reach it?”
“Yes.”
“Fetch it up, quick now!” Hope gouged at me.
“He’s gonna walk. I can feel it!” Malcolm moaned.
“Hold him,” I ordered. “Cora’s found a knife!”
Straining noises came from the little girl, sounds of struggle, and then a rhythmic scraping met my ears. She cried out, a high, pained bleat and then popped around the oak, a length of sawed-off rope dangling from her neck. Blood smeared her hands. Her strange eyes seemed to glow in the meager moonlight, rabid with purpose. Horror gullied out her features as she beheld Malcolm’s precarious position.
“You gotta climb up there on Aces, real slow, an’ cut him free.” I stared bullets at her; there was only one shot and Cora would have to take it. She was all we had. It meant having to approach a horse, which I knew she feared, and so I said, “He’s gonna die if we don’t do something, you hear me?”
She nodded; I felt I’d never spoken so seriously in all my days.
“Go around front of the horse, nice an’ slow, let him see you. Malcolm, you keep Aces steady. There’s a good boy, Aces, a good boy.”
Aces High stood only an arm’s length from me. If my hands were free I could have grabbed his tail and held him in place even if my arms were wrenched off at the shoulders in the process, but I was tethered like a beast. I began grinding again at the ropes about my wrists; I’d almost eased free my right hand. Before Cora could step forward Aces whickered with increasing distress, sidestepping. Malcolm began to cry, his body pulled at a sharp angle, the rope about his neck stretched taut. I clamped through my tongue restraining a horrified shout. “Cora, don’t move. Come here an’ cut free my wrists, hurry now!”
Grace of a Hawk Page 19
