Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  “I feared such a thing from the start,” Sawyer said, quiet and adamant, his hand resting upon my thigh as we sat at the table with Rebecca and Tilson that same January night. “Boyd and Malcolm are alive out there. I’ll believe this until it is confirmed otherwise. Circumstances beyond their control have caused them delay, and we must find them. I do not believe that a boy, even an ambitious boy, killed them. Boyd lived as a soldier for nearly three years and there are few other than he that I would trust with my life. There are foul dealings to which we are not privy and I will not relent until we have learned the truth.”

  The picture of Malcolm or Boyd harmed burned into my heart as would branches tipped in flame; I wanted so badly to believe they were safe. Clenching my elbows closer to my sides to contain any errant trembling, I’d whispered, “Fallon is not to be underestimated. They could not have known he was trailing them.”

  Listening closely, watching our faces with all the scrutiny of a hawk, Rebecca said, “You have spoken of this boy, Fallon, I recall well. He is dangerous.”

  I nodded even as Sawyer attempted to reassure her. “Lorie is right, the boy’s capabilities should not be undervalued. But I cleave to my belief that no boy is a match for Boyd. Few men are a match for him.”

  Her lovely face seemed carved of ice but Rebecca at last nodded silent agreement; I so strongly sensed her yearning to find solace in Sawyer’s words that she might have been screaming.

  “As soon as the snow clears and the weather warms, we’ll continue onward,” I said, leaning forward over the tabletop as though this action might spur the arrival of springtime. “We’ll reach St. Paul and ask after them, in every shop and saloon.”

  Hearing the fervor in my tone, Sawyer did not contradict or suggest he would rather we remain stationary in Iowa City until our child’s arrival. He gathered my hand into his, braiding our fingers. “We’ll imagine them safely wintering in the Northland. We’ll think of them planning just now, as are we, to reach St. Paul by fair weather.”

  And now the weather was fair as the moon in a cloudless night sky, the spring season in full flush upon the lively river town, and we followed Jacob as he led the way through the noisy dust of a street adjacent to the Mississippi, choked with buggies and carriages, riders and those on foot, dotted by small blooms of ladies’ parasols held cockeyed to shield their skin from the noon beams. Sawyer kept our pace slow to accommodate me, an arm latched about my waist. I recognized that a woman in my condition was a rarity walking the streets of a town; a proper lady would remain confined in her home when her pregnancy had reached such a visible state. I reminded myself that no one in St. Paul had read Horace Parmley’s self-aggrandizing articles, as they had in Iowa City, and that here I was safely anonymous, with no shadow of the past hovering over me; Alice Doherty was not poised to block our path with her hateful words.

  “Yonder, the saloon called Dolly Belle,” said Jacob. “A woman, name of Mary, recalls speaking to them.”

  Noontide had not slowed the gaiety of the place; a piano player was accompanied by a man with a harmonica, sending forth a rousing tune, the long counter crowded with workers from the riverboats, seeking to whet their appetites for drink and women. With monumental effort I cast aside the panicked swell of excruciating memories the interior of such a place provoked, the sounds and scents of a whorehouse bar, women painted with rouge and kohl, men exuberant at the prospect of an afternoon’s revelry, with more chaotic carousing to follow as night rolled over the town. Jacob nodded surreptitiously at the painted canvas just opposite the entrance, featuring a nude woman sprawled amongst flowers, and his eyebrows cocked in a half-appreciative, half-shocked angle; I imagined Malcolm’s response to such risqué artwork. Sawyer kissed my temple, keeping me close to his warmth.

  I placed a shielding hand over my belly. I cannot change what I was, my daughter, but know that I would die before letting you near such a place. I would die any death, would pay any price.

  “Bonjour,” heralded a woman approaching from the gaming tables, taking especial notice of my belling skirts, eyes widening. As she walked in our direction she earned the immediate attention of another woman, who extracted herself from a table of men and joined us without further ado. I took stock of these women as I would have any others in their line of work, unable to resist drawing upon my past. Any whore worth her salt understood her survival depended upon earnings, always at the mercy of coin or gold dust, and the madam’s whim. The best earners were allowed first picks and prime positions on the floor; jealousy ran rife, even in the best of times. I squelched the thought of Eva, the meanest of Ginny’s whores; neither of the women now standing before us brought Eva distinctly to mind but their speculative, calculating expressions were all too familiar.

  “I am Cecilia,” said the curvaceous French woman who had initially addressed us. Her errant gaze roved with unapologetic appreciation over both Sawyer and Jacob and I watched the way she angled her ample hips and breasts for greatest display; it was pure business, part of a perilous game learned by necessity to play, this I understood well. My memory snagged upon the final night of my employ at Ginny’s whorehouse, when Angus had paid for my services, when I’d approached him with just such an inviting jut to particular parts of my body.

  Sawyer sensed my growing discomfort and thought, I am here, darlin’, don’t fear. His protectiveness warmed my heart, as always, though I had nothing to fear in this place – only my memories, which even Sawyer hadn’t the power to fully banish.

  “And I am Mary,” the taller woman said, and her voice held no trace of nasal French. She was long of leg and fair of skin, while Cecilia was plump and olive-complexioned; both possessed the hooded, observant eyes of longtime whores. Mary offered her hand to each of us in turn and her grip was as firm as any man’s. She shouldered around Cecilia and acknowledged of Jacob, “Mr. Miller. You asked after the Carter brothers.”

  My heart took up an erratic thumping at her casual reference to them, as though Boyd and Malcolm were perhaps just the length of the room away, seated at a table beyond our line of sight. Though Mary maintained a guarded mien I ascertained a depth of information beyond it, if she was willing to trust us. Cecilia’s sleek, dark brows lifted as she studied us anew; there was unmistakable, if subtle, tension in her expression before she controlled its presence.

  “I did indeed,” Jacob agreed. “If you would be so kind, Miss Mary, we’d appreciate any word. These here are my friends, Sawyer Davis and his wife, Lorissa. The Carters are my nephews, as I’ve stated, and the three of us are indeed anxious for any news, any a’tall.”

  “I spoke with them last autumn,” Mary said. “And so did Isobel.”

  Cecilia said, “Excusez-moi,” and skirted Mary, effectively interrupting her explanation. The jet comb entwined in Cecilia’s hair and the pearled fastenings along the back of her pale satin gown caught the sunlight as she hastened away. Mary and I watched her go, Mary biting her lower lip.

  Sawyer prompted, “Did they mention where they might be headed? Did they seem troubled?”

  When Mary did not appear disposed to answer I turned my full attention upon her, ignoring Cecilia’s abrupt departure. “Please. Any detail you can recall.”

  Mary seemed to regain her resolve and leaned nearer to me, speaking quickly. “I must tell you –”

  Before she was able to finish this statement a male voice, loud and officious, speaking rapid French, claimed her attention as absolutely as would a bolt of lightning sizzling down from the punched-tin ceiling. I saw the way her teeth came together on their edges, the tightening of her jaws. Mary eased straight as the man approached and the memory of Ginny Hossiter so forcefully intruded my thoughts I could hardly swallow. I’d long ago accepted that my fear of the despicable madam would never let me completely from its clutches.

  “Qu’elle se passe-t-il ici ? Je ne vais pas avoir cela!”

  Mary stepped aside, with obvious deference, as her employer swept to a halt and stood with fists to
hips, trailed by Cecilia, who had clearly fetched him. An oiled beard, shaped to a point, first claimed my eye, along with the brilliant-blue scarf swathing his head, trimmed by small, cone-shaped embellishments that jangled with each movement. Earrings of polished silver gleamed, several hoops dangling from each earlobe; pale, narrowed eyes took stock even as he offered what was meant to be a charming smile. In thickly-accented English he inquired, “Who have we here?”

  “I am Jacob Justin Miller and I seek my kin,” Jacob explained with thinning patience, wasting no time upon trifling small talk. “They passed through St. Paul last autumn and visited this place, perhaps you’ll recall? Boyd and Malcolm Carter?”

  “These men were my guests for an evening’s meal,” the Frenchman said with a remarkably even tone. “I do recall this man and boy.” He disregarded Mary, Cecilia, and me; womenfolk, no threat to him. By contrast, his dissembling gaze moved with deliberation between Sawyer and Jacob. Eyebrows lifting in an expression of calculated innocence, he asked, “You have not heard? Then, I dearly regret to inform you I received word of their passing, last winter.”

  The shock of these casually-spoken words was that of scalding water to the skin, a knife blade to the gullet. The room seemed to list before my eyes.

  “Who gave you this information?” Sawyer demanded, hollow-voiced.

  Rather than answer, the Frenchman’s grin stretched farther across his too-animated face. He said grandly, “Might I inquire as to your name, good sir? And to your lovely woman’s? Or perhaps I assume too much? Is this lovely woman not yours?”

  Sawyer’s muscles bunched with tension. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tone when addressing my wife. And I ask again, who gave you this information?”

  The Frenchman’s grin slipped not an inch. “I fear I am no help to you in this matter,” he said, and shrugged, palms lifted. “You see, despite my many talents, I cannot bring dead men from their graves. I am sorry for your loss but there is nothing to be done. Perhaps a drink, before you depart?”

  I could not take my eyes from the Frenchman’s face; he was the sort with dominion over his expression, giving away nothing.

  Jacob advanced a pace, as of yet not hostile but entering into the man’s space all the same. “You claim my nephews have been killed and yet you refuse to explain this statement? What do you take us for?”

  The Frenchman shrugged, this time conveying irritation. “Word of their deaths reached town last autumn, as of the deaths of many others who ventured into the Territory. Traveling outside the bounds of established law is a dangerous endeavor, in the best of times.”

  Sawyer demanded, “Where in the Territory? How were they killed? I will not leave this place until you tell me how you came to possess this information.”

  “You will leave my établissement when I request,” the Frenchman said evenly. “And not a moment later.”

  “Their party was attacked,” the woman named Mary offered, with the sense of a child speaking out of turn, and our attention snapped to her as swiftly as a bowstring releasing an arrow.

  Mary pressed together her lips as if to contain further information; her gaze fluttered to the Frenchman’s and he picked up the dropped rein of the explanation, with a sigh. “The man and boy you seek were visited with misfortune, you see, having lost their supplies and cash money in a storm. They signed on to drive cattle through the Territory the very night I made their acquaintance, but their party was attacked along the route by Sioux raiders, who proceeded to kill the party and steal the cattle.” His sardonic gaze came to rest on me; as though he felt I did not comprehend his meaning, he clarified, “Red men, you see. Savages.”

  I could not conceive of Boyd and Malcolm as dead and gone – it was not possible. Thoughts whirled in the confines of my head. Misfortune. A storm. Lost their supplies and cash money. Red men. Oh Boyd, Malcolm, oh God…

  Sawyer grappled with similar notions, unwilling to simply accept. “What of their remains? What of their mounts? Where did this attack occur and how came you to know of it?”

  “The Sioux attacked a cattle operation?” Jacob scoffed, standing in an unmistakably confrontational pose, knuckles to hips; his wife and children were Indians, and the Frenchman had just referred to Indians as savages. He declared, “No such. Even had Sioux warriors wished to lift the cattle they would have done so in the dead of night, alerting no one. They’s near experts at such.”

  “I only relate to you what I have heard. Word trickles in from the Territory,” the Frenchman said, shrugging a third time. “No bodies were recovered. There is nothing more I am able to tell you.”

  The woman named Mary, standing just behind his shoulder, caught my attention with a small jutting of her chin; her blue eyes dug into mine but a second, perhaps two, but it was enough. I did not dare nod understanding and instead looked away from her.

  I said, “Then we will take our leave. Thank you, sir.”

  Consternation rolled from Jacob but Sawyer understood what I did not say; he tipped his hat brim and forced himself to abandon further questioning. “Good day.”

  “This ain’t over!” Jacob declared, furious.

  “You are most pale, ma’am. Do come along, you need a bit of air.” Mary had adopted a kindly, maternal tone in the hubbub of Jacob exchanging words with the Frenchman. She gathered close my elbow, feigning concern over my appearance, ushering me towards the swinging doors. Aware that we were observed, she did not linger; I scarcely heard her murmured promise of “Look for me at sunset,” before she turned away, retreating into the depths of The Dolly Belle.

  SHE MET THEM? She spoke with them?” Rebecca asked, all but wringing her hands. The picture of calm serenity for the entirety of the journey from Iowa City, Rebecca appeared near the end of her emotional endurance. I hugged her as closely as I was capable with my bulging midsection, rubbing her back; she rested her cheek to my hair and simply clung. I could feel a trembling way down deep in her body.

  Summoning all of my resolve, I whispered, “Mary was unable to converse with us in that moment, with her employer present, but implored me to look for her at sunset. I have made up my mind to hear what she has to say before I believe a thing.”

  We had set up camp near a low rise less than a half-mile south of town; from our current position, St. Paul itself was not visible, though in the absence of wind the rush of the Mississippi could still be heard. Jacob’s horse, a stocky gelding named Sundog, was tethered with our stock; Jacob traveled light, having left home with a bedroll and his saddlebags, including provisions and a pouch of tobacco. He intended to help us seek any possible answers, but all subsequent plans were indefinite; Jacob would ride for home by early next week but whether we would accompany him was another matter. Sawyer had filed for a homestead claim only this morning, he and Tilson paying for and submitting another claim by proxy, for Boyd, upon acreages adjacent to Jacob and Hannah’s land, near Flickertail Lake. But now, after the devastating news at The Dolly Belle, our plans had been dreadfully upended.

  We spent the afternoon discussing what we had learned at The Dolly Belle; Tilson and Jacob rode back to town to further inquire over the matter, returning to our camp with grim faces. It seemed that deaths in the Territory were so very common they caused little to no stir on any given day; although the news of Indian violence provoked a ripple last autumn, few even recalled the story now that spring lay blithely upon the land. Apparently one man had survived the attack of which the Frenchman spoke, and this man, whose name, Tilson said, was something along the order of ‘Trundle,’ had appeared in St. Paul in late October to tell the tale; he’d not been seen since.

  “This means perhaps Fallon Yancy never found them at all,” I speculated, and imagined the boy lying dead on the prairie somewhere between Iowa City and St. Paul, with no guilt over my hope that this picture proved true.

  “Were Indian folk truly responsible for such an assault, it seems highly unlikely Fallon was also involved,” Tilson agreed.

  “I do
n’t buy the story of a Sioux attack, not for a bleedin’ minute. They’d signed on to drive cattle,” Jacob mused yet again, mystified. “I just can’t figure why Boyd didn’t come straight to me. They’s my kin, I’d have taken them in with nothin’ to their names, though if Boyd is as prideful as his daddy, I s’pose I can see why he’d not wish that. But why didn’t he write of his intentions?”

  “Did this woman Mary speak of how they appeared? Were they well?” Rebecca asked for perhaps the fourth time, dissatisfied with my lack of answers; if Mary did indeed appear this eve, Rebecca may well tear her apart to glean what information she was able. Pale and distraught, Rebecca could scarcely remain still. Cort and Nathaniel – who, from the first, had regarded the journey to Minnesota as a stupendously grand adventure – offered her some small distraction, chasing each other in the rich sunset glow as afternoon passed slowly into lengthening evening. We were gathered near the crackling dinner fire, Tilson and Jacob smoking their pipes; the two of them had taken to one another as peas in a single pod, both appreciating the commonality of their state of origin. The Tennessee in Jacob’s voice had resurged in our company.

  “She did not,” I told Rebecca. “I pray she’ll have more to tell us.”

  Sawyer’s face appeared gilded, the stark lines of his eyepatch tempered by the fading light, his soft mouth uncharacteristically dour at the nature of our conversation. I sat at his side, settled as comfortably as possible on a folded quilt, and found room to notice that Sawyer sat in his usual pose, the one with which I’d first become accustomed in the days along the trail in Missouri, after I’d joined him, Angus, Boyd and Malcolm – both legs bent and arms wrapped about his knees, left wrist caught in the opposite hand.

  I was angled to keep watch for Mary approaching from the direction of town, still uncertain if she would be able to manage such a potentially dangerous feat; I recalled all too vividly the night I’d crept from Ginny’s on an errand of some magnitude, imperiling myself to help my sweet Deirdre. I would not have dared to leave the whorehouse, which kept us as effectively imprisoned as any jail, for a lesser reason. All of us remained strangers to Mary and I would not blame her for reconsidering such personal risk to deliver a message to people unknown to her. Would the threat of punishment change Mary’s mind? I prayed it would not but my heart was sinking along with the sun; the road into town had quieted with the dinner hour, no more than a rider or two, there a lone buckboard drawn by a team of mismatched mules. When a man appeared at the crest of the rise, backlit by the magenta sky and headed our direction, my spine stiffened in instant alarm.