Come, Rebecca, I thought, gathering strength.
I hurried along the alley between The Dolly Belle and the adjacent business establishment, both whitewashed buildings looming over me in a fashion to which I was not accustomed; the home wherein I’d spent most of my life had been a much smaller structure, with a low-pitched roofline. The alleyway was narrow and dotted with patches of mud, sucking at my bootheels as I hastened, my passage garnering little attention, just as I had hoped. Of course most patrons would enter the saloon through its front doors rather than skulking about the rear of the building, and there was no one here about, save myself; I emerged from the alley to find a small back porch adorned with a pair of rocking chairs and a single lantern, currently unlit. The river was visible down the long slope of a grassy incline, the purring rush of its water filling my ears just as the musky, but not unpleasant, scent of its banks saturated my nose.
I waited, tense with uncertainty; though I could hear the sounds of gaiety and carousing from the front of the saloon, they were muted, distant-seeming. One could hope for a modicum of privacy in this spot, and sure enough, Mary appeared momentarily at the screen door with its decorative oval frame, easing it open with a lengthy creak and stepping at last outside. She was clad in garments far more feminine than the last I’d beholden, a long skirt and draped shawl of white silk, paste brilliants glimmering in her fair hair, pinned up for the evening. Her lips were a dark slash in the gloom and her eyes sought mine at once; she tread the porch boards with care, as so not to create undue noise, and grasped my wrist.
“Come,” she implored in a whisper. “I ain’t got but a minute,” and so saying, led us closer to the river, keeping the roofline of The Dolly Belle in sight. Once satisfied with our isolated location, Mary leaned close. “I intended to slip away this very evening. It’s pure good fortune you’ve appeared in town. Is Mrs. Davis delivering?”
“She is,” I affirmed, clasping my hands and pressing them to my breast-bone as though to sustain my heartbeat. Lorie was the sister for whom I had always longed and I loved her dearly; only one thing could tear me from her side in her time of need. I pleaded, “What news have you?”
“Mrs. Rebecca,” Mary said, and my heart became solid, unmoving as a boulder, with pure trepidation; her tone could indicate nothing but news of magnitude. She promptly grasped my shoulders and peered into my eyes. “Boyd Carter is alive. Do you hear me? I could scarce believe my ears, but he is alive!”
There was a roaring in my head to rival the river. My knees gave way as though kicked from behind; Mary issued a muffled exclamation and bent to retrieve me from the ground. The world pitched and swayed, and only my grasp on Mary’s wrists kept me steady. Tears swarmed my eyes as I choked and gasped over the words. “Boyd is…alive? Oh dear God…he’s alive?” Heaven had opened its gates to me, here on the damp and muddy earth behind a saloon called The Dolly Belle.
Mary released my elbows and promptly enfolded me in a robust embrace. The lace of her costume scratched my cheek; the scent of her oiled perfume was syrupy and overpowering but I stood trembling in her arms, weeping even as I recognized the need to gather my wits, to find out how she came to possess this knowledge. Mary murmured into my ear. “I know what you’re feeling, I do. If I’d learned Grady was alive I would rejoice, too. I wouldn’t ask for another goddamn thing in this life.”
“Where is he?” I begged, drawing abruptly away, resonating with the need to see him, to lay my eyes and hands upon him, in that order. My gaze darted wildly about, as though Mary was keeping him hidden from me. “Is he here? Is he nearby?”
Mary clamped my shoulders and rattled me with two quick shakes, rife with the desire for me to pay attention. She ordered, “Listen to me. I got no real proof but I believe Mr. Carter is in harm’s way. Virgil Turnbull rode into town yesterday evening, from the north and in the company of three other men, one of them that half-breed feller I spoke of. The others are a pair of brothers named Little. Do you hear me?”
My chin jerked like a marionette’s as I nodded, assuring her I did indeed hear.
Mary continued, “Virgil spoke with Jean Luc, and Cecilia overhead them talking about the Carters. Virgil was demanding to know if they’d appeared in St. Paul this month. Virgil seemed riled up, Cecilia said. If I hadn’t been with a customer just then, I’d have skewered his worthless little hide to the wall and questioned him like a criminal on the stand. He disappeared right after and I ain’t seen him yet with my own eyes. But Cecilia wouldn’t lie. She feels badly that she never delivered Mr. Carter’s letters to the post, seeing as how she was put out he’d rejected her that night.”
My mind floundered over these breathless explanations, attempting to piece together sense. Thinking as rapidly as I was capable, I said, “Boyd must be riding this way from the Territory, as we first suspected. We must warn him.” I battled the urge to lift my hem and run for the edge of town, knocking aside anything in my way. What if I was already too late? Nothing would prevent Virgil and the others from drawing the same conclusion and riding promptly westward upon discovering Boyd was not in St. Paul. He would be outnumbered. He could not possibly realize they were coming for him. Panic grew tenfold in my heart. “I shall fetch my uncle and Jacob Miller this instant.”
“Yes, warn your people,” Mary encouraged. “Likely Virgil already knows that other folks have been asking after him. I’ll round up Isobel just as soon as she’s free. Might be that she knows more. She’s likely seen Virgil already. Isobel always had a soft spot for him.”
“And the sheriff must be told, I must go to him – ”
Mary shook her head. “Mrs. Rebecca, there ain’t a sheriff alive who’d ride out for the Territories because we claimed a feller was in danger out there. There’s nothing but my word, a whore’s word, to go on, don’t you see? I wish I knew more. I wish I could help you, for Grady’s sake.”
“You have helped, in every way possible.” I clasped her forearms and rose to my toes to kiss her cheek, finding it cool and smooth as porcelain beneath my lips. “Thank you, Mary. For the rest of my life I shall be grateful to you.”
“Come,” she urged. “Find your uncle and Mr. Miller, don’t bother with the sheriff. Slip around that-a-way, behind The Steam House. I don’t want Jean Luc to –” But she was not allowed to finish the statement because a man strode into view, emerging from the alley in my footsteps. Mary looked over her shoulder as this man snared my attention; I caught a brief glimpse of an imposing figure with a long braid before Mary inhaled a sharp breath and hissed, “Run!”
I saw the knife clenched in his fist and obeyed without question, lifting my skirts and aiming for the river, tall grass slapping at my thighs. I did not have to understand what was happening to perceive the danger. I heard the man give chase even over the sound of my churning breath and Mary’s attempt to stop him – there was a small, thin cry – then silence. I stumbled and slid a dozen feet on the thick mud, realizing there was nowhere I could run that he could possibly fail to overtake me. My experience with being chased or roughhousing amounted to playing with Clint in the summers of our youths; no one had ever purposely struck me and therefore the jouncing blow between my shoulder blades caught me all the more unaware. I went to my knees like a hamstrung horse, skidding down the bank with hands splayed. The breath was so thoroughly knocked from my lungs I could not make a sound as I was grabbed by the hair and yanked upright no more than a few steps from the black, coursing river, its water robbed of all color by the night sky.
“Keep still, beautiful woman,” cajoled a deep voice at my ear, an unforgiving arm clamped beneath my breasts. “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman without discretion.”
I expected the blade and my vision narrowed to pinpricks, but the knife I feared did not slice my skin. From behind, he deftly gagged me with a strip of cloth, making short work of knotting this at the base of my skull before hefting me over his shoulder; a hard ridge of bone and muscle dug into my belly as I hu
ng upside-down, helpless to fight him, struggling to breathe, the taste of the dirty cloth bitter on my tongue. He was sizeable and solid, and his stride took us quickly away; he followed the riverbank, one arm clamped over my hips, my skirts encumbering my legs as effectively as shackles. I watched the ground bounce along beneath his leather-clad feet, so frightened my mind flashed in bursts like that of heat lightning.
Cry out, scream for help, fight him!
He’ll hurt you! He’ll kill you!
What of Mary?
Oh dear God –
I could not gauge the amount of time which passed before he came to a sudden halt, dumping me to the earth where I crumpled to hands and knees, aching and overcome with shock. We were well away from the town and night sounds teemed in my ears, crickets and bullfrogs, mosquitoes and the unending gush of the river itself, flowing along through the darkness, flush with spring thaw. I lifted my head and stared about in wide-eyed horror, my eyes lighting between the man who’d carried me here and another man who crouched on the riverbank, holding a lantern fitted with a guttering candle and smoking a pipe; its scarlet embers glowed as he drew on it and then blew a stream of acrid smoke. In the darkness behind me, away from the river, I heard the sounds of several horses.
“You brung a whore?” the smoking man asked, rising to his feet, gesturing at me with the stem of his pipe.
This query was ignored; my captor demanded, “Where’s Yancy?”
“Having a shit,” was the reply; still in disbelief, he muttered, “You brung a whore.”
The man who’d hauled me here made a derisive sound and I sheltered my head as he approached with a single stride. He knocked aside my hands as he would gnats and gripped my chin, immobilizing my head, tilting it so he could study my face. He said, “Better than a whore. Keep her bound until I return, there’s rope in the saddlebag. I want a good, long taste of this one.”
“For Christ’s sake,” grumbled the smoking man. “This ain’t the time.”
From the darkness came a new voice, flat and lethal. “Talk to me, Church.”
My spine went colder still. I thought, Yancy.
The man called Church released his hold on my chin. “Lawson’s dead. I got him in the street but a half-hour ago, just in time. He didn’t talk to nobody yet.”
“What about the Carters?”
“Bill’s waiting for them to show in town. Lawson must have ridden ahead,” was Church’s reply. “We ought to have found them on the trail, as I said. We could have killed the entire lot with one sweep.”
“That would have happened, as you fucking know, if Turnbull weren’t such a coward. He’s useless as hell. I’m done with him.”
“Bill’s tetchy as a mother hen. He won’t kill them in town.” Church spoke with unmistakable contempt.
“All the more reason for you to get back there,” Yancy said through clenched teeth.
The smoking man spoke up. “Bill does what needs doing, don’t you accuse my brother of being tetchy!”
My disjointed gaze darted between them as they bickered, noticing minute details in the strange manner of heightened fear; the man called Church wore a leather chest plate over his shirt, its entire surface decorated with intricate beadwork; Yancy was slender as a willow switch and possessed no visible musculature, his features almost feminine in their fair delicacy. His eyes, lit from below by the guttering flame, appeared empty sockets. When he suddenly trained them upon me, I could not restrain a gulp; in that moment I understood without words why a person would obey this slim, terrifying youth. The gag scraped my tongue as I tried to swallow, but could not.
“What is this, Church?” he whispered.
“I followed her and the others from their camp. This one crept over to The Belle and out of my sight. Found her talking with one of the whores.”
“Goddamn gossiping harlots,” grumbled the smoking man. He spat into the river, swiping at his mouth with the back of one hand, pulling Yancy’s focus back to him.
“Shut the hell up and get downriver, keep watch,” Yancy ordered, indicating with an outstretched arm, and the man tamped out the remainder of his cigar, tugged lower his hat brim, and slouched away.
“This one’ll do for me,” Church said, again clutching my chin, forcing my regard; I had not dared to rise from the ground. My insides curled over on themselves. His face was sharp-edged, his eyes black as char. He appeared to be of mixed breeding, the long-bladed knife strapped to his hip winking with the promise of an excruciating death. But no brutality enacted my physical person could be as painful as what he’d just said.
My boys – he spoke of our camp. Cort, Nathaniel!
Boyd, oh dear God, Boyd, you’re riding into danger!
Before I could comprehend the threat, Yancy grabbed my hair, yanking me from Church’s grasp. He raged, “I will cut off your goddamn pecker before I let you waste time fucking.”
Church loomed in Yancy’s space and I hunkered low, shielding my head. Yancy released my hair and his seething voice belied no lack of composure despite the decided physical disadvantage of his narrow build. “Get back to town and finish it.”
“And let you ride away? No way in hell.”
“Where is Turnbull now?”
Church gritted his teeth, staring bullets at Yancy. At last he muttered, “He’s holed up in the whorehouse with that little whore what owes him a favor.”
“And there he can stay. Useless one-handed bastard.”
I peered at the boy who had run away from the Rawleys’ homestead in Iowa, whose father’s intent had been to kill Sawyer and Lorie, the boy who had tried his best to kill Boyd and Malcolm. The Yancys had perpetuated such violence, had been the cause of such anguish for those I loved, that undiluted hatred welled in my center, so forceful it overrode all else. I entertained the notion of lunging at Yancy’s midsection, knocking him to the ground and gripping his pale throat, thinking of Lorie’s bravery on the prairies of Iowa, of the way she had shot an attacker in the gut. I must cling to a shred of valor. I was surely stronger than this slender boy, and neither my hands nor feet were bound.
As though ascertaining the direction of my thoughts, Yancy crouched down so his face was on a level with mine; I struggled to compose my expression. I could not restrain a flinch as he reached for me and slipped the gag from my mouth, leaving it dangling about my neck.
He whispered, “You want to hurt me?” I was too stunned to attempt a reply and he cajoled, “Do it. Hurt me.”
I made no sound, no movement, sickened by what I heard in his voice, what I witnessed in the holes of his eyes. The silence grew first thick and then oppressive, and he belted my mouth so effortlessly I did not see his fist before it made contact. The blow sent me sprawling to the side. I tasted blood. He was upon me at once, standing now, planting a boot between my breasts. Applying pressure, he bent low. His tone was that of someone conversing pleasantly as he remarked, “As you can see, I will not hesitate to hurt you.”
Church snorted. “I get her first, you young pup.”
“You get nothing! We can’t linger here.” Yancy peered down at me, tilting his head to one side in the fashion of a schoolmaster puzzling over the best presentation of a particular lesson. My breath was shallow; each inhalation was a struggle. He murmured, “Shoot her between the eyes and strip her to the skin. That’s what you savages prefer, isn’t it? Leave her on the path.” His lips curved upward and my blood turned to ice. “On her back.”
From a short distance the smoking man bellowed, “Rider!”
Yancy and Church sprang to immediate alert, cursing, drawing sidearms. Instinct overrode both pain and sensibility and I scrambled to my feet, seizing this opportunity before the thought fully formed. Though I’d never learned to swim, it was the lesser of two evils in my current state; I lifted my hem and raced for the springtime rush of the Mississippi. A pistol discharged a shot, then another, and I jolted forward, as helpless as a kitten tossed to drown.
YOU BEEN A good traveling com
panion,” I told Trapper, scratching beneath his square jaws, patting his long face with both hands. The mule twitched his rabbity ears and blew a breath against my side and I smiled, lifting my hat to swipe at my sweating forehead. The air was warm and dry on this second morning of May, the sun’s heat a downright blessing on my shoulders. We were but a day’s ride from St. Paul for the first time since last September and I had a plan, and reasonable hope of it succeeding. I could not deny the restless energy flowing in my blood, the bitterness of the knowledge that we were also closer to Iowa City than we’d been since riding forth from it; I did not let the aching despair that Rebecca was lost to me gain any firmer a handhold than it had already claimed – and I thought for the countless time, We are alive. I ain’t come this far, been through this much, to lose sight now.
Malcolm, Cora, and I had marked the passing of the winter months at Fort Pierre with beads strung on a length of sinew, gifted to us by little Emeline Darvell. One bead for each day, which Malcolm or Cora slipped into place at the evening’s fire, the clack of a bead coming to rest beside the one representing the day before allowing for a small sense of satisfaction. By now we’d amassed a proper necklace, adorned with beads in a variety of bright colors, indigo and crimson and sunny yellow, greens to rival a cedar forest. Some were painted with fine white lines, others were chipped or cracked; the necklace had become a sort of talisman, which Cora kept tucked in a soft leather pouch she’d made with Fern’s help. We remained indebted to the Darvell family; Malcolm and Cora had spent every day in the company of Albie, Pierpont, and Emeline, and now understood more French and Anishinabeg than a year’s worth of schooling could have provided.
Grace of a Hawk Page 34
