Grace of a Hawk

by Abbie Williams

  It occurred to me seconds too late; just as I realized someone would be keeping watch a man bellowed, “Rider!”

  “Follow me, get down low!” I ordered Malcolm, cutting Admiral to the right, heeling his flanks, not giving them a chance to take aim on us; Malcolm obeyed immediately. Men shouted and I bent low over Admiral’s neck, circling wide, coming about straight out from the small cluster of people assembled near the river. Two men had taken to their horses, the third running for his mount. I could not tell if Rebecca was among them and my dread increased. I was perhaps five dozen paces away, Malcolm and Aces on my left flank. And then a flurry of movement caught my eye, someone rising from the ground and running for the river. A woman. One of the men on horseback gave immediate chase, discharging his firearm in her direction. She fell forward and he grabbed her by the arm, yanking her onto the saddle before him.

  “Rebecca!”

  My throat bulged with roaring fury; Admiral’s haunches bunched as I heeled him with all my strength, rushing them, taking aim upon the man running along the bank, discharging rounds as I rode. Aim for his torso. No quarter. He crumpled and fell hard, arms flailing, and I wasted no time racing after the horse over which Rebecca had been thrown, burning with a fury that turned the entire world red. I could not risk firing upon the rider, not when he had Rebecca braced over the saddle in front of him. Aces galloped at a right angle to my position, Malcolm unable to aim the Henry at a gallop but risking a charge all the same.

  “Shoot him!” my brother yelped, hoarse with raw determination. “He’s right there!”

  I was dimly aware of the second horse fleeing due east, a slender rider leaning forward, using the horse’s head for cover.

  “Malcolm!” I roared as he and Aces flew past in pursuit of Fallon Yancy, vanishing into the night.

  I had to let them go.

  I spurred Admiral anew, vicious with purpose. Eyes focused on the horse galloping some fifty paces ahead. Blood churning. It was Church Talk who had Rebecca; I spied his long braid.

  I’ll gut him. I’ll cut out his heart and crush it in my fist.

  Admiral’s legs churned beneath me in a full-out gallop and we gained ground.

  Church Talk was slowing his mount’s pace.

  What the hell…

  The half-breed had been taking stock while I plotted his torturous death and I failed to recognize his intent. He let me close the gap between us just enough that when he let Rebecca slide from horseback to earth, I took Admiral to the ground to avoid riding over her. I sawed the reins with every ounce of strength I possessed as Admiral issued a frenzied whinny, his head yanked to a severe and unnatural angle. Instinct saved me in that moment; years of soldiering graced me with the ability to haul my leg out of the way before the gelding went down hard. I rolled left as he fell right, protecting my head. Admiral thrashed in an effort to regain his footing before my own momentum had ceased – but I couldn’t spare him a second, not just now.

  I scrabbled through the grass on all fours, stricken with the hot sickness of fear.

  “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus…I’m here, Rebecca, I’m here…”

  The world had gone numb, as if I’d been dropped into a nightmare of crawling up steep, rocky hills, unable to reach her. Rebecca lay silent, crumpled on her left side, and despair rammed its claws down my gullet as I fumbled, seeking evidence of her pulse –

  I choked a gulping, almost inhuman cry; the purest relief I’d ever known as Rebecca’s heartbeat fluttered against my fingertips in the soft hollow between her collarbones. “I’m here, darlin’. You’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

  Tears poured from my eyes and clogged up my throat. I eased her to her back as if handling a newborn babe, cradling her head in the crook of my left elbow as I glided my right hand along her body, everywhere at once, checking for damage. Her face was before my eyes at long last – the face which had haunted my dreams and sustained me in ways she couldn’t begin to imagine. Her long dark hair fell across my arm. And then I saw blood at her waist. Dark blood in a widening circle upon the pale material of her dress.

  “No, oh Jesus, no.”

  Get up. Now. Hurry.

  Admiral was but paces away; I knew he required care, he was hurt from his fall, but he was on his feet and nothing mattered except getting Rebecca to town. I shut out all else, focusing my will. I carried her to him, clenching Admiral’s lead rein, taking the saddle with Rebecca braced in my arms; she felt slight, unbearably fragile, but I knew her for a brave, resilient woman, the woman I would give my life for.

  “I got you, darlin’, stay with me, do you hear me? Stay with me, Rebecca.” I tucked her as close as I could manage and heeled Admiral, cantering back the way we’d come.

  Boyd. I tried to speak his name but was unable. Boyd.

  Is it really you? Am I in a dream?

  I could not focus my senses to understand what was occurring.

  Green, he’d once said by the fair morning light. Your eyes. I can’t rightly decide if they’re green or brown or gold, exactly. But so very green, this morning.

  You came for me. Oh, Boyd, you came for me.

  Floating somewhere distant, I was visited by a series of soundless pictures, images flickering across the backs of my closed eyelids. Sunshine dusted our hair as Boyd carried me in his arms in this vision of another place, somewhere far from here, lit by the radiance of late afternoon rather than blackest night. In this golden light I retained the strength to latch my arms about his neck as he grinned at me with all of the love for which I had longed so deeply that only its utter satiation could ease the gaping wounds in my heart. His dark eyes held mine, blazing with need and desire, dimple flashing at the promise of what was to come.

  Rebecca, he said, and I watched his sensual lips speak my name, the lips I wanted upon my flesh until the anguish of missing him, of believing he was dead, was banished forever. And still I would beg for need of his touch, his mouth, his hands, his tongue. The needing would never cease; not even dying could destroy it. I opened to him, the soundless pictures dancing faster still, blurring and flowing as he entered me, grasping my hips, sleek with sweat as we winged together beyond all words, warm sunlight lambent upon my naked belly – but why is there so much blood – and his wide shoulders, his bare back. On and on, into an eternity of living and loving, our babies at my breast and his kisses upon my skin. Boyd playing his fiddle on long summer evenings, a love of music passed from father to child just as dark eyes and a certain tilt of the head, beautiful memories of love and laughter and happiness taking root, sustaining generations long past our deaths.

  I knew I was dying even as Boyd carried me through all of it, the images of the life we could have had.

  I RODE as fast as I dared push Admiral over the prairie, shielding Rebecca as best I could over the uneven terrain, fearful to cause her more harm. The Jeffries’ boardinghouse might as well have been on the far side of the goddamn Territory, a thousand fucking miles away. I reached the outskirts of town, keeping Admiral at a clip over the dusty streets; my shirt had grown wet with the warmth of Rebecca’s spilling blood and I prayed Tilson was well enough to attend to her. In the light of the lanterns on street corners she appeared so pale my heart was slashed anew; she had not yet returned to consciousness. Terror numbed my perception; if I acknowledged its presence I would lose all control. The boardinghouse loomed in sight.

  “Clear a room! Sawyer! Tilson!” I entered bellowing, sending Mrs. Jeffries into a new set of nervous convulsions. A small crowd had assembled in the boardinghouse, folks gathered to chaw over the evening’s events. Sawyer appeared from an adjacent room, Tilson on his heels, a strip of folded linen tied about his wounded head. I could have wept with relief.

  “Dear Lord, what’s happened to her?” asked Mrs. Jeffries, dogging my elbow, but I paid her no heed.

  “Help her,” I begged Tilson, my voice coming loose at the seams. “Rebecca’s been shot.”

  I WAS aware of being placed upon a bed. Pain s
liced me in two at the waist. Sudden brightness gouged the seams of my eyelids; a lantern had been brought near my face. I meant to speak but a groaning sob emerged instead.

  “She’s hurting! Goddammit, help her! Please, help her!”

  I tried to reach for the man attached to this voice, this warm, husky, drawling voice. I wanted him, I needed him –

  His next words were much softer, delivered closer to my ear. “I’m right here, darlin’, I ain’t gonna leave your side. Can you hear me, Rebecca? Can you hear me?”

  Light haloed his head. His hands were upon me, gentle as those cradling a fledgling bird. It was truly him; he was here, not a figment of my imagination. Joy burst through the pain as my eyelids parted and I beheld him at last.

  “Boyd…”

  His face, the selfsame face I longed for every moment of our separation, bearded and wet with tears, split with a grin as I spoke his name. The dark intensity of his eyes beat into mine. His hands formed a cradle around my head, his thumbs tracing my chin.

  “I’m here, I’m right here, an’ you’re safe, darlin’, you’re safe now.”

  “Stay with me,” I begged. I wanted to enclose him in my arms but I was no longer in control of my limbs; I could not keep my eyes open. I was so cold. My fingers jerked, curling inward.

  “I will never leave you again, darlin’, I swear on my life.”

  “She’s in shock, get her out of these clothes, hurry now!” Uncle Edward, brusque and forceful, his physician’s tone I’d jumped to obey a hundred thousand times. I sensed him alongside the bed and he bent close to say, “Becky, we’re here, honey.”

  Uncle Edward barked additional orders, calling for what he needed. My satchel! Basin! Vinegar! Stoke that fire and fetch another blanket! Boyd gathered my hands into his and kissed the back of each, his lips warmer than life itself, his thick beard soft against my chilled skin. I knew I’d been shot and recognized that blood drained freely from the wound. The shaking in my limbs increased and hampered their efforts to free me from my garments. Boyd stretched full length on the bed, enveloping me in his blessed heat.

  He spoke at my temple. “We got laudanum comin’ for you, sweetheart, I’ll help you take it so you won’t hurt so bad. Oh, darlin’, I am so sorry. I’ll warm you. You stay with me, Rebecca, stay with me.”

  I wanted nothing more than to stay with him. I wanted to tell him, I needed to tell him, but I could not make anything work. I hurt so much. The shaking would not cease.

  “We must stop that bleeding,” Uncle Edward commanded, and proceeded to press a bundled cloth to my stomach; moaning cries burst from my mouth, I could not contain them.

  The bedding beneath me was soaked with blood.

  I PUT from my mind all but what must be accomplished. There was no other way.

  But I felt as though my skin was peeled back at the sight of the blood, at the damage a bullet had inflicted upon Rebecca. The fury that this had been done to her burned through me like acid as Sawyer and Mrs. Jeffries ran to retrieve what supplies Tilson required. Tilson and I worked feverishly, removing Rebecca’s clothing so Tilson could examine the extent of the wound; that she was first bared before my eyes in this fashion tore at my heart as I lay on the bed at her side, as careful as if she was spun from glass, afraid to hurt her.

  Once Rebecca was devoid of all garments I kept her as close as I dared to my warmth. I wanted to crack apart my body and take her within it so we’d never again be separated, that I’d never know another day or night without her; I spoke these words aloud to her. The need to protect was primal and overpowering. Blood leaked over her hips and down the curve of her right leg, collecting where her thigh bent against her body. Tilson hurried to bundle a cloth.

  “Oh Jesus, help her, help her.” I could not bear Rebecca hurting this way, not when I was so goddamn helpless to stop it.

  Tilson snapped, “If you can’t handle this, you get yourself out of here!”

  “I ain’t leaving this room.”

  Tilson nodded curtly; his face seemed gray as his hair as he ordered, “Hold her steady, keep on talking to her like you been.”

  And I did, keeping my gaze trained upon her face as Tilson bent over her lower body, sheltering her as best I could. Someone had struck her mouth and she breathed shallowly between panting cries while Tilson made a dart of his fingertips and probed the flesh on her belly. I bit through the side of my tongue as I watched, terrified to hear what he would say; if he believed she would not make it, he may as well put a bullet in my heart.

  “Carter, help me ease her over,” Tilson instructed, gesturing, and I understood he needed to see the extent of the wound on her back; he seemed to have aged a dozen years in the past five minutes. He examined the damage while I stared at him, wild-eyed, and at last he explained, “There’s one entry point, one exit. I don’t feel any protrusions. The round passed clean through but she’s sustained broken ribs and blood loss. I must clean and stitch that wound.”

  “Tell me what to do,” I insisted.

  I WAS aware of Boyd helping me to take the laudanum, its bitter-syrup taste coating my tongue. The room slowly retreated, replaced by an empty and peaceful prairie lit with an amber tint both strange and fetching. For a time I hovered there, listening to a great and distant commotion happening somewhere beyond the undisturbed scene before my eyes.

  Later, I stood at the entrance to a covered bridge, a long, narrow bridge common to the Iowa countryside, and peered towards the opposite end; my head and shoulders were in shadow but wildflowers brushed the sides of my long skirt, a sunny afternoon blooming just outside. I stood rooted, waiting. At the far end of the tunnel a small window of white light winked into existence, steadily growing in size, until I squinted against the radiance. Bees hummed. The air was motionless – indeed, here upon the bridge my entire body was warm and still – the scene quietly benign, scented by summer blossoms, bergamot and columbine, cinquefoil and daisy.

  The brightness seemed to beckon, inviting me. I lifted a hand to shade my eyes and took a single step forward.

  BOYD HOLLERED AFTER me but I could not stop.

  The truth was I didn’t want to stop, not for nothing. The only thing I cared about in that black moment was catching Fallon. He was closer to me than he’d been since he ordered me set up on Aces to be hung. He’d got pleasure out of that. He’d played with me, for nothing but sport. Fallon wanted me to suffer, just like his daddy wanted Sawyer and Lorie to suffer. He could have shot me dead with his pistol that very rainy night back in the Territory but he’d trussed me up on Aces so my own horse would be forced to do the deed for him.

  Fallon was a yellow coward, slimy and yellow as fish eggs. I’d missed shooting his daddy dead the night Zeb Crawford tried to burn Sawyer in the dooryard, but I did not mean to miss this time. The Henry was heavier than any firearm I’d ever handled but I held fast to its solid receiver, keeping Aces’ reins in my left hand, bending low over his neck so my head wouldn’t stall us none. Fallon was in sight and we were gaining on him, little by little; it was my good fortune Fallon rode a horse with a hide like the pale canvas of a wall tent, easier to follow by night.

  “C’mon!” I urged, tightening my right knee on Aces’ flank as Fallon angled that direction. I could hear his horse’s hooves now, we was that close together. He dared a look back and I yelped blood and guts at him, no words, only fury. There was a terrible feeling of joy in the thought of killing him. I hated it and reveled in it, both at once.

  Green as I was, I didn’t expect him to risk slowing his pace to fire at us, but the bastard did. Almost too late I saw him twist and aim his sidearm. I yelped again, dodging Aces to the side, losing ground. Fallon squeezed off a shot and the screaming whine of the round passed through the air on my left. More fortune there – he fired a pistol, a far less accurate piece. My thoughts stormed like bolt lightning as he dared another shot, forcing me to slow and lose more ground.

  Do I halt and take aim?

  What if he gets a
way?

  Can I ride with no hands an’ fire the Henry?

  It’s dangerous as hell to ride this hard at night.

  He’ll get away!

  I knew then what I must do and my thoughts settled. I positioned the rifle crosswise over my lap, gripping it with my left hand, and heeled Aces like we was running in the Fourth of July race back home in Suttonville. I was Ethan Davis in the old days, riding full-tilt, strong and cocksure, knowing there weren’t a faster horse than mine. I stared ahead, eyes burning, focusing on Fallon’s mount, hearing my breath beating in time with the thud of Aces’ hooves, like we was one creature. Narrow, and narrower still, was the space between our galloping horses –

  Aces came abreast. Fallon took his horse sharply left, away from me, unable to use his firearm. I’d counted on that, following directly after him. My jaws rumbled with our thundering passage over the nighttime prairie. I gripped the Henry by the barrel, palm wet with sweat, and jabbed the stock towards Fallon with all my strength. I was Boyd then, mighty as a team of oxen, with shoulders wide as a splitting-axe handle. I aimed for Fallon’s ribs and the blow struck him, but not as forceful as I’d hoped. Fallon grabbed Aces’ left rein, caught hold of the leather strap and jerked my horse’s head straight at the ground. It was all I could do to stay in the saddle, paddling my hands for a solid hold as Aces wheeled in a tight circle, kicking his back legs and braying like a devil-horse. Fallon’s hand was stuck in the strap and he fell, pulling me with.

  The world made no sense for them split seconds. The ground rushed my face and I lost my grip on the Henry. I landed so hard I didn’t know up from down as I rolled like spilled beans. A shadowy figure blotted out the stars and I came back to myself in a snap, twisting just in time to dodge the downward arch of his pistol grip, aimed for my head. Maybe it was play-fighting Sawyer and Boyd all them years that saved me then, but my body knew what to do, even if my head stayed stunned. From flat on my back I caught Fallon’s swinging forearm, curling my knees to my stomach at the same instant, kicking like a donkey, targeting his gut. Startled air whooshed from his mouth. The pistol went flying and I slammed him sideways to the earth, panting now, scrabbling to keep him pinned. My ankle struck something hard – the stock of the Henry. But I couldn’t release Fallon long enough to fetch up the rifle.