Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  She was wrapped in a shawl and bare-headed, hardly more than a vague outline before me as I obeyed her order without question. She led us around the jailhouse and then behind the edge of the building, where welcome relief descended over me.

  “Old friend, there ain’t time,” Boyd said low, sensing my deep desire to understand what was happening. He sat astride Fortune in the small scrap of yard beyond, Whistler saddled and ready at their side. The backsides of buildings adjacent to the jailhouse loomed large; a hundred unseen eyes seemed to peer down at us.

  “The irons,” Rebecca muttered, coming near and indicating my wrists with a tilt of her chin. She worked as quickly as possible, her hands small white moths. After several futile attempts, she whispered miserably, “I haven’t the key. I believed that Clint’s would work, but they shan’t. I am terribly sorry, Mr. Davis.”

  “I’ll shoot apart that chain once we’s free of town,” Boyd whispered. “Don’t fret, ma’am, you’s give us more’n we could repay already.”

  “You have,” I agreed, finding my voice. Rebecca had helped us beyond all measure, beyond comprehension, and there was no rationale for these actions. I caught her cold hands briefly in mine and squeezed, saying wholeheartedly, “I could never thank you enough.”

  She nodded, and her gaze moved immediately upwards, seeking Boyd. He tipped his hat and said softly, “You are an angel, ma’am.”

  I climbed atop Whistler, her warm back so familiar beneath me, adjusting my hips in the saddle and gathering the reins; there was no helping the cumbersome irons shackling my wrists, but I had learned to ride almost before I could walk, and they would not hinder me.

  “I shall watch over young Malcolm. Be safe, the both of you,” Rebecca whispered. She implored, “Please, Mr. Carter.”

  “You have my word,” Boyd promised.

  * * *

  We did not let the horses canter until we cleared the bridge over the Iowa, and therefore the town limits. For hours we rode without speaking, quiet until dawn crested the eastern horizon; it was strange to feel the morning beams touching us from the left when we’d grown accustomed to riding north—the sun was supposed to rise on our right. The day appeared fair and fine, blue without a shred of a cloud. I threw all my senses forward, straining for a hint of Lorie, ahead of me on this trail. Southbound, I was certain, en route to St. Louis with Yancy and Jack.

  “They’s been riding since yesterday afternoon, we gotta figure,” Boyd said when we walked the horses for a spell; everything within me rebelled against slowing our pace, but I loved Whistler and knew she needed the respite in order to keep moving. Boyd and I rode alongside one another, as we had countless times since our youth, he to the right, as usual. Our horses touched noses and nickered to one another; Fortune was sired by the same stud as Whistler, back in Cumberland County in our old lives. The sire had been of Piney Chapman’s finest stock, a long-limbed stallion that passed on his build to both animals, though only Fortune retained his coloring; Whistler resembled her mother, Viola, a lovely quarter horse with a paint coat.

  I nodded agreement of Boyd’s words. We’d ridden hard and had not yet been allowed a chance to talk, Iowa City far behind. I asked only after Malcolm and Boyd explained that he had all but hog-tied the boy so he would stay put at Rebecca’s until we returned for him. Once upon the trail, we’d dismounted long enough for me to stretch the length of chain taut against the ground, bracing well away, while Boyd took careful aim and fired. It took two tries, and my wrists were still cuffed as though with metal bracelets, but at least the irons were no longer linked together and inhibiting my movements.

  Now, hours later as the sun crept into existence, I asked, “Why would she help us?”

  “Mrs. Krage’s a courageous woman,” Boyd said in response. “I wouldn’t have figured a Yankee gal would be so kind-hearted to a couple of former soldiers, I tell you true. I know she took a shine to Lorie, an’ is awful worried for her. After the marshal took you last night she hurried me an’ the boy to the doc’s, said she could fetch her brother’s keys once the town settled into quiet. I ain’t got a reason under the sun to trust the woman, an’ yet I do. Hell, the boy’s with her, and she said she would take care of him. I asked her what of herself, would she be in a fix, an’ she said not to worry about her. Malcolm was in a black temper to be left behind.” And Boyd chuckled a little.

  “We can never repay her enough,” I said, my eyes fixed on the vast prairie, stretching endlessly, all the way back to Missouri. Urgency overtook me, gliding along my body and into Whistler, who snorted in response, her walk becoming a trot.

  “What of when we overtake ’em?” Boyd asked, as Fortune kept pace.

  Grimly I said, “I aim to shoot them dead. This time I won’t miss. I curse my goddamn self for not checking that night, Boyd. If I’d have made sure, none of this would be happening. I don’t aim to make the same mistake again.”

  “You can’t hardly blame yourself,” Boyd said. “Dammit, Sawyer. You done what you could, you saved your woman that night. We’ll find her, I swear to you, but you can’t shoot them fellas dead.”

  But I was resolute.

  Boyd reached and grabbed the rein nearest him, jerking it sharply towards himself, stalling us. He said, “Beg pardon, Whistler-girl, but I gotta talk sense into him.” He saw the warning in my eyes, but Boyd had known me longer than anyone left alive, and he was not intimidated by me. He released his grip but said in no uncertain terms, “You’s already in a fix the likes of which we ain’t been in since the War. Dammit, they’d hang you soon as look at you, back in town. Now, I’d bet good money ain’t a soul would care about you shooting Jack stone-dead, but Yancy is federal marshal, an’ there’d be nobody to save you if you kill him. I figure you’s got a chance right now. We can explain what happened in Missouri, an’ Lorie can tell her side, too. We’s got a chance. But if you kill a marshal this day, that chance is gone like ice in the summer sun.”

  As much as my fingers twitched with the heat of bloodlust, I knew Boyd’s words were accurate. I knew he was right. I rode for a spell without responding, stubbornly, the both of us cantering our mounts again, the wind from our passage rushing over our ears as daylight struck the left sides of our faces. I sensed his aggravation with me even as I mulled over his words; maybe there was a shred of hope—perhaps I would not be summarily executed upon my return to Iowa City, where Quade and Billings waited, no doubt in a stupor of rage; Quade might even pursue us. If I killed Yancy, I had to acknowledge that there would be no chance of my survival.

  At last I said, “Then we must form a plan.”

  - 19 -

  The shot, delivered most certainly from the big Henry rifle, took Sable in his right flank; I felt the tremendous impact jar him. He shrieked in pain, sides heaving; his hoofbeats faltered precipitously. I moaned in agony—it had not occurred to me, in my foolish, pitiful attempt to goad Jack into killing me, that Sable may be an unwary victim.

  He’s a larger target, my floundering mind understood, even in the midst of panic. Of course you would stop a fleeing rider by shooting his horse from beneath him.

  I could conceive of nothing more than continuing to run away from my pursuers—blindly I touched my heels to Sable’s belly, praying beyond hope that the poor pony would continue his forward flight. But he had flagged considerably, losing ground.

  “Stop!” I heard Jack bellow from behind me.

  Sable veered sharply left, fleeing no more than a few dozen paces before skittering to a walk, then a complete halt, his front legs giving out as though weighted. I slid from his back, stumbling amid the prairie grass and falling to my knees at his face, tears blurring my vision. I held the pony’s nose and cried, “I’m so sorry, boy…”

  Sable’s back legs buckled and he sank almost gracefully to the ground; just beyond him I could see Jack, closing fast. The others were not far behind. I sobbed, despising what my actions had caused; Sable snorted against my skirts. The legs on the left side of his b
ody twitched. He had long eyelashes; his dark eyes held mine, as though he understood that he was dying. Blood, shiny against his dark coat, gushed in perfectly-timed spurts from the deep hole in his side, echoing his failing heartbeat. I wrapped myself around his narrow head as though to protect him, sobbing harshly. The evening light was a deep-orange in color, striking me in the face and hazing my sight. The endless prairie grass shifted, whispering and cackling, all around me; I could hear it even above my sobs, and the sounds of men shouting.

  Jack dismounted and grabbed me around the waist, hauling me away from the dying pony. I fought him with every bit of my strength, beyond sense, thrashing against his wiry arms, bucking and kicking; my heels made stout contact with his legs, doing little more than angering him. I twisted, and clawed his face, tearing deep grooves into his cheeks. He yelped, flinging me away from him and planting a boot against my ribs, shoving me to the ground. From this vantage point stalks of prickly grass touched my nose, and beyond that, I observed as Yancy galloped near and drew his pistol, aiming between Sable’s ears. He fired and the pony fell utterly still.

  Jack slammed me flat to my back, my gaze directed suddenly towards the sweeping expanse of evening sky, a sight at once impeded as he bent over me, dark fury blooming upon his face. I writhed beneath him, tears seeping over my temples, unable to completely struggle free. Blood dripped from the wounds I had opened upon Jack’s face and onto my nose.

  “You ain’t worth this,” he growled, grasping my neck with one hand, digging a hard thumb into the soft hollow between my collarbones. I realized he was fumbling for his knife and bucked with renewed vigor, sounds that would have been screams emerging as pitiful gulps of air. Jack, not appreciably much bigger than me, jerked sideways and grunted, abandoning the knife and clenching me now with both hands. He slammed my skull to the ground, eyes gleaming. He breathed harshly, muttering, “Sam was…my friend…”

  Later, I could not remember the exact sequence of events. Jack straddled my waist. With the bottom edge of my panicked vision, I realized his pistol was tucked into the cross-holster only inches from my left hand. I closed my fingers around the smooth wooden grip as easily as I would have a door knob; the piece slid free as if greased. My thumb slipped on the hammer, the slim protrusion of steel instantly slick with my terrified sweat; I felt rather than heard it click into place. Jack released his grip and reared backwards, intending to grab his pistol, but it was too late for him. I saw Jack’s face as I squeezed the trigger, aiming just above the middle of his stomach; his eyes widened with surprise.

  Jack made a horrible sound, like someone gargling salt water, and fell heavily over my legs, but I determinedly retained my grip on the .44, the singing aftershock of the bullet’s report muffling everything but my heartbeat. I struggled frantically and cocked the hammer a second time; my hands were shaking so badly that the shot I fired at Zeb only succeeded in startling him, rather than punching a hole into his massive chest, as I had intended. He grunted in stun, otherwise undeterred by the near-graze of the bullet, plucking the pistol from my grip as effortlessly as one picking a berry from a bush and tucking it into his trousers. I kicked free of Jack’s limp form, scrambling to all fours, and crawled madly through the grass, but Zeb caught my braid in his fist, twirling me around to face him.

  Yancy was laughing, the kind of mirth born of shock, of someone stunned into a sort of hysteria. He was still mounted and his hat had fallen to the ground; his gelding and Zeb’s were restless, high-stepping at the scent of so much blood, and Yancy sawed the reins to keep his animal in line. My ears rang and I could not determine any sense from the words Yancy was speaking to me; his jaws flapped meaninglessly. He realized I could not hear him and leaned forward to yell, “By God, you are a resourceful little whore! I’ll be goddamned!”

  I was positioned between two bodies, those of Sable and Jack—both of them were dead because of me. I killed Jack. I shot him with his own pistol. I squinted at his motionless form, trying to make sense of what I had done. He sprawled face-down, one arm curled beneath him, the other flung to the side. He still wore his hat, though it was tipped askew. A red hole the size of a fist had been opened between his shoulder blades. I choked on the surge of bile, and Zeb jumped back, cursing as vomit struck the tips of his boots. I rolled to one arm and heaved repeatedly, sick beyond measure. I fumbled at my skirt, wet with Jack’s blood. Blood seemed to be everywhere.

  “The Reb whore shot at me,” Zeb said, in his slow voice. My hearing was slowly being restored, the ringing diminishing. He said, disbelievingly, “She kilt Jack dead.”

  Yancy dismounted and swept his hat from the ground, replacing it with an extra flourish, as would an Eastern dandy. Or a Southern gentlemen from days long gone. He came near, looming large before my eyes, and seemed to be actually seeing me for the first time. Studying my face, he said, “You did stab out Rainey’s eye back in Missouri, didn’t you? I didn’t believe it until just now. We’ve sorely underestimated you.”

  I wiped my chin with my knuckles; my stomach heaved again and I bit down on the urge to continue vomiting, keeping one fist against my lips.

  “Goddamn, this is a turn of events,” Yancy said, still chuckling. “You’ve robbed me of my witness against Davis, but you’ve given me a gift in return. No reason to hide you away at Zeb’s now. We’ll deliver you back to Iowa City and I’ll personally bring you before the circuit judge. They hang murdering women just as quickly in Iowa as in Missouri. Jesus, here I thought I’d be attending Davis’s hanging in a few days, and instead I’ll be at his side while his little whore wife has her neck stretched. I said it before, life is a goddamn funny thing.”

  No, I tried to say, but no sound emerged.

  “She kilt Jack,” Zeb said again.

  “As we’re well aware,” Yancy responded, acerbically. Directing his words at Zeb, he said, “You’re not hurt. Get Jack up and over the back of your horse. Christ, he’s a goddamn mess. Point-blank. The bastard never took a shot in the entirety of the War, and now look at him. Dammit, we’ll have to fetch his mount.” The horse had bolted at the gunfire.

  “We oughta kill this murdering whore,” Zeb said, remaining still despite Yancy’s orders, looking down at me. He appeared as large as a barn in the dying light of day. I was so numb I felt not so much as a stir at his words. He clarified, “We oughtn’t to let her live after this, Yancy.”

  “No, she’s in a heap of trouble. Killing her now would be a kindness. You and I will testify that we saw her shoot Jack Barrow.”

  Trouble. It was a word Mama would never have chosen from the thesaurus, as it was so simple, would not present enough of a challenge to her well-educated daughter. But I responded anyway, dutifully.

  Trouble. Synonyms include: danger, misfortune, woe, dilemma, tribulation.

  Zeb raised his pistol before I could think, let alone react. As one deaf and dumb, utterly mindless, I simply stared at its small, gunmetal-gray nose; the rush of movement to my left only made sense afterwards—Zeb fired, but not before Yancy rode near and kicked his shooting arm—the bullet that would have caught me squarely in the breastbone instead only tore a chunk from the muscle of my right arm.

  The shot took me backwards; I do not recall making a sound. I thought, This is how Sable felt, just now, when he was struck.

  Blood is hot, especially so when flowing from one’s own body. With cautious fingers I explored the gash opened in my skin, hardly daring to look at it, picturing the gushing hole in my poor pony’s hide. My entire right arm was momentarily rendered incapacitated; blood streaked wetly and obscenely between my fingers. I heard the sound of my breath, rapid and wheezing.

  Yancy and Zeb shouted at one another, arms waving. Yancy’s face was red, his eyes bulging with fury, but I had no time for them.

  Think, Lorie…

  I rolled to my left hip. Sweat decorated my eyelids, stung my eyes. I braved a look—I had to know what damage was done to me—my cupped hand shone as though with scarlet paint;
I lifted it away, trembling and sickened, but determined to see. I heard small, sharp gasps. Sable lay only a few feet away from me and I scooted over to him and leaned my back against his hide. There positioned, I inspected the bullet’s path over my flesh. A wound, however shallow, gaped in the muscle, raggedy-edged and weeping blood, but I did not believe there was a bullet lodged in my body.

  Yancy leaned down to my level, his face less composed than it had been thus far. He commanded, “Let me see.”

  I stared at him as though his words were an incomprehensible jumble.

  “Goddammit,” he said, swiping at his mustache with a thumb. Behind him, Zeb mounted and loped away in the direction of Jack’s errant horse. Yancy said, “You’re not badly hurt. I’m sure it stings like the devil himself, but you’ll make it back to Iowa City.” There was not a dram of compassion in his tone; he might have been addressing a soldier of lesser rank and station. He produced the same handkerchief that had contained his dinner, tying it without fuss around my upper arm, tight enough that my fingers grew bloodless. He said, “You’ll ride Jack’s horse.”

  Zeb returned with the horse, stripped clean Jack’s pockets, and summarily loaded the man’s ragdoll body over the rump of his gelding; the big animal was unhappy with this burden and sidestepped nervously while Zeb secured Jack in place the same way in which he would have a deer carcass. Yancy, in an uncharacteristic display of manners, helped me mount Jack’s horse; I sat woodenly, my right arm burning; I was fearful I would not be able to grip the reins on that side. With this in mind, I curled the reins around my left wrist and then gripped the bay’s thick mane.

  By the time we rode away from Sable’s body it was dusk, the air silvering all around us, the last of the sunset awash with blood—reds and oranges streaking and spilling across the horizon. For a time, until I grew dizzy, I watched Sable recede as we rode north; when I looked back a second time, crows had begun circling, riding the air currents above my poor dead pony. One arched downward, a lithe black arrow, just as the sun blinked out of existence over the edge of the prairie.