“Boyd, I’m so scared,” I moaned. “What if they –”
“They ain’t gonna kill him,” Boyd said, with such harsh certainty that I allowed myself to believe him. “Yancy wishes to, but he won’t risk it. He knows I would find him an’ open his gullet an’ bleed him like a hog, marshal or no. They’ll meet us in Iowa City. An’ Mrs. Krage says that Marshal Quade is a man of reason.”
I prayed that Boyd believed these words, and was not simply pacifying me. He, in turn, spoke of what had occurred in my absence, and of Rebecca Krage’s incredible help.
“Malcolm is safe with her, I feel sure, or I would never have left him,” Boyd said. “The boy’s in a right fix, Lorie-girl, that I left him behind, an’ that it’s his fault that all a-this happened.”
“No,” I said at once. “No. Malcolm bought us time. If it wasn’t for him, Sawyer would have been taken days ago. He may have been hung by now.” Another round of sobbing smote me, as would fists; I was quite unable to gain control for longer than a few minutes at a time, and even then it was tenuous. I murmured, in misery, “Sable…” The little pony had done his best to save me, I knew this, and now rain would fall on his body, the crows would eat him, and no one would stop this from happening; Sable was dead because of me. And Sawyer intended to claim responsibility for Jack, the man I had killed, this same day.
Boyd sat wordless as I wept, stoic and solid. He only murmured, “Dammit,” as rain began to strike the earth, growing ever steadier on the heels of a brisk wind. The sky to our right, due west, grew more menacing with each sizzle of lightning. The storm advanced rapidly and Boyd halted Fortune to dismount and root about in his saddle bag, extracting a wool cloak, which he handed up to me before reclaiming the saddle.
“Mrs. Krage sent this along for you,” he explained, resettling his hat more firmly.
I clutched the cloak tightly together with my uninjured arm; there was an aching sore spot whenever I swallowed—both inside and out. I began to shake again, seeing Jack’s grizzled face poised above mine each time I blinked. I could hardly articulate to myself what I felt—I was not the least sorry for killing Jack, for taking his life as he had been about to take mine—and yet, simultaneously, I could not escape the sight of his eyes widening as the pistol fired. He had been surprised. His death surprised him. I wanted only to see Sawyer, and instead Jack’s dying face reappeared continuously behind my eyelids.
Sawyer, I begged, frantic with the need to hear his voice. Forgive me. Oh dear God, forgive me.
Lorie-love, he responded, miles away in the storm. Don’t fear.
And the strength of him reached me; Sawyer’s will eradicated all else and I was inundated with a picture of being held tightly to his body, as I had been every night until Yancy took me away.
Thus cradled, I allowed myself to sleep for a time.
Boyd and I were silent as the rain continued well past a low-slung gray dawn, hampering the speed of our travel, at times sheeting sideways with the wind. By the time we came upon the gate leading to the Rawleys’ homestead, it felt as though we had been riding in the rain for more than two lifetimes. Boyd brought Fortune right into the dooryard and when Fannie Rawley appeared in the window, surely wondering what unexpected riders approached her house on this storming early morning, I began to sob again.
- 20 -
It required insistent effort on my part to convince Boyd to allow me to accompany him to Iowa City.
“I will not be left behind,” I told him, quietly, but in no uncertain terms. Never mind that at the moment of speaking those words I lay resting on the feather bed in Fannie and Charley’s room, my wound cleaned and wrapped neatly in a new binding.
Shortly after our arrival, I perched upon a stool positioned near the squat, pot-bellied stove while Fannie thoroughly cleaned and dressed the wound where Zeb’s bullet had grazed me; the Tennessee in Fannie’s voice asserted itself more strongly the angrier she became, and angry she was as Boyd and I worked together to relate the events. I was crawling with the restless desire to return to Sawyer, to ride to Iowa City and see him safely delivered, and could hardly bear to remain still long enough for Fannie to administer care, all five of her boys crowding and shoving at one another to get a gander at my misfortune; they were unanimously disappointed that Malcolm was not with us.
“You got shot?” asked little Willie, who had been so industriously turning the crank on the ice cream maker the last time we’d been in one another’s company. His dark eyes grew wide with wonder as he elbowed around the oldest brother, Grant. Willie marveled, “With a pistol?”
“’Course with a pistol, you dolt,” said Miles, slapping at the back of Willie’s hair. “What else you gonna get shot with?”
Grant asked incredulously, “What man would shoot a woman?”
“Does it hurt?” asked Silas. “I bet it smarts right fierce!”
“It’s a bullet hole, ’course it hurts!” Miles said, now administering a punch to Silas’s arm. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Boys!” Fannie thundered. “Go play in the barn for a spell. Go on now, get!”
In the absence of the children, Boyd and I proceeded to relate to the Rawleys everything that had occurred since Yancy’s arrival in Iowa City, as completely and concisely as possible. We left no piece of the tale unspoken—Boyd and I decided this before we reached their homestead; both of us believed the only choice left to us was to reveal everything, the charges against Sawyer in Missouri, his escape from Quade in Iowa City, his past encounter with Yancy, and finally, the fact that I was the one to fire a pistol into Jack’s belly.
“That Thomas could allow such things to happen to a woman,” Fannie said for the second time, softly resting her touch upon my bare arm. She provided for me a new set of clothing, underskirts and a thick shawl, for which I was grateful; I was still overcome by spells of chills and trembling. She railed, “I told you that Zeb Crawford was a fiend, Charles Rawley, did I not? Look at what he has done!” She composed herself slightly and muttered, “Why, we’ve been checking in on Fallon and Dredd these days, as Thomas has been away. If I’d known his errand, I would have stopped him, forthwith!”
Charley, sitting at the table with Boyd, sighed deeply and fixed upon me a troubled gaze, making a steeple of his fingers and resting them against his lips. He was a thoughtful man, one of quiet speculation, and I found myself daring to trust him; though it was far too late now, should Boyd and I change our minds. But our supply of those to trust was meager.
“If there are charges against your husband, as there seem to be, then Thomas is within his rights to apprehend him,” Charley said somberly. “However, past events are affecting Thomas’s proper judgment. I have known him for a fair-minded man, yet his actions these past days have proven otherwise.” He sighed again, and said, “I knew something was amiss the night of the Fourth, when Thomas made such bold statements, but he spoke nothing of his past to me, of having known you and Sawyer from the days after the Surrender. That was a desperate time, for many. In truth, though I have known Thomas these past years, I cannot claim to know him well. And the War riddled each of us, in different ways. You know, of course,” he said to Boyd, who nodded briefly.
“What are we able to do?” I asked Charley. “Sawyer will claim that he has killed Jack, and it is untrue. I must tell them the truth.”
“You were defending yourself, as any judge would see,” Fannie insisted.
Charley said, “Judge Hamm is on circuit, and due in Iowa City before the month is out. I would imagine he’ll be in from Cedar Falls by next week, and he travels with a small contingent of lawyers. Sawyer could potentially be held until then, or he may be escorted to the nearest town with its own judiciary members, which I believe is Des Moines.”
Boyd nodded at this information.
I spoke my worst fear, asking, “What if Sawyer confesses and Yancy hangs him without waiting for a judge?”
Charley said, “Thomas must wait for a judge’s order, even with
a wanted man,” and the tension clenching me in its barbed fist eased, if only slightly.
“What of Marshal Quade?” asked Boyd. “He struck me as a reasonable sort. He ain’t gonna be too pleased that Sawyer jumped his jailhouse an’ fled, but we hadn’t a choice. We had t’get to Lorie, an’ we was almost too late. She’s been beaten, an’ shot, for Christ’s sake,” and Boyd’s jaw tightened with anger. His eyes took on the look of a man you’d do best to hightail it away from, though he spoke in measured tones as he said, “I ain’t ever been near so many fellas would hurt a woman as I’ve been in the North, I ain’t gonna lie. Back home, we treated ladies proper, with gentleness, as befitting them.”
Fannie’s mouth softened at Boyd’s words. She said quietly, “You are a Tennessee boy, born an’ bred, of that I’ve no doubt. But not all men in these parts are the brutes you’ve described, son. I’m certain when you’ve had time to simmer down, you shall see that I’m right.”
“Ma’am,” Boyd said, tugging his forelock in place of tipping his hat brim. He said, on a sigh, “You’s right, a-course. I’m addled with exhaustion, that’s what.”
“I would that the two of you eat, and rest, before you ride out,” Fannie said, helping me to fit my arm back into the sleeve of the borrowed blouse. She gathered up my ragged braid and asked, “May I brush your hair, dear girl?”
Within the little room she shared with her husband, Fannie eased the door closed and placed me on the edge of their feather tick. The numbness was settling over me again and she sensed this, wordless as she unbraided my dirty hair, spreading it gently over my shoulders; after collecting an ivory brush from her night table, she worked the bristles over my scalp. I shivered and tears slid wetly down my face. Fannie said nothing, only continued her quiet work; long minutes passed, and it was me who spoke first.
I whispered, “I’m not Boyd and Malcolm’s sister.”
The motion of the brush momentarily ceased, replaced by Fannie’s warm hand, which smoothed a gentle path over my hair. She whispered, “I thought not.”
“May I tell you something?” I could hardly send the question past the pain in my chest.
“Of course you may,” she whispered.
* * *
Fannie was reluctant to see us go—especially since she wanted me to remain at the homestead, and subsequently out of harm’s way. She insisted we could ride the wagon to Iowa City when I was feeling up to this act. But I knew, despite everything, that she understood my determination.
As we hugged farewell, she said, “If it was Charley there in your husband’s place, I would not sit home idle, either.”
I wore a pair of Grant’s trousers, cinched tightly with a length of rope; more womanly clothing was tied in a bundle to the back of the horse they lent me to ride northwest, a solid, coffee-colored mare; I would harden my heart and not think of little Sable. It was an hour before dawn, misting rain, but Charley insisted that we could reach Iowa City by nightfall if we pressed hard; he could not accompany us so quickly but promised to ride to Iowa City within a day or two. By evening, it would have been more than twenty-four hours since I’d seen Sawyer.
The sky was utterly starless, moonless, heavy as a layer of quilts on a wintertime bed. I stared up at the lusterless, unrelieved black, clouds thickly spread. I struggled to envision Sawyer, to form a picture in my mind—and then I saw him sprawled upon the burning battlefield from my nightmare and drew a harsh breath before I could banish the hateful image.
“What is it, Lorie-girl?” Boyd asked, bringing Fortune near. His voice was a low murmur, laced with concern. “Are you hurting?”
“I’m not hurting,” I said, which was a lie; the bullet wound stung as though dipped in undiluted lye. But I was not about to confess to this. I explained, “I’m fearful.” In the dimness Boyd appeared as a near-shapeless blur, but his voice was familiar as ever. Comforting and steady, as though he truly was my brother. I wished he was. I admitted, “I’m so fearful.”
Boyd said, “I am, too, I don’t aim to lie to you. I’m half-worried that big fella will be lying in wait for us, somewhere up the trail.”
I shuddered violently at the thought.
Boyd said, “At least there ain’t much for trees on the route. I figure he can’t hide out as well as he’d wish.”
After we had ridden in silence for quite some time, I said softly, “I told Fannie the truth about me. She knows what I was.”
“What you was, an’ what you still is, is a woman to be proud of,” Boyd said, in what I considered his Bainbridge Carter tone, that of a man not to be altered from a particular mindset. He concluded, quietly and insistently, “A woman who knows her mind an’ who does what’s right, that’s what. Ain’t nothing else you’s ever been, Lorie-girl.”
My throat cinched shut, not allowing speech, but I reached and squeezed his forearm, tightly, thanking him for such heartfelt words; he patted me, once, twice. And thus fortified, we rode on.
* * *
The homestead of Rebecca Krage and her sons, her brother, Clint Clemens, and her uncle, Edward Tilson, came into view on the northwestern horizon just at sunset, as we emerged from the southeast, dirty and saddle-sore, having ridden without let-up through intermittent rain since leaving the Rawleys’ dooryard. A burning blaze of scarlet light crisply cast the house, the barn, and the wide corral in black relief, etching them upon the backsides of my eyelids when I blinked. The horses, perhaps sensing rest, increased their pace, until we were near enough to discern figures in the yard, drawn as though in ink against the rim of red sky—a woman and three boys, one of whom recognized us, and came at a run.
Almost before we’d cleared the yard I dismounted, so eager to hold Malcolm close; my knees, weakened from the day’s long and difficult riding, buckled as soon as my boots touched ground. Malcolm issued a sound of alarm and caught me by both elbows as I sank, and then burrowed against me; we were almost of a height, though he felt slender and tensile in my embrace. I hugged him for all I was worth, still clutching the mare’s halter rope, never minding my aching arm. The clucking sounds of others speaking around us ran over my ears as would flowing water, conveying just as little sense as the burble of a creek.
“Lorie-Lorie, I’m so sorry,” the boy choked out, sobbing unashamedly.
I cradled him to me, rocking side to side. I murmured into his shaggy hair, “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.” When my words of comfort did not prove enough, I cupped his cheek and implored his dear face, “You saved Sawyer that day. You bought him time. Yancy would have taken him that very afternoon, if not for you sneaking away.”
Tears continued to roll over his dirty, freckled cheeks. He whispered, “I ain’t never gonna disobey you again, I swear.”
Boyd crushed us into a hug, burying his nose against his brother’s hair. He murmured, “Boy. You behave?”
Malcolm nodded vigorously as we drew apart. I sensed the curiosity of our observers; Rebecca approached on Malcolm’s bootheels, however tentatively. In the sunset’s crimson glow she resembled Deirdre more than ever; I blinked, thrown backwards across time and space, to the balcony at Ginny’s that Deirdre and I favored after a night’s work, sitting alongside one another for a moment’s respite before taking to our beds as the sun rose. Rebecca’s hair was neatly pinned, her blouse a utilitarian blue and buttoned to her chin, her lovely, delicate face rife with momentary relief—but her eyes were lit by the sinking sun, and the concern brimming within their depths frightened me to my very bones.
She needed to tell me something, I could unmistakably see.
“You’ve been delivered,” she said, and even the sound of her voice reminded me of my old friend, my sweet Deirdre. “We have been so worried, Lorie, I must tell you,” and she drew me into her gentle arms; the scent of wood smoke clung to her hair, and whatever she had been baking prior to our arrival.
“Thank you,” I whispered, embracing her tightly. “We are indebted.”
“I wish to help you,�
�� she said, easing back and lightly grasping my forearms, to better emphasize her words. She studied me minutely before continuing, “I felt the first day we spoke that you and I were meant to be friends.”
I whispered truthfully, “I felt the same.”
Rebecca’s eyes flashed upwards, to Boyd, standing near my left side, and as he was positioned just slightly behind me I could not ascertain any particular emotion from his face; there was, however, plenty of such upon Rebecca’s as she appeared to drink in the sight of him. I saw her throat bob as she swallowed but her voice was steady as she said, “And I have watched over young Malcolm, Mr. Carter, as you requested. He has been most helpful.”
“Ma’am,” Boyd replied, and his voice was low and soft in polite acknowledgment of her words.
Rebecca looked again to me and said briskly, “Clint informed us only hours ago that your husband was taken to the jailhouse by Marshal Yancy, earlier this afternoon. I know you shall be most eager to see him.”
Malcolm said, “I saw Sawyer, Lorie-Lorie, Mrs. Rebecca brought me into town, an’ we talked with him for a spell.”
“Mr. Davis was struck in the side of the face,” Rebecca said. “Uncle Edward was able to examine him, and he shall accompany you, momentarily.” Her eyes roved along my arm, followed by her gentle fingertips, and she noted with alarm, “You’ve been harmed. What has been done to you?”
“I am well,” I insisted. “I must get to Sawyer.”
Boyd must have perceived Rebecca’s need to convey information to us, as he asked her, “What did Sawyer tell you?”
Rebecca said to Malcolm, “Be a dear and fetch Lorie’s shawl,” and the boy nodded at once, and jogged to do her bidding. In his absence Rebecca’s hand stilled upon my arm, her fingers curling about my elbow as she said, quietly and forthrightly, “Mr. Davis has confessed to killing three men. Yancy wired Judge Hamm, who is at present in Cedar Falls, claiming he witnessed Mr. Davis shoot the man called Jack Barrow. Hamm gave consent, and they’ve plans to hang him by the day after tomorrow. I did not tell young Malcolm, as Mr. Davis requested.”
Soul of a Crow Page 28
