Her words hurt me worse than a knife laying open my flesh; I brought one fist to my lips, pressing hard enough to displace my own teeth.
“They ain’t hanging him,” Boyd said, with bristling anger. “They ain’t about to, not while I draw breath.”
The fear I’d held at bay crouched and sprang, gripping my heart to sustain itself; my lips grew numb, and cold. I whispered, “I must go to him. At once.”
“Uncle Edward shall accompany you,” Rebecca said, nodding across the yard to a man near the open door of the house, a tall man a good three score in age, who had braced his right arm against the frame of the door above him. Rebecca’s boys tugged at his shirt, chattering at him; he kept issuing speculative gazes in our direction but did not venture forward, as though politely allowing Rebecca a moment with us before requesting an introduction. It wasn’t so much the sight of this fellow, who was surely Edward Tilson, as the cadence of his speech as he spoke to his great-nephews that chimed like a bell within my mind—here was a voice of home, a particular drawl, a slight over-elongation of vowels—the sound of a man from Tennessee.
“Let us go,” I said, and took the saddle, heedless of any words spoken to me, heeling the mare’s flanks, resuming a northward course towards the wide bridge I knew was no more than a few miles away. Fortune overtook the mare before I reached the river, but Boyd had no words of anger or reprimand; he was as intent as I to see Sawyer. As Fortune came abreast, he said only, “Tilson’s not a shout behind.”
We were forced to slow our pace once within the town limits, and sudden disorientation hazed my vision; I realized I did not know exactly where to go.
“Boyd…” I said desperately, and he took the lead, keeping Fortune at a brisk trot as he navigated along the dusty streets; once within range of the jailhouse, I heeled the mare again, cantering ahead and dismounting clumsily, jamming a splinter into my finger in my haste to wind the lead rope about the hitching rail.
Sawyer was near and I cared for nothing else but reaching him.
I burst into the small building, not pausing to explain myself to the young man who rose with a startled exclamation, dropping his quill pen to the floor. Sawyer bounded to his feet and met me at the slatted iron bars which served to separate our bodies. I clutched him as closely as I was able; his hands curled possessively around me, the shackles removed from his wrists, both of us speaking over the top of one another.
“Lorie…you’re here…”
“Sawyer, oh Sawyer…”
“I’ve been so frightened, darlin’…”
“Are you hurt, did they hurt you…”
There was a small, metallic clinking near my right elbow; I had failed to notice the approach of the man with whom we shared this small room. He was in the process of unlocking the cell door and said quietly, “Mr. Davis, I shall grant you a moment’s privacy with your wife.”
Sawyer made a sound of deep gratitude. I released him only long enough to fly through the barred door, now open for me, and Sawyer caught me into his arms. I felt the shudder that trembled over him as we held one another, and I kissed his jaw, his ear; our lips were flush as we clung, breathing each other’s scent, reveling in the gift of being allowed to touch, unimpeded. His hair was loose, dirty and tangled, and the welt on his temple was discolored and raw. I drew back, urgent to look fully upon his face. He was here in my arms just now, but Rebecca had said…
She had said…
“Lorie, I’ve been so frightened,” Sawyer said, bringing his forehead to mine. He kissed my nose, my eyes and mouth and chin, in a fever of intensity. He whispered, “You disappeared…”
I couldn’t speak past the gathering sobs; tears stung my eyes, which were blinded by the sight of him, unable to look upon him enough to satisfy my hunger. I shook my head, telling him without words that I was not physically harmed, but of course he saw the agony on my face and understood, “Mrs. Krage told you.”
A jagged sob wrenched free. I was furious at myself for weeping this way, when I wished to speak coherently. The jailhouse door opened a second time, emitting Boyd, who crossed the space in three strides.
“I told you I’d get her to you,” Boyd said, and his voice was gruff. With hardly more than a whisper, he said, “Jesus Christ…Sawyer…”
Keeping me at his side, Sawyer stepped closer and gripped Boyd’s outstretched hand. My husband whispered to his oldest friend, “I’m counting on you.”
Boyd’s eyes were rife with desperate agony, but he said, “We’s gonna get you before a judge.”
“No,” Sawyer said, and his tone brooked no argument. Outside, horses and riders approached; we would be inundated by others in no time. Sawyer said firmly, “I confessed and it will go no further. No further.”
“They are plannin’ to hang you,” Boyd said, over-enunciating each word. “I ain’t about to let that happen, you understand.”
Sawyer said with all of the considerable force of his willpower, “You will. And you will take care of Lorie after I am gone, and see that—”
“Sawyer,” I interrupted, regaining a loose hold on my self-possession, allowing anger to burn away a little of the fear. I said firmly, “No. I am going to tell them everything. We will get you before a judge, no matter what it takes.”
“You will not,” Sawyer said, fiercely, almost growling his words, but I would not be strayed from my course—I would not allow him to die without a fighting chance.
“I will,” I insisted. “You will not be hung for something that I did.”
“Lorie,” and he had never addressed me with such formidable severity. He said, “I struck a deal with Yancy, and it will go no further than this. He will hang you if not me. Do you hear me?”
“I do not accept this,” I said, and his hawk eyes blazed into mine. Sawyer had never been so angry at me but I would weather this fury, which masked his terror that Yancy would act upon the threat and attempt to convict me instead; I was determined to explain to Marshal Quade what had actually happened. Charley Rawley believed that Quade would hear me out, that the defense of one’s self was just cause for taking another’s life. And more importantly, that Sawyer was not to blame.
Clemens, along with Edward Tilson, to whom I’d not yet been properly introduced, crowded into the jailhouse, both talking, and in this hubbub Sawyer held me closer, leaning to my ear and whispering, “I beg you, do not say a thing. Lorie. I beg you.”
I whispered, “I must.”
“If they take you from me again, I am as good as dead,” he said, jaw clenched, low and furious. “You think I would let you die for me?”
“What of me? Would I allow the same?” I yelled at him, in a hissing whisper.
Clemens came near and instructed, “Mrs. Davis, I must lock the door.”
I would not release my grip on Sawyer; his hold was equally as stubborn as our eyes clashed.
Lorie, he warned.
Forgive me, I said.
“Mrs. Davis?” invited Clemens, his tone that of hesitance; I recalled Rebecca saying she believed he would be better suited as a schoolmaster.
“Lorie,” Sawyer said again, but I was resolute. Clemens relocked the iron door behind me.
There was no discernible tremble in my voice as I said, “I must speak to Marshal Quade.”
“Lorie!” and all eyes in the room were drawn to Sawyer at what they perceived as his inexplicable fury; only Boyd understood, and he watched silently, his posture tense. Gripping the iron slats as though to rip them free of their bolts, my husband thundered, “You will do no such thing!”
I darted outside, sweating and nauseous, but unwilling to face his rage at present; I would do what I could to save him, or I would die trying. I was in no way attempting at melodrama—the stakes were as simple as that. Boyd followed me and there was a cacophony of raised voices inside the jailhouse, but the door clunked closed behind Boyd, and I could not distinguish words.
“Lorie-girl,” Boyd said. “Damnation.”
Clemen
s popped outside next and said, “Marshal Quade boards with us, and is at present situated in Uncle Edward’s office.”
“Thank you,” I said to the slim young deputy, Rebecca’s brother, who resembled her but had inherited none of her plain-spoken attitude, nor confidence.
“If you’ll accompany me,” Clemens said, politely indicating.
“Where is my husband’s horse?” I asked. Through the thick walls I could still hear the sound of Sawyer in a rage. I closed my eyes until the dizzy rush threatening to pull me under subsided, and asked as calmly as I was able, “Where is Whistler?”
“His mare has been taken to the livery, just two blocks east,” Clemens said, as he led the way, Boyd and I bringing up the rear. Evening decorated the town with glints of lamplight, windows aglow as lanterns were lit. Though the town was quieter than the last time I had walked its streets, it was still a bustling place, horses and wagons and foot traffic heavy along the walkways.
“May I claim her after we’ve spoken with Marshal Quade?” I asked.
“Damn right,” Boyd said.
“Of course,” Clemens echoed, coughing a little as though to excuse Boyd’s less dignified response. He noted of a rangy gelding at the hitching post, “Quade’s horse is here.”
We reached Tilson’s office and Clemens held the door; within, a lantern was centered upon a crocheted doily atop an otherwise rough wooden table. The marshal sat at this table sipping from a tin cup, which drifted southward to the table at our entrance.
“Good evening, Leverett,” began Clemens, but the man he addressed neatly interrupted by holding up a single index finger.
“Well, if it isn’t the escape artist,” Quade said, speaking drily to Boyd, but before Boyd could respond Quade’s shrewd gaze moved to me and he asked, “Who have we here, Clint?”
Clemens said courteously, “This is Mrs. Lorissa Davis, whose husband is at present in custody. Mrs. Davis, may I present Marshal Leverett Quade.”
“My pleasure,” the marshal said.
Again Clemens acted as a gentleman, drawing out a chair and indicating that I sit. I did so, directly opposite Marshal Quade, while Boyd spun another chair around and straddled it, keeping his focus steady upon the marshal as well. Clemens remained standing, clearly uncomfortable; he shuffled and then removed his hat, holding it to his chest.
“I should clap you in irons,” Quade said to Boyd, however conversationally, and reclaimed his drink; from the scent, the tin contained whiskey, neat. I prayed he was sober enough for serious conversation; I couldn’t bear to acknowledge that Quade was our only hope of delaying the hanging. He was perhaps middle-thirties, long-faced and wiry, and while his dark blue eyes were stern and observant, I believed I detected reason, perhaps even a sense of humor, in their depths.
“You’d do well to listen to my sister,” Boyd replied, unperturbed at Quade’s words. “She’s a few things to tell you this night.”
I leaned across the table to implore the marshal. “My husband was brought here under the custody of Thomas Yancy and a man called Zeb.”
“Zebadiah Crawford, yes,” Quade confirmed. “I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either since they deposited Davis back at the jailhouse.”
“They are still here,” I said, with dark certainty. “They will have claimed that my husband confessed to killing three men, two in Missouri, and the other just a day past, south of here.”
“Davis claimed such, himself,” Quade said. “Scarce have I come across a wanted man so forthcoming. Never mind that he evaded me, though exactly how, he will not admit. I’ve a good idea,” and he narrowed his eyes at Boyd, but continued, “Though that’s the least of my concerns at present. Davis tied up the matter for Yancy and me, neat as a pin. I almost hate to hang a man so easy to work with.” So saying, he drained the last of his booze and lightly reset the cup upon the table.
“I shot Jack,” I said, feverish with need to convey the truth to him. I felt capable of emitting flames from my eyes. “My husband did not kill him.”
“And Lorie was shot, for her trouble,” Boyd said, indicating my injury.
Quade’s eyebrows drew tighter and he ordered, “Explain.”
I did, as concisely and accurately as I was able, clasping my hands as so not to wring them as I spoke. I was still clad in Grant Rawley’s trousers.
“You left with Yancy to ensure that your husband be given more time? To do what? To flee?” Quade demanded when I paused for breath.
“Yancy does not seek justice in this instance. He seeks revenge,” I said, doing my best to temper the desperation in my voice. “He knows my husband from the War, from the days following the Surrender. Please, you must understand. Yancy took me from Iowa City so that it would hurt Sawyer, and because I could speak for my husband, and contradict Jack’s story. Yancy planned to leave me with Zeb Crawford until after Sawyer had been hung.”
“You are indeed alleging that Thomas Yancy, a federal marshal, kidnapped you?” Quade demanded.
“Not exactly,” I countered. “I accompanied him because I thought it was the only option.” I longed to clench Quade by the shirtfront and shake the truth into him. “Yancy wished to hang Sawyer that very day, as the gallows were already prepared. He implied that he would shoot my husband if I did not accompany them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quade muttered. “And how then did Jack Barrow come to die?”
“He pinned me to the ground…” I whispered, but found myself struggling to recount the moments between Jack gripping me and his subsequent death—my voice faltered, maddeningly, as I strove to recall exactly, and both Clemens and Boyd, with almost comic unison, each put a fortifying hand upon my back. I blinked and saw nothing but the bulging surprise in Jack’s eyes as a hole was opened in his gut. I had done this thing to another person, had created a bloody tunnel of his midsection.
And I would do so again, with no hesitation.
The outer door opened before I could continue speaking.
“Quade, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, if you are treating a lady with any less than she deserves, under my roof, I’ll wring your scrawny, good-for-nothing Yankee gullet,” was the first thing I heard. This outrageous statement was delivered in a deep voice, no less commanding for its oddly hoarse quality.
For a split second, before he could contain it, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at Boyd’s lips. We turned as one to confront the man who filled the entire space before the door, with his stature, stance, and demeanor, all three. It was Edward Tilson, Rebecca and Clemens’ uncle, and I could see from where Rebecca gleaned her sense of self. The man before us stood with fists planted upon hips, glaring down at Quade from beneath the brim of a bone-colored duster. Doffing this, his outward expression changed markedly as he caught my gaze, and he bowed to me, bringing hat to chest.
“Mrs. Davis, I am Edward Tilson,” he said in that rasping voice, resettling his hat.
I heard Mama, low and soft, whispering at me to curtsy, but as I was seated and the room narrow, and crowded with bodies, I made no attempt. Instead I took his proffered hand and said respectfully, “Mr. Tilson,” and then withstood his unapologetic perusal of my face.
In the lantern’s flicker Tilson’s skin resembled well-aged leather, baked a deep brown and etched with a latticework of wrinkles; two deep grooves formed crevices alongside his mouth. His hair was iron-gray and fell past his shoulders, his features strong and clean-shaven, dominated by a long nose; his eyes were a smoky shade of blue and held more than their share of sorrow, which I could sense if not yet understand, and perhaps a trace of humor, in addition. He held my fingers gently in his grasp and at last murmured, “You’s a woman of some spirit, I’d wager.”
I recognized this as a compliment of the highest order and felt something akin to a smile touch my eyes, an acknowledgment of his sincere words.
Boyd said, “Damn right she is. Sir, we’s been attempting here to explain to Marshal Quade why Sawyer ain’t gonna hang.” Boyd’s jaw clenched and h
e concluded, “Not while I am alive.”
“Where’s that goddamn bottle, Clint?” Quade demanded, tipping his chair on its back legs, with an air of good-humored defeat; Clemens, glad to be given a task, hurried into the adjoining room. Quade said, with no little amount of sardonic stringency, “Mrs. Davis was in the midst of her story when you so rudely interrupted her, Edward. ‘Sanctimonious,’ my white Yankee ass. I doubt you know the meaning of the goddamn word.”
“‘Sanctimonious,’” repeated Tilson. “Synonymous with self-righteous, holier-than-thou, pompous, censorious.” Tilson stopped his nephew en route back to the table, swept the whiskey from Clemens, neatly uncorked the bottle with a deft swipe of his thumb, and drew a healthy swig. He winked at me before asking Quade, “Need I go on?”
“Goddammit, pass that here,” Quade muttered, and Tilson did so, while I sat in silence, unable to stop from staring at this imposing elderly man who spoke with the inflection of home, and who recited synonyms as neatly as though reading from a thesaurus.
Tilson turned his observant gaze next to Boyd, framing his question as a demand, “So you’s Boyd Carter? Pleased to make your acquaintance, son.”
“Sir,” Boyd said, shaking Tilson’s hand.
Tilson’s eyes were nearly lost in a webbing of wrinkles as he smiled, though the animation faded from his face as he said, with all seriousness, “I aim to help you, Mr. Carter, if I am able. My niece is adamant that I do so, an’ I admit I’m a mite curious about the four of you. Young Malcolm has proven most true-hearted. It’s been long since I’ve seen the likes of the boy’s love for you, Mr. Carter, an’ you, Mrs. Davis, as well as your husband. I left Mr. Davis in a fine fury, back yonder. He’s sore worried about what you are saying in here, Mrs. Davis.”
No small amount of astonishment in his tone, Quade asked, “Becky is adamant that you help these people?”
I found my voice and said desperately, “Mr. Tilson, my husband is not guilty of killing Jack Barrow, though he confessed it.”
Soul of a Crow Page 29
