“Get that fire roaring, if you would,” Tilson directed Malcolm, and then to Boyd, “Son, let’s get you settled so’s I can look you over.”
“He is a goddamn dead man,” Boyd muttered for the third time, as Tilson dragged a chair nearer to the woodstove.
Tilson said calmly, “I aim to help you go after this Crawford fella, but first I must clean out these wounds, or you’ll be in a sore fix. You gonna take off that shirt, so’s I can look?”
With impatient jerks, Boyd did so, and I winced to see the multiple gashes upon his muscles; though none appeared deep, I could see wooden splinters jammed into his flesh.
“Here, you shall catch a chill,” Rebecca said, her voice low and soft. Without ceremony, she handed him a quilt, which Boyd accepted with the slightest relaxing of the stern set to his jaw. He studied her face as he murmured, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Let me take a look,” Tilson told Boyd, having donned his spectacles. To his niece, he added, “Becky, be ready with that witch hazel.”
He and Rebecca proceeded to work with quiet efficiency, Tilson removing each bit of wood with a small needle-nosed pincher, setting these upon an enamel plate at the table as they came clean. As he freed each, Rebecca was waiting with a damp cloth to gently wipe away the blood, before dabbing a mixture of the antiseptic solution into each wound. Malcolm sat near and watched the entire process unblinkingly, while I attempted to make myself useful by serving Cort and Nathaniel their breakfast.
Near the end of their ministrations, Boyd grew chilled; he was still clad in his damp trousers, and despite the quilt draped over his lap, he could not suppress a shiver. Tilson finished his work and removed his spectacles, and was busy gathering the supplies; Malcolm, satisfied that his brother was safely delivered from his injuries, ran outside to the necessary. Cort held the kitten, and he and Nathaniel were feeding it bits of oatmeal. Rebecca stood alone near Boyd; she had tied her dark hair into a braid, but had not pinned it up as usual. The bottle of witch hazel was still clutched in her right hand, and I watched as she, with a small, swift motion, placed her left upon his back, near the nape of his neck; her fingers curled inward, caressing the damp curls the rain had formed in his hair.
Boyd’s chin turned sharply towards her, his nose at a level with her breasts, as she stood while he sat. A heartbeat, no more, their eyes held; I could not see Rebecca’s face. Even witnessing from the space of a room away, I sensed the strength of her passionate desire to continue touching him, a feeling which shocked her; I understood the single caress was as boldly out of character for her as would be appearing without clothing in town. And she withdrew her hand as quickly as she had placed it on his bare skin; her hem brushed the tops of his boots as she turned rapidly away.
Tilson, rummaging in his satchel, groused at Boyd, “I would ask that you rest a spell, young man, but I believe it’s a futile effort.”
Boyd dragged his concentrated gaze from Rebecca, who had busied herself helping Tilson to tidy away the supplies; he was taken aback, I could clearly see, but he wadded up his damp shirt and said only, “You believe right.”
* * *
I had not seen Yancy since that night on the prairie. He was dressed in fresh clothing and had since been trimmed, perhaps by a barber; his face was clean-shaven but for his mustache. Simply observing him from afar, little would one guess the dreadful things of which he was capable; he appeared a person of upstanding virtues, his marshal’s star winking in the light of the lantern upon Tilson’s table, a necessity on such a gloomy-skied day.
“Might it be possible for us to converse without the presence of this woman?” Yancy said as Boyd, Tilson, and I entered Tilson’s office. He spoke the word woman in the exact tone with which he had spoken whore, and I discerned no difference in his meaning.
Quade, back in full marshal form, was already present, furious but professional enough to contain it, enraged that Tilson’s property had been invaded in such a fashion, thereby indirectly endangering Rebecca. We had converged upon Tilson’s office; Billings told Clemens that he would thank us to discuss this matter elsewhere than the jailhouse, as he had his hands full with a pair of disorderly drunkards from the night before, and Clemens had dutifully relayed the message. Billings refused to let me see Sawyer this morning, but I knew my husband was safe at present, and contented myself with that.
“You shut your goddamn mouth,” Boyd growled, in response to Yancy. “Your man attacked us last night.”
Yancy interrupted with a supercilious tone, scoffing, “That is an absurd declaration.”
Tilson stood with his jaw thrust forward. He interjected sharply, “Then it weren’t Zeb Crawford shootin’ his rifle near my home this past night? Shootin’ to kill my guests? Coming into my dooryard?”
“Crawford left town two days ago,” Yancy snapped, his gaze cutting to include me in his words. “He is hardly in my employ, and I will not be lowered by such suggestions. There are plenty of respectable folks in this town concerned about a pair of dangerous former Rebs in their midst. It could have been any one of them. Ask around, see if I am mistaken.”
“I have heard a fair amount of grumblings to that effect,” Quade affirmed, leaning back in his chair and heaving a small sigh. “But that in no way excuses such an assault.”
“An’ who put such notions into their fool heads?” Boyd raged.
“Dangerous to whom, exactly?” Tilson asked, his face thunderous in its anger. “For Christ’s sake, one of these ‘Rebs’ is in custody, as we speak.”
“‘Fool heads?’” Yancy repeated. “Hear that, Quade?”
Tilson did not remove his gaze from Yancy, and asked levelly, “Where is Zeb Crawford now? He ain’t left town, which I know you know well. I have a question or two for him.”
Regaining a firmer hold of his temper, Yancy said, “I was informed by Judge Hamm that I was able to hang my prisoner, a wanted man, and now I have been informed that I am forced to wait, rendering me incapable of leaving this town and returning to my sons. Zeb and I parted ways after I delivered Davis to the jailhouse.”
“Ain’t that handy, him leaving town,” Boyd said, low and dangerously, and Yancy could not quite contain the hatred in his eyes as he regarded Boyd.
“I’ll thank you to leave off this line of inquiry,” Yancy said tightly.
“Or what?” Boyd asked, his upper lip curling.
I had remained silent, intimidated by the angry male energy in the small space, but I lifted my chin and said, “We saw his face. There is no question that he intended to kill us last night.”
“You’ve spoken to him, then?” Yancy asked, all but baring his teeth at me. “He has confirmed this?”
“We saw him,” I said, as evenly as I could. It took considerable effort to keep my eyes upon Yancy’s; the vicious anger rolling from him was nearly tangible, heated and dense. Boyd’s solid presence at my side lent me strength.
Quade said angrily, “Goddammit. I won’t have Becky and the boys in harm’s way. I won’t hear of it. This is madness.”
Boyd’s shoulders squared anew; he looked hard at Quade, fists clenched, desiring to challenge Quade’s right to concern for Rebecca. But wisely, he held his tongue.
“It was Crawford,” Tilson confirmed. “Get him in here an’ I’ll identify him. Unless my word as a Reb is too suspect.”
“Christ almighty, don’t you be adopting that attitude, too,” Quade said. “Last thing I want is a rehash of old recriminations. War is over, boys.”
“Zeb’s place is near a full day south, close to my own,” Yancy said. “He’ll have long since returned there.”
“Then you best get packing,” Tilson said mildly.
“Are you out of your mind?” Yancy asked. “Have Billings search the town. Send his deputy on a goose hunt. I will ride south, and return to my home, when Davis is properly hung, God willing no later than midweek, and not before.”
I could not contain my flinching at these cruel words.
; The door swung suddenly open and a man peered around it, saying, “Doc, Campbells’ oldest boy had his foot stomped by that new mare. They need you at the stable, pronto.”
“I’ll be right along, Clyde,” Tilson said.
“You tell Zeb we’s waitin’ on him,” Boyd said, exaggerating his drawl just slightly, as though to taunt Yancy.
“I don’t plan to speak with him in the near future,” Yancy said, an arrogant set to his features. He resettled his hat with an air of lofty dismissal.
Boyd only said, with quiet menace, “You tell him.”
“Lorie, you best join me,” Tilson said, once the office had emptied of all but Boyd and me. “You were fine help yesterday, an’ I don’t aim to leave you here alone.”
I nodded, weak with exhaustion but desirous of something to occupy the hours of the day, other than spending them drowning in worry.
“I’ll get back there,” Boyd said. “The horses need attention, an’ I’ll mend the canvases, best I can manage.” Zeb had discharged one of his rounds into the tent in which Boyd and Malcolm slept last night—if they had not been in the wagon with me, at that moment, one of them likely would have been killed. Boyd murmured, “An’ I don’t much care for the thought of them alone too long, neither.”
“Becky is a right fine shot with the Springfield,” Tilson said, with a half-smile that emphasized the wrinkles aligning his eyes, referring to the rifle he had left with Rebecca and Malcolm. “But I’m sure she’d appreciate your concern.”
“I mean every word. We can’t thank you enough,” Boyd said, gruff and emotional. He elaborated, “Stabling our horses, feeding us, an’ now we’s put you in danger. There ain’t no way we can repay you.”
“Just having your company has been payment enough,” Tilson said. “I told Becky I’d do my damnedest to convince y’all to stay near this area.”
Boyd searched Tilson’s eyes and found only sincerity. He said again, “Thank you.”
I was at last able to see Sawyer late that afternoon, after spending the otherwise quiet, rainy Sunday with Tilson; he and I hastened to the livery stable, where the oldest son’s foot was badly bruised and sore, but not broken. In the noon hour, I accompanied him to the homestead of Billy and Letty Dawes, where Letty was resting, nursing her new son and daughter, all of them faring well after their difficult entry into the world.
Sawyer was distressed, hollow-eyed with fatigue and worry. Clemens did not allow the door to be unlocked this time, as the second cell was still occupied by the men retained for disorderly conduct; both of them watched me with ill-disguised interest. Clad as I was in my trousers, for riding, they were keen-eyed, but I ignored them as well as I could.
“There’s been no sign of him since last night. Yancy claims Zeb left town,” I told Sawyer, speaking low.
He said painfully, “I cannot keep you safe. I am going mad in this place, shut away while you are in danger.”
“Zeb could have come here last night, and you are unarmed,” I said, agonized.
“Zeb’s intent is to go after you, as Yancy fears what you might say to the judge, Lorie, and I am ill with worry over it. My fury alone seems enough to kill him,” Sawyer said. “Should he appear before me, I could destroy him with a look, I swear on my soul.”
“Yancy is fostering talk,” I whispered.
Sawyer touched my neck, gently caressing the hollow at the base of my skull with his thumb. He said, “Boyd told me as much. But I don’t believe for a moment that anyone other than Zeb would take such action. Stay near Boyd, and Tilson. Promise me.”
“I pray this will soon be behind us,” I whispered, attempting to lighten my tone, unwilling to leave for the night on such a low note. Unbidden, Yancy’s words pierced me—when Davis is properly hung, God willing no later than midweek.
Midweek was two days from now.
Sick with desperation, I reached to hold my husband’s face; he was unshaven to a degree that I had not yet witnessed as his wife, his stubble many shades darker than his flaxen hair, a color far more similar to his eyelashes. His beautiful hawk eyes held mine, and he told me, I pray it, too.
Tilson leaned around the door and said, “I apologize for stealing Lorie away just now. But we best hightail it for home.”
Sawyer nodded acknowledgment, and then kissed my lips with chaste sweetness, mindful of our rapt audience. He whispered, “Let me know when you get there. Kiss Whistler for me.”
I will, I promised.
“’Til the morning, then,” Tilson said, retaining a cheerful air. He advised the men in the adjacent cell, “You boys best get your jaws up off the floor.”
“Ma’am, I got terrible trouble sleeping. Might be a kiss would help me, too,” said one of the men, speaking with a jokingly hopeful tone; both were standing as close as they were able, with their forearms braced between the iron slats and wrists dangling. I issued a small, unexpected huff of laughter, and even Sawyer was mildly amused as he carefully released his hold on my waist, catching my hands and kissing my knuckles before fully letting go.
- 25 -
Although I should have bucked up and offered to help Rebecca with dinner, as another guest had arrived in the form of Charley Rawley, his horse in the barn and his presence very much welcomed, my temples ached with a dull, heavy pain by the time we had arrived back at the homestead. Instead of venturing indoors, I strayed to the corral and fetched Whistler, using the fence to climb astride her back, with no saddle in place. She allowed this and together we left the yard, with little purpose other than my inability to remain stationary, angling away from the house and towards the west, where the dirt of the yard gave way to taller grasses and uneven ground.
“C’mon, girl,” I whispered to the mare, thinking of the first time I had ridden her, far back along the prairie in Missouri, the afternoon Sawyer and I sat together beside the river in the shade of an enormous willow and spoken of our childhoods. He had attempted to cheer me by offering the use of his beloved mare, and I had willingly and enthusiastically accepted. A rush of affection, and love, for both man and horse swept over me. I leaned forward and hugged Whistler, feeling the rough-textured hair of her rusty-red mane, and she nickered and whooshed a loud breath through her velvet nostrils, in response. I kissed her mane and whispered, “That is from Sawyer.”
My body, hot and rigid with emotional energy, slowly calmed as Whistler carried me along; I was mindful of our vulnerability, not venturing beyond the copse of oaks on the western edge of the property, keeping the homestead in sight. Whistler was singularly the most well behaved animal I had ever known; few horses would remain so responsive without benefit of bridle and bit, but Whistler was more human than any horse I’d ever encountered. Her ears quirked in my direction and I told her, “I know you miss him, too.” And then I heard myself whisper, “A little pony called Sable died.”
The sun had not completely vanished beneath the horizon, about half-sunk in a rich, cloudless copper spill of light, bathing my face with the last of its radiance. Tears rolled from my jaw, and I used my knuckles to smudge them away, to no avail; more followed in their wake. I halted Whistler with a tightening of my knees, and she stopped obediently. I sat just behind the gentle swell of her withers, her red-and-cream calico hide warm and firm beneath me, so solidly reassuring. She smelled of horse, a scent in which I had sought and found comfort since I was a little girl, safe in my daddy’s stable.
“He was a good pony,” I told Whistler, and though my words were true, I spoke them now with the sole purpose of punishing myself. “I fancied him coming north with us, did you know that? Even as scared as I was with those men, I imagined that Sable would be your friend, and Aces’, and everyone’s. He was little, and so sweet, and he ran so hard for me…and then he was sh…” I gulped, before explaining in a whisper, “Shot from beneath me.”
Whistler sidestepped delicately; I began to cry, dismounting so that I might move to her face and embrace it. No matter how dear I held Sawyer’s opinions, and B
oyd’s and Malcolm’s, there was no denying that good people and innocent creatures like Sable had died because of me. For me, and I grappled with the depths of my guilt, holding fast to the solid comfort Whistler offered. She nuzzled my chest as the sun sank and twilight came leaping on silent feet; mosquitoes whined near my ears as the darkness advanced. I wept until I turned quickly from Whistler and vomited, unable to stop the flow of dreadful thoughts.
What if the circuit judge, when he arrived, was compelled to believe Yancy? I searched my memory for any reference, passing or intentional, that I had ever gleaned regarding the law. Mama had done her best to educate me in matters both consequential and practical, but I could not recall much in the way of pertinent legal matters. A circuit judge had the power to convict and execute; could his decision be overturned, or appealed, or was it final? Ought we to pursue obtaining a lawyer?
I do not know, I thought, misery fisting around my stomach.
And, worse yet, I was not wholly certain Sawyer would allow me to tell the truth, that I had been the one to pull the trigger on Jack; if Sawyer determined that the best course of action was to claim all responsibility, regardless of the outcome of this, then he would, and I would be powerless to stop him. Sawyer would never let anything happen to me that he could prevent, this I knew absolutely, and I could feel the strength of his guilt over the fact that I had left Iowa City with Yancy and Jack biting deeply into him.
I would have struggled to articulate what I was feeling, but I understood at some level that I wished we had the chance to face Yancy and Zeb on a playing field outside the law—on the prairie, far from any judicial proceedings, courtrooms and the suited men therein. Before a judge, lies could be told and subsequently heeded; on the prairie, under the sun, victory could be won by means other than parrying words, or depending on the whim of a stranger.
Soul of a Crow Page 36
