Soul of a Crow (24 page)

Lorie
, I thought now, nearly two decades later, driving away the memory of the crow before it further mangled my control. I dug the heels of my hands against my eye sockets and begged my wife,
Forgive me for not protecting you as I should have. God knows I will never forgive myself. I am coming for you. I will not rest until I find you. I will find you and I will face my punishment. Even if it means I will hang and be sent forthwith to hell, I would kill them again. I would save you no matter what the price.

“Davis!” A man's voice, unfamiliar to my ears, approaching my position from the right. Again he bellowed, “Sawyer Davis! I've reason to believe you're hereabouts!”

I rose swiftly, grasping the hilt of my .44 without a moment's thought; before I could draw, Malcolm darted at me from the direction of Tilson's, sudden as a pheasant rising from a roadside ditch. He reached me only seconds before a stranger appeared at the opening of the alley behind him, and Malcolm uttered one word. He cried, “Run!”

I could not judge the best course of action—there was no time, and I turned blindly, unwilling to flee and thus leave the boy alone. It was too late, and unwise, to draw my pistol now.

“Stop, or I
will
shoot!” commanded another voice, before I could move one way or the other, and a second stranger blocked the opposite end of the alley, from the direction of the adjacent street, advancing with a double-barrel shotgun trained upon my gut.

“
No
,” Malcolm moaned.

“Son, I'll ask you to approach me, slowly now,” said the man to the right, beckoning to Malcolm. I felt crushed beneath the weight of water, powerless as a drowning man.

“Goddammit, this man acted in defense! His wife has been
stolen!
” I could hear Boyd's voice, raised in fury, from out on the street. “
You'll
not take him
, I say!”

“Step back, sir! I said,
step back!
” These words were directed at Boyd.

“Take me,” I ordered at once, tossing my pistol to the ground with a cold thump, putting Malcolm immediately behind me. I lifted both hands, hearing the boy restraining sobs. My voice was scarcely audible as I spoke to him, lying, “It'll be all right.”

Both strangers converged upon me, each stopping just out of arm's reach with firearms at the ready. I kept my gaze steady upon the man to my left, the one with the double-barrel.

“Sawyer Davis, formerly of the Second Corps?” asked the man to my right, brisk and businesslike. Both were dressed for hard riding; the man who addressed me wore a marshal's star.

“Yes.”

“Very good,” he said, holstering his pistol, producing instead a clanking set of irons. With an air of calm efficiency, he said, “Name's Quade. If you'll extend your wrists,
thank
you.”

“Get back!” demanded the man with the shotgun, swinging it towards the end of the alley, where Boyd, in a fury and appearing twice his usual size, approached with a determined stride. His pistol was holstered, but his intent could be perceived as nothing other than deadly.

I regained control of my voice and said sharply, “
Boyd!
”

“Mr. Carter!” shouted a woman, from the street. Seconds later Rebecca Krage darted into view; Marshal Quade jerked visibly at the sound of her voice. We all watched with some degree of stun as she flew to Boyd and caught his right arm, tugging with considerable strength. This action was enough of a surprise that her aim of halting him was successful. She gasped out, “Stop this! You're endangering both yourself and Mr. Davis!”

“Jesus Christ, this is why I hate towns,” muttered the man with the double-barrel.

“Becky, get back!” Quade thundered. “What in God's name?”

“Leverett, these men are searching for a woman,” Rebecca said breathlessly, refusing to heed the marshal's order, still clutching Boyd's elbow. Directly beside Boyd, the top of her head scarcely reached his collarbones, but again her attitude lent her height. Clearly she was acquainted with Marshal Quade, who was discernibly upset at her presence, but who was not surprised enough to forgo his duty; my wrists were now tightly shackled, connected by a length of narrow metal links.

Quade asked Rebecca, with no small amount of shock, “You
know
this man?”

Boyd jerked determinedly from Rebecca's grasp and advanced another few steps, speaking furiously, “My sister,
this man's wife
, was taken from this
shit-pile town
this very afternoon, an' we's reason to believe that she is with men who wish her harm.”

“Has Billings been informed of this?” asked Quade.

“No, as we only just come to the conclusion ourselves,” Boyd said. His gaze held mine, then shifted to Malcolm; he gestured briefly to the boy to come to him, and Malcolm did. Rebecca, not to be deterred, moved forward and curled one arm about Malcolm, squeezing him close to her side.

“Please, Lev, let them tell you what they have learned,” Rebecca insisted.

“I'm afraid I can't do a thing but take this fellow Davis to the jailhouse. He's a wanted man, Becky, and I'll not speak another word on the subject.” The marshal was lean, built on the spare, but he spoke with authority, and in a tone that discouraged any sort of protest.

Rebecca protested, with no small amount of heat, “You must listen to what they have to say. A woman is missing from this town!”

“Sawyer done nothin' wrong,” Malcolm said, imploring Marshal Quade, his eyes wide and earnest. “Them men was gonna kill Lorie. They beat her bloody. You ain't got a right to take Sawyer!” He was working himself into a frenzy, as though about to jump forward and into danger, and Boyd caught him by the scruff.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Quade's accomplice, for the second time. He let the shotgun barrel drift south and only for a second did I entertain the thought of lunging and removing it from his grasp.

Quade said to Malcolm, “Son, I've a duty to uphold. When a man is accused of murder, action must be taken. If you'll excuse us.” So saying, he looped the chain from the irons around one hand, with the ease of a many-times-repeated action, and ordered, “Potts, go find Clemens and tell him we've got our man.” And to me, “Come along, Davis.”

I had no choice but to follow.

* * *

The jailhouse was lit by two separate lanterns. Within, we were met by Billings, now hatless and with unkempt hair. I had a sudden, absurd picture of him continuously raking his fingers through it; the way it stood on end suggested such a thing. He had been smoking, and removed the cigar from his teeth to inquire, “What the devil?”

“Billings,” acknowledged Marshal Quade. In the yellow light I took stock of the marshal, who was perhaps ten years my senior, with a face baked brown by the sun but for white squint lines in the outer corners of his eyes. I found myself daring to hope that it was a scrap of reasonability I observed in his gaze as he regarded me just as frankly. Quade looked back to the sheriff and said, “You've received a wire about this man as of this afternoon, I'd wager. You been to the telegraph office since midday?”

“I've had my hands full with the hanging,” Billings said defensively, eyes narrowing. “This fellow's wife was lost in our town just this afternoon. What's this about? I swear I've not had a longer day since the goddamn Vicksburg Campaign.”

Quade said, “He'll need a room for the night, at least.”

Billings heaved a sigh and unlocked the cell to the left, into which Quade led me. The iron-slatted door clanged closed with a sense of finality, and I felt once-removed from my own body, a strange sensation that had befallen me many a time after battle. But there was no time to lose focus. Still in irons, I remained standing and said as steadily as I could manage, “I believe I know who has taken my wife.”

Billings released a cloud of cigar smoke; Quade studied me with fists planted on hips. Neither seemed inclined to reply, so I continued, “He is from St. Louis. His name is Jack. I do not know a thing about him, other than he attempted to take Lorie on two separate occasions, the second of which he succeeded.” I beat down the subsequent wad of vicious anger and said as calmly as I could manage, “This Jack killed a man we were travelling with, Angus Warfield, near the Missouri—Iowa border, not a month past. He and two other men took Lorie then, and would have killed her. They were acting on orders of a woman named Ginny Hossiter—”

Quade shifted his weight from one hip to the other and interrupted, “You said ‘would' have killed her? What prevented this?”

There was no use concocting a story—I would face what decision I had made. I straightened to my full height and said, “I rode day and night to get to her. I came to their camp to find Lorie being strangled…” I gritted my teeth and forced myself to finish explaining, “I killed all three. I believed that I had killed Jack that very night.”

“You're admitting to killing two men and the attempted murder of a third, in Missouri?” Quade asked.

“I am. I will face whatever charges I must, you have my word. But I beg of you to let me go after my wife this night.”

“Where is she?” Billings demanded. “You said you did not know.”

“I did not, earlier today.”

“Jack Barrow claims you shot clean through his side and left him for dead. Two bodies were recovered in Missouri, one shot and with an eye punctured out, the other with a skull so smashed the poor bastard wasn't even recognizable. Barrow claims was you killed these men and stole their horses. And you've all but admitted this.” Quade spoke with a measured tone, watching me as one might a beast, wary and yet with a hint of fascination, too.

“They would have
killed my wife
,” I said; my voice emerged as though a boot was planted on my gullet. I gripped the iron slats, though I did not recall moving. The irons about my wrists clanked, the chain between not allowing for more than a foot of separation.

“What would Barrow want with her?” Quade wondered. “How come you to believe that she is with him now?”

“He intends to bring her back to St. Louis, for compensation,” I said. “I was told just earlier, by a man named Parmley, that Lorie was led from the crowd gathered for the hanging by two men, one a marshal. I have reason to believe this marshal is a man named Thomas Yancy. We made his acquaintance July the fourth, at Charley Rawley's homestead.”

“Yancy? I've communicated with him regarding you,” Quade said. “He volunteered to come after you, as he was closer to your position. Though Potts and I made good time.” To Billings, he explained in an undertone, “He's been ripe to see his girl here.”

Billings snorted, but muttered, “You, too, I would imagine.”

I heard only the confirmation of what I suspected—and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lorie was in the company of Yancy and Jack. At that moment I felt capable of wrenching free of the cell in which I was locked. Sticky-hot sweat, nearly as thick as blood, manifested over my body; my grip slipped against the metal. I said, “
Let me free
. I must go after her.”

“The woman you named is a saloon owner in St. Louis, and she's raising considerable hell,” Quade said. “Her brother was one of the men you admitted to killing, Davis. Damn woman is a pain in my side, I'll not lie. Siblings all over the place, apparently, as she claims
her sister
was stolen this past spring.”

“No,” I whispered, the bootheel against my windpipe increasing its pressure. “That is untrue. Lorie is not her kin.”

“Well, goddamn,” Quade said. He scrubbed his knuckles over his face.

“Let me out of here,” I whispered.

“Now, that I cannot do,” Quade said. “You're a wanted man. We'll get you before a judge as soon as—”

“There isn't
time!
”

Quade's spine straightened at my obvious temper, and he repeated evenly, “We'll get you before a judge, you have my word. Until then, you cool your heels.”

A haze, reddish and bloody, descended over my vision. I whispered, “Get me Boyd Carter.
Now
.”

Boyd would ride after Lorie. Surely they had headed south—back towards St. Louis and the promise of whatever Ginny Hossiter promised in exchange for Lorie.

“You're in no position to be making requests of any kind, Davis,” Billings said.

“Goddammit,
get him
.”

“He'll be along in the morning,” Billings said, with little sympathy. He collected the kerosene lanterns, sending light bouncing wildly about the space.

“Yancy is a marshal, not a criminal. I cannot believe your wife is in his company,” Quade said, adjusting his hat brim. As an afterthought, he added, “We'll speak again by morning's light, Davis, this I promise.”

And I was left in darkness in the sheriff's office.

- 17 -

We rode for
an hour before morning light, pink as the inner curve of a river clam's shell, painted the eastern sky.

I had awoken curled on my side with the scent of ashes and unwashed flesh strong in my nostrils, having dozed perhaps a half hour, at most. What little rest I claimed was plagued by a jumbled, nauseating sequence of nightmares, of men huddled in groups beneath a reddish sky, moaning in anguish and terror as they burned slowly, kindling in an inescapable fire of monstrous proportion. Just before waking, I had spied Sawyer in this crackling landscape, distant from me, his soldier's uniform in rags, his long hair gone, scalp blackened and bleeding. Somehow I could clearly perceive this, despite the space between us. He had been too damaged to move.

I returned to consciousness screaming and thrashing, startling Yancy, who was stamping out the embers from last night's fire. He said, “Jesus
Christ
.”

Yancy seemed tense, working swiftly to untie my wrists and ankles so that I could manage to ride unassisted. Jack had already saddled our mounts, silently awaiting us. Before climbing atop the pony, I rested my cheek to the animal's warm hide, seeking refuge in the familiar scent, pretending that he was Whistler. I did not ask the pony's name, and would not, but in my mind I referred to him as Sable, borrowing the name of a horse from my childhood; my father had once possessed a lovely dark-bay gelding he called such, so deep a brown as to appear black.

“Mount,” Yancy commanded, riding near, and I had little choice but to obey.

We rode south across the dark prairie, beneath a rioting of early-morning stars, the moon long sunk beyond the horizon. I leaned close to Sable's warmth, shivering with chill, and aching fear, unable to escape, from either Yancy and Jack or my thoughts; I was uncertain for a time which was the worse. I knew I must form a plan, come to some sort of conclusion as to my next course of action, but my head ached with exhaustion, and the futility of my circumstances. I must accept being their prisoner for now. There was no other choice and I attempted to override my fears and consider, as we kept a steady canter, what would be the course of action most logical.

I revisited Yancy's words from yesterday, taking care to recall each detail; he said that a second marshal, a man named Quade, would soon be in Iowa City to collect Sawyer; Jack said this marshal would not delay bringing Sawyer before a judge. Yancy seemed confident that Sawyer would be hung, but I found room to hope that this Quade, bearing no similar grudge against my husband, would perhaps prove more reasonable. If only I could send word to Sawyer, so he would not be caught so dreadfully unawares—but then he and Whistler would be in immediate pursuit and everything I'd done my best to prevent would be for naught.

I clenched my jaw, releasing my tight grip on the reins in order to rest a palm against Sable's square jaw, stroking with my fingertips. For all that I despised that which had occurred since yesterday afternoon, the pony provided me a measure of solace, and I redoubled my efforts to form a plan. We would go before a judge. Sawyer and I would testify against Jack; I may have worked as a prostitute, I may be without means at present, but I was not uneducated. I was intelligent and articulate; I had been raised by the most proper of ladies, my mother, and I understood the basic rights afforded a person—

And yet, as I beheld Yancy's form, riding just a few dozen hoofbeats ahead, my determination seemed as substantial as the sigh of the wind, intangible as the breath of it across the prairie grass, giving way as my hopes were slaughtered by doubt.

People will perceive you as nothing better than a whore, at best a former whore. This fact negates all others. You were fortunate beyond all imagining that Sawyer is able to see past it, that he is able to love you even so. Others will not so easily accept what you have been, and will question your credibility, your very word, as you are surely intelligent and educated enough to realize.

And then, as I had last night, I understood
, They are going to kill you. To assume otherwise is foolish, and you are not a fool. Yancy is hiding you away for that very reason. You present to them a liability.

If only I could set eyes upon Sawyer. I felt as though I could withstand the next mile, the next moment, if only for that. I had not allowed myself to reach outward for his thoughts, had hardened my soul and kept at bay the images of him back in Iowa City—and the resultant silence was nearly more than I could bear. But enduring the seemingly unendurable was a thing I had long practiced. I clung more tightly to Sable's mane, letting memories of Sawyer overtake my mind. I would fight to my last sight of the Earth for him. I would do whatever it took to keep him safe. This I knew beyond words.

We rode on at an unrelieved pace, in a southeasterly direction, over the trail that I had so innocently believed I would never see again.

* * *

The day grew long, a blue-sky day unmarred by any clouds, and there was no sense of where we might be in relation to the nearest town, or homestead; I recalled Fannie Rawley saying that Iowa City was a good sixty miles from their farm. Surely we'd ridden nearly that far, by now. When Yancy reined his gelding to a walk, Jack and I did the same, though I stayed well back from Yancy's position, watching cautiously for any hint as to what he was about. He drew his sidearm and fired, once, twice, into the still air. Beneath me, Sable jerked at the crack of each bullet's report; it took a considerable amount of my strength to steady him. Yancy paid us no mind, and Jack chuckled.

The two of them seemed to be waiting; I would not give Jack the satisfaction of asking for what. When a rider appeared as a speck on the horizon to the west, I thought perhaps my eyes were deceived, but his horse gained ground rapidly; less than a quarter mile later, Yancy heeled his gelding and galloped out to meet this stranger. Jack simultaneously flanked me to the right, keeping a good two horse lengths between us, but I could sense him there, hovering like an ill wish. Taut with tension, sweat prickling beneath my blouse, I kept my gaze fixed on Yancy and this approaching rider, ready to seize any opportunity afforded me, drawing Sable to a cautious halt.

“It's Zeb, yonder,” Jack said, and my spine twitched; how could this have escaped me?

“The man who burned a dog,” I whispered, and my skin seemed to shrink upon itself, until each bone near the surface threatened to slice through. They intended to leave me with this man.

“Come again?” Jack asked impatiently, maneuvering closer. The air was very still; I could hear the whirring buzz of locusts in the prickly grass that rippled to the horizon on every side, a landlocked sea all about us. When I did not respond, he prodded, “What'd you say, girl?”

I did not answer, recognizing danger as swiftly would any animal of prey. Yancy and this man Zeb were small in the distance, horses drawn abreast. Zeb appeared as nothing more than a vague outline against an indigo backdrop, but implied threat emanated from him. Though I could hear no words, Zeb's gestures indicated agitation, one arm waving about. His horse snorted and sidestepped. This was the man Fannie feared, that Yancy described as a rabid hound, who wished to burn former Confederate soldiers alive.

Emblazoned upon my mind were the images from my nightmare—and then I thought unwillingly of Sam Rainey, who first despised me solely because of my birthplace; perhaps this man Zeb would be satisfied with any former resident of the Southern states. Jack had suggested that very thing last night, near the fire; as though discerning my thought, Jack edged his horse closer to Sable.

Calculating far more rapidly than I would have imagined myself capable, I took stock of what was before my eyes, hearing only the sound of my increasing heartbeat.

Yancy and the man Zeb were a good hundred yards away.

The ground sloped gradually downwards in that direction.

Their mounts would be at a disadvantage, being forced to run uphill.

I was a strong rider.

Sable was young, and not yet winded, even after a long day of hard riding.

I thought,
You cannot hope to outrun them. And you'll accomplish nothing. They'll pursue and ride you to the ground. You will help no one.

Surely they were exaggerating this man Zeb's intentions, in order to frighten you…

But Fannie believed him capable of terrible acts...

My body nearly split with the tension, the indecision, in my blood; I was dizzy, about to fall from horseback. I slid weakly from the saddle, abandoning the mad desire to turn Sable north and flee, and Jack made a sound of surprise. He barked, “What're you about, girl?”

Keeping hold of Sable's halter rope, I stumbled several steps before sinking to the ground, refusing to respond. I buried my face against my dirty skirt, however briefly, arms sheltering my head, and shuddered with the futility of my position; I felt, at that moment, I could not go on another step. Eyes closed, I was helpless as an insect wrapped in spider silk, awaiting nothing more than the tremors on the web which would indicate the approach of final surrender.

Jack brought his horse near my crouching body. He ordered with an angry growl, “Get up.”

I ignored him; it was surely foolhardy, but I was not unduly afraid of Jack; at least, not Jack alone.

“Get up now, Lila,” he said, and I lifted my gaze to fix upon him all of my hatred, hiding nothing.

He only sat back in the saddle, and chuckled, fingering the small antler hilt of his belt knife. His body blocked the sunlight from my gaze, effectively creating the disturbing illusion that he possessed no face, only a crisp black outline of a human head, erringly haloed by the setting sun. I realized I had a question for him, as I'd had one for Yancy, last night.

“Why did you claim to have killed them?” I whispered. The prickling prairie grass scratched at my arms; Sable's halter was warm in my sweating grasp.

“Come again?” Jack demanded, shifting position in the saddle; a rogue beam of sunlight pierced into my eyes and I blinked.

“In Missouri,” I insisted. “Why did you claim them dead, when they were not?”

“Sam,” he said succinctly. A wad of chewing tobacco wedged into his bottom lip slightly distorted his speech. “Sam knew it would hurt you to hear it, and he was right angry that they wasn't killed. He liked to bluster, but Sam was wary as a hen in his own way. Didn't relish ridin' up on two Rebs. Claimed he didn't think I was a strong enough shot. Claimed all Rebs was shooters. ‘Those boys are shooters,' was his exact words. Dixon was the one stole the horses, little as he was, and silent of foot, while Sam and I waited a hundred paces away.”

“You knew Sam for a murderer of women,” I said, and Jack spit a plug of tobacco. I did not allow this action to discomfit me, and hissed, “You
know
he killed women for sport. He was crazy, damaged by the War. Sawyer saved me from him. Dixon would have killed me!”

Jack leaned forward, his grizzled face repulsive in its resurgence of anger. Spittle flew from his lips as he said, “Davis is the goddamn killer! You never saw what he did to Dixon, not by day's light. Left us all three for dead, stole our horses. And I aim to see him hang for what he done. Sam was my goddamn friend, whore, you'll not speak poorly of the dead.”

I rolled to my knees and restrained the urge to clench hold of his elbow, drag him as best I could from horseback. His repeating rifle was no more than an arm's length from me, holstered in its saddle scabbard. I tugged my tell-tale gaze from the smooth wooden stock.

“Get on your horse,” Jack ordered, easing straight and running a hand over the lower half of his face, visibly restraining his anger.

I knew it was not worth my breath to attempt to persuade Jack. I rose, as slowly and insolently as I could, suffering his aggravated gaze, only to spy Yancy and Zeb riding our way, closing quickly. My knees faltered; I held fast to Sable's reins and the pony stepped closer to me, nosing near my waist. His brown eyes were eager, as if interested in determining my mood, and I leaned against him for support.

Do not show weakness
, I thought abruptly, edging away from the reassurance of the pony's warmth, gathering my courage as best I could, despite the stench of my fearful sweat.
Yancy told Jack he would not take orders. There is no reason to think that this man Zeb wishes you any harm
.

Oh, dear God…

I clamped hold of my skirt, awkwardly, attempting to bare as little flesh as possible in climbing atop Sable's back. Not a moment too soon; I felt slightly less vulnerable on horseback, watching warily as Yancy drew near, halting his gelding perpendicular to my position, at Sable's nose. Yancy's demeanor bore no hint of sympathy; he hardly appeared to acknowledge our acquaintance, instead studying me with a flat gaze. Just as quickly my eyes flew to the man called Zeb, a stranger to me, who without hesitation rode too near and aligned his big mount with Sable, to the left. I felt thusly caged, all of my saliva dissipating, causing my throat to bob and scrape, robbing me of any ability to swallow.

“She's right comely,” Zeb said, and his voice was deep, his pattern of speech deliberate, just perceptibly slower than that to which I was accustomed. I could hear my frightened breath, my escalating heartbeat, as though I had wedged wads of cotton batting into both ears. Sable sensed my gathering agitation and nickered, instinctively sidestepping away from both man and horse.

Immediately Zeb reached and clamped Sable's bridle, effectively halting the pony's motion. I gasped before I could bite down upon this evidence of weakness, my gaze jerking between Zeb's face and his inordinately large hand. His clenching knuckles formed a hard white ridge of peaks.

Jack said, with distinct satisfaction at relaying the information, “This here whore belongs to that Reb soldier.”