Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (32 page)

Daniel picked up a limb from the woodpile and began to shave it into kindling. Mercy hadn’t thought of what they faced when they got back to Quill’s Station. As for himself, he didn’t care what people thought, but he knew it was different for a woman. By now Belinda Martin would have spread the news that the two backwoods men who had come riding into town on mules were Mercy’s brothers. That, coupled with the fact that Glenn Knibee would see to it that the whole town knew Daniel had spent the night alone in the house with her was enough to ostracize her. Outside of Eleanor McCourtney and Tennessee, he doubted if there was another woman in town who would dare speak to her. This would hurt her unbearably, and there was no way he could shield her from that hurt.

An hour later there was enough kindling in the pile at Daniel’s feet to start a dozen fires. His thoughts had turned to George, to Turley Blaine, and to the people on his farm. They would be tilling the soil and putting in the crops. Gavin would be on the lookout for Hammond Perry after George told him what happened at the mill. But Gavin would be busy with his lumber business, and he was sure Perry would give Gavin a wide berth, knowing the big man would kill him if given half a chance.

The news Edward Ashton had given Daniel about Perry wanting George worried him some. There was only one way to stop a bastard like Hammond Perry, and that was to kill him.

Some of Daniel’s most frightening memories as a child were of Hammond Perry. He remembered when Perry came to Quill’s Station to take Farr to Vincennes to stand trial for treason. He remembered standing beside Mercy while she cried when the soldiers took Farr away. Then, later, he had heard the story of how Perry had sent men to kill Rain Tallman and to take Eleanor, who at the time was engaged to marry Will Bradford, another man Perry hated. There was nothing the man wouldn’t do for revenge.

Daniel thought of the Negroes on his farm—Jasper, Gus, and their families, and poor old Jeems and his demented son, Gerrit. They were gentle, good people, and the thought of any of them in the hands of Hammond Perry set his blood to boiling.

Suddenly tired in mind and body, Daniel sank the ax in the stump and went to the porch. He spread out his blanket and stretched out.

Thank God, with any luck at all, he and Mercy would be home in three days.

M
oonlight shimmered on the waters of the Wabash. The beauty of the night was not only unappreciated but also cursed by the three men in the flat-bottom boat that slid silently beneath the screen of willows lining the pond above the falls that turned the mill wheel.

“By God! I ain’t likin’ gettin’ in that cold water.”

“We ain’t gettin’ that nigger no other way, so get in thar.”

“We’ll drown ’em gettin’ him back in the boat.”

“God damn you, Knibee. This was yore idea. You told Perry you could get in the mill. Now get yore ass in the water.”

“What’ll we do if the nigger drowns?”

“We’ll let him float on downriver ’n’ head fer Saint Louie. Perry ain’t one ta overlook bunglin’. Get on out.”

“Hang right in close, hear?” Glenn Knibee said to the man at the oars.

“I hear you. I ain’t deaf.”

Two of the men slipped silently out of the boat and into the water. After a swim of no more than half a dozen feet, they reached the overhang of the flume that led into the wheel housing. The structure hung over the water, projecting from the side of the mill. The first man took a deep breath, sank beneath the surface of the water, and came up under the housing sill. He waited for the second man to join him, and then they climbed up into the mill. They waited a few minutes to get their breath, then, with Glenn Knibee leading the way, they silently moved up the ladder, into the storage room, and on to the living quarters.

*   *   *

Hammond Perry paced the length of the barroom and back. He paused, glazed at Lyman Sickles, the landlord, and continued his pacing.

“Are ya wantin’ anythin’, Mr. Perry?”

“You don’t have anything here I’d spit on, Sickles.”

The landlord turned his face to hide his resentment and moved behind the bar before he spoke.

“Ya was glad enough to get the word about Phelps and the woman.”

“I paid you for it. You didn’t tell me how you knew it was him.”

“One of my other lodgers recognized him ’n’ the woman. They’re the brats Farrway Quill raised. Then Knibee come in, said Phelps and the woman were goin’ down to Kentucky. The woman’s a looker, a real looker.”

Sickles stopped talking when Hammond stood in front of him and looked him in the eyes. It was not often that Hammond was able to look down at a man shorter than he was, and he enjoyed doing it.

“So she’s a looker. You’ve said that a dozen times. If you’re going to talk, tell me something new.”

Resentment tightened the lines of Sickles’s face again. “Phelps stays as close to her as skin on a sausage. They slept together.”

“Wouldn’t you, if you got the chance? Hell, that woman of yours looks like she’s been dragged behind a wagon for half a day. Don’t she talk?”

“Not that I ever heared,” the landlord said dryly.

“Who was the damn fool who tried to stab Phelps? Stupid son of a bitch got what was coming to him for pulling such a stunt. Why didn’t he shoot him?”

“I didn’t ask him. He was dead. Looked like he was hit with a rock.”

“A rock? Shit? Hammond paced to the end of the room and back. “Went down to Kentucky,” he said, as if to himself. “He’ll be coming back this way.”

The years had not been kind to Hammond Perry. He had the stamp of greed and malevolence on his face. Puffy red pouches hung beneath his watery eyes. His hair lay against his scalp in strings. To make up for the loss of hair on his head, he had allowed his sideburns and his whiskers to grow long, which gave him a top-heavy look. He held his thin body ramrod-straight, which made his protruding abdomen all the more pronounced.

Hammond took a watch from his pocket, flipped open the case, and looked at it. “Midnight,” he murmured.

“They ort ta be gettin’ back.”

“How long have you known this fellow, Knibee?”

“Year or two. He ain’t got no use for Quill or Phelps. I heared Phelps knocked him on his arse a while back.”

“Good. Good. He’ll be wanting to get even.”

Another hour passed before a heavy hand pounded on the back door of the inn. The landlord lifted the bar and swung the door back. Two men staggered in, holding George between them. His hands were bound behind his back. A loop around his ankles allowed him to take only short hopping steps.

“Get that nigger outa here!” Sickles snarled.

The men ignored Sickles and looked beyond him to Hammond. “We got him, Mr. Perry.”

“I can see that. Take him to the barn and tie him up.”

“He’s wet as a drowned rat.”

“Bein’ wet ain’t goin’ to hurt a nigger none,” Knibee said, and yanked George back toward the door.

“Wait!” Hammond strode past Sickles. “Slit his drawers. I want to see his dong.”

George began to struggle when one of the men pulled out a long, thin-bladed knife.

“Ya best stand still, nigger, or this blade might make a geldin’ of ya.”

George froze, then flinched when the tip of the knife nicked the skin beneath his pubic hair as it slit open his britches. Humiliated, he had to stand and suffer the indignity of having his private parts examined. He looked at the ceiling and vowed to kill each and every one of these men who prodded and snickered at his manly endowment.

“Christ!” Knibee exclaimed. “He’s hung like a horse.”

“All niggers have big peckers. Didn’t ya know that?”

“When it swells, it’ll reach to his belly hole and pump seed,” Perry said, and flipped it with the back of his hand. “It’s what Crenshaw wants. Take him to the barn, tie him good, and throw a horse blanket over him. We don’t want him sick.”

Two of the men dragged George out. The third man, James Howell, walked over to a jug, and helped himself to a drink.

“How’d it go?” Hammond asked.

“All right. Knibee’s a bitcher. Bitched all the way down, and bitched all the way back.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I stayed in the boat. They said the old man who works at the mill came storming in while they wrestled the nigger. He’ll not tell anybody. Knibee bashed his head.”

“Kill him?”

“Probably. Tell that woman of yours to get me something to eat, Sickles. I must of rowed that damn boat twenty miles, and my stomach’s rubbing my backbone.”

James Howell was a noted slave stealer and was connected with John Crenshaw in his slave operation at the salt mine. He masterminded the plans but seldom did the actual kidnapping.

“I’ve got another job for you,” Perry said impatiently.

The man’s tone rankled Howell, and he turned his back on him and sat down at the table.

“I’m not beggin’ for
jobs,
Perry.”

“It’ll pay a hell of a lot more than stealing a nigger.”

“What’ve you got in mind? I suppose you want me to go to Vandalia and kill Farrway Quill for you.”

Hammond ignored the jibe. His hatred of Quill was a well-known fact, and he never made an attempt to conceal it.

“Daniel Phelps runs the mill at Quill’s Station, and—”

“I know that. I just come from there.”

“He’s a nigger lover. And—”

“I know that too.” Howell enjoyed seeing the corners of Perry’s eyes twitch when he was angry. The man hated to be interrupted. He talked as if he were giving orders to a troop under his command.

“Phelps will be coming this way in a few days, maybe a week. He’ll not stay away from the mill very long this time of year. He’ll be with a blond woman. Sickles can give you his description, and those of the horses and the wagon. I want him stopped. Understand?”

“Killed?”

“It will be the only way to stop him.”

“The woman too?”

“Do what you want with her, as long as she never gets back to Quill’s Station.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Five hundred in gold and about a dozen niggers up on Phelps’s farm. Without him there to tell them what to do, it’ll be like picking apples off a tree.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it? Hell! I want to know
now,
Howell. If you’re not interested, I’ll get someone else.”

“All right.” Howell pursed his lips and looked from Sickle to Perry. “I’ll take care of it. I know just the man for the job.”

“No! I want you to do it yourself.”

“Don’t be telling me how to run my business, Perry.” James Howell looked Hammond straight in the eye. He didn’t like the cocky little son of a bitch, but John Crenshaw did, so he had to put up with him. That didn’t mean he had to knuckle down or do any of his dirty work regardless of the pay. “If I take on this job, I do it my way or not at all.” He helped himself to a hunk of bread and plunged his knife into the crock of butter Sickles set on the table.

“Five hundred is a lot of money,” Hammond said. “A man can do a lot with that much money.”

“Yeah? I could poke that much up my arse and not even know it.” Howell began to eat.

Hammond paced back and forth, the heels of his boots making the only sound other than the slurping Howell made when he drank from his mug. Hammond didn’t like having a third party involved, but if that was the only way he could get the job done, he would go along with it this one time.

“All right,” Hammond agreed reluctantly. “All right. But, by God, the job had better be done.”

“Half now, the rest when the job’s done,” Howell said, knowing Perry would not agree.

“I’ll not pay for a pig in a poke,” Hammond shouted. “I’ll leave the money with Crenshaw. When Phelps is dead, you’ll be paid.”

James Howell shrugged his shoulders. “Then I’ll be at Crenshaw’s house in a couple of weeks to collect.”

*   *   *

Moonlight came in through the window at the McCourtney house, set back from the Wabash along the road to Vincennes. It was a neat, well-built house with four rooms below, two above, and a porch that fronted the width of the house. In the bedroom at the back of the house, Gavin lay in the oversize bed that was needed for his large frame. Eleanor cuddled close to his side.

“I’m glad to be home and in our own bed, Gavin. I love this place.”

“Aye, lass. Me feets been hangin’ over the end of the bed for the past two weeks.”

Eleanor laughed softly and swirled the hair on his chest with her fingertips.

“I wish we had come home sooner. We’d have been here when the two men came from Kentucky to see Mercy. Oh, that poor girl. She must have been shocked. Imagine, Gavin. She hasn’t known who she was for all these years. If not for Daniel—”

A loud pounding on the door cut off Eleanor’s words. Gavin sat up in bed. The pounding came again.

“Someone be at the door.” Gavin was swinging his huge body out of the bed when the sharp raps sounded again.

“Hurry, Gavin,” Eleanor said. “No one would come knocking this time of night if there wasn’t something wrong.

“He be in a snit, whoever he be.” Gavin pulled on his britches. “I be comin’,” he yelled.