Soul of a Crow (19 page)

“Oh please, Lorie-Lorie?” Malcolm gushed. “
Please
?”

I reached and stroked the small creature, unable to resist. It was soft as a bird's wing, its eyes round and bright, tail sticking straight into the air. I said, “It'll be Boyd who needs convincing, not me.” And to Rebecca, “Are you certain?”

“More than certain,” she said. “How long shall you be in town? Might I invite you and your menfolk to dinner? Oh, I would be delighted to continue chatting.”

“Thank you kindly,” I told her, touched at this invitation. “But we've planned to stay no longer than it takes to make purchases.”

“Our pa is dead,” one of Rebecca's boys, the younger, suddenly told Malcolm.

All of us looked his way at this unexpected pronouncement, Malcolm and I with mild alarm, though Malcolm empathized at once, informing the boy, “My daddy, too. He died three years ago now.”

“My pa never come home from the War,” the boy explained, and Rebecca's lips twisted. She smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear in the manner of someone who does not wish to elaborate on a particular subject.

“My Elijah was one of far too many,” she said softly. “I live now with Uncle Edward and my brother, Clint Clemens. Clint is a deputy sheriff, but he'd make a far better schoolteacher, as I've told him too many times to count.”

“I am most sorry for your loss,” I said.

“But now the marshal is courting Mama,” the other boy said, with enthusiasm. “He pays calls whenever he's in town. Uncle Edward says –”

“Heavens, Cort, bite your tongue,” Rebecca scolded. “What proclamations.”

“Your mouth's as big as mine,” Malcolm told Cort, companionably.

“You shall think me impudent, but may I guess your state of origin, the two of you?” Rebecca asked; I sensed she wished to change the subject, forthwith, and did not wait for an answer before saying with certainty, “Tennessee.”

“That's correct,” I told her, thinking of Charley Rawley's ear for accents. I wagered, “You are not from there yourself—someone you know, perhaps?”

Rebecca said, “Yes, Uncle Edward was born and raised there. He served as a field doctor in the Confederacy for the duration. His wife passed while he was serving and he relocated north to live with my mama, his little sister, after he was mustered out. He didn't realize Mama had also passed during the War.”

So many lives claimed by it, whether directly or otherwise, no small amount a result of the starvation and abject poverty in the wake of years of fighting, subjugated soldiers straggling home to places that were often no more than dust and a handful of carefully-guarded sacred memories—well I knew these truths. There could never be an entirely accurate count of the overall death toll.

The sun was well past its noon zenith; Sawyer and Boyd would be expecting us, and even though I had enjoyed conversing with Rebecca Krage, the unease that was determinedly stalking me seemed nearer than ever. I shooed a fly from buzzing near my nose, wishing I could as easily shove aside the sensation of threat; I was barely able to restrain the urge to look over my shoulder. Though it was unreasonable, it seemed to me an inordinate amount of time had passed since I had seen Sawyer.

“I hate to be discourteous, but my brother and I must continue on our way,” I said.

Rebecca's eyebrows drew together just slightly, as if a hint of my agitation transferred to her, though she said only, “Well, I must say that I am disappointed you are only in town the day. Take care, the both of you. It was lovely to make your acquaintances!” Winking at Malcolm, she said, “And mind that kitten!”

“Thank you, ma'am, I will,” he said dutifully, cuddling the small bundle close.

“Good-day,” I said, in haste to be away.

Malcolm scampered beside me, too busy lavishing love on his new pet to notice that I walked at a much brisker pace than usual; Sawyer and Boyd had likely made their intended purchases and were loading the wagon just now. The dry-goods store was only a few blocks west—wasn't it? I fell still, looking this way and that, the crowd swirling together as eggs stirred in a pan, slippery colors mixing and blending. A man with only one leg, his pants trimmed and tied off at mid-thigh to accommodate this misfortune, hobbled past us on crutches, casting a curious glance at the kitten. Sweat slid down my temples.

“Lorie, can't we just peek at them hanging ropes, just take a peek?” Malcolm cajoled, craning his neck for a better view; his voice reached me from a distance, as though he stood on the opposite side of a holler.

“No,” I said, as firmly as I could manage. I forced myself to draw a deep breath, to gather my bearings, deciding, however unfairly, that I vehemently despised this busy town. The telegraph office, a small wooden structure, loomed to our right, adjacent to a whitewashed hotel with fancy gold lettering adorning the front window. A dipper rested against the rim of a water bucket being used to prop open a side door of the hotel, perhaps one leading into its kitchen; just down the alleyway beyond the door, tucked behind the building, I could see the very edge of an outhouse.

“Please, I just want me a peek,” Malcolm begged, draping the kitten over a shoulder. His earnest eyes pleaded with me. “I reckon it's just yonder, where all them folks is headed. I only aim to see what it looks like, that's all. I ain't ever seen a real hanging rope, or them trapdoors they fall from, in all my livin' life!
Please
, Lorie?”

“
No
,” I said decisively, tugging his elbow for emphasis; the hanging would no doubt shortly commence and the idea of him running that way and inadvertently observing two men fall to their deaths made my stomach turn. I told him, “You wait here while I use the necessary, and then we are going to find Sawyer and Boyd and leave this detestable place.”

Detestable
, I thought, conjuring the familiar image of the thesaurus open over my mother's lap.
Synonyms include: vile, revolting, loathsome, hateful, abominable
.

Malcolm's face registered clear disappointment, though he nodded without another word of protest. But his eyes followed the crowd.

“I'll return directly,” I said, and hurried along the alley to the outhouse, determined to stop allowing my imagination to clench me in a chokehold. There was a hand pump around the back corner of the hotel, under which a clump of rangy daisies grew, long-stemmed and thriving beneath the dripping handle, and I bent to splash my face, letting the cool liquid trickle into the collar of my blouse. It felt good and helped somewhat to ease the sense of unreality that hovered too near. My sleeves were rolled back, my skirt limp with the humidity, my booted toes dusty. I drank from my cupped palm and then made haste using the outhouse.

No more than five minutes had passed, perhaps even less, but Malcolm was not in sight when I returned, and dread swooped in with wings spread.

“Malcolm!” I called sharply, earning a few glances, but no one paused to speak to me, or to inquire if I needed assistance. A pulsing jolt of concern nearly took me to my knees, and I shouted, “
Malcolm Carter!
”

He was not within hearing distance, as no response met my ears. Heart gouging a hole into my ribs, I peered frantically at the strangers passing by, hoping beyond reason that Malcolm's familiar freckled face would pop into view and he would apologize for worrying me—and then I would summarily bend him over my knee and apply the nearest convenient switch to his behind.

Surely he had gone to spy the gallows, without permission.

I knew that Sawyer and Boyd would grow increasingly concerned at our continued absence, Sawyer especially, but there was no way in hell that I could return to them without Malcolm in tow. The thought made my stomach clench around a ball of solid ice. I lifted my hem and ran east across the dusty streets, following the crowd, unceremoniously displacing people. More than one voice protested or cursed me, but I cared not a fig.

Bodies were packed elbows to ribs as I neared the town's center square, the site of the hanging—absurdly, the journalist Parmley caught my eye amongst hundreds of others, conversing with another man only a few yards away in the shade afforded by the overhanging rafters of an adjacent business—my gaze flashed upwards, to the hand-lettered sign attached to a rafter, which read G. SCRUGGS, UNDERTAKER.

Jesus, oh Jesus, let me find Malcolm.

Parmley held an open timepiece and used his free hand to tip his hat my direction. I felt my upper lip curl in distaste, immediately turning the other way, standing on tiptoe to peer beyond shoulders and around hats. It was maddening; I could have spat my frustration upon the ground like a bite from an overripe apple, as I vacillated between anger and agonized concern.

“Malcolm!” I shouted again, but my voice was lost in the buzzing of dozens of others in immediate proximity. I implored those I passed, “Have you seen a boy with a kitten?”

Some people eyed me with tepid interest, but most ignored my words, preoccupied with the proceedings atop the gallows. I spared a glance that direction to see two men in dark suits, with dark hats, ascending the narrow wooden staircase, their knees lifting in a similar rhythm as they climbed. The badges on their vests refracted the sunlight; these were not the prisoners, then, but instead the law. A third man, a few steps behind them, followed carrying two black hoods, currently limp in his grasp; shortly they would encase the heads of the condemned, blocking out their earthly last sight—that of a teeming crowd, comprised of men, women, and dozens of youngsters, assembled on the street to witness their necks break.

A rank horror enveloped my senses.

What sort of people are we?
I thought, sickened. I spun away, blindly, and would not have noticed the marshal if he hadn't stepped directly into my path; I skidded to a halt to avoid crashing into the man, the five-pointed star attached to his black vest just inches from my nose. The sun glinted from its polished surface and I blinked, and then blinked again, slowly, my eyes lifting to his face.

“Mr. Yancy,” I said in confusion, startled by his appearance here, when we'd left him far behind at the Rawleys' farm.

“Mrs. Davis,” he returned in what should have been polite acknowledgment of our acquaintance; something in his tone was just slightly off, which I could sense if not articulate. He added, “This is a rare piece of luck, if I do say so.”

Before I could guess what he meant by those words, a second man appeared beside him.

- 13 -

No,” I breathed,
and faltered, my vision blurring as completely as if I'd just submerged my open eyes beneath muddy creek water. Yancy reached and appropriated my elbow as I tried desperately to reconcile what I knew to be true with what was happening.

Union Jack stood before me.

The man Sawyer had shot at close range with his Winchester and left for dead upon the northern Missouri prairie.

“Lila,” Jack greeted almost gaily, his eyes gleaming with triumph, the satisfaction of witnessing my staggering disbelief. “You look like you seen a ghost, girlie.”

He was a small, gnarled, bearded man, surely not as old as his appearance suggested. His skin was the brown of well-used leather and just as textured; when last in his company, I had been a prisoner, and had lost a child literally before the eyes of he and his companions, Sam Rainey and the man known as Dixon. Back in St. Louis, Jack had long frequented Ginny's place and was someone I knew from my time at the whorehouse, though he had never been a customer of mine.

He was supposed to be dead, I could not conceive of any other truth, and I read the play of thoughts across his mind as clearly as though he'd written them with chalk pencil upon a slate; he was delighted to observe my speechless, swelling distress at the sight of him, and what it could potentially mean to me—and to Sawyer—

You have to find Sawyer before they do, Lorie, oh Jesus…

Yancy's grip remained clenched around my elbow, for all the world as though he was politely assisting me; from all outward appearances, I was simply a woman overcome by the event of a double hanging and he was acting the gentleman. I jerked free of his fist, my gut full of ice shards, my face stiff and bloodless, and moved around them with determination. When Yancy clamped hold again, he drew me immediately closer, without drama, bringing his mouth to my ear, the better to impress upon me the seriousness of his question. In the hubbub of the excited crowd, no one paid us particular attention.

“Has Billings approached you?” he demanded, low, his voice conveying distinct menace, as I clearly discerned. I could smell the strong scents of him, sweat and hair tonic, which were at once too close to my face, foreign to my nostrils and simultaneously nauseating; his fingers were hard, his mustache brushing the top of my left ear as he quietly insisted, “Tell me.”

Though I did not recognize the name he had spoken, I whispered quite truthfully, “No.”

Yancy asked next, “Where is your husband? Where is Davis?”

My vision narrowed but I refused to lose focus now. Sweat erupted all along my skin. I kept my voice steady with effort and said, “He is not here.”

“That is a bald lie,” Yancy said, and my spine ached at his tone. “I do not suffer lying women.”

Jack stood in my immediate line of sight, watching raptly from beneath the brim of his hat. My fingernails scraped over my palms, grinding into the flesh there, fists clenched with the desperate desire to strike out at the both of them, knowing I could not; so swiftly I had been rendered helpless.

“Tell me,” Yancy said once more.

“Let me go,” I said, gritting my teeth without realizing.

Yancy's fingers tightened. Absurdly, his mustache tickled my ear as he leaned an inch closer and murmured, “You will come with me. You will not make a scene. I would take great pleasure in shooting your husband like a bitch hound, do you hear me? Come with me, now.”

As we walked, edging around those assembled, in the opposite direction from the gallows, an image of a wooden puppet overtook my mind—I felt as though I resembled one of these, my knees jerking my feet unwittingly forward, clumsy with Yancy's unyielding grip upon my arm. Voices trailed over my head like unwelcome fingers, snarling into my hair and obscuring my vision, but these receded as we left the crowd behind. I did not understand where we were bound until we cleared the masses of people and Yancy angled towards the local sheriff's office, which Malcolm and I had passed earlier, on our walk; my eyes swept the street, searching for any sign of the boy, any sign of Sawyer, or Boyd…

But there was no one.

Once at the small wooden building, Yancy released my arm to produce a key, which he used to unlock the door. Jack stepped close to my left side, clearly intending to impede any attempt I might have made to escape. Yancy ushered the three of us within the space, occupied by nothing more than the dust motes that drifted lazily in the single sunbeam slicing into the room through the south-facing window, its view impeded by iron slats. There was a desk, its surface containing a kerosene lamp and a leather-bound ledger, two ladder-backed chairs and two prisoner cells, both currently empty.

Keen-edged fear sharpened my senses—my blood trickled like heated metal as it moved along the paths in my body; Yancy's voice in the quiet room caused me to startle. He said, “Billings and Clemens are at the hanging. They've their plates full with local business, and won't have received word of Davis, nor seen us.”

“That bastard Davis ain't far, I'm certain, not if this one's here,” Jack said, indicating me with a tilt of his chin before dropping his sorry bones atop the nearest chair. He was dirty, his trousers stained by food and travel, and simple hard living, small eyes red-rimmed beneath his hat. Like Yancy, he wore a pistol strapped into a worn leather cross-halter on his scrawny hips, and sat nervously, eyes leaping about the space, from Yancy to me, to the window and back again, in an endless loop.

Yancy remained coolly standing, by contrast, and went to peer out the single pane at the dusty, unoccupied street—all of the residents were gathered for the hanging. I eyed the thick wooden door which had thumped closed behind us and wondered how far I could manage to run if I bolted outside, before they overtook me.

As though sensing the intention, Yancy turned to study me from a distance of perhaps a dozen feet, nearly the length of the room.

“Your husband is a wanted man in Missouri,
Mrs
. Davis,” he said, with a deceptively conversational tone; the emphasis on the title confirming my married status suggested insult. “He is a fugitive from the law.”

“No,” I contradicted at once.

“I assure you I am speaking the truth,” Yancy said, offering a smile. Though it was a false smile, as none of it reached his eyes—despite carrying himself like a gentleman, a man of the law, he exuded pure, calculated intimidation. He elaborated, “Sawyer James Davis, formerly of the Army of Tennessee, is wanted for the murder of one Samuel Rainey, of Missouri, and one Gerald Dixon, also of Missouri.” The formal words were tinged with unmistakable notes of triumph.

I found the wherewithal to keep my gaze upon Yancy's. Fear stalked my face—this could not be helped; Yancy only continued smiling, just slightly. I had not an inkling of a notion how to respond—Sawyer had indeed killed both of those men, to save my life. Sam and Dixon had been criminals a hundred times over, Sam a known murderer of women, and yet in the eyes of the law, bound to blindness, I realized that Sawyer could be found guilty for dispatching them, however deservedly, from life.

A world in which this possibility existed—
only this morning, this very morning, I had been secure in his arms—
became sharply altered, growing murky and unreal all about my body; I felt a shift in my gut, a flicker of the old, familiar feeling that had encased me in its sticky skeins, without relief, at the whorehouse, the taste of despair rippling over my tongue.

No. No, oh please, no.

This cannot be.

I studied Yancy, wordless for the time being, and knew that I would do whatever required of me to prevent him, or Jack, from finding Sawyer here in this town. I would risk my own life a thousand times over before letting them have at him.

Sawyer would never let you do any such thing to save him, you understand this.

I did, but my resolve did not waver.

Yancy returned my gaze with the intensity of a predator, but even when the air around me narrowed to slim, dark tunnels, I kept my eyes steady.

Jack smirked, “Lucky little whore to find yourself a husband, Lila,” and that particular word was enough to draw my attention to him, unwittingly; agony and nausea buzzed as hornets ensnared within my skull, but I could not let them see that the use of this hateful name so affected me. And it was imperative that I learn their exact objective.

“My husband is not here,” I said, wishing my voice had emerged with more strength. My thoughts darted this way and that, wildly, as deer from a hunter.

They will go after Sawyer—and he will be looking for you at any moment—

He could be found guilty by a judge—they could hang him—

They have evidence, they believe they have cause –

Oh God…

Jack snorted and scoffed, emphasizing the words, “
Your husband
left me for dead and he's here now, I'd stake my claim on that, you lying whore
.”
His face took on a maroon cast, anger bubbling to the surface of his skin as he said, “He shot clean through my side, after I done my best to help you. Smashed Dixon's skull into goddamn pulp. Stabbed Sam's eye out.”

“
I
stabbed him,” I interrupted, too overcome with fury to hold my tongue. I seethed, “You bastard, you
son of a bitch
—”

Yancy appeared mildly stunned at this pronouncement, though he quickly concealed any such crack in the foundation of his composure. He said, instead, “It was good fortune, running across your party at Charley Rawley's place, getting such a fine glimpse of each of you. Of course, I did not then possess the information that I do at this moment. Just over a week later I received a wire from Marshal Nelson Dobbs, on circuit in Hannibal, having taken the testimony of this man,” and Yancy nodded at Jack, who shifted on his seat and was eager to pick up the tale.

“Your Reb husband left me for dead,” Jack repeated, and I wished with all of my heart that he was truly dead. He elaborated, “Wasn't until a day later that I come to, with a goddamn buzzard tugging at my hair, and found Sam and Dixon, poor bastards. Ain't a sign of horseflesh on the horizon. Goddamn Reb stole 'em.”

“He did no such thing!” I raged at Jack. “
You
stole
me
. Dixon shot and killed Angus Warfield and then the three of you took me forcibly from his company.” I directed my fury at Yancy. “You are the law!
This
man is the criminal, not my husband!”

Yancy was gallingly unmoved. Instead of replying, he blinked. A picture of his eldest son, Fallon, entered into my mind, the boy with empty eyes. Yancy's eyes were also light in color, and likewise conniving. Determining the best course of action to improve his position.

“That's
real
devoted, Lila,” Jack commented, when Yancy did not reply. Jack taunted, “Ginny'll get you back in the end, just you wait. You was the most prized whore she ever had and she aims to put you back to work. 'Course, she ain't too pleased that her brother was murdered and left to rot under the sun.”

“How did you find us?” I whispered, my heart a razor, my ribs its strop. I knew I must accept what was happening; I knew I must focus.

Yancy said, “Charley Rawley kindly let me know that Iowa City was on your route. Just so happens I routinely visit this town in my marshal's circuit, along with Marshal Leverett Quade. Jack and I only just arrived here ourselves, and Quade is not far behind, west while I was south. Mark my words, I would have caught you on the trail, had you passed by. It's another piece of fine fortune that you were kind enough to present yourself to me this day.”

“What do you want?” I whispered.

“Does Davis know that you're a whore?” Yancy asked, his tone a mingling of amusement and true curiosity. Before I could respond, he mused, “Seems a fitting combination, a Reb and a whore.”

I swallowed away the furious words I longed to speak, my hands balled in fists. I repeated, “What do you want?”

Yancy shifted position, smoothing the tips of his fingers over the pistol in his cross-holster. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, “To see Davis hang.” Abruptly he ceased all contact with the pistol and swiped a thumb over his mustache. Still eyeing me, he said, with speculation in his tone, “Though you may impede that.” He narrowed his eyes and mused, “I'd not figured as such.”

Jack ran his knuckles briskly over the tops of his thighs, as though to scrub at an itch, and complained, “This one's worth cash money, back in Missouri. I ain't letting you kill her before I get my share of it from Ginny.”

Yancy sent a look of scalding disgust at Jack and said, “You haven't the sense of a polecat. You realize this here whore can testify against you, don't you?”

Jack shifted restlessly, regarding me with a new sense of distrust. His voice rasped in the manner of a saw blade over fresh-cut wood as he said, “Ain't nobody gonna believe the testimony of a goddamn whore. Whores lie as plain as the nose on their faces. I aim to bring her to Missouri. Ginny's right eager to get Lila back. She'll line my pocket.”

You are not Lila. You will never be Lila again.

There is no way Jack can force you back to Missouri, back to Ginny.

You will never be Lila again…

And yet, no matter how I willed it to be untrue, Lila would always be part of me—dark, twisted, vulnerable to the insidious onslaught of three years' worth of memories. What recourse would I possibly have if Jack was unrelenting?

You thought before that Sawyer deserves better than a former whore.

No—he does not believe this—he sees beyond what you were.

I pictured Sawyer's eyes, the blending of golden and green in their depths, drawing thusly upon a reserve of strength. I said as calmly as I could manage, “You will not hang Sawyer, and I will
never
return to Missouri.”