Soul of a Crow (21 page)

You should be dead, you bastard,
I thought viciously, aiming my black thoughts Jack's way.
You should be dead.

The waning moon hung low on the western horizon and I rolled that direction to study its pale face. In my current state of mind, it bore a maddeningly smug countenance, cast in partial shadow by its brighter cousin, reproaching me with a vengeful, unwavering gaze.

I hate you,
I thought, inane with irrationality, screaming the words in my mind.
You've watched me every night of my life, always silent. You watched the War unfold beneath you. All that suffering, years' worth. You care nothing for anyone. Fall from the sky and crash to the earth. Burn to pieces and see who here would care for your fate!

My skull ached with the pain of blocking out Sawyer's voice. The minutes ticked away with increasing agony—he was miles from me, stalemated in Iowa City, floundering with the lack of any clues left to him. There was no appreciable reason for my disappearance and I knew my sweet Malcolm was wracked with guilt for having disobeyed me, when in truth his minor rebellion had likely saved Sawyer from Yancy's grasp. If I had not alone blundered into Yancy at the hanging, he would have found the four of us shortly thereafter, and Sawyer would be currently in his custody. Had that occurred, I would be even more helpless than I was at this moment. Yancy apprehending me instead bought a few days, at the very least.

Lorie, answer me
, I suddenly heard Sawyer whisper, his determination destroying my defenses, the strength of his plea driving into my mind. Surely if I turned the other way, he would be there; my heart felt clamped between the two halves of a hot iron. I closed my eyes on the moon and was subsequently pelted with an image of him, kneeling on the prairie and clasping his hands, as one praying. Each breath I took became a struggle. I curled inward around my belly.

It's the strength of what binds us
, I had said, back in Missouri, the night he saved me from sure death at the strangling hands of the man called Dixon.

It's stronger than anything I have ever known
, he had said in return.

I knew if I called to Sawyer, he would find me. He would come to me.

Tell me where you are
, he whispered now, tears streaming his face in the glow of the hateful moon.
Please, darlin', please answer. I feel like I am dying and I do not know where you are
.

I clenched my teeth, his quiet desperation scouring me as would knife points.

Lorie…

I released a strangled gasp before I could stop the sound. I could not risk calling back to him, not even in my thoughts.

Behind me, Yancy shifted, also awake. His footfalls were nearly silent as he strode perhaps a dozen paces away to make water, the sound unmistakable. I covered my ears, revulsion and hatred grappling for the upper hand. When he returned to his blankets with a grunt, I had a question for him.

“Why not at the Rawleys' farm?”

Because I was facing away, my whispered words startled him; he took a moment to reply, and I thought perhaps he had not understood the nature of what I was asking, but at last he explained in a low voice, “My boys. I wanted to slip into your tent and slit Davis's worthless throat that very night. I even doubled back and watched it for a spell in the moonlight, after everyone was asleep, considering. I came so goddamn close to killing you both. But in the end I couldn't jeopardize my boys that way. If I got carted to jail they'd starve. They haven't anyone else, for Christ's sake, and if they passed, there would be no Yancys alive but for me. Not a soul to carry on our family name. I don't intend to leave them alone for more than a week or two.”

He grunted, as I sat in cold stupefaction at his words, and then said, “And I've enough sense to realize I couldn't pin Corbin's murder on Davis. It would be my word against his, and Davis has a witness in that fiddle-playing son of a bitch.” Yancy paused briefly, before concluding, “But now I do believe that God is giving me a second chance, putting you and your murdering Reb husband into my path. It's Providence, I tell you, goddamn Providence. Davis was gracious enough to kill two more men in cold blood and is now a fugitive in my territory. Of course I volunteered to apprehend him.” He laughed, low and with little humor, commenting, “Still riding that very same paint mare, I'll be
damned
. And now I'm in possession of his wife. Jesus, life's a funny thing.”

“Please,” I begged, hoarse with desperation. “Please understand. Sawyer killed them to save me. Sam Rainey meant me nothing but harm. Dixon would have—”

“Save your breath,” Yancy interrupted. “Your words aren't worth a goddamn brass farthing to me. Jack can ride you back to St. Louis and claim his prize from the Hossiter woman once he testifies against Davis. She sounds a rather rough character, but nonetheless one who pays in gold. Or he can ride you all the way to Old Mexico, for all I have an interest in it.” He let these words sink into my skin before saying, “Jack wanted to trade Davis to a man I served with, Zeb Crawford, lives not a dozen miles from my homestead. Zeb offered us gold, no less, which is tempting, I'll admit. We spoke of it not two nights past. And you know what Zeb had planned for a murdering Reb?”

I rolled his way, unwillingly, rising clumsily to one elbow, a chill of sweat erupting as slick moisture along my hairline and down my nape. Yancy sat with one leg bent, watching me. When I didn't respond, he answered his own cruel query. “Zeb aimed to burn him alive, that's what. I don't usually condone such barbarism, but Zeb's a changed man since the War. Lost all four of his boys to battle. Claims a band of Rebs pinned down his two eldest sons in a shanty cabin and set fire to it, not long after Shiloh. He's rabid as a hound. S'pose he'll have to be satisfied watching Davis hang.”

I heard Fannie Rawley's voice saying,
To this day I am not certain if that was a tall tale.

Jack spoke up from behind me, his voice dry, as one who is recently disturbed from sleep, muttering, “Zeb'll be angered that we ain't got the Reb. And he ain't gonna like being stuck with this here whore.”

Yancy made a dismissive sound and replied, “His anger is hardly my concern.” He ran a thumb over his mustache and mused, as though thinking aloud, “Though there mighta been a bit of satisfaction in watching a Reb burn like a heretic in the days of old.”

My lips were too numb to respond. Yancy could have been bluffing, terrifying me with lies for the sport of it, but I believed his every word. I was weak with the knowledge of what Sawyer may have faced, were he here with Yancy—who was to say that Yancy would not have changed his vengeful, fickle mind and allowed Jack to trade Sawyer to this Zeb Crawford? And what had Jack meant,
stuck with this here whore?

Sounding more fully awake, Jack repeated, “He'll be angered. He'll want to burn up Lila, in exchange. And she's worth money to me, goddammit.”

“As you've mentioned without let-up,” Yancy said irritably, as I sat with a hollow gut. “Zeb will keep this whore outta sight until after Davis hangs. He owes me a favor or two. Then she's no longer my concern.”

“Davis shot me. I still ache across my goddamn guts. I aimed to see him burn,” Jack complained, with a tone of petulant irritation.

“We never agreed to the burning,” Yancy said, studying Jack with hard eyes. “You take orders from me, not the other way around.”

“What's it matter how the bastard dies, long as he's dead?” Jack fired back.

“Because
I
would have to answer for his disappearance, that's why. He's a wanted man,” Yancy said acidly. “A shooting, a hanging, I can justify in the eyes of the law.”

Jack's mouth distorted into a sneer but he abandoned the argument, turning his back on Yancy and me with a snort of disgust.

“We'll see Davis dead one way or another, sooner than later,” Yancy said to Jack's now-prostrate form. “Think on how he's suffering just now, to have his little whore wife gone with no word.”

Jack grunted.

Yancy stretched to his full length, turning away and scraping close his single blanket. He muttered, “You think on that, too, whore.”

- 15 -

Dusk had come,
crowding against the window in the sheriff's office in a way that reminded me of a smothering hand.

“I will not leave this room until you agree to search every building in town again,” I said to the lawman, Billings, for the second time, speaking through my teeth. With only the slightest provocation, I felt capable of ripping the sheriff limb from limb.

“I haven't the manpower to do such a thing,” Billings said, clinging by only a slim margin to his composure. He bore unflinching eyes with deep strain lines between them and wanted me gone from this space, I understood plainly, but that would not happen. Not when Lorie was missing. If I had to kick down each and every door in this horseshit fucking town, I would.

“Then find more men,” I demanded. My sanity seemed to evaporate more with each hammer of my heart. I was in terror, had been so since Malcolm returned to us with the news that he could not find Lorie, only hours ago. Time seemed suspended in molasses, each moment sickeningly slow and allowing for no forward progress, in the way of a nightmare. I relied now upon the mentality I learned to adopt as a soldier. If I kept moving, remained focused, I would not lose all control.

The sheriff and his deputy, a hesitant man named Clemens, were difficult to track down, both occupied with this afternoon's double hanging, and neither had proven helpful. I recalled Malcolm appearing from the crowd just earlier this afternoon, breathless and hampered by this, bending forward at the waist. A foreboding lingered in the back of my mind and exploded as would a deadly shell even before Malcolm gasped, “I can't…find Lorie…”

And hours later I knew nothing more than I had then, when the ground fell away from under my boots and left me helpless as a newborn foal.

“Sawyer.”

Boyd suddenly entered the sheriff's office. My eyes flew to his and he saw that I prayed he brought good news. Boyd, who I loved as much as my own kin, and who had seen me beyond a fair amount of the worst moments in my life; I recognized immediately he was still strung with tension and this knowledge served to strike me across the face. I hurt as badly as though relentlessly beaten—and I would welcome any beating to ease this pain—to have Lorie appear before me, explaining that all of this was a dreadful mistake, that she had fallen asleep and was therefore heedless of the passing hours…

Oh Jesus, I cannot bear this. You took her from me before. Please, not again.

There was only silence when I called to Lorie in my mind and I understood deep within and apart from her unfathomable disappearance that this indicated she was in danger. A thousand times worse was the unknown—having no knowledge of the sort of danger, I could not combat it; I felt blinded, sunk as surely as a boulder beneath the surface of a lake. The unseen cord that connected me to her was intact; as real as it was inexplicable, I could sense it even though Lorie remained silent and I was afforded a small measure of comfort in this, as I knew she was alive.

Alive, and unable to respond.

I knew this—but not why, and squeezed my fingers inward to quell the urge to take a chair to the wall. Or better yet, Billings' head.

“Sawyer,” Boyd said again, more sharply. Just the use of my given name rather than his typical way of addressing me belied the depth of his concern. I knew he loved Lorie as well as he would any sister of his own, just as did Malcolm, but they could not fully comprehend my love for her. I belonged to Lorie; it was as simple as that. My soul recognized this the first moment I laid eyes upon her, poised as though about to take flight from the bottommost step of a staircase, there in a Missouri saloon.

Boyd came near and put a hand on my arm. He wasn't quite my height, but strong as a bull calf; I had tangled with him on plenty of occasions during our growing years and been bruised for days as a result. He approached tentatively, so worried that shadows appeared like charcoal slashes beneath his eyes. He said, “Deputy Clemens requested another word. He sent the boy to tell me. He's a bite for us, just yonder, Malcolm said.”

“I cannot eat,” I said roughly, stunned that he would think otherwise.

“I know,” Boyd said, and I knew he would not risk disagreeing with anything I said, not this day. He added, “His sister's the one gave Malcolm the critter. Spoke with Lorie, too.”

“Why didn't Clemens tell me this?” I demanded.

“Clemens only just spoke to his sister,” Boyd explained, retaining calm. He said, more quietly, “The boy's riddled as a worm-ridden apple. He's blaming himself.”

I knew that my anger towards Malcolm was utterly unjustified. I had shaken him, desperate for answers, bellowing at him. And yet, I entrusted Lorie into his care…

He's only a boy
, I reminded myself.
You should have been there, no one else.

Billings, having retreated behind his writing desk, encouraged, “Clemens will be at his uncle's, Doc Tilson's place, two blocks east,” and indicated out the window with his quill pen extended. “I will make the evening rounds within the hour, Mr. Davis, and I assure you I will inquire everyone I see of your wife's whereabouts. The town has quieted now that Wright and Gibbs are hung. Show's over for everyone but the undertaker today. If your wife is within town limits, we'll find her.”

Billings was placating me; beneath his veneer of professionalism, I had already ascertained a sense of dismissal. Perhaps Billings thought Lorie had run away, that her continued absence was of her own choice. I closed my eyes and reassured her as best I could,
I think no such thing, darlin', know this. I will find you, this I swear
.

“Come,” Boyd said. “Please, Sawyer.”

Malcolm waited for us just outside, drooping against Aces, the small gray kitten tucked into one of the boy's shirts atop the wagon seat. Malcolm's desolation was as evident as his freckles and a part of me wanted to offer him comfort—but I could not muster the requisite strength. Malcolm's eyes followed us; Boyd went to him and curled the boy against his side; both were uncharacteristically silent.

Whistler nickered at me and I tugged free her halter. Admiral and Fortune were likewise tethered to the back of the wagon, drawn by Aces and Juniper, whose limp was nearly imperceptible today. Whistler nudged me and stepped closer, her brown eyes casting about in search of the woman she had come to love, and expected at my side. My heart delivered a series of forceful blows, reminiscent of those dealt by my father's blacksmithing hammer to iron he was shaping.

“Lorie can't be here just now,
mo capall maith
,” I whispered, leaning my forehead against her rust-red neck, as I had countless times before. Whistler had been mine from the moment of her birth, a tiny foal born nearly into my arms. Upon her back I first marched to War, an inexperienced and prideful boy of nineteen years, and over two years and more than a hundred lifetimes later, she dutifully carried my ragged form home. She had saved my life in battle, and had once saved Lorie's. If not for Whistler, Lorie would have been killed at the whim of Sam Rainey, and the men I knew only as Dixon and Jack. Whistler had broken free from the attempt to steal her, and subsequently my only means of rapid mobility, and then carried me over the prairie to find Lorie.

Recalling that night was akin to a blade being wedged into my back—hearing Lorie screaming for me, for help, was branded into my memory—I had been nearly too late. I held fast to Whistler in the dwindling light of this hellish town, the thought of Lorie again in danger rendering me incapable of moving. Only this morning she was safe in my arms, the soft sweetness of her bare skin against my own, the sighing breath she took before coming fully awake and burrowing closer to me. The intensity of our love, the pleasure that we had shared since our handfasting, was a force stronger than my senses could comprehend. Surely I had not forgotten myself and dared to take such a sacred gift for granted.

I thought of the words I spoke so earnestly, as we lay together in our tent at the Rawleys' farm.

Together we will make new memories, Lorie, and they will be sweet. And slowly the terrible ones will fade away. I promise you.

I intended to honor this promise. Whistler nudged my ribs with her long nose, which I cupped, stroking with my thumb, pressing it to the white snip between her nostrils, where Lorie loved to kiss her.

“I will bring her back to us,” I whispered to my horse. “I swear this on my life.”

A small voice at my left side inquired, “Sawyer?”

It was Malcolm, leery as a hen eyeing a fox, his attitude of abject misery mirroring my own. I saw that he had taken Lorie's shawl from the wagon and draped it over his shoulders—and my heart felt split, sure as an ax to kindling. Without a word I turned and extended my left arm, inviting him close; he dove against my side, his skinny arms wrapping about my waist like two bands of baling wire.

“It smells like her,” Malcolm whispered, bringing the edge of the shawl up and over his nose, and tears shrouded my eyes, falling to the boy's soft hair. He was right—I could catch the scent of my wife within the folds of the wool. I held fast to Malcolm, cupping the back of his neck, an unconscious gesture of tenderness that brought my father instantly to mind. How I longed for my father,
mo dhaidí
, whose voice had not graced my ears since the January of 1863, when I returned from battle bearing the slain bodies of Ethan and Jeremiah, delivering them home for the last time.

“I'm so terrible sorry,” the boy whispered. His tears created a damp patch against my shirt. I tightened my grip about him.

Boyd gently squeezed his brother's shoulder. He said, “Come, you twos. Let us see what this Clemens fellow has to say. He struck me as a reasonable sort.”

Malcolm studied my eyes, his own bearing an adult's burden, before handing me the shawl, which I held to my face; the scent of Lorie nearly buckled my knees. Malcolm leaped nimbly atop the wagon, taking up the reins draped over its edge. Wiping his nose on the back of one wrist, he muttered, “
Gidd
-up there, boys,” to Aces and Juniper; I carefully replaced Lorie's shawl in the wagon, and Boyd and I mounted our horses, following behind, the few blocks over dusty streets to the shingle announcing
Edw. Tilson, Physician
.

“Here's the place,” Malcolm announced, halting the wagon, hopping down to secure the horses to the hitching post. He reached to fetch his kitten, tucking the tiny bundle close. Boyd and I followed more slowly, sizing up the small wooden building with oiled canvas in the windows instead of glass, a sensible and cheaper alternative. Lantern light backlit the canvas, creating an auburn glow.

The deputy opened the door before we reached it, inviting, “Come inside, please do.” Clemens appeared younger than Boyd and me, and unlike Billings, had not served as a solider. He was slim as a wax bean, with spectacles and a studious demeanor; both his appearance and quiet way of speaking brought Reverend Wheeler, from my youth in Suttonville, to my mind; by the same token, Clemens exuded intelligence but absolutely no threat, a poor quality in a lawman.

Malcolm entered first, Boyd behind him; I brought up the rear and found my gaze roving about a small area in which a doctor practiced his trade, though no doctor appeared present. The structure was comprised of two rooms connected by a narrow door, the front being the examination room. I was at once clouted by scents that reminded me of the field tents in which I had been an unwilling and temporary patient on more than one occasion, most usually in miserable, sweltering Georgia heat. Boyd's nostrils flared, indicating better than any words that he experienced a similar swell of nausea at such an unwelcome reminder of those days.

“I apologize. I would open my home to you but I typically reside here on weekdays, as our homestead is some three miles beyond the town limits. Please, do sit,” Clemens said, indicating a small wooden table and four mismatched chairs. Plates were neatly arranged upon its surface, in addition to forks and tin cups; I was far too restless to do anything but remain standing, though Boyd and Malcolm obliged with murmured thanks.

“Gentlemen, this is my sister, Mrs. Rebecca Krage,” Clemens said, as a woman came from the adjacent room bearing a platter of food. Boyd, only just seated, hastily rose and removed his hat.

I had no time for such pleasantries and inquired instantly, “You spoke with my wife today?”

The woman's eyes were direct, simultaneously curious and sympathetic. She said, “I did. I am in distress. I do not mean to be impertinent, but I have been terribly troubled since Clint told me of this misfortune. Please know I shall help in any way I am able.”

“What did you speak of?” I demanded.

“You are most pale, Mr. Davis,” Mrs. Krage said, setting down the food and approaching me in the manner of a field nurse. She indicated an empty chair and ordered, not without kindness, “Sit, please, and rest a moment. I shall tell you everything I am able.” Turning her gaze to Malcolm as I reluctantly followed her orders, she went on, “I see you've taken good care of that kitten. Have you named him yet?”

Malcolm remained silent, as though not comprehending her question. His eyes appeared haunted and Mrs. Krage reached to brush hair from his forehead, as would a mother. Boyd stood just to her right, watching her in similar silence, his hat held to his belly. She was slim, like her brother, but her forthright attitude lent her a sense of height, and authority. She addressed Boyd next, saying, “I found your sister's company most enjoyable. I took an immediate liking to her. She spoke of you…Mr. Carter, is it? As my brother has forgotten to offer me
your
names.”

Clemens murmured an apology, while Boyd nodded, finally affirming quietly, “It is, yes, ma'am. Boyd Carter.”

“I wish the circumstances of our meeting were of a better nature,” she replied. “But I am pleased to meet you, nonetheless. You may feel free to call me Rebecca.”