Heaven Sent (48 page)
As he stepped up to his back porch he saw a piece of paper hanging against the door. He carefully took it down and carried it inside the cabin with him.
Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, he unfolded the paper and laid it out on the table. He stared at the ink marks on the paper for a few moments; then, as if it were a map, he turned it ninety degrees. When it still failed to make sense, he turned it again. Finally recognizing some of the letters, he knew it was the right direction.
He cursed
his lack
of schooling. He knew some of the letters on the page, but they meant nothing to him. He would just have to wait until he saw someone to read it to him. He pulled his suspenders down from his shoulders and started to walk away. He was tired and wanted to lie in his bed and think about the future. One last look at the paper honed in on an unusual letter. There at the bottom of the page, the first letter of the word was "z."
A
strange feeling of dread washed over him. There was only one word that he could think of that started
with
"z" and that was Zanola. If she had bothered to come all the way up to his place at
night,
something must be terribly wrong.
He shrugged tiredly; surely whatever it was could wait for morning, he thought to himself and started to continue with his undressing. Then he went to stand and stare at the paper again, worried and wishing that he could make sense of it. With a sigh of self-disgust, he readjusted his clothes, shoved the rumpled note into his pocket, slammed his hat on his head, and went out to
hitch
a fresh horse to the buggy.
* * *
The
night
train pulled into the station at Ingalls. Seven men got
off.
Three were Indians; dressed in beat-up hats and stained clothes, they appeared to be dirty and unkempt, but their movements were sober and sure as they made their way across the platform. With them were three lawmen, heavily armed and wary-eyed. The seventh man followed
behind
them. His face was totally void of emotion. No anxiety or fear or excitement was going to cause him to make a mistake. He was experienced and experience had taught him
to
be careful. Train robbers, murderers, hired guns, and bloodthirsty lunatics, he had seen them all. If a lawman wanted
to
live long enough
to
die in his own bed, he needed to expect the unexpected. He was prepared for anything, except failure. Tom Quick had arrived at the border
to
take care of Henry Lee Watson, once and for all.
CHAPTER
21
H
annah pulled her father's rig to a stop underneath the big red oak outside Henry Lee's cabin. She was surprised that he didn't seem to be around. She couldn't imagine where anyone might be on Sunday morning, unless it was church, and she would have passed him on the road if he had headed that way.
Admittedly, she didn't know a good deal about what non-churchgoers did on Sunday morning. But today she was going to find out for herself. When she told her father that she intended to move back to Henry Lee's house this morning, she had half expected him to tell her to wait until after the service. He hadn't and she was glad, because she didn't think she could have.
She had tossed and turned most of the night, before she finally got up and went out to sit on the porch. Her decision
had
not been easy, but there was no other choice. She loved Henry Lee, despite what she knew about him, maybe even because of what she knew about him. She loved him. And last
night,
through the door, he
had
said he loved her, too. Two people who loved each other and were married to each other should be together. There was just no other way to figure it.
Hannah unloaded her things near the back door and then led the horse to the barn to unhitch her. It felt good to be home, she thought. This place was hers now, as well as Henry Lee's.
Working with the horse, she thought about the family that she had left behind. Her father had been proud of her decision, though he hadn't said a word. She had finally realized that he was right, but at least he'd had the good grace not to say "I told you so."
Violet's warm hug and encouraging smile gave her comfort. It was amazing what a rock of strength Violet had turned out to be. More evidence, Hannah thought ruefully, that Hannah Bunch Watson
did
not know as much as she thought she did.
Myrtie had been bubbly and excited for her as she helped her pack. "So you talked it all out, and got your troubles squared away last night?"
"No," Hannah answered her with a light laugh. "Our troubles are still as big as
Hannah thought of those words as she headed back up toward the house. She'd heard a story once about Bill Dalton. How he'd courted his wife and won her before she realized he was an outlaw. Hannah had always wondered why she hadn't left him when she'd found out. Now she knew.
A woman can't change a man. She can't make him what he's not. But if she can see the good in him, she can nurture that. It's like working in the garden. The weeds grow right along next to the carrots. People do their best
to
encourage the carrots; if not, the weeds will just take over.
The cabin was clean, as she knew it would be. Henry Lee wasn't a man to let things go. She was anxious, however, to scrub it herself. After a trip to the creek for two buckets of water, she began to make it her house again. The work was not drudgery, but pleasant. Making a home for Henry Lee and herself was a pleasure. A tune came to her lips and she began to sing as she worked.
* * *
Tom Quick and his men arrived only shortly after Hannah. But, unlike her, they
did
not approach the house at first. Staking out their horses about a half mile down the creek, Quick sent Pathkiller to check out the house while he went over the plan one more time. He wanted no slip-ups, no mistakes.
Pathkiller returned shortly. "Watson's not there."
Tom Quick muttered an obscene expletive.
"Only the woman is there, she's cleaning the house and singing up a storm."
"The woman is there?" Quick had heard the woman had left Watson. That had pleased him. A criminal didn't deserve such a fine female. When he'd learned she had walked out on Watson, he'd considered her just the proper woman. But maybe she was not. Pathkiller had said she was drinking whiskey at the Ambrosia Ballroom, and the story told about their wedding indicated that she was no better than she should be.
Quick leaned back on his heels, studying the situation. If she was there in the house, then Watson would obviously be returning pretty soon.
"Is she cooking anything?" he asked Pathkiller.
"Yep," the Indian replied, "smells like turnips."
Quick smiled.
"Then she expects him back for dinner. If we wait any longer, it will be hard to believe that these three have been out drinking all night and just run out of liquor."
The men nodded in agreement.
"We'll proceed with the plan," Quick announced.
He turned his attention to Pathkiller and the other Indians. "If she doesn't sell you the whiskey, just plant yourself
in
the yard, take a nap or whatever and wait for her man to come home.
I'll be
watching and I'll have you covered."
His gaze moved to the deputies. "You can spend the time combing these woods looking for that still. It has to be fairly close to the house. I want every inch of ground within a half mile covered."
The deputies set out on foot and Tom Quick followed the creek to get himself into position. He found a bluff, not far from the cabin, with a couple of toe holds up high enough to have a clear view of everything that went on. The ledge he was sitting on was not much, but it gave him a good perspective. He looked above him and saw an outcropping with a larger ledge, but he knew that was too high. He'd be too easily spotted. So he settled down right where he was, content, not realizing that Watson's still was in a cave hidden not ten feet above him, behind the ledge he thought was too high.
The Indians mounted up and taking a circuitous route approached the cabin from the west, riding fast and hollering.
Hannah heard the racket and was momentarily startled. She hurried to the door to see the three Indians riding up hell for leather and yelling in an obvious state of intoxication. Slightly fearful, she was dismayed at her haven being invaded by whiskey-wild Indians. But, she remembered Harjo as a friend of both Henry Lee and herself and she stiffened her spine and walked to the back door.
Pathkiller saw her at the back door and recognized her apprehension. He immediately dismounted and spoke sharply to the others in Cherokee, warning them not to overplay their hand. He walked toward the back door but stopped before he got too near. Doffing his hat, he gave her a low bow that he hoped was a parody of politeness.
"You are Mrs. Watson, I presume," he said to Hannah. His voice was cultured, but his words were slightly slurred.
Hannah nodded.
"We've come to do some business with your husband," he said. "Is he at home?"
Hannah shook her head. "He had an errand to run this morning, he should be back anytime," she answered, hoping that it was true.
The Indian accepted this, but then after turning to his cohorts for a consultation, came back.
"Perhaps you can help us, Mrs. Watson. My friends and I have been having a little celebration, and it seems that we've run out of one of the necessary ingredients." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar gold piece. "Could you sell us a couple of jugs of Mr. Watson's fine corn liquor?"
Hannah knew that this was why they had come to the place, but it still angered her that they would think her a party to this evil whiskey business.
"No, sir, I could not," she answered sharply. "You should take yourself and your business elsewhere." She turned and went back into the house, slamming the door primly.
Pathkiller hesitated a moment, a little surprised by her reaction. Then he shrugged. There was really no understanding women. That was one certainty.
Calling through the door he told her, "We'll just wait out here in the yard until your husband returns, ma'am, don't mind us. We're not going to be a minute's trouble to you."
The Indians tied their horses to the hitching post and sat down in the shade of the red oak and waited for Henry Lee Watson.
Tom Quick, in the woods within earshot, lay his rifle across his knees and settled himself also for the long wait. Waiting was one thing a lawman had to learn to do a lot, and Tom Quick was a master at it. Watson would return and sell the Indians the liquor. By that time, the deputies would have found his still and Quick would see that he stayed locked up for twenty years. Tom Quick smiled to himself, justice would be done.
As the morning stretched longer, Hannah continued her work in the house. She no longer sang, and a good deal of the joy had gone out of her return home. She didn't want to go outside, because the Indians were still waiting there under the tree. And their presence was a constant reminder of the distance still unbridged between herself and Henry Lee.
