Soul of a Crow (16 page)

“Mine sure ain't near big as a horse's,” Malcolm said seriously, the only one of us not swept away in mirth, provoking further hilarity.

“No one's is, kid,” Sawyer managed to say, though I gave him a saucy look at those words.

“What woman would
want
a man with a wink the size of a horse's, anyway?” Malcolm demanded, a slightly horrified angle to his eyebrows; he appeared further distressed at our increased laughter.

“Oh Jesus,” Boyd finally muttered, wiping his eyes with the knuckles of both thumbs. “So, being the responsible fella I am, I tried to explain to the boy here about –”

“Womenfolk an' what they may expect of me, someday,” Malcolm finished dutifully, his eyes on the flames. It seemed that Boyd's lesson had been taken to heart.

Sawyer said to Boyd, “I can only just imagine what you had to say on the matter.”

“It sounds right
embarrassing
, that's what,” Malcolm said, looking to me with his dark eyes wide and sincere. I thought of the talk we had shared while he brushed my hair, and with effort I stifled my laughter, though Boyd and Sawyer were almost on their sides at his words. Malcolm disregarded them and said innocently, “I don't understand how it all begins, Lorie, Boyd weren't clear on that. Do I tell a woman it's time an' then it's
time?
She'll let me…
do
that to her?”

“I tried…I tried…to draw a picture…in the dirt…” Boyd wheezed, attempting to speak amidst his laughter. “I never…knew a picture in the dirt…could be so…
lewd
…”

Sawyer could hardly breathe.

“Hush, you two,” I scolded. I said to Malcolm, “When you meet the right woman, as we spoke of, it won't be embarrassing. It will be beautiful. You'll see. It will all make sense.”

The boy's dark eyebrows knitted together, but he nodded. I slapped at Sawyer's shoulder; he was choking on laughter, bent forward, same as Boyd. I added, “Don't pay attention to these two. You ask me, Malcolm.”

And that was enough for the boy, for tonight. He smiled and said agreeably, “Aw right.” His trust for me was apparent in his tone, and my heart hitched.

“You are in
trouble
,” I informed Sawyer, poking him to emphasize my words.

“Ha, that's right, Lorie-girl, you tell him. I feel strongly that a proper wife oughta be a good nag,” Boyd teased, at last able to draw a decent breath, though he looked at Malcolm and his shoulders shook once more. He finally concluded, “Aw, boy, you's a Carter. Ladies ain't ever been able to resist us. You'll be right as
rain
.”

“Lorie-honey, don't be mad,” Sawyer said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Malcolm knows we understand.”

Malcolm's eyes twinkled. He moved closer to my side and rested his head endearingly upon me. He said, “No, I don't. They was being mean to me.”

“Oh, so that's the way of it,” Sawyer teased. He rose slowly and backed away from the fire, then curled forward menacingly and beckoned to Malcolm. “C'mon, kid, let's wrestle.”

Malcolm whooped and bounded for Sawyer, dropping into a crouch and feinting with his fists. They circled while Boyd squinted one eye and lit a smoke, saying, “Money's on the boy, old friend. You
do
appear right wore out after last night an' all day today.”

At that Sawyer was laughing again and Malcolm, seeing his advantage, dove for him. Sawyer sidestepped neatly.

“Get him, Malcolm!” I encouraged, laughing.

Malcolm leaped to grab one of Sawyer's forearms, clinging for all he was worth. Sawyer flipped the boy over his shoulder and held him upside-down, while Malcolm struggled and yelped, “Ain't fair! Let me down!”

Sawyer spun him instead, while Malcolm shrieked with laughter.

“All right, that's enough, I can't see straight,” my husband yielded at last. He let Malcolm to the ground where they both collapsed and lay flat, staring up at the stars.

“Oh, the world is a-spinning an' spinning,” Malcolm groaned.

“I remember now why I don't do this,” Sawyer said, closing his eyes before deciding, “No, that's worse.”

“Lorie, more venison?” Boyd asked, and I nodded eagerly. “We'll just let them two sleep out here under the sky.”

I went to stand between them, still eating, poking my bare toes against Sawyer's ribs. He looked up at me and grinned, tucking both wrists beneath his head. I told him, “I used to spin like that.”

He invited, “Come here, sweetheart. The stars are shining just for you.”

I sat and arranged my skirt, then lay down and snuggled close to him upon the ground; my fingers were greasy with the venison I held, and Sawyer appropriated it for a bite. Malcolm moved at once to my far side and nestled against me.

“Lorie, you was my girl first,” the boy murmured.

Boyd sighed as though much put-upon and at last joined us, blowing a trail of most remarkable smoke rings up at the glittering sky; he had tried a few nights back to teach Malcolm the delicate technique, at the boy's incessant begging, all without success; Malcolm had gone into an instant coughing fit after the first drag. The air tonight was completely static, clear as creek water in the springtime. Boyd removed his tobacco roll and whispered, in keeping with the quiet of the empty prairie, “By God, I'm excited to start over.”

“Me, too,” Malcolm whispered, and my heart clenched as he said softly, “Even if we ain't got Gus with us no more. I surely miss him.”

Sawyer held me closer at once. He said softly, “I miss the stories he'd tell. He knew so many. He knew what we'd been like as boys.”

“There ain't many can claim that,” Boyd agreed.

“Lookee there!” Malcolm cried, pointing.

We looked in time to see the white streak of light across the heavens, sudden as a lightning flash and gone almost as instantly.

Boyd said, low, “Mama used to say that stars were souls, an' when you saw a shooting star it meant a new soul was bound for the earth, for another go-round at life. I suppose Reverend Wheeler woulda disagreed, but Mama always claimed that.”

“I recall her saying so,” Sawyer said. “I remember looking up at them during the War and thinking that there were so many souls becoming stars, all around us. It seemed unending and my thoughts would run so dark.”

“Mine as well, old friend,” Boyd said. “I thought that there surely couldn't be enough stars to go around back in them bleak days.”

“Which ones belong to our family's souls?” Malcolm whispered. In his voice was a sense of awe, magic inspired by the solitude of the night and the majesty of the heavens sprawling above our four bodies. He snuggled closer to me.

“I think,” Boyd began, pausing to consider. He continued in all seriousness, “I think perhaps that group right yonder.” He indicated with the burning tip of his smoke. “That bunch of stars in the northwest there, all crowded together. That reminds me of our family at a picnic, everyone in someone's business. Mama would be that bright one, near the front, an' look, Sawyer, them two close together, like twins. That's Eth an' Jere, for certain.”

“I see 'em,” Malcolm said reverently. “Just so. They's all together, ain't they? You s'pose they wonder what's a-going on down here?”

Boyd said, with calm certainty, “'Course they's together. Gus is with them now, too, look yonder,” and tears filled my eyes for the second time. I pressed my face to Sawyer as Boyd whispered, “When the night is so clear an' fine, like it is right now, I'd wager they gather an' maybe look back to the Earth for a spell.”

“I hope Mama an' Daddy's proud of me,” Malcolm said softly.

Sawyer leaned carefully over me and patted Malcolm. He said, “No doubt of that, kid.”

“Daddy's surely laughing about what I tried to teach you today,” Boyd said. He concluded, with sweet sincerity, “Just wait, boy, we'll find us fine, pretty wives in Minnesota. We'll have stars shooting to Earth every year, more young'uns than you could shake a stick at.”

Sawyer moved his hand from Malcolm to gently cup my belly. He softly kissed my temple and whispered, “For us, as well,” and my tears overspilled, one part pain, all other parts love.

- 11 -

Hold up there.”

Boyd's voice, laced with concern, roused me from sleep. I blinked, requiring a moment to regain my bearings; I did not usually doze in the back of the wagon. A half dozen feet above my gaze was the wagon's ribcage, the slender, curving wooden arches over which the canvas cover stretched, peacefully backlit with late-day sunshine, and there was nothing to suggest overt trouble, but I rolled to one elbow, attempting to determine what had caused Boyd to issue such an abrupt order.

On the wagon seat and only a few feet from where I lay, Sawyer drew back on the reins, halting the team, and called, “What is it?”

“Juney's limping,” Malcolm explained, flanking the wagon to the right, where Juniper was tethered and had been following alongside. I heard Boyd and Malcolm dismount; seconds later, Sawyer jumped nimbly to the ground.

I had woken at dawn, a few mornings past, with the return of my monthly cycle, cramped and bleeding, and subsequently rooted out the cloth bindings I used specifically for such purposes, wearing them now beneath my shift. As I was tired and uncomfortable, Sawyer fashioned a makeshift pallet, thick with quilts, and I had indulged in stealing afternoon naps, allowing myself the luxury; despite the intermittent ruts and bumps of the trail, I was quite content in the back of the wagon, studying the sunlit patterns on the translucent, if dirt-smudged, ivory canvas, lulled by the rise and fall of the men's voices as they chatted.

“What's the matter with him, blacksmith?” Boyd asked Sawyer as I climbed down to join them. Malcolm, who had been riding Whistler, held her lead line in a loop around his elbow and cupped Juniper's big square jaws, patting him, murmuring endearments.

Sawyer ran his hand down Juniper's right front foreleg, which the animal was favoring, lifting the hoof and balancing it against his thighs. He examined it minutely and said, “It isn't any wonder he was limping. There's swelling in the fetlock and pastern, both, and his leg is warmer than the day should warrant.”

“An abscess,” I understood, and Sawyer nodded immediate agreement. He murmured, “You've a good eye.”

“Poor fella,” Malcolm said, kissing the animal's nose; Juniper grunted and swished his tail, clearly communicating his displeasure. Malcolm murmured, “You's hurting, huh, fella?”

“I am outright ashamed of myself for not noticing this sooner,” Sawyer said, gently letting the hoof back to earth, rising to his full height and patting Juniper's neck. Addressing the animal, he said, “Sorry, boy. We'll take care of it, don't you worry.”

“Iowa City ain't more'n a few miles, at best,” Boyd mused, pursing his lips and gazing speculatively northward. We had not planned to spend any length of time there, as we had resupplied well in Keokuk, and would come across St. Paul within the month; our intent was to pass through Iowa City this evening and cover another mile or so north before making camp for the night.

Sawyer considered this; at last he said decisively, “We'll have to stop for tonight, and make camp near that stand of willows, yonder.” He nodded in the direction of the river, and then said, “We'll drain and poultice the hoof, and Juniper should be well enough to push on in the morning.”

“You want me to fetch the nippers?” Malcolm asked.

Sawyer nodded, reaching to draw me momentarily to his side. He said, “Well, you did wish to learn proper shoeing technique.”

Within minutes we reassembled closer to the river; Boyd and Malcolm worked together to set up camp while Sawyer gathered the necessary implements and led Juniper to the leeward side of the wagon, where shade fell in a long, slanted rectangle.

“Retie him, will you, love?” Sawyer asked, passing me the lead line, while he knelt and carefully unrolled a strip of thick flannel, in which his shoeing tools were wrapped for their passage in a trunk. He laid out the iron nippers, the crease-nail puller, a hoof pick, a nail rasp, and a hoof knife.

Juniper grunted and shifted, lifting his front leg; the hoof dangled pitifully, indicating the level of pain, and I kissed his long nose, assuring him, “Sawyer will take care of you,” and the man in question looked up at me and grinned at the confidence in my tone, nudging an itch on his jaw with one shoulder.

He said, “I haven't treated an abscess since the War, but I will do my best. Come here by me to watch, but stand well clear of those back hooves.”

I was touched at his concern, though I well knew to stand clear, and poked the side of his leg with my foot. I said, “I learned that lesson long ago, thank you kindly.”

Sawyer's grin broadened as he stood, the rasping tool in his grip, and firmly patted Juniper's flank, letting the animal know he was approaching. He said, “Steady, boy, you'll be feeling a mite better, directly.”

I watched as Sawyer bent and skillfully lifted Juniper's foreleg, bringing the hoof between his knees so that he could work unencumbered. He examined the shoe, brushing his thumb over the dirt, a frown creating a small crease of concentration between his brows. He said, “It does not appear too deep, thankfully. I'll have a better view once the shoe is off,” and with those words, applied the rasp neatly to each clinch in turn, using the fine side of the tool to smooth the nail covers until they were even with the hoof wall, explaining each action for my benefit, beginning with the proper stance.

“Stand with your toes inward, like this, for stability, and never let your shoulders tilt below your hips. I would use the hammer in most other circumstances, but it would be too painful for his hoof, just now,” Sawyer said, his right arm shifting rhythmically with the rasping motion. He acknowledged, “This method takes a fair amount longer, but won't hurt him. One thing to remember is that you must never let your thumb or finger beneath a partially-pulled shoe. If the animal jerks away, it could get caught.” He looked my way and said, “I've had many a jammed finger.”

“Did your grandfather teach you these things?” I asked, picturing this scene; Sawyer had described the elder Sawyer Davis so often, and so well, that I fancied I could very nearly discern the man's spirit, leaning over his forearms on Juniper's opposite side, observing the process he had passed on to his namesake many a long year ago.

“He did,” Sawyer said, finished with the rasping; thin rivulets of sweat trickled down his temples and over his jaws. In the relative quiet, he remembered, “I wasn't but six or seven the first time he showed me the process. Granddaddy put his hands around mine to guide the motions. He was patient as a church mouse. I aim to possess one-tenth his patience.” He smiled as he said, “Hand me those nail pullers, please, darlin'.”

I did, and he proceeded to explain, “I'll pull out each individually, rather than use the nippers to rock free the shoe. You clamp the nail's head, right here in the crease like this, and free it by pushing the handle away from your body.” He demonstrated. “See here? Just like this. Next time I'll let you practice, Lorie-love. Once all the nails are free, the shoe should come off with little resistance.”

“It
appears
an easy process,” I said, covertly admiring the ease with which he completed each step, so strong and nimble. His fingers were long, sure in their movements and so very capable, his forearms bared by rolled-back shirtsleeves, and taut with muscle. I did not wish to distract his industrious work, but an incessant, desirous heat throbbed in my belly, just watching him.

The shoe slipped free, and Sawyer tossed it to the ground, where it landed with a muted thud. He inspected Juniper's hoof; the horse whooshed a loud breath and shied away.

“Steady,” I soothed, moving to pat Juniper's neck on either side of his warm, dark-brown hide. “There's a good boy.”

“How's Juney?” Malcolm called, running up the river bank, grasping his dripping canteen. He slowed his pace as he neared, as so not to startle Juniper, and passed the canteen to me; I stole a long sip.

“Well, I can see the trouble,” Sawyer said, applying the hoof pick now, freeing remaining debris from Juniper's hoof. “See the swelling, just here, in the hoof as well as his foreleg? There's a small crack leading to it, but it does not appear too deep, as I thought. We'll drain the pus, see if we can't clean out that infection. Honey, hand me the hoof knife.”

“You meanin' me, or Lorie?” Malcolm giggled.

Sawyer asked the boy, “Since when do I call you ‘honey?'”

“Do you suppose a rock or a stick was wedged in there?” I asked, collecting the knife from the row of tools on the flannel.

Sawyer let the hoof back to ground, stood and then swiped at the moisture on his face, lifting his hat and resettling it before saying, “Most likely. We have crossed so many creeks, which is not ideal for the integrity of a hoof, and Juniper is the eldest of our horses. Poor fellow probably never figured he'd be asked to walk thousands of miles to Minnesota in his middle age.”

“Juney-
per
,” Malcolm singsonged, patting the horse's face. “Sawyer'll make you feel lots better.”

“I'd like you two to hold his head steady, well away from his hooves –” Sawyer caught my eye and cut himself short, allowing, “I know you realize. I apologize. I must open a small wound to allow for drainage, and he won't be any too happy with me.”

Sawyer collected the knife, assuming the same stance, and with a deft, precise motion, sliced a slit on the frog of the hoof, where the swelling was centered. Juniper shied and snorted, stamping his back hooves one after the other, but between us, Malcolm and I held him steady.

“There's good seepage, already,” Sawyer said, sounding victorious as he held the hoof and pressed firmly with both thumbs, calmly aiding the flow of brownish, blood-tinged foam from the wound. “He'll be ready for travel by midmorning, I do believe. We'll poultice him with some Epsom salt, tonight.”

“I could use me a soak in the stuff, as well,” Boyd said, joining us. He was sweating and disheveled; the evening air was hotly immobile, and I allowed that we could all use a bath.

“We'll fashion a poultice, and then perhaps a swim for a spell?” I suggested.

* * *

The Iowa was calm under the setting sun. I floated on my back near the center of the river, no more than a stone's throw across at its widest, submerging my ears in the ongoing rush of water. The river was pleasantly cool on my sweating skin, though I wore a shift for the sake of modesty; Sawyer and Boyd were clad in the lower halves of their union suits, while Malcolm was bare as a newborn, giggling when his pale little buttocks broke the water's surface as he played in the shallows.

“Lorie-girl, I gotta make a request of you,” Boyd said, his dark hair slicked back from his sunburned forehead; he hunkered to his chin in flowing water, a dozen or so feet away. He grinned and explained, “When I dare to run to shore, you ain't to watch.”

I laughed, and Sawyer kicked a splash in Boyd's direction.

“I will turn my eyes,” I promised Boyd.

“Boy, if a trout nips at you,
you know where
, it is duly noted just now that I offered a warning,” Boyd called over to his brother, inspiring more laughter, before Boyd ducked under, blowing energetic bubbles to the surface.

The sky was spectacular and I breathed a sigh of speechless pleasure at the sight of the entire western heaven ablaze with sunset. Slender purple clouds rippled in opaque waves, catching the day's last light and throwing it back in scattered beams of fiery gold. The horses, grazing yards away, were starkly silhouetted against the yellow sky in ink-black, the tall prairie grass appearing as a solid mass of mauve in the tranquil evening air.

“That sky is a beautiful sight,” Sawyer said, floating upon his back near me, our fingers lightly intertwined. “In the holler, the sun set so early. It's such a different experience out here, where you can see everything for miles.”

I nodded agreement; the press of water in my ears muffled my voice as I said, “Even the air seems distinctive in this place, wilder somehow.”

“Thank you for helping with Juniper,” Sawyer said. “You did well, and have a steady hand,
mo mhuirnín milis
.”

“I told you I mean to learn,” I said. “You are quite welcome.” And then I could not resist requesting, “Say something,” and he grinned, knowing exactly what I meant. I loved hearing him speak in his mother's native language, that of Ireland, which he had learned at her knee.

Sawyer clutched my fingers more tightly, in response, and said softly, “
Is é an spéir anocht álainn, ach rud ar bith ar domhan, nó neamh thuas d'fhéadfadh, a bheith álainn sin, nó daor dom, mar atá tú.
”

Though he had been teaching me basic words and phrases, this sentence was spoken too fluidly for my untutored ears to distinguish any sense, and I demanded, “What did you say?”

He murmured, “I will
show
you, I promise.”

“Tell me, Sawyer James,” I insisted. I dearly loved speaking both his given names; it seemed an intimacy particular to a wife addressing her husband. “Tell me
at once
.”

He moved with his swift, lithe grace, catching me into his arms beneath the water; my legs slipped wetly about his waist as he crouched on the rocky bottom, our faces no more than a few inches apart, a sweet satisfaction upon Sawyer's as he grinned at me. His skin was warm against the chill of mine, his arms enfolding my waist as the river flowed gently around us, creating small eddies in its wake. He had not been shaving as readily in the mornings, simply because I refused to let him leave my embrace to do so; I would rather he remain stubbled with beard, allowing us extra time so we could make love when we woke.

He repeated, in a whisper, “I promise,” and I clutched his jaws and kissed him heatedly, briefly forgetting that we were not exactly alone.