Soul of a Crow (25 page)

Zeb was an enormous, curly-bearded man of an age with Jack, heavyset, with face and forearms burned red-brown. A hat shaded him to the brows, beneath which his eyes gaped, like two holes burned into the side of a wall tent. By contrast, Yancy seemed almost kindly.

Zeb said, “I wanted that soldier.”

“He'll hang before the week is out,” Jack said. “And this whore best be in shape to ride when I come back for her. She's worth money to me.”

“How do I know you'll pay up?” Zeb asked Jack. “I ain't keeping watch of her for nothing.”

“It'll be a plumb month before I can ride back this way from Missouri,” Jack said, on a sigh. “You can trust me to return with your share, goddammit.”

“I can take my share in other ways,” Zeb said slowly, as though stumbling upon this realization.

I could not muffle a horrified sound as Zeb next grabbed hold of my braid with his unforgiving fist, forcing my head as he willed it, angling my face sharply towards the sky. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw, clinging to Sable with thighs and fingers, both. Beneath me, the pony responded with a whooshing of breath; my own nostrils likewise flared.

Hang on
, I fancied that Sable was conveying to me, and drew strength, regaining partial control of my breath.
Hang on
.

I cried out, arms flailing as I was yanked from the saddle in the next moment. Zeb had dismounted, summarily carting me with; he moved swiftly for someone of such girth and bulk, flattening me against the side of his horse—the saddle skirt dug into my breasts, the stirrup strap my stomach. I breathed as shallowly as I was able, tears springing to my eyes at both the pain and shock. Zeb loomed behind, massive as a bear on its hind legs, insinuating his mouth near my left ear. He asked in that voice with its too-slow cadence, “Do Reb whores take it like any other?”

“Jesus
Christ
,” Yancy's voice penetrated the buzzing that pushed outward from my temples. I heard high-pitched wheezing; I did not at first understand that this sound emanated from my lips. Yancy spoke as one addressing a misbehaving pupil, reprimanding, “Wait until she's back to your place.”

“Won't take long,” the man called Zeb muttered. Tears fell wetly over my nose as he reached from behind and gripped me between the legs, his other arm anchoring about my waist. I could not stop from heaving; bile rose and I gagged, and Zeb clamped his hand around the flesh between my legs, hurting me even worse. His voice was somehow as heavy as was he. He muttered, “You want your pretty face black and blue?”

My sobs emerged as near-soundless whimpers. Zeb plunged two fingers into my body, roughly, and with my skirt and underskirt in the way. I was pinned inescapably, unable to struggle free of his vile touch. Zeb grunted a little, bunching my skirts in preparation to lift them, and it was then I heard the unmistakable click of a hammer being cocked. The sound of a pistol made ready to fire caused tears to further blur my vision.

“There
isn't time
for this, I said. Let the whore alone for now,” Yancy ordered, in a tone that suggested he was not so much concerned over what happened to me as he was the ticking of a clock, a time frame he was obligated to obey.

“Don't rough her up too terrible,” Jack complained. “She's gotta be fit to ride.”

Zeb grunted a second time but stepped away from me. I kept utterly still against his horse, my knees as yet too weak for movement, clinging to the pommel with slippery hands. A small bit of underskirt remained inserted inside my body—and how swiftly I had been reduced to existing as nothing more than a body, a vessel into which a man felt at liberty to plunge his dirty fingers, or his swollen cock, spew his sticky seed, regarded as less than fully human at best, as a creature without a soul at worst. It was a sensation every whore, whether the first night spreading her legs or the thousandth, understood. Even if unable to exactly articulate, she understood. Men plundered our bodies, blind to us in all other ways, desiring only to satisfy a corporeal need.

“Move,” Yancy ordered caustically, and though I was not looking his way, I knew he directed this word at me. I smelled saddle leather and horseflesh. I heard Jack spit another plug of tobacco. Insubstantial as my knees were, at present, I mustered the wherewithal to follow the order, vision wavering as I released my grip and forced my feet to obey the order to move in Sable's direction. The pony whickered and my fear-blind eyes lifted from the ground, able to focus upon the animal's face, his nose stretching to meet me. I was minutely heartened, no more than three steps from collecting his reins when Zeb caught my elbow and jerked me close; a whimper hooked itself in the back of my throat, emerging as a pitiful rush of air.

“You ain't getting out of nothing, whore,” he muttered, close to my ear. “My place ain't but a half mile from here.”

He released me with a vicious shove. I stumbled over my hem and went to one knee, agony both physical and mental sharply delineating the world around me; Sable's hide loomed before my nose, each strand of hair appearing stark, and individual—the prairie grass crackled with cruel whispers, suddenly resembling slender sword blades, far too bright beneath the sinking sun. Nausea accompanied this sensation—that all objects were just slightly removed from their usual aspect, their typical color. I crawled forward and dragged myself upward by Sable's left stirrup. A blowfly droned as loudly as water over a falls, lighting on my wrist. Sable's long black tail twitched.

Yancy heeled his mount and resumed riding, angling due west now, without sparing a backward glance. Zeb reclaimed the saddle, a big Henry rifle tucked into its scabbard, and followed directly behind. Left with Jack, who was again acting, surely involuntarily, as my keeper, I found the capability to slip my foot into the stirrup, hauling myself atop the pony. I neither spoke nor glanced at Jack, who heaved a martyred sigh and rode closer to us, drawing his horse abreast on the right. As though exchanging confidences, he leaned nearer to me and muttered, “He'll burn Davis yet, you mark my words.”

I clung to the pony with trembling legs, wrapping my fingers into his thick, coarse mane.

Zeb will kill you
, I understood. I was weak with this realization; no pretending otherwise now.
He'll use you, he'll beat you, and then he'll kill you. There is nothing to stop him.

I was deathly afraid of Zeb. Even Sam Rainey, who had borne hatred for me from the instant he learned of my Tennessee roots, had not inspired such rampant fear in my soul. I knew my position would decline swiftly, into one of abject horror, the moment that Yancy and Jack left me behind. This man Zeb would use me mercilessly, with no compunctions, angry at being denied his prize, that of a Rebel soldier.

“Ride,” Jack commanded, aggravated and impatient.

I won't
, I thought.
You'll have to kill me right here
.

I had no hope of fleeing from them; rather, I recognized that it was far better to die on the prairie, killed by a bullet, than to face whatever Zeb had in store for me at his homestead. I was doomed—somehow I had known this from the moment Yancy led me from Iowa City. But I was determined that I would choose my own death.

I must force Jack to shoot me.

Let it not be too painful. Give me the strength to die quickly, oh dear God
.

Yancy and Zeb grew smaller as they rode west and into the distance; clearly they were confident in Jack's ability to haul me along. After all, I was just a whore, a harmless little whore robbed of all means she had in the world. The worst I could do, in Yancy's eyes, was be allowed to testify against Jack, and Yancy had taken care of my ability to do that; in his mind, the deal was closed, the transaction completed. Things would work out according to his plan—he was confident of this.

“Come along,” Jack ordered, and my heart thudded, sick and swift, as I gripped the reins more tightly. Jack and his horse were perhaps the length of a body away from me. Any second he would close the distance between us and take hold of Sable's halter. My blood rose as I came to my decision, annihilating all other sound; the prairie around me seemed to recede into the distance, still appearing tinted by the wrong colors in the evening light, the haze of fear creating odd gaps in my perception. But the way north, back to Iowa City, was there before me. I eased Sable in that direction, carefully.

“There's a good boy,” I whispered to the pony, clenching my knees, and then I heeled him as hard as I could.

Behind me, Jack shouted in furious alarm.

“
Gidd-up
!” I cried urgently into Sable's ear, and the pony rippled into a canter at once, his slim black legs eating up the prairie as I allowed him the leeway to fly.

Two shots were fired, one directly after the other, and I screamed, though the sound was lost in the dry hollow that had become my mouth. I bent as low as I could over Sable, waiting for the deadly penetration of bullets into my back. When I remained unstruck, I thought,
He was signaling Yancy
.

“Go!” I cried, breathless, heeling Sable ruthlessly. The pony galloped valiantly, the grasses a blur at the edges of my vision, the wind raking its fingers over me, stealing my breath; ahead, the mellow, sinking sunlight appeared to flicker, as though communicating to me the right direction to follow.

I could hear hooves in rapid pursuit. No matter how swift and sure my mount, he was small; his legs were not the length of the horses', and they would overtake us.

“
C'mon, boy
,” I whispered into his velvet ear. “Oh God, please…”

Another shot, lower-pitched and clearly that of a rifle, cracked the air behind us.

- 18 -

At least a
good three hours of night crawled past, though I had no way to know for certain; outside the windows, the activity of the town began to die out, revelers stumbling back to wherever they intended to spend the night hours. My eyes had long since grown accustomed to the darkness as I paced like an animal in a cage, endlessly, too agitated to remain still. Fear gnawed at my innards. Neither Quade nor Billings returned, leaving me to believe they would not before sunrise.

How far south could Yancy and Jack manage to travel before morning's light? The thought of Lorie being forced into such hard riding, as they would desire to put as many miles between Iowa City and themselves as possible, bit into me. She was a strong rider, I knew this, but I had no way of knowing what they had done to her, how they had forced her to accompany them—had they struck her, bound her?

Oh Jesus…oh dear God…please let no harm come to her…

Lorie, hold on, love…

I crouched in the corner of the cell, thinking of a conversation between Boyd and me, back on the trail in Missouri. The irons on my wrists clanked as I shifted with restless agony. Boyd and I had been riding together that morning, a good half-mile ahead of the wagon, upon which Lorie was sitting, cradling Malcolm's head in her lap as he slept; Angus rode Admiral at their side. Only the night before, Jack had crept into our camp while we slept and attempted to steal Lorie away; I woke that night knowing she was in danger.

You should have killed Jack then
, I thought, punishing myself.
You knew it that night
.

“Is Lorie all right?” I had demanded of Boyd that morning.

Boyd nodded. “She's right as the rain. Truly. Gus said we'll camp early tonight, let everyone get some rest.” He paused a moment and admitted quietly, “I felt some a-that old hatred when I saw that Federal bastard. I thought I was getting to a place where it was behind me. An' yet I coulda killed him simply for them goddamn blue trousers.”

I whispered, “I felt the same. Christ, how many times did we aim for that blue? Every pair of those fucking trousers could belong to the men who killed Jere, who killed Ethan. I don't expect to ever fully escape that hatred, Boyd, not ever.”

“I know, old friend, I do. Graf, Beau…all of them. For what, now?”

But there was no answer to that question, no matter how often it was asked, and in endless incarnations.

“Do you think we'll go to hell for it?” Boyd had asked, hardly a whisper, and I heard the vulnerable speculation in his words; he truly wished for my honest opinion.

“I think…” I paused. I'd considered the notion so very many times, usually in a half-drunken stupor. There were months after arriving home to Suttonville during which I barely dared to sleep, for fear of nightmares. When the crow would appear, waiting for me, if my eyes sank shut. At last I whispered, “I don't believe we're damned, Boyd. I used to think so, but in my heart I believe…somehow it will be all right.”

Boyd sighed; whether he was uncertain or unwilling to respond, I did not know until he whispered, “If we're damned for what we was ordered to do, for saving our own skins, then hell would be a right crowded place.”

I held that morning, our words, in my mind here in the dark jailhouse in Iowa City. I spoke the truth when I'd said, however tentatively, that I did not believe we were bound for hell, but I thought otherwise now. Perhaps I had always known. Of course I was damned—I killed dozens of men in my time as a soldier. No matter that it was a necessity of battle, of conflict on such a scale. They were dead, taken from this world long before the span of a usual life. They'd all been the sons of someone, the brothers and husbands, the fathers…fighting as they were ordered, just as I had been. Dispatched from the face of the Earth by my pistol, my saber, at times even my hands. And now, years after my service as a soldier, I'd killed more men.

And I understood,
I would kill all of them again, with no regrets, to save you, Lorie. I accept my punishment. There is no worse hell than being kept from you, not knowing if you are safe. Please speak to me. Please, give me a word
.

But there remained only silence.

I gritted my teeth—tears streaked my face, slipping along the grime and dirt upon my skin, burning the back of my nose. I scraped them away, heavy with despair. Though I had no reason to believe, no evidence to assume that he would hear me, I thought,
Boyd. I need you to find Lorie. I need you, my oldest friend. Please, hear me
.

Another hour slipped past, as I floated in a numb fog. I tried to establish a picture of Lorie in my mind, where she might be this night, and how far south from me. She had been wearing her blue broadcloth skirt, one of her lightweight blouses this afternoon—she hadn't her shawl, which was tucked carefully into our trunk, nor so much as a blanket with which to keep warm. I knew, I truly did, that my wife had survived numerous horrors to which I was not yet privy. I understood her desire to reveal information to me as she felt I could handle it; or, more sobering, as
she
was able to bear the revelation of such dark memories. I did what I was able, held and comforted her, telling her even without words that she could trust me with any memories. If truth be known, there were scores of brutal memories which I would soon discard as reveal, but I wished to keep no secrets from my wife.

I thought for a time about how there is more than one sort of prison—how the mind becomes a torture chamber of its own and the one, in the end, most difficult to escape. Lorie was strong, I knew this well; she had endured. That she was able to laugh, and find joy—to think that I brought her these things—was gift enough for one man's lifetime. But none of these truths worked to ease the throb of guilty pain, the knowledge that I'd been unable to prevent someone from causing her harm. And now she was without me, depending upon her own resources to survive. At last, exhausted, I lay flat on the cold dirt floor, against the hard-packed earth, and covered my face. Bead-bright eyes appeared in the darkness before me, eyes that never blinked, but only waited. The crow had been waiting for me for so long now.

Oh Jesus—

Stop.

When a small sound alerted my ears, I thought I must be hearing things. But then another metallic clink issued nearby and I sprang instinctively into a crouch, calculating any potential defenses; not that many options were at hand.

The irons. You have the irons.

The sound arranged itself into sense and I realized a key was turning the lock of the outer door, ever so slowly. I tensed, curling the dangling chain immediately into a weapon. The moon had descended past the single window, allowing no light to illuminate the figure that slipped into the jailhouse.

What in the hell?

My mind streaked through possibilities. Quade, returning? Perhaps he had no other place to spend the night hours. Billings, checking in on the prisoner? But Billings would not skulk into his own space. I retreated to the far edge of the cell, back to the wall, squinting into the darkness.

When a woman hissed, “Do not make a sound!” I jerked in surprise. She eased the door closed behind her, moving quickly to the cell. I discerned the dim shape of her body, the pale blur of a face. The woman whispered, “Come along, be quick about it! Not a sound!”

It was Rebecca Krage, fumbling with a set of keys, which clanked loudly as she attempted to find the correct one. She cursed under her breath, and I met her at the barred door, wordless with bewilderment. The lock made a grating sound and the door swung inward.

“Come!” she insisted, and there was no time for questions. I followed her to the entrance, where she hesitated and peered cautiously into the night. Determining that we could make our escape without witness, she said quietly, “Follow me.”

She was wrapped in a shawl and bare-headed, hardly more than a vague outline before me as I obeyed her order without question. She led us around the jailhouse and then behind the edge of the building, where welcome relief descended over me.

“Old friend, there ain't time,” Boyd said low, sensing my deep desire to understand what was happening. He sat astride Fortune in the small scrap of yard beyond, Whistler saddled and ready at their side. The backsides of buildings adjacent to the jailhouse loomed large; a hundred unseen eyes seemed to peer down at us.

“The irons,” Rebecca muttered, coming near and indicating my wrists with a tilt of her chin. She worked as quickly as possible, her hands small white moths. After several futile attempts, she whispered miserably, “I haven't the key. I believed that Clint's would work, but they shan't. I am terribly sorry, Mr. Davis.”

“I'll shoot apart that chain once we's free of town,” Boyd whispered. “Don't fret, ma'am, you's give us more'n we could repay already.”

“You have,” I agreed, finding my voice. Rebecca had helped us beyond all measure, beyond comprehension, and there was no rationale for these actions. I caught her cold hands briefly in mine and squeezed, saying wholeheartedly, “I could never thank you enough.”

She nodded, and her gaze moved immediately upwards, seeking Boyd. He tipped his hat and said softly, “You are an angel, ma'am.”

I climbed atop Whistler, her warm back so familiar beneath me, adjusting my hips in the saddle and gathering the reins; there was no helping the cumbersome irons shackling my wrists, but I had learned to ride almost before I could walk, and they would not hinder me.

“I shall watch over young Malcolm. Be safe, the both of you,” Rebecca whispered. She implored, “Please, Mr. Carter.”

“You have my word,” Boyd promised.

* * *

We did not let the horses canter until we cleared the bridge over the Iowa, and therefore the town limits. For hours we rode without speaking, quiet until dawn crested the eastern horizon; it was strange to feel the morning beams touching us from the left when we'd grown accustomed to riding north—the sun was supposed to rise on our right. The day appeared fair and fine, blue without a shred of a cloud. I threw all my senses forward, straining for a hint of Lorie, ahead of me on this trail. Southbound, I was certain, en route to St. Louis with Yancy and Jack.

“They's been riding since yesterday afternoon, we gotta figure,” Boyd said when we walked the horses for a spell; everything within me rebelled against slowing our pace, but I loved Whistler and knew she needed the respite in order to keep moving. Boyd and I rode alongside one another, as we had countless times since our youth, he to the right, as usual. Our horses touched noses and nickered to one another; Fortune was sired by the same stud as Whistler, back in Cumberland County in our old lives. The sire had been of Piney Chapman's finest stock, a long-limbed stallion that passed on his build to both animals, though only Fortune retained his coloring; Whistler resembled her mother, Viola, a lovely quarter horse with a paint coat.

I nodded agreement of Boyd's words. We'd ridden hard and had not yet been allowed a chance to talk, Iowa City far behind. I asked only after Malcolm and Boyd explained that he had all but hog-tied the boy so he would stay put at Rebecca's until we returned for him. Once upon the trail, we'd dismounted long enough for me to stretch the length of chain taut against the ground, bracing well away, while Boyd took careful aim and fired. It took two tries, and my wrists were still cuffed as though with metal bracelets, but at least the irons were no longer linked together and inhibiting my movements.

Now, hours later as the sun crept into existence, I asked, “Why would she help us?”

“Mrs. Krage's a courageous woman,” Boyd said in response. “I wouldn't have figured a Yankee gal would be so kind-hearted to a couple of former soldiers, I tell you true. I know she took a shine to Lorie, an' is awful worried for her. After the marshal took you last night she hurried me an' the boy to the doc's, said she could fetch her brother's keys once the town settled into quiet. I ain't got a reason under the sun to trust the woman, an' yet I do. Hell, the boy's with her, and she said she would take care of him. I asked her what of herself, would she be in a fix, an' she said not to worry about her. Malcolm was in a black temper to be left behind.” And Boyd chuckled a little.

“We can never repay her enough,” I said, my eyes fixed on the vast prairie, stretching endlessly, all the way back to Missouri. Urgency overtook me, gliding along my body and into Whistler, who snorted in response, her walk becoming a trot.

“What of when we overtake 'em?” Boyd asked, as Fortune kept pace.

Grimly I said, “I aim to shoot them dead. This time I won't miss. I curse my goddamn self for not checking that night, Boyd. If I'd have made sure, none of this would be happening. I don't aim to make the same mistake again.”

“You can't hardly blame yourself,” Boyd said. “Dammit, Sawyer. You done what you could, you saved your woman that night. We'll find her, I swear to you, but you can't shoot them fellas dead.”

But I was resolute.

Boyd reached and grabbed the rein nearest him, jerking it sharply towards himself, stalling us. He said, “Beg pardon, Whistler-girl, but I gotta talk sense into him.” He saw the warning in my eyes, but Boyd had known me longer than anyone left alive, and he was not intimidated by me. He released his grip but said in no uncertain terms, “You's already in a fix the likes of which we ain't been in since the War. Dammit, they'd hang you soon as look at you, back in town. Now, I'd bet good money ain't a soul would care about you shooting Jack stone-dead, but Yancy is federal marshal, an' there'd be nobody to save you if you kill him. I figure you's got a chance right now. We can explain what happened in Missouri, an' Lorie can tell her side, too. We's got a chance. But if you kill a marshal this day, that chance is gone like ice in the summer sun.”