Soul of a Crow (26 page)

As much as my fingers twitched with the heat of bloodlust, I knew Boyd's words were accurate. I knew he was right. I rode for a spell without responding, stubbornly, the both of us cantering our mounts again, the wind from our passage rushing over our ears as daylight struck the left sides of our faces. I sensed his aggravation with me even as I mulled over his words; maybe there was a shred of hope—perhaps I would not be summarily executed upon my return to Iowa City, where Quade and Billings waited, no doubt in a stupor of rage; Quade might even pursue us. If I killed Yancy, I had to acknowledge that there would be no chance of my survival.

At last I said, “Then we must form a plan.”

- 19 -

The shot, delivered
most certainly from the big Henry rifle, took Sable in his right flank; I felt the tremendous impact jar him. He shrieked in pain, sides heaving; his hoofbeats faltered precipitously. I moaned in agony—it had not occurred to me, in my foolish, pitiful attempt to goad Jack into killing me, that Sable may be an unwary victim.

He's a larger target
, my floundering mind understood, even in the midst of panic.
Of course you would stop a fleeing rider by shooting his horse from beneath him
.

I could conceive of nothing more than continuing to run away from my pursuers—blindly I touched my heels to Sable's belly, praying beyond hope that the poor pony would continue his forward flight. But he had flagged considerably, losing ground.

“Stop!” I heard Jack bellow from behind me.

Sable veered sharply left, fleeing no more than a few dozen paces before skittering to a walk, then a complete halt, his front legs giving out as though weighted. I slid from his back, stumbling amid the prairie grass and falling to my knees at his face, tears blurring my vision. I held the pony's nose and cried, “
I'm so sorry, boy
…”

Sable's back legs buckled and he sank almost gracefully to the ground; just beyond him I could see Jack, closing fast. The others were not far behind. I sobbed, despising what my actions had caused; Sable snorted against my skirts. The legs on the left side of his body twitched. He had long eyelashes; his dark eyes held mine, as though he understood that he was dying. Blood, shiny against his dark coat, gushed in perfectly-timed spurts from the deep hole in his side, echoing his failing heartbeat. I wrapped myself around his narrow head as though to protect him, sobbing harshly. The evening light was a deep-orange in color, striking me in the face and hazing my sight. The endless prairie grass shifted, whispering and cackling, all around me; I could hear it even above my sobs, and the sounds of men shouting.

Jack dismounted and grabbed me around the waist, hauling me away from the dying pony. I fought him with every bit of my strength, beyond sense, thrashing against his wiry arms, bucking and kicking; my heels made stout contact with his legs, doing little more than angering him. I twisted, and clawed his face, tearing deep grooves into his cheeks. He yelped, flinging me away from him and planting a boot against my ribs, shoving me to the ground. From this vantage point stalks of prickly grass touched my nose, and beyond that, I observed as Yancy galloped near and drew his pistol, aiming between Sable's ears. He fired and the pony fell utterly still.

Jack slammed me flat to my back, my gaze directed suddenly towards the sweeping expanse of evening sky, a sight at once impeded as he bent over me, dark fury blooming upon his face. I writhed beneath him, tears seeping over my temples, unable to completely struggle free. Blood dripped from the wounds I had opened upon Jack's face and onto my nose.

“You ain't worth this,” he growled, grasping my neck with one hand, digging a hard thumb into the soft hollow between my collarbones. I realized he was fumbling for his knife and bucked with renewed vigor, sounds that would have been screams emerging as pitiful gulps of air. Jack, not appreciably much bigger than me, jerked sideways and grunted, abandoning the knife and clenching me now with both hands. He slammed my skull to the ground, eyes gleaming. He breathed harshly, muttering, “Sam was…my friend…”

Later, I could not remember the exact sequence of events. Jack straddled my waist. With the bottom edge of my panicked vision, I realized his pistol was tucked into the cross-holster only inches from my left hand. I closed my fingers around the smooth wooden grip as easily as I would have a door knob; the piece slid free as if greased. My thumb slipped on the hammer, the slim protrusion of steel instantly slick with my terrified sweat; I felt rather than heard it click into place. Jack released his grip and reared backwards, intending to grab his pistol, but it was too late for him. I saw Jack's face as I squeezed the trigger, aiming just above the middle of his stomach; his eyes widened with surprise.

Jack made a horrible sound, like someone gargling salt water, and fell heavily over my legs, but I determinedly retained my grip on the .44, the singing aftershock of the bullet's report muffling everything but my heartbeat. I struggled frantically and cocked the hammer a second time; my hands were shaking so badly that the shot I fired at Zeb only succeeded in startling him, rather than punching a hole into his massive chest, as I had intended. He grunted in stun, otherwise undeterred by the near-graze of the bullet, plucking the pistol from my grip as effortlessly as one picking a berry from a bush and tucking it into his trousers. I kicked free of Jack's limp form, scrambling to all fours, and crawled madly through the grass, but Zeb caught my braid in his fist, twirling me around to face him.

Yancy was laughing, the kind of mirth born of shock, of someone stunned into a sort of hysteria. He was still mounted and his hat had fallen to the ground; his gelding and Zeb's were restless, high-stepping at the scent of so much blood, and Yancy sawed the reins to keep his animal in line. My ears rang and I could not determine any sense from the words Yancy was speaking to me; his jaws flapped meaninglessly. He realized I could not hear him and leaned forward to yell, “By God, you are a resourceful little whore! I'll be
goddamned!
”

I was positioned between two bodies, those of Sable and Jack—both of them were dead because of me. I killed Jack. I shot him with his own pistol. I squinted at his motionless form, trying to make sense of what I had done. He sprawled face-down, one arm curled beneath him, the other flung to the side. He still wore his hat, though it was tipped askew. A red hole the size of a fist had been opened between his shoulder blades. I choked on the surge of bile, and Zeb jumped back, cursing as vomit struck the tips of his boots. I rolled to one arm and heaved repeatedly, sick beyond measure. I fumbled at my skirt, wet with Jack's blood. Blood seemed to be everywhere.

“The Reb whore shot at me,” Zeb said, in his slow voice. My hearing was slowly being restored, the ringing diminishing. He said, disbelievingly, “She kilt Jack dead.”

Yancy dismounted and swept his hat from the ground, replacing it with an extra flourish, as would an Eastern dandy. Or a Southern gentlemen from days long gone. He came near, looming large before my eyes, and seemed to be actually seeing me for the first time. Studying my face, he said, “You
did
stab out Rainey's eye back in Missouri, didn't you? I didn't believe it until just now. We've sorely underestimated you.”

I wiped my chin with my knuckles; my stomach heaved again and I bit down on the urge to continue vomiting, keeping one fist against my lips.

“Goddamn, this is a turn of events,” Yancy said, still chuckling. “You've robbed me of my witness against Davis, but you've given me a gift in return. No reason to hide you away at Zeb's now. We'll deliver you back to Iowa City and I'll personally bring you before the circuit judge. They hang murdering women just as quickly in Iowa as in Missouri. Jesus, here I thought I'd be attending Davis's hanging in a few days, and instead I'll be at his side while his little whore wife has her neck stretched. I said it before, life is a
goddamn
funny thing.”

No
, I tried to say, but no sound emerged.

“She kilt Jack,” Zeb said again.

“As we're well aware,” Yancy responded, acerbically. Directing his words at Zeb, he said, “You're not hurt. Get Jack up and over the back of your horse. Christ, he's a goddamn mess. Point-blank. The bastard never took a shot in the entirety of the War, and now look at him. Dammit, we'll have to fetch his mount.” The horse had bolted at the gunfire.

“We oughta kill this murdering whore,” Zeb said, remaining still despite Yancy's orders, looking down at me. He appeared as large as a barn in the dying light of day. I was so numb I felt not so much as a stir at his words. He clarified, “We oughtn't to let her live after this, Yancy.”

“No, she's in a heap of trouble. Killing her now would be a kindness. You and I will testify that we saw her shoot Jack Barrow.”

Trouble
. It was a word Mama would never have chosen from the thesaurus, as it was so simple, would not present enough of a challenge to her well-educated daughter. But I responded anyway, dutifully.

Trouble. Synonyms include: danger, misfortune, woe, dilemma, tribulation
.

Zeb raised his pistol before I could think, let alone react. As one deaf and dumb, utterly mindless, I simply stared at its small, gunmetal-gray nose; the rush of movement to my left only made sense afterwards—Zeb fired, but not before Yancy rode near and kicked his shooting arm—the bullet that would have caught me squarely in the breastbone instead only tore a chunk from the muscle of my right arm.

The shot took me backwards; I do not recall making a sound. I thought,
This is how Sable felt, just now, when he was struck.

Blood is hot, especially so when flowing from one's own body. With cautious fingers I explored the gash opened in my skin, hardly daring to look at it, picturing the gushing hole in my poor pony's hide. My entire right arm was momentarily rendered incapacitated; blood streaked wetly and obscenely between my fingers. I heard the sound of my breath, rapid and wheezing.

Yancy and Zeb shouted at one another, arms waving. Yancy's face was red, his eyes bulging with fury, but I had no time for them.

Think, Lorie…

I rolled to my left hip. Sweat decorated my eyelids, stung my eyes. I braved a look—I had to know what damage was done to me—my cupped hand shone as though with scarlet paint; I lifted it away, trembling and sickened, but determined to see. I heard small, sharp gasps. Sable lay only a few feet away from me and I scooted over to him and leaned my back against his hide. There positioned, I inspected the bullet's path over my flesh. A wound, however shallow, gaped in the muscle, raggedy-edged and weeping blood, but I did not believe there was a bullet lodged in my body.

Yancy leaned down to my level, his face less composed than it had been thus far. He commanded, “Let me see.”

I stared at him as though his words were an incomprehensible jumble.

“Goddammit,” he said, swiping at his mustache with a thumb. Behind him, Zeb mounted and loped away in the direction of Jack's errant horse. Yancy said, “You're not badly hurt. I'm sure it stings like the devil himself, but you'll make it back to Iowa City.” There was not a dram of compassion in his tone; he might have been addressing a soldier of lesser rank and station. He produced the same handkerchief that had contained his dinner, tying it without fuss around my upper arm, tight enough that my fingers grew bloodless. He said, “You'll ride Jack's horse.”

Zeb returned with the horse, stripped clean Jack's pockets, and summarily loaded the man's ragdoll body over the rump of his gelding; the big animal was unhappy with this burden and sidestepped nervously while Zeb secured Jack in place the same way in which he would have a deer carcass. Yancy, in an uncharacteristic display of manners, helped me mount Jack's horse; I sat woodenly, my right arm burning; I was fearful I would not be able to grip the reins on that side. With this in mind, I curled the reins around my left wrist and then gripped the bay's thick mane.

By the time we rode away from Sable's body it was dusk, the air silvering all around us, the last of the sunset awash with blood—reds and oranges streaking and spilling across the horizon. For a time, until I grew dizzy, I watched Sable recede as we rode north; when I looked back a second time, crows had begun circling, riding the air currents above my poor dead pony. One arched downward, a lithe black arrow, just as the sun blinked out of existence over the edge of the prairie.

* * *

We rode in silence. I did not know if Yancy intended to mock me somehow, allowing Zeb to take the lead and therefore forcing the sight of Jack's flopping limbs before my eyes; I concentrated instead on sitting the saddle. I was so cold, a trembling having overtaken my belly. To counteract this shaking I leaned forward, therefore closer to the warmth the animal provided. I tried to concentrate on what was happening, but it was as though I'd sunk into a jar containing honey; thus suspended, I watched everything from behind an amber-tinted haze. I felt slow, and thick, numbed by shock and exhaustion. At first I thought I was perhaps hallucinating, allowing a dream to take possession of me as I rode, when I realized that a horse and rider approached parallel to our position and against the darker eastern horizon, fast-moving.

Zeb and Yancy caught sight of this and reacted instantly, halting and facing their mounts that direction. Yancy reached and caught my horse's halter rope. A rifle was fired, north of us, once, then twice. I jerked as though stabbed with an iron poker fresh from the fire, and then was dealt a blow to the heart with the same instrument, swift and sure, the numbness evaporating as swiftly as it had settled.

“
Yancy!
”

This single demand was delivered in the deep voice I knew better than all others. My entire being surged to painful life as I heard Sawyer. A sharp joy pierced me before anything else, the knowledge that he was near and that I would be allowed the sight of him, overpowering the onrushing realization that this meant I could do nothing more to save him.

“I'm riding in!” Sawyer shouted.

“No!” I gasped, my feet inadvertently twitching, wishing to spur the horse forward.

“How in the goddamn hell…” Yancy growled, sounding truly confounded, his teeth clenched, a hissing sound emanating from between them. He looped the halter rope more firmly into his grip; he and Zeb lifted their sidearms, Zeb aiming at the rider to the east while Yancy directed his pistol towards the sound of Sawyer's voice.