Soul of a Crow (27 page)

And then there he was, cantering near on Whistler.

He had found me.

I stared at Sawyer riding towards me in the gloaming as one deprived of all that was pure and true, beautiful and whole, in the world. I was unable to gallop forward; instead I held him with my eyes. Tears swam across my vision and I let the strength of my thoughts flow freely to his mind, at last,
Forgive me. Forgive me for what's happened here.

Zeb watched Sawyer and Whistler come near, though he kept the Henry aimed east, at the other rider; Boyd, atop Fortune, had positioned himself fifty yards out. Yancy abruptly changed his mind and held his .44 to my right temple. The barrel pressed coldly against my skin.

“You will
let her free!
” Sawyer commanded, his rifle trained upon Yancy. His face was as severe with fury as I had ever seen it, his gaze devouring me exactly as I longed to be consumed; he rode to within a dozen paces and immediate pain and terror raked him, I could plainly see this as he tried to make sense of what had been done to me. Jack's blood was all over my skirt, dried upon my face. Yancy cocked the hammer. Unable to advance closer, Sawyer demanded, “Set her free.”

“I shot Jack,” I said, finding my voice, hoarse though it was, holding fast to his gaze with mine. I explained, tripping over the syllables, “I tried to flee…but they sh…shot the pony from under me…and then Jack
grabbed me
…”

“You have been hurt,” Sawyer said, and he was in anguish at this fact.

“I am all right,” I said, with as much fortitude as I could muster.

“You have harmed her and I will kill you,” Sawyer said to the men, and there was such menace in his tone that Zeb clutched the Henry a little tighter. I noticed the irons clamped around Sawyer's wrists, though the linked chain meant to band them together dangled free. Whistler made a small whooshing noise.

“You won't,” Yancy said calmly. “I figure you'd not enjoy the sight of her clever brains decorating the grass.”

Sawyer's jaw bulged.

“Your little whore wife shot a man to death, not an hour past,” Yancy continued, with a tone of mocking gaiety. “A most extraordinary shot. Too bad you weren't here to see it, Davis. But you and I will be sure to stand together to watch her hang for it.” He noticed the broken irons on Sawyer's wrists and observed, “You're a fugitive on more than one charge now, aren't you? You escaped Quade? I wouldn't have figured that possible. You blasted Rebs are full of surprises,” and Yancy contorted his voice into an imitation of Sawyer's slight drawl, concluding, “
Ain't y'all
?”

Sawyer's self-possession was returning to him, incrementally. He did not remove his eyes from me as he said, “You will let Lorie go and you will take me in her place, and you will do this thing
now
.”

“I'll do no such,” Yancy said.

Sawyer's eyes flickered briefly to the threat of Zeb's rifle made ready to shoot him, surely at the least provocation. He advanced Whistler another step and she nickered. My heart pulsed with agony. Sawyer's face appeared chiseled of stone with the hostility emanating from him, its angles sharp, his nostrils flaring. Sweat trickled over his temples, beneath his hat; he was near enough now that I could see the pulse beating furiously at the base of his throat.

His voice hardly more than a whisper, he ordered, “You will let Lorie free, and you will take me instead. Or you will be killed where you stand.”

Zeb laughed at this, a scraping sound much like a rusty nail sliding free of an old board. He muttered, “He's bluffing. He won't chance it.”

“He is most assuredly not bluffing,” Yancy disagreed. He indicated by tilting his chin at the vast expanse of prairie stretching east. He recognized, “That other Reb bastard has a bead upon us, even as we speak.”

Sawyer's gaze engulfed me, taking in each detail. He said, “I will not ask again.”

“Then we get you, soldier, with no fight,” Zeb demanded in his slow voice, and knocked his hat back a peg; even from the corner of my vision I could see the dark, twisted delight that this information afforded him.

“No, please,
no
,” I begged, unable to remain silent. “They will kill you. Yancy
knows
you, from the War. That night in the clearing, he was one of the men who tried to steal the horses and it was
his brother
, Sawyer –” I stared hard into his eyes, imparting these truths upon him. Sawyer's eyebrows drew together as he attempted to make sense of this revelation. I watched the new shock as it took him in the center, spreading rapidly outwards, though he remained otherwise motionless.

“
Be still
.” Yancy spoke around gritting teeth.

Sawyer's face remained impassive but I heard his thoughts, as clearly as though he whispered the words into my ear. And then I envisioned that, as he had intended, picturing his hands cupping my face with utmost tenderness as he thought,
Lorie, I want you to listen to me. Boyd is just east. He will take you safely to the Rawleys' with him. You must let them take me. I will be all right
.

No
, I begged, shaking my head.

Lorie
, he implored. I understood the intensity of his desire for things to happen as he had told me.

Whistler advanced another step.

Zeb whooped suddenly; all of us startled at the sound, even Yancy, who muttered, “Jesus
Christ
.”

“Take this goddamn Reb soldier and be done with it,” Zeb said.

Yancy was in a rage, though he sat unmoving. With an air of unwitting defeat, he removed the pistol from its position of threat against my head. He said, “Then
you've
done this thing, Davis. You killed Jack Barrow before my eyes, shot him dead as a coffin nail. Two witnesses. You testify to this, and you hang. And your little whore wife can be a little whore widow.”

Sawyer holstered his pistol and curtly nodded his acquiescence. I slid to the ground before Yancy could prevent it, running to Whistler's side. Sawyer dismounted and I was safe in his arms before I could blink—I cried out in pain, inadvertently, as he caught me close, cradling me, running his hands over me as gently as he was able in his intensity. I clutched his shirt, inhaling the scent of him in great gulping breaths.

“You've been shot,” he said, attempting to determine the extent of the injury in the gathering darkness, murderously angry at this fact.

Before I could respond Sawyer's expression changed markedly and he moved fluidly, pushing me instantly behind him and away, taking the brunt of the strike; Zeb had dismounted and swung the Henry, clubbing Sawyer with its stock, taking him to his knees. Whistler reared at this action, making a sound very much like a scream.

Sawyer shifted rapidly to a crouch, shoulders curling inward, and lunged from the ground, catching Zeb in the gut, propelling the barn-sized man backwards. I scrambled to the side. Yancy cursed at them, unable to fire into the melee without risking shooting Zeb. And then Boyd suddenly charged into view on Fortune, gripping the reins between his teeth so that he could aim his repeater. The moment Fortune halted, Boyd spit free the reins, transferred the rifle to one hand, and drew his pistol with the other. He performed these tasks so rapidly I could have blinked and missed it.

There was a sudden grit of furious male voices, shouting over the top of one another.

“
I will kill the lot of you Federal bastards!
”

“You sonsabitchin' Rebs!”

“Goddammit,
stop
, I say!”

Sawyer twisted free of Zeb's grip, heaving with breath, and said, “Boyd!”

Boyd held his repeater braced against his ribs, aiming directly at Zeb's torso, his dark eyes burning with an unholy light I had never there beheld, Fortune neatly sidestepping as he tightened his knees; with his free hand, Boyd directed the long snout of his .44 between Yancy's eyes. Whistler was agitated, stomping her hooves. My panicked gaze jerked from Boyd to Sawyer, and in the next instant Sawyer moved with purpose, bringing me close, where I clung, seeking refuge, knowing we would be ripped apart at any second.

Against my hair, he whispered, “Go now with Boyd.”

“No,” I moaned, understanding the depth of what Sawyer was asking—to leave him here alone with Yancy and Zeb, who would haul him back to Iowa City and condemn him, thereby saving my life. I knew this, and Yancy may as well have produced a long-bladed knife and sliced open my body, nose to belly.

Sawyer said to Yancy, “You will take me in Lorie's place, or you will die right here. It is your choice.” I felt these words rumble in his chest as he spoke.

Yancy nearly spat in his frustration. At last he muttered to Boyd, “Take that
goddamn whore
out of here.”

“I will be all right,” Sawyer whispered, cupping my jaws, and I beheld his eyes at close range, just inches from mine as he studied my face intently—as though he knew he would never see it again. I could not move; I already knew what he would do, which was as Yancy insisted. Sawyer would claim responsibility for killing Jack. I knew he would insist that he had done this thing, saving me as best he could.

He put his face to my hair and whispered, “Go now, with Boyd. You've been hurt and you need care.”

“No,” I begged. “Sawyer,
no
…”

“I must know that you're safe, Lorie,” he insisted quietly. Behind us, there was a clanking of metal upon metal, and I felt that sound as if the irons were about to clamp around my heart.

“Lorie,” Boyd commanded, not to be argued with. “Come along.”

Panic created small explosions throughout my body. At the same instant, I recognized that I must be strong—Sawyer was risking everything for me, and I must find the strength to accept this; he would not allow me to act against what he wanted, not in this matter. He understood the toll extracted from my soul as I released my hold; I saw the same one, mirrored in his eyes. There was a bleeding welt upon his temple, a purpling bruise rapidly forming; what would they do to him, once alone?

Agony twisted hot fingers into my gut.

“This man will be unharmed when we meet again,” Boyd said, his thoughts running a similar direction. His voice was thick with barely-contained fury, his drawl more pronounced than usual. “Which'll be exactly as quickly as I can meet up with Charley Rawley an' ride t'Iowa City, where you
will be
with Sawyer. He'll be
unharmed
, or I'll hunt down the two of yous like goddamn dogs an' make y'all wish you never lived to see the sun rise. There's plenty worse things than a quick death, an' I know where you lay yer head at night,
Yancy
, you bastard.”

“You
son of a bitch
, don't you threaten me,” Yancy hissed. “I'll gut you.”

“You Rebs is meat for the hounds,” Zeb growled at Boyd. He had maneuvered the Henry back into place, the barrel directed at Boyd's gut. Boyd's nostrils flared, dark eyes flashing with revulsion. The hatred between them was dense as a swamp.

Sawyer held my gaze steadily. Without words, he said,
I will be there, waiting for you
.

Yancy shouldered me aside and ordered, “Hold out your wrists, Davis.”

Sawyer obliged, allowing Yancy to shackle him, this new set of irons upon his wrists above the old. Yancy moved with a brisk, businesslike attitude, but he tightened the shackles mercilessly.

“I will find you there,” I told my husband, keeping my voice even with effort.

“Lorie, come,” Boyd said succinctly, not removing his gaze from Zeb. Clearly he perceived Zeb as the greatest threat—and he was correct in that assumption. I wished the fearsome bear of a man struck dead—I wished the loathing in my gaze had the power to slash him down, never to rise again.

You're leaving Sawyer with him...

Oh God, no
…

They'll hang him…

“Go now, sweetheart,” Sawyer whispered. His left eye was beginning to swell closed. Tears burned the back of my nose.

I nodded with short, jerking motions.

Boyd drew Fortune near; I slipped my foot to the stirrup and climbed quickly behind him. I felt a measure of comfort that Whistler was here; I knew she would keep watch over Sawyer as best she could.

“Until then,” Boyd said fiercely, directing these words at Yancy. To Sawyer he said, “Old friend, you count on me.”

Sawyer nodded. He was shackled, his fair hair coming loose from where he had tied it at the back of his neck. The welt on his face gleamed with blood, raw-looking, and no one would tend to it—I choked on harsh sobs, gripping Boyd around the waist as he took Fortune at a careful backward walk, her rump warm and firm beneath me. Boyd kept his repeater and .44 both directed at them; likewise, he kept Fortune's nose aimed in their direction, walking us slowly away. I watched in agonized silence as Sawyer receded from me. Against all of my instincts, I was being taken from him.

When we'd retreated a good twenty yards in the gloaming light, Boyd muttered, “Hold tight,” and holstered his weapons, turning Fortune with quick movements, heeling her flanks and galloping us away and into the gathering night, in the opposite direction that Sawyer would be led.

Once we'd ridden a fair distance southeast, away from them, Boyd reined Fortune to an abrupt halt. Overcome with pain, I wept wretchedly, and Boyd helped me down with great care, gathering me close in a hug, rocking us side to side, one palm against my braid. He smelled strongly, but familiar, and comforting. He heaved with an angry breath and said roughly, “I hated t'leave him there, too, Lorie-girl, but we ain't got no choice.”

“
They'll hurt him
,” I moaned. “They will, Zeb is crazy and they'll hurt him, Boyd…
oh Jesus
…they'll hang him…”