Soul of a Crow (30 page)

“You left with Yancy to ensure that your husband be given more time? To do what? To flee?” Quade demanded when I paused for breath.

“Yancy does not seek justice in this instance. He seeks revenge,” I said, doing my best to temper the desperation in my voice. “He knows my husband from the War, from the days following the Surrender. Please, you must understand. Yancy took me from Iowa City so that it would hurt Sawyer, and because I could speak for my husband, and contradict Jack's story. Yancy planned to leave me with Zeb Crawford until after Sawyer had been hung.”

“You are indeed alleging that Thomas Yancy, a federal marshal,
kidnapped
you?” Quade demanded.

“Not exactly,” I countered. “I accompanied him because I thought it was the only option.” I longed to clench Quade by the shirtfront and shake the truth into him. “Yancy wished to hang Sawyer that very day, as the gallows were already prepared. He implied that he would shoot my husband if I did not accompany them.”

“Jesus
Christ
,” Quade muttered. “And how then did Jack Barrow come to die?”

“He pinned me to the ground…” I whispered, but found myself struggling to recount the moments between Jack gripping me and his subsequent death—my voice faltered, maddeningly, as I strove to recall exactly, and both Clemens and Boyd, with almost comic unison, each put a fortifying hand upon my back. I blinked and saw nothing but the bulging surprise in Jack's eyes as a hole was opened in his gut. I had done this thing to another person, had created a bloody tunnel of his midsection.

And I would do so again, with no hesitation.

The outer door opened before I could continue speaking.

“Quade, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, if you are treating a lady with any less than she deserves, under
my roof
, I'll wring your scrawny, good-for-nothing Yankee gullet,” was the first thing I heard. This outrageous statement was delivered in a deep voice, no less commanding for its oddly hoarse quality.

For a split second, before he could contain it, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at Boyd's lips. We turned as one to confront the man who filled the entire space before the door, with his stature, stance, and demeanor, all three. It was Edward Tilson, Rebecca and Clemens' uncle, and I could see from where Rebecca gleaned her sense of self. The man before us stood with fists planted upon hips, glaring down at Quade from beneath the brim of a bone-colored duster. Doffing this, his outward expression changed markedly as he caught my gaze, and he bowed to me, bringing hat to chest.

“Mrs. Davis, I am Edward Tilson,” he said in that rasping voice, resettling his hat.

I heard Mama, low and soft, whispering at me to curtsy, but as I was seated and the room narrow, and crowded with bodies, I made no attempt. Instead I took his proffered hand and said respectfully, “Mr. Tilson,” and then withstood his unapologetic perusal of my face.

In the lantern's flicker Tilson's skin resembled well-aged leather, baked a deep brown and etched with a latticework of wrinkles; two deep grooves formed crevices alongside his mouth. His hair was iron-gray and fell past his shoulders, his features strong and clean-shaven, dominated by a long nose; his eyes were a smoky shade of blue and held more than their share of sorrow, which I could sense if not yet understand, and perhaps a trace of humor, in addition. He held my fingers gently in his grasp and at last murmured, “You's a woman of some spirit, I'd wager.”

I recognized this as a compliment of the highest order and felt something akin to a smile touch my eyes, an acknowledgment of his sincere words.

Boyd said, “Damn right she is. Sir, we's been attempting here to explain to Marshal Quade why Sawyer ain't gonna hang.” Boyd's jaw clenched and he concluded, “Not while I am alive.”

“Where's that goddamn bottle, Clint?” Quade demanded, tipping his chair on its back legs, with an air of good-humored defeat; Clemens, glad to be given a task, hurried into the adjoining room. Quade said, with no little amount of sardonic stringency, “Mrs. Davis was in the midst of her story when
you
so rudely interrupted her, Edward. ‘Sanctimonious,' my white Yankee ass. I doubt you know the meaning of the goddamn word.”

“‘Sanctimonious,'” repeated Tilson. “Synonymous with
self-righteous
,
holier-than-thou
,
pompous
,
censorious
.” Tilson stopped his nephew en route back to the table, swept the whiskey from Clemens, neatly uncorked the bottle with a deft swipe of his thumb, and drew a healthy swig. He winked at me before asking Quade, “Need I go on?”

“Goddammit, pass that here,” Quade muttered, and Tilson did so, while I sat in silence, unable to stop from staring at this imposing elderly man who spoke with the inflection of home, and who recited synonyms as neatly as though reading from a thesaurus.

Tilson turned his observant gaze next to Boyd, framing his question as a demand, “So you's Boyd Carter? Pleased to make your acquaintance, son.”

“Sir,” Boyd said, shaking Tilson's hand.

Tilson's eyes were nearly lost in a webbing of wrinkles as he smiled, though the animation faded from his face as he said, with all seriousness, “I aim to help you, Mr. Carter, if I am able. My niece is adamant that I do so, an' I admit I'm a mite curious about the four of you. Young Malcolm has proven most true-hearted. It's been long since I've seen the likes of the boy's love for you, Mr. Carter, an' you, Mrs. Davis, as well as your husband. I left Mr. Davis in a fine fury, back yonder. He's sore worried about what you are saying in here, Mrs. Davis.”

No small amount of astonishment in his tone, Quade asked, “
Becky
is adamant that you help these people?”

I found my voice and said desperately, “Mr. Tilson, my husband is not guilty of killing Jack Barrow, though he confessed it.”

Tilson seated himself opposite Quade, on my left, leaning over his elbows on the tabletop to commandeer the whiskey. He said, “I treated the goose egg on your husband's head, just earlier this day. He's a decent fella, of sound stock, I'd stake my life, an' his love for you is plainer than a beetle in the butter dish. Tell me why he would claim to have killed three men, if it ain't true.”

Four men watched me with gazes unwavering in the candlelight. Not so very long, and yet more than a hundred lifetimes ago, I would have been forced to adopt a certain posture in this same situation, to tilt my chin at a particular angle and smile just so, to thrust forward my cleavage and walk with a gentle sway in my hips, each and every gesture calculated to increase a man's arousal. I would have led each of them, by turns, to that dreadful brass bed in my room at Ginny's and allowed use of my body, pretending to enjoy the rutting grunts of a man reduced to the satisfaction of his bodily urges. It was all I could do to restrain the violence of a shudder—but here, in this place, I sensed nothing other than their collective desire to listen to what I had to say.

“Sawyer did kill Sam Rainey, and Dixon, which he has confessed, but only to save me. And it wasn't Sawyer who killed Jack. It was me. I shot him,” I said quietly, though my heart bumped loudly enough to overshadow my statements. I had sweat so much in the past days and nights that it seemed as though no fluid could remain within me; even so, moisture gathered at my hairline.

“Well, that makes sense of a few things,” Tilson said, while Clemens visibly paled at my words, as he had several times during my explanation prior to his uncle's arrival. Tilson regarded me with admiration, I was not mistaking the glint of this in his eyes. He murmured, “I figured you for a woman that gets things done.”

“The fact remains, Jack Barrow is dead, as are two of his companions, in Missouri,” Quade said. “We aren't in the Territories, Edward. We're in peacetime, might I remind you, and this isn't In'jun country, goddammit. A man isn't allowed to take another's life without consequences.”

“Sawyer don't just take men's lives, as you's implying,” Boyd growled. “He was saving Lorie's
life
. As she has explained.”

“How do I know this isn't a fabrication?
I
was not present at said events,” Quade said evenly, and an unexpected snippet of my first conversation with Rebecca flittered across my memory—

But now the marshal is courting Mama
, her son Cort had said, and I recognized, belatedly, that of course Cort was referring to Marshal Quade. I found myself regarding the man anew—surely anyone with whom Rebecca would associate in such a fashion possessed a good heart, however concealed at present.

“Because I ain't no liar,” Boyd said, and his jaw clenched. It seemed to me that there was perhaps a touch more challenge in Boyd's dark eyes than warranted, as he studied Quade with an unwavering gaze. Boyd maintained, “Lorie an' Sawyer can tell you the same tale. She would have been killed.
Both
times.”

“How fortunate that the only other person present is now dead,” Quade said. I did not perceive a challenge in those words as much as I did the rationality of a seasoned lawman. I sensed that he was edging towards being persuaded by what we had to say, but would not swallow a story without further proof.

“Sawyer is claiming to have killed Jack to save me. He said he struck a deal with Yancy,” I explained, and the man's name was bitter as rust upon my tongue. I lifted my chin and said, “I will hang before I allow that to happen. You must allow him before a judge. Please do not let Yancy hang my husband.
I beg of you
.”

Quade appeared consternated; he did not know exactly what to make of me, as if yet uncertain regarding my sincerity. He laced his fingers and fit together his thumbnails, precisely, and I was reminded of the way men at Ginny's poker tables displayed such ‘tells.' Of course, I did not know Quade well enough to read any of his.

“Don't be cross with Mrs. Davis just because you ain't never had a woman love you that-a-way, Leverett,” Tilson said, and I could hear the grin in his impertinent tone. He caught my eye and guessed, “You're wondering about my rasp. I'd a run-in with a group of Yanks in 'sixty-four, thought to hang me. I was halfway to hell before they realized their mistake. Violates the rules of wartime to hang a physician. Left me with a goddamn necklace of a scar. Ain't been much of a singer since, neither.”

“You served, is that so?” Boyd asked.

“Fifty-Ninth Mounted, Cooke's Regiment,” Tilson said immediately. “You're Second Corps, yourself, is that right? I believe the boy Malcolm said as much.”

“That I was,” Boyd said. “From 'sixty-two.”

“Last thing I want to do is interrupt a regimental reunion,” Quade interjected, a statement laced with exasperation. “But do please explain why you had been taken in the first place, Mrs. Davis, in Missouri. Why in God's name would Virginia Hossiter claim that you are her sister, stolen from your home in St. Louis? I am admittedly confused.”

I felt the grit of my teeth grinding together. I had to close my eyes before gaining enough composure to say, “That woman is no kin of mine. I was forced into her employ in the autumn of 'sixty-five. I lived as a prisoner within those walls and she wishes me returned. I…” Here I gulped, but Boyd curled one hand around both of mine, gently stilling their nervous fluttering. I gripped him tightly and was able to finish, “I earned a great deal of money for her.”

“What sort of employ?” Quade stipulated.

I lifted my chin and directed my gaze at the place where the wall met the ceiling; the lamplight was broken into pieces here at this long juncture. I observed a small spider dangling above us, its legs working frantically at the skein suspending it. At last I whispered, too exhausted to feel shame, “I worked as a whore for her.”

Quade's demeanor did not alter. He said only, “I see.”

Clemens was still standing, and had removed his spectacles, using the edge of his shirt to clean the glass lenses. Peering somewhat nearsightedly as us, he said in his studious way, “The circuit judge, Hamm, is due within a week. We've cause to wait for him, I firmly believe. Mr. Davis shall remain in custody until that time, if that suits you, Leverett.”

Quade slapped the butts of both palms against the edge of the table and said dismissively, “I figure you're right. I'll speak with Yancy in the daylight hours, but he won't be pleased. I feel the need of another bottle of bourbon, if that suits the lot of you Southern gents.” He tipped his hat at me and acknowledged politely, “Mrs. Davis.” Rising, he concluded, “I'll be yonder, at the Forked Hoof.”

And he took his unceremonious leave.

“Lorie, you's ready to collapse,” Boyd said in the silence that followed.

“Your wagon, an' horses, are in my barn,” Tilson said, and his tone had changed, growing somehow gentler. He said, “If you'll accompany me home, I believe Becky baked bread this day. I'd be honored to have your company.”

“Please, let me see Sawyer first,” I whispered.

Clemens said tentatively, “I'll allow a few minutes, no more, or Billings will be angered. He is furious enough that Mr. Davis escaped the jailhouse once already.”

“Your sister is a woman that gets things done, too,” Tilson commented wryly.

* * *

Tilson agreed to collect Whistler from the livery stable, while Boyd, Clemens, and I rode to the jailhouse, which was dark and empty of anyone but Sawyer at this hour. Clemens unlocked the heavy outer door and said, “I shall knock to collect you,” before pulling it closed behind me, remaining outside with Boyd.

“Lorie,” Sawyer said. He rose at once, from where he sat on the narrow cot in the cell.

Though I longed to fly to him I approached with caution, studying his eyes in the dimness of the small room, and said quietly, “You're to be allowed to go before the circuit judge. And Tilson is collecting Whistler.”