by S. B. Moores
“But that’s no reason to—”
“The cattle disappeared on the very day Justin left Ridgetop, and he left without so much as a fare-thee-well to you or me or anyone else I am aware of.”
Her father’s fists clenched. “I’ve always thought that Sterling boy would bring me trouble, one way or the other.” He glared at Abigail.
She raised her hands to her ears in frustration. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. There is no more honest man in his county than Justin Sterling. You know that, and yet you would believe the worst of him, simply because you haven’t thought of any other reason why a few cattle might be missing. It’s too convenient.”
“Twenty-six is more than a few cattle,” Tobias said. “You said so yourself.”
“I’m afraid Tobias has a point, my dear.” Her father leaned back in his chair. “I wish it were otherwise, but there doesn’t appear to be any other plausible explanation.”
“You have always had a fondness for Justin,” Toby said to her. “It may be difficult for you to see the truth.”
“How could believe this of your lifelong friend?”
Tobias looked out the window again. “It breaks my heart, to be sure, but who knows what a man is capable of when jealousy overcomes him?”
“What else could account for the coincidence?” her father said again, almost to himself.
“Perhaps this was Justin’s revenge on you, Henry, for cutting Justin off and allowing Abigail to marry me.”
“Allowing?” She almost reached for the ashtray on her father’s desk to throw at Tobias, but one controversy was enough for the moment. “Please tell me. Where has Justin gone?”
“That’s just it,” Tobias said. “He’s told no one. No one I’ve spoken to, anyway. Maybe his parents know, but a cattle thief wouldn’t tell anybody where he was going, would he? And twenty-six cattle would bring a pretty penny, enough for Justin to make a fresh start, wherever he’s gone.”
Her father shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t believe this turn of events. But his faraway gaze hardened. “It’s a hanging offense,” he muttered.
“If he is ever caught.” Tobias looked at Abigail. “He’s had almost two days’ head start. He could be anywhere between here and the Mississippi River. If indeed he went in that way.”
“It’s hard for a man to disappear forever, especially with twenty-six cattle.” Her father put his hand to his chin.
“Oh, but we don’t really know where Justin’s gone,” Toby said. “If the authorities went looking for him, he could have them riding in circles.”
Her father came to his feet. “Walter Sterling will know where his boy has gone, and I’ll wring it out of him if I must.”
“But with two days’ lead, how will you ever catch him?” Toby asked.
Toby’s tone had changed, Abigail noticed. Why, after indicting Justin of theft, did he now seem willing to let the matter drop?
Her father pulled a map from a bin against the wall and unrolled it on top of his desk. “He can’t move very quickly herding cattle by himself, and he couldn’t possibly have sold the animals so quickly. With a good horse, I could catch him.”
The look on her father’s face so horrified her that she leaned against the doorframe for support. “What will you do then? Will you bring Justin home?”
“Home?” Henry barked. “That won’t be necessary. If there are no local authorities to arrest him or to stop me, I’ll hang him from the nearest oak tree.”
“Hang him?” Toby appeared to blanch at the idea of a summary execution of his old friend.
“Father, you wouldn’t do that.” Abigail’s voice trembled. “Not without giving Justin a proper trial.”
“His offense is clear, Abigail, especially if I find him with my cattle. That’s all the evidence any court of law would need.” He folded the map and left it in front of him on the desk, presumably to take with him on the chase.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Toby? Would you let my father take the law into his own hands?” She glared at her future husband, challenging him to speak up.
He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. “Your father is right, Abby, at least in principle. Blind justice would not be kind if Justin is caught with contraband cattle. What’s more, I don’t see how you and I can be happily married as long as this sad matter is hanging over our heads. But I have an idea.” He looked up, almost smiling. “In order to bring the question of Justin’s guilt or innocent to a swift and appropriate conclusion, I shall go with Henry to ensure that Justin is given the treatment he deserves.”
“You?”
“Yes. The quicker I may return to you, dear, so we can be married and resume our contented lives.” He turned to her father. “I’ll go pack a horse at once.” He patted her shoulder and left the room.
Rather than feel comforted, Abigail thought she might faint. Could Justin really be a cattle thief, to be hanged on sight like a common criminal?
“Father,” she said.
“Now is not the time.” He stood up and left the office.
At morning’s first light, Abigail pleaded with her father one last time, clinging to his leg as he sat on his horse. But Henry had made up his mind, and he and Tobias rode away. They took with them a farmhand named Douglas. Later that day, Abigail sat in the family room, filled with dread, with her knitting lying unattended in her lap. Her mother sat opposite her, reading a book.
“Where do you think Justin is?” Abigail asked.
Her mother looked at her over the top of her half-rimmed reading glasses.
“I understand your distraction, dear, but we must go on living normal lives, at least until your father returns and we know more than we do now.”
Abigail slapped at the knitting yarn in frustration. “I know all I need to know, and so should Father. Justin Sterling could not have stolen his cattle. There must be some other explanation, but that will do Justin no good should Father catch him.”
“The rigors of traveling on horseback will cool Henry’s anger before he finds Justin. He’ll have time to think things through, and he won’t act rashly. I’m sure.”
“He’s already acted rashly, assuming Justin is guilty without any adequate proof.”
“I find it hard to believe myself. But if it’s true . . .”
“It’s not true, Mother! You know Justin Sterling. How could you believe such a thing of him?”
“I am familiar with the boy, of course, and I still give him the benefit of the doubt. But I’ve lived much longer than you, Abby, long enough to realize we don’t always know people as well as we think we do.”
“That may be true, Mother, but not about Justin.” She thought of Archie Browning, his claims, and the letter still hidden in her shoebox. Did she know her own mother as well as she thought? How could she confirm Browning’s story without revealing too much?
“Do you have any dark secrets, Mother?”
“Me? I dare say not. I haven’t had any secrets for a long, long time.”
“But you did keep secrets once, didn’t you? Does Father know any of them?”
“The problem with secrets is that, over time, they become harder and harder to keep.” Her mother looked at her again over her glasses, sending a quick shaft of guilt though Abigail’s chest. “It’s better not to try.”
“I agree, of course.”
“I am an open book to your father, and very grateful that I have no secrets from him.”
“Have you kept any secrets from me?” She asked this as innocently as she could.
Her mother gave her another stern, appraising look. “If I have kept any secrets from you, it was for your own good, and you shouldn’t inquire further.” She looked back down at her book, closing the discussion. Clearly her mother wasn’t going to say anything about her past without being confronted by Browning or his letter.
Abigail wondered if Browning was still working in the area. He did say he might overwinter in the county. Perha
ps she could arrange an accidental meeting between her mother and the man, such as she’d had at the tea shop. But she couldn’t think of that until Justin had returned safely. Her thoughts turned dismal and she dwelled on the worst possible outcomes. Travel to the west was dangerous, and there was a chance that neither her father nor Toby would return. Then she and her mother would be left without a husband or a father. Trying to knit while she waited for news of Justin’s fate was simply too difficult.
“Mother, do you suppose Aunt Tilda is still well?”
Her mother didn’t bother to glance up from her book. “I’ll not fall for that ruse again, Abigail.” She remained calm, but her voice was cold as a stone. “Aunt Tilda can very well look out for herself.”
Abigail felt her cheeks flush. She couldn’t sit at home with her fate and Justin’s hanging in the balance. She couldn’t. If her father was bent on punishing Justin, she had to do something to stop him. But what? She set aside her knitting.
“I’m feeling a bit of headache, Mother. I think I’ll go to my room and lie down for a few minutes.” Her mother nodded but said nothing, assuming perhaps that Abigail’s exit was due to the scolding she’d just received.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Arkansas Territory, Late January 1836
Justin considered himself lucky to find the roadside inn at the height of the storm, even though he’d already been soaked through by the driving rain, which threatened to turn to snow. The inn was a two-story, whitewashed building with a broad, covered porch, complete with thin columns, imitations of the much grander columns he’d seen on the palatial mansions in Kentucky.
His horse was safety stabled, and now Justin sat at a small table in the public room of the inn, near a crackling fire in the hearth. He ordered a cup of corn whiskey and a small bowl of stew from a man in a soiled apron who looked him over once or twice, but didn’t ask any questions. Justin wondered what Henry Whitfield would think of him ordering alcohol to drink with his dinner. Then he banished the thought. He might never see Henry Whitfield again, and that suited him fine.
The stew arrived, but before he took up his spoon, he held his hands over the steaming bowl to warm them. He didn’t know what meat the stew had been made of, but it tasted good, and it was his first hot meal since leaving home. It and the whiskey warmed him from the inside.
With his first sip of the liquor, he glanced around at the dozen or so others who had taken refuge at the inn. They looked like the usual mix of men. There were those who looked like they worked the land, with a few hunters and some traveling men of commerce thrown in, literally, he assumed, when the storm arose. The only woman appeared to be the proprietor’s wife, a stocky matron in an apron, her graying hair tied back and out of the way as she worked behind the counter at a cooking fire. No one paid him much mind.
He had a vague idea that he was somewhere in the territory of Arkansas. Its rolling, wooded hills reminded him of Tennessee. It was a place he thought he might settle and look for work, but it reminded him too much of home. And it wasn’t far enough away at that. If he got homesick, he could return to Ridgetop without much difficulty. He wanted to eliminate returning home as a possibility, and he wouldn’t stop moving until he found a land so utterly strange and challenging that it would make him forget Abigail Whitfield forever. Not that he believed such a place existed.
After he’d eaten his stew and drunk most of the whiskey, he fell into a mild stupor. He considered ordering more drink, that being preferable to going back outside, into the storm, and he wasn’t prepared to pay the price of a room. But his clothes were still wet and he couldn’t spend the night outside without freezing to death. He wondered if the owner would let him sleep in the stable with his horse. He drained the last few drops of whiskey from his cup and knew if he ordered another, he might spend the night under the table. He gathered up his musket and saddlebag and looked around the room for the proprietor, to ask about a place to stay the night.
Just then one of the men sitting at the next table with two other men spoke to him. “From where do you hail, friend?” The man wore buckskins, like Justin, but also a tall hat, similar to those Justin had seen in Louisville, but this one made of a coarser pelt than beaver. It looked like cattle hide. The man struck Justin as not much older than he, but a rough-looking character, a frontiersman.
“I’m a Tennessean,” Justin said. “Or I was.”
“We, too!” the man said, gesturing at his friends. “The name’s Bayliss. Joseph Bayliss. Late of Montgomery County.”
“I’m Justin Sterling. From Ridgetop.” He shook hands with Bayliss.
“We’re all traveling to Texas,” Bayliss said. The other two men at the table nodded their heads in a way that confirmed they were determined to make the long journey. In his idle moments as a youth, Justin had wondered about Texas and Mexico and what kinds of adventures a man could have there, but they remained the settings of tall stories and too far away for serious consideration. Now nothing stood in his way.
“What takes you to the Mexican territories?” he asked. He wasn’t eager to make friends with these strangers, but he was less eager still to leave the warmth of the fire.
“Mexican?” Bayliss asked. “It won’t be part of Mexico for long. Shoot, the Mexicans can hardly call it their own now. I here tell there are moreYankees in the territory than Mexicans.” The other men muttered their agreement. “As it is, changing the name on a map is about all it’d take to make the territory independent. We want to be there when it happens, to make a new start.”
Justin could sympathize with anyone making a new start. If what these men said was true, there might be all manner of prospects for a young man fromTennessee in a new, independent territory. “Do they run cattle in Texas?” he asked.
“Do they run cattle in Texas?” Bayliss slapped his knee and laughed out loud. “Hell, the Texicans practically invented cattle. You ever hear of the Texas longhorn?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Well the Spanish brought ’em over a couple of hundred years ago. You haven’t seen cattle until you’ve seen a longhorn. They’ve got points nearly six feet apart.” Bayliss spread his arms wide for emphasis. “They can run all day on a thimble of water, but you won’t find a finer cut of meat on the hoof, even in Tennessee.”
Justin was intrigued. “What’s your destination in Texas?”
“The politicians is all asking for people to settle as far south as they can git ’em, to solidify their claim on the country. We’re aiming to find land in Béxar, near the San Antonio River. Plenty of open range there for cattle, if that’s what interests you. And if you’ll pardon me for say’n so, you don’t look like a man with any pressing business.”
“I’m not in any hurry, that’s true.”
“Well, then. If you’ve got no better offer, we could use another hand, if you’ve got a strong back and a mind to see new country. You interested in going with us?”
This query took Justin by surprise. He assumed he’d travel the west like a wandering hermit, with no other goal than to be alone in his misery. To leave Abigail behind and ramble the earth until lightning struck or Indians took his scalp. He only had a vague notion that, sooner or later, he’d need to get on with life. What that meant he hadn’t yet visualized, but the unexpected offer of traveling to Texas could be an opportunity provided by the good Lord, as Henry might say. The men at the table looked a little rough around the edges, but no more so than he, after days on the road. They seemed friendly enough, and traveling with a group would be much safer than traveling alone.
Bayliss gestured at the belongings Justin held in his arms. “If it helps you decide, we have a room here, paid in full. It ain’t King Solomon’s temple, mind you, but you’d be welcome to a share of the floor.”
Lightning flashed outside, close enough to light up the slats of the shuttered windows. Thunder rumbled over the sound of pounding rain.
“Many thanks, Mr. Bayliss.” Justin set down his m
usket and saddlebag. “I guess I’m bound for Texas.”
The morning after her father and Tobias left, Abigail woke up in bed with a start. She’d been dreaming about Justin and her father. In her dream her father was furious. He insisted that she marry Justin and nobody else, but Justin was having nothing of it. The angrier her father got, the more Justin refused her. Between the two men she felt utterly helpless and confused. But that wasn’t what woke her up. It was the undeniable and irresistible sensation that she was about to be sick to her stomach. She threw back her covers, reached down, and slid the pan out from under the bed. She leaned over the side of the bed just in the nick of time, and promptly emptied the contents of her stomach. Then she lay back on her bed sheets and gasped for breath.
Slowly, the wave of nausea passed. Had she come down with the flu? She put a hand to her forehead but her skin felt normal, neither too hot nor too cold. Certainly she hadn’t any fever. She thought back to dinner the night before, but she hadn’t eaten much at all, much less anything that might have upset her stomach.
After a few seconds, a cold realization dawned on her. Her time of month had not come as scheduled, but its tardiness hadn’t seriously concerned her. A woman’s bodily rhythms were never as accurate as a clock and, ignoring the obvious, when she thought of it at all, she had blamed her failed period on her emotional crisis. But a chill swept down her spine, which couldn’t be blamed on the nip in the morning air. It was too soon to be sure, but she might be pregnant. She tried to remember how long it had been since she and Justin slept together in the tent. The timing was right.
Thunder and lighting! She was going to be a mother. The idea of being with child filled her with glee and dread, all at the same time. Glee because she would be carrying Justin’s child. Dread with the fear that her father would find out. And find out he must, sooner or later. But not until he returned with Justin. If he returned with Justin. Her father had sworn he would hang Justin as soon as he found him, if there were no authorities capable of taking Justin into custody. Surely he wouldn’t hang Justin if he knew he was the father of his grandchild. But it might be weeks before her father returned and she learned the fate of her lover. How could she wait? She thought of Archie Browning’s unfortunate story.