Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  “That damned General Ewing locked a bunch of innocent women and girls in an old building in Kansas City, usin’ it as a prison. The Yankees say the building just fell down, but I got good information that they blowed it up. Kilt my sister dead. Kilt one sister of my commandin’ officer and his other two sisters was all broken up.”

  “My two brothers died for the South at Wilson’s Creek. Everybody suffered during that war. You’ve got no call blaming me for your sister.”

  “What about that Yankee-lovin’ B. F. Windes?”

  She almost lost her grip on the horse’s mane. “B. F.? B. F. is no Yankee!”

  “He kilt all my fellers. Just missed killin’ me, too. He’ll be downright displeased to find out I ain’t dead!”

  “You’re crazy! B. F. is just a storekeeper!”

  “He may be a storekeeper, but he’s a sure-fire killer.” He grabbed her chest again, kneading her as though she were bread dough. “And I’m gonna enjoy gettin’ even.”

  She didn’t want him to know that he was hurting her. She bit her lip. “Get your hands off of me!”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, girlie.”

  Fifty-One

  In The Bye And Bye

  Blockade Hollow, Missouri 1866

  Henry held her at arm’s length, taking in the sight of her. “Mattie, I ain’t kissed ye in four long years.”

  “I read that letter ye wrote me from when ye got captured by the Yankees every night for them four terrible years. Fact, this here McCorkle tore it to pieces when he was drunk.”

  “Why would he . . . Mattie, I hear a hoss comin’.”

  “Quick, let’s get up in the woods. It must be McCorkle comin’ back.” Both of them hurried out of the clearing, with Henry’s injury and his horse slowing him down. But they were out of sight when the pair came up the trail.

  “Quiet, Henry. That’s him. Looks like he brung a woman with him.”

  McCorkle called out. “Mattie, I heard you goin’ up the side of that hill yonder. Get on down here and fix me some dinner.” She kept silent, hoping he was bluffing.

  “Don’t make me come up there and get you. You won’t like it if I do.”

  She whispered to Henry, “I don’t want him coming up here. He’ll likely kill you if he sees you. I’ll go on down there. Don’t worry about me. I’ll run off soon as I can.”

  “I don’t want you goin’ down there. Say, that girl . . .” Henry squinted against the sun, “she looks familiar.”

  She noticed that McCorkle had turned his horse in their direction, so she stood up, and tried to keep her voice from revealing just how scared she was. “I’m a comin’. They ain’t much to eat though.”

  Mattie realized he was tying one end of a rope around the woman’s neck, and the other end around his waist. “What’s goin’ on here? Why is that woman tied up?”

  “Ain’t none of yer business. I ain’t had nothin’ to eat today. Put a meal together.”

  Crocia thought the rope was going to gag her. She put her hand around the knot to try and take pressure off her neck. “He took me off the stage coach. He shot. . . .” The rope was yanked even tighter and she had to fight to keep from choking.

  “Keep yer mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Say, she’s just a young girl. What are ye tryin’ to do?”

  McCorkle drew his gun. “What’s it gonna take for the two of you to shut up?”

  The three of them went into the cabin, and in a few minutes, Henry saw smoke coming from the chimney. He was torn between riding back to town to tell where Crocia was and staying close. The man seemed to be on the verge of doing something violent, and he had to be there to help if he could. He wished he had a weapon.

  Back up the road, John Durham told B. F. and Matt what he had found in the cabin and described the note Suggs had written in his own blood before he died. “They don’t make folks any tougher than the people livin’ in these hollers.”

  B. F. then described what had happened on the stage that morning and the description of the hold-up man. “It sounds like we may have the same man, and now we know he’s capable of murder.” He then told them about the Appaloosa that Mattie had been riding a few months ago and how the same horse could have been ridden by the low-down scum that had taken Crocia. “You didn’t see a horse up in the hollow did you?”

  “No, but we did see some fresh sign of a horse. Seems like I would have seen him though—unless he passed me by when I went to Suggs’ cabin. Course, he could be headed for Arkansas for all we know.”

  “Only one way to find out. Can you take us to Mattie’s place? We’ll probably need to go on foot the last stretch.”

  Crocia kept telling herself to stay calm and look for a way to escape. But the cabin was small, with only a single window, and the knot at her throat was resistant to her quick attempts to loosen it when McCorkle wasn’t looking. He realized how restrictive it was to have Crocia tied to him, so he simply untied the knot at his waist and reattached his end of the rope around Mattie’s neck, making sure it was tight enough to make her cough. “Maybe I’ll just keep the two of ya’ll like that. We’re just one big happy family. Fact, we’re gonna practice bein’ a family right after dinner.” He leered at the younger woman, laughing at her reaction to his remark. “I reckon ya’ll ain’t gonna get far hitched together like that.”

  He sat down and began to remove the boot from his throbbing foot. Crocia couldn’t believe this was happening. She stared at this evil man with the misshapen ear, then looked to the woman on the other end of the rope for some sign of mutual comfort. Mattie was at the fire, bent over a dutch oven with her biscuits. How could she be so calm at a time like this? Since she was tied up too, surely she felt just as threatened as Crocia did.

  Mattie finally raised an eyebrow, looked sidewise at Crocia, and tugged ever so slightly on her end of the rope to be sure she had her attention. She eyed McCorkle to be sure he wasn’t watching, and mouthed “Get ready.” Crocia glanced at the man, then at Mattie, and slightly moved her head down to affirm she understood.

  The biscuits finished, Mattie made some gravy with what bacon scraps could be found and presented a plate to McCorkle. He eyed both women and made sure they saw him set his pistol on the table beside his dinner. She had hoped he would holster it. That meant she had to be right on the mark.

  She let him get through with one biscuit and start on a second before she asked, “You want some water?”

  He looked around. “Where’s my jug?”

  She flinched. Why hadn’t she remembered that before she asked? “It’s not here no more.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I put it in a shady spot down yonder in the spring branch.”

  McCorkle hesitated to calculate the situation, but he couldn’t very well let them out of his sight. He’d just have to get the jug later, after he’d had some fun. “Gimme some water.”

  Mattie looked hard at Crocia to be sure she was watching, then dippered a tin cup full of water and set it on the table, well away from his pistol. When he picked it up and turned his head up to drink, she stomped his bad foot with all the force she could muster in her hundred pounds.

  McCorkle screamed. The tin cup went flying and he grabbed for his foot, then thought better of it and reached for his pistol. Before he could get to it, Mattie swung as hard as she could, hitting him on the back of the head with a glowing log from the fire. He crumpled up like a wet rag and fell over on the floor, while the burning stick rolled toward his sleeping pallet.

  She hollered at Crocia, “Come on, let’s get outa here before he comes to himself.” Crocia fumbled with the knot at her neck. “Don’t worry with that in here. Let’s git.” They headed for the exit, but both were yanked up short by their tether. McCorkle had fallen on the middle of the rope and they were held fast by his weight.

  Mattie started to try and lift him up, but Crocia held up a hand. “Wait a minute.” She picked up the cast iron lid to the Dutch ov
en, swung it over her head, and hit him as hard as she could, just above his bad ear. The almost healed wound began to bleed profusely. “All right—now let’s get the rope.”

  It took both of them—one pushing the limp McCorkle and the other pulling on the crimped rope—for them to be freed. Finally, the two women stumbled through the door and out into the yard. “Henry,” Mattie hollered, “Bring your horse, quick.” She and Crocia began to struggle to untie the knot around each other’s neck. “He got this so dadburn tight I cain’t budge this here knot.”

  Henry appeared with a knife and began to saw on the heavy hemp rope. It seemed to take forever, but they were both free in a couple of minutes.

  “Let’s get outa here!” hollered Mattie.

  “Wait. Matilda—yer cabin’s on fire!”

  She stopped and stared at the flames coming out from under the eaves. “I hate to lose my herbs . . . an all them books.” She shook her head. “But it cain’t be helped. McCorkle might come awake if we went back.”

  Henry looked at her, then the cabin. “We cain’t just ride off and let a man burn alive.”

  “Ain’t nobody in there fit to be called a man.” Mattie grabbed his hand to tell him not to do it, but she jumped back as though a shock had struck her. “Henry, don’t ye do it. I seen what happens if ye do. I seen ye lyin’ dead. Leave him be, Henry.”

  “I cain’t do that, Matilda.”

  “Henry!” She screamed. “Please.” He started for the cabin and she tackled him from behind, throwing herself into his bad leg. He went down and she leapt to her feet, running past him. “Stay back. I’ll go. It ain’t me in the vision.”

  As she made it to the door, the front of the house was completely ablaze. The wave of heat forced her backward, and this gave Henry the opportunity to push her out of the way.

  He grabbed for the door and the iron handle blistered the skin on his palm in less than a second. He tore off his hat and used it to protect his hand in order to get the door open. Immediately, flames shot out of the cabin doorway and pushed him back several feet. “Are ye in there, mister?” He put his arm in front of his eyes to shield them from the heat and took two steps toward the fiery doorway.

  “Get outa my way ye bastard!” Came the shout from inside the burning cabin.

  Crocia looked at Mattie. “Was that a gun shot?” In answer to her question, Henry stumbled forward, grabbed the door for support, and fell against it, his body forcing it shut, and sealing the door on the shooter.

  “Henry!” The sound of her voice was horrible—a combination of desperation and cold dread. The cabin was completely ablaze. Mattie threw herself into the flames and tried to pull Henry out of the fire. She couldn’t budge him an inch. She heard an animalistic scream from inside the cabin—McCorkle. She could hear him slamming his weight against the door, but the weight of Henry’s body and the latch held it fast. There was another scream, and another, then nothing. She pulled against Henry’s weight again, and suddenly he was moving backward. She realized that Crocia was beside her, in the fire, pulling Henry away from the cabin.

  They dragged him at least forty feet from the cabin before Crocia realized the bottom of her dress was in flames. She swatted at the fire and tried in vain to rip it off, but then started to try to run away from the intense heat. Mattie caught her around the waist and rolled her in the dirt, slapping at the fire on her dress with her bare hands.

  “Oh, Mattie—your hands! They’re burned something awful.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Look after Henry.”

  He was in bad shape—shot in his chest just above his right breast. When Crocia turned him over she could actually hear a gurgling in his chest, as though his lung was sucking air in through the hole. He seemed to be struggling to draw a breath, but was able to choke out, “Matilda . . . Matilda”

  She was there on her knees, bending over close to him. She saw the chest wound, and placed her open palm over the hole. “I seen a doctor do this once to stop that gurglin’.”

  Despite the warm day, his teeth were chattering. “I’m cold . . . so cold . . . my coat. . . .”

  Crocia retrieved the tattered old coat from his saddlebag, and she and Mattie tried to wrap him to provide a little bit of warmth. He looked at Mattie, his eyes brimming over. “I done loved ye forever.” He choked and spit up a gush of blood.

  Mattie had one hand on his chest and held his badly burned right hand in hers. She squeezed her eyes tight with the sudden agony of reality but knew she had to give him comfort in these last minutes. “Don’t you worry none, Henry. Ye lived a righteous life. I done seen us together in paradise. I’ll be there with ye in the bye and bye.”

  He choked again, finally caught his breath, and managed to get out one last sentence. “I’ll be waitin’ for ye.” And just like that, his body was empty.

  As if on cue, the afternoon sky turned black, lightning and thunder rent the little valley, the heavens opened in an extremely heavy downpour, and large tree branches were torn from trees. At this moment, B. F. and Matt, followed at a distance by John Durham, ran into the clearing with their guns drawn.

  B. F. was so relieved when he saw her that he almost fell on his knees. “Crocia—are you hurt? Why, you’ve been afire! Mattie—are you? Oh, your hands are burned bad!” Then B. F. realized that what he had thought was just a pile of ragged clothes on the ground was actually a man. She was kneeling over Henry. “Mattie—is he?” He stepped closer, speaking quieter than before. “Is he gone?”

  She nodded mutely. He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. He loved you.”

  She nodded again and whispered hoarsely toward the heavens. “This here storm is Lucifer and all his devils, celebratin’ that one of the very best of us has passed on.”

  She began to rock back and forth on her knees, holding her arms around her shoulders, making the primitive sounds of grief she had first heard so long ago from her grandmother.

  B. F. stepped away, giving her some privacy. He took Crocia aside and spoke to her. “We heard a shot.”

  She stared at the revolver in his hand. “Please put your gun away. Guns have already done enough today.”

  He looked at the weapon in his hand and holstered it. “Where’s the man who took you?”

  She pointed at the burning cabin, now completely engulfed despite the heavy rain. “In there. He killed Henry.”

  “Why did he do this? What was his name?”

  “McCorkle.”

  “John McCorkle?” He was incredulous. “I could have killed him myself four months ago! In fact, all this time I thought he was dead!” He turned toward the grieving Maid. “Oh, Mattie. It’s my fault—it was McCorkle who did this to Henry.”

  Crocia looked at B. F. “McCorkle said terrible things about you. You . . . you aren’t who he said you were, are you? He . . . he said you were a killer.” She looked away.

  He put his arms on her shoulders, but she pulled back. “Are you a killer? Are you . . . are you like McCorkle?”

  B. F. was stunned that she, of all people, could compare him to McCorkle. “I knew McCorkle during the war. He and a man he worked with stole my ship and seventy thousand dollars worth of cargo. They made me think it had been sunk by a Union gunboat.”

  “Why did you get mixed up with somebody like that?”

  “They convinced me they were with the Texas Third Cavalry.” He hung his head with the shame of it. “I found out too late that they were nothing but vigilantes.”

  “Why didn’t you just stop dealing with them?”

  “By the time I found out, they had already stolen my ship and cargo. So I was no longer in business.”

  “Is that why you bought property here—because you wanted to get even with them? Even kill them?”

  “The man McCorkle followed was killed during the war by Union troops. I didn’t even know McCorkle was in this part of the country until four months ago. Then I found out almost by accident that McCorkle and his gang were planning on blowing
up Keetsville with dynamite. Some of us in the town were able to stop them. We thought we’d gotten rid of all of them. I don’t have any idea how McCorkle got away. The next time I heard the name McCorkle was five minutes ago.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled back again. “McCorkle must have taken you to get back at me. You’ve got to believe me—I’d never do anything to put you in danger.”

  Crocia put her head down for a few moments, then found what she needed within herself, and squared her shoulders. “I’m not the one whose life was ruined today because both you and McCorkle had to get even with somebody.” She knelt down and put her arm around Mattie, then looked up at B. F. “Mattie saved my life today, and she lost everything she owned, and everything she loved in doing it. Until she finds another place, she’s coming into town with me. Tomorrow, hire someone to make that farm house of yours liveable. You sleep at your store, and I’ll stay at the farm with Mattie for the time being. When she’s ready, I’ll go back to Waynesville.”

  B. F. looked at the two women in front of him. A mixture of soot and rainwater ran down their faces in rivulets. They each had bleeding rope burns around their necks. Their clothes were half burned away, their legs and faces blistered, and both of them had burns on their hands. All of a sudden he was filled with fear and love—but in his life, fear always had the upper hand.

  Love was certainly important, because he knew beyond any doubt that he felt love for Crocia. Although he had thought about it in the abstract several times, he had begun to be aware of the deep and powerful feelings that could be initiated with the realization that a truly good woman was a wonderful and precious thing.

  But then there was fear. Fear that he might have lost this woman because of the bad things that he had done, the business he had been in, the people he had run the blockade for, and maybe even the fear that came unbidden to his mind—an admittance that he could have been born to be this way—born under a bad sign. Down in the bottom of his gut, he couldn’t get away from remembering all the people who had suffered, and even died, who had been closest to him—Mr. Fitzwater, Jane, Ethan, his own mother, and now poor Henry. All of them because of things he had done, or things he had failed to do. Could he be a murderer? Could it be true? Was this the pattern of his life?