No current had him in its grasp, save the current of tragic circumstances that had brought him here today. He had broken free of that creek long ago. He would not be able to escape so easily the things that had hold of him now.
Magistrate Symms was on his feet. "Restrain that man!" he shouted. "I won't stand for such behavior in my court! I want the leg irons on him, Constable."
"Yes, sir," Abernathy said. He might not like putting irons on a man's legs, but he wasn't going to disobey Symms's order.
Davis was still sick in his stomach and his legs were trembling by the time he had been lifted to his feet once more and the shackles were fastened on his ankles. He looked around and spotted Andrew on the edge of the crowd, ready to put the spectators between himself and Davis if he had to. Symms summoned him to the front of the room again, and Andrew came reluctantly, moving each foot as if he was walking through knee-deep water.
"Finish your statement, Master Paxton," Symms said as the spectators settled down once more to listen.
Andrew leveled an accusing finger at Davis. "You've seen it for yourself! He's lost his mind. He killed Faith, and he tried to kill me. That's all I have to say."
Davis bit back a groan. All he had done by losing control was to make it look even more like Andrew was telling the truth. He had known that giving in to his anger would only hurt his cause, but he hadn't been able to stop himself.
And now he had probably lost his last chance to escape the hangman's noose.
Symms turned watery eyes toward Davis. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Hallam?"
Davis forced himself to take a deep breath and waited until the hammer blows of his pulse inside his skull had slowed down a little. Then he said, "Am I not entitled to a lawyer?"
"I'm the only attorney in this end of the Shenandoah Valley," Symms said. "If there is someone who will speak for you, call him forth."
Davis looked over at Abernathy. "I told you what really happened," he said. "Can you not find it in yourself to believe even a part of what I told you?"
"I didn't know you or your wife, Hallam," Abernathy said, "but I've spoken to many who did. Your wife was a good, God-fearing woman, and I'll not besmirch her name by repeating the lies you told me about her."
Faith had made a mistake, Davis thought. That didn't make her any less of a good woman. Anyone could stray, but the Good Book said they deserved forgiveness when they did.
No matter how badly Faith had hurt him by betraying him with Andrew, he would have forgiven her. He knew that now.
But he had to think of more than Faith. There were the children to consider, as well as his own life, which was in mortal danger.
He looked straight at Symms and said, "My wife was an adulterer. I found her lying with my brother Andrew. I would have been within my rights to kill them both." His voice caught, and he had to force himself to go on. "But I did not kill her. I loved her, and I would have forgiven her once I . . . I got over being so angry. I struggled with Andrew, and he is the one who shot her accidentally when he tried to fire his pistol at me."
There. It was done. The truth was told, no matter what happened next. By nightfall, everyone in this part of the valley would know what he had accused Faith of doing. Some of them might even believe it.
Most would not.
Symms certainly didn't. He said, "You have no one to substantiate your claim?"
Davis shook his head. "But neither does my brother."
"The fact that Andrew Paxton sought me out substantiates his story," Abernathy put in. "The testimony of Jonas Kirby, and of Mary Hallam, shows the state of mind Davis Hallam was in when he went into that cabin. I believe he shot his own wife in the heat of passion and would have murdered Andrew Paxton as well if he had had the chance."
"As do I," Symms said. "I declare Davis Hallam guilty of the crimes of murder and attempted murder and sentence him to be hanged by the neck until dead. The sentence will be carried out tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."
Just like that, he was condemned to death. Davis felt numb in both mind and body, and it was a moment before he realized that Symms had given him longer than he had really expected to have if he was found guilty. He would not be hanged until the next morning, instead of this afternoon.
That was a small favor for which to be thankful, to be wrongly executed a bit later than one would have anticipated. Davis fought down the impulse to laugh madly at the absurdity of it all.
"Do you have anything else to say?" Symms asked him.
For a moment, Davis considered demanding that he be tried again before a jury. But the result would be the same, he knew. He had no friends here, no one who would take his word over that of Andrew's. His quiet nature that most took for aloofness or even arrogance was now going to cost him his life, because no one here—no one!—knew him well enough to know that he was telling the truth.
"I have nothing to say," Davis rasped in a husky whisper.
"Then may God have more mercy on your soul than you showed your late wife." Symms stood up, taking the Bible in his hand. The black leather binding had cracked in places, revealing red streaks underneath. The magistrate gestured with his free hand. "Take him away."
One of the deputies took hold of Davis's shoulder and jerked him around. Abernathy's gun was still in his hand. He pointed it in Davis's general direction as he said, "Let's go back to the jail."
Davis didn't argue. He shuffled through the parting crowd, out the door, and down the steps to the street. The leg irons made walking in the thick mud even more difficult, but Davis paid no attention to that. His mind was filled with other things.
Faith. Poor, dead Faith.
And the fact that each step brought him that much closer to his own grave.
Chapter 5
I’ll have no man say that a prisoner of mine was mistreated," Abernathy declared as he brought a tray of food into the cell.
Davis didn't look up. He sat on the bunk, hands hanging between his knees, and stared at the floor. He had been doing a great deal of that lately, he realized, but for all of his studying the hard stone, it gave him no answers. It was as mute as his own heart.
He had deadened as much of himself as he could, trying to think about nothing, feel nothing. In the morning when he was marched to the gallows, only an empty shell of a man would be hanged. The part of him that had been truly living would have long since departed.
At least, that was Davis's hope. He saw no other choices he could make. Faith was gone, he would never be with his children again, and any reason he might have had for living had melted away like the snowfall under a warm sun.
Yet, even now, there were shady patches where thin layers of dirt-smudged whiteness remained, places where the sun seldom if ever reached.
Davis felt a coldness touch him, as if he had stretched his hand down and plunged it into one of those lingering patches of snow. He lifted his head and looked at Abernathy, at the tray of food in the constable's hands. He saw a thick slice of roast beef, cooked with wild onions, and a chunk of bread, and suddenly he was hungry.
"Here," Abernathy said. He handed the tray to Davis, who took it and rested it on his knees. Abernathy left the cell and came back with a jug. "This won't hurt, either," he said as he placed it on the floor just inside the door of the cell.
"A last meal for the condemned man," Davis said in a hollow voice.
"You'll get your supper, and breakfast in the morning if you want it," Abernathy snapped. "Like I said, I won't have anyone claiming that I mistreated a prisoner."
"You're a humane jailer."
"Of course I am."
"Yet you'd take me out of here in the morning— after giving me breakfast—and see me hanged for something I didn't do."
"The verdict of the court is that you're guilty, Hallam," Abernathy said stiffly. "I carry out the sentence, that's all."
Davis lifted the bread to his mouth, bit off a large piece of it, and began to chew. Around the bread, he said, "Go away, Aberna
thy."
"Aye, that I will." The constable stepped out into the corridor, slammed the door shut, and rattled the key in the lock.
Davis ate quickly, almost savagely, as the coldness within him grew. He stood up and fetched the jug Abernathy had left behind. When he pulled the cork and tilted the mouth of the jug to his lips, he was a little surprised to find that it contained wine.
He had expected some of Magistrate Symms's corn squeezings. The wine was thin and sour, and the faint warmth it generated in his belly did nothing to mitigate the chill he felt inside.
He finished the food, drank the last of the wine, and then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. Nothing to Hue for, he thought. That was what he had believed. But he knew now it wasn't true. There was one thing to which he could cling, one very important reason that he should live.
* * *
His hatred for Andrew Paxton, who had stolen everything else from him.
All during that long afternoon, feeling seeped back into the numbed mind and heart of Davis Hallam. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but he knew now that he could not simply resign himself to his own death.
If he was ever to have his revenge on Andrew, he would have to get out of this jail somehow.
Despite the seething activity that was going on inside him. Davis remained stoic on the outside. He said nothing to Abernathy when the constable came into the cell to retrieve the tray and the empty jug. Davis stayed where he was on the bunk, seemingly looking at nothing.
But in reality, he was studying Abernathy, assessing the way the constable was paying less attention to him now. Davis didn't know if any of Abernathy's prisoners had ever been hanged before, but Abernathy seemed to find Davis's defeated attitude normal.
Perhaps most prisoners awaiting execution retreated into themselves the way Davis had been on the verge of doing. Davis didn't know, didn't care. It was enough that Abernathy was showing signs of growing careless.
The afternoon edged by, and the light in the window faded. Davis climbed to his feet and looked out, saw that the clouds which had been white earlier in the day were now mottled shades of orange and purple. They looked like clusters of bruised fruit hanging in the sky.
This might be the last dusk he would ever see, Davis thought. Might be . . . but not if he could do anything to prevent it.
He moved over to the door and put his ear close to the small, barred window. He heard faint sounds coming from Abernathy's office: the scrape of a chair leg, a drawer opening and closing in the rolltop desk, a cough. The sounds of one man, Davis judged. No one spoke.
Abernathy must have sent home the men he had deputized, now that the trial was over and the prisoner was safely locked up. The deputies would be back in the morning, ready to accompany Davis on his last walk to the gibbet.
Abernathy scraped the chair again, then a moment later the front door of the building opened and closed. Davis put his face close to the window in the cell door and angled his eyes toward the office as much as he could. The candle glow he saw told him that the connecting door was open. He turned his head and looked through the bars at the sky again. The colors he had seen in the clouds earlier were gone. Everything was gray now.
Time for his supper.
Abernathy would probably go over to the trading post to get it. Herring's wife sold meals to travelers when they passed through Elkton, so it made sense that she would also provide food for any prisoners locked up in the jail across the street. The constable probably wouldn't be gone long.
Sure enough, not more than five minutes had passed when Davis heard the sound of the front door again. He waited at the cell door until he was certain that the footsteps of only one man had entered the building. When those footsteps started down the corridor toward the cell, he moved quickly back to the bunk and slumped down on it in the same posture of despair he had exhibited before.
The light in the corridor grew brighter. Abernathy was bringing a candle with him again, just as he had done the previous two nights. Davis heard a clatter outside the door, then the key turned in the lock.
He let his head fall forward dispiritedly. The door swung open, and the glow from the candle washed into the cell. Davis had his eyes squinted almost shut so that the light wouldn't blind him. He didn't look up as Abernathy stepped into the cell.
"Here's your supper, Hallam," the constable said. "Are you awake?"
A touch of worry edged into Abernathy's voice, as if he was really concerned that Davis might be dead instead of sleeping. Davis lifted his head slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the yellow glare of the candle flame. He said in a husky voice, "Did you bring another jug?"
He saw the faint smirk that appeared on Abernathy's lips for a moment. He saw as well that the constable was not armed except for the stout club he usually carried in the jail. The pistol that had been tucked behind Abernathy's wide black belt earlier was nowhere to be seen.
"Don't you want your food?"
"Just the jug will do," Davis said.
Abernathy shrugged. "Whatever pleases you." He had the candle in his right hand, a plate of food in his left. Without setting down the plate, he bent and scooped up the jug from the floor next to the door of the cell, hooking a finger through the curved earthenware handle. He straightened and took a step toward Davis.
Davis came off the bunk in a diving lunge that carried him under Abernathy's arms. The constable had time to yell once in surprise and alarm before Davis slammed into his thighs and drove him backward.
Davis felt the jolt shiver through Abernathy's body as the man's back crashed against the jamb of the door. Abernathy cried out again. Davis went to his knees, his arms still wrapped around Abernathy's legs. The plate of food made an unholy clatter as it fell to the floor, and the jug burst open with a sound like a muffled gunshot when it landed on the stones an instant later.
The sickly sweet smell of the wine rose from the floor like an ascending soul. Davis didn't know what had happened to the candle, but the cell had gone dim and shadowy again.
All he knew was that he had to put Abernathy out of the fight quickly, before the constable got his hands on that bludgeon he carried. Davis remembered all too well how a blow from the club had made splinters of agony shoot through his shoulder and deadened his whole arm a couple of nights earlier. He let go of Abernathy's thighs with his right arm and brought that fist up as hard as he could into the man's groin.
Davis had never been much of a brawler. Like any man, there had been times in his life when he had been forced to fight. He had been in the Continental Army during the last year of the Revolution and had seen action in several battles against the British.
But that hadn't been hand to hand combat like he was experiencing now. Days and weeks and months of hard work, of swinging an ax and wrestling a plow behind a mule, had hardened his muscles and packed a great deal of strength into their flat, corded lengths.
He felt a surprisingly strong surge of satisfaction as his punch landed and Abernathy screamed. Davis got his feet underneath him and pushed himself upward, butting Abernathy in the stomach and slamming him into the door jamb again as he did so.
Davis smelled the constable's sweat and the acrid tang of beer. Abernathy must have gotten a mug of the brew over at the trading post when he picked up Davis's supper. Davis's hands went to Abernathy's waist and searched frantically for the handle of the club. His fingers slid over the smooth wood, then closed around it. Davis jerked the club free.
Instead of using it on Abernathy, he flung it behind him and heard it rattle against the rear wall of the cell. He had no wish to kill Abernathy, but he knew that he would if he had to in order to get out of here and find Andrew. Best to remove the temptation to use the club to smash Abernathy's skull.
Davis got hold of Abernathy's coat and used it to steady himself as he straightened. Abernathy hit him once in the chest, but the blow didn't have much power behind it. Abernathy was still stunned from Davis's unexpected attack.
Davis hit him in the face with his right fist, then hit him again. Abernathy's head rocked back each time. He tried to throw another punch at Davis, but it was easily blocked. Davis grabbed the lapels of Abernathy's coat, swung him around, and hit him again, this time with a left. The blow sent Abernathy crashing back against the bunk. Davis heard a sharp snap, and Abernathy gave a high, thin cry of agony as he fell to the floor.
Davis didn't know what he had done, but he knew he couldn't leave Abernathy free behind him to raise the alarm. He stepped closer to the constable and saw that Abernathy's left arm was bent at a strange angle beneath him. The arm was broken, Davis realized.
Then he stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air in the cell. Something was burning. Suddenly, he felt heat on his back. He hadn't even noticed it before. With a grimace, he whipped off his coat and saw that it was on fire.
Melted wax from the candle must have splattered on it when he tackled Abernathy, Davis thought, setting the fabric to smoldering and finally blazing. He threw the burning coat to the floor and started stomping on it with his boots to put out the flames.
While he was doing that, something suddenly attached itself to his leg and pulled hard. Davis wasn't ready for that. He grunted in surprise as he fell.
In the light from the still burning coat he saw Peter Abernathy struggling with him. Abernathy had managed somehow to get his hand on the club Davis had taken away from him earlier. He drew back his good arm, ready to strike with the bludgeon.
Davis didn't stop to think about what he was doing. He just kicked Abernathy's broken arm as hard as he could.
Abernathy didn't scream this time. The pain must have been too great for that. His eyes just rolled back in his head, and he fell away from Davis, out cold from the agony that had shot through him.
The Wilderness Road Page 5