The sleeves of Davis's shirt were smoldering from where he had landed beside the burning coat. He slapped out the little fires, then clambered to his feet and finished stamping out the coat. His chest was heaving, and the lungfuls of air he gulped down were bitter with the mixture of smoke, spilled wine, and the cell's usual stench. The blood was roaring in his head.
After a moment, he forced some coherent thoughts through his brain. He had no idea how long Abernathy would be unconscious, but it wasn't likely to be long. Davis picked up the remnants of the coat, ripped off and balled up a piece of the fabric, and shoved it into Abernathy's mouth. He used another strip of cloth from the ruined coat to bind the makeshift gag in place. Then he tied the constable's good arm to one leg of the bunk.
That ought to hold him for a while, Davis thought. Long enough to get away from the settlement, anyway. He wiped the back of his hand across his face and stumbled out of the cell.
Abernathy had yelled enough during the fight that he might have attracted the attention of someone in the settlement. His movements still somewhat awkward, Davis moved to the desk and picked up the pistol he saw lying there.
After he had shoved the weapon behind his belt, he turned to the wall and lifted one of the muskets down from its pegs. He took the powderhorn and shot pouch that had been hanging with the gun, as well as the horn and pouch from the other musket, and slung them all over his shoulder by their straps. He would have liked to have a knife as well, but there was no time to rummage around the office looking for one. He was already well armed.
He went to the door and eased it open, peering through the narrow crack at the gathering night. Seeing no one, he pushed the door open a little more. The trading post across the road came into view. The big log building was brightly lit, but no one was on the porch. It was still too cold at night to sit outside. Herring, his wife, and any customers would be inside, close by the stove.
Davis moved out of the constable's office, not hurrying as he went down the steps, and turned toward the corner of the building. Haste would just draw attention to him. But he didn't lag about. He walked like a man who knew where he was going and had every right to be going there.
When he reached the corner of the jail building, he turned around it, relaxing slightly as he put himself out of sight of the trading post and the other businesses and cabins. The woods grew close to the back of the jail, and Davis headed straight for them, eager to lose himself in their thick, clinging shadows. It would have simplified matters if he'd had a horse, but the only way to get one here in Elkton would be to steal one. He wasn't going to do that.
No matter what else might be said about him, Davis Hallam was no thief.
But he was a man who had been terribly wronged, and he swore that by the time this night was over, he would have his vengeance on Andrew Paxton.
* * *
It was a long walk to Andrew's farm, but Davis felt little of it. His hatred urged him on like a hand tugging at him, a tiny voice imploring him to keep moving. Yet he could not totally ignore the blisters that formed on his feet, even through the thick socks he wore. Work boots were not meant for walking more than ten miles. By the time he was halfway to his destination, prickles of pain shot through Davis's feet with each step.
He told himself he felt nothing, and he kept his eyes on the stars overhead much of the time, steering by their brilliant points of light. The sky was clear; the clouds that were there earlier in the evening had been blown away by the cold wind that cut through Davis's shirt and numbed his ears. There was no moon, but he could see the road by the light of the stars.
Few people would be abroad at this time of night, and Davis was thankful for that. In fact, he had not seen a single soul since circling around the settlement and reaching the road that ran through the center of the valley.
Numb or not, he used his ears diligently, listening for the slightest sound of pursuit behind him. If he heard anything, he planned to leave the road and hide in the woods on either side. His nervousness increased every time he reached an area of fields, where there was little place to hide.
Davis's plans were vague. He wasn't sure what he would do when he reached Andrew's cabin. He had never thought of himself as a killer. That was one reason it had been so shocking to be accused of Faith's murder. He was a peaceful man.
Yet he knew now that he was capable of taking the life of someone else. He would have gladly killed Andrew there in the meeting hall during that travesty of a trial. He might yet kill Andrew.
But if he did, everyone in the Shenandoah Valley would know who was responsible. He would spend the rest of his life as a fugitive, running from judgment . . .
Which was exactly what he already was, he told himself. If he was going to be a fugitive anyway, better to be running from something he had actually done, rather than something he hadn't.
If he didn't kill Andrew, though . . . if he could take his brother back to Elkton and somehow force him to confess . . . then Davis's name would be cleared and he wouldn't have to live his life on the run from the law. He would be reunited with his children and could return to his existence on the farm. True, Faith would no longer be there, and he would have all the bitter memories to contend with, but he was confident that he and Mary and Laurel and Theodore could still make a decent life for themselves.
If that proved to be too difficult to do here in the Shenandoah Valley, they could move on elsewhere. They could head west.
There was a whole country out there for the taking, after all.
Davis used those thoughts to distract himself from the blisters on his feet and the dull, throbbing ache in his legs. The stars wheeled in their heavenly courses overhead, and the hours passed. It had to be after midnight by now. Davis wondered if Constable Abernathy had gotten loose yet, or if anyone had found him tied up there in the cell.
It was possible he was still lying there helplessly on the cold stone floor, and Davis felt a little bad about that. But only a little, because he had not forgotten Abernathy's unbending attitude of disbelief, nor how his arm and shoulder had hurt from that blow with the club. Abernathy was a hard, cheerless man.
Of course, some had accused Davis of being the same thing . . .
He shook his head, trying not to think about some of the harsh words Faith had spoken to him in the past. Dwelling on that would do no one any good, least of all him. And he had to look out for himself, because no one else would now.
Dawn was still several hours off, he judged, when he reached the lane leading from the road to Andrew's farm. He turned onto the narrower path and increased his pace.
The tug on him was even stronger now. His hands tightened on the musket he had taken from Abernathy's office, and despite the coldness of the night, he felt tiny beads of sweat break out on his forehead to be almost instantly dried by the wind. That just made the chill inside him deeper, more numbing.
No lights shone in the windows of the cabin as he approached. That came as no surprise. Andrew was probably asleep. Davis wondered if his dreams were haunted by nightmares of what he had done. Probably not, he decided. Anyone who could stand before a magistrate and lie the way Andrew had lied would probably sleep soundly—no matter what else he might have done.
No dogs barked as Davis came up to the cabin. Andrew didn't keep any, claiming they were too much trouble. Davis was thankful for that. He looked around the place, seeing the fallen pole fences, the rocks and stumps still in the fields that should have been cleared, the way the barn leaned to one side like a tired old man. Those were all things that Andrew should have taken care of before now if he planned to make a success of this farm.
But that was just it, Davis realized. Andrew had never planned to make a go of it. That would involve too much hard work. No, Andrew would have been content to keep things just as they had been. Davis would have helped him, would have fed him and taken him in if necessary.
Davis wouldn't have liked it, but Andrew was family, after all. Where a man's famil
y was concerned, you sometimes did things whether you really wanted to or not.
Andrew had stepped over a line that could not be crossed when he persuaded Faith to take him into her bed. Davis had no doubt that the whole thing had been Andrew's idea. Faith had given in to temptation, but it had been Andrew who had placed it before her. And so far, Andrew was the only one who had not been punished for his transgression.
That was about to end, Davis told himself.
His booted foot crashed against the door of the cabin, knocking it open. His thumb was curled around the hammer of the musket, ready to cock the weapon and fire it if he needed to. "Andrew!" he bellowed as he lunged into the one-room cabin. "Your judgment is upon you, Andrew!"
Not much starlight penetrated the interior of the cabin, but Davis's eyes were open wide to take advantage of what illumination there was. He swung the barrel of the musket from side to side, alert for any movement in the shadows, any sound that would give away Andrew's position.
There was nothing. Nothing.
Davis stood there, his breath harsh in his throat. He was holding so tightly to the gun that his arms began to tremble. "Andrew?" he said.
No answer but silence.
Outside the wind whispered in the trees. Inside the cabin, Davis lowered the musket and felt around in the darkness until he located the fireplace. He knelt in front of it, found some slivers of wood for kindling, and took out his flint and steel and tinder, which Abernathy had left him. He struck a spark and soon had a small fire going. There were only a few half-burned twigs left in the fireplace.
Their light was enough to tell him that the cabin was empty. Everything was gone—not that Andrew had had much in the way of furnishings. He'd had more clothes than anything else, Davis recalled. He had been proud of his wardrobe, along with a silver-headed walking stick and a knife with a silver knob on the end of its handle, both of which he had bought in Philadelphia, he'd said.
Davis took a deep, ragged breath. He had come all this way for nothing. Andrew was gone, almost as if he had never been here. All he had left behind him was the wreckage of several lives.
Leaving the little fire burning, Davis stalked out of the cabin and quickly checked the barn, but the results of the search were what he expected. Andrew's horse was missing, too, and so was the brace of mules he had bought. He must have used the mules as pack animals when he left, Davis thought. The beasts could have easily carried away Andrew's few belongings.
Davis stood on the threshold of the cabin and tiredly scrubbed a hand over his face. He had not shaved in several days, and the beard stubble on his cheeks and chin was thick and bristly. Faith would have hated it and claimed that he was trying to scrape her raw if he had kissed her looking like this. Davis's eyes felt wet and hot at that thought.
There was nothing he could do here. He had been cheated of his vengeance. And yet, he wasn't ready to just walk away from the place. Instead, he went inside and took the stopper from the mouth of one of the powderhorns. With a flicking motion of his wrist, he scattered some of the black powder around the room, then laid a trail of it to the door. He capped the powderhorn again, then went to the fireplace, where the blaze had burned down to almost nothing. Flames still flickered along the length of one of the twigs, however. He picked it up by the end that wasn't burning and walked back to the door, holding the twig in front of him.
He turned, took another deep breath, and then bent to hold the burning twig to the trail of powder that snaked across the room. The powder caught with a sudden hiss and flared up brightly. Davis dropped the twig and stepped back quickly. He moved away from the cabin, watching the spreading flames through the open doorway as he did so.
Within a matter of seconds, or so it seemed, the whole cabin was ablaze, throwing out great waves of light and heat that broke around him. The flames glittered in Davis's eyes, and the crackling of the dry wood as it burned filled his ears.
So much so, in fact, that he didn't hear the thunder of hoofbeats until it was almost too late.
He spun around so that the inferno seared the fine hairs on the back of his neck and saw the horsemen coming down the lane toward him. They were still a good distance away, but the light from the fire reached far enough for him to see the face of Peter Abernathy.
The constable rode at the head of the group, his broken arm splinted and wrapped and held in a sling. His features were contorted with rage, and he was shouting something. Davis couldn't hear the words, but that didn't matter. He knew what Abernathy was saying.
He was telling the men with him to shoot down Davis Hallam like a mad dog.
Davis threw himself to the side as orange muzzle flashes sparked in the night. He couldn't hear the lead balls thudding into the burning walls of the cabin, but he was certain they were. He scrambled around the corner of the blazing structure, unsure if he was hit or not.
Somehow, his exhausted body found the strength to run. He was beyond the barn by the time the riders reached the cabin. A glance back over his shoulder told him that some of the men were stopping, perhaps to see if they could determine whether or not Andrew was inside the cabin, but several others came on at a gallop.
Across the field behind the barn was a dark line that Davis knew to be a thick stretch of woods. If he could get in there, the men couldn't pursue him on horseback because of the undergrowth. He would have a chance of slipping away from Abernathy and the others, but only if he made it to the forest first.
Firing on innocent men went against every instinct he had except one.
Self-preservation.
He stopped, swung around, and lifted the musket to his shoulder. As he settled the sights on the onrushing figures on horseback, he cocked the weapon and curled his finger around the trigger. At the last instant, he altered his aim slightly, firing just above their heads.
The boom of the musket and the tongue of flame that licked from its muzzle was enough to make the riders veer to one side. Davis turned and ran again, and the trees drew steadily closer in front of him. Something whined past his ear, and he knew it had been a ball from a flintlock. He lurched from side to side as he ran, making it more difficult for anyone to draw a bead on him.
Then suddenly he was among the trees and the brush, and he heard the angry shouts from across the field. Davis plunged deeper into the undergrowth, ignoring the way the branches caught at him and cut his face and hands and tore his clothes. By the time he emerged from this thicket, he might be stripped naked and bleeding from a thousand scratches, but he would come out a free man.
Or die trying.
Chapter 6
The trading post was a busy place. Wagons hitched to teams of massive, stolid-looking oxen were parked in front of the big log building. A dozen or more horses and pack mules had their reins tied to the railing along the edge of the long porch.
Women and children bustled in and out through the open double doors, the women wearing homespun gray or brown dresses and bonnets, the girls in similar dresses, the boys in wool pants and linsey-woolsey shirts. The men were wearing everything from buckskins decorated with beads and fringes in the Indian fashion to town clothes bought back east in Boston or Philadelphia; they stood along the porch smoking pipes, sharing drinks from jugs that were passed around, talking solemnly about politics, or laughing raucously at some tall tale.
Every stripe of frontier humanity was here, Davis Hallam thought as he trudged up the path that led to the trading post. He wondered if he was the only one who was wanted by the law on murder charges. Probably not, he decided.
The wilderness was big enough for just about everybody.
Three weeks had passed since the night he had fled from the burning cabin of his half-brother, with pursuers dogging his heels. Most of the cuts and scrapes he had gotten that night had healed by now, but they had left quite a few new scars. Not to mention the scars that no one could see, such as knowing that his wife was dead and he would probably never see his children again. And knowing, as well, that justi
ce had been forever denied.
He had gotten away from Abernathy and the other men by the skin of his teeth. Some of his pursuers had come into the forest after him, while others had tried to ride around it and catch up with him on the other side. There were some stretches of woods in the Shenandoah Valley that ran for miles, however, and that was one of them. By the time the riders reached the far side of the thick growth, Davis was long gone.
It had been trickier eluding the men who came after him on foot. He could have stopped and waited to ambush them, and he probably could have killed several of them before he was finally captured or killed. But he had no wish to cause them harm, so he had pushed on, listening to the crash of brush behind him, using that noise as a goad to urge him on whenever he felt like giving up.
By the next morning, he had been miles from where he had started, and the sounds of pursuit had faded and finally disappeared. He was safe, at least for the moment.
The worst part of it was that he had had no chance to pick up Andrew's trail. He had no idea which direction his half-brother had gone when he left the farm. And of a certainty, Davis could never return to that place, or even to the vicinity. To do so would be to risk capture and hanging. His own farm was forfeit, just as his life had nearly been.
Over the past three weeks, he had come to terms with that as best he could. His life had utterly changed, and there was no going back. Might as well try to grasp and hold the wind as to try to get back what he had lost. It would be as easy a task.
During that time he had traveled mostly at night, hiding by day in thick woods or brush-choked gullies. Luckily, there was plenty of game about, and no one on the frontier wondered too much about an occasional shot in the distance. Nearly everyone supplemented what they could grow by hunting. Davis didn't go hungry too often.
The blisters on his feet broke and healed. New ones formed and broke. Still he kept walking at night, heading in a generally southwest direction, paralleling the Blue Ridge to the east and the Shenandoah Mountains to the west. In time he left the valley entirely, unsure of where he was going, knowing only that he had to put as much distance as possible between him and everything that was now behind him.
The Wilderness Road Page 6