The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

For a moment, Emily couldn't find her voice. Then she realized how tightly she was gripping the handle of the churn and pried her fingers loose. She managed to say, "No, sir, he is not. Can I help you?"

  "You are the wife of the man who owns this establishment?"

  Emily nodded. "I am."

  "Then you'd be Mrs. Davis Hallam."

  She made an effort to remain calm. It wouldn't do to let this man see how his visit was really affecting her, no matter who he might turn out to be. "You're mistaken, sir," she said. "My husband's name is Davis, but it is his last name. I'm Mrs. Hal Davis."

  The stranger smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes, which Emily now noticed glittered like ice. "I think not. If anyone has made the mistake, madam, it is you. May I step down from my horse?"

  Emily's chin lifted defiantly. "I think not, not if you insist on being both mysterious and offensive. Who are you, sir, and what do you want here?"

  The man had taken his right foot out of the stirrup and shifted his weight, preparing to swing down from the saddle. At Emily's crisp words, he stopped the motion and settled down on the horse's back once again. "Very well," he said. "Since you already seem to know who I am, I see no harm in admitting it. My name is Peter Abernathy. I daresay your husband has mentioned me."

  "I've never heard of you before," Emily lied, her voice as cold as Peter Abernathy's eyes.

  "What about the village of Elkton, in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia?"

  Emily shook her head.

  "And Faith Hallam?" Peter Abernathy asked softly. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

  "Nothing." Emily had control of her rampaging emotions now, and she was determined not to let the reins slip.

  "I see." Abernathy pursed his lips. "Then you have either deluded yourself, madam, or you have been lied to by a master. Meaning your husband, Davis Hallam, of course."

  Emily came to her feet. "Mr. Abernathy," she said, "if you would like to buy a drink, or if you have need of a room for the night—even though it is very early and you could travel on a good distance before sundown—then, please, come in. We here at the Broken Flintlock will be happy to serve you. But if you intend to sit there and make insulting, lying remarks about my husband, then I'll thank you to ride on and trouble me no longer."

  The false smile disappeared from Abernathy's face, and a frown that was much darker but also much more genuine took its place. "I represent the law, madam."

  "You represent nothing but an annoyance to me, sir. The people of Logan's Fort have elected a constable, and you are not he."

  "I'm from the Commonwealth of Virginia—"

  "And this is Kentucky, soon to be a sovereign state." Emily stepped away from the churn and closer to the door of the tavern. "Now, I have a helper inside who would be more than happy to come to my aid if I call for him, not to mention that there are quite a few men here in the settlement within earshot. If I should scream—"

  Abernathy held up a hand, palm out, to stop her. "Very well," he grated. "I'll leave. But be warned, Mrs. Hallam, or Mrs. Davis, or whatever you call yourself. I've spoken to enough people around here to know that your husband is the man I'm seeking. He matches the description perfectly, and the name is too similar to be coincidence. Wherever he is, I will find him. He cannot escape justice for what he did in Virginia." Abernathy's right hand went to his left arm and rubbed it, and Emily noticed for the first time how Abernathy seemed to favor that arm, as though it had been injured in the past.

  "And one more thing," the man continued. "A word of warning, madam, in case you really don't know what this man did. He murdered his wife in a frenzy of rage and tried to kill his own brother. I wouldn't sleep too well at night if such a man were in bed beside me."

  Emily fought back a shudder. "You are too bold, sir," she gasped. "Please leave."

  "I'll be back," Abernathy promised grimly. "I've searched for Davis Hallam for more than a year. I'll find him."

  The man's bleak confidence sent another shudder through Emily. He wheeled his horse and trotted it back toward the fort. She stepped inside the tavern, her head spinning wildly as she did so.

  For the first time, Emily was glad that Davis wasn't here. If he had been, Abernathy would have tried to take him into custody, and Davis would have fought him, and quite likely one of them would have died. Davis had made it plain to her that he would never return to Virginia to face a hangman's rope for something he hadn't done.

  And she still believed that he was innocent of his wife's murder. Now, after seeing Peter Abernathy, she was more convinced of it than ever. The man had no mercy in him, no ability to listen to reason. Once Abernathy had made up his mind about something, nothing would ever sway him from that belief.

  Emily could understand now why Davis had been willing to take any chance to escape from Abernathy's jail.

  But what was the constable from Virginia doing in Kentucky? Despite what Abernathy had said, Emily knew he had no legal right to arrest anyone here. Davis would be well within his rights to refuse to go anywhere with Abernathy, and if Abernathy tried to force him, then Davis would be the injured party. The law would be on Davis's side this time if he tried to fight back.

  That meant Abernathy's pose as a lawman was a sham, probably just a sop to Abernathy's own conscience. Obviously, he had tracked down Davis as a matter of revenge. He probably intended to kill his quarry as soon as he found him.

  Emily's hand went to her mouth to stifle a gasp as that realization hit her. A second later, she jumped and cried out as Willy Malone asked her from behind the bar, "Ma'am, are you all right? Miz Davis?"

  Emily shook her head, not in answer to Willy's question but to try to clear it. She said, "I'm fine, Willy, just fine."

  "Well, I hope you'll excuse me for sayin' so, ma'am, but you don't really look it. You look about as shook up as my Uncle Seth did the time he nearly sat down on a rattlesnake."

  A rattlesnake, Emily thought. That was a pretty good description of Peter Abernathy. Something evil had been coiled inside the man, just waiting to strike.

  Davis had been right. The past couldn't be avoided forever. Sooner or later, no matter how well someone hid from it, it caught up. And most of the time, the past brought with it only trouble. Nothing lived longer than trouble.

  Those thoughts were whirling through Emily's mind as she walked slowly over to the bar. She placed her hands on the rough wood and leaned on it for support. "Willy," she said, not really thinking about the words coming from her mouth, "can you go out back and saddle the other horse for me?"

  Willy stared at her. "Saddle the horse?" he repeated. "But, ma'am—"

  "Please," she interrupted. "Don't ask questions, just go do as I asked."

  She knew she was being curt with him, and she regretted it as soon as she saw the hurt in his eyes. But he nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am, sure. I'll do that."

  Emily stayed where she was, leaning on the bar, as Willy hurried out of the tavern. She heard the back door open and close as he left the building and headed for the shed.

  She had no real idea what she was going to do. But Conn Powell's words from the day before echoed in her mind. Not from me, anyway. That was what the long hunter had said in reply to Emily's statement about Davis not wanting any help.

  Would he accept help from her? Emily had no idea, and she certainly couldn't be of any assistance in helping him find Andrew Paxton.

  But Davis had to be warned that he wasn't the only manhunter in this part of the country. He had to be told that Abernathy had been here looking for him. Emily knew she had handled the conversation with Abernathy badly, but she had been too upset with Davis leaving and too surprised by Abernathy's arrival in the settlement to think straight. Then too, Abernathy had been almost brutal in his questioning of her, and she could see now that he had most likely done that on purpose to keep her off-balance.

  No one would have believed her when she denied knowing anything about Davis Hallam, she thought bitterly. Abernathy had to
know that his long search had finally brought him to the right place and the right man.

  She could make it up to Davis by warning him. Somehow, she had to find him.

  Willy came back into the tavern. "That horse is saddled and ready to ride, just like you wanted, ma'am," he said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Can you stay here and watch the tavern for-the rest of the day?" Emily asked.

  "Well, I reckon I can. I know it's none of my business, but what in the world—"

  "Please, Willy," she interrupted with a smile. "Don't ask any more questions. Just take care of the place while I'm gone. I'll be counting on you."

  "I won't let you down, ma'am." The young man was still frowning in confusion, but he didn't press Emily for any more answers.

  She was glad of that. She had enough on her mind as it was. Leaving him there in the big public room of the tavern, she went to the living quarters, pulled a small trunk from underneath the bed, and opened it.

  In a hardwood box inside the trunk was a pistol, along with a powderhorn and shot pouch. Emily took all three items from the box and placed them on the bed. With fingers that trembled slightly, she began to load the weapon.

  By the time she finished, her fingers weren't shaking at all.

  Chapter 18

  Davis crouched behind a large boulder that crowned a wooded hill. He had worked his way up here because the spot gave such a good view of the surrounding countryside. Several miles behind him was the mountain where the bandit lair had been when Shadrach was leading the gang.

  The day before, Davis had spent hours riding around the mountain in a fruitless search. He had been unable to find anything indicating that the highwaymen had returned to their former hideout. That had come as something of a surprise. Davis had been convinced that Conn Powell's cryptic comments were meant to tell him something. Now it appeared that Powell had merely been speculating.

  Not even Conn Powell knew everything, Davis had told himself as he continued looking, and even a good guess could be wrong.

  Yet he had to have a starting place in his search for Andrew, and the mountain was as good as any. Davis had made a cold camp the night before—and cold it had been without a fire, indeed!—then started riding again this morning, circling out wider, putting more distance between himself and the peak.

  At least the weather was a bit nicer. In fact, it was a glorious autumn day, filled with bright sunshine. The air still had a bite to it, but that was all right. It kept the sun from being too warm.

  By mid-afternoon, Davis had reached the hill where he now leaned against the boulder. From here he could see several miles in each direction.

  To the north and south were rolling hills, to the west the land that gradually grew flatter, to the east the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains and in the faint distance, the Gap itself.

  He could see a winding line in the trees that marked the route of the Wilderness Road. In a few places, he could see the road itself, the dirt bare and hard-packed from the countless wagon wheels, hooves of horses and mules and oxen, and human feet that had followed it.

  The path of civilization itself, Davis thought.

  He sighed and slid down the boulder so that he was sitting on the ground with his back resting against the stone surface. Although he had left the tavern prepared to spend as long as it took to find Andrew, he could already feel disappointment and restlessness growing inside him.

  He had hoped to locate the bandits quickly and find out if the young man called Paxton who was now riding with them was indeed his half-brother. Davis had been confident the man Powell saw was Andrew, but it was always possible he was mistaken. It wasn't as if he had never been wrong before, he told himself with a grim smile.

  If the bandit wasn't Andrew, then he would look almighty foolish when he returned to the tavern and Emily, Davis thought. She wouldn't try to make him feel worse about it, though, he felt certain of that. They had disagreed on whether or not he ought to go looking for Andrew, but she was a woman with a good heart, and she loved him.

  Of course, he was assuming that she would even be there when he got back, he reminded himself. She had warned him that she might not be. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that she would really leave him. She wouldn't end their marriage. They loved each other too much for that.

  Ah, if only love was enough . . . but Davis knew from bitter experience that sometimes it wasn't. "Faith," he muttered, his voice low and torn by the pain of memory.

  His mind began to turn back to those terrible times, but suddenly something else caught his attention, snapping him back to the present and making him sit forward to peer intently toward the Wilderness Road. He saw something moving along the trail. Squinting, he followed the movement along the road to a spot where the trees thinned and he could get a better look at the travelers.

  Wagons—quite a few of them, and all pulled by teams of oxen. Judging by the number of brutes in each team, the wagons were heavily loaded, which meant they were likely carrying freight. This wasn't an immigrant train, like the one headed up by Emily's father. The men driving these wagons were not settlers. They were businessmen, coming to Kentucky to make money.

  Davis started to lean back against the boulder again when more movement caught his eye. This came from the thick woods along a ridge behind which the Wilderness Road ran. Sunlight struck a glint off metal there, and although the reflection would not be visible to the freighters approaching on the trail, Davis could see it plainly from where he was.

  And as his breath caught in his throat, he remembered Powell telling him about the way the bandits had attacked a train of freight wagons.

  Davis sprang to his feet while the thought was still only half-formed in his brain. The bandits had successfully struck a train of freighters only a few days earlier. It was entirely possible that they were about to try again. Davis knew he was looking at an ambush in the making.

  Holding his flintlock tightly in his hand, he started down the far side of the hill toward the spot where he had left his horse. Half-sliding, half-bounding down the slope, he ignored the way the underbrush tugged at his clothes and scratched his hands and face.

  The bandits, including perhaps the man he was looking for, were less than a mile away. Once he reached his horse, he could be there in a matter of minutes. From what he had seen of the speed with which the wagons were traveling, Davis thought he had a chance to get to the ridge before they passed beneath it, their drivers tempting targets for the guns of the gang.

  To be honest, Davis thought wildly as he made his way down the hill at a breakneck pace, he was less concerned with warning the freighters than he was with finding Andrew, but if he could ruin the ambush the gang had set up, so much the better.

  When he reached his horse, the animal was dancing around nervously, spooked by Davis's crashing progress through the brush. Davis yanked the reins free and then lunged for the saddlehorn with both hands. He grabbed it and swung up onto the horse, the long-barreled rifle held crossways in front of him. His booted heels drove into the animal's flanks and prodded it into motion.

  A fast trot was the best Davis could manage as he rounded the shoulder of the hill. There was too much brush to allow the horse to gallop. But a few minutes later he hit a narrow game trail that meandered toward the Wilderness Road. He pushed his mount to a faster pace.

  His pulse drummed wildly in his head, seeming as loud to him as the sound of his horse's hooves. Soon he might be face to face once more with Andrew Paxton. The fact that Andrew was his half-brother, blood of his blood, had long since ceased to have any meaning for Davis.

  No, if he had the chance, he would shoot Andrew down like the mad dog he was and feel the same way he would have if he had chopped the head off a venomous snake. But, at the same time, a small part of his mind was glad their mother had never lived to see this day, when her two sons would face each other and only one would live to walk away.

  That would come about only if he re
ached the bandits in time, however, so he put aside those thoughts and concentrated on guiding the horse around the twists and turns of the game trail. Within minutes, he saw rising in front of him the ridge where the bandits lurked. The Wilderness Road came into view again, ahead and to his left. The lead wagon in the freight caravan was approaching.

  Davis hauled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a stop. Neither the highwaymen nor the freighters seemed to have noticed him yet. He could slip up behind the bandits and use the opportunity to get a good look at them, increasing his chances of finding Andrew.

  While he was doing that, however, the freighters would come within range of the ambush. Or he could fire his flintlock now and ride straight toward the wagons, yelling a warning. If he did that, the bandits might decide to abandon their plan and flee instead, taking Andrew with them.

  It was a grim choice, and Davis had only a moment to make it.

  In the end, he did the only thing he could. He lifted the barrel of the rifle toward the sky, eared back the hammer, and pressed the trigger. The booming roar of the shot rolled over the Kentucky hills.

  While the sound was still echoing, Davis drove his heels into the flanks of the horse once more and galloped toward the wagons stretched out along the Wilderness Road. "Bandits!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Bandits on the ridge!"

  For an instant, he worried that the freighters would think he was attacking them and start shooting at him, but then the ambushers concealed on top of the ridge opened fire, revealing their position. From the corner of his eye, Davis saw that some of the bandits were on horseback, and they were riding hurriedly down the slope toward the road, firing as they came. They were going to try to salvage this raid, even though they had lost the element of surprise.

  The wagons had come to a stop, and the drivers were leaping down from their seats and taking cover behind the heavy vehicles. Davis headed for the wagons as well. He heard something whine past his head and knew the sound had come from a rifle ball that had almost hit him. The bandits must have been furious at having their ambush spoiled, and they would especially want to see him dead.