The Blue Cloak

by Shannon McNear

And where was Mr. Langford this night? Had he made it safely to Farris’s?

  The image of his grave, handsome face rose before her, followed by one of him riding into peril, with Micajah and Wiley swooping from the forest to pull him from his horse.

  She sank to her knees on the icy-cold plank floor and leaned against the rough wall below the window. Oh Lord … protect them both! Let Your shadow cover Ben—Mr. Langford—as he goes with the posse. Protect them all, and lead them to these men, to bring justice to those who were killed. And deliver Sally as well.

  There she stayed, how long she couldn’t tell, heedless of the discomfort, pouring out prayer in soundless, wordless feeling.

  Ben rose before dawn—not a difficult thing, since once again he’d barely slept, and sunrise came late during the winter. Gratefully accepting provisions from Jane and offering his thanks to her and Jim Farris for all they’d done for Thomas, be it ever so much too late, he set out from the tavern. The wind remained brisk, after rattling the shutters of his window all night, but the sky was clear, with a few stars still standing against the lightness growing in the east. After packing his saddlebags and securing them behind his saddle, he pulled his hat down low, snugged his greatcoat around his neck over the woolen muffler, and mounted Ivy.

  “Be safe,” Farris said, from the back door the of the tavern.

  “And, please, take no foolish chances,” Jane added. “You’ll be in my prayers.”

  “Thank you,” he said with warmth.

  Prayer might just be all that preserved him on this journey.

  He set Ivy’s nose to the road and set off at a brisk pace.

  This morning, the sense of peril was stronger than ever. Up until two days ago, the patter of Ivy’s running walk was nearly a song. Now it held only the rhythm of impending danger. He needed to get to Stanford as quickly as possible, and her unique gait naturally provided the easiest and best way to accomplish that, but how would he ever hear an approaching attacker?

  He loosened both of his horse pistols in their saddle scabbards and kept a hand resting upon one of them. Such a stance was like to become tiresome, but beyond constantly surveying the road ahead and woods all around, he could think of no other defense.

  Perhaps it was a foolish venture to want to ride with the posse, but again, he could not return to Uncle Ben with such tidings and not do all in his power to see these men brought to justice.

  God, protect me, indeed.

  It was thirty miles and a bit to Stanford, Farris had said. An easy ride for Ivy, with her amble. And she was handling the roughness of the road with no difficulty at all.

  A short distance out, he and Ivy forded the main branch of the Rock Castle River, and a little after that, at the edge of a ravine, he drew Ivy up short to gaze around. Here, Farris had told him, describing the spot in great detail, the drovers had found Thomas’s naked, mutilated body, at the bottom of the ravine. A terrible thickness rose in Ben’s throat, and his eyes burned. He scrubbed a sleeve across his face, and still the wetness came.

  Oh Thomas. Would that it had been me instead. Or even that I’d fallen beside you, because then I wouldn’t have to tell your father that I’d failed to look after you.

  Ivy tugged at the bit, and Ben gave her her head, letting the cold breeze dry his tears before they fell.

  As dawn broke over the hills, the clouds cleared, leaving the sky a pale blue above a sun that managed to be brilliant despite winter’s chill. Before long he passed through Spout Springs, where his cousin and Thomas’s older brother Stephen had surveyed for a settlement they were already calling Mt. Vernon. He followed the sign to Langford’s Station, a little off the road and into the wilderness, stopping at a tavern there to inquire, but as he’d suspected would be the case, Stephen was not there—he was either guiding emigrants somewhere along the road or at his home in Stanford, farther on.

  Around midday Ben passed Stigall’s Station and, by his reckoning, would soon be nearing Crab Orchard. Fellow travelers were not as plentiful as he might have liked, and he dared not linger with the two he overtook who were traveling in his direction, with the need to reach Stanford as soon as he could. For the most part, Ben let Ivy keep the brisk pace she’d chosen. But at last, in a stretch of small, rough hills not far beyond Stigall’s Station, flecks of sweat marked her shoulders. He slowed her to a fast walk and leaned to pat her neck.

  Just ahead, the road cut close to a river, with a narrow track leading down to the water’s edge. He turned Ivy aside and to the riverbank to water her. At this pace, they’d easily reach Stanford by nightfall, and perhaps he could ask Stephen for supper and lodging before setting out with the posse.

  Ivy put her head down, plunging her muzzle into the current, blowing noisily under the surface and drawing a laugh from Ben. He patted her neck again while she drank deeply, shifting a little, ears pricked.

  Her sudden leap sideways nearly unseated him. Gripping with his knees, he looked to where her attention focused, ears flicking back and forth, nostrils dilated.

  There was nothing—no sound, no sight amiss—

  Two men rose from behind a boulder that seemed hardly large enough to hide one. Shaggy, ill-dressed, rifles in their hands with tomahawks dangling from their belts, and a bow and arrows strapped across the body of the tallest. A bolt of fear like lightning shot through Ben’s body, head to toe.

  God—no! Save me!

  With astonishing swiftness, the bigger man stepped out onto the road ahead, while the other angled toward Ben’s rear.

  Ben turned Ivy’s nose, heels in her side, and hissed, “Hie!” Straight into the freezing current she plunged, the icy shock of the water taking away his breath. Please, God, that this riverbed be mostly level and not the rocky treacherousness he’d seen elsewhere—but it was either the risk of Ivy breaking a leg or surrendering himself to being butchered as Thomas was.

  Because by all descriptions he’d heard, these two were none other than the Harpes themselves.

  Two cracks sounded, in quick succession, and a splash on either side attested to how narrowly the shots missed him. Still Ivy pressed on, half galloping, half swimming, until her hooves found purchase on the other side—and then it was straight into a stand of cane, taller than his head, even mounted, which whipped cruelly at both of them.

  They burst out the other side. Ben drew Ivy to a prancing halt, listening over her labored breathing and the pounding of his own heart. Were they pursuing? A crash and rattle from the other side of the cane would seem to indicate so.

  This time, Ben sent Ivy galloping for the nearest hill and up, between the boulders and through the patchy cover of rhododendron or some other brush. Two more cracks came from behind him, and the whine of a ball to his left. He flattened himself on Ivy’s neck, standing in the stirrups and clinging to her mane as she bounded and scrambled up the rough incline.

  Up, up, and over. He dared not let her stop, though he could barely guide her and ought to at least try to keep as many trees as possible between them and their attackers.

  Another set of pops echoed from below. Splinters showered them as they passed a hickory, but they’d gained the ridge, and Ben could collect the reins and direct Ivy down into a small hollow.

  He pulled her up short once more. Blast it, he’d lost his father’s old hat, but he’d sure not go back for it. A faint rustling and crunching came to his ears. He picked a direction, down through the roughest part of the hillside, and set Ivy in motion again.

  Down a long hill with tangled underbrush, which Ivy forged bravely through, up a short draw, and over another thickly wooded hill, where a view spread before him of a river bottom, mostly wooded with a small farm in the distance, smoke curling from the chimney of a cabin. At the foot of the hill lay a narrow road, nearly a path, and Ben turned Ivy upon it.

  And still she kept going, putting all her heart into the gallop he asked of her, with never a hesitation.

  The trace appeared to roughly parallel the river, so Ben stayed
with it, stopping only where it crossed a small creek to let Ivy drink and rest while he consulted his map. It hadn’t enough detail to be helpful, but it seemed to him, if the river had been on his right, and he’d left the road and turned north and then a little west, that the road should be on his left and they would at least parallel it, if not intersect it again at a certain point.

  Folding away the map, he nudged Ivy across the creek and on down the trace. They should be far enough away now that two men on foot could not follow. Not with him leaving the road and forging on where there was no path. Not with the hot pace that Ivy had kept.

  Even so, Ben could not keep himself from scanning the hill on one side and the fields on the other.

  A cabin came into view shortly. Ben turned aside and called out, “Halloo the house!”

  As a dog barked, one of the shutters eased open and the muzzle of a rifle poked out. “What you be wantin’?”

  “Only to ask how far it is to Crab Orchard, or Stanford, and which direction?”

  A voice hushed the dog, then, “Just up the trail a piece. You be going the right way, over to the west.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Ben called back, and lifted Ivy’s reins.

  If people hereabouts had heard of Thomas’s murder, he didn’t blame their suspicions. Still, it was hard to not even see a friendly face at the moment.

  He set Ivy at a comfortable clip, in her easy single-foot gait, and again watched closely.

  The rest of the ride was so uneventful that by the time Ben rode into Stanford, halfway through the afternoon, he wondered if he’d imagined it all.

  This little settlement was, compared to others he’d rushed through today, almost—pretty. Although most of the buildings were log structures, not a single brick in sight.

  A few inquiries, and Ben found himself outside a house that managed to be stately despite its humble construction. Stephen was home, but greeted him with the expected blend of shock and weariness. “Come in,” he said, after his initial surprise. “Do you need lodging? Aye, we’ve room. I’ll send someone to stable your horse.”

  He called out, and a strapping young black man emerged from the rear of the house. He gave a nod as the task was communicated, and slipped away again. Stephen swung back toward Ben. “Come. We’ll sit to dinner in a bit, but I’ve spirits and more to refresh you, if you wish.”

  “That would be most appreciated.” Ben followed him down the hall.

  They settled before a fire in a very comfortably appointed drawing room. Stephen offered Ben tobacco, and he filled his pipe, feeling Stephen’s eyes upon him.

  At last, as Ben lit the bowl by a splinter from the fire, Stephen sighed. “It’s been a long time, cousin. A very long time. I’d not have known you.”

  Ben gripped the pipe stem in his teeth and smiled thinly. “How long since you emigrated here?”

  Stephen stared into the flames. “Fifteen years since I left North Carolina.” He released another heavy breath. “But I’d not go back, despite the hardships.”

  “I’d say you’ve done well for yourself if you’ve purchased fifteen thousand acres, in addition to your home here.”

  His cousin nodded. “Well enough. I was—unsurprised to hear from Thomas that he had interest in resettling here and finding his own situation.”

  Ben savored the sweetness of the smoke his pipe produced, then blew it out. “Your father sent me along to make sure he did not fall into trouble.” He shook his head. “I failed that task, miserably, and am not happy about the circumstances in which I’m here.”

  Stephen thoughtfully puffed at his own pipe. “I’ve had concourse with my father but a handful of times over the years.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “It took him, oh, a good ten years to forgive me.”

  Ben gave him a searching look. “For?”

  The smile widened, still wry. “Come now, I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. For choosing the cause of the Crown over that of the colonies, of course.”

  Ben studied him still.

  Stephen’s eyes met his, ruefully. “They confiscated my lands in Rutherford County, you know. Which is why I came here.” At the slow shake of Ben’s head, Stephen’s brows went up. “Nay? Well, that’s a surprise.”

  “You have indeed done well for yourself then.”

  Stephen acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. “So, this matter with Thomas.” He sighed heavily again, set the hand with his pipe against his knee. “He was but a babe when I left. And my father seemed already old at that time. This news can do him no good, I’m sure.” He measured Ben with his steady blue gaze. “So what will you do now?”

  “It’s my intent to join the search party, if it isn’t too late. I’ll not face your father with less than my full effort to bring Thomas’s murderers to justice.”

  Stephen nodded slowly. “I believe they intend to leave tomorrow. I can send a message over to inquire. In the meantime, our full hospitality is yours. And I’ll write my father to let him know where you are.”

  “While you do that, could you—no.” Ben thought better of the request. “I’ll write it myself, if you’ll but post it.”

  “Of course,” Stephen said. “But what is it?”

  Ben turned to gaze contemplatively at the fire. “On the way, I met someone with a connection to those they think responsible for Thomas’s death. I need to thank her for her prayers.”

  True to his word, Stephen made the necessary connection, and it was all arranged. Early the next morning, Ben rose, baggage packed once more, and handed off to his cousin the folded and sealed missive to Rachel. Ignoring the speculating gleam in Stephen’s eye, he fished for a coin to cover the post, but his cousin waved him away. “I reckon I can pay for a post or two. You just do your part to bring those men in.”

  The posse was set to rendezvous at the courthouse, a sturdy log building in the center of the settlement. There Benjamin introduced himself to a Joseph Ballenger, captain of the local militia, a Thomas Welsh, presumably brother to Stanford’s sheriff, and a handful of other men, all of varying degrees of roughness and eyeing his more refined dress. “Ya might wanter change to a hunting shirt for this ride,” one said, but Ben offered him a cool smile.

  “I might, on another day. But should we not be on our way?”

  Ben detected a curious reluctance mingled with the eagerness in the atmosphere—and a good measure his own, he was sure. He’d lain there long after retiring the night before, reliving the incident in the forest with the two men. Were it not for Ivy’s fleet sure-footedness, Ben might also lay butchered on the trail, even if those two men weren’t the Harpes.

  Farris’s descriptions of the state of Thomas’s body were enough to make him shudder, even now.

  “Gather round!” Captain Ballenger’s voice boomed. The man’s sharp gaze fastened on Ben. “Langford tells me you might have aught to add to our search?”

  Ben told the group who he was and the little he knew of the party Thomas had last been seen with—and then of his encounter on the Road, the day before. “They may or may not be the same men, but their description seemed to match.”

  There was as varied a response to this as men present, but Captain Ballenger scratched his bearded chin and said, “We might as well start with that then. Mount up!”

  Chapter Six

  The ride was easy enough at first, back down the Wilderness Road, stopping to ask along the way if anyone else had caught a glimpse of the suspicious party. The other men took turns questioning Ben about this and that, and he learned names and professions and, in most cases, places of origin.

  Some were as rough-spoken as they appeared, but others surprised him with their wit, understanding, and apparent education. The way Uncle Ben had spoken, everyone out on the frontier was ignorant and half wild—but since so many had emigrated from the eastern states, that could not possibly be true.

  Ben was a little ashamed to think he’d absorbed that assumption, even when he thought he had not.

&n
bsp; In matters of law, he was required to work with all manner of men. He knew already that the amount of a man’s coin did not necessarily correlate to the amount of wisdom he possessed, nor gentility equate completely with pedigree. Out East, however, the lines seemed more sharply drawn. He thought about Uncle Ben, serving as sheriff of Pittsylvania County for so many years. When a matter like this one came up, he’d call on others to serve but never rode out himself. So unlike this band of men who, despite their lack of association with Thomas—except perhaps through Stephen, barely acquainted with his own brother and himself unable to ride out due to physical infirmity—were more than willing to go on the hunt for what seemed a hardened killer—or two.

  He thought of Hugh White. “There is much need for law on the frontier.” Was this a taste of his upbringing? If so, no wonder he’d appealed to Ben to come practice law here and not in Virginia.

  The image of Miss Taylor’s face came to his mind’s eye then, dark eyes wide and shining, her rounded cheeks flushed, the strong jawline softened with a grin some might deem unladylike, but to his eye, it was fresh and genuine. Like everything about Miss Taylor. He thought of her quiet, capable industry that morning after they’d learned the news about Thomas. He’d only ever observed servants preparing a meal, and never assisted—at least not past his boyhood.

  Here on the frontier, though, might it be possible to not even need servants?

  That truly was an idea he’d never seriously considered—but it held much appeal.

  They rode most of the morning with no word of Thomas’s fellow travelers reappearing, and it was early afternoon before they reached the spot where Ben had encountered his would-be attackers.

  Three of the men dismounted and, handing their horses off to others, ventured off the path, examining the ground where Ben told them the two brigands had made their appearance. Back and forth, then in ever-widening circles, but they all shook their heads. “Nothing here to judge by,” one said. “I wish to God there were.”