Susan watched her in silence as she sat up and fingered the fine woolen weave. Their eyes met, and the older women gave a single nod.
It was no substitute for a child—no consolation for the jagged sorrow shredding her heart—but Sally held the garment to her breast and wept.
As full dawn broke, the women gathered her up, their own sleeping babes bundled against them, and led her back to camp. Both men were up and packing. Wiley refused to acknowledge them but looked a little pale and drawn. Even Micajah seemed more subdued than usual.
Susan sat Sally down and bid her stay, then she and Betsey bustled about and finished packing without her.
Despite the day’s heat, Sally clutched her cloak about her. Tried to close her eyes and not think—or feel—but the horror of the place and the men’s movement about her would not allow her not to keep watch. Her eye kept being drawn back and back to the tiny heap of cloth over on the other side of the fire pit, though, where flies were already swarming.
Could they not even take the time to bury her poor little one?
She dared not even ask.
It was Susan, again, who led her to her saddled horse, but Wiley who gave her a leg up. He stood for a moment, hand on her knee, looking as if he wanted to speak, but turned away without a word.
Bits of conversation floated to her as they rode. Susan’s voice, low but insistent, and Micajah turning in the saddle, glowering at her with a rumbled threat. She was quiet for a moment but then shot back a soft retort, and after a lingering scowl, he turned back around and did not reply.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … thou art with me….
Her eyes burned. She was walking that path, for true.
She lifted her gaze to the blue sky, full of fluffy white clouds. Oh Lord, did You receive little Eady’s spirit? Is she with You, even now?
Micajah’s horse came up lame, and cursing, he dismounted and led them to the edge of a farmstead where Sally was sure they had been before. A man worked a field of corn in the company of two Negroes, and they all straightened, wary, as their party approached. “Ho there!” Micajah called out. “We have a horse that just came up lame. Need to trade for a fresh. Would you be able to help?”
The man shook his head, eyeing them all. Sally noted the length of his beard—so full and long that he’d braided and pinned it to his trousers to keep it out of the way. “And what would y’all be needing another horse for?”
“Oh, we’re on our way to join up with those who be huntin’ the Harpes,” Micajah answered easily. It wasn’t the first such time he’d used the ruse. “We be William and John Roberts, and these are our wives, Honey and Tunney.” He twitched a nod toward Sally. “That ‘un’s Sissy, our child.”
Well, that was new. Sally sat her horse and didn’t move.
Betsey’s babe, little Joe, stirred and began to cry. Sally’s breasts, already aching, let go with a burning ache that flooded her front with wetness. She folded her arms against herself, beneath the cloak, glad for its cover.
“Sorry, but I can’t help,” the man said at last. “I ain’t got a horse to spare.”
Micajah huffed and started to stomp, but Susan flung herself off her horse and ran to him. “Don’t you be givin’ in to this now,” she said, her voice strangely sweet and cajoling. “Come and let your brother the preacher pray over you some more.”
Betsey went to his other side, and between the two of them, they led him back to his lame horse. Betsey prevailed on him to mount hers, and she climbed up behind Susan, after they’d put little Joe and Lovey in panniers on the lame horse.
Micajah led off in a lather.
Later that day—or maybe it was the next—at the edge of a blackberry thicket, they’d stopped to rest and pick berries, when a small girl came wandering into sight. Micajah and Wiley dismounted and stooped to talk with the child. Talk turned to teasing, and Sally was the first to turn her horse’s reins and flee when the men’s intentions became obvious. Susan and Betsey followed hard after, both white faced.
They camped for the evening on a creek bank when here came both men, not with the little girl but a young woman and man. Susan stood up from the fire they’d built, hands on her hips. “What are you two doing?”
“Just havin’ a little fun,” Big rumbled, and shot her a look that sent shivers through Sally’s middle.
The young woman begged and pleaded, the young man likewise, as they made him strip off his clothing and parade around camp, bare as the day he was born. The young woman sobbed quietly. Neither Sally nor the other women could bring themselves to look.
Tiring of that, Big and Little looped one rope around the young man’s neck, another around his feet, and Little splashed across the creek. They commenced to swinging him between them, letting his head drag through the water. More crying, and begging, from both captives. Big and Little went on and on, letting the young man’s head stay under a bit longer each time, until finally he was limp and silent.
“Doggone it, Little, you let him die too soon.”
At that, the young woman screamed.
God—have mercy!
“Just tomahawk her and be done with it,” Big growled.
They knocked her to the ground, and Big held her feet while Little stood on her outstretched arms, tomahawk uplifted.
Sally was the one sobbing now, but she could not move. Please, sweet Lord, do something here! Not for me, but—for Your name’s sake!
The woman’s cries changed in pitch and cadence. She too was praying. “Father—oh Father, help me! Father, come to me!”
Please, Father! Sweet Jesus, have mercy on us sinners….
Betsey and Susan were also weeping.
“Father, save me! Come to me now!”
Sally bolted off through the brush lining the creek. Susan followed, then Betsey, both carrying their babies.
The sound of the woman’s frantic prayers followed them. “Father! Please! Help me!”
Wiley himself came bursting through the bushes, eyes wild, mouth wide, tomahawk still clutched in his hand, but—unbloodied.
Cursing, and the sound of blows, punctuated with the woman’s weakening cries, kept on. Wiley fell to his knees, and dropping the tomahawk, clutched the wooly locks of his hair.
“Father-r-r!”
One more curse, then the commotion of animals being driven through the brush. “Catch your horses! We must fly!”
Chapter Sixteen
Colonel John Leiper of the local militia, at your service.”
Ben shook hands with the man, who looked as rough as Ben did himself from weeks on the hunt, and lean and weathered to boot, about twice Ben’s age. “Good to meet you.”
They sat down, each with a tankard. Ben felt the other man sizing him up, just as he did Leiper. “So, I hear you have a connection with these rascals.”
“My cousin Thomas Langford was their first known victim, last December. I’ve been on their trail most of the time since.”
“Myself as well, these past couple of months.”
“What news of late?”
“What was the last you heard?”
“Well, I came with a party up the Kentucky Trace almost three weeks ago, and it was James Brassel, John Tully, and the two Trisword families on that stretch. Then I heard of a young Negro boy, and a father and son who were clearing land.” Leiper nodded, and Ben went on, “More than a week ago, most of a posse met an ill end, but beyond that, I’ve not been able to sort between fact and rumor.”
Leiper wrapped both hands around his tankard. “I can attest to a few more. About that same time, there was a little girl who’d wandered from her mother and father, out picking berries.” He grimaced. “The description of what they’d done does not bear repeating, but she was—dismembered. Naturally her mother is inconsolable.” He cleared his throat, glanced aside for a moment. “There was also a young man of the area, a Silver May, who with a young neighbor woman, Helen Levi, was taken—she while at her sp
inning wheel, of all things—and much tormented until he died. Helen survives, although badly beaten.”
“She survives? Truly?”
“Aye. Her family and neighbors keep watch on her, though, day and night. They fear for her soundness of mind.” Leiper shook his head a little. “And yesterday a man was murdered coming back from one of the salt licks. Trowbridge his name was.”
Ben spread one hand flat on the table. “God have mercy. This just gets worse and worse.”
“It does. Things have been mostly quiet for the past week, though old Jim Slover said he’d had a near run-in with two men who just moved into a nearby cabin, up near Red Banks, and who he thought were likely the Harpes. One tried a shot but his gun only snapped, and Slover took off. He got a couple of men up to help him watch the place, but the women weren’t there, and he wasn’t even sure it was the same men, so they gave up and left ‘em alone. Then there was Trowbridge a day or two later, so—foolish it was, to think they’d gone far.” Leiper’s eyes narrowed. “I’m determined to see this out, however long it takes. You’re more than welcome to come stay out at my cabin and ride with me when next the call goes out.”
“I’d be honored,” Ben said.
Not for the first time, but he still meant it.
“Does the post serve this town yet?” he asked.
“Madisonville? I think not. Soon, though.” Leiper shrugged.
Ben suppressed a sigh. He’d not yet been able to send Rachel—or anyone else—a letter.
Lord, have mercy on us indeed. Cover and protect us—and give us clear eyes for the hunt. Let these monsters show their hand soon.
No letters, but that didn’t surprise Rachel. She knew the post only ran to the middle and eastern parts of Kentucky. It barely went to Nashborough at this point.
News, however, traveled like wildfire. How much was truth and how much simply wild tales, one could never tell. She spread the paper across the counter. Once in print, either way, folk believed it like gospel truth.
If even half of it was true …
Merciful Lord in heaven, protect us all. But especially Ben, and any other men who give their time to catch these wicked men.
She shook her head, remembering that wedding two years past. And … protect and preserve Sally, Lord. She so needs You. As do we all. But You know how heavy my heart is for her.
The Leiper family was kind and welcoming, and Ben hadn’t realized until then how much he missed ordinary family life. After supper they spent a quiet evening, during which Ben engaged in several games of checkers with a serious lad who peppered Ben with questions and then pestered his father to let him go along the next time the Harpes reared their ugly heads. Leiper just laughed and told him he’d think upon it.
Housed in the narrow, cramped loft of a cabin that looked much like any other in that part of the country, Ben slept reasonably well, after settling the restlessness of his heart in a time of prayer for Rachel, her family and his, and the entire situation.
Oh, how he missed her. But like Leiper, he would see this through.
A leisurely breakfast followed the next morning, and Leiper and his children, the boy and a pair of twin girls about four or five, engaged in the happy task of showing Ben about the farm.
The sun had climbed high and they’d just returned to the house to dip water from the well when a rider galloped into the yard, clattering to a stop. Leiper and Ben both swung toward him, hands on their guns, but the man only pulled off his hat and swept a forearm over his sweating brow.
“Moses Stegall,” Leiper greeted him. “What’s the trouble, man?”
The big man shook his head, gaze casting wildly about. Both he and his horse panted, and Ben motioned to the boy to dip another pail of water for both.
“My house—burned this morning, with my wife and babe inside. And Bill Love too, who was spendin’ the night.”
“Dear God,” Leiper murmured.
“Silas McBee and William Grissom was there before me, and told me they’d found both Love’s and my wife’s bodies, half burned. My—my wife—she’d been stabbed—three knives, one of ‘em her own butcher knife—still in her—”
Stegall bent, nearly double in the saddle, but accepted the dipper Ben passed him and drank noisily. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve again, he nodded his thanks and hauled in another deep breath. “I know it’s the Harpes. I just know it. I ran into them yesterday on my way down t’ the salt licks—don’t ask me why I didn’t let anyone know, I’m sure enough sorry now—and Big said I owed him a dollar. So I told ‘im to go ask my wife.”
He leaned one forearm on the saddlebow and sat there, hunched, for a moment.
“Do you be organizing a posse?” Leiper asked, with deadly quietness.
“I do.” Stegall’s gaze went to him and then Ben, in desperation. “McBee and Grissom are also in. Will you come?”
“We’ll both come,” Leiper said. “Go stable your horse. I have a couple other men I’ll go ask as well.”
Stegall shook his head. “I’ll come along. Can’t rest until I see this done, I reckon.”
Sally was tired of riding. Tired of running. Tired of hiding.
Tired of living.
She didn’t know why they wouldn’t just go and leave her behind.
God, please …
She didn’t even know what to pray anymore.
After a week of hiding out in the woods, where the men were gone more than not, Big and Little hustled them through packing up—how many times this made, she couldn’t say—and led them off south and east.
At least, she thought it was south and east.
The sun glared in her eyes as they wound on a trace so narrow it could hardly be called a path—Big and Little were good at finding such things—so she closed her eyes and tipped her head.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love …
The tune broke from her throat, just the softest hum, but the words would not be denied for long.
“O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothèd then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away …”
“Who’s singin’?” Micajah growled. “Stop it, right now.”
Sally sucked in a breath, her eyes popping open. It was like surfacing from a lovely dream only to find she was trapped in a nightmare.
Wiley cursed. “Worse than the babies crying.”
She couldn’t stop the tears, nor did she want to. Oh sweet Eady …
Lord, am I still Yours? Does Your blood cover even this? Oh Lord … I’m so sorry for wandering away from You. Maybe—maybe if I’d trusted You sooner—none of this would have happened.
A bit of scripture floated through her memory, We know that all things work together for good …
Can You still bring good out of any of this?
It was a solid bunch Ben rode with this time, all swearing to hunt the Harpes and bring them to justice at last, whatever the cost, no turning back.
He owned he was ready for that himself, after nine long months of this.
He and Stegall had made the rounds with Leiper the day before, and they’d collected two other backwoodsmen that Leiper said were their most solid choices for holding firm under fire, should the need be, a Matthew Christian and a Neville Lindsay. They set out from Leiper’s before dawn the next day and made the trip back northwest some fifteen or twenty miles, arriving about midmorning at McBee’s, where another half-dozen men were gathered and introductions made all around. An older man by the name of John Tompkins told how just two evenings before, he’d met a pair of rough-looking but decent-seeming men claiming to be Methodist preachers and had invited them to supper. The bigger man stood and gave what Tompkins swore was a fifteen-minute grace before the meal, and both were as personable and warm as could be throughout. “In fact,” Tompkins said, “wh
en they asked me why I had no meat at supper, I told them I’d run out of gunpowder and so hadn’t shot any deer in some time—and that big one just pulled out his horn and poured me a teacup full of powder, generous as you please.” He shook his head. “Who could have guessed they’d turn out to be such scoundrels, and yet leave me still living and breathing.”
“I’m betting it was them at my house after dark fell and the moon was up,” McBee grumbled. “I heard my dogs make a racket, and looking out, saw them bitin’ and snarlin’ around a pair of men. Figured the men was up to no good, so I didn’t call ‘em off.” He huffed. “I’m guessin’ they went to Stegall’s after that.”
Moses Stegall had recovered somewhat but still looked stricken. “I wish I’d gotten home sooner,” he muttered.
McBee reached over and patted his shoulder. “We’ll catch ‘em, man, I promise.”
The chase did nothing to soothe Stegall though, and Ben couldn’t blame him. A wife and baby freshly dead—they’d hardly stopped long enough to bury his wife’s charred body, and what little they could find that remained of the babe—and the past year and more’s labor in smoking ruin.
And then, just before leaving McBee’s, while they were still in the process of making sure women and children left behind were properly fortified and defended, word came that yet another two men were found slain on the road to the salt lick, by name of Hutchins and Gilmore. It was readily agreed that the search party would use that as a starting point.
Ben kept watch but let the others track, since they knew the country better than he. Some had begun to look familiar—but then the rolling hills interspersed with hidden rills and caves looked much the same mile after mile.
Still, this was the easiest tracking Ben had witnessed yet. They struck the trail just south of the road leading to the salt lick, but it wasn’t long before they nearly lost it again, in what appeared to be the tangle created by a drove of buffalo. Their quarry’s intent remained too obvious, however, and before long they’d picked up the trail again. Interestingly, it appeared that the party of Harpes had split in two, parting and following roughly parallel paths for a mile or two before converging again.
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