Prairie Song

by Jodi Thomas

  “Better hurry, miss,” the old man yelled, “or you’ll be too late.”

  “Too late!” Cherish lifted her skirts. She had to hurry, not to see this hanging, but to stop it. Somewhere among all these people must be a man of reason. There must be someone who realized a man’s life was worth more than a midnight intermission on a train ride.

  Pushing her way through the crowd, Cherish spotted the bald deputy standing on the first step of the last car, his rifle crossed over his chest and cradled into the bend of his arm as he guarded his captive.

  Cherish calmed her breathing, knowing this man would respond to no words of reason about the value of life. His mind was probably set as firmly as the wrinkles across his forehead, but she had to try. “I’m a nurse. I understand the prisoner is wounded. If you’ll take me to him I may be of some help.”

  Several men laughed with the bald man. “I reckon he is wounded, miss. It was my bullet that plugged him. That was probably what slowed him down. He’s pale as a ghost from loss of blood. But I can’t see no use in you fretting over his wound when he’ll be dead in a few minutes from a rope.”

  “But I must see him; he’s dying,” Cherish pleaded. “I could patch him up and maybe he’d live to make it to the next town where he could have a trial.”

  Again all the men laughed. “Don’t see no use in that. Wouldn’t want to disappoint all these folks after waking them up. He’s in pretty bad shape, but he’ll make it a few feet more.”

  Cherish thought of trying to push her way past the man but he outweighed her threefold. Her Colt would be useless against so many.

  “I insist on seeing him.” She lowered her tone as if she could order him to stand aside. “It makes no sense to hang a dying man.”

  “Better he gets what’s coming to him before he leaves this world. You’ll see him, miss, when everyone else does. As soon as the priest finishes with him, we’ll march him right over to that tower.”

  All eyes followed his pointed finger to the shadow of the water tower looming above the trees. Even now a man was climbing the wooden structure with a rope slung over his shoulder.

  Moving closer to the step, Cherish demanded, “Who is in charge? I will speak to him before this insanity goes any further.”

  “The man in charge, miss”—his hot breath stung her cold cheeks—”was killed a few hours ago by the man you’re trying to save. Maybe if someone had hung this bandit a long time ago, the sheriff would still be alive.”

  “But are you sure you have the right man?”

  The deputy laughed. “I was sitting in the office when he came in. Sheriff Moore was in the back. This killer walked right past me. The next thing I know, there’s gunfire and he’s running out.” The deputy raised his voice for all to hear. “We were on his trail in minutes. He rode till his horse was played out, then jumped the train. He was either damn lucky, or he knew the time of this train, the way he seemed to ride toward it.”

  He motioned to the half-dozen men around the car. “We all voted, just like a jury, to hang this killer tonight. If we wait till morning, he might get his strength back and like a snake brought in the house to warm, he’d turn on us and maybe kill again before we could stop him.”

  A priest stepped from the car and all hope of delay died. She felt as she had so many times during the war when men were killing one another faster than she could save them.

  The deputy nodded in respect and stepped aside for the priest to pass. “Thanks for offering him last rites. I know it weren’t easy for you, Father, after being there when the sheriff was killed. But we wouldn’t want to do anything that wasn’t on the up-and-up.” He glanced at Cherish, smiling as if he’d won the argument.

  The people rattled like paper tied to the tail of a dust devil. The priest stood on the last step of the car and pointed toward the rope now swinging in the wind. “God’s will,” he shouted as all except Cherish turned to watch the rope.

  She only stared at the hooded brown robes hiding the man of God. How could he be party to this injustice? Surely he lived by some code. As she watched, he turned and slowly lowered himself to the ground. For a moment his robe’s sleeves pulled almost to his elbows. Cherish saw his knuckles whiten as though the two-foot drop to the ground had been a great effort. She saw the dark stains of blood on his hands and knew the stranger inside the car must still be bleeding.

  Then, in the light of a dozen torches, she saw the scars on the priest’s right wrist: scars silently telling of a man past pain, scars betraying the true identity of the man beneath the robes.

  Cherish almost shouted aloud at her discovery. Then she bit her lip, sealing her mouth against betrayal. She glanced at the deputy. He was picking which men would go into the car and bring out their prize. When she glanced back to see the man in priest’s robes, he had vanished into the velvet night, his robes blending with the tree trunks and the tall brown grass.

  Deputies marched up onto the platform, waving at the crowd as if they were performers in a sideshow. The bald man took a few moments to deliver a speech as though he were running for office. All the deputies crowded around, their guns lifted high in salute. The bald self-appointed leader raised his hand, playing his moment of glory to the hilt. “This is a time of justice!” he shouted. “Now let justice’s hand rule.”

  He moved into the car, both guns drawn as if he were storming a well-armed fortress. All his men hurried after him. In the span of a hungry wolf’s howl, shouts echoed from the car to the waiting crowd. The people held their breath as more men rushed into the car, ready to hail some unheard bugle’s call to battle. Women clutched their children. Gamblers and farmers alike pulled guns from concealed places and took a step forward.

  Cherish stepped back, unable to hide the smile on her face and not wanting the others to see her joy. The jackals would have no prey to pull apart tonight.

  She caught the glimpse of a lone figure lifting himself up atop the car. His white shirt was milky in the night, and his black trousers clung like a second skin against his thin thighs. She studied the figure as he moved as silently as a shadow along the length of the car. No wounded man could have moved so, and the constant tilt of his head toward the car, where all the deputies were, told her he must be the priest who traded places with the bandit.

  Soundlessly, like a cat, he jumped from one car’s roof to another and disappeared into the sleeper. Silently, Cherish applauded the friar, for he had succeeded where she had failed. He’d saved a man’s life when she’d only talked.

  A few minutes later he jumped from the steps, adorned once more in robes. Cherish moved toward him and away from the angry voices still coming from the car.

  “You changed places with the wounded man.” Her words were spoken as fact, allowing no room for argument.

  “With your help,” the priest answered. “If you hadn’t spent a few minutes arguing with the deputy I never would have had time.”

  Cherish looked up. “Are you saying I was a part of his escape?” The meaning of his words sank full into her mind. These men were so anxious to hang someone, they might hang the accomplices as well. “Are you threatening me to keep me quiet?”

  “No.” Again his words were direct. “I’m thanking you for your help and asking you for your continued silence.” He raised his hand to her shoulder. “The man out there in the darkness is bleeding. I ask for your mercy. You have my word he doesn’t deserve the death these men have planned. Your silence will be all the help we need. No one will suspect I squeezed through the window and hung on in the darkness until all the deputies rushed into the car. They will simply think he got away while they were giving speeches.”

  His hand warmed her shoulder as his words touched her heart. “You have the face of the Virgin Mary. Do you have her compassion?”

  Studying his shadow-lined face, she guessed that he was not past his mid-twenties, but his eyes made him seem far older. He had cold gray eyes, frozen by seeing so much pain, perhaps. She wished she could talk with
him more. If the priest had been present when the sheriff was shot, why would he now save the murderer’s life? “I saw nothing,” she whispered.

  He nodded and pulled his hand away as the crowd washed around them in a flash flood of disappointed, tired voices.

  In the moonlight she saw the priest’s left hand, pale against the night. Along his wrist were tiny scars identical to those she’d seen on the wounded man’s right arm. Confusion clouded her face as she looked up for an answer, but all he did was pull his robe sleeve lower to hide the tie that somehow bound him to a killer.

  “Good night, Miss Wyatt,” he whispered before he vanished, leaving Cherish to guess how he could possibly have known her name.

  Chapter 3

  Grayson Kirkland watched Margaret Alexander storm across the street and enter the stable for the third time in as many days. He’d followed her ever since the sheriff told him about the telegram naming her as heir to Tobin Tyler’s house. Grayson was a Union officer assigned to Texas after the Civil War. His job was to check on any leads, no matter how slim, that might help the government discover the identity of members of a secret organization. But in this case, the lead and the lady were both pretty slim.

  As far as Grayson knew, the old man named Tobin Tyler had nothing to do with the gang calling themselves the Knights of the Golden Circle. The connection lay somewhere with the house that had fallen into Tobin’s hands during a card game six months ago. When the old man died violently, unexpectedly leaving his house to Margaret Alexander, it was enough to raise a few eyebrows at headquarters and get Grayson assigned to the investigation.

  Now, he laughed at the irony that had pulled him off the trail to this assignment, which his superior had referred to as light. This woman was twice as prickly as sagebrush and a hundred times more volatile. Margaret Alexander was a headstrong widow in her late twenties and far more dangerous than a pack of rustlers in the badlands. He’d watched her storm and stomp her way through every place in town and it seemed that the only battle she lost was at the stables. She was not the kind of woman anyone would harness the word pretty to. The black she wore did little to flatter her already pale features and thin lines. She’d need all her charm and wit to talk the Irishman Sam McMiller out of anything in the stable. And though Grayson had no doubt about her wit, he’d measure her shy of a full load of charm.

  Strolling across the street, Grayson melted his large frame into the shadows of the stable. He already knew the argument he’d hear there, but he admired this woman’s stubborn will.

  Her voice rang clear in the musty air. “I must rent a wagon this morning. My niece will be arriving in a few hours and we have to get to Fort Worth.”

  Sam McMiller, the owner of the town’s only stable, stood his full height but still didn’t reach higher than Margaret’s shoulder. “Aye, lady, I’ve told you for three days. I ain’t givin’ a wagon and team to two women headin’ across open country. The Indians will see that as easy pickin’s.”

  Margaret raised one pointed finger like a weapon. “You’re not worried about our lives, only your wagon?”

  Sam shrugged. “Maybe so, but if you can’t find a driver, you best think about bookin’ a seat on the stage.”

  Propping her fists on her hips, she lowered her voice, deadly earnest. “I was raised in this country, as was my niece. I assure you, sir, that we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

  “Maybe.” Sam rolled a wad of tobacco around in his mouth. He might need to spit, but he wasn’t doing it in this lady’s presence. “Get yourself a driver and we’ll talk.”

  Margaret’s voice sounded tired for the first time. “I’ve already checked everywhere. With the cattle drives starting up, there doesn’t seem to be anyone.”

  “Did you check the shanties down by the track? I hear there’s some men just in from Ireland. One might drive for you.”

  “I can hardly pay what the railroad is offering them. You may think I have money to burn, but I assure you, I’ll not waste a cent. Not for a job I could very well do myself.” Her voice was hard. “And I’ll not leave my things at the station until someone decides he has enough time to haul them north.”

  “Well, might check down by the saloons. I hear there’s a few …”

  Before he could finish she was on him. “Are you suggesting I get some drunken lowlife out of one of those cribs of disease to drive me and my niece to Fort Worth?” With loving tenderness, she touched a brooch pinned at her bustline. “My dear Westley is probably rolling in his grave at the thought.”

  Sam McMiller had obviously had enough of her high-and-mighty argument. “Well, dig dear Westley up and let him ride shotgun.”

  Grayson almost laughed aloud from the shadows as Margaret’s face paled and her eyes turned a murderous black. “It’s a sad thing”—she pointed a slender finger into Sam’s chest—”when men like my brave husband die and spineless weasels like you are left. Get the wagon ready. I’ll be back in an hour with a driver even if I have to dress a pig in pants.”

  Storming out of the stable, Margaret headed toward the row of saloons without a backward glance. Grayson followed, chuckling to himself. He didn’t understand why Sam wouldn’t let her go alone. Any Indian would be skinned alive by her sharp tongue before he could get close enough to aim an arrow. If she’d gone to war instead of her precious husband, Westley, the South wouldn’t have lost.

  To his amazement, Margaret entered one saloon after another. Stepping just inside, she waited for everyone to turn and stare, then announced her need for a driver and her price.

  He saw no disappointment in her carriage as she gathered her skirts and moved on to the next place. Grayson knew as well as she did that her price was a fair one, but she’d already been outbid by both the railroad and the cattle bosses. Yet, if pride and determination counted, she would win.

  Near the end of the street, the road disappeared into a shantytown where the poor and newly arrived immigrants set up camp. The houses were little more than crates or tents connected by rutted paths. Those who stood around in the morning sun didn’t look strong enough to eat breakfast, much less drive a team overland through Indian territory.

  As Margaret hesitated at the sidewalk’s end, three men, coated in mud and staggering with drink, approached her. Grayson moved in closer to listen. His finely honed sense of danger set off an alarm, making his gun hand itch as he forced himself not to interfere.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” The smallest of the three men removed his slouch hat, but his voice lacked any flavoring respect. “We heard your offer back there and wanted to ask you a few questions about this job.”

  Margaret held her ground and stared directly down at the little man. “I have a job to offer one man, not three.”

  The short man jabbed at his partners’ ribs and flashed a yellowed grin. “We understand that, but we all wanted to talk with you. If you’ll just step over here out of the sun.”

  In the time it took Grayson to blink, the three men and Margaret had disappeared behind the building. His stomach twisted with a dread tight enough to wring out all caution. He crammed his hat low and hurried across the street.

  But when he stepped into the shadows between the buildings, nothing but the rustle of trash greeted him. He moved down the littered pathway, knowing the lady he’d been following was in big trouble.

  He rounded the corner to the alley, and relief washed over him as Margaret’s voice rang out clear in the morning air. “I told you gentlemen, I only need one man.”

  The tallest of the three impatiently pushed the assigned spokesman aside. He was large-boned and wide-shouldered, but his hollow cheeks told of hard times. “We ain’t interested in any more talk. We know you’re carrying cash if you’re hiring. We figure you’ll pay the three of us right now.”

  “I will not!” Margaret slowly backed into a corner, her head held high, her voice showing no fear.

  “You’ll pay us now, or you ain’t taking no trip, lady,” t
he large man hissed while his short partner’s head bobbed as if tied to a wagon spring on a rocky road.

  “Yeah,” the little man added. “You pay up, or else. You wouldn’t be the first woman Pete’s killed.” He pointed his thumb at the middle man, who’d been silent. This one called Pete was dark with eyes that reflected a dead soul. Brown spit dribbled from the corner of his large bottom lip as his fingers opened and closed in anticipation.

  All three men moved on her like hungry animals on a butcher’s scrap. Grayson hesitated only a moment. He was under strict orders not to tip his hand, but he couldn’t just stand by and allow a woman, even a southern one, to be robbed or killed. He stripped off his coat and hat and flung them in the weeds; then he unbuckled his Colts and shoved them safely into a crack between the buildings. Three against one was not odds he favored, but it was better than drawing the whole town’s attention with gunfire.

  Margaret was still trying to bluff her way out of her corner. “Touch me and I swear I’ll see you dead in hell.”

  The man laughed, but none seemed to want to make the first move. They circled her, staying just out of reach. The small one chimed out, as if proving his manhood, “We ain’t frightened by no helpless stick of a widow. You can give us the money easy or hard, doesn’t make us no mind.”

  Stepping into the sunlight, Grayson glanced up at Margaret as if he’d just stumbled upon the scene. For a moment their eyes met and he forgot about the three men. There, in the middle of impending death, she stood without a hint of fear. Her gaze silently asked for his help, but didn’t beg. For the first time in his life, Grayson looked at a woman and didn’t see frailty and weakness. Margaret Alexander was no whimpering southern belle to be sheltered and protected. As the flash of her dark blue eyes studied him, he somehow knew that she could have gotten out of this without his help. But he was already there and already committed.

  The short man took one look at Grayson’s reddish brown hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves and yelled, “Get out of here, you foreigner. Go back to your shack and leave us to our business.”