Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  Zeb was here, last night, I realized, the thought utterly unbidden, and my stomach lurched; my eyes opened at once, and roved the small room.

  No. You are mistaken.

  He was here, my mind insisted, despite my best efforts to disbelieve. He looked upon you as you lay sleeping in the wagon.

  Water sloshed as I sat straight and twisted all of my hair to the side, scanning the small window; covered as it was in oiled canvas, I could not directly view the yard, but the glow of a cloudless sky was translucently visible, and nothing more. Not the hulking figure that terrorized my thoughts if I let down my guard. I did not understand how I came to an understanding of Zeb’s presence with such certainty—I had not woken in the early morning hours to spy him, I had heard nothing out of the ordinary.

  You sensed him as you walked to bed, remember?

  I recalled hurrying through the darkness to the quilts waiting in the back of the wagon. The wagon itself was parked between the house and the barn, nearer still to the wall tent in which Boyd and Malcolm slept last night; I had not felt unsafe. And yet…

  A shiver overtook me as I climbed within the canvas-covered space. I gave no thought to this, other than that it signified I was cold, which I had been. But what if Zeb truly had risked creeping near in the night hours, hiding out of sight and watching Tilson’s homestead, angered that he had been denied his prize, hoping to enact additional harm upon us? Zeb knew that Boyd and I were here, and he bore each of us no little hatred. He would as soon kill Boyd as look at him; he had tried to kill me, and Yancy had been forced to stop him.

  You are allowing your imagination to get the better of your judgment, I reprimanded myself, hurrying from the tub and wrapping into a length of toweling, unwilling to sit motionless any longer, determined to set aside these fears. I combed my hair with Mama’s brush, one of the only items of hers retained from my old life, braiding and pinning up its length. I dressed in my own clothing, with reluctance, acknowledging that I much preferred the ease of trousers to layers of skirts—how I had once longed to be a boy, understanding even as a child that they were allowed far more privileges than was I, as a girl. Mama had been predictably horrified.

  “You are my daughter, and a lady,” she had said, on many an occasion. “And a lady allows the men in her life the privilege of taking care of her, at all times.”

  I mean no disrespect, Mama, but I must disagree. And I believe you would understand, I truly do.

  “Lorie! You ready?” Malcolm called, in his usual impatient fashion. “Boyd says we gotta post a letter to Jacob.”

  Tilson left for town an hour past, while Boyd settled at the table to compose a word to his uncle; Jacob and Hannah expected us before autumn, and now we were well behind our original schedule.

  We will get to Minnesota, and to their home. We will reach this place, I swear it, I vowed, thinking of what Boyd had said last night at the fire, opening the door to see him and Malcolm seated at the table, Boyd bent over his letter to Jacob, quill pen scratching along. Malcolm, from what I had already ascertained through the closed door, was in the process of begging for an evening dinner of pan-fried chicken.

  “It’s been such a piece since I had me some,” Malcolm said, in the appealing, persuasive tone I knew well. He sighed, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give.”

  “I would have to wring a few pullets’ necks, and I had not intended such this day. It is not pleasant work,” Rebecca said, her hip near Boyd’s shoulder as she stood drying the cake pan with an embroidered towel; Malcolm sat just across the table from his brother, the gray kitten upon his lap, and he leaned forward to ply Rebecca with his considerable charm, sensing the slightest give in her protests.

  “Please, pretty please?” Malcolm wheedled, teasing the kitten with his fingertip. “I got me a real hankerin’, now that we’s talked of it. It’s me an’ Boyd’s most favoritest…”

  This statement gave Rebecca just the slightest pause; in her scholarly fashion, every word precise, she murmured, “I am uncertain if I have enough cornmeal…”

  Boyd looked up from his writing. Rebecca, positioned as she was, could not see his face; he sent Malcolm the briefest flicker of a wink and then sighed, lamenting with apparent nonchalance, “Leave off, boy. Besides, it just ain’t a dish done right, outside the South.”

  The towel in Rebecca’s hand fell still and Boyd surely felt the sudden charge in the air behind him, similar to the instant before bolt lightning pierced a cloud to strike the earth; his dark eyes were merry and he bit back a smile even as Rebecca asked, with considerable snap, “Mr. Carter, did I not hear from your mouth this very morning what fine grits I had prepared for breakfast?”

  He said demurely, “You did, indeed.”

  Gesturing with the pan, Rebecca demanded, “Are not grits a dish commonly prepared in the Southern states of this country?”

  “They are, at that.” A dimple appeared in Boyd’s right cheek, though he kept his eyes downcast.

  Rebecca continued, with asperity, “Or perhaps you were offering an empty compliment.”

  At this, Boyd immediately hooked an elbow over the chair back, turning so that he could see her face. All teasing gone from his voice, he said, “I was most certainly not.”

  The faintest suggestion of a smile nudged her softly-bowed lips as their eyes held, and caressed; there was no mistaking this. In a sweeter tone, Rebecca said, “My mama herself taught me to fry pullets, and she was born and bred in Tennessee. See if I haven’t learned a thing or two.” She turned to settle the pan on its shelf, concluding breezily, “That is, if I decide to fry any.”

  Not minutes later, Malcolm and I turned to wave farewell to Cort and Nathaniel, who had agreed to mind the kitten in our absence; both boys hung on the corral fence to watch us rumble away in the wagon while Boyd rode Fortune, just to our right.

  “You two best thank her profusely,” I said, elbowing Malcolm and then leaning to address Boyd, who rode immediately closer. I elaborated, “After that trick.”

  “What trick, Lorie-girl?” Boyd asked innocently, though his eyes danced beneath the brim of his hat.

  “You know very well,” I said, the ribbons anchoring my hat fluttering in the light breeze. “Even if that chicken isn’t better than you have ever tasted, you will tell Rebecca it is.”

  Boyd said, “She weren’t fooled a moment. She saw right through me.” He added, half-wickedly, “An’ I got me a notion it’ll be the best thing I ever tasted.”

  Billings was at the jailhouse this morning, sour-faced and unwilling to leave the room so that I might speak alone with Sawyer.

  “Must I be plagued until you are gone from here?” Billings grumbled, his back to us as he reseated himself at the writing desk. He muttered, “Goddamn marshals everywhere, and wives…”

  “Well, just the one wife,” Sawyer whispered, for my benefit alone. A hint of his good humor had been restored to him—perhaps it was the bright sun outside, the sense of purpose and promise of hope, and perhaps it was erroneous, even foolish, to allow such feelings, but I was abundantly grateful nonetheless.

  He asked quietly, “Did you sleep well, darlin’? Holy Jesus, I miss you…”

  I held fast to him, my fingers curled around the material of his shirt, absorbing the feel of him, storing up for when we would be apart. I demanded, “Are you warm at night? I worry so much…I miss you, too…”

  “All I need to keep warm are my thoughts of you,” he murmured.

  “Boyd tricked Rebecca into making fried chicken,” I said.

  Sawyer grinned, and the sight of it upon his face came close to caving in my heart, same as always. He asked, “How did he manage that? She seems a woman not easily fooled.”

  I was about to respond when Billings sighed, and said acerbically, “I’ll thank you to state your business and take your leave, Mrs. Davis.”

  “Keep near Boyd,” Sawyer said, growing serious again, his eyes intense as he took my face in his strong, lithe hands, stroking my lips with his
thumbs. “Please, darlin’, keep near him. Yancy is not to be trusted, and he’s in a black fury that I am to see the judge. I can’t see him acting on his own, but Zeb may, in his place. And with Yancy’s consent.”

  “Yancy is a federal marshal,” Billings said, overhearing this last remark. “He is a law-abiding citizen.”

  Sawyer kept his eyes upon mine, ignoring Billings and his blustering.

  Keep near Boyd, he said again.

  And I nodded my understanding.

  * * *

  It was Saturday, the eighteenth of July, and we should have been bound for Minnesota. Instead, I sat on a chair in Tilson’s office, while Malcolm stacked and restacked a deck of cards that Tilson lent him, an untouched cup of water at his elbow.

  “It’s healing up right nice,” Tilson murmured. He donned a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles to examine my arm. His hands were large, but simultaneously light and careful, his fingertips gentle over my skin. “I don’t see signs of infection.”

  “Fannie Rawley cleansed it with garlic, and lye soap,” I said, as Tilson eased the blouse back over my shoulder, and I refastened the two buttons I had undone in order to bare the wound.

  “Just as I would have done,” Tilson said.

  Though I had promised to stay near Boyd, he was insistent that I remain here while he sought out Quade, and Yancy, ideally both at once. Yancy had been to the jailhouse in the early morning hours, as Billings informed me, and though there appeared to be no sign in town of Zeb Crawford, I knew better. He was lingering here, somewhere. Tilson promised to keep an eye on both Malcolm and me, and allowed Malcolm to peek into the satchel containing what medical supplies he possessed, answering the boy’s subsequent numerous questions. It was otherwise quiet in his office, occupied by nothing more than our bodies and specks of rainbow-tinted dust, visible in the bars of golden sun leaking through the canvas-covered window.

  And so we passed the long hours of the summer day, eating cold biscuits and bacon for lunch; later, near mid-afternoon, a man came seeking Tilson, explaining that his wife had been in labor since dawn, and was requesting the doc.

  “How is she faring, Billy?” Tilson asked, up and gathering supplies, which he tucked into his satchel.

  “She’s paining, doc, I hated to leave her,” Billy responded. He was young, revealing a bearded, sunburned face when he doffed his hat at Malcolm and me. “She’s asking after her mama, and her mama’s been gone some five years.”

  “You return to Letty, we’ll be on your heels,” Tilson said, and Billy did not need to be told twice.

  “This is the woman you mentioned earlier?” I asked, tying the ribbons of my hat beneath my chin.

  “She is, at that. I expect I’ll haul you two along,” Tilson said. “Letty will be glad of a woman, Mrs. Davis, an’ perhaps you’ll assist me, if you’ve a mind to. Malcolm, bring them cards, son. You’ll be setting and waiting a fair piece, I fear, as this is her first babe.”

  We left a note for Boyd and then climbed atop Tilson’s flatbed wagon, into which he tucked his satchel and his rifle, riding over the prairie and to a neighboring farm, several miles west of town and along the river, a small homestead bordered by pines and with a pen full of pigs. Despite the heat of the day smoke curled from the chimney, as the lone window in the structure was covered with canvas rather than glass, and it would have been dark as evening without the fire. The man who had come to request Tilson’s presence met us at the door.

  “Billy, leave it propped open, if you would,” Tilson said to him. “I can’t see a blessed thing otherwise. And the afternoon is a lovely one.”

  Malcolm and I hovered behind Tilson with the uncertainty of strangers; the wedge of daylight allowed into the space by the open door fell upon a slice of dirt floor and the right leg of a low-slung bed, upon which a woman knelt, her bare feet cast in light, the rest of her body in shadow; her pale feet, slim and narrow and lit by the sun, appeared oddly vulnerable, and I wished to protect them, perhaps cover them with a blanket. Smoke from the hearth fire fled out the door, at once freshening the air.

  “It’s a fine day to welcome a child, ain’t it, Letty?” Tilson calmly inquired of the woman, despite her obvious distress. He continued, already moving to her side, “This here is Mrs. Davis, an’ she’ll assist me. How would that be?”

  “That’d be…right fine,” the woman managed to say, in a breathless moan. Her voice was scarcely audible.

  “Lorie, come around the side here,” Tilson said, retaining a tranquil confidence that transferred to me; I obeyed, rolling back my sleeves, no longer steeped in hesitancy. It was the first time Tilson had referred to me by my given name; I felt oddly pleased by this informality.

  “What can I do?” Malcolm asked earnestly.

  “Bless you, boy, but I’d rather you wait out near the crik. Have Billy show you where them trout is biting,” Tilson said. “Keep him busy, won’t you, son?”

  And Malcolm nodded his understanding.

  I joined Tilson at the bedside, my eyes having adjusted to the dimness, and did my best to offer the woman a smile, even as I realized that she was much more girl than woman, hardly appearing old enough to issue forth a child of her own. Her hair lay in a lank braid; her belly was distended unimaginably beyond its usual girth. A pale face round as a gourd lifted to peer at mine before pain doubled her forward. She wore a drooping dress designed to accommodate her girth, rucked now about her hips. The bedding beneath her knees was damp and soiled. She moaned again and remained hunched over her midsection.

  “Letty, lay back an’ let me see how far along,” Tilson said, and his very demeanor established and maintained a sense of steady calm. He invited, “Hold to Lorie.”

  Together we lowered her and then I took her chilled hands, letting her grip as she would, and despite the fragility of her fingers, she grasped with considerable force. Tilson gently raised her skirts, and I was struck by a memory of the night Sawyer found me in Sam Rainey’s camp, the way Sawyer had lifted my dirty garments using similar motions, with absolute tenderness and yet an urgency of need to determine the extent of the damage. Letty’s knees splayed wide and her hips lifted from the bedding as she emitted a hissing groan, nearly grinding my bones as she clutched.

  I tried to read Tilson’s face as his big, capable hands roved her belly; he appeared to be peering into the middle distance as he explored the flesh between her thighs in his careful assessment. I was fairly certain that I detected a hint of concern about him, though outwardly he gave little sign, and it was merely a guess upon my part. But then his eyes met mine, and I knew I was not wrong.

  He looked back to Letty and said quietly, “Honey, you’re right far along, but the babe ain’t positioned properly just yet. I’d like for you to get to all fours.”

  She nodded roughly, and again we assisted her motions. She breathed heavily as Tilson gripped her hips, easing her into position. He spoke in low murmurs, soothing her. To me, he said, “I can’t quite tell if I felt a foot or an elbow, but sure not the little one’s head.”

  “It…hurts…” she groaned, gasping between breaths, and I put both hands immediately to her back, patting and soothing as well as I could.

  “Pull in a deep breath,” Tilson said. “There’s a good one, now another…”

  From this new angle he reached to cup her belly, his eyes fixed on a single point upon the wall but truly seeing inward, to the child contained within her, a writhing mass of life demanding entry into the world. Letty’s position brought to my mind a laboring horse, perhaps uncharitably, but it was the only picture I had upon which to draw; I had witnessed many birthings in Daddy’s stable. Letty’s heaving ribs and hanging head were akin to what I had seen as a little girl—I almost expected forelegs to emerge from between her parted thighs.

  “He’s near sideways,” Tilson muttered, gritting his teeth a little, as though in sympathy. He said, “Feel here,” and commandeered my hands, guiding them to the child within her; he was correct in his stat
ement, and a sudden splash of apprehension caught me in the face. He asked, low, “Have you seen a child born?”

  “No,” I said. “Only horses.”

  “It’s much the same,” Tilson acknowledged. “Though just now, we’s got a piece of work.” He said to Letty, “Honey, we have to turn the babe. He’s pointing the wrong way.”

  “Help him…” she begged, rearing upwards as much as she was able, imploring Tilson. “Please…help him…”

  “We will, but it’ll hurt, an’ you must be strong. Stay like this, darlin’, as that will ease the pain a little.”

  Letty sagged forward, chin to chest, braced upon the bedding and watching her belly upside-down. Her dress had sunk and I carefully eased it up past her hips, determined not to shy away from the task at hand; if Letty could bear the pain, I could certainly find the courage to remain near, and assist as well as I could.

  “In my satchel, Lorie, there’s strips of linen. Fetch those, set them near, an’ stoke that fire, get the kettle boiling. Just there,” and Tilson nodded, while I hurried to do his bidding, glad to be given a task, busying myself. While I worked, Tilson spoke softly to Letty, rubbing her side. Glancing their way, I beheld dark blood seeping from between her legs, creating small rivulets. At the sight I fell completely still, inadvertently clenching my teeth, involuntarily remembering.

  Blood, with its unmistakable scent.

  Blood that spilled forth with no regard for the life it was stealing.

  Letty hissed and her back suddenly arched, and I understood that I could not let the darkness of my memories overwhelm me, not now. I gathered the linens and hurried to the bedside. Letty’s lower body was bared and her knees spread wide, her genitals appearing purple and swollen. I said firmly, “Tell me what to do.”