Malcolm would not be placated. He insisted, “I ain’t a young’un. An’ I don’t believe it’s wrong to kill a bad man. Or one that would send another man in his place to do the bad work for him.”
“Yancy is a coward to his core,” I said, troubled by the passion of Malcolm’s statements. “And I agree wholeheartedly with Boyd, that you are fine and brave, both, sweetheart. But when all is said and done, it would have been a terrible burden for a boy of twelve to carry with him.”
“I’m thirteen!” Malcolm corrected, his words tinged with indignant moodiness. “I ain’t twelve no more.”
“Don’t you sass Lorie,” Boyd said sharply, and Malcolm jolted to his feet, scraping back the chair.
“I’ll be in the barn,” the boy muttered, and disappeared without another word.
“He’s tired,” I whispered, as the outer door closed behind Malcolm with a soft thud. “That he must consider such ideas is what troubles me most. But his opinion is valid.”
“It’s my damn fault,” Boyd allowed, plunging both hands through his black hair. “I done told him that very thing. It ain’t wrong to kill someone who’d wish you harm, an’ no one could persuade me otherwise. But at his age, I never thought on such things. Shit, I could hardly think past the next meal, or which girl’s braids I might tug at Sunday service. Times have changed since the War, that’s God’s truth.” Boyd smiled, unexpectedly, his teeth flashing white in the gloom. He said, with teasing emphasis, “When I was thirteen, that is.”
“What did Sawyer look like, at that age?” I whispered. “I can imagine, but I do so love when you tell stories about those days.”
Boyd said amiably, “Sawyer grew fast as an ox-eye weed one summer. I can’t recall which summer exactly, as they sorta blur together a bit for me now, but Sawyer went from small an’ skinny to the height of a spring sapling, all of a sudden-like, but still just as skinny. I swore you coulda counted each of his ribs. He ate like a horse, couldn’t eat enough to fill up, but he didn’t gain no weight for a year or two.”
I smiled at this picture.
Boyd went on, “Sawyer’s hair weren’t so long then, though it was of enough length to tie back. He’s always been a bit vain about his hair, I ain’t gonna lie. I believe it started the autumn he heard tell that the girls in our school liked it, when we was maybe eleven or so. I teased him that if any girls approached him from behind, they’d confuse him for one of them. The fights we’d get into. Shit. We was black an’ blue half the time, just from beating on each other.”
After a time, I whispered, “I am so grateful that he has you. That you share his memories, as would a brother. He depends upon you a great deal, you know this.”
Boyd covered his face with both hands, his elbows braced against the bed. He was silent long enough that I grew tense with concern; at last he said, “I grieve for the loss of his eye, Lorie-girl. I’m fearful of his reaction.” And then he whispered, “If I’d aimed truer into that bastard Crawford, he woulda been dead when he hit the ground. Oh Jesus…”
“You did everything you could,” I whispered. “You cannot blame yourself.”
“So fast. It happened so goddamn fast,” Boyd said, lifting his face. My heart folded inward to see the evidence of tears on his cheeks. His upper lip curled in self-punishing anger as he all but growled his words, “He coulda killed Sawyer, coulda taken him from us forever. There’s so few people in this world that I call my own, that I love, an’ so fast life sees fit to rob me of them.” He heaved a half-choked sigh, and I reached, curling my hand around his. He squeezed my fingers and said, “I know you understand, I do. I apologize.”
“Do not,” I whispered. “Please, Boyd, do not apologize.”
“I can’t hardly dare to care for a living soul, Lorie, not when I fear the loss so terrible. I cherish the thought of my own young’uns…but what if I lost one of them? What if I can’t keep watch all the time?”
I whispered, “No one is able, not all the time. Loving someone is never completely without pain, even the dearest love that exists. We are all vulnerable to it, Boyd.” He studied my eyes, and I heard myself ask, “You think it is any easier for Rebecca?”
Everything about him changed in an instant, growing defensive and rigid; his jaw tightened. He sat back in the chair, folding his arms. He whispered hoarsely, “She’s a Yankee widow, for the love of all that’s holy.”
“She is far more than that.” I dared to say, “You know she cares for you. It is plain upon her face every time she looks at you.”
Boyd closed his eyes; I was left with the feeling that I had slapped him. He whispered painfully, “Ain’t nothing can come of it. She’s a promised woman. An’ we’s headed north.”
“She and Quade are not yet engaged,” I contradicted. “Boyd, if you care for her, you must tell her. You cannot ride away from her.”
He held my gaze steadily; I knew he was thinking, as was I, of the terrible night Sawyer had understood there was no other choice but to ride ahead, to leave me behind in Angus’s care.
“I do care for Rebecca,” he whispered, nearly inaudibly, and my heart gave a small, glad thump at his admission; how tenderly he spoke her name, how sweet it sounded in his deep, soft drawl. He repeated, “But ain’t nothing can come of it. She is every breath a lady. I am nowhere nears good enough for her. An’ I aim to make it north, late or no. I aim to do what I set out to do.”
“You are—” But my words were cut short as Sawyer issued a low groan. His arms twitched and his head rolled to one side, angling towards us.
“Sawyer,” I begged, touching him, but he had already sunk back under; his arm was inert, hot as a kettle on the fire. I kept my fingers upon him.
Boyd said, “When you was fevered, on the prairie back in Missouri, he was feral, Lorie-girl. Wouldn’t let a soul near you but for him when you was caught in fever dreams. None of us could get him to sleep, an’ hardly would he eat, he was so a-feared for your life.”
I bent my head to my folded arms, there on the bedside.
After a long spell of silence, Boyd whispered, “It’s worth the pain, or we would never love, would we?”
“We would not,” I murmured in agreement.
- 30 -
By mid-morning’s cloudy light, I trimmed and washed what remained of Sawyer’s hair; the thick flaxen length of it had burned away, and what was left to adorn his scalp was no longer than the top joints of my fingers. Tilson had helped me to shave away Sawyer’s heavy beard, only yesterday afternoon.
I whispered to my husband, “Now I can see your ears.”
Malcolm helped me, tenderly cradling Sawyer’s head upon the pillow so that I could administer a linen cloth, damp with warm water and apple-cider vinegar, cleansing his skin. Malcolm, whether consciously or not, kept a soft, steady flow of words, effectively holding at bay my tears.
“When I was little, I remember always begging Sawyer to lift me on his shoulders. I felt I was on top of the whole world, up there.”
“He has told me of that,” I whispered, tenderly applying the cloth, mindful of the binding over Sawyer’s eyes. The scent of vinegar was strong in my nose.
Malcolm continued, “He let me ride Whistler when I was only little, I recall settin’ on her back an’ clutching her mane, while Sawyer led her about the dooryard. I’ve always knew he loved me, Lorie-Lorie.” The boy’s eyes glistened with tears, though he did not let them fall as he whispered, “I thought there weren’t nothing worse than when Mama an’ Daddy died, an’ Mrs. Elmira took me in to live with her. There hadn’t been no word from Boyd in months. I didn’t know if he’d survived. I had all but give up hope before he an’ Sawyer come for me that spring.”
Rebecca entered the room to hear Malcolm’s last few words, bringing a new basin of water, which she set carefully upon the nightstand.
Malcolm whispered earnestly, “I won’t never forget the sight of them two, ridin’ up the lane to Mrs. Elmira’s. I thought I was maybe having me a vision, that I�
��d wished so hard an’ so long for Boyd to come for me that I was just imagining it. I ran outside an’ it was raining a little, but I didn’t care, I was just so happy to see them. I slipped on the mud an’ Boyd near fell off of Fortune to collect me up in his arms.”
“Your brother loves you very much,” Rebecca said, stroking Malcolm’s hair. I looked up at her and beheld the wistful aching, carefully guarded, present in her eyes.
Boyd, I understood. She loves him, and she will not admit it.
Malcolm whispered, “An’ then him an’ Sawyer hugged me between them, an’ I felt so safe, Lorie-Lorie. I felt like nothin’ could hurt me again, not when they was near.”
The rapid beat of hooves approaching deterred my intended reply, and Tilson said from the outer door, “Clint’s riding in!”
Clemens’ voice was slightly breathless, though his words reached us with no trouble. He called, “Uncle Edward, the judge has arrived, not an hour past.”
Rebecca’s eyes flew to mine.
“Then we must go to him,” I whispered.
“Hamm has not ridden markedly far this day, though he is often insufferable concerning his ‘delicate’ personage, and does not hear the caseload until properly rested,” Clemens said upon entering the house, between long swallows from the dipper. He was sweating and appeared slightly flustered, the first I had seen him so. He politely used the cloth Rebecca handed him to blot his mouth, and said, “He shall hear us after his noon meal, he has promised.”
Tilson said, “There’s no word yet from Rawley, but we’ll have to do without him, for now.”
Clemens looked to me and asked, “Mrs. Davis, are you feeling up to riding into town this afternoon?”
I whispered, “Damn right I am.”
* * *
“It’s a fine woman can appreciate a good horse,” Tilson said, spying me hugging Whistler beneath the oppressive, pewter-gray afternoon sky. I had laced into my boots and stood now in a tremendous amount of pain, but bear it I would; Rebecca lent me a dress of finely-woven ecru lawn and helped me to pin up my hair, in deference to the judge’s sensibilities. I looked as proper as a woman who had worked for three years as a prostitute could possibly hope. Tilson offered his elbow; I believed I startled him when I surrendered to instinct and tucked close, hugging him, unable to resist the sudden need for paternal affection.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and he briefly rested his cheek against my hair. I admitted, “I am so scared. I despise that our fate rests so completely in someone else’s hand.”
“Ain’t that the way of it, for all of us?” he asked, gently. “Whether you believe in a higher order, or no, our fate ain’t in our own palms, much as we might wish it.” He patted my back and said, “We’ll see this through. No matter what happens, we’ll see this through.”
I rode alongside Tilson on the buckboard, my hat brim flapping as the wheels struck ruts. He sat with carriage erect, as would a soldier, handling the reins with calm competence, and from the corner of my vision I could nearly pretend that he was Sawyer, as an older and far more grizzled version of himself. Rebecca and Malcolm had remained behind, and Malcolm promised to stay near Sawyer’s side until I returned. I prayed doubly hard as we headed for town that when I saw them again, I would bear good news. Boyd and Clemens rode just ahead of the wagon, both with hats pulled low, as the sky had begun to spit.
It was raining steadily by the time we reached the church where Judge Hamm held court, as the town itself had no formal judicial buildings. The church was adjacent to the green where the gallows had been erected, and I was stunned to discover there was a crowd seeking entry to the main room from the cramped vestibule, filling the narrow anteroom with their damp, restless bodies. Horses were tethered by the dozens to the hitching posts. Residents of town were clearly eager to observe this afternoon’s session before Judge Hamm and his traveling lawyers; Yancy, despite his continued absence, had been successful in rousing suspicion amongst the population of Iowa City, whose murmuring and grumbles reached my ears as we arrived and made our difficult way inside, through rain and crowd. I spied Parmley, the objectionable journalist, who snaked briskly between several others to reach my side.
“Mrs. Davis,” he blustered, catching at my elbow. “I have sought an audience with you for days now.”
Tilson shouldered Parmley none too gently aside, all without a word. Though a man of few admirable qualities, I had to acknowledge Parmley’s stubbornness, as he remained undeterred, following directly behind, still attempting to catch my ear. I ignored Parmley, however rudely, and focused upon the sight of Marshal Quade at the double doors leading into the church itself, speaking calmly but in no uncertain terms refusing entrance to those seeking a seat.
“Mrs. Davis, Edward, good afternoon,” the marshal greeted as Tilson and I stepped near, tipping his hat brim. In the murky light of the vestibule, a small room with scant and narrow windows, I allowed myself a moment to study Leverett Quade’s face, seeking to view him as Rebecca would—her potential future husband. Rebecca claimed to care for him; he clearly cared for her. Quade did not seem to notice my brief scrutiny, and at close range I beheld a not-unpleasant face, lean and sunburned, upon which the evidence of no little amount of hard living was present, this tempered by a sense of calm and competency. His words and actions proved him a decent man; it was only because I cared so deeply for Rebecca that I found Quade lacking.
Besides, he was not Boyd. And for all his resistance, whether he would openly admit to such or not, I knew Boyd felt just as strongly for Rebecca as she did for him.
Other than those seeking to petition the judge, no one was allowed to enter the main room of the church—except for Parmley, toting a single-sided broadsheet and a small leaded pencil. He seated himself in the pew just behind Tilson, Boyd, Clemens and me, leaning on his forearms as though he believed proximity would somehow ingratiate him to us. Quade closed the double doors amidst protests and stood firmly planted before them, clutching one wrist in the opposite hand, feet widespread, awaiting the appearance of the judge. The altar at front had been replaced by a small wooden table holding an ink pot and a stack of documents, surrounded by four cane chairs. I found my gaze roving to the stained glass adornments set into the oblong windows to either side; the light filtering through was tinted with warm golds and bloody reds; a wooden cross bound at its juncture with a length of white satin ribbon had been hung upon the front wall.
I had not been within the walls of a church since the dismal spring of 1865, praying with the ardor of the condemned for my mother’s return to health; this prayer, like so many, had gone unanswered, and perhaps it was this memory that served to cleave through my defenses just now. My mind thumbed desperately through its many images of Sawyer, and settled upon the sight of him tying back his golden hair to make ready for the day; so often now had I undone that very same bit of twine in order to comb my fingers through its flaxen length, at day’s end. Here I sat prepared to do battle for my husband’s life, even as he simultaneously battled for it on a separate front—miles from me, trapped behind the walls of a fever—and I reached to clench Boyd’s hand, for strength.
Boyd twined our fingers and nudged my shoulder with his. He muttered, “Shore up, Lorie-girl, you’s gone white as a catfish belly.”
“There’s Hamm,” Clemens leaned around Tilson to murmur.
The judge, entering from the right, was a slope-shouldered man in dark clothing; the elbows of his suit coat were dusty. His mouth was dominated by a bristling gray mustache, which he fastidiously worried with his lower lip even as he walked; round spectacles rode low on his nose. He was of an age with Tilson. I tried, with no success, to determine if his face was one ever wreathed in gaiety, or even pleasantry; he appeared, at present, frighteningly dour. A quiet descended over everyone as the judge nodded to those of us assembled and seated himself without ceremony at the table. Three additional men sat to his sides, drawing close their chairs.
The judge said, “I am r
eady.”
The lawyer to the judge’s right, stage left from my perspective in the pew, lifted a document and cleared his throat with an officious air, one befitting proceedings set to begin without further delay. Reading from the paper, he intoned, “Sawyer James Davis, formerly Private Davis of the Rebel Army of Tennessee, is charged with the murders of Samuel Rainey, Gerald Dixon, and Jack Barrow, all formerly of Missouri.”
I gulped at this meticulous recitation.
The judge looked our way as Tilson shifted in his seat. I remained still as a threatened rabbit, and the rabbit I had shot on the plains sprang obscenely to my mind, blood-smeared and lifeless. By nightfall I would recall very little of what was spoken; the afternoon remains in my memory as a series of disjointed chunks.
The lawyer addressed the small crowd before him, asking solicitously, “Is Sawyer Davis present today?”
“Due to his severely injured state, he is not,” Tilson said, with as much stern clarity as his hoarse voice allowed. “But several of us, including his wife, are here to speak for him.”
* * *
“You worked as a prostitute in St. Louis from 1865 until this past spring?”
“I did.”
“Virginia Hossiter was your employer?”
“She was.”
Parmley, listening raptly, scribbled notes with his pencil. Sitting as I was upon a chair positioned near the front table, I heard every scratch of that writing utensil, as though Parmley scribed the words into my flesh.
“You believe yourself somehow redeemed from this unfortunate circumstance?”
“I do, sir.”
“You are now lawfully wed to Sawyer Davis?”
“I am.”
“And you claim to have been the one to shoot Jack Barrow dead, rather than your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Was Barrow a customer of yours? Did he owe you money?”
“No, neither of these things. He intended to strangle me.”
Later, the flow of questions became a bottomless sea in which I would have floundered if not for the strength of my conviction. I sweat straight through Rebecca’s beautiful lawn dress, but I answered each without lowering either chin or eyes. I looked steadily at the judge, whose gaze was dispassionate rather than censuring, and I was not ashamed.
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