by Diane Ashley
Even though she was now a full-grown woman, Rebekah was as compassionate as ever. She would never understand the necessity of freeing the Indians by sending them to a place where they could safely follow their heathen nature. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck to distract himself from the voice whispering that there were Indians, like those he’d met at Rebekah’s church, who could not be labeled heathens. Should they be forced to leave their homes, too?
Asher tried to force the voice to be silent, but its echo remained uncomfortably fixed in his heart even as he knew he must go forward to maintain his sought-after position.
Fifteen
The next morning, Asher was up with the sun and anxious to get to Colonel Lewis’s home. He dressed with haste and hurried through breakfast with his family. He would have liked to discuss with his pa how to proceed in the investigation, but given Pa’s attitude about his new job, he decided to say nothing.
The streets were relatively quiet this early in the morning, and he made his way to the Lewis home without incident. Half expecting that the colonel had gathered a posse of angry men, Asher was thankful to discover no one awaiting his arrival.
He took the steps two at a time and banged his fist on the front door. An elderly black woman answered and led him toward the colonel’s office. As he followed behind her, he wondered if the colonel would keep him waiting for long this morning.
“Come in, Captain.” The colonel’s voice answered his unspoken question. “I’m glad you arrived so early. I have been brought some evidence that will make our job much easier.”
Asher shook the older man’s hand. “That sounds promising. What kind of evidence?”
The colonel walked to his desk and picked up a brass-accented wooden writing box. “I considered sending a message to you last night when this was brought forward, but I decided it would be better to wait since we could not act upon it until daylight anyway.”
“Who brought it?”
“Apparently the Marshalls had a farmhand who lived above the stables and helped Mr. Marshall. As he knew I work for General Jackson, he came to me with this box.”
Asher could hardly believe it. Someone had seen the raid? What wonderful luck. Now they would have descriptions of the culprits they were seeking. “How did he escape the attack?”
“He wasn’t there. He’d been sent to Nashville for some provisions and decided to stay the night.”
His explanation dashed Asher’s hope for an eyewitness.
The colonel put the box in his hands and nodded at him to open it. Asher removed the wooden top and looked inside. His gaze registered the bloodstained Cherokee tomahawk while his imagination supplied the screams and pleas of the Marshall family before they died, as well as the coppery scent of their spilled blood.
“Where did he find this tomahawk?”
The colonel tapped his chin with one finger and looked toward the ceiling. “He went back the next morning to find the farmhouse and barns burned. He found the bodies of the Marshall family and decided to bury them. While he was working, he discovered the tomahawk lying on the ground near the place Mr. Marshall died. I can only surmise that it was dropped in the struggle.”
Asher wanted to drop it right this minute. He had done his share of killing, but that had been his duty to his country, and it had been against men on the battlefield. He could not abide the images in his head of Mrs. Marshall and the children screaming in the night as they were mercilessly attacked by cold-blooded killers.
The colonel took the box from him. “There’s one thing you may not have noticed.”
Asher didn’t want to have to look at the weapon again, but he steeled himself. “What’s that?”
The older man reopened the box and withdrew the tomahawk. “This is a fine piece. Not made by an Indian.”
Asher was confused. “Indians didn’t raid the Marshall farm?”
“I didn’t say that.” The colonel threw a smug look his way. “See the carved handle and steel blade? This is no crude weapon. It was probably made right here in Nashville by a white man.”
“Then how did it—”
“I’m not sure, but my carriage has been brought around while I showed you the weapon. We’re going to visit the craftsman this morning and find out.” The colonel closed the writing box and locked it with a key, which he then pocketed. “And that information will likely lead us directly to the murderer.”
It took the two men the balance of the morning to discover the designer of the tomahawk. He was a woodcarver who had a shop on the north end of Nashville. When they pulled up, the owner was sitting on a crude bench in front of the shop, whittling a large piece of white oak.
“Good morning, gents.” The man smiled at them, exposing dark teeth with several gaps. “What can I do for you?”
Colonel Lewis stepped out of the carriage, his writing box tucked under one arm. “We’re here to ask you about a tomahawk.”
The man stood and leaned his work against the bench. “Come on in then. I’ve got plenty to choose from.”
Asher walked inside, his gaze swinging around the room. Hundreds of handles hung on pegs all around the shop—some were smooth, while others had intricate designs carved on them. There were painted handles, leather-covered handles, and handles decorated with beads and feathers. Asher was amazed at the variety of styles to choose from.
“Are you looking for something fancy?”
“Not exactly.” Colonel Lewis turned the key in his writing box and withdrew the bloody tomahawk. “We need to know if you carved this one.”
The owner turned as pale as fresh snowfall. “Yep, it’s one of mine. See the eagle’s head I carved into the handle here? I. . .I sold this very tomahawk to a tall Indian who come in here with his squaw last week. He said he done broke his tomahawk and wanted somethin’ special.”
A look of satisfaction briefly replaced the man’s alarm. “He came to me because he heard I’m the best there is. And he picked out this here one.” He nodded at the weapon. “Said he ’specially liked the eagle on it.”
Asher could barely contain his excitement. It had taken time and perseverance—and a bit of good fortune—but they had traced the weapon back to its source. Now all they had to do was find the Indian who’d bought it. He mused over the woodcarver’s words, wondering if he should ask about a bill of sale. There had to be a clue. And then he knew. Like someone lifting a curtain to let bright sunshine into a dark room, the answer exploded into his consciousness. The Cherokees had a special word for the eagle—wohali. The woodcarver had to be describing Rebekah’s new neighbor—the man he had helped escape justice. What had he done? Would his actions make her the next victim?
❧
Rebekah’s ma laughed as she watched Noya punch her needle through the layers of her quilt patch, the force of her action nearly catapulting her from her rocker. “That’s better, but you have to remember it’s not as tough as a tanned hide.”
The Indian woman smiled at her, pushing herself back before she overbalanced. “I know, but it seems to fight my needle.”
“That’s exactly why we came over.” Rebekah stitched as she spoke, her needle moving up and down through the material. She loved sewing, watching as something came into being under her fingers.
That was especially true of quilts. Each square represented a memory. Here was a square fashioned from an old dress of Ma’s; there was one of Pa’s wool vests. When they finished piecing all of the squares together, this quilt would tell a story about her family. And Noya’s family as well, since several of the squares contained scraps donated from their old clothing.
Making the quilt had been Ma’s idea. After the near disaster in Nashville earlier in the week, she had wanted to do something to show Wohali and Noya they were part of the community. And what better way than to work together on a project that both families had contributed to?
“You’ve made your home so charming.” Ma squinted a little as she looked around the homey cabin. “I’m glad
you bought it from Mrs. Winter’s family after she passed away. She was a sweet lady, but we never seemed to have much in common. In the short time you’ve been here, we’ve already shared more recipes and stories than I ever did with Mrs. Winter.”
Rebekah’s gaze wandered around the small room. It was dominated by the kitchen area, complete with a wooden counter, a table with two benches, and a fireplace for cooking. In the far corner from the kitchen was the sleeping area. Someone had attached a raised sleeping platform to the wall and covered it with a colorful blanket. She wondered if Noya, who couldn’t be five feet in height, had to use a stool to climb into it.
Much like her parents’ cabin, there were windows on both sides of the door. They allowed sunlight and a fresh breeze into the cabin by day while their wooden shutters kept out the damp night air. A black bearskin rug had been placed in front of the door to prevent dirt and leaves from being tracked into the cabin. Dried apples hung from pegs that had been driven into the timber wall, along with berries and summer squash that would be used to supplement meals.
The hours flew by as the women sewed and chatted. After taking naps, Eleanor and Donny intermittently played inside and outside the cabin, carefully watched by the adults. When Pa and Wohali came in from the fields, it signaled the end of their party.
Before they could gather up their sewing notions, however, someone started banging on the front door of Wohali’s cabin.
Rebekah looked at her parents. “Who can that be?”
Wohali snatched up his rifle and trained it on the door while placing himself between his wife and the disturbance. “I doubt it’s good news.”
“Open up.”
Rebekah’s heart leaped into her throat. She knew that voice. “Please wait! That’s Asher.” It must be a misunderstanding. She ran to the door and pulled it open.
Asher’s jaw dropped when he saw her. “What are you doing here?” He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to him. “Have they hurt you?”
A part of her wanted to rest against him and listen to his heart beat, but she pushed herself away. “Of course not. Have you lost your senses? Ma and I came over to show Noya how to quilt while her husband and Pa were out digging a well because the creek has nearly dried up.”
Pa pulled her back and faced Asher. “A better question would be what you are doing banging on the door like you’re being chased by bandits.”
Asher pointed past them at Wohali. “I’ve been sent to take Wohali into custody for the murders of the Marshall family.”
Rebekah gasped. Had he been infected by the madness in Nashville? Or was this evidence of the very kind of influence she had worried about from the Lewis family? “What do you mean? You know they didn’t have anything to do with that raid. They were with us at Aunt Dolly’s house that night. How could he have been out at the Marshall place?”
Asher turned his gaze on her. Never had she seen him look so hard. His face seemed chiseled from stone, and his eyes looked straight through her. “A witness has come forward. We have enough evidence against Wohali, and you should be thankful for my arrival. You and your family may have been his next targets.”
Rebekah’s hand flew to her mouth. She glanced back at the Indian couple, who were standing close together. For an instant, she wondered if they could be capable of murder. But it was not possible. There was no way she would believe the woman she had spent the morning with could be in any way involved with the violent deaths of an innocent family.
She shook her head and turned to Pa. If Wohali harbored any evil intent, he would have seen evidence of it. “Pa, you can’t let this happen.”
Pa looked as shocked as she felt, but he shook his head. Was there nothing he could do to stop Asher from taking their neighbor?
Noya leaned up and whispered something to her husband, who turned his black gaze on Asher. “Who is this witness?”
“A farmhand. He got there too late to do anything to help the family. But the evidence he has is very convincing.”
Rebekah could not, would not believe it. This was a gross miscarriage of justice. “There has to be a mistake.”
“I wish there was, but you don’t know all that I know—”
“I don’t care what you think you know. It’s simply not possible.”
“Stay out of this, Rebekah. Someone found Wohali’s tomahawk at the farm the next morning. There’s no way it could have gotten out there unless he was a party to the murders. I know you have a soft spot for Indians, but you’re allowing your feelings to cloud your judgment.”
“At least I still have feelings.” Her words fell into a well of silence. If possible she would have stuffed them back in her mouth. But it was too late.
Asher looked at her for a moment before shrugging. “I have to do this no matter what you think of me.” He shouldered his way past the others to face Wohali. “I’d like you to come peaceably. If what Rebekah says is right, we’ll soon find out. But in the meantime, I have to take you to Nashville.”
The Indian pried his wife’s hands from his arms and nodded. “Do not worry, wife. God is in control.” Without another word, he followed Asher into the yard.
Rebekah went to the short woman and hugged her tightly. “He’s right, you know. Take heart. We’ll straighten everything out in no time.” Rebekah hoped to reassure herself with these words, but she knew she sounded much more certain than she actually felt.
Sixteen
Asher took his prisoner to the jail. He was not happy with the way things had turned out. First, Rebekah’s accusation that he was being heartless. Then Wohali’s stoicism on the way back to Nashville.
The man had not put forward the least resistance, practically offering himself up as a sacrifice. Who did he think he was? Jesus? Asher’s conscience pricked him. Was Wohali’s silence an indication of innocence or guilt?
It was dusk, but he wanted to talk to Colonel Lewis about a couple of things. He hoped the man was at home, not escorting Alexandra and her ma to another ball. As his horse cantered across Nashville, Asher searched his memory for any invitations that his ma had mentioned, but he could not recall anything.
The Lewises must be at home, as nearly every window glowed against the deepening gloom. It was a very welcoming sight.
A stableboy came running to take care of his horse, and Asher climbed the front steps. How different the day had turned out than what he had been expecting when he first arrived at this very same doorway.
The same slave let him in. “I need to see the colonel again.”
“Yes, sir.” This time, she led him to a different part of the house, opening the door and announcing him to the people inside.
Asher entered the parlor, squinting at the sudden brightness. Alexandra was the first person he saw. She and her parents were enjoying tea in the parlor. Her smile was as wide and appealing as always. As she rose to meet him, Asher squelched a comparison between her and Rebekah. The last time he and Rebekah had disagreed, he had made that mistake, and he was determined not to repeat his error. Alexandra was nice, but his heart belonged to a stubborn, backward girl who was determined to rescue the world while dragging him away from a lucrative position in Nashville.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Captain Landon?” She put out her hand for his kiss.
He bent and pecked at the air above her hand. “I have business with your father.”
She pouted at him. “Is that the only reason you’ve come?”
“Alexandra!” Colonel Lewis’s voice was sharp with censure. He left his easy chair and came over to stand next to his daughter. “You should mind your manners, young lady. It is unseemly of you to fish for a compliment.”
Asher wondered why his shirt collar suddenly felt so uncomfortable. Although he agreed with the colonel, he did not like to witness Alexandra’s discomfiture.
She looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Papa. I did not mean any harm.”
Colonel Lewis’s face lost its angry glower. He patted her shoulder. �
��No harm done, dear. Eh, Captain?”
Asher nodded his agreement and tugged at his collar. He turned to Alexandra’s mother, who had remained seated on the sofa. “How do you do this evening?”
Mrs. Lewis sighed and waved a lacy kerchief. “As well as possible, I suppose, given the uncivilized nature of our surroundings.”
Colonel Lewis cleared his throat. “Please remember that Captain Landon is from here, my dear. He probably doesn’t agree with your disapprobation of Nashville.”
“I would not dare to disagree with you, ma’am. I know you are more used to the comforts of a big city.”
“Good answer.” The colonel winked at Asher. “Perhaps we should retire to my study.”
They left the ladies to their tea and headed down the hall.
“How did it go? Did you get the vermin?”
Asher winced at the colonel’s choice of word. Before the evidence had been brought forward, he’d thought Wohali was an honorable man—hardworking, God-fearing, and honest. When he’d looked into Rebekah’s eyes earlier, he had remembered that opinion. Had there been some mistake? “I’m worried about Wohali.”
“Why? He murdered that poor defenseless family. He deserves whatever punishment we decide to mete out.”
Asher sat down in one of the leather chairs. “I’m not sure he is guilty.”
“Not guilty?” The colonel lifted a finger. “First, there’s the bloody weapon, and then the description from the woodcarver of the man who purchased it. What more do you need? To see his hands coated with innocent blood?”
Asher leaned forward. “But can we be sure Wohali is the man who purchased the tomahawk? There are a lot of tall Indians around.”
The colonel held his gaze for a moment. “If you’re that worried about it, why don’t you and I take this Indian to the woodcarver tomorrow and see if we’ve got the right person?”
Asher felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “That’s a good plan.” Asking the woodcarver to identify Wohali would clear up his doubts, and he would be able to report to Rebekah that no mistake had been made. Surely then she would see the truth.