Cry of the Hawk (21 page)

With his belt knife, Hook picked a string of meat from one of the squirrel haunches. “I’ll find every last one of my family—and them that took ’em—if it takes the rest of my life.”

Moser rolled himself in his blankets that night after eating. Hook turned away and settled into his bedroll without having said a word while they ate. Both knew morning would come soon enough. And the silence between them was all right.

The gray of dawn nudged both awake, scraping tongues around the insides of their mouths. Without saying it both men realized they shared a deep desire for the heady taste of a cup of coffee. The two men pulled at scraps of meat on the squirrel carcasses and sucked at the bones to satisfy the gnawing they likewise shared in their bellies.

“I hope we don’t have to go all the way to Neosho,” Artus said as they started north and east down the rutted road toward Cassville.

“You counting on us not getting any help in town?”

Moser said, “No. We got to get you some other clothes.”

“Goddammit—folks round here oughtta know me for what I am—not for wearing this Yankee uniform.”

“I wanna shet myself of this raggedy old uniform myself.”

“Then we gotta do it in Cassville.”

“They know you there.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. That, and sneaking into see Boatwright without being seen.”

“What you wanna see him for?” Moser asked, his suspicions pricked.

“He’s sheriff, ain’t he?” Hook waited a moment. “He’ll know about who come through here in the last few months—any bunch looking suspicious and up to no good.”

But when they found Boatwright, he was no longer sheriff.

They had slipped into the small town, hugging the treeline until they got to the man’s house, tried the back door, and found it unlocked. Figuring to let themselves in and wait until Boatwright came home, they instead walked into the kitchen and found the old peace officer sitting in a chair, pointing a double-barrel scattergun at the intruders.

“Sounds like there’s two of you bastards,” Boatwright said, his milky eyes blinking in the gloom of midmorning. “That’s why lil’ Ethel here has two barrels: blow the balls off both of you.”

“Eldon? That’s you, ain’t it?” Moser asked.

The man’s face twitched a little, as if placing the voice there in the dark of the hallway separating the two rooms of the small house. “I know you?”

“Artus Moser.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Jonah Hook.”

“Jonah?”

“It’s me, Eldon.”

“C’mere and give this old man a hug.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot us?”

“I hear better’n I ever have these days,” Boatwright said. “Don’t see so good no more.”

“Jesus God!” Moser exclaimed as he moved closer to the old man in the chair. “What happened—”

“Let’s say I got burned.”

“Your eyes, Eldon,” Hook whispered.

“Sit. You boys come and sit,” he said, easing the scattergun off his lap and motioning for them to go into the far room. “No thankee,” he replied to the nudge of help from Hook at his arm. “I know where everything is.”

“Then—you’re blind,” Moser whispered.

“As a cave bat.”

“Fire, you said?” Hook asked.

“Freebooters.”

Both of them rocked forward from the bench where they had plopped.

“Freebooters? How long ago?”

“Not long. A few months. End of summer as I can remember. Hot as hell.”

“Why’d the bastards do this to you?”

Boatwright chuckled. “You don’t see no star on my shirt no more, do you, boys?”

“What’s that got to do—”

“They took it.” Boatwright sank back into his chair. “Don’t matter none. I don’t really need it now after all. Just me in this house, waiting for someone to come bring me something to eat, help me out. Jesus Lord! But you boys both been gone a long time—”

“Tell us about the freebooters and what they done to your eyes,” Hook said impatiently.

Boatwright turned toward the sound of the voice. After some thought he began, his scarred, whitish eyes seeping the moisture that no longer stung his fire-battered flesh.

“They had me tied down, not far north of your place, Artus. I had been down to call on your daddy and was heading out of the valley by way of Jonah’s place. That’s when I spotted a bunch of horsemen on the Hook farm. Sat there awhile, watching them gut your place for what you had, Jonah—and then I figured I’d better get back to town and get me some help. But I never made it into the saddle again. That bunch must’ve had guards on their backtrail, ’cause they came out of the woods on me.”

“How many of them was there altogether?”

“More’n thirty I’d say—by what I could see moving around on your place. I don’t figure I ever saw ’em all.”

“Why’d they tie you down?” Moser asked.

“Hold me down is more like it—’cause when their leader come up from behind where I was staked out, all I heard was his voice. Never saw his face. But he told the others I’d have to die ’cause I could identify ’em. I told him I wouldn’t dare—just let ’em get on out of the territory.”

“And what then?”

“He laughed some at me. Said that if I didn’t want to die—he’d make it so I would beg him to kill me soon enough. But … I didn’t ever beg, boys.”

“He burned your eyes?”

“With a hot poker.”

Something inside Artus curled up in a tight ball and would not loosen.

“We need clothes, Sheriff,” Hook asked.

“Told you, I ain’t sheriff no more.”

“You always will be to us. You stake us a couple sets of clothes?”

“Ain’t got much, but what there is—you’re welcome to it. You going after them?”

“They got my family, Boatwright.”

“Too many of ’em, Jonah.”

“How many guns you got in the house, Sheriff?”

It was as if by some unseen power, Boatwright’s smoky eyes behind the scarred lids and cheeks were staring right into Moser’s tall, skinny cousin for the longest time.

“Back there, behind that sideboard. You’ll find what you boys need. Just leave me the pistol and this here old bird gun. I do fine by them.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Jonah said, pulling the old sideboard away from the wall. “Don’t know how or when—but I’ll pay you back for everything you done to help me get my family back.”

16

Early February-Late April, 1866

J
ONAH HOOK KNOCKED
the damp earth from his hands, then finished brushing them off on the worn clothing Boatwright had given the two former Confederate soldiers as a homecoming gift. They had both hurried back to the valley south out of Cassville.

The work in the dark Missouri loam had been more than Jonah had thought it would be when first he decided to dig in that spot back of the cabin. After finding a small bit of lamp oil left in the cabin, Jonah and Artus burned their old clothing out at the edge of the fields now gone to weed. Jonah didn’t stand there long, watching the oily smoke rise into the cold winter afternoon air.

“We got work to do, Artus,” he had directed.

And work they had.

Four holes, a good six feet long and some two feet wide. Another six feet deep. All lined in a row behind the cabin he had built for Gritta and Hattie, and the two boys yet to come when first they settled in this narrow valley. Now something had made him return to the homestead for this final ceremony. His digging of the four graves was some dark journey into the deepest recesses of his rage, and the despair he suffered at ever finding them again.

The cousins had spelled one another at that single spade, cursing the hard ground wrought of winter, thankful for the recent cold rains that had soaked some softness into the unforgiving flintlike, and frozen soil. Now they rested, gasping over the fourth and final hole.

“You understand, don’t you, Artus?”

Moser swiped a streak of dirt across his cheek, smearing sweat off with his dirty hand. “No. I don’t.”

“You got two graves up there to your place. That’s your family buried there.”

“But, Jonah—you don’t know what’s happened to your family.”

“That’s why I’m leaving the graves open.” He dropped the spade beside the last hole and turned away toward the cabin. “Maybe it’s like old man Hosking said it—they’re good as dead. Until I find ’em. And find who dragged ’em off.”

“Jonah!”

Hook turned, finding Moser pulling his misshaped hat from his head.

“Man never walks away from a grave without saying a few words.”

“What you mean?”

Moser waved a hand helplessly, searching for the words. “This is some like a funeral to you, ain’t it?”

He thought a minute. “I suppose it is.”

“We ought to say some special church words over these holes afore we leave.”

Hook came back, then dragged the floppy slouch hat from his long hair. “You’re right.”

Jonah stood there a few moments, sorting through a lot of thoughts. Mostly struggling to swallow down the rage and despair so that he could speak some of those few church words he could remember now without making them come out like he was flinging his anger up at God and the heavens.

“I really ain’t any good at this, Artus,” he whispered as if some-one or some-thing near might overhear.

“We gotta say something.”

“All right,” Hook sighed. “This is tough, Lord. The worst it’s ever been inside of me. Feel damned near gutted—I’m sorry for swearing. Do too much of that, I know. I’m not always what you want of me, I suppose. Never been much of one to get down on my prayer bones and taffy up to you, God. Hell, you know what’s in my heart better’n anyone. No sense me telling you what you already know’s inside me. All that’s left inside me now.”

Jonah knelt and picked up some of the fresh spoil beside the last grave. “This is for little Zeke. Born and baptized as Ezekiel before you, Lord.” Jonah tossed the moist clods into the dark hole.

Moving to the next hole, he spilled some loose soil through his fingers. “This is for Jeremiah. Until my boy and me can fill this damned hole up together.”

“You ain’t supposed to swear when you’re talking to the Lord, Jonah.”

“I’m sure He’s heard me swear enough that he thinks nothing of it now, Artus.” Hook stopped by the third grave. “And dear little Hattie—until you and your daddy can plant some wildflowers here on this spot.”

He felt it welling and didn’t know how to make it stop as he stepped to the final hole. And stared down into its emptiness, much like his own center, except for the anger and the despair—nothing else there but black emptiness.

It shook him a moment, right down to those old boots Boatwright had given him.

“Sometimes I curse myself, dear woman,” he began, quietly. “Ever bringing you out here from our home at the foot of Big Cobbler. Curse myself for wanting to make a home that would be ours—not your family’s or mine. Something that could be ours alone.”

As he began to sob, some of the tears fell on the back of his dirty hands he held clasped in front of him, trembling as they crimped a hold on that slouch hat.

“This never would happen back in the Shenandoah. Out here—in this land where there’s no law to speak of, where the guilty can ride in here and murder and steal, then run and hide in the Nations—” He stopped of a sudden, feeling out of control as he let the words spill.

“Pray that I find you, Gritta. Wherever they’ve taken you and the children. For the sake of them. For the sake of what we could be again—pray that I find you.”

He turned away suddenly, unable to go on, the last words choked with bile. Angrily he wheeled and kicked dirt into the last grave, then spun again and set off toward the cabin.

It was long after they had started out, on foot, south toward Fort Smith, that Jonah finally felt like he could talk again. The sky had cleared the last two days, and winter’s cold had gripped the land with an unrelenting hold. Their breath formed frosty streamers behind them as they moved along at a brisk pace, not only to cover ground, but to keep warm as well.

“Someone’s gonna have to prove to me they’re dead. You put your daddy in the ground—so you know he’s dead. Me—I ain’t got none of that. Not for the children. Not for Gritta.”

“Don’t have to explain it to me, Jonah. Just tell me why we’re headed south. I figured we’d be heading west, into Kansas where them Yankee jayhawkers always came from before.”

“No, not this time,” he shivered with the cold. “We’re going someplace else.”

“The Nations?”

Jonah stopped, dragging Moser to a halt. “How’d you know?”

Artus shrugged. “You said it there at the graves—about the Nations.”

Then Jonah remembered. “Yeah. I gotta watch that—getting angry and spilling things like that. Always done it.”

“Why there?”

“I figure that’s the best place to start looking.”

Moser wagged his head as they started walking again, both grown cold from the standing. “Still don’t get it. You must have a good reason to wanna—”

“Boatwright told me.”

“Told you what? When did he tell you anything like that? You gotta be getting crazy about this—”

“I’m not crazy!” Hook growled. “Boatwright told me while you was pulling out the clothes for us. Whispered to me that he had good information that was give to him—about that bunch come through here end of last summer. They was talking about heading south and west into the Nations.”

Moser smiled slowly. “Shit, Jonah—if that don’t beat all! This pair of country boys got us something to track now!”

“
I don’t believe
I heard what you said, Sullivan,” growled Boothog Wiser at the man standing ten feet off as the entire guerrilla camp fell to silence around them.

Mike Sullivan glanced about him for a moment, then drew his shoulders back. “I said: you don’t always got first right to every woman we take.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Wiser shuffled over to stand beside the frightened dark-skinned Creek woman they had captured earlier that spring morning.

April was half gone, and the men sensed the warmth in their blood, making them randy and ready to mount the first female they had come across after pulling out of the streamside camp, riding on into the timbered mountains in the foggy eastern stretches of Indian Territory. Boothog himself had grown weary of a long and cold winter. And the nigger girl.