Spirit of the Wolf (35 page)

Eyes blazing with fury, Atwood whispered through clenched teeth, "Why you no-account sot, I've got half a mind to
—“

"Half a mind's about
all
you've got!" Purdy interrupted, raising his chin a notch. "You don't scare me none, Josh Atwood. Men like you never have scared me."

Blinking, Atwood loosed his grip a mite. "Men like me? What drunken foolishness are you
spouting now?
"

"Men who'll use their size, their age, the power of their office to browbeat people."

The preacher let Purdy go, turned on his heel and ran a hand through his hair. Shoulders slumped and bent slightly at the waist, as if the accusation itself was burdensome, he echoed, "Browbeat?"

It was more a statement than a question; the
tremulous
timber of his voice telling Purdy that he realized his actions
--at
least on this night
—had
proven the drunk correct.

Neither man spoke for a long time.

"If it's a starin' contest you're after, Preacher-man," Purdy ground out, "I'll win, on account-a I ain't got nothin' but this ole broom to call my own
. N
o place to go, nobody to go
to
." He shifted his weight and leaned on the long, worn handle again, and
with nothing more than the
tilt
of
his gray-haired head,
reminding
the preacher
that
he
ha
d
something to go home to. He nodded toward the rooms above the saloon. "Don't rightly know why a man with a wife like Miss Polly would settle for one of
them.
"

This time, both of Atwood's arms shot out. "Why, you miserable old
fool
," he snarled, "I'll teach you not to
insult
me!"

"Reminds me of the old days," Purdy choked out, "when you used to beat your nephew. Why, you'd
wallop
that young'un for so much as lookin' cross-eyed."

He'd aimed his remark at the heart of the man, intending for it to sting
, and it had. The
evidence was written all over Josh Atwood's strained
face.

Purdy aimed the broom handle, too, and toppled the big man with on
e, well-placed jab to Atwood's midsection
. The big man hit the hard-packed dirt with a loud
thud
.

While he
writhed and moaned,
Purdy bent to retrieve the object that had fallen from Atwood's pocket.
He took a few steps toward the street, where the moonlight wasn't blocked by buildings on either side of the narrow alleyway. "
I’ll be,
" he said to himself, "if th
is
don't beat all...."

Atwood was on his feet, bent at the waist and gripping his stomach when
Purdy
walked up to him.
"It all makes sense now."

"What makes sense?"

"Your nephew didn't kill Horace Pickett ten years ago
.
"

Eyes closed,
Atwood hung his head
as Purdy said,
"You
did it!"

***

Deep breathing exercises, it was said, were the latest in respiratory therapy.
If there's any truth in that,
Bess told herself
, I have the healthiest lungs this side of the Mississippi!

True to her word, she'd stood at her window morning and night, scanning the horizon in the hopes of seeing
Chance
, riding home
. So many lonely weeks had passed since he'd left Foggy Bottom.
Bess had no reason to believe he'd return any time soon, or that he'd re
turn at all. But she wouldn’t stop hoping.

S
he'd read his letter so many times that it felt more like cloth than paper
now
. To protect
the fragile thing
, she'd committed it to memory
, then
pressed it into the pages of her
b
ible.
Huddled in th
e window seat
, a
chill late November wind ruffl
ed
her bangs
as she recited her favorite part of his message: "'Don't forget me, Bess....'"

Bess could picture him saying it, pale blue eyes alight with love, sun-kissed hair gleaming, a tantalizing smile slanting his lips. He'd taken a big chance, signing his real name to that note, and she
loved him all the more for it.

“
How
could I ever forget you!
" she wondered aloud.

Leaning against the many-pillowed backrest, she pulled her long-fringed shawl tighter to fend off the crisp breeze,
prepared now
to watch the sun set in the west.
God, she decided, possessed a magical,
creative
hand, for
on
this day, He'd painted the skies with streaks of brilliant orange and pale pink, adding bands of yellow as bright as brass above a layer of steely blue. The clouds, like shimmering soapsuds, reflected His colorful artistry, and reached their angel-fingers wide and long to touch the earth with rainbow hues of sparkling, spoke-like fronds.

The far-off cry of a hawk momentarily silenced the crickets' chirp and the toads' song. But soon, they
re
joined the chorus of katydids and cicadas. The Almighty Conductor led His harmonious symphony, adding the occasional bleat of sheep, the here-and-there low of cow, a spirited whinnying of horse to the rhythm of
twilight
. It was a peaceful world outside her window
. She couldn’t help but wonder as she drifted into a
contented slumber
if the good Lord had answered her prayers, and blessed
Chance
with peace tonight, wherever he was.

Hours later,
a
guttural howl
woke her,
blott
ing
the euphonious tones of the night
and
shattering
her
calm.
Bess sat up with a start and peered out the window.
 
A wolf?
Here? How could
that be
! She pressed
her forehead to the cool glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature that had
emitted the mournful sound
.

The caged wolf she'd seen as a girl in Baltimore had not made a sound, save the soft padding of its constantly pacing
paws
. But she'd heard wolves several years later, when she'd traveled to Texas and Wyoming with her father to inspect cows and bulls that would become part of the Foggy Bottom herd.
It was a sound like none other, and once heard, one that no one could
ever
forget....

A while back, there had been erratic reports of wolf sightings in the woods north of Freeland, but since no one could say for sure, they'd been dismissed as rumor. Bess considered the likelihood that, in her dream-like state, she'd only imagined the eerie, blood-curdling sound.

Glancing at the mantle clock, she realized she'd slept in her window seat for nearly two hours. Frowning, she wondered about that. She rarely required more than five hours of sleep at night; it simply wasn't like her to sleep during the day. Sighing, she rose, intending to change into her night dress and slip under the covers.
An extra hour or two of sleep couldn't do me any harm, could it?

Leaving the window ajar, she crossed to the chiffarobe and opened its tall, mahogany doors,
and
ben
t to retrieve
a high-collared white gown from the top drawer.
H
er hands froze
, b
ecause there it was again...that hollow, keening cry....

Life on the farm had taught her to recognize and identify the sounds of the wild. This was not the wail of a dog, nor the yawp of a fox on the hunt. No animal
but
a
wolf c
ould produce a tone that was both
pitiful and poignant.

Bess ran back to the window and scanned the horizon.

Nothing.

After seeing the caged wolf in Baltimore, little-girl Bess had made it her business to learn as much as she could about the species. Poring through hefty volumes in her father's library, she'd learned th
ey
were intelligent, instinctual, and cunning, with much to compare them to people.
Family
was of ultimate importance to Bess, and
family
was of great value to wolves, too. She respected the way
members of a
pack protected one another...cubs in particular. Admired, too, that like humans, wolves mated for life. When death took half of a pair, the survivor mourned as deeply
and profoundly
as any human husband or wife.

Again, the rolling, lilting lamentation echoed over the farm, hovering
,
wavering like thick, doleful fog.

The wolf was alone. Bess knew that much because there had been no response to
the
call. Had that been the reason for the spellbindingly sorrowful notes of
its
song?

The mental picture of the wolf she'd seen all those years before in the heavy iron cage on the streets of Baltimore flashed through her mind. She saw, too, the face on the poster. What did they have in common?

Eyes as round and cold as ice that had, with one coolly level look, instantly permeated her mind, her heart, her soul. During the moments that their gazes and hers melded, she had read their thoughts, shared their emotions.

And concluded that they'd both wanted one and the same thing:

Freedom.

***

"It was an accident, Smitty, I swear...."

The deputy's cackling laughter bounced off the stone walls of the jailhouse. "I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could buy me new horse." The iron bars of the cell rang like a piano tuner's fork when he slammed the door. With calm deliberation, he made a regular production of turning the big black key in its lock.

Tossing the key ring into the top desk drawer, Smitty paced back and forth in front of the bars. "You got some nerve, Preacher, I'll give you that."

Josh Atwood sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

Stopping dead in his tracks,
Smitty
threw both hands into the air. "
They
was takin' W.C. to the gallows when that jail wagon overturned." He stared at his prisoner. "And you would-a let him swing for a murder you committed
, wouldn’t you!
"

Atwood only continued to stare at some unknown spot on the gritty floor between his boots.

Smitty's face crinkled, as though he'd just inhaled a dreadful odor. "Yep, you got some nerve, all right."

Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he headed across the room and settled into the worn seat of the wooden armchair. Propping his boot heels on the corner of the desk, he helped himself to one of the
sheriff’s
toothpicks. "You have two choices, Preacher," he said, leaning back in the chair. "You can tell me your story, or you can wait 'til the sheriff gets back."

Atwood, still holding his head in his hands, said nothing.

Smitty's feet hit the floor one at a time and he sat up. "Don't it just beat all?" he said again, weather-worn hands folded on the desk top. "The sheriff's out east, followin' up on a lead that might he'p him bring in poor ol
’
W.C., when Horace's real killer has been here in Lubbock, right under his nose, the whole time." He shook his head again. "If a judge and jury don't kill ya, Carter likely will. You know how many times he's left his wife and young'uns to go on a wild goose chase
to get
that boy?"

Sitting back again, he grabbed a stubby pencil and a sheet of paper from the desk drawer. "So what's it gonna be, Preacher? You want me to write down your account of what happened that night? Or is the sheriff gonna do it when he gets back?"

Atwood didn't move, save to heave a deep sigh. "Didn't know you could read or write, Smitty," he said in a quiet, spent voice.

Another chuckle preceded the deputy's retort
.
"There's a lot you don't know, Preacher." He worked the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth. "I've known how to read an' write goin' on seven years now. But then, I don't suppose I would-a noticed much these past ten years, either, if I'd framed my brother's son for a murder that
—“

He was on his feet in a whipstitch, fingers wrapped tight around the thick black bars. "It
wasn’t
murder, I tell you! It was
an—“