Cry of the Hawk

Of medium height, Wiser made most folks forget that he was not all that tall, surely not standing beside Jubilee Usher, the leader of this company of freebooters staying two days ahead of the Union troops who had been tracking them for the better part of three weeks now. But in looking at Wiser, most folks simply forgot his height. He was just so damned handsome, women flocked to his side, and most men wanted to be around Wiser, for that was where a fella could find the bees. Circling the hive.

Even his hands were attractive. How he kept them so clean, especially under the nails, living off the land the way Usher’s outfit was—it amazed most of the others, who stayed away from water and Wiser’s bars of lye soap like the combination had the mortal scent of the plague on it. And no matter what, Wiser always had a splash of some sweet-scented water to pat on his freshly shaved cheeks every morning when he was about his personal toilet. While many of the rest joked each morning before mounting up how good Wiser smelled, how much they wished they could have something so fragrant to curl up with in their bedrolls at night, Wiser went right on the way he went on.

And he figured that was something Jubilee liked about him. And one of the big things that set him apart from the rest of Jubilee’s bunch. In fact, Wiser was Usher’s right hand. The one who passed Jubilee’s orders down to the rest, the one who loved the fact that he drew the lot of whipping those who broke Jubilee’s “Orders of the March.” It was as if dealing out punishment to the rest of the ragtag band was some reward for faithful, unquestioning service to not only Jubilee Usher—but to Jubilee’s wrathful God.

Yet as Wiser stood there this morning, wiping the soap scum from his straight razor, looking over the busy camp of Jubilee’s faithful Danites, Wiser wondered why men like he and Usher had to consort with the likes of these rogues and desperadoes—the unclean vermin it took every bit of his strength of will to control at times.

Jubilee was emerging now from his tent, his long coat freshly brushed by the Negro manservant he had carried along these last few years of wandering the midlands, just off the frontier itself. Usher turned and gave orders to have the tent struck.

“Once you have the woman dressed, mind you. Let’s be quick about it now.”

How Wiser wished Jubilee would tire of that captive woman and cast her aside as he had cast so many others aside. This woman with the light-colored hair and the sun-burnished skin. But even though it had been only a matter of weeks, Wiser brooded that Jubilee would likely hold on to this one. A real prize she was—this other man’s wife Usher had claimed as his private spoils.

Her, and the three children off that hardscrabble farm back in southern Missouri.

With a course hand towel, Wiser wiped the soap residue from his cheeks, gazed back into the smoky mirror, and admired the sharply defined face, its long, bushy sideburns of reddish brown, sweeping down into the meticulously waxed and curled mustache.

Each time he stared into a mirror, it was as if the sinking feeling returned to remind Lemuel Wiser of why he had taken this path in life, each day finishing this ritual by looking away from the attractive reflection in the mirror, and having to stare once more at the crude, handmade black boot that covered the stub of his left foot.

While the right was stuffed into a shiny cavalry officer’s boot, the left was but a terribly deformed clubfoot with which he had been born.

In days gone long ago, children had been cruel. So young Lem Wiser had grown up to be every bit of that and crueler. But by the time he had reached his early teens, Lemuel had taken to allowing himself to be called the nickname that poked fun at the ugly clubfoot that looked every bit like a pig’s hoof.

Jubilee was striding his way atop his long legs, smartly dressed in silk vest and long-coat. He was tugging on the points of that brocade vest as he asked, “You are ready for the day’s march, Boothog?”

“I am, Jubilee. Soon as I finish my toilet.”

Usher walked off, whistling and carefree without another word.

And Wiser was left once again to watch how gracefully Jubilee strode across the leaves and fallen branches of the forest floor, ultimately left to stare at his own deformed foot. Knowing he would never walk but with an ungainly lurch-and-drag.

He silently cursed his mother once again, wherever she might be now. It was she who had handed down her curse to him, this single deformity on such a beautiful man.

“Boothog …,” he whispered, slapping lilac water on his freshly scraped cheeks.

9

Moon of Geese Shedding Feathers

THE DAY AFTER they had killed all the wagon soldiers along the North Platte River, the warrior bands had begun to wander off to the four winds.