Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (32 page)

Chapter 69

August, 1941

Cloverdale, Oregon

T
iny “Lefty” Welby was quite proud of the bear skin. Rightfully so, considering what he gave up to get it. He got a bit wrapped up in his story during the retelling, and certain facts in the account had been changed to such an extent that Victor might as well not have been there at all. But Victor was willing to let that go. Tiny needed something to allow him to feel like a man. He only had the one arm, and had been kind of sickly-looking ever since the bear fight. He lost probably a quarter of his total weight, and he was reduced to helping his ma and pa with their homemade sour mash, work he would probably be doing for all the rest of his days. Ever since his bear attack, Tiny had been sipping high on his own supply and was almost never sober anymore. On this day, one of his worst days, he and Victor had a falling out.

“Hey, Tiny! Been lookin’ out for them hammer-tail cats?” Victor still teased him, since it was one of the few things Tiny laughed at those days.

But on that day, Tiny was surly by nine in the morning, having woke with a stupendous hangover.

“Hammer-tail cats, hide-behinds, and coyanthers. Dang you, Victor Bowman. I wouldn’t be a cripple if not for you and your half-wit humor.” He scowled.

“Hey, Tiny, come on. You ain’t gonna start blaming me for what happened.”

Tiny glowered and took a big hit off his jug. Then he spat on Victor’s boots. “Damn straight I am blaming you. If it hadn’t been for you and your stupid wisecrackin’, I wouldn’t have spent both rounds on fool hammer-tails. I’d have a right arm today.”

“You’ve gotten so carried away with your story that you plain forgot you spent those rounds shootin’ to death a baby bear. An’ if it hadn’t been for me and my Winchester, you wouldn’t have a head today or that foul mouth of yours.”

“Oh yeah? If I had both arms, I’d whoop the tar out of ya! I suppose you’re gonna tell me you saved my hide next.”

“Well, I did, and you know it. You didn’t even shoot the dang bear! I did! You shot her cub, and then you forgot to reload. Remember? Come on, Tiny. I just let you tell the story your way so’s you can have some fun. Heck, I even let you keep the skin, so don’t take your morning snake bites out on me.”

“Let me keep the skin?
Let
me!” He jumped to his feet, was still sensible enough to recognize that Victor towered over him, and sat back down on the fence heavily. “Was too my skin. You didn’t let me have nothin’. I shot that bear!”

“Okay, okay.
You
shot it, all right? I didn’t come here to argue. I came to see if you want to take a ride in Evan’s skiff. I’m gonna go pick me off some venison. Whaddya say?”

“I say it’s a chicken shit way to hunt, same as before.”

Victor was trying to be patient with his friend, but his patience was running out. “You’re calling me a chicken, you one-armed son-of-a-beehive! You’re the chicken, Tiny. Didn’t have guts when it came to shooting bear, and you don’t have any guts now. It’s not my fault you fired your muzzle-loader at every fool thing in the forest and then forgot to reload it. It wasn’t me who found sport in shooting that mother bear’s baby. You know, folks are right about you Welbys. You’re white trash, inbred and insane. A whole pack o’ thieving, drunken liars is what you are.”

“Did you say inbred? That’s a snort! Your family tree don’t even fork! And your grandpa’s so crank that he’s proud of it! Bow man for the king. Big deal! He probably calls you son because you probably are! I wouldn’t doubt it none if he bedded your ma—he’s sick in the head.” He laughed cruelly and lifted the bottle to his mouth again. “I ain’t too good on these family tree things. What would that make you, Victor?”

Victor’s face darkened by a shade. “The guy who could wipe the ground with you. I could rip off your other arm and beat you with it for that insult, Tiny. I won’t, but I could. Now you take it back.”

“Nope! You know it’s true. That’s how come you’re getting all fired. Hell, it’s a one-room cabin with only one bed. Where do you think your ma slept, genius? Don’t talk to me about inbreeding, mister bow man.”

“She probably slept on the couch like I do, you danged demented gimp! What in the heck’s got in to you? You sure do got a lot a gumption for someone who did it with his own sister!”

“I didn’t!”

“You did too, for a quarter. You told me you did. You’re the one who said she wanted me, and I know you remember that.”

Tiny sneered over the top of his half-drank bottle of mash. “Don’t matter. She’s pregnant. You’re gonna marry her.”

“I wouldn’t touch
Neeee
-dra with a ten-foot oar. So it ain’t mine. Ain’t mine, and there ain’t no way I’d marry your filthy sister.”

“I think you’re mistaken. My pa aims to put it to your grandpa, or pa, or whatever he is to you, in a manner he can’t refuse. He owes my pa for something and this makes ’em even.”

“He can refuse. And he will as soon as I tell him it’s a lie!”

“It’s her word against yours, Victor. You lose!” He laughed uproariously.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Nedra ratted you out, man. Yeah, it’s my doing. But when I told her I’d kill her if she pointed her finger at me, I think she believed it. So you’re it, no matter whether it’s true or not. You gotta face the facts, Victor. Your grandpa thinks more a his’self than he does of you. Everyone knows that. He just needed you to carry on the family tree is all, you know, the one that don’t split off that he’s so proud of.”

Victory stomped over to the fence, sinking his boots in all that stinking chicken crap and muck, and smacked the bottle Tiny was holding at his mouth to the ground. The contents began to pour out over the mud. “What kind of bull are you trying to lay on my head?”

Tiny reached down and picked up the spilt bottle with his one good arm and swiped at the dirtied opening. Shrugging his shoulders, he took himself another long pull before he answered Victor.

“Ain’t no bull. Hey, maybe it was a hammer-tail cat just hit you over the head, Victor! A man’s gotta watch out for those. I hear tell they sneak up on you.”

Chapter 70

August 30, 1941

Chicago, Illinois

B
lair twisted and mashed her lace handkerchief as she stood in the slightly-chilly ‘Great Hall’ that was the waiting room at Union Station. With a vaulted, skylight ceiling over one hundred feet high, and marble walls, it was impossible to keep the room warm between rush hours. She shivered. She hadn’t been this nervous on the train
to
Chicago, some nine years ago. Wendell noticed her shudder and placed his coat over her shoulders.

“Pardon me, Blair. I just need to get something from the coat pocket.” Wendell reached into the pocket on the right side and withdrew a small velvet box. As it passed beneath Blair’s vision, Wendell looked up sheepishly, with trembling hands and voice, and said, “There is no point in delaying this. Blair? I know that you are…not free,” he clumsily, and rather adorably, dropped to one knee on that cold marble floor and presented Blair with the ring box. “I could not have you leave Chicago…leave me…without declaring …I love you Blair. When you get to Cloverdale, if you find that your old life is…not waiting…or, you find you are not that country girl anymore, I will be here for you. I’ll be here loving you from afar. I would not know what else to do,” Wendell shook his head for emphasis. He then looked up, forced himself to look Blair directly in the eyes, and proffered the ring box, now open and boasting a simple, beautifully-sparkling marquis sapphire ring set in platinum. It was Blair’s birthstone. “If you do decide to return to Chicago, would you consider marrying me, and making me the happiest man on earth?”

“Wendell…” Blair’s voice broke. She looked down at him, blinked tears away and nodded.

“Yes? You…you’re saying yes? Oh!” Wendell sprang to his feet and threw his arms around Blair, causing her to teeter a bit on her impaired leg.

He had clearly been expecting a different answer. Mild-mannered Wendell laughed and clapped, and walked around in a tight little circle in the middle of Union Station, exclaiming, “All right!” and slapping his thigh. Blair giggled. He stopped when an announcement was made by the public address system. Blair’s train would be boarding in just ten minutes. Shortly, this echoing mausoleum of a room would be crowded with bodies and frenetic activity. It sobered the couple.

Blair laid her hand on Wendell’s forearm, which caused him to freeze. “Wendell, as you said, I am not free. I do miss my husband and son sorely. I don’t know if my old life will be waiting. It’s been a decade, nearly. He may not have any love for me in his heart after all of this time…after all I have done. He may be remarried. But I have to know. Wendell, if Sean has waited, and if he loves me still, I will stay in Cloverdale. I care for you too much to lead you astray with false hope.” She self-consciously massaged her timepiece, feeling the inscription as if in brail. She wiped her tears away and took a shaky breath before continuing. “I am a lucky woman to be loved by you, Wendell. You are a wonderful man and the most cherished of friends. I shudder to think how dreary my life would have been without you in it all of these years.”

Wendell took both of her hands into his. “I won’t be saying good bye to you. I will only wish you good travels, and promise to be here when you, or if you, return.”

Blair kissed him. “I will miss you, Sweet Wendell. Please be good to yourself.”

Suddenly doors clanged and slammed from different directions and bodies began pouring into the great room. Above the din, Blair thought she heard an announcement for her train. She squeezed Wendell’s hand. She had no idea what she would find in Cloverdale and she was feeling anxious. Wendell sidled up close beside Blair so that their shoulders were touching and he whispered conspiratorially, “Blair, take this,” he slid over something wrapped in a handkerchief. “Don’t let it be seen,” he whispered.

Blair tucked the package beneath Wendell’s coat flap and peeled back the cloth to find a small handgun. She quickly covered it again and tucked it into her handbag. “Wendell, how did you,
where
did you get that pocket pistol?” Wendell fidgeted uncomfortably. Blair told him, “No, never mind. I don’t need to know. Thank you, dearest.”

“Call it an anticipatory engagement gift.” Then he whispered in her ear, “It’s loaded. Do you know how to use it?”

Blair smiled, “You’re asking if an Oregon girl knows how to shoot?”

“Dear me, what was I thinking?” he asked facetiously.

“That is what they call a ‘Derringer’, isn’t it? I almost bought one for myself years ago, when I dated that gangster who worked for Capone. What does it shoot?”

“This is new. It’s called the Lady Derringer. The whole length isn’t even five inches, so it is easy for a small woman to conceal. Later, when you have a chance to look it over, I hope you will like the scrimshaw work performed on the ivory grip—I had it done special for you. But to answer your question, it is single action and it holds just two rounds. They are 32 magnum—I chose that because it is easy to shoot but it still has reasonable stopping power. It can put a man down.

“Hope, alone, is not a plan, Blair. You can not hope your enemy will act in a particular way; you can’t simply hope that help arrives in time; you just can’t plan your survival based on hope. You need to keep Hope alive; you need to keep it in your heart. But, you also need to keep that gun close. Please, promise me you will use it if you need to.”

Blair placed her hand, gloved in white cotton, along the side of her friend’s face, kissed him again and told him, “Trouble has always managed to find me, though I swear I scarcely went looking for it. But I know, as sure as there are windy days in autumn, all I need is that pistol and five minutes of dazzling courage, and I can recover my son. I don’t know how to thank you, Wendell.” She smoothed the worry lines from his forehead and whispered, “Yes, I promise…I will put him down.”

Chapter 71

August 30, 1941

Cloverdale, Oregon

I
t was Lorette calling from the small gristmill half a mile west along the farm’s border with the Big Nestucca River. She was breathless and excited.

“Sean, come quickly! Will’s been hurt!”

Sean’s blood ran cold as he grabbed his hat and keys from the sideboard. His heart pounded all the way to the mill. He jumped out of the car and dashed to the open door, stopping short when he saw Will lying on the floor, his head cradled in Lorette’s ample lap, her breasts bobbing just above his face. He was sucking up her attention with a huge smile across his face.

“What happened? Lorette said you were hurt. Well, are you hurt, Will?”

His brother turned his head toward the door and smiled. “Took a nasty hit on my head, brother. I’ll be okay soon as the room stops spinning. I guess I didn’t see that small millstone resting up there on the ladder when I went to move it.” He fingered the back of his head gingerly and winced. “Don’t look so worried, Sean. Lorette got you all riled for nothing. It’s just a bump on the head.”

“Looks to be more than a bump, Will. You’ve got blood on your fingers. We better get you over to that hospital in Tillamook. C’mon. Lorette and I can help you to the car, and you can lie down in the back seat.”

Will started to protest, but when he went to stand up, to show them he really was just fine, his legs went wobbly on him and his gullet went queasy. Before he knew it, he was bumping along the dirt road to Tillamook with his head happily resting once again in Lorette’s lap. She was smoothing the hair from his face and caressing his cheeks and scalp. She liked him. Will smiled as he closed his eyes.

At the hospital, the attending physician probed the wound painfully and stitched up the scalp. He insisted on an x-ray. Will insisted that they could x-ray all they wanted but they weren’t going to find a thing inside his head. That caused some laughter in the hallway as the nurses left the room.

The doctor was somber as he relayed his findings. “I’ve closed the flesh wound, but there is a crack in the occipital portion of the skull, quite a nasty one. Of course, there’s much bleeding, and there’s the danger of a hematoma forming. Your brother has a severe concussion and should stay the night here so we can keep watch over him. He cannot be permitted to sleep while in this dangerous stage.”