Cry of the Hawk

The thirty-year-old Artus tried to feed his daddy some broth he’d made, more hot water than anything. But the old man was plumb gone, and everything Artus poured into the slack mouth just seeped back out from the old man’s lips, onto the pillow and sheets and that patchwork comforter.

Lord, how cold his daddy’s skin was.

For seventeen days, Artus stayed there beside his daddy’s bed, day and night. Then rose at last to dig a grave beside his mama’s and finally laid the old man to rest. A new cross standing beside hers.

All those years of war, with every step along every mile of icy or dusty or muddy or summer-blistered road he had marched, across every field of waist-high grass he had charged, muzzle loader out and bayonet gleaming in the sun, Artus Moser had promised himself he was fighting for his daddy and mama and the rights of folks back home in Missouri and for that little farm that would one day be his when at last the war ended and he could return home to help his family on that place that was his and he was its.

Artus had dropped the spade at the foot of the fresh earth he had packed over the body. Dusted his hands, and turned away. Not sure if he wanted this place now. Of a time he might decide different. But there were two ghosts here already, and he didn’t want his soul to be a third, captive, made prisoner and left on this ground, a’mouldering.

So deep in his need for human contact was he that when Artus saw the firelight below through the broken windows, he bumped into a tree in dumbfounded surprise, splitting his forehead. The warmth surprised him as well, as he dabbed his fingers in the swelling, moist flesh.

No matter the pain, he had to find out who was in the Hook cabin, firelight flickering through the two yawning, paneless windows. Inching up from the side of the barn like he’d learned to hunt fox and coon and squirrel and hare, Artus saw that over the door, somebody had hung a blanket or some such. Blocking the light and the wind and hiding who was inside.

Slowly, his breath clutched in his throat, Artus sidled toward the cabin, wishing he still had that old gun he had cradled and loaded and carried and dragged through years of fighting and starving and sleeping and crying and feeling homesick beyond relief. If it was any of the freebooters he’d heard tell of raiding up and down the countryside, their kind would have horses stalled in the barn or picketed outside by the cabin.

No horses here.

“You there! Turn around—slow!”

Artus felt his heart leap to his throat. His hands shot into the air. Always had been a good one taking orders.

Hoping whoever it was would see his arms up, if not the telltale color of his tattered butternut gray uniform.

The figure moved out of the darkness, inching toward the dim light spilling out one of the windows. Then the man stopped, a black silhouette framed by the firelit window. Holding a rifle.

Moser swallowed hard. “Didn’t mean no harm—”

“Artus?”

That confused him of a moment. The stranger knew his name. Then the man inched from the window, coming his way from the corner of the cabin, into the yard. Drawing closer.

“Yeah? Artus Moser.”

“It’s me, by damned, Artus!” shrieked the stranger as he dropped the rifle in the icy mud and dashed forward, arms outstretched.

“Good God in heaven above—it’s cousin Jonah!”

15

Late January, 1866

THE TWO OF them spent that night talking, remembering. The empty hulk of the Hook cabin was for a time filled with glorious warmth between the two. With dawn come creeping gray out of the east, they lay down on that old tick, back to back to share their warmth, and slept through much of the next day.

In the golden dusk that night Jonah and Artus hunted together, bringing back to the cabin a small doe they fed on, jerking the rest of the meat before the fire.

As the sun rose the following morning, Hook and Moser set off on foot, intending to walk in one direction, then another, until they found a neighbor who could give them both some answers.

Or would.

At the Hosking place, north out of the valley on the way to Cassville, the pair was met by three rifles as they approached the house.

“It’s Jonah Hook, Mr. Hosking!” he called out across the yard splashed with January sunshine. Steam rose from the ice-slicked ruts running from all directions toward the barn, where old man Hosking and his two hands held guns on the newcomers.

“You remember us, don’t you? I’m Artus. My daddy was Amos Moser.”

“I know who you are, Artus. Your daddy grieved real hard after your mama passed on suddenly.”

“You know anything about my family?” Jonah asked, anxiously. “You remember we have the place just down the road from Artus—”

“I know who the living hell you are, Hook!” the man snapped. “Heard about you from some fellas got out of Rock Island.” The old man turned partway to address his hired men. “Boys, just look at that Yankee blue he’s wearing for his homecoming suit!”