Caress, page 35
Blake felt like weeping. It tore at his guts to be lying here so helpless when Sam might need him. And what must she be thinking by now? That he was dead? Was Drew with her? Was she safe, or had Beecher somehow gotten to her? “I don’t have time to wait any longer than it takes me to get on my feet,” he told Many Buffalo.
The Indian leaned closer to the fire, pointing his pipe at Blake. “Remember this. Never go after your enemy when you know he is still stronger than you. You must be healed, Blake, or he will find your weakness and defeat you again. Remember, too, that you will be a surprise for him. He thinks that you are dead. You must be strong, so that he does not get away from you again, and so that you can taste the vengeance for which you hunger.”
Blake stared at the flames. Yes, his greatest hunger was indeed for vengeance, and he did have to be strong enough to taste it. And taste it he would! His hands moved into fists, and he gritted his teeth as he envisioned Clyde Beecher and Nick West burning alive in the flames of the fire.
Samantha scooted back onto the cot as Sheriff Stevens brought her another tray of food. He set it down and opened the cell door, coming closer to cuff her to the frame of the cot as he always did before going back to get the tray. “Can’t have you trying something funny while that door is open,” he had told her. He set the tray on the bed, then walked over to pick up the pot kept in the corner of the cell, which he emptied only once every two weeks.
“It’s about time,” she told the man dully as he carried it out. He stopped and glared at her.
“Sure does stink down here.”
“Then let me out of here so I can live like a normal human being,” she answered. “Either that, or bring a lid for that pot. And I need more paper. I also need to change this dress. I’m filthy, and you never leave me enough water to wash properly.”
“All part of being in prison, lady. Maybe you’ll think twice about doing anything again to get thrown back in here.” The man left, and Samantha stared at the tray. She pulled it closer, lifting the cloth to see one piece of chicken, a few potatoes, a piece of bread and a spoonful of corn. She craved fresh milk, but as always, there was only a cup of lukewarm coffee on the tray.
She picked up the chicken, biting into it listlessly, not really hungry but knowing she should eat. Even though she forced down whatever food was brought to her, she knew she was losing weight in spite of the baby. She worried what the lack of food, let alone its questionable freshness, was going to do to her baby. She thought about the birth now with more and more terror. In roughly five weeks her child would be born right here in this squalid cell, with only some strange prostitute helping her. And what if the baby came at a time when she could not get word to the sheriff? He only checked on her twice a day, and in between he couldn’t hear her screams. It was entirely possible she would have the child alone. She didn’t know anything about what to do. It seemed almost certain that her baby would die under such conditions.
She wondered why she bothered to eat at all…for the tiny hope that she could have the baby and that both of them would live? Yes, that was all that kept her going. The baby was all she had left of Blake, and she would not let Nick West and Clyde Beecher realize total victory by dying or by letting her baby die.
The desire to show her husband’s murderers that they had not won at all was the only fire in her soul that kept her going. She was going to live through this, and she was going to fight harder than ever for abolition, continue the efforts of men like her father and Blake and John Hale; and she would tell the whole world about Clyde Beecher and Nick West! The man called Joe had not mentioned West by name, but she knew in her heart he was behind what had happened to her, and to Blake, and she would find a way to prove it!
She managed to swallow some of the potatoes and washed them down with the cooling coffee. She told herself it was ridiculous to think Joe would really contact anyone in Lawrence. The conditions she had endured had destroyed any thoughts of faith in anyone but herself. Even her faith in God was dwindling. How could any God have let Blake be killed? How could any God have caused her to be here in this stinking, dark, damp cell?
She felt dirty and smelly, and her clothes scratched her. She still wore the same dress and underwear as when she arrived here. According to the marks she had been making on the dirt floor under her cot, she had been here nearly three weeks. Since there was no light in the cell, she could only tell the passing of each day by the fact that the sheriff brought her breakfast and supper.
She passed part of her time drawing tic-tac-toe in the dirt floor with a spoon, even writing poems and Bible verses, trying to remember those which had once sustained her faith and courage. She felt guilty at times for her flagging faith, considering her upbringing. Her father would have told her to keep her faith during all trials and tribulations, but now the only thing that helped sustain her sanity was talking to her baby. She would rub her belly and pretend the baby, her little bit of Blake, was in her arms. Each movement reminded her there was life, reminded her she was not alone at all. Blake was with her, in the spirit of his child. Blake. Such a wonderful, vital man he had been. She would never love that way again.
The sheriff returned, this time with a lid on the pot. Samantha smiled to herself. He had probably put it on for his own relief, but at least she had the lid now. To her surprise he had also brought more toiletry paper and a couple of clean towels. “You done with that food yet?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, hurry it up.” He put his hands on his hips. “You want a bath, I can bring down a tin tub tomorrow and some extra water.”
She watched his eyes, deciding she would rather be crawling with maggots than to undress alone in this cell with the “kind” Sheriff Stevens able to walk in on her whenever he pleased.
“No, thank you,” she answered. “The bowl and pitcher are enough. Couldn’t you at least bring me a change of clothes?”
He glared at her, obviously upset at her refusal. “No bath—no clean clothes,” he answered. “Can’t have one without the other.” His eyes moved over her, and she knew that to a man like this one her pregnant condition mattered little.
“Then I’ll keep what I’m wearing,” she answered. She handed him the tray. “Here.”
The man snickered, taking the tray and setting it outside the cell. “Suit yourself,” he answered.
“Couldn’t you bring me a Bible?” she asked then. “And bring the oil lamp inside the cell, too, so I can read?”
He leaned closer to unlock her cuffs, and she could smell his perspiration. “You’re asking an awful lot for not giving me anything in return, honey.”
“Just don’t forget what could happen to you if you lay a hand on me,” she warned, holding his eyes boldly.
The man stiffened, reaching over and angrily unlocking the cuffs. “And maybe nobody out there cares anymore,” he grumbled. “Maybe I’ll even get Judge Quill to add a few more months to your sentence. That should fix you up real good! You’ll soon learn you get a lot more from me by being nice than opening that smart mouth of yours!”
The man lumbered out of the cell, slamming the cell door and locking it. He walked out, closing the wooden door of the room. Again came the sound of the second door closing, and again the cell was still as a tomb.
Samantha shivered, her eyes tearing. She never let herself cry in front of the sheriff. She leaned back against the wall, letting the tears flow, rubbing her hands gently over her stomach. “Oh, Blake,” she whispered. “If only you hadn’t gone.” She found herself praying again, in spite of her anger and confusion that God would let this happen. She told herself to remember all her father’s sermons, all of God’s promises.
She moved to the edge of the cot, then got to her knees, taking the spoon she kept for writing in the dirt and scratching out her favorite verse again. And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive…
It was nearly the end of June when everyone at the Hanks table looked up at the sound of their front door bursting open. They could barely hear the footsteps of whoever had come into the house, realizing why when he appeared in the dining room. He wore Indian buckskin clothing and moccasins.
Jonas Hanks’s eyes widened, and he slowly rose. “Blake!” He looked him over, seeing that Blake was thinner, seeing a hard look in the man’s eyes. “My God, man, where have you been!”
“It’s a long damn story, Jonas, but as soon as I was well enough I came straight here. I’ll explain it all after I know if Sam is all right.”
Jonas paled slightly. Mrs. Hanks hung her head, while all the Hanks children gawked at Blake in awe, wondering if he was white or Indian. Blake felt as though someone was squeezing his heart in a vise at the look on Jonas’s face. He scanned the table, his eyes falling on a new face, a young man with blue eyes—Sam’s eyes.
“You’re Drew,” he said, more as a statement than a question.
Drew rose, sorrow showing in his eyes. “Yes.” His eyes moved over Blake, a handsome man, Drew thought, honed hard, though he looked a little wild. “I’d like to say I’m glad to meet you, and I am, but not under these conditions. We all thought maybe you were dead.”
“Where’s Sam?” Blake asked.
Drew’s eyes teared. “That’s what we’d like to know. She disappeared one day…almost a month ago. She went to the Presbyterian church to pray, and she never came back.” He watched the agony in Blake’s eyes, knew instinctively that nothing that had happened had been Blake’s fault, except perhaps the fact that he had left in the first place. “We’ve been searching ever since, Blake,” Drew added. “We’ve sent telegrams and men to just about every town in Kansas, asking about Sam, checking all the jails. She’s just not there. We searched for you, too.”
Blake’s jaws flexed with repressed rage. “How about Nick West’s place over in Missouri? Did anybody think to check there?”
Drew nodded. “Several men and I went to Independence to ask about you. Sam told me before she disappeared to see if anyone knew what might have happened to you. We couldn’t find anything, though somebody told us a team of John Hale’s wagon horses came wandering back into town a couple of days after he was murdered. Did you know about that?”
Blake nodded. “I heard,” he almost growled.
“Well, we never found any clue as to your whereabouts. Sam was taken off while I was gone. My first thought was West, so we went right back to his place. The man was real upset that we kept accusing him of evil deeds, but he let us search his place, top to bottom, though he wouldn’t let us talk to any of his Negro slaves. We didn’t find a thing.” Drew swallowed, his own grief still very fresh. He had come here to visit his parents’ graves, and now his sister had disappeared, surely in the hands of proslavery men, if she was even still alive.
Blake turned away, his hands in fists. He breathed deeply, visibly shaking with a mixture of sorrow and rage. He finally moved his eyes to Jonas. “Has Clyde Beecher been here?”
“Beecher?” Jonas slowly rose. “Blake, do you still think—”
“I don’t think! I know!” Blake looked at Mrs. Hanks. “I’m sorry to barge in on your family this way, Mrs. Hanks. Could you get the children out of here for a minute? I want to show something to your husband and Drew.”
The woman quickly obeyed, whisking the children away. Blake turned then and removed his buckskin shirt, showing the men his back.
“My God,” Jonas said, putting a hand to his stomach. Drew closed his eyes and turned away.
Blake put the shirt back on and looked at Jonas. “This is why I couldn’t get here any sooner. I came as close to dying as any man can come without looking God in the face! Pawnee Indians helped me, gave me these clothes, a horse, and an old rifle. Nick West put these scars on me, and Clyde Beecher helped him!”
Jonas stared at him in shock. “Beecher!”
“Beecher! And he knows exactly what’s happened to Sam because he’s the one who arranged for her disappearance. Where is he, Jonas?”
Jonas swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “He’s over near the site of Reverend Walters’s burned-down church. It’s been cleaned up now, and he’s holding a rally at the site, trying to raise funds to build a new church.”
“Money he plans to leave town with,” Blake sneered. “Beecher has no intention of staying in Lawrence now! He’s come back just long enough to look innocent and to line his pockets with a little more money. That son of a bitch knows where Sam is, and he’s going to tell us!”
Blake turned and stormed out. Jonas looked at Drew, who was still shaken by the sight of Blake’s back. “We’d better go along,” Jonas told him. “This is going to be bad.”
Drew nodded, hurrying around the table and out into the hall to grab his hat. Jonas called out to his wife that he would be back soon, telling her to keep the children inside. Both men hurried after Blake, who had swung himself up on an Indian pony and was riding in the direction of the old church site. Both men began running after him, and other people stared at the man in buckskins riding hard to the west end of town.
“Isn’t that Blake Hastings?” one man asked another.
“Sure looked like him. Wonder where in hell he’s been? Too bad about poor Samantha.”
Both men turned then to see Jonas and Drew running down the street. “Come on,” Jonas shouted to them. “It’s Beecher! He’s a spy for the bushwhackers!”
“A spy?” one of them exclaimed. “Clyde Beecher?” Both men followed, shouting the news to others as they ran, gathering a crowd by the time they reached the site of the church, where Blake had already charged right through a gathering of faithful followers and lit into Beecher.
Women were screaming, most of them hurriedly herding their children away from the violence. Men gathered in a circle, some cursing Blake for attacking such a God-fearing man as Beecher, then rooting for Blake as the rumor quickly spread that Clyde Beecher was a bushwhacker spy.
Blake landed blow after blow, his fury knowing no bounds as he pounded the helpless Beecher into a bloody pulp, growling with each blow the same question—“Where’s Sam? Where’s my wife?”
Beecher’s head reeled. Blake Hastings was alive! How in God’s name had he survived? He knew instantly what was going to happen the minute he realized the identity of the buckskin-clad man who was riding down on him. He had tried to run, but in an instant Blake Hastings had landed into him. This was no dead man! He tried to fight back, but it had taken only two or three blows before he was hardly aware of his surroundings. Blake was like a roaring bull, charging, gouging, pummeling, until finally several men gathered the courage to dive in and pull Blake off him.
“Blake, you’ll kill him!” Drew Walters was shouting. “How are we going to find out about Samantha if he’s dead!”
Beecher swallowed blood, rolled to his knees, and grasped his stomach. He could barely see, and his ears rang painfully. Every bone and muscle screamed. He was only vaguely aware of the shouts of the men who had gathered around him, of Drew and Jonas Hanks arguing with a struggling Blake to hold back so they could get the truth out of Beecher. Others were demanding to know what was going on.
“All right, all right!” Blake shouted. The men holding him finally let go of him cautiously. “Clyde Beecher is a traitor!” Blake accused. “He works for Nick West, helped West’s men know which homes and businesses to burn the night of the raid on Lawrence!” He pulled off the shirt again and turned for everyone to see his scars. Men gasped and cursed. “Nick West did this to me,” he told them. “Clyde Beecher was with him! When West was through with me, Beecher took over. They hauled me off into Indian country and left me for dead!”
Beecher was still on his knees, and Blake threw aside the shirt and knelt to grasp him by the front of his jacket and jerking him close, his teeth gritted in hatred, his eyes blazing. “The man who was supposed to blow my brains out didn’t do it!” he snarled. “You didn’t count on that, did you, Beecher? He probably figured I’d die anyway, but an old Pawnee man found me and helped me. And now here I am!” His lips curled. “Where is she, Beecher? Where’s Samantha!”
Blood poured from Beecher’s nose and mouth, and from several cuts on his face. He panted with a mixture of pain and terror. “You…bastard,” he choked out.
Blake shook him slightly. “The only thing that keeps me from killing you, Beecher, is needing to know where Samantha is! Tell me, you goddamn son of a bitch, or I’ll kill you anyway and get the information out of Nick West!”
Beecher looked around at the crowd, hardly able to see them but realizing he was suddenly a rabbit in a lion’s den. He knew instinctively Blake would kill him if he didn’t tell, and not one man watching would stop him. “If I tell you, you’ve got to promise to let me go.”
Blake glared at him. “You’ve got that promise.”
Beecher grimaced with pain. “She’s in jail…in Independence. West paid a judge to draw up papers to put her in jail for…six months.”
People mumbled among themselves, feeling shock and horror at hearing what had been done to Samantha Hastings.
“You filthy bastard,” Blake growled. “She’s going to have a baby in another month or so! What jail? Who’s the sheriff?”
“Sheriff Stevens…big, heavyset man.”
The crowd gathered closer, revenge burning in every heart. Clyde Beecher had actually helped mastermind the raid on Lawrence, a trusted man who preached the word of God. It was one thing to be the enemy and show it openly, but to be a hypocrite like Beecher was unforgivable.
“Who took her there? You?” Blake asked.
“No. I just got her out of town. Told her I knew where you were and…that you were hurt. Some of West’s men took her in West’s coach. Lou, Buck…and that Ted Wilson.”
Lou and Buck. Blake felt like vomiting. They were part of those who had attacked him and taken him to West’s farm.
“You said you wouldn’t kill me,” Beecher reminded him.
“I know what I said,” Blake sneered. “But I didn’t say I wouldn’t turn you over to the rest of these men!” He gave the man a hard shove, and a couple of the other men caught him.
