Talmage Powell

Dark Journey

He slid out of the waters of the creek like a lean, hungry cat. It was night, with Texas stars glittering in the black blanket overhead. More important, the night was silent. The dogs and men were no longer behind him, thirsty for his blood.

Exhausted and dirty as he was, Frank Donovan experienced a moment of exultation. The past hours lay like a gray fog in his mind. During those hours he had moved and breathed with a grim desire to live, but with little hope of making the escape a success. He had been like a hunted animal, motivated only by its primordial instinct to run, to put distance between itself and the cold, yawning cage. But now, like a flicker of feeble light, hope was beginning to stir in Donovan’s brain and feelings. The possibility of see Glory again, touching her hands, her lips, drove him to his feet, lurched him down-creek with a wild laugh.

The break itself had been a fluke, an incident arranged by a droll pixie of fate. Two guards had stood watch over the road gang of half a dozen convicts. With a long-handled shovel, Frank had been digging loose a six-pound stone when the guard nearest him had half turned to shout to the guard up the road. Without thought or conscious volition, Frank had straightened and hurled the stone in one lightning motion. The rock had slammed the guard hard on the shoulder, knocking him down. With cougar-like grace, Frank had dropped over the rim of the gully as the second guard’s shotgun had blasted.

There’d been swampy land ahead covered by a tangle of underbrush, where a man could lose himself, hide until the sinking sun dropped behind the bluffs in the west. He’d heard a second shot from the guard’s shotgun. A man had whooped, which meant the break had become a small riot. Frank realized he must have been counting on that, too.

Then the underbrush had swallowed him as he left confusion behind. He’d known this was but the beginning, that a general alarm would round up most, perhaps all, of the convicts. Dogs and men would hunt human prey, and he might spend the next month in solitary. The odds had favored the other side with men, guns, equipment; but against these Donovan had pitted the hardened body and trail wisdom accumulated in twenty-four years of life spent mostly outdoors, an iron-ridged belly capable of withstanding hunger, and a heart that refused to quit.

Now, after the sun had marched twice across the heavens, Donovan dared believe he might have won the first round. The cost had been heavy. His muscles were sucked dry of strength, his brain fatigued with fear and constant alertness. And the hunger, assuaged only by wild berries and some vegetables taken from a nester’s garden under cover of night, was a roaring demon inside him.

He reached a slope shadowed by a stand of oaks. He stumbled once as he staggered to the crest, and then he was looking down at a moon-toned scene that put a lump in his throat and brought a blur to his eyes. He saw a long, fallow meadow, the cabin standing at its head, a low, solid structure of logs hewn by his own hands.

Even the hunger faded before this new hollowness that took possession of him. Here was the past and all its dreams. A small spread, watered by his sweat, a house snug against the roaring northers. A house built for Glory, never quite complete because it had never known her warm presence. Three years ago the dream had died, after Cort McCullens’ gunslinging ramrod had bled out his life beneath the cottonwood at the east corner of the house. Three years ago — when the iron gate of the state pen had clanged shut behind Donovan, like a bell ringing a clear note of doom.

With Indian wariness, Donovan scouted the house, fighting the bitter memories aroused by every blade of grass here. He was reasonably sure they would never look for him here, never expect him to return like a homing pigeon. But he wasn’t taking chances. He was a full thirty minutes working his way close to the house, noting the condition of the fields and fences. His lips were tight. Cort McCullens must be using the grazing land. Everything looked to be in fair repair.

He opened the plank door on its leather hinges, pausing and listening, wondering if the house had been ransacked of the clothes he’d left hanging in the bedroom and of the few dollar tucked behind the loose stone in the fireplace.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but the edges of his senses felt something amiss. Hackles crawled on the back of his neck, across his scalp. And then it struck him that the house did not have the musty smell of a place long unoccupied. Instead, there was the clean, bright smell of soap, of a place being lived in.

He heard the whisper of a footstep, and he whirled, a cornered animal ready to kill blindly for survival.

“Frank!”

The whisper was like a memory out of a lost, dead dream. He stood shaken, sweat breaking on his face, wondering if he were hearing things.

He smelled the sweet perfume she used sometimes before he saw her darker shadow in the darkness.

Their two shadows melted together, becoming one. Frank touched her arms, her shoulders, knowing he would die of the sweet pain tearing through him. He could feel the wild strength of her arms about his neck and the wetness of tears on her cheek as she pressed her face to his.

“I knew you would come, Frank. All the others said you’d never be fool enough to head this way. Sheriff Tennessee Crowder watched the place last night and today, and then gave the job up. He never knew I was watching, too, ready to warn you if I saw sign of your coming too soon.”

A shaft of moonlight filtered through the window, touching Donovan’s gaunt, stub-bled face. A sob caught in Glory’s throat as she touched the face with her palm. “You’re not thinking of facing Cort McCullens, Frank?”

“No,” he gentled the fear from her. “Cort deserves trouble for what he did to me, but I’ll not make it for him. I want just one thing, Glory. To take you to Mexico and start a new life.”

“The old life seemed pretty good once, Frank.”

Until Cort McCullens decided I wasn’t to have breathing room. Every word I said in court that day was true, Glory. Cort sent his man here deliberately to pick a fight and gun me down. He drew fast and shot. If his horse hadn’t skitted I’d be a dead man. He didn’t get a chance to shoot again, because I was fighting for my life.

“Everything Cort said at the trial was a lie. He didn’t see the fight. I wasn’t drinking, and I didn’t start it. Every man jack on the jury knew he was lying. But it was Cort McCullens talking and the little men were afraid of him. They couldn’t stomach hanging a guiltless man, but they had to make a gesture to Cort. So I drew five years for manslaughter. Five years ripped out of my life, shot to plain hell! I hope the little men have been able to sleep well.”

“They haven’t,” Glory said quietly. “Your sacrifice hasn’t been for nothing, Frank. Your shadow has lain over the little people, giving them no rest, until they’ve stiffened against Cort McCullens. He’s not the power he was three years ago when you were sent away. The land has changed. Another two or three years and Cort McCullens will be finished, pushed back to the land he legally owns, no longer able to hold the public-domain land against settlers.”

“Powerful enough still to use my lands, my house,” Frank said bitterly.

“No, Frank. Boys from our place have taken care of the land — and I’ve taken care of the house.” A sob caught in her throat. She moved to the window, framed in moonlight. “I’ve come here to this empty house to clean it and care for it as if it were mine, just the way we planned. The emptiness and loneliness has been terrible, Frank. When it got so I couldn’t stand it, I’d interrupt my cleaning to go to the front door and imagine you coming across the fields, shirt open halfway down your chest, sweating from your labors, giving me a wave and smile and wanting to know what was for dinner.” Glory laughed mirthlessly at herself. “Crazy of me, wasn’t it?”

The vision of her waiting in the cabin doorway flamed in Donovan’s mind. A wave of black hatred for a world that had separated them rolled over him. He stood clenching and unclenching his hands. “Glory, I’m going to give you the best living Mexico has to offer. Nothing will be too good—”

“Don’t say it, Frank! I want only two things. Your freedom, and our peace.”

“I’ve got my freedom.”

“You can’t have one without the other.” She came back to him, pressed her cheek against his chest. “Go back, Frank! Don’t destroy us. We’ll never really be free this way — a hunted man and his woman, running, forever running. But never able to escape the shadow hanging over them.”

He fought the touch of her flesh and the pull of her words like a swimmer fighting a strong river current. Every cell of his being cried out at the injustice that had been done him. She must understand. He would make her understand.

“We’re going to Mexico, Glory. And God help the man who tries to stop us.”

Old man Julius Silvers was plowing a piece of bottomland in the growing heat of the early morning sun. Reaching the end of a furrow, the stooped, bony patriarch stopped his mule, took off his floppy hat, and wiped his brow. When he lowered the bandanna across his eyes, he froze in his tracks. Before him a tall, gaunt man had stepped from the underbrush at the edge of the field.

“Frank Donovan!”

“Hello, Jule.” Donovan frowned. “No call for you to tremble like that. It’s the same Frank Donovan who helped you doctor a sick calf to life.”

“Why, sure, Frank. Heard you had busted out. But you can’t stay in these parts. Why, man—”

“Save it,” Frank cut in. Looking at the old man, he felt a knot form inside of him. Old Julius had once been one of his firmest friends. But now the old man was only eager to get him away from here, to remove the threat of hunting lawdogs, shooting, bloodshed perhaps. It was as if something from a dark, strange world had come crashing into Silvers’s normal, sane, peaceful world.

Tight-lipped, Frank said, “You still marrying folks?”

“Still a justice,” Silvers admitted. He managed a weak laugh. “Ain’t figuring—”

“Sure am. Come on, Glory,” he called.

Glory came out of the underbrush, leading two horses.

“Let’s go up to the house,” Frank said, hating the way Silvers licked his lips, the fear that was showing in the man’s eyes.

Frank had caught some sleep, washed, put on clean clothes, strapped a sixgun that had been locked in a trunk in this house around his middle. Silvers weakly tried to make friendly conversation as they walked to his house, which was set at the base of a knoll.

“Who’s here?” Frank asked.

“Just me, Elda, and our boy.”

“Good. We can have witnesses.”

“Frank—”

“Yes, Jule?”

“My wife and boy—”

“You don’t have to worry. Nobody’s going to get hurt. I’m still the same Frank Donovan.”

“Sure, Frank, sure. I didn’t mean to rile you. Come in.”

Sounds of entry into the front room brought Elda Silvers and a fourteen-year-old boy out of the kitchen. At the sight of Frank Elda went white, instinctively placing herself between Frank and her boy.

The creases deeper in his face, Frank said, “Good morning, Mrs. Silvers.”

She swallowed. “Howdy, Frank.” She shot a worried, questioning glance at her husband. He said quickly, “Got a wedding to perform. Right pleasant task to start the day, eh, Ma?”

“Y-yes.”

“Listen,” Frank said, “quit cowering. I’m Frank Donovan — your neighbor, remember? Donovan, the farmer.” He sounded as if he were telling himself.

Julius said, “Ma, fetch the proper papers.”

Julius put on his glasses, filled in the license, had them sign it. Then he instructed Frank and Glory to stand together before the fireplace. Frank took Glory’s hand in his. It was cold. He tilted her chin up with his fingers. She forced a smile.

Julius read the ceremony, finished with:

“Usual for me to kiss the bride.”

He leaned forward, pecked Glory on the cheek. For a moment she clung to the old man. Elda Silvers reached out as if she would touch Glory. Then the old lady burst into tears.

Donovan stood with a trembling running over him. “Stop it!”

They looked at him, drew away from him. He pulled out a tattered bill from his pocket.

“You don’t have to pay me, Frank,” Julius said.

“Yes,” Frank said thinly. “I do have to pay you.” He forced the bill in the old, wrinkled hand, said, “Come on. You’re riding with us a spell.”

Elda Silvers moved forward. Donovan cut her a glance. “I’m not going to harm him. I just can’t take chances of you running straight to town for the sheriff.”

The boy, with bunched fists, took a step. “No stinking outlaw on the run is taking my daddy!”

Elda moved between them. “He didn’t mean that, Frank!”

“Then he should keep his mouth shut.”

“Ride with them, Jule,” Elda said. “Ride in peace.”

Shortly after midday, Frank made the old man dismount. With a slap of his hand, Frank sent Jule’s horse running.

“He’ll find his way home. It’ll be a long walk, but it won’t hurt you,” Frank said. “It’ll give us plenty of time to put distance behind us.”

Julius gave Frank a cold, pointed response of silence. Then he turned toward Glory. “God bless you, girl,” he said in pity.

Frank felt his jaw muscles tighten. “Let’s go, Glory. We’ve got a long ride.”

The silence, and the heat of the day, and a horrible, bitter sense of injustice crawled through Donovan.

He glanced at Glory as they rode. “You didn’t have to go through with it.”

“But I did. We’re married. That’s what counts. Please don’t talk about it, Frank.”

Something had happened to Glory. The light had gone out of her face...

Where a stream flowed, they stopped for the horses to drink.

“We’ll have to push on fast,” Frank said. “I want to make Yadkin’s place by night.”

“Yadkin?”

“Karl Yadkin. He did time with me. Finished his sentence six months ago. He told me once that he knew people in Mexico, had connections. Said if I ever needed help to see him.”

In the last red rays of dying day, they reached the Yadkin place, a low squat house at the forks of two creeks, as Yadkin had once told Frank.

Diamonds of water flew into the air as the horses crossed Crazy Cow creek, the northern stream.

They drew rein. “Hello the house!” Frank called.

The door opened, revealing a man with a rifle in his hands. He was slender and hard-bodied, with a long, lean, coldly handsome face. He was not Yadkin, who Frank remembered as a heavy, slow-moving man.

“What do you want?”

“Looking for Karl Yadkin.”

The man stepped into the yard, his gaze resting on Glory. “I’m Radek, Yadkin’s sidekick. You can talk to me.”

“I’ll talk to Yadkin.”

Yadkin appeared in the doorway, filling it with his bulk. “Donovan!”

Frank caught the inflection of his name. Every time his name was spoken that same inflection of slight disbelief was used.

“I remembered what you said to me, Karl.”

“And I meant it. Come in, Frank.” He gestured at Radek. “Take care of their horses.”

“If you’re sure they’re all right.”

“They’re all right,” Yadkin laughed. “Spot Frank Donovan must be in right now he’ll have stray sheriffs for breakfast!” Yadkin held the door wide, standing aside as Frank and Glory entered. “How’d you manage it, Frank? It had to be a bust-out.”

“I was lucky.”

“And quick with your brains, hands, and feet,” Yadkin guessed. “That’s what I always liked about you, Frank. How’s for some grub?”

“We can use it. Karl, my wife Glory. Glory, Karl Yadkin.”

“Wife?” Yadkin said. And then he recovered his sleepy smile quickly. “Of course. How are you, Mrs. Donovan?”

Yadkin showed her to the back porch where a wooden table held a wash basin, pail of water, and dipper. While she was getting some of the trail dust from her face, Yadkin came back into the House.

His eyes hooded at the look on Frank’s face.

“Get one thing straight, Yadkin. She is my wife. We were married this morning.”

“That’s fine, Frank.”

Frank said, “I’m glad you believe me.”

Yadkin laughed. “Well, I’ll admit for a minute I thought it a cock-and-bull story. Most outlaws on the run ain’t so lucky. They have to pick up the kind of skirts that’ll trail along with them. She didn’t look like the type.”

Radek came in, picked up a bottle from the table, and made it gurgle in a long drink. Fire splashed his insides; leaped into his eyes. “You must be quite a boy, Donovan. A looker like that won’t usually pick up with our kind unless his jeans are heavy with dinero from a bank or rustling job.”

“Easy, Radek,” Yadkin said. “She’s—”

“A purty bundle,” Radek finished.

Frank stood up, walked over to him. Radek was nerveless — or brave from drink— as he watched Frank. Radek laughed. “Don’t put on a tough act, Donovan. We’ve seen plenty of tough ones come and go, Yadkin and me. You’re young. With care, you might live another ten, twelve years before some sheriff catches up with you.”

“I’m not trying to act tough,” Frank said. He could feel a cold trembling flowing down into his hands. “I just wanted to ask you — what kind is our kind?”

“You’ve got the stink of outlaw, escaped con on you. What in hell—”

“The girl is my wife,” Donovan said.

Radek pursed his lips. “I see.”

Frank felt a hand on his arm. Yadkin turned him. “Sit down, Frank. And you, Radek, watch your tongue.”

“He’s on the run himself,” Yadkin said, “Radek is. Been holed in here without the sight of a woman until he’s talking about them in his sleep. Apologize, Radek.”

“Sure,” Radek said in a flat voice.

“We can’t afford conflict,” Yadkin cautioned. “Radek, you won’t live long. You still haven’t learned that men on the owl-hoot stick together or hang separately. Learn it quick, Frank. Learn it well. And never side a man who won’t stick.”

Yadkin rubbed his hands together. “Now, I can tell you something to brighten your spirits, Frank. We’ve got the damnedest Mexican deal set up you’ve ever seen.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Wet cattle,” Radek said.

Frank looked at Yadkin. “I thought you were going straight when you got out.”

“Prison talk,” Yadkin laughed. “Every little thing counts toward parole.”

“I hadn’t figured on this kind of thing,” Frank said.

“I know,” Yadkin said calmly. “Fancy pictures you’ve painted. A job. A home. A normal life. Why don’t you just ask for the moon? You’ve got a long arm stretching after you. It’ll never relax, never let go. Be sensible and take this chance.”

“I think I’d rather try it my way, Yadkin.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Yadkin shrugged. “So you get a job. The guy learns sometime you’re a wanted man. You’ll be lucky to get off his place with a whole skin. Then another job, with something going sour inside you. The same thing happening over and over again. Then penny ante stuff, because you’ve thrown away the chance of teaming with a man like me.”

Frank turned. Glory was standing in the doorway, trail dust still smudged on her cheeks. “I didn’t find a towel on the back porch,” she said. “I came to ask—”

Looking at her, Frank knew she had heard everything. Radek’s remarks had put a crawling shame in her eyes which even love for her husband could not curtain.

“Thanks, Yadkin,” Frank said, “but I think we’ll be riding. We can at least try it our way.”

He moved over to Glory’s side, took her small, cold hand.

Radek stood up, bottle in hand. Yadkin’s face was suddenly sleepy no longer, but the hanging, deadly face of a mad bulldog.

“I’ve confided in you,” Yadkin said, “believing you were here to stick.”

Frank read stark messages in their eyes. Yadkin was thinking of how much Frank knew. Yadkin was dangerous. But Radek was more than dangerous. Radek’s eyes made ice of Frank’s marrow as he saw the way Radek was looking at Glory.

His hand moved like a spring uncoiling, slapping his gun free of leather.

Yadkin and Radek recognized death when it showed its features plainly. They stood unmoving, and Frank and Glory mounted, spurring a final effort from their mounts...

In predawn silence the woman, rolled in her blanket, cried softly in her sleep. The sound ‘woke the man beside her, and he lay with cold shadows over his face, listening and thinking. As the first streaks of dawn showed in the east, Donovan crawled from his blanket, built a fire, and started coffee.

There was a constriction in his throat as they ate, because they were strangers. Man and wife; yet an indefinable something had slipped away, like a tongue of flame leaving a piece of wood an old, dead ember.

Donovan saddled the horses while she cleaned up the camp site. He spanned her slim waist with his hands as he helped her into the saddle, and she gave him a wan, forced smile.

Sitting his saddle, he glanced at her. “Yadkin was right about one thing. Mexico isn’t the safe answer. I think I know the way out.”

Without question she followed him. He rode hard and fast, and he rode in a straight line, and when the sun was sinking in the afternoon, he had ridden in one day the distance it had taken two days and better to traverse afoot.

He stopped his mount atop a knoll.

“That’s the prison farm down there,” he said.

“I know, Frank.”

He studied her. He saw tears like jewels on her lids. And he saw the light coming back into her sweet, dusty face and he felt the old bond stirring to life between them.

As if obeying an unseen voice, they both dismounted, met between the horses, and their bodies came together in a hungry embrace.

He kissed her, knowing the memory of it would have to last him for two long years.

“Frank... I’ll be at the house. Our house. What do you want for supper the night you get home?”

“The night I get home,” he said. “I think I’d like some fried chicken that night.”

Then he turned and walked toward the prison farm. He heard a man shout as he was seen. Two guards came funning toward him, guns in their hands. Shoulders square, he met them. One guard said with a glower, “Brother, we’re going to cool you off with a week in solitary — bread and water!”

Donovan threw back his head and laughed. He had a much more important meal to look forward to.

Content

Talmage Powell
Dark Journey