Spring

(A Sequel to "A Long Winter for Willie Loomis")

by

Mary E. Overstreet

- TWO -

The rain had stopped before dawn, Willie knew, his attention distracted easily from sleep. His cell mate's varied and noisy snore had done a fine job of keeping him awake. Jabbing the bunk to shake him awake enough to stop only worked for a few short minutes. Willie was now frustrated and irritable from fatigue and the constant aching in his head and back. He paced the cell, deliberately scuffing his shoes on the brick floor to make noise to wake the other man. He kept the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and hoped he hadn't caught lice from it or the surroundings.

The sun was not visible due to the cloud cover, but Willie could see that the sky was going to clear off. With the coming of light, his frayed nerves started winding up. He didn't know the time as his watch had not, like his wallet, come through time with him. The activity in the street was a sure sign that morning was well under way.

Willie had no appetite when a breakfast of eggs and bread was brought in. But after listening all night to the other man's snores he was not about to give his to him.

"Calm down, mate," their guard suggested to him after watching him repeatedly walk the six steps from one end of the cell to the other and back again. "Eat your eggs. You'll feel better. Ten strokes ain't so bad."

Willie just looked at him, holding his plate. The man was right, it could have been a lot worse. Willie was no stranger to beatings. His childhood had seen quite a few, belts and hands and sticks had welted, bruised, and cut him any number of times. This was only ten and under controlled circumstances. But with a whip. . .? He went back to his pacing. Barnabas' beatings probably hurt more than this would. He just didn't want to be hurt at all. And the ones at Wyndecliffe when he was still sore. . .

His hands were shaking. He took a firmer grip on the plate and sat down on the bunk next to the other man. His stomach churned and twisted and he abruptly stuck the plate on top of the empty one in his cell mate's hands. "Here, you noisy son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath and stood up to pace again.

It was not long before he could hear the sounds of conversation in the front room through which he had come to this chamber with the holding cell in it. Barnabas came through the door a moment later, viewing his bedraggled, haggard "servant" with guilt and regret.

Willie did not know how he looked. He could still feel mud in his hair and stubble on his chin. His mouth and one cheek were sore and his clothes were dirty and rumpled. He wanted almost to smile at the sight of a familiar face, but he did not feel well enough or kindly disposed enough toward the man.

"Willie, I'm sorry I didn't come back last night," he began, unable to meet his eyes.

"You couldn't do it, couldja?" he said, his voice hoarse from his sore throat. His blue-grey eyes pierced the other man's when he glanced up. He wanted to hurt someone because he was going to be hurt, but said nothing.

Barnabas shook his head. "No, not yet. But I am going to see the judge again."

"Goddamnit, Barnabas, that won't help!" Willie's temper flared with tension. "That jerk, Townsend, probably owns this town. The only chance I had was last night and you blew that already." He was oblivious to the surprised looks on the guard's and the other prisoner's faces. Servants did not talk so insolently to their masters.

Barnabas didn't like it either, but he knew Willie was innocent, therefore entitled to his anger. Unfortunate that he took it out on his supposed superior in these circumstances.

"I did what I could, Willie. They would not relent," he said coldly.

"Pardon me for sayin' so, but after that I'd give him another ten if I were you," the guard said.

"This is none of your concern."

"He's your man, have it your way."

"I'm not his man," said Willie indignantly, refusing to play servant ever again to Barnabas' master.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Willie, I wanted to tell you that I am making arrangements for you," Barnabas said, deliberately changing the subject.

"Terrific. If it's not arranging to get me outta this, I don' wanna hear about it." He turned his back and stepped over to look out the window.

"I will try again."

Willie shook his head. "Lotta good that'll do, I'm sure."

Barnabas' patience ran out. "Well, what do you expect? It isn't my fault you were in that yard. There is nothing I can do about it, Willie."

He knew the man was right. "This is your trip."

"That doesn't make it my fault this has happened to you." Barnabas moved around to the side of the cell closer to the outer wall where Willie stood. "Willie, I am sorry. I don't know what else I can do."

He looked at him, eyes full of bitterness. "It's never gonna end, is it? If it's not you, it's somebody else."

Barnabas closed his eyes briefly in sorrow. "I'm so sorry, Willie."

Willie looked back out the window; his view of the town square was partially eclipsed by the neighboring building. He wondered where it would happen. "I know you are." He sighed, feeling congestion in his lungs. He coughed to clear it and rubbed one side of his face with his hand.

"I'll do what I can. I'll see you later, Willie." Barnabas left.

Still cold, Willie crossed his arms over his chest and went back to his pacing.

* * *

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