Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  The silence that followed didn’t surprise Tom. Even Asher looked taken aback.

  “You may as well just hear us out,” Tom went on. “I’m not just a gambler. Some months ago I killed a man. He attacked my character and”—he motioned toward himself—“my person. So I shot him. And I did not conduct myself well.” That was a generous way of putting it, but it wasn’t untrue. “And then, not long after, I made a few more enemies. And I shot them as well. I didn’t come here for potatoes, and I didn’t come here for any reason of my own at all. I’m hoping to make a life somewhere out of the way, because of what I just told you. The reason we landed here and not somewhere else is because the boy was keen to find you. He saved my life. More than once.”

  Tom let it go there. He hadn’t planned to say all that or at least not in that way. There were a thousand stories he could’ve told that would’ve made these people welcome them with open arms.

  He rubbed his bad leg absently and sat back in his chair.

  “That’s what it comes down to,” he said, “who we are and what we want.”

  “You mean to say you are a—an outlaw,” Thaddeus said, eyes a bit wide. Sebastian had stiffened, Saul looked sour, and Jeremiah’s eyes had become wary.

  Tom sighed, then lifted a hand and wiggled it from side to side. “Depends who you ask. That first man I spoke of—that was justified, but others might not see it that way. And to tell the truth, by now I wish I hadn’t done it. The same could be said of the rest. You make enemies when you play cards and do it well, and I have not treated my enemies in a very Christian way.”

  Asher was looking at him as though he’d lost his mind.

  “So I would understand if I wasn’t welcome,” Tom told them all frankly, “being a violent man. Funny enough, I never really thought of myself as one, but there’s no way around it. The boy’s different, though. He isn’t like me. He’s never hurt anyone, and finding this place meant a lot to him. I hope you won’t let my mistakes color your opinion of him. He didn’t know what kind of man I was when he saved me.”

  It was a lot of talking, at least by Tom’s standards. Not every detail in what he said was true, but it really was the long and short of it. It was impulsive to put his cards on the table this way, but it felt good to do. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but here he was all the same, seriously thinking about starting over. He wasn’t about to try to build a life on a foundation made up entirely of lies.

  “Well,” Saul said, and he didn’t look happy. Tom thought he might go on, but he didn’t.

  “What I’m coming around to is that I hope you’ll still welcome the kid,” Tom said, putting his hand on Asher’s shoulder, “even if I’m not to your liking. I would not presume to go where I wasn’t wanted.”

  “And if we hear you correctly, you are in fear of retribution for what you have done?” Jeremiah asked. Of the three older men, he was the one who appeared to be taking this the best. He adjusted his spectacles and glanced at Sebastian, who looked appalled.

  “‘Fear’ isn’t the word I’d use. But I wouldn’t expect anyone to find me here. I don’t know if anyone’s looking or how hard. But to be safe, I avoid crowds.”

  That was the truth.

  “What sort of trouble would you bring to our door?”

  “Only the law,” Tom told him. “If they track me here, they may come.”

  “And if they do?” Jeremiah pressed.

  Tom sighed. “I’d like to hope that they won’t. But if they do, I believe I’m finally ready to hang it up.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor and gave him a dry smile. “I don’t care for running ever since my leg got to be this way.”

  “Jeremiah,” Saul said uncertainly.

  “Easy, Saul. I like this gentleman’s candor.”

  “He’s a murderer. By his own admission.”

  “That is not true,” Asher cut in. “There was nothing he did that wasn’t in his own defense or mine. That is not murder.”

  Thaddeus appeared to consider that. “Do you mean to tell us you would go to hang without resistance if a lawman came here looking for you?”

  The older man had his eyes on the pistol tucked into Tom’s belt. There was a part of Tom himself that felt the way everyone else in the room looked. Even Asher was thrown by it, but Tom couldn’t take any of it back now. And he didn’t want to.

  He didn’t get to answer Thaddeus’ question because Jeremiah spoke up.

  “Sir, have you come here in the hopes that we will hide you from your pursuers? Because we would never turn you away,” he said, as though it were obvious. In fact, it was almost startling the way he said it. “We would never turn anyone away. That would be . . . it would be contrary to who we are.”

  “We could never hide you, though,” Saul pointed out quickly. “That would be inconceivable.”

  Tom hadn’t surprised anyone else half as much as he surprised himself. And these words rattled him further.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” he told them, pulling the gun out of his belt. He leaned over with a groan, but hesitated, just holding it there.

  Then he set it on the desk and never touched it again.

  PART ONE

  LIGHT AS A FEATHER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hills of white flowers rolled like waves, even in the gloom before dawn. They were all closed up, but still pretty and tall enough that one wouldn’t so much walk through them as wade. It brought water to mind and made Tom feel light on his feet, which was no small task. He paused, leaning on his walking stick and peering at Asher, who determinedly forged a path ahead.

  “Kid,” he called out.

  The boy paused and looked back.

  “What’s your hurry?” Tom asked.

  “I am in no hurry, Mr. Calvert.”

  So Tom was just moving that slowly, eh? He pushed on.

  Two weeks after arriving in Friendly Field, he still didn’t know if he really meant to stay. It hadn’t occurred to him that these people might welcome him, even knowing the truth about him. Or most of it, at any rate. He had made a lot of assumptions about these Quakers, and so far just about every one of them had been wrong.

  “Mr. Calvert?”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Morning exercise is your ritual, not mine,” the boy pointed out.

  “I take my exercise on the road,” Tom shot back. “Not in all this.” The boy was leading the way for a change, and it was difficult going among the hills.

  “It will be worth your while,” Asher promised.

  Tom wasn’t so sure. The kid claimed to have found a spectacular bounty of spring mushrooms in the woods. That was all well and good, but Tom couldn’t truthfully say that he gave a damn. The kid was excited about it, though. That was what mattered, but Asher might regret wearing himself out before his day even began. On the other hand, the kid had what seemed to be limitless energy. On the trail, he’d managed the bulk of the work himself to keep the wagon rolling. Tom had been deadweight with a bullet in his leg, and the boy had more or less carried them both. He was tougher than he looked.

  When the sun came up, all these flowers would open, and there would be such a scent that it would make anyone heady. Tom hoped they’d be on their way back by then. He didn’t know why the boy wanted to be with him when he went for these walks before dawn. Tom had a good reason for doing it: if he didn’t do something with his leg, it would be stiff and painful by midafternoon. That, and the food was entirely too good in Friendly Field. If he didn’t make a point to move around, he’d get soft in a hurry.

  They reached the trees, and Asher stopped. He didn’t look back.

  “Mr. Calvert,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Tom caught up and leaned on his stick, squinting in the gloom. He didn’t see any mushrooms.

  “What possessed you to do that?” The boy was asking about the
day that they arrived. He wanted to know why Tom had thrown his story out the window and told the elders of Friendly Field the truth, more or less. It would’ve been too easy to present themselves as victims of some misfortune or wayfarers seeking salvation.

  “I’m heavy enough to drag around,” he said, rubbing the walking stick absently with his thumb. “Secrets and lies just make me feel heavier.”

  “Secrets and lies are the game of poker,” Asher pointed out.

  “Not exactly, kid.”

  “Were you hoping they would turn you away so you could go on without me?”

  “Why are you asking?” Tom had to notice the serious look on Asher’s face.

  “Because this life is very different from what I would picture to be to your liking.”

  “Different from what I would picture too,” Tom told him frankly. “Turns out, I don’t mind it. Do you?”

  Asher just let his breath out, then took a deep one.

  “What were you hoping to find here?” Tom asked, because why not? They were well enough acquainted by now for this much surely.

  “This,” the boy said finally.

  “What?”

  “What we found is what I had hoped to find,” he said, appearing to wake up. He returned Tom’s gaze. “It is you that I worry for. No cards, no money. What is there for you?”

  “Hell, kid, do you want me to leave?”

  Asher’s eyes narrowed. “You have shaved, Mr. Calvert.”

  “Very observant.”

  “So there is something of interest to you.”

  It wasn’t a particularly astute observation; in fact, for the boy to be making it just now—he really wasn’t paying much attention. But that stood to reason; they had found this place, and everything had changed. Things weren’t the way they’d been on the trail. The wagon made for a small world, but this was a community. It wasn’t just Tom and Asher anymore, so the boy could have his own life.

  But he still wanted to get up early and drag Tom off to find mushrooms.

  “Do you even like mushrooms?”

  “No, I dislike them,” Asher replied, but he forged on. “There are those who enjoy them, though.”

  “And you’re sure they aren’t the poisonous kind?”

  The boy halted. “Poisonous kind?”

  “For God’s sake, kid. Your people taught you to talk pretty, but not that?”

  This was turning into a long hike; ordinarily Tom liked to do a mile each way. They had to be close to twice that now, well beyond the potato fields—but there was no danger of straying onto someone’s property. The Quakers were all alone out here; that was what made Tom optimistic that no one would come looking for him.

  “Hold up a minute, kid.”

  “Another rest?”

  “No.” Tom looked over his shoulder as though there was even the slight possibility anyone might have followed. They were plenty far from the settlement. He unbuttoned his coat and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, taking out his derringer.

  Asher’s brows rose. “I noticed that you did not volunteer that item.”

  Tom didn’t think of the little gun as a weapon; he never had. It was almost too pretty to shoot, with its gold inlay and pearl handles. He’d won it in a poker game from a very pretty woman who he remembered fondly. It was just a trinket for luck.

  That was, until a while ago when he suddenly found himself with nothing else but a club that he was in no state to use. He’d never bothered buying bullets for a keepsake. That day he’d needed them.

  He had bullets for it now. They were far enough from the houses that the report of such tiny cartridges wouldn’t be heard.

  “Who do you mean to shoot?” Asher asked, intrigued.

  “Nobody, kid. I just wonder if I could hit anything with it if I wanted to.” The barrel of the gun wasn’t even as long as his little finger. All the same, he hefted it in his palm, then lifted it and took aim at a tree some seven or eight yards off.

  Asher covered his ears, but he didn’t have to. The little pop of the pistol would have been a good deal quieter than the constant hammering of nails and timber in Friendly Field during daylight. There was always a new barn, a new window, a new door being put on someone’s house. Always. Tom had nearly gotten to where he didn’t notice anymore.

  After a moment the boy looked at him uncertainly.

  “Why don’t you fire?”

  Tom took his finger off the trigger and lowered the gun, then shook his head.

  “Sorry, kid. It’s a habit. I figured I’d be past it by now.”

  Asher peered at him, and there was a shrewdness there that Tom wasn’t accustomed to seeing on him. “Your habit is to be prepared.”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s no harm in that.”

  Tom glanced at his bad leg and wondered if that was true.

  “No sense arguing,” he told the boy. And after a moment he held out the gun. “Why don’t you take it?”

  “There was a time, Mr. Calvert, when you wouldn’t hand me a pistol no matter how incessantly I asked it of you. I did not ask for this one,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t want it anymore.”

  Asher hesitated. “Why should I want it?”

  “I’m lame, kid. Not blind.” Whatever he said, the boy did covet the gun. Tom wasn’t wrong about that.

  Asher appeared to consider it; then he took a step back. “I think not, Mr. Calvert. I think neither of us has any need of it here.”

  That was very likely true. Tom considered the gun for a moment, then tucked it back into his pocket with his watch. He took up his stick and they pressed on.

  For a moment he’d considered just dropping the little gun in the loam, but that would’ve been a shame. It had value, and now that it was unlikely he would ever have another taste of his old life, the memories meant more to him than the pearl or the gold. That was what he might’ve said if asked, but it wouldn’t have been true. The truth was that he’d carried a gun for a long time, and he’d have felt naked without one. It didn’t matter that the little toy probably couldn’t protect him from a squirrel. It was just the principle of the thing.

  But it was because of his trigger finger that he was struck by a gut-churning wave of panic whenever it even appeared that someone might be riding toward Friendly Field. The place wasn’t even a village; it was just one large farm. No one would look for him there. Even if he’d told the Quakers his real name, he’d still have been safe.

  He knew that. But what he knew just couldn’t seem to make a dent in what he felt. He remembered the worst of the pain and the fever from his leg, and he’d gladly have traded his fear and unease for that agony.

  Maybe it would get better in time.

  He paused.

  “Kid,” he said, pointing with his walking stick. Asher looked back. The trees were thicker here, and there would be little light even at noon. “Is this the sort you saw?” He indicated a mushroom at the foot of a crooked tree.

  “It is.”

  “Well, did you bring a sack or something?”

  “What?”

  This boy. Well, it was all right in this case.

  “If you’re going to gather something, hadn’t you better bring a sack?” Tom asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Yes, Mr. Calvert. I apologize.”

  “Well, you’d just as soon not gather ones like this.”

  “Why not?”

  Tom leaned over and plucked the mushroom, holding it up. “One of these won’t kill you, but it’ll make you sicker than hell.”

  Asher was stunned.

  “You said you found more? We’d better find them and get rid of them in case someone else as ignorant as you stumbles on them,” Tom said tiredly, crushing the mushroom in his hand and throwing it aside. “I’m fairly sure you could die i
f you ate too many of them.”

  Asher wasn’t listening.

  “Kid? You all right?”

  Asher looked around worriedly. He didn’t reply. He just kept searching with his eyes, putting his hand on the trunk of a tree and leaning to look behind it.

  “I believe this is the place,” he said uncertainly.

  Tom took a look for himself. “What were you doing up here anyway?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  One might think that after months in a wagon with Tom, the boy would want other people around. The Quakers were about the best folks Tom had ever met, but their friendly way of doing things was sometimes too much. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but the boy was being stifled.

  “This is the place,” Asher declared, annoyed. “I am certain of it.”

  There were no signs of mushrooms, apart from the one Tom had picked. It was difficult to see in the gloom, but the mushroom was pale. More like it would stand out clearly.

  “Something probably came along and ate them.”

  “There were so many,” Asher said, giving him a look. “But I suppose you are right.” He was still suspicious. He moved through the shadows, searching irritably. Was he bothered that they’d made the trip for nothing? They didn’t want these mushrooms; they were poison.

  “There were so many,” the kid repeated.

  “Come on back.” They’d already spent longer on this stroll than intended.

  “We will be forgiven for tardiness,” Asher replied, distracted.

  Tom wasn’t worried about God, but he believed in good manners. He always had.

  “Kid, these folks are good to us. Let’s return the favor.”

  Asher didn’t reply. Tom straightened up and limped after him, finding the boy standing with his back to him, holding something. Tom took a look for himself, but he couldn’t be sure what he was seeing. Asher looked up, then offered the object to him.

  Tom took it and frowned.

  It was a couple of sticks and some black feathers. And something else: a tiny skull. And it was all tied together with thread. The sticks formed a sort of cross, and the feathers had been arranged to fan out behind the skull, which must have come from a bird.