Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  That was a relief. It wasn’t until he sat down with her on the porch that he realized how wound up he’d become. It wasn’t as though he’d never felt nerves before, but never quite like this. And it wasn’t just nerves; it was his temper. It was the injustice of it. By all accounts, Friendly Field had been nothing but peaceful over the past several years. Why should all this happen the moment he got here? It wasn’t fair. He was willing to sit and sew. In fact, he was getting along well enough without his stick that he might even be able to make a go of working the fields. He was willing to sit in service, and willing to sit with Mary on the porch to eat a meal because they couldn’t be alone together behind a door. Balancing a plate on his knees and trying to eat like he had some dignity was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, but Mary made it look easy.

  All of that, he could live with.

  But he saw Saul in his mind, the knife still sticking out of him. He remembered the Pinkerton in his hotel room, back when he and the kid had still been with the wagon train. Tom hadn’t stabbed the Pinkerton; that man had fallen on his own knife. All his fear and tension came back at the memory of it, and the smells as well—of the room, of the outhouse where he’d gotten rid of the body.

  “Tom?”

  He grimaced. “I’m all right. I apologize.”

  “You don’t seem well.”

  Mary was no gossip, and Tom trusted her. But it wouldn’t have been right to give up Jeremiah’s trust or to give her that burden.

  “It’s better if I don’t talk too much,” he said honestly. “Jeremiah’s trusting me to be discreet. I know you’d never tell. But I shouldn’t.”

  She didn’t look happy, but she understood.

  “There’s always something,” Tom went on. “I shouldn’t be mixed up in it. It shouldn’t be my business, but it seems I do that. I never got to be a busybody when I was on my own because there wasn’t anyone around I cared to meddle with. Then the kid came along, and now I’m just in everyone’s business.”

  “Better a busybody than cold and selfish.”

  “Oh, it’s selfish,” Tom said, laughing quietly. “It’s all for myself in the end, I’m sure. Does your mother often go to be a guest of the McHenry house?”

  “Now and then. She’s grumpier each day.” She gave Tom a grateful look. “Playing cards with you gave her something to look forward to.”

  “For me as well. I’ll be just as bad-tempered when I’m her age.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The crickets filled the silence, and Tom looked out at the Ford house, where Asher was eating dinner. He could hold Mary back, but he couldn’t lie to the kid about what was coming.

  It was possible that it could all be settled without the majority of the Quakers ever being the wiser. That would be the best outcome, but Tom couldn’t guarantee that, and he knew it. Less fuss would mean less ire from Jeremiah, and that would be good for his prospects. He had to try to clean all this up quietly.

  “Where are you?” Mary asked softly. “Where is your mind?”

  “Oh, off in those hills,” Tom replied, pointing northeast. She laughed. “It’s pretty country,” he added, shrugging. “But I’d rather be here with you. If I had it my way, I might not ever leave this porch.”

  “I think you’d want to come in when the snow starts,” she replied, laying down her fork and knife. “To get warm.”

  Tom didn’t have to wait for the snow; he wanted that now. Instead of saying that, he smiled.

  “It’s warm enough. And it’ll get worse before it gets better.” He peered into the evening. “I’d wager your summers aren’t easy.”

  “Not in the fields,” she replied. “And it’s no better in a stuffy room.”

  Tom wasn’t sure which would be worse. But even so, there was no desire to do anything else. A few months ago he never would’ve been able to convince himself that he wouldn’t spend every waking moment thinking about cards. Now they seldom crossed his mind. He didn’t want to leave Friendly Field and go back to all the hotels and saloons. He’d need his gun back for that, and he’d have to . . . wake up. He’d have to start watching his back again.

  It was odd, because that had never bothered him when he’d been doing it, so why should it feel so much better now that he didn’t have to? Or maybe he should be more careful; after all, he could easily be wrong about everything to do with Saul’s death. For all Tom knew, someone was going to stick a knife in him next.

  Well, they could try.

  Mary took his plate from him, but didn’t stand up.

  Tom didn’t know what to say, and even if he did, he wouldn’t have known how to say it. He was overwhelmed, and Friendly Field had never been quieter. The tranquillity was like a silk sheet just draped over the town, keeping everything else out so he could be alone with Mary. It was exactly what he wanted, and he couldn’t imagine anything better.

  But he couldn’t forget Saul Matthews or John Porter. It couldn’t be done.

  That irked him.

  “I don’t know you,” Mary said.

  “I know.” Tom sighed and leaned forward, clasping his hands. “But you know I’d tell you anything.”

  “You won’t, though.” She returned his smile, and she had him there. She was completely right, and he was ashamed for saying it.

  Tom could hold his ground. Would she fault him for it? Maybe, but . . .

  “Trust,” he said, shaking his head. “Bluffing’s just lying. I did it so much, and I still do. You ever done something so much that you forget how to do anything else?”

  “Smiling,” she replied, smiling.

  He snorted. “Yeah. You still want to ask me things, even when you know you won’t like what you get?”

  “I’m not making any demands, Tom.”

  “But you’d like to. And you’ve got a right to do it.”

  “Your life before you came here is not my business.”

  “It is if you think I might become a part of your life.”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Would you consider yourself entitled to every detail of mine if I were to become a part of yours?”

  “No, but I have no call for concern about you. You’re a good woman. You’ve led a good life. I’m different, and you’ve got a right to be suspicious of me. I’m a professional liar. And I’m not a criminal, but I am a killer.”

  There was only a twitch to indicate that had struck her. Tom hadn’t kept that a secret from Thaddeus and the others, but it hadn’t been advertised. He’d certainly never come out and said it this way to her. He should have, much sooner.

  “Have you done soldiering?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied, gazing straight at her. “I never killed for this country or any other one. I’ve done it to protect myself. I’ve done it to protect the kid.” He straightened up and glanced around at the other houses. “And I’ve done it because I lost my temper.”

  For a moment there was just quiet. She started to take a breath, like there was something she wanted to say, but Tom beat her to it.

  “And one more reason,” he said. “I did it because I couldn’t let a loose thread hang. I killed a man because if I hadn’t, he’d eventually have come after me and the kid. Can’t leave a job half-finished,” he said, sniffing and rubbing his nose. “That’s what I thought at the time. But I wish I hadn’t done it. There was probably another way. . . . I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and I can’t stop.”

  “How many have you killed?”

  Tom felt his brows rise. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He shrugged and gestured vaguely.

  She swallowed, eyes wide.

  He licked his lips. “For a long time, it was two,” he said. “And then I met the kid, and . . .” He shook his head. “Things started happening. It’s not his fault. I expect in the end it’s mine.”

 
“He’s not your nephew.”

  “No, he’s just some kid. He made a mistake, and I helped him. Then I made a mistake, and he helped me. I tried to look after him, and he ended up looking after me. He’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

  “You helped him first?”

  Tom nodded, smiling at the memory. He’d caught Asher trying to rob a cabin on the riverboat. The kid had been terrified in that moment. How had he changed so much in less than a year? The boy had a much cooler head, and he wouldn’t have any trouble in a pinch like that now. Asher could fend for himself.

  “Why?”

  Tom leaned back. “I don’t know. Why not? Do you want to know about Miss Adams?”

  That took Mary aback, but she shook it off. “I’m more particular about the killing, I think.” That was what she said, but, yes, she did want to know.

  “Fair enough. I’ve met her before. In the church, I was asking her what brought her here.”

  Mary nodded, and it wasn’t necessary to say more about that. He still hadn’t answered her real question. She wanted the truth, and not the truth about his past. That stood to reason; she was a sensible woman, so of course the present was a more pressing concern. Tom had already made up his mind.

  “It’s Saul,” he told her, lowering his voice. There was no one about, but sound wanted to carry in this quiet. “He didn’t die in his sleep. Well, he did—but someone killed him.”

  Several moments went by, and she looked at him as though she expected him to say something more. When he didn’t, she frowned and glanced at her hands, folded on her knee.

  “Murder?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. And that man outside the church? He’s an outlaw. And I worry that he and his men may come here and make trouble.” Tom held up two fingers. “Those two things are what have me troubled.”

  Mary took that in.

  “That’s the truth. Are you sorry you asked?”

  She shook her head, grimacing. “Saul was murdered?” It came out in a whisper. “There has never been a murder in . . .”

  “I know.” Tom rubbed his chin. “I don’t have it figured yet myself, but he must’ve done something to someone. It’s the only thing I can think of. Look at Thaddeus. Nobody’s perfect. Not me, for certain. I suspect he made a mistake, and it caught up to him. If we work out what he did, we’ll know who killed him.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not the sheriff.”

  Mary tried to smile but couldn’t. Tom didn’t blame her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You did warn me,” she said, and there was an encouraging hint of dryness there.

  “I hope you’ll keep that to yourself.”

  “Of course.” She wasn’t thinking of telling anyone; she was just trying to make sense of it all. “And outlaws,” she murmured, and by her voice she might as well have been talking about creatures from fairy tales.

  “I know. As though a murder isn’t enough.”

  Her knuckles were white on her apron. “What do they mean to do?”

  “I don’t know. And I hope we never find out.”

  Mary nodded but stayed silent. Tom did too. He’d said enough or even too much. It was selfish to risk the secrecy this way, but he cared about Mary a good deal more than he cared about Jeremiah. What she thought of him mattered. Jeremiah’s good opinion? Tom could live without it.

  A few lights were going out. It was too early for Tom, but these folks worked hard. It was the smart ones who made a point to get their rest. And Tom? He didn’t want to rest. He wanted Mary, and he wanted to tell her so, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t shy, but it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to put her in that position.

  It was getting cooler, and he rolled down the sleeves of his shirt.

  “Do you think you could trust me?” he asked. “One day?”

  She hesitated a moment; then that look was in her eyes, the one that made her seem like anything but a Quaker. It was the kind of confidence that Tom had seen in good cardplayers. A sort of calm.

  “I believe I could,” she replied, and it was fairly convincing.

  But Tom read people for a living, or he had once. She wasn’t lying. She meant what she said, but the confidence underneath it—that was a little much. She was trying too hard.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” he told her. “What happened to Saul—it’s got nothing to do with you. I know it’s awful, but you’re not in any danger.” Anyone would feel unsafe if someone they knew was killed. It was normal for her to feel this way, mere minutes after hearing the news. “And those outlaws—you don’t need to worry about them.”

  “Oh?”

  Tom nodded. “No one’s going to bother you, Mary. I promise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The fireflies were out, and the purple in the sky was all gone. Night had come to Friendly Field, and it was getting too chilly for Mary. Tom didn’t want to leave her porch, but he couldn’t let her freeze. He remembered chasing after the kid, if “chasing” was the word for his ragged limp, when those Shoshone had him. He’d dragged himself through the snow in spite of his weakness, falling and clawing his way upright over and over.

  Getting up and saying good night to Mary felt even more arduous than that.

  She went into the house, and the longing look she gave him before she did it was equal parts gratifying and frustrating. Mary wouldn’t have minded a stolen kiss, but she’d have regretted it. If the judgment from the others didn’t get to her, her own guilt would. Tom didn’t think it was anything to feel guilty about, but he knew he had a lot of work to do before he could see things the way the Quakers did.

  He wanted to, though.

  Phillip’s door opened, and he emerged, coming purposefully off his porch. He met Tom in the middle of it all, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders. He must’ve been watching from his window and waiting.

  “Peace be with thee,” Tom said as he approached.

  “And also with you. Can we talk, Tom?”

  “You don’t have the wrong idea, do you? I never even went in the house,” Tom said, glancing back toward Mary’s place. “I’ve been very proper.”

  “I know you have. I’m worried.”

  “About Saul or John Porter?”

  “Both.”

  “So you should be.” Tom folded his arms and faced him. This was as good a place to talk as any, here in the middle of the field. They were far enough from any of the houses that there was no danger of anyone overhearing. “Tell me the truth, Phillip. Don’t lie. Don’t try to protect anyone. Tell me what Saul was doing. Tell me who had reason to hate him.”

  Phillip scowled in the dark and shook his head. “Tom, there’s nothing. Saul was a good man.”

  Tom sighed. “There’s no such thing. We all do wrong. Now, what did he do?”

  “I don’t know! The worst I saw of him was to take the Lord’s name in vain when he hit his thumb with a hammer! You’re wrong about him, Tom. I think you’re wrong about a lot of things, for all the good it can do us now.”

  Tom waited, but apparently Phillip was finished. The big man was just looking at him expectantly.

  “Come with me.” Tom beckoned and started toward the house he shared with Asher.

  There were no sofas in Friendly Field, just as there were no stuffed armchairs. Apparently those humble comforts were too distracting from God. What they did have were wooden benches, which they would then cover in so many pillows that they became more or less like sofas. Tom’s house had one, and Asher was sprawled across it outrageously. The boy had been the same in the back of the wagon, always arranging himself in strange ways, curling up or draping himself over things morosely when he thought he was alone. He’d always sit with a straight back when anyone else was around, but on his own he was like a house cat. />
  He’d been lying back with one hand covering his eyes, but he looked up, surprised to see Phillip.

  “Mr. Lester,” Asher said quickly, sitting upright.

  Tom pulled a chair away from the table and spun it around, sitting down to rest his arms on the back.

  “Here’s how it’ll have to be,” he said.

  “Did you listen to a word I said?” Phillip asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Kid, listen up. Until one of you thinks of a better idea, I want both of you talking to everyone. Old, young—it doesn’t matter. Find out everything you can about Saul. Someone will know something.”

  Asher frowned and spoke up before Phillip could. “What will you do?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “What?” Phillip and the boy said as one.

  “Any one of us could ask around and sort out Saul,” Tom said, pointing from himself to the boy, to Phillip. “But I reckon I’m the only one who can stop John Porter from bringing his gang here. So you’ll do that for me, and I’ll do this for you. Phillip, it’s the least you can do,” he said, cutting the other man off. “You’re the new Saul Matthews. You’re a leader, even if you don’t call yourself one. It’s dangerous enough to have a murderer in your town and not tell people. You can’t hide it from them and do nothing.”

  “We don’t know that it’s one of us,” Phillip hissed. “For all we know, it could be your outlaws.”

  “No,” Tom replied frankly, “it couldn’t. The timing makes no sense, and what would they have meant with the feathers? Porter might steal, or he might hurt somebody, then offer you protection in exchange for payment. But that isn’t what happened to Saul. “

  “You intend to kill him,” Phillip said.

  “I already told Jeremiah that I don’t. I won’t even take a gun with me.” Tom took the derringer out of his pocket. Ignoring Phillip’s look of horror, he handed it to the boy. “Watch your back, kid. There’s no telling, but it’s always possible that once the killer knows you’re looking for her, she might come gunning for you. Keep your guard up. Follow your gut. And, Phillip, I expect you to do the same. It’s all right if you want to count on God to protect you. You count on Him to provide for you, don’t you? But you still work the fields and grow the potatoes; you don’t wait for Him to come down here and pick up a shovel.”