by E. L. Ripley
“What happened to your leg?” John asked.
“A bullet.”
“Who shot you?”
“A man named Dan Karr.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Peckner lit his cigarette. “I suppose the details ain’t none of my business.”
“He shot me because I did something stupid. I’m not sore about it. When do we leave?”
John frowned and turned to Peckner.
“Well, since Tom can’t bear to be idle and his religious beliefs preclude him from standing watch, I reckon we might as well leave now. How’s that suit you, Harry?”
“Might as well.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tom wished he had his walking stick back. Bad leg and all, he’d never shied away from moving around. The trouble was that when the walking was his idea, he had a way of choosing terrain that suited him. These hills had little sympathy for him, and the outlaws had even less.
Worse, he couldn’t account for everyone. There were only eleven of them slogging through the woods. John and Peckner had sent one man to scout ahead. That left a few more—where were they? Stranger still, a couple of the outlaws seemed puzzled by their absence.
Puzzled but not alarmed. The only thing that troubled them was that there was a limit to how much firewater they could carry in their jugs. They weren’t worried about being found by the law; they were worried about running out of spirits and getting thirsty. Tom couldn’t understand that. He’d been forced to try the stuff, and even just one swallow of it had left him with no feeling in his mouth and a headache for an hour.
The path they took was chosen more for the horses than for the men, and it worked—it was past midday and none had been lamed yet despite the treacherous loam and unsteady rocks. It was bad country; when the trees and thorns weren’t too thick to block the view, the hills were in the way. It wasn’t just the strain of the journey that made Tom’s chest tight and kept his lungs from getting enough air. The Porter gang was all around him, and he remembered the beautiful views from any porch in Friendly Field. There was none of that here; he was boxed in.
It didn’t matter, though. As long as they were going away from Friendly Field, he could manage any discomfort that might come his way.
Someone had miscalculated. The sun was getting low, but they hadn’t reached the river yet. There was a fair amount of grumbling among the outlaws, and Tom had half a mind to join in it. He kept on limping, though even his good knee was on fire. He’d found a good branch to use as his walking stick, and he was looking forward to trimming it a bit if they ever stopped to rest. There wasn’t any shame in using a stick, or if there was, Tom didn’t care. He needed the help.
John dropped back from the front to join him when he started to lag behind.
“Thinking of having us cut you loose because you can’t keep up?” he asked mildly.
“Wouldn’t work,” Tom grunted. John put his hand out, and Tom took it, letting him pull him over a fallen tree. “I already know your course. You couldn’t leave me alive.”
“You got a bleak way of looking at things, Tom. Don’t you see how we done bent over backward to keep you with us?”
“You didn’t do much bending when Quincy had his hands around my throat,” Tom pointed out, stopping himself from reaching for some creepers. If he tried to grab those for purchase, they’d come loose and he’d fall in the dirt. Instead, he planted his hands on his stick and forced himself forward.
“You’re a tough one,” John replied, as though that were an answer. “What do you see in them Quakers?”
“I like the way they try to get along.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean they’ve gotten so used to giving one another a hand that they just do it. They don’t stop to think about it. It’s just what you do, even when they don’t like one another.”
“They don’t like one another?”
“They’re people, John. Of course they got problems. But even then, they still do it. There’s this woman there no one approves of, but they were still giving her things when she showed up. Same as they did with everyone else. Hell, they gave me a house. Well, they didn’t so much give it to me. I don’t own it. But that’s how they are. And compared to what I come from, it’s nice.”
“You told me they didn’t have no lawmen.” John paused, then pointed to a thorny vine half-hidden by the leaves. Tom stepped over it. “So does that mean there ain’t no lawbreakers?”
“There are,” Tom told him grimly. “In fact, there’s a murderer.”
His mind spun; he had to keep his lies straight. He’d told Ben Garner that there was a lawman in Friendly Field. He hadn’t tried that lie with John, not with Jeremiah and Phillip standing there. A day ago he might’ve hoped that John wouldn’t catch a slip like that, but now—now Tom was fairly sure the other man didn’t miss anything. At least, not anything he knew to look for.
“Really?” The outlaw sounded taken aback by the notion. There was irony in that, yet it wasn’t every day you heard of a Quaker taking a life.
“I’m fairly sure.”
“What’ll they do about that?”
“I can’t say. The last time they had a real problem, it sounds as though they hanged them.” Tom wished he had something better than his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. “But that was different. They say that was the devil.”
“The devil?”
“A witch. Sounds like when it’s a witch, they say they aren’t hanging one of their own. They’re hanging the devil. Makes it easier for them.”
John snorted. “You think the devil’d let you hang him?”
“I had that notion myself, but it isn’t my place to”—Tom searched for the right words, shooting the other man a wry smile—“challenge them, not when I have so much to thank them for.”
“You’re such a decent fellow, Tom. Is that why you came to warn me? Decency?”
“I’m done explaining myself, John. I’m sick of it.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. If there’s no lawman, who decides to hang the witch? Who’ll decide what to do with your murderer?”
Tom waved a hand. “There’re a couple fellas who are the mayors, even if they don’t say they are. At the end of the day, what they say goes.”
“The others don’t mind?”
“Mind?” Tom raised an eyebrow. “They don’t know what the hell to do. They’re nothing but pleased to have someone else giving the orders.”
“Folks are like that,” John said, nodding. “Suppose your murderer don’t want to swing?”
“I don’t know what they’d do. If they ran, I don’t know that anyone would chase them. Maybe that’s why I’m not more upset to be here,” Tom said wistfully. “God knows what’s going on there now. They’re looking for the killer. Have they found her? Has someone else been hurt? I don’t know.” He coughed. “I don’t know that I want to.”
“You think it’s a woman?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Can’t they shoot her if she runs?”
Tom snorted. “I expect they’d let her go. It’s what I would do. It solves the problem without them having to do anything God might not look kindly on. Of course, it’s just as easy to say that God would look kindly on hanging a witch. It’s godly to destroy evil, and it’s godly to forgive. Reckon they just go with whichever seems easier at the time.”
“The Almighty is convenient that way, ain’t He? You twist it enough, just about anything’ll sound righteous. We did God’s work robbing them banks. We brought salvation to the people who had the money. That’s in the Bible, you know. You’ll get a camel through the eye of a needle easier than a rich fella into heaven. Them rich folks should be thanking us for saving their souls. Hell, maybe I should get ordained. Guess I’d have to learn to read.”
Tom didn’t argue with him. He n
eeded all his breath for making his way, not for talking. A day on the move like this would have been difficult even before he’d spent all that time in the wagon, wasting away. Just holding up his end of the conversation felt like entirely too much work.
“You gonna make it, Tom?” John asked worriedly.
Tom wasn’t sure that he would, but as usual, there was always a way for it to get worse. The report of a rifle sent all the birds scattering from the branches and a storm of swirling leaves down into the shade.
John had his revolver in his hand fast enough to make Tom’s head spin. He darted into the trees ahead, where there was a commotion among the men.
Tom put his back to a tree, waiting for the next shot from the lawmen—only nothing came. It didn’t come because there were no lawmen; that shot had been fired much too close. They weren’t under attack; this was something else.
For a moment he was torn. It was a good distraction, but would it give him enough of a lead to get away? No. No, not without something more.
Disappointed, he followed John.
There was a cheer from some of the outlaws, and Tom swallowed.
John pushed past Cyril to get a look.
“Damn it, Simon, I told you not to fire,” Peckner snarled.
“That’s the first I seen in three weeks!” the man protested, shaking his rifle. “He weren’t but twenty feet away and didn’t even move, hearing all us coming. Woulda been against God’s will not to shoot him, boss.”
John briefly considered the dead buck lying in the loam, then let out a bark of laughter. “Can’t go giving in to temptation that way, Otis. The Quakers won’t like it.”
There was laughter from the others.
“Well, go on.” Peckner shook his head and glanced upward. There wasn’t much light left, and a few leaves were still floating lazily to the ground. “Make him into stew, then. Let’s hang it up, boys. We’ll go on to the river tomorrow.”
There really was no hurry, then. Tom stood rooted to the spot, his heart thudding. A knife came out of a sheath, and he swallowed and looked away, suddenly queasy. It was all he could do not to throw up right there.
John was still chuckling, and Tom reached out and stopped him as he was about to walk past.
“John,” Tom said, his mouth dry.
“Hope you’re hungry, Tom.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what job you want my help for?”
“Be patient, Tom.” John shook him off and took out his tobacco pouch, moving on. “Otis makes a hell of a deer stew.”
No. No, John wouldn’t ever tell him. He didn’t need Tom’s help—not anymore.
Tom had already helped him, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Grifters came and went. They were everywhere and had been every step of the way. That was just part of living in the world. This was still the first time one of them had ever gotten the best of Tom, and that upset him. He would’ve thought that being reduced to a sickly cripple, helpless, on death’s door, would have done away with most of his pride, but apparently there was enough of it left to bruise.
He was starting to see how John Porter had gotten so many lawmen riled up. And how he’d gotten so many other men to follow his lead. He was every bit as sly as Tom was, and, just like Tom, he liked to plan ahead.
The outlaws had gone ahead and shot two more deer, so there was no shortage of stew. It smelled mouthwatering, and Tom’s belly rumbled as he sat in the gathering twilight, unable to let his anger show.
John’s distinctive laugh echoed up and down the valley.
“I recall it,” he said to Otis, shaking his head. The two were by the nearest fire, consulting one of their maps. “I recall it was damp and smelled funny as well.”
“We cross water twice to reach it,” Otis pointed out hopefully. “If we stay in the cave, the trail goes cold. We’d be well hid if they came round.”
“We’d be hemmed up is what we’d be,” John replied, making a face. “A bunch of—a bunch of . . . What do you call ’em, Otis, folks who live in caves?”
“Trolls,” Peckner grunted. He was lying a few feet away, his hat pulled down over his eyes, but he wasn’t sleeping because there was a smoke in his mouth, glowing in the gloom.
“That ain’t right,” John said disdainfully.
“Trolls live in caves,” the other man mumbled around his cigarette, though he still didn’t open his eyes.
“Trolls live under bridges,” Otis supplied.
“Then who lives in caves?” John asked, irked.
“Troglodytes,” Tom supplied.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Now Peckner opened one eye.
“People living in caves.”
“You sure?” John peered at him suspiciously.
“Fairly sure,” Tom replied, rubbing his eyes.
“Did you eat, Tom?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t want to sleep in no damn cave,” John snapped at Peckner.
“Don’t sleep, then. Go stand watch instead of Sven.”
John just suppressed a belch and settled back, trying to get comfortable. Quincy helped himself to more stew, and a couple of the men were already curling up on the ground. They’d gotten used to lying around, and a day marching wasn’t much easier for them than it was for Tom.
Then John sat up. He shook his head as though to clear it and looked at Tom. “Come talk to me, Tom.”
“You come to me. I’m the one with a bad leg.”
John’s brows rose, but he got up and ambled over, putting his hand out. Tom took it and let the other man pull him upright.
“Take a walk with me. I have a little proposition for you.”
“You finally going to tell me about this job?”
“Well, I think so.” Did John really think Tom hadn’t seen that just now, the way he had caught Creel’s eye? Did he think Tom was blind? And stupid?
It was proof that something had changed. He remembered clearly what it had felt like when he had gone through temper and come out the other side, months ago on that riverboat. It didn’t happen here, and he’d been half afraid that it would.
Tom was as calm as he’d ever be.
“I’m worried,” John confessed as they walked a short distance away from the others. “I’m real worried about your Quaker friends.”
“Are you?”
“You make them sound downright helpless.” The outlaw folded his arms, scowling. “Defenseless if the wrong folks were to come along.”
“They certainly are. It worries me how easy they trust a man they don’t know,” Tom admitted. “But that’s just their way, I guess. Don’t seem to have come to any ill yet that I can see.”
John nodded sagely.
“How are you going to do it?” Tom asked bluntly.
“Do what, Tom?”
“Convince the law that you’re gone.” He gestured at the ground. “Walking us and the horses through the woods to make the trail is all well and good, but are you sure they’ll find it?”
“I think they will. And if they don’t, can’t nobody complain about that,” John replied easily. “I’ve shook them off before, and I will again. That’s what’ll convince them, Tom. Don’t tell me you already know about the job. If you do, how come you been asking so much?”
John stopped, and they were barely out of sight of the camp. It was dark, and getting darker. There weren’t any fireflies in these woods, and precious little moonlight would get through the leaves above.
“I think you showed your hand when you asked me those questions,” Tom told him frankly.
“Did I?” John was smiling, but it wasn’t real. He was uncomfortable, and Tom knew why.
“You did. It was plain as day. What I can’t see is why you didn’t tell me strai
ght.”
“Tell you what?”
“That you never planned on leaving. That you meant to lie low until the law moved on, then take up at Friendly Field.”
“Supposing I had,” John replied carefully. “What would it matter?”
“Well, I might have talked you out of it,” Tom replied, rubbing his face. “It’s a bad idea. In fact, it’ll get you killed.”
“The law ain’t gonna wait around forever,” the outlaw pointed out. “They’ll follow our trail, lose it, and think we’re going for the border like anyone else would.”
“Why not just do that, John? Why not go? You can’t move your boys into Friendly Field without bringing down the law on you. They’re a good few miles from Des Crozet, but it’s not an island. People come, people go. Word’ll get out, and when it does, it’ll be no different than it is now. Men riding to find you, and the Quakers couldn’t hide you even if they wanted to.”
“Hell, Tom. You make it sound like I want to settle down there forever. I think we’ll just enjoy their hospitality for a short while before we go on. Even bankers need provisions.”
The two of them just didn’t see things the same way. To Tom, it was appallingly impractical. Why would the gang go out of their way and take on so much additional risk just for—what? Some stolen food, the chance to sleep in beds, and unwilling women? These were poor rewards for such an effort.
The outlaws saw it differently. A place almost provocatively helpless. It would strike them as unjust not to take advantage of it. No, John couldn’t move his gang into Friendly Field for long, but he didn’t want to. He’d just use it up and move on.
He’d planned this from the beginning, and there was probably an element of pragmatism in it—he had to keep the men happy, and this was what they would want, not a grueling flight to the border and more time in the wilderness.
It had taken Tom much too long to figure out John’s intent in keeping him alive. It was to probe for information, and he’d thought perhaps to use him to somehow facilitate his takeover of Friendly Field. The Quakers would become hostages in their own homes, forced to play host to these men and their whims. The outlaws wouldn’t think twice about killing anyone who resisted. Just listening to a few of them talk, Tom gathered there were at least a couple among them who enjoyed killing enough that there’d likely be some even if no one resisted.