by E. L. Ripley
He’d had only one bullet left when Quincy came at him, and he hadn’t missed. But a dead giant hurtling toward him was almost as dangerous as a live one.
Tom probed at the back of his head, which must have struck a rock when Quincy’s corpse crushed him to the ground. There was so much dried blood all over him that there was no hope of telling his own from the dead man’s. His shirt had started out white, and his days with the outlaws had introduced some yellow and gray to it. Now it was just brown, like rust. So were his sticky, tacky hands.
He rolled onto his back and fumbled with the buttons, then just tore the shirt open and struggled out of it. Tom climbed to his knees, peering down at the bruises on his chest. They hurt just to look at. He coughed, and that hurt too.
When he looked up, his eyes fell on the horses, tied up on the other side of camp. They peered at him suspiciously.
Scowling, he dragged himself to his feet and shuffled over, taking the canteen from John’s mare. He got his hands and face mostly clean and drank the rest. Then, reluctantly, he turned and looked at the camp. It was littered with bodies, and there were more he couldn’t see in the forest. The night had been mild enough that they were already ripening.
His head swam, and he shook it, then threw the empty canteen aside and steadied himself on the nearest tree.
It was warm, but he felt cold without a shirt. He wasn’t above wearing something a dead man had worn, but there likely wasn’t one lying about that didn’t have blood on it. He rummaged through John’s saddlebags and came up with one that looked all right. He donned it gingerly, then put his suspenders up, trying to work some of the stiffness from his neck and shoulders.
The smell made him queasy and he leaned over, but his stomach was empty except for water. Coughing, he untied the horses, one at a time. Just that felt like a lot of work, and when it was done, he tottered over to a rock and perched on it, breathing raggedly.
Something struck his head, and he looked up to see squirrels running along the branches above, shaking nuts loose. He leaned over to pick up Liam’s fallen hat and put it on. Another nut struck the brim and rolled off. Tom sighed and got up, taking the hat off and tossing it aside. The shirt was all right, but that was all. The law was still coming to Friendly Field, and he didn’t need to be found with anything that belonged to the Porter gang. With his luck, folks would think he really had been a part of it.
There was a part of him inclined to look for the money, but it wouldn’t be here. It was hidden somewhere, and he wouldn’t have taken it in any case. What would he spend it on? He couldn’t think of anything, and if he did, there was still a few hundred dollars tucked away in the house he shared with the kid.
And that money that the outlaws had stolen—well, they’d stolen it. So it wouldn’t have been Tom’s just because he could get it. The right thing to do would have been to return it. He sighed; another right thing to do would have been to bury all these bodies. Or, the kid might have said, the right thing would have been not to shoot them all in the first place.
But Tom knew when a man had already made up his mind, and John had. John had wanted to use Tom as his key to Friendly Field. “Low-hanging fruit” was what some would have called it. It was one thing to be defenseless; being disinclined to defend on principle—that was something else.
There hadn’t been any hope of talking the gang out of it. Or tricking them. If the news that the law was on the way wasn’t enough to deter them, what was? They’d been fearless, ironically enough. Tom had told John this would get them all killed. John hadn’t listened.
Tom wished he had. Or that John had been telling the truth about leaving. The notion upset Tom; he hated to think about going on the move, every step taking him farther from Mary—but he’d have done it. If the outlaws had wanted to run for the border, Tom would’ve gone along. He might even have pulled his weight on that imaginary job of John’s if that was what it had come to. He’d have done whatever was necessary to stay alive and get free.
His gaze lingered on the massive shape of Quincy’s corpse for a moment, and he weathered another wave of nausea.
Enough. He couldn’t stay here any longer. The sun was rising, and it was high time he got on his way. With nothing in his hands and nothing in his pockets, and wearing a dead man’s shirt, Tom limped away. He wasn’t superstitious, and it was clearer than ever that he was no Quaker. He wasn’t going to bury anyone; the Porter gang probably hadn’t even brought a shovel. Why would they have? That was a tool for honest work.
Tom didn’t like honest work, either, but he’d do it if he had to. Just like he’d sit in church if need be.
Maybe now, with all these men dead, he could have some peace. There wouldn’t be any more quiet sewing, though. If he was well enough to take on a notorious gang of bank robbers, he could move a little dirt around to cover up potatoes.
He stepped over Harry Peckner’s body and headed home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Friendly Field didn’t look like much, but after such a long time in a wagon, it had been attractive enough. Tom felt that way again as he dragged himself out of the trees and into the field. It was evening, and as he came out into the open, the workers were just beginning to collect their tools and start to head in. It took a few minutes for one of them to notice the lone figure raggedly shuffling toward the village.
William Beaumont waved to him. Tom didn’t like Beaumont much, but he was glad to see him. He waved back, and one of the boys took off running. Several of the workers hurried out to meet him, and it wasn’t long before people were gathering in the field.
Tom had been gone three days. He’d taken the time to clean himself up in a stream, but he knew he looked as rough as he felt. He was fiercely hungry.
Phillip jogged out to meet him, and he must’ve said something, because the other men stayed back.
Tom just put up a hand to stop him before he started talking. He didn’t want to listen or even to talk—he just wanted to eat. Then sleep in his bed, if he could.
“It’s done,” he said.
Phillip just looked puzzled. “Done? Tom—,” he began, but Tom cut him off.
“I mean it’s done,” he repeated, not angrily. He was too tired to be angry. “The gang won’t come here. You’re safe from them. What about you all?” Tom glanced past him at the others, and the rest beyond the workers—women and children were outside their houses now, looking on.
Mary was among them.
“What about our troubles here?” Tom pressed. “Is everyone safe and well?”
Phillip nodded, and Jeremiah arrived.
“Did you really go looking for those men?” he demanded abruptly.
“Peace be with thee too,” Tom shot back. “I did, and it’s settled. I convinced them not to bother us.”
Jeremiah would know it couldn’t be that simple, but Phillip might not.
“Can I eat?” Tom asked, spreading his arms. “I haven’t in a day. I’m very tired.”
“I feel as though there are things that should be said,” the older man told him.
Thaddeus was hurrying out to reach them, but he didn’t move very fast.
There was no sign of Holly.
“I feel as though if I don’t eat, I might say something I’ll regret,” Tom replied honestly.
One more wrong assumption had been that Jeremiah and Phillip would come up with a narrative to explain his absence; it appeared they hadn’t, and they’d merely left the others to wonder where he’d gone. The kid hadn’t talked, of course.
“You can eat with me. And with Phillip,” Jeremiah said frankly. And Thaddeus, no doubt, but he was red-faced and breathless.
Tom didn’t argue with them. The day had been long, but it was over. The sun was sinking, and Tom’s desire to argue had already left him.
“No lawmen ever turned up? Or anyone to ask about Porter?�
�� he said as he followed Jeremiah back toward the houses, returning a wave, then pausing to rub his sore leg.
“We’ve had no visitors,” Phillip confirmed.
Then there was at least one thing that Tom hadn’t been wrong about. He’d known the law wouldn’t come quickly enough to a place like Friendly Field, even with all those bounties on the table.
He spotted Asher, who looked tired but also stony. Tom waved to him, and the boy returned it. Was he cross? Of course he was.
Tom managed to catch Mary’s eye, and at least she didn’t appear upset with him. He’d have a job ahead of him to patch that up, but her safety came before her good opinion. It had been better to take the business to the outlaws rather than allow them to come here in a position of strength and then have to figure out what to do about them.
Tom’s way had been better. It had worked, hadn’t it?
He entered Jeremiah’s house, and Mrs. White tied her bonnet and left without a word. There was no telling what kind of rumors and gossip had gone about while he was away, and Mary would’ve had to weather all of it in that sewing room. Her days must have been just as miserable as Tom’s. Worse, probably. After all, Tom had known all along that if he needed to, he could simply kill his tormentors.
Mary didn’t have that thought to comfort her, and those other women could be vicious. He would make this up to her somehow.
With a groan, he sank into a chair at Jeremiah’s table. He tore a piece of bread from a loaf and took a bite, eying the three men. After a moment, he gestured at the chairs.
“A generous invitation,” Jeremiah said dryly, folding his arms. “In my house.”
“God’s house,” Tom corrected, swallowing. “It’s all His anyway, isn’t it? Before you get to scolding me, have you made any headway? Did you find out who killed Saul?”
“No,” Phillip replied, scowling. He took a chair as well and straightened his suspenders. “It’s been a strange couple of days, Tom.”
“I’ll bet. You should’ve told them a story about me going instead of letting them wonder.”
“Lie, you mean.” Jeremiah sat as well, and Thaddeus followed, mopping sweat from his brow.
Tom sighed. “No. No, I suppose not. I’m sorry. I should’ve told the lie.”
It hadn’t been fair to expect that of Jeremiah. Of course he didn’t want to deceive his people—except that was precisely what he’d done in the church when he concealed that Saul had been murdered.
Pointing that out wouldn’t make anything better.
“Where have you been?” Jeremiah asked directly.
“Where I said I was. I told you.” Tom looked straight at Phillip. “I went to take care of the Porter gang.”
“And do we still need to fear these men?” Thaddeus asked.
He’d been there, after all, when John Porter came to Friendly Field. He might have been softer hearted than Jeremiah, but John had made him uneasy. Why was that? He hadn’t been suspicious of Tom at all. Was it Saul’s death that had put him on edge? Of course. It was the first murder Friendly Field had ever seen. No wonder Thaddeus was rattled.
“No.” Tom could say that confidently. Dead men weren’t going to give them a lick of trouble. Better yet, no one—no one—knew what had happened out there. There wouldn’t be any lawmen to complain, nor any friends or family of those men. Even if someone took offense at what had happened to them, they wouldn’t know who to blame.
The job was done and done well.
“It was like I thought,” he went on. “John Porter came here to feel us out, and he liked what he saw. I went to them and told them that we had already told the law.” Tom pointed at Phillip. “As you did. I’d hoped that would be enough to make them leave, but it wasn’t. See, you aren’t like other towns. There’re no lawmen, you got no guns, and even if you did, you wouldn’t want to use them. To a man like that, you’re asking to be taken advantage of. He and his men have been in the woods for months. It was just like I thought and just like I told you. They wanted your food, soft beds to sleep on. They wanted your women.” Jeremiah twitched, and Phillip tensed. “That’s not my thinking. It’s the truth. And in their minds, there wasn’t a thing to stop them from taking it all. So their notion was to hide, wait quietly for the law to come, let the law think they’d moved on—then come here. And I have an idea of how they planned to go about it, but that’s not important anymore.”
Tom waved a hand and helped himself to more bread. “In the end I had to feed them some of those mushrooms. I put them in their soup. They were real brave, thinking they’d just sneak past the law. They weren’t so brave after that. I’m sure they’ll still be sick this time next year.”
“You poisoned these men?” Jeremiah asked calmly, eying Tom’s throat and the other bruises on his face.
“I gave them a good reason not to do something foolish,” Tom replied.
It was a terrible story; it didn’t make sense, but these three would probably swallow it. Even Jeremiah. Because as odd as Tom’s false narrative was, it would still be more palatable to the Quaker mind than wholesale slaughter.
“What if they seek retribution?” Phillip asked worriedly.
Tom shook his head. “They can’t. I told you, they were brave before—but now they’re in bad shape. They won’t stay around here with the law coming. They could handle themselves in a scrap at their best, but they can’t put up a fight now. They don’t have a choice but to run.”
Seconds went by. Jeremiah leaned on the nearest chair, still scowling.
Tom spread his hands. “I won’t apologize,” he said. “I know that you don’t care for this. And I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t like me much. If you don’t want me here, I’ll go. I’m content to head to Des Crozet and write letters to Mary until she agrees to come marry me. I know that I do things that are hard for you. I thought I could change.” He shook his head. “I can’t. And I won’t ask you to put up with me if you don’t want to. I know if someone tried to tell me not to do what I thought I had to, I wouldn’t take kindly to it. So I can’t very well try to tell you that you’re wrong.” He shrugged at them. “That wouldn’t be right.”
As he said it, he thought about the gang of outlaws rotting in the forest. He could talk about what was right until they nailed him in his coffin, but the truth was that he wasn’t sure he’d know the right thing even if it was shouting in his ear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tom left the house, and no one followed him. The village had settled for the evening, though no doubt every dinner table was abuzz with the strangeness of it. The fireflies were out, and they seemed agitated. Friendly Field always smelled good at dinnertime; the only time it smelled better was on Sunday, when they ate outdoors after service.
Tom hadn’t taken his leave until after eating his fill of bread and jam, and he didn’t feel much guilt for depriving the White household. The way he saw it, providing a little refreshment was the least Jeremiah could do.
Asher sat cross-legged in the grass, a polite hundred feet from Jeremiah’s house. He had a stick, and a firefly had perched on it. He saw Tom come out and shook it off, getting to his feet.
Tom didn’t have to look back to know that Phillip and Jeremiah were watching from the window.
“You are injured,” the boy observed.
Tom touched his neck, which was still red and sore. “I’ve had worse.”
“You found them.”
“That was the easy part.”
“What did you do?”
He sighed. “Same thing I always do.”
“You got the best of them?”
“I suppose.” Tom worked his shoulders and neck, hearing some alarming pops. He sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s always the same, kid. I think I know what I’m doing, and then, when it’s all said and done, I start having second tho
ughts. Like there’s always a better way, but I can’t figure what it would be. There’re some people you can’t talk to.”
“What you did, you did for these people,” Asher said, and Tom couldn’t believe his ears. Was this even the same boy he’d met on the Missouri River? “I would think that would count for something.”
“I don’t know, kid. All I think about is her.” Tom glanced past him at Mary’s house. “Maybe I did it for me. To keep them out of my way.”
“Are you in love, Mr. Calvert?” The boy looked bemused.
Tom folded his arms and frowned. “I like to think so, but I just killed more than a dozen men. I wish there’d been a different way, but I know if it came to it, I’d just do it again. I guess I always thought love was for nicer people. I used to think I was in love with Miss Ayako, but now I barely think about her. There’s just Mary.”
“Mr. Calvert, there are some people who need killing.” The boy said it without any particular emotion, like he would mention that he’d seen a hawk in the sky. “And I imagine there are few who would argue in defense of a gang of thieves. If those are the words.”
“That may be, but I don’t know that Mary would approve.”
“I did not approve when you bossed me on the trail or went off to . . . to what?” the boy said, gesturing vaguely at the woods. “To fight an entire gang. But it seems I will benefit.”
“I’m responsible for you.”
“What?”
“I’m not responsible for her.”
But Asher didn’t seem to hear that. He was still hung up on the first part. “Mr. Calvert, you are not responsible for me.”
Tom wasn’t going to argue with him. “Fine. I thought of myself as being responsible for you. Does that suit you?”
Asher just swallowed; then he scowled at Tom. “I am older than you think,” he said a little waspishly.