“Nothing seems to be missing,” said Drake, returning to his companions. “Funny thing, though. Remember that writing desk we got from that burnt-out schoolhouse?”
“Yeah,” answered the older man, “we sold it to that widder woman yesterday.”
“That’s what I thought,” said the younger man, scratching his head, “but it seems to be back on the buckboard, or at least one that looks just like it, anyhow.”
“Ah, you’re still dreamin’,” said Wagner, not at all pleased to have been roused for no reason.
“Am not. The dream was horrible. I was riding at the head of a company of cavalry when we were cut off by a horde of painted savages, screaming for blood. Everybody was dyin’ and it was horrible.”
“Cut the bull crap,” said Wagner, getting hot under the collar. “Now I know you’re lyin’. That was the dream I had last night. I must have told you about it yesterday. What type of fool do you think I am?”
“Now calm down, Wagner,” interrupted Wellman. “I’m the one you told about your dream yesterday. Drake had gone into town for supplies, so he couldn’t have heard our conversation. You both just had similar dreams, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t wake up everyone with mine, and besides, I didn’t fall asleep when I was supposed to be on guard duty,” said Wagner, still ready for a fight.
“But what about the table? It’s still on the buckboard,” insisted Drake. “That widder woman is gonna be awful upset when she can’t find somethin’ she already paid for.”
“No more than that schoolmaster in the other town who we ‘helped’ sort through the ashes. Why don’t we just sell it to someone else? Twice the return on our investment,” suggested Wagner.
Wellman smacked his double-size companion across the face. “ ’Tain’t you learnt nothin’? How many times do I have to tell you? Never sell anything within a stone’s throw of where you stole it from.”
“But we didn’t steal it from the widder,” Drake insisted. “Who do you think the sheriff is gonna believe? A widder with two brats who saw her pay cash money for it, or a trio of scalawags in the slightly used furniture and supply business,” contended Wellman. “Besides, it’s bad luck to steal or sell the same piece more than once.”
“Well, what should we do, then? Move on?” asked Drake. “No sense in that after we handed out those leaflets sayin’ we’d be here all week. Wagner, you chop it up for kindlin’, and Drake, you get the coffee brewin’. Nothin’ like a breakfast fire to get rid of incriminatin’ evidence.”
“But how did it get back here?” asked Drake.
“Ah, git back to work before I wail you for sleepin’ on watch,” said Wagner, putting a close to the talk of the table and nightmares.
* * *
Round about noon, their campsite lot was visited by a stranger who was even older than Wellman. Ezekial Crafter wore a threadbare buckskin with a grizzly robe draped over his shoulders to hold back the spring mountain cold. His beard went through various phases of grey before settling on snowy white closest to his face, and on his shoulder rested the largest raven they’d ever seen.
Wellman adopted his best drummer persona and approached the old-timer.
“G’day, guvner. Can myself or my humble associates interest you in anything in particular. I am Wellman, proprietor of this humble roadside establishment, and these are my partners, Mr. Wagner and Mr. Drake.”
“G’ day, good sir,” said the stranger. “My name is Ezekial Crafter. I have a cabin not too far west of here, and I am looking for a certain of furniture for my, how shall I say, work.”
“Well, everything we have is up for sale, yours for the askin’ at the right price,” drummed Wellman. “Now, what exactly are you looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” said Ezekial. “Mind if I browse?”
“Not at all, not at all. Just be sure to let us know if there is anything we can help you with,” said the old thief, wondering if it might be worth their while to stop by his cabin on their way out of the county.
Ezekial returned a few moments later carrying the small pine table that had been the subject of conversation that morning. “This is the exact item I’ve been looking for.”
Can’t rely on those two to do anything right. I guess I’ll have to be the one to get rid of it, bad luck be damned, thought the aging thief. “A wise choice. Come let us settle accounts.”
* * *
That night, Wellman, too, was visited by visions of death.
Rather than the mountainous countryside of Appalachia, he found himself in the plains of the west surrounded by a small contingent of Union soldiers. He then noticed that they were being attacked by Indians. From out of nowhere, a feathered savage appeared, ready to run the terrified Wellman through.
Now you of the flowing locks will die, screamed the messenger of death.
* * *
Wellman was awakened from his slumber of terror by Drake and Wagner, whose sleep had been disturbed by his screams.
“The Indians were attacking. I could even feel the stab of the red devil’s lance. I felt like I was living through my last few moments of life,” cried the old thief, still shivering in terror.
“It sounds like the same dream I had two nights ago,” said Wagner.
“And mine too,” said Drake, who just noticed what was set upright by Wellman’s side, and cried, “Look!”
There was the pine table that had been sold twice, and chopped into kindling once, as new as the day they had stolen it.
* * *
“Why are we going to him? Shouldn’t someone stay behind to guard the camp?” inquired Drake, who was more than a little uneasy about this night journey, the old stranger, and the persistent table.
“We’ve all had the same dream, and we’re all in this together. That old coot seemed to recognize the table, and probably knows more about it than we do. He said his place wasn’t too far. In fact, that’s probably it over there,” said the thief, pointing to a shack that was in the clearing they had just reached.
“Well, he better have a few answers,” growled Wagner. “I’m sick and tired of lugging this table around.”
“And the curse that goes with it,” said a voice from the dark.
“And the curse that, hey, wait a minute! What curse?”
“Step inside fellows,” said Ezekial, who was now visible by their torchlight. “I’m afraid that you’ve all bitten off a bit more than you can chew.”
* * *
The three thieves took places around Ezekial’s fire and listened as he screed the history of the table that was set before him.
“Many years ago, there was a woodworker named Wilkes who made the finest furniture in the country, until an unscrupulous landowner discredited him with stories of black magic and debauchery. Almost overnight the town’s perception of him changed from an honest craftsman to an unwanted pariah. His goods were confiscated, and he was sent off to prison, but before he left, he cursed the thief who stole his good name, and cursed the goods that he stole.
“The landowner furnished his mansion with Wilkes’s furniture. Wilkes died en route to the prison when the party he was in was attacked by a group of renegades. Not too long after the landowner went crazy, claiming that his nights were filled with dreams of torture that wouldn’t stop. He died in a madhouse.
“The curse was passed on to all further plunderers of the Wilkes furniture, invading their dreams with visions of the death of the plunderer.”
“So why can’t we just get rid of it?” asked Wagner.
“It follows the trail of dishonesty. It can’t be bought, sold or destroyed,” concluded Ezekial. “Probably until death do you part.”
“So what can we do about it?” asked Drake.
“Pray and repent,” said the old stranger.
The three thieves left the pine table at
Ezekial’s, even though he warned them that they would be seeing it again. None of them were looking forward to the many sleepless nights ahead, nor to meeting death at the hands of savages.
When they arrived back at the camp, dawn had long come and gone. They were greeted by a sheriff’s posse, and the widder woman who claimed they had stolen back the table they had sold her. The pine table was discovered among the pieces on the buckboard, along with several other items stolen from a neighboring county.
The three thieves were put in chains, and with their ill-gotten booty, were escorted to the jailhouse at nearby Appomattox Court House.
“Well, at least it will be hard for those Indians to kill us in jail,” said Drake, trying to look on the bright side of things from their cramped cell.
“Hey, jailer. What’s all the fussing outside?” called Wagner, always afraid of missing out on a party or a brawl.
The jailer leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Looks like you boys are in luck,” he said. “The judge will probably be in a good mood. The war’s over. Lee’s across the way at the McClean house as we speak, signing the surrender papers with Grant.”
Wellman had taken up a place at the window, watching a young Union general wrestling with two Confederate generals, rolling around on the ground in front of the McClean house, laughing like schoolboys.
The jailer offered Wagner a cup of coffee. “You boys should be right proud. Looks like that table of yourn is being used by those two generals to sign them papers. You may be going to prison, but you’re also part of history in the making.”
The Union general had disappeared inside of the house, so Wellman returned to his friends. “If this surrender is true,” he said, “we should be out of here in no time, whether by amnesty, or just plain opportunity.”
Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside. The young Union general was bounding down the steps of the front porch, then onto his horse, yelling, “Got me a souvenir! Got me a souvenir!” He took off down the road, still yelling and whooping, the cursed pine table balanced on his head.
The jailer returned to his seat and chuckled. “Looks like that boy Custer just stole your piece of history.”
The three thieves looked at each other and laughed.
“What did you say his name was?” asked Wellman. “General George Armstrong Custer,” the jailer replied. “He’s Major General Sheridan’s right-hand man, and a bit of a hothead too. I wouldn’t be surprised if that boy didn’t stir up a peck of trouble, now that he doesn’t have a war to fight. Maybe he’ll go to Washington, or maybe the western frontier.”
“Maybe he’ll go fight Indians,” suggested a relieved Wellman.
“Not a bad idea,” replied the jailer.
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The Crafters Book Two Page 33