by Mistletoe
"Mama?"
Danny lifted himself cautiously on one elbow, peering through the dark room.
His mother didn't answer. She was sleeping more deeply these days than she used to. He wasn't supposed to know that she was growing a baby, but he was eleven now, and the whispers and veiled remarks of the neighbor women weren't lost on him as they were on Kate.
And he could see it in her face, the way it grew whiter and whiter as the day went on, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she had to stop and rest more often. When she lay down next to Kate on the other bed, she slept immediately, where they had used to giggle and whisper together.
He quietly slid back the worn quilt that covered his cot, shivering when his bare feet touched the cold boards of the floor.
He kept his eyes on his mother as he reached under the bed for his clothing. In the darkness, her profile was very pale. She and Kate slept deeply, their arms wrapped around each other.
It was cold in the room, and the little stove gave off scant heat. The second to last piece of coal was in there, and he knew that it would be burned away before morning. They would wake up with their breath coming in great clouds, ice frozen in the wash bowl, feather patterns of frost on the windows.
It didn't seem fair, when there was mine full of coal just a mile away. More coal than in all creation. And that old skinflint, Joshua Asher, expected his own workers to pay for it at the company store.
Danny burned with the injustice. His father was dead, they were being turned out of their home, and waking up cold was just one thing more than he could tolerate.
Creeping quietly, he dressed himself, grabbed one of the empty coal sacks from the peg on the wall, and slipped out the front door, into the brilliant white cold of the night.
It was harder going than he had reckoned. the walk up the road to the mine tunnel was a pleasure on a sunny afternoon, a mere annoyance in the rain, but in the frigid, biting cold, with snow soaking through the holes in his boots, soaking through his pants and numbing his shins, it was plain misery.
And still the snow fell, each flake stinging his already numb cheeks as he made his way up the hill, his breath coming in thick clouds. He tried pulling his arms inside his worn sweater, and wrapping them around his chest, but that threw his balance off, and slowed him down.
The snow-frosted forest around him seemed alive in the dark and wild winds. The towering pines made hollow noises as the wind moaned through them. Every now and then a branch gave way and broke beneath the weight of the snow, making a sound like a gunshot, causing his heart to leap.
At last he saw the mine entrance, looming black and empty before him.
For a moment, his courage faltered.
Men had died in there, and there were always minors of haunts. Danny usually didn't believe such things, but on a night like this, with the wind moaning, and the dark cave yawning black before him, and the familiar landscape shrouded and glowing eerie white, it gave him pause.
And then, too, he was stealing. A sin, most definitely, and beyond that, a practice firmly forbidden by the Black Diamond Coal Company. Each miner was given a monthly allotment of coal, and anything beyond that was to be purchased fairly at the store.
But, he reasoned, his mother didn't receive an allotment, and they had more than paid their dues to Mr. Joshua Asher. What was one bag of coal, against his father's life?
The anger that rose in his thin chest was enough to overcome his fear. He pulled an empty coal sack from beneath his shirt, and forced his numb legs forward.
Coal
Why, there was no need to go much further than the very entrance. There was coal everywhere, glistening black rocks of it, hard and freezing, scattered around the mine entrance, great jagged piles.
It froze his already freezing hands as he gathered it, filling the bag as full as he could get it
He smiled as he imagined his mother's surprise in the morning. He would stoke the little stove full before he went to sleep, and in the morning the shanty would be glowing with heat. They could have hot tea, and she wouldn't be angry at all when she saw his clothes black with coal dust. After all, there would be plenty of hot water to wash with.
She would understand why he stole, and they'd have a good laugh at how he'd fixed old Asher's flint, and they'd have one last day in the little shanty where they'd be warm and cozy until the noontime train went down the mountain, carrying them away forever.
He started back down the long road, dragging the heavy sack behind him with fingers that felt like frozen sticks, and still the white flakes fell, like broken pieces of light in the black sky.
Chapter Two
"There you are." George Critcher, the mine manager, pointed his gloved finger at the trail through the snow. "There's your thief, sir."
"Not a very bright thief," Joshua Asher observed. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat for a cigar, found none, and frowned. Of course. His cigars wouldn't be in the pocket of his black serge topcoat, designed for citywear and far too thin for this ice-cold morning,
They were in the pocket of his favorite coat, a heavy buffalo lined with soft wool. And now, presumably, in the possession of die not-very-bright thief,
He had taken off the buffalo yesterday evening, feeling overheated from readying the stables for the cold night ahead, and forgetting, had left it hanging by the stalls. This morning, he had made his way though the snow to retrieve it, and found it gone.
His favorite coat, three splendid Havana cigars, a small bag of hard candy, and— worst of all— his father's gold pocket watch.
The thief had, to his credit, left a clear trail, both in and out of the stables. In addition to his boot prints, he had been dragging a heavy bag, containing, presumably, coal. The trail through the pristine snow had been laughably easy to follow, dusted with black and the occasional fallen piece of coal.
"I can't tolerate thievery," Joshua Asher said, the thought of his missing cigars rankling him almost as deeply as the gold pocket watch. "And I can't tolerate stupidity. Whoever this son of a bitch is, I intend to ruin his morning."
George Critcher nodded, his hand reaching for his pistol. Both men stopped their horses and eyed the shanty for any sign of movement. Except for the telltale trail leading to the door, it appeared no different than the others— all were of unpainted lumber, had two steps rising to the doors, two small front windows, most still dark in the cold light of sunrise, and identical stovepipes smoking faintly into the air.
The stove chimney of the miner's shanty that interested them showed no smoke at all; the curtained windows were dark, with no movement behind them.
"What's the plan, Ash?" Critcher asked, trying to twirl his pistol. It stuck on the finger of his heavy glove, and he banged his hand and swore as he tried to loosen it.
"Firstly, you should avoid trying any more fancy doings with that gun, before you shoot yourself, or me. I'm in a right foul mood already, and getting shot won't improve it."
Embarrassed, the portly mine manager disengaged his finger.
"Secondly, I'm going to go in and wake that untutored son of a bitch and educate him in my opinion of thieves. You, Mr. Critcher, may then take what's left of him down the valley into town, and let the law take its due course. Third, I intend to smoke a cigar."
Having shared the details of his plan, Joshua Asher swung himself easily from the saddle, into the snow, and strode easily toward the quiet shanty.
Critcher was unsure whether he was meant to follow or not. One thing he knew for sure. Josh Asher was well above six feet tall, as hard-muscled as any five men, and not known for his good temper. Critcher would sure hate to be the man sleeping in the shanty.
Ash opened the door with one swift kick, letting the cold and pale light flood the dark room.
"I'd say good morning, if I was in a sociable mood, but I'm not. Get up, and keep your hands where I can see them. Time to pay the fiddler, gents."
He would have been ready for a fight, but none was of
fered. For a moment, mere was no sound but the cold wind blowing through the door.
His eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the room, and he could make out two beds, their occupants well buried in quilts.
"Come on. You've wasted enough of my morning as is, and I'm not particularly pretty in the early hours. Move your useless asses, before I start kicking them."
There was a soft cry of alarm as his message began to register, and a figure sat straight up in bed, moving with the swiftness of fear.
"Great merciful heavens!"
The voice was female, and frightened.
He peered closer, and saw, through the half-darkness a tumble of dark hair, a very white face, and enormous dark eyes.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am. I believe I'm here to speak to the man of the house."
He spied an oil lamp on the table, and without taking his eyes from either bed, reached in his pocket for a match. It sputtered and flared. He carefully lit the lamp, pulled up a chair, and placed his revolver deliberately on the table.
In the small bed against the other wall, a child stared fearfully from beneath the frayed edges of a quilt.
"Ma'am? Is your husband here?"
She was staring at him with huge eyes, a pretty woman, a little sharp featured, but fetching enough. There was a movement next to her, and he caught a glimpse of a little girl, white as a ghost with long dark braids, before her mother pushed her back down to the bed.
"Don't move, Kate. Who are you, and what do you want?"
Her eyes were on the gun on the table, and then darting wildly about.
"Just the return of my property, ma'am. If you could see fit to tell me where your husband is—"
"In the graveyard." Her voice was sharp with fear, but she stared him down. "Dead these past eight months and more. Now get out, or I'll scream the town awake."
"Mr. Asher? Ash?" Critcher's call came from beyond the open door. "Everything all right?"
Ash gave a longer look around the room. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. An open trunk sat on the floor next to the bed, as if in readiness for a journey. The shelves were empty, stripped of everything but three cups and a tea tin. His buffalo coat and gold watch were nowhere in sight.
"Come on in, Critcher," he called.
The woman pulled the quilts closer, staring in shock as Mr. Critcher bumbled into the room wielding his gun in what he likely hoped to be a threatening manner. The sight of Critcher, looking like a gun-toting bear bundled in layers of scarves, seemed to shock the woman out of her fear.
"Mr. Critcher! Explain yourself? What do you mean by this intrusion? Have you completely lost your mind?"
Critcher hesitated, then lowered his gun. "Beg your pardon Mrs. Shanahan…"
"And well you should. What can you be thinking?"
While George was stammering, Ash took another glance at the boy in the bed. Fear in those wide-set eyes, yes. But something else as well. Guilt.
He took another look toward the stove. It was cold and dark. Two empty coal sacks lay next to it in a puddle of dark water.
Frowning, he looked closer.
"Mrs…"
"Shanahan," she supplied icily. "Rose Shanahan."
"Yes, I recall, now. Well, it seems that we had a thief abroad in the night. We were able to follow his trail quite easily. Not a very skilled thief, you see. Or maybe"—he tossed a quick look to the silent boy in the bed—"not a very experienced one. Left a dirty trail of coal behind him. Looked like he dragged a sack all the way down from the mine, then into my barn. He then helped himself to a loan of my favorite buffalo coat—"
"And one gold pocket watch," George interjected. "Solid gold."
"And then made his way here. Right up these stairs."
"You're wrong." the woman's face was tight with anger, and a crimson flush spotted her pale cheeks.
"I wish I was, ma'am. But the trail is there, if you wish to see it."
"I would, thank you."
Still holding a quilt tight to her chin, she reached for a shabby jacket that hung from the iron bedstead, and wriggled into it beneath the cover of her bedclothes. She murmured to the little girl, still silent, and pulled a protective blanket around herself as she stood.
"Now—" she began, and then her words broke off abruptly as she stared down at her feet.
Asher followed her gaze. there was water on the floor there, too, as well as by the stove. Black, sooty water.
"What in the world," she muttered, staring at the wet trail. She glanced quickly out the door, and then back into the room. Her eyes went from the empty, wet coal sacks by the stove, and then slowly to her son, silent and pale in his iron bed.
"Close the door, Mr. Critcher," she said. "We are quite cold enough this morning, thank you."
Critcher hurried to obey, and Ash watched with interest as the woman turned toward the boy in the bed.
"Get up, Danny," she said softly. She stood very straight, and even though she was bundled in the heavy quilt, with her dark hair hanging in disarray, she had a quiet dignity.
The boy obeyed, shivering. He had slept in his clothes, and they were stained black with coal dust. He avoided his mother's eyes as he pushed his feet into worn, wet boots.
"Did you steal coal, Danny?"
"Yes." It was only a whisper.
"Well, where is it? Return it to Mr. Asher… it is Mr. Asher, is it not?" She glanced at him swiftly for confirmation, and then back to her son. "Return it to Mr. Asher and Mr. Critcher at once, please."
the boy, his face pinched with guilt, and resentment, nodded to the stove. "Right there."
"Where?" The boy looked at the empty coal sacks, laying in the sooty puddle, and looked back with utter bewilderment. 'It was there. In them sacks—"
"Those sacks."
"—Those sacks, last night."
Asher rose, and went to the cold stove. He lifted one coarse sack, and then another. Black water dripped from them.
"Where did you take the coal from, Danny," he asked, trying not to laugh.
"The entrance to the mine tunnel," the boy mumbled, still staring in confusion at the empty bags.
Asher fought back the chuckle that rose in his throat. "Well, I opined that you were not a very skillful thief, and that proves it. What you stole, my boy, was ice. Dirty ice, covered with coal slag and dust."
the boy's face flushed red.
"That's a mighty long piece to walk, in the cold, in the dark of night, for a bag of ice," Asher observed. "And you've made quite a mess of your mother's floor, to boot."
He almost felt pity for the boy, watching the shame and anger and humiliation fighting in the thin face.
"Mister?"
He turned to the small voice. the little girl was sitting up in bed, her small face peeking out from a cocoon of blankets. "Are you putting our Danny in jail?"
"For stealing a bag of ice?" her brother snapped.
"Stealing is stealing," Critcher announced, sounding once again like the authoritative company manager. "And a thief is a thief. And there's a matter of one buffalo coat and one gold pocket watch."
"Danny?" Rose Shanahan's voice sounded like a plea.
"I don't got'em."
"Don't be a fool, boy," Asher said, a little impatiently.
"Of course they've got "em," Critcher said. "Leaving town today, weren't you?" He nodded at the open trunk. "Probably in there."
"Danny?"
The shame in the woman's voice pained Josh Asher, but he couldn't let pity overcome his good sense. No point in letting a thief get away with it even once. Especially a thief this young. Let him learn his lesson, and hopefully he'd remember it.
"Well, boy?" he asked.
The child hung his head.
"Go ahead, and search, Critcher."
Critcher, with his usual lack of finesse, simply overturned the packed trunk onto the floor. Ash winced, but didn't stop him. He carefully kept his face impassive as Critcher sorted through the meager belongings.
&nb
sp; A few pots and pans, a few pieces of clothing, a worn-out man's wallet, a sewing basket, a carefully wrapped china cup…
"Here she is," Clitcher announced, and held the watch aloft, gold and shining in the circle of lamplight.
Rose Shanahan made a quiet, soft sound, and for a moment dropped her face into her hand, her red, work worn fingers pressing tightly against her eyes.
Asher waited for the inevitable tears, but when she lifted her face, it was cold and quiet.
"Well, Danny Shanahan, I hope you're proud. You've humiliated me, and brought shame on your father's name. What in the name of God possessed you?"
The boy was struggling not to cry. "I didn't mean to. At least, not at first. I just went in the barn to get warm. But there was that coat, and… 'he swallowed.
"Where is my coat?" Asher interrupted.
"Under the step," the boy muttered, and the resentment in his face flared briefly as he glanced up, and then back to his mother.
"I didn't mean to take the coat," he repeated. "But I was freezing. I meant to put it back this morning. And then when I found the watch…" He pressed his lips firmly together, and then went on, hurriedly. "I thought he was so rich he wouldn't notice. And it could carry us through until you could work again. I'm tired of being hungry, and the other kids laughing at our clothes—"
"And you'd thought they'd show more respect to a thief?" Rose demanded. "And where is Mr. Asher's coat?"
"Outside, under the step."
"Go get it."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Critcher interjected, "But that boy's under arrest. He ain't going anywhere."
Asher debated stepping in, but decided to wait. Let the boy have a good fright, and see if that didn't scare some sense into him.
"Arrest?" Rose Shanahan echoed, and the hot red color came back into her cheeks. "Are you mad, Mr. Critcher? He's done wrong, I'll agree, but he's not even twelve yet. He's never stolen before—"
"I doubt that," Critcher said, with all the pompous authority he could muster. "Takes after his father, I'd allow. Don't like to hire the Irish. It's always trouble. I wrote you, Ash, about James Shanahan, if you recollect. He was always showing up half-pickled, either goin' on a toot or comin' back off of one, and I asked you—"