The Glovemaker

by Ann Weisgarber

  Something scraped against the outside of the cabin. I went still. Sally turned her head, listening, then went back to watching the marshal. The scraping kept on. My skin crawled. Someone was out there.

  Sally didn’t pay the scraping any attention. A familiar noise, I thought. Then I realized it was a tree branch from one of the lindens by the side of the cabin. The wind had picked up. Not enough, though, to blow away the tracks.

  I put the lamp on the kitchen table, took off my coat, scarf, and hat; and hung them up. The marshal’s were on the peg beside mine so that the sides of our coats overlapped. My skin crawled. When he left my cabin this afternoon, I believed I’d never see him again.

  I straightened his tall boots that had been splayed on the floor. I strained to hear his breathing above the tree’s scrape against the cabin.

  Sally sniffed the marshal’s coat, snorting and blowing air. There must be a reason why Braden wanted to turn himself in. Something made him feel the need to apologize to the marshal.

  Stay busy, I told myself. I was better off not knowing. Nels was protecting me from the truth.

  I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. In the corner close to the door, Sally sniffed the propped-up rifle, then the curled gun belt on the floor. These were the marshal’s, I thought. A rifle and bullets. This was how he intended to protect himself.

  Don’t think about what might happen if he started to talk. Don’t think about how it could be if he got worse. Stay busy.

  I found some rags in the kitchen, got down on my hands and knees, and began to wipe up the watery footprints that marked the floor. It seemed this was the only thing I knew to do. First, I’d wiped up the marshal’s snowy tracks in my cabin. Now I was wiping up Nels’ and Braden’s. And mine.

  Nels hadn’t said where he was taking Braden for the night. He didn’t want me to know. But in the cliffs that rose up behind Nels’ cabin, there were carved-out pockets with rock overhangs. One of these could shelter Braden and his horse from the weather. Getting there wouldn’t be easy at night with the snow and now this wind. The trail was a series of steep switchbacks but Nels knew the way. Sheltering in a pocket would be cold for Braden but he’d be all right. He’d have to be. Neither of us could take the chance of hiding him on our properties.

  I kept cleaning the floor like I could get rid of the trouble we were in. I wiped up the footprints just like this morning I’d tried to cover Braden’s tracks. All at once, the marshal groaned, long and deep. I sat back on my heels. Sally growled, quivering. Under the blankets, his right foot jerked and twitched. This afternoon he told me his name but I had pushed it from my memory. His title, marshal, was enough. It was all I needed to know about him.

  His foot twitched again. I should do something to ease his suffering. I should bathe his face and put a damp cloth on his forehead. I should loosen his clothing to make him more comfortable. Sister Rebecca, a freckle-faced woman with red curls that were forever escaping from hairpins, was the person who took care of our sick. She would know what to do. She’d get him out of his clothes and wash him herself. She had remedies for every kind of ailment and if the remedies didn’t help, she’d sit at the bedside and knit, the clicking of the needles a soothing melody.

  Sister Rebecca, though, was expecting a baby soon and shouldn’t be asked to travel the mile and a half from her cabin to here in this weather. Generous-hearted Rebecca wasn’t the one who was alone with a gentile, an enemy who came here to do us harm. I was, and I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.

  He might die. He might live and talk. Braden and Nels would be tried by people who claimed ours was a false and corrupt religion.

  They could make me testify against Nels. And Braden. They could twist my words. They were good at doing that. Because of me, Nels and Braden could be condemned not only for breaking the law but for doing harm to the marshal.

  They could be shot by firing squads. Or hanged.

  Still sitting on my heels and holding the dirty cloth, I rubbed the throb in my temples with my free hand. Braden made me promise I’d take care of the marshal. Was he such a godly man that he put his enemy’s welfare before his own? And ours?

  If only Nels and Braden hadn’t found the marshal. If only nature had been allowed to take its course.

  Stay clear-headed, I told myself. Nels’ plan to hide Braden could work. The story about finding the marshal on the bridge was believable. The man laid up in Nels’ bed was a stranger, we didn’t know who he was.

  Unless the marshal talked.

  Nels’ plan depended on the marshal’s death. Horror coursed through me. I got myself up off the floor. The room shifted. I sat down at the table. A few yards from me, the marshal’s face blurred, then came into sharp focus. The lines of pain around his nose and mouth had deepened, I was sure of it. Nels’ plan depended on him dying in bed, attended by a woman who’d done her best for him. It depended on lawmen finding me with the marshal. It depended on me taking care of him like he was one of God’s own and not our enemy. Caring for him made us look innocent. It made it look like we didn’t know about Braden or why the marshal was here.

  The marshal began to shake, quick bursts of spasms. His teeth clattered, loud clicks. The cabin, earlier overheated, had gone cold. I got up from the table, stoked the fire in the lower part of the cookstove, and blew on the red embers until they flared into flames.

  The oven door’s hinges squeaked as I closed it. I didn’t want the marshal to die, I told myself. Neither did Nels. But if the marshal did die . . . I broke off the thought. To want someone’s death was horrifying. It went against God’s word. It went against everything I’d been taught.

  “Be better than your enemies,” my father often said. “Rise above them and forgive them their trespasses. Be merciful and show charity. But never forget who your enemies are. Or what they’ve done.”

  My mother’s lesson came from the Book of Mormon. If ye do not remember to be charitable, ye are as dross, which the refiners cast out. My father, I understood, was referring to gentiles and the wrongs they inflicted on us. My mother, I came to believe when I was older, was referring to my father’s third wife. Sister Caroline had taken what was dearest to my mother, yet my mother never caused her any harm. She never said a word against her. When Sister Caroline was weak and suffering through childbirth, my mother tended to her. When any of Sister Caroline’s children were sick, my mother brought her food.

  This was different. We—Grace and her family, Nels, me, every family in Junction—could lose everything. If the marshal talked.

  If he died? And I’d done nothing to ease his suffering during his last hours on earth? No prayers, no words of comfort. I would be no better than my enemies. I would be as dross, cast out by the refiners, and rightly so.

  The marshal kept shaking. I should do something. I glanced around the cabin like I’d find the answer in one of the dark corners.

  A flood of anger took hold of me. Braden was wrong for bringing his trouble here. The marshal was wrong for coming here in January. He should have known better. This was canyon country. It couldn’t be trusted. Especially for those who weren’t from here and didn’t know the land.

  Samuel. He was wrong, too. Anger welled up inside of me. Year after year, he went off to fix and make new wheels. He did it so we’d have money set aside for whatever might come up. Samuel going off meant he expected me to take care of the orchards. He expected me to keep the cabin in good repair. He expected me to answer knocks on our door when strangers asked for help. Samuel should be home. He should be helping me with this. I shouldn’t be waiting every minute for his return. But I was. Because of his work, he’d left me by myself. Now I was alone with a marshal.

  I crossed the room, my footfall pounding. Sally, laying under the table, sprang to her feet. I jerked open the front door, went outside, and slammed it behind me. Never again. I’d never let Samuel leave again. I’d make that clear the moment he got home.

  I plunged into the knee-deep snow, goi
ng toward the bridge. None of this was ever going to happen again. I’d see to that. I’d never open my home to another strange man. My shawl flapped in the wind. The night sky was lit up with falling snow. Good. Cover the tracks. Cover everything that has gone wrong. Make this all go away. I tripped, caught myself and pressed on, getting away from Nels’ place, getting away from the marshal. I’d done more than enough. I was going home.

  SAMUEL

  Seventy days ago

  November 3, 1887

  Utah Territory

  Dear Wife Deborah,

  I do not have much Time. A Church Elder passing through is tapping his Foot waiting for Me to write this. He is going to Marysville. He will see to it that You get it and the 2 other Letters.

  This Outpost is so fresh new the Familys have not come up with a Name for it. It is 5 miles South of Mt. Carmel. There is only 1 married Man but He has 2 Familys. Some of his Boys are big but not full grown.

  They need 3 wheels. I am teaching the oldest Boys how to fix them. Me a teacher. Think of that. This Country is so rough with Rocks the Boys need to know how. Some Places are not made for people. Some Places should be left alone. This is one of those.

  I am lonesome for You. But not for long. Look for Me by December 1. You will know Me by the Grin on my Face.

  Your Husband,

  Samuel Tyler

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DEBORAH – THE BARGAIN

  January 12, 1888

  Samuel left me on my own. The words bore down, circling tighter and tighter in my thoughts. I stumbled through the snow, going home, putting Nels’ cabin and the marshal behind me. My anger at Samuel swelled. He’d left me to fend for myself.

  On the bridge, I slipped. My arms flailed, trying to keep me upright. My feet spun. I fell on my knees. Pain shot through me. My eyes teared.

  All at once, my anger unclenched and was gone.

  Samuel. Shame burned in my heart. None of this was his doing. It was wrong of me to blame him. He intended to be home weeks ago. He’d be here if the rockslide hadn’t taken out the trail.

  Still on my knees, I got ahold of the bridge railing and pulled myself to my feet. I cupped my hands around my eyes and looked up through the falling snow. Dense clouds covered the stars and moon. Samuel will be home this week. That was what Nels had figured. This was only Thursday. Tomorrow, he’ll be here. Or the next day or the next. If this snow doesn’t slow him.

  It wouldn’t, I told myself. Samuel knows his way. He always comes home. Shielding my eyes again with my hands, I looked up at the sky. The night clouds kept me from seeing the stars and moon that were guiding Samuel to me but they were there.

  Just like the marshal was laid up at Nels’ even if I didn’t want to face it.

  Nels counted on me to stay at his cabin. The deputies had to find me taking care of the marshal. It was the one thing that could go in our favor. It was the one thing that might keep them from rounding all of us up and driving us out of Junction.

  Far off on the other side of the creek, my cabin was dark. I turned around. A yellow light showed in the window of Nels’ cabin. I began to walk back toward it. I did it for Nels and for everyone in Junction. Most of all, I did it for Samuel. I had to be in Junction when he came home.

  Inside Nels’ cabin, the stench of vomit made my stomach twist. Sally pawed at me, panting with nerves. I told her it was all right, and I was surprised by the strength in my voice. The marshal was still breathing but near the foot of the bed the blankets had fallen on the floor. Sally must have pawed at them while I was gone.

  One of the marshal’s legs, from the knee down, was exposed. The cuff of his trouser had ridden up. His stocking was dark and the skin on his leg glowed a shiny white in the pale lamplight. His leg twitched, restless. His cheeks were sunken and so were his eyes. The frostbitten yellow patch of skin on his right cheekbone had turned into a red, mean-looking blister the size of my thumbnail. He was helpless but he was still the enemy.

  And one of God’s children.

  I went close to the bed. I picked up the ends of the blankets that were on the floor. The marshal’s foot caught my attention. Across the top of his stockings, at the toes, the yarn was a darker cast than the rest of the material. There’d been a hole but it had been mended.

  This wasn’t the marshal’s handiwork. The stitches were like the ones I did for my gloves, tidy and precise. A man wasn’t likely to take the time to sew the stitches this even. He wouldn’t make the edges so smooth. This was a woman’s work. It had been done by someone who took pride in her skill. His wife. Or a daughter, maybe a sister. She’d seen to it that there weren’t any uneven places that could rub his skin raw.

  The woman cared about the marshal. She might be waiting for him to return home. She didn’t know he was hurt.

  Sudden tears burned the backs of my eyes. Samuel. Something might have happened to him. He could be hurt. He could be unable to speak for himself and in need of help. He might be at the mercy of strangers who saw him only as trouble. They wouldn’t know that Samuel could read rocks and in them, he saw layers of the past. They wouldn’t know that he liked in-between places, or that he was a wheelwright and knew the names of each family in every outpost in the Utah Territory. They wouldn’t know that he belonged here, with me.

  The marshal’s teeth rattled. His family didn’t know he was hurt. Like I didn’t know what was happening to Samuel.

  All at once I was hurrying as I would want someone to do for my husband if he were cold and suffering. A stranger to Nels’ kitchen, I fumbled as I filled a small pan with water from a pitcher and set the pan on the stove to heat. I opened the oven door. The hinges’ long, shrill squeak made me grit my teeth. I peered inside the hot oven that was lit by the fire beneath it. Most of us kept our warming stones in our ovens and there were two in Nels’. Using dish rags, I took out the first stone, then the other, dropping them on top of the cookstove with a clatter, my hands burning.

  I flapped my hands to cool my fingers. This was a trade. A bargain. If I took care of the marshal, someone would do the same for Samuel. If I showed charity to my enemy, Samuel would come home. If I took care of the marshal, the deputies would leave us alone. My husband would come home, and find me here. Everything would be as it should. I couldn’t bear to think of it any other way.

  Trying to ignore the sting in my fingers, I wrapped the stones in the dish towels and carried them to the end of the bed. Sally stayed at my heels. “I have warming stones for your feet,” I said to the marshal watching his face. “Just want you to know. I don’t want to surprise you.”

  His eyes opened. Scared, I reared back. Beneath his mustache, he worked his lips. The left side of his mouth hung low. I told myself he was helpless. He couldn’t hurt me.

  Gathering myself, I said, “I’m here to take care of you. I won’t hurt you.”

  His eyes closed. I took that as a sign that he believed me. I settled the warming stones on either side of his feet. The reek of vomit was sour and strong. One of God’s children, I reminded myself. Do as you would want others to do for Samuel. Do what you must to look innocent in the eyes of the deputies.

  I ran the palms of my hands down the sides of my skirt. My right hand bumped over Samuel’s rock that I had put in my pocket this afternoon. I took it out and held the flat side against my cheek. After a moment, I put it back into my pocket, then covered the marshal with the blankets.

  In the kitchen, I dipped a finger in the water heating on the stove. It was warm enough. I soaked a dish rag, then wrung it out. Heavenly Father, I prayed. In your wisdom, help me with this.

  I went to the marshal. “I’m going to wash your face. If that’s all right with you.”

  His eyelids flickered open. He looked at me. My heart thundered in my ears.

  His eyes flickered closed. He moved his head. A nod. He’d understood what I’d said to him. Maybe he wasn’t as bad off as he looked. He could be tricking me. At any time, he could sit up and accuse me of helping Brade
n.

  Help me, Heavenly Father. Help me.

  The marshal’s face was tight with pain. His eyes were squeezed shut. Just moving his head to nod had caused him misery. It wasn’t a trick, he was as bad off as he looked.

  Years back when my brother Solomon hit his head on a branch, my mother had me hold a rag soaked in cold water against the knot on his forehead. “To get the swelling down,” she’d said. “To keep it from pressing against his skull.”

  A knot or bump didn’t show on the marshal’s face or the sides of his head. Maybe he’d landed on the back of his head.

  “I’ll do my best not to hurt you,” I said. His right eye opened halfway, then closed. I waited a few moments. He stayed still. This could be Samuel, I told myself. Take care of the marshal like you’d want someone to do for Samuel.

  “Now I’m going to move the blankets a little to keep from dribbling water on them,” I said. His lips twitched. I waited a moment before lowering the blankets to his waist. His shirt was a dull white in the lamplight and he had on a light brown vest. A gold chain, attached to a watch in the left vest pocket, draped through a buttonhole, and then into the pocket on the right side. Dark stains spattered the front of his vest. There was some near the collar of his shirt. He’d been sick on himself but it’d been a while ago. The stains looked dry.

  “Now your face,” I said. If the marshal heard me, I couldn’t tell. Gathering myself, I began to wash the dirt from his face. It’d been maybe a week since he’d shaved. His whiskers were gray but his hair was still a deep brown. The frostbite blister above his cheek surely caused him pain. I wrung out the cloth and then washed his face again. For Samuel, I thought. For the woman who did the marshal’s mending and who waited for him.

  The water was warm but he shivered as I washed his cheeks and forehead. I patted the blister with the warm cloth.

  His lips moved. He said something. It was garbled. I stepped back from the bed. He said it again: I still couldn’t make it out. The muscles in his face bunched as he tried to talk. His right eye was open wide. The marshal tensed, as if gathering energy, then said, “Mary Louise.”