Adam pulled on his beard. I felt him wanting to turn me away. He didn’t want any part of this. I didn’t either. That didn’t change matters, though.
A stirring came from above us in the loft. “Girls,” Adam said. He looked up at the open square cut in the ceiling. A ladder went up to it. “Go back to bed.” Someone giggled. “Now,” he said. There was more rustling and then creaking from the ticking in a mattress. Adam waited, listening. When the quiet in the loft finally seemed to suit him, he lit a table lantern. The flame cast a shadow on the kitchen wall. He said, “Rebecca can’t go out, not in her condition.”
“I don’t want her to. All I need is for her to tell me what to do.”
“That’s all?”
“Brother Nels.” It was Rebecca. She’d come out of the bedroom. Her hair was in a long braid and she was wrapped in a shawl. The light from the lantern barely poked through the dark but from the slowness of her movements, it was plain to see she was expecting soon. She was in no condition to travel the mile and a half to my cabin.
“Someone’s hurt?” she said.
I went through the lies again about finding a man on the bridge and then told the truth about how he was in a bad way. Rebecca looked at her husband, her eyebrows raised. Something unspoken passed between the two of them. They knew about the men I took to Floral Ranch, I thought. And now they knew someone was here who could bring us trouble.
“He’s alone?” she said. “At your cabin?”
“Sister Deborah’s with him. I went and got her to tend him while I came here.”
She looked up toward the loft. I figured she was thinking about her children and what could happen if she and her husband were caught knowing more than they should.
Rebecca said, “What’s his breathing like? Fast? Or drawn out and ragged-like? Does it stop and start?”
“No, not that. It’s ragged mostly.”
“Can he keep his eyes open? Is he making good sense?”
“He mumbles, I can’t make it out. He drifts off.”
“Is there a wound?”
“Not that I could see. But there’s a fair-size knot swelled up on the back of his head.”
“How big?”
My thoughts shifted back to when Braden and I got him to my cabin. I’d felt the knot when we were settling him in the bed. It’d made my insides lurch. I said, “The size of an egg.”
Adam blew a short whistle. He and Rebecca looked at each other again. After a moment, she said, “I don’t like the sound of that.”
I said, “That’s how I figure it.”
“Is he feverish?”
“Doesn’t seem so.”
Rebecca clicked her tongue like I should know one way or the other. She said, “Has he been sick? Heaved up his stomach?”
“Could have. He smells like he did.” I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t let her know the man wasn’t sick when I’d first come across him. I had to stay with the story that I’d found him on the bridge. I couldn’t tell how when Braden and I each took one of the marshal’s arms to get him off the ground, he’d spewed out everything he’d likely eaten in the last day or so. I couldn’t say how after that, he took on a bad look that made me think he might die.
She said, “It matters if he’s been sick. Do you know one way or the other?”
I hesitated, then, “It happened when I moved him. When I picked him up to get him to my cabin.”
In the faint light, I felt Rebecca and Adam give each other another knowing look. They understood I couldn’t say all I knew. I was trying to protect them. I said, “One side of his face sags.”
Rebecca frowned. She looked at Adam. He gave her a quick nod. That seemed to settle something between them.
“The poor man,” she said. She got the lamp and went to the shelf by the cookstove where there were canning jars. She took one and put the lamp down on the kitchen table. She found a piece of cloth and from the jar, took out what looked to be leaves. She wrapped them in the cloth and gave it to me.
She said, “The best you and Sister Deborah can do is try to take down the swelling. Pack some snow and put it on the knot you spoke of. It’ll make him cold so keep him warm with as many blankets as you have. Coats, too. Those are mint leaves.” She nodded toward the folded cloth she’d given me. “Put them in warm water, soak a rag, and hold it close to his nose. It might ease his pain. His head probably hurts mightily. You can try dribbling a few drops of the mint water into his mouth. If he swallows it, try a little more. But only if he can swallow. Don’t let him choke.”
“We won’t.”
I told them I had to get back. They agreed. I put the folded cloth in my breast pocket and made ready to leave. After I said my thanks, Rebecca said, “Brother Nels, there’s one more thing.”
I drew up. She was going to tell me she knew what I was in the middle of. She said, “If he starts to bleed, there’s nothing you can do for him other than keep him warm.”
“Bleed?”
“From his nose or his mouth. Maybe from his ears. There could be a wound inside his head. He could leak blood.”
My belly rolled. The marshal’s death could save us but I hadn’t let myself think how it might come about. I hadn’t thought about the suffering and the ugliness of it.
Rebecca put her hand on my arm. “Stay steady, Brother Nels. You’ve kept the poor man from suffering alone in the cold. You’ve given him your bed and are doing all you can. That and prayer could save him. If they don’t, it was God’s will. Find solace in that.”
I couldn’t look at her or Adam. I stumbled through my goodbye and left before they could read the truth on my face. Whichever way this went, there was bound to be a sorry ending for somebody. There’d be no solace.
Deborah’s face was pale when she opened my cabin’s door. “You’re here,” she said. “Thank God.” The relief of seeing her tied my tongue. Deborah’s eyes began to water. She flicked the tears from her cheeks. I wanted to tuck her close to me. I didn’t. She was Samuel’s, not mine.
She opened the door wider for me so I could come inside. The flames in the four lamps were patches of light in the room. Sally’s tail thumped against my legs beating the snow from my coat. My fingers skimmed the fur on her haunches. The marshal’s breathing rasped loud. He was worse. Or maybe I’d forgotten how bad he sounded.
The cabin smelled like leaves rotting in mud. Deborah’s eyes were too big. She looked past me like someone had followed me inside.
“I’m alone,” I said.
“He’s settled?”
I understood she meant Braden. “For now.”
She swatted away more tears. Not knowing what I’d do if she couldn’t stop them, I busied myself by pulling off my gloves. Deborah took them from me. Her fingertips ran up and down the braided cording on the back of one of them. She said, “One side of his face droops.”
I nodded, not saying anything. I unfastened my coat. The marshal’s rasping stopped. We went still. Sally did, too.
The rasping started up again. The struggle of it made me grit my teeth. Deborah said, “It’s been like this for a while. He’s getting worse.”
The marshal’s breathing stopped, then took up again, stuttering.
I didn’t know how Deborah had stood it all day.
I hung up my coat and went to the bed. The marshal was on his left side. He’d either found the strength to move himself or Deborah had done it. He was covered in my blankets and his coat was on top. A bunched-up dishcloth was pressed to the back of his head. His coloring was a peculiar gray that lacked life.
“Is he bleeding?” I said.
“No.” She shuddered. “Thank goodness.” She came and stood beside me. The marshal looked half the size he’d been when he stood on the rock and held his rifle on Braden and me.
Deborah said, “I wrapped snow in the dishcloth that’s pressed to his head. A knot’s bulging from back there. It was all I could think to do to get the swelling down.”
Her words re
minded me of the mint leaves. “Here.” I took them from my breast pocket, gave them to Deborah, and told her what Rebecca had said to do. “It’ll ease his pain,” I added.
“At least it’s something,” Deborah said. She took the leaves to the kitchen. The marshal’s breathing whistled, wheezing. All because of a girl. Her father, this man, wanted her back. He’d come to find her. He wanted her safe.
Braden, if what he said was true, aimed to keep her safe, too. Bad things happened to a woman in the wilderness if she wasn’t claimed by a man. It took months to travel from Tennessee to Utah. It meant crossing mountains. It called for fording rivers that weren’t predictable. A person had to sleep out in the open and there were all manner of rough sorts on the trail.
Now the girl’s father was fighting for air. I didn’t like thinking how that’d be for her once she knew her husband’s part in this. It’d be a burden she’d carry for the rest of her life. All because she’d heard preaching and believed.
That was, if Braden’s story was true.
I left the cabin to get Bob settled in the barn and to break up the icy drinking water in the stall where I’d put the marshal’s horse. His horse drooped and stood with one leg resting on the tip of his hoof, more asleep than awake. Doing only what had to be done, I got the saddlebags and packs off the marshal’s horse, unsaddled him, and filled his trough and then Bob’s with feed.
A heaviness came over my limbs when I put blankets over the horses. I was empty of sleep and food. It sickened me, but God help me, I wanted the marshal to die. Now that it was before me, though, I didn’t want any part of it.
The chores finished, I started to leave the barn, then stopped. The marshal’s saddlebags. There might be something in them that identified him.
A man’s saddlebags were his and his alone. Any other time, I wouldn’t be tempted. But this wasn’t like any other time. I looked over my shoulder like somebody might be watching. No one was.
I got the saddlebags and went through one of them. There was a small sack of flour, some bacon, coffee, salt, and baking powder. A handful of dollar coins was in a side pocket. In the other bag, I found a mirror, a straight razor for shaving, a thin bar of soap, a towel, five loose bullets. In the side pocket, there was an envelope. There weren’t any markings on it, and it wasn’t sealed. I figured it was the warrant for Braden’s arrest. I opened it.
There were two sheets of paper. Only one had writing on it. I held it close to the lantern. It was a letter, not a warrant. The handwriting was cramped, and the page was dated December 27, 1887. Dear Mary, it began.
I stopped. It was bad enough I was going through a man’s saddlebags. Reading that man’s letter was even worse. I folded the pages into the envelope and put it in my coat pocket. I’d get rid of it but I wouldn’t read the words.
There had to be a warrant. I searched the saddlebags again. I found a narrow inside pocket I’d overlooked before. There was an envelope in it. I opened it.
The handwriting on the single sheet was bold. I picked out some words. Lewis Braden. Kidnapping, unlawful cohabitation, and polygamy. This was the warrant for his arrest.
Two signatures were at the bottom. One was a judge in Nashville, Tennessee. The other was U.S. Marshal Thomas S. Fletcher of Nashville, Tennessee.
This couldn’t be right. The warrant should be issued in Utah. That was the only way he could make an arrest here. I held the warrant closer to the lamp. I’d read it right the first time. Tennessee. Not Utah.
There must be another warrant. I looked inside the bags again. Nothing. I went to his saddle. I ran my hands over the worn leather in the seat, then the base of the horn, the skirt, and the leather stirrups. There could be a slit where the warrant was stored but I couldn’t find one. I went through the marshal’s rolled-up blankets and rolled-up change of clothing. No warrant from Utah.
This didn’t make sense. I’d figured Fletcher had been appointed to replace Frank Dyer, Utah’s marshal. I figured he had jurisdiction here.
I held the Tennessee warrant in one hand. I had to get rid of it and the letter like I’d gotten rid of the badge. The story about finding a stranger on the bridge had to stand. There couldn’t be anything that identified him.
Making sense of the jurisdiction didn’t matter. I could think about that after I’d gotten rid of it. I put the warrant in my coat pocket. My fingers brushed the marshal’s letter. There might be something in it that I should know.
It was wrong to read another man’s mail. I did it anyway. The letter was in parts. The marshal hadn’t written it in one sitting.
December 27, 1887
Dear Mary,
We caught wind about a place in the canyons due south and left Salt Lake yesterday. Rest assured. Our daughter will come home to you. It is cold here but our determination burns like a fire. Me and the boys are keeping well.
Mary must be Fletcher’s wife, I thought. And he wasn’t traveling alone. Others were with him. I read the next part.
December 29, 1887
The Territory is not all Mormon. Yesterday we came on a cabin. The man living there is a miner and a Methodist. He drew us a map of the canyons. Redemption is close at hand. I’ll find our daughter. We will be reunited. Keep a stout heart.
January 3, 1888
This land is nothing like Tennessee. It is sharp edged and broken. Trees are hard to come by. The wind is stiff. When I come home I swear to you I will never leave again.
The letter wasn’t signed. Likely Fletcher intended to write more.
These could be his final words. I read it again. There wasn’t anything about Braden or about Fletcher being a marshal. He was a man looking for his daughter. He never said why. Nothing in the letter said who he was.
His final words to his wife, I thought again. If he died. Keep a stout heart. His wife would surely need to do that.
I folded the pages and put them back in the envelope. I should get rid of the letter. Keep a stout heart. Fletcher would want his wife to see his words.
Before I could change my mind, I put the letter back in the saddlebag. When other lawmen got here, they’d take possession of the marshal’s belongings. They’d find the letter. It’d make them think we didn’t tamper with things that didn’t belong to us. It’d look like we had no reason to be afraid of the man who’d set words to paper.
The warrant in my pocket, I left the barn and walked through the snow to the outhouse. It was behind my cabin set off a ways from my water well. I didn’t know what the law said about what happened to a man who destroyed a federal marshal’s possessions. It couldn’t be good.
The outhouse was a small building made of wood. I went inside. It smelled of the lime I used to keep it from stinking. When I first came to Junction, I’d dug the deep pit, then covered it with a seat that had a round opening.
I tore the warrant into small pieces. I dropped them into the pit.
My cabin stank of sour vomit underlined by a faint current of mint. Deborah sat in a chair alongside of the marshal. She held a cloth close to his nose. If the cloth doused in mint helped the marshal, I couldn’t tell. His breathing jerked, stopping and starting.
“I dribbled a few drops into his mouth,” Deborah said. “But I’m afraid to do more. If he should choke, well, I don’t want to think about that. It’s bad enough as it is.”
And was likely to get worse. I said, “I regret bringing you into this.”
“None of it was your doing.”
Maybe, maybe not. If Samuel and I hadn’t helped the first man who came here four years ago, they would have stopped coming. When we first heard about the family at Floral Ranch and how their place was a hideout, we should have left and found another place to settle. Samuel and I hadn’t done either one. We didn’t even ponder changing the course of what would become a pattern. When it came down to it, we were more a part of the church than we thought. Helping our own had seeped into our blood.
Deborah said, “There’s food on the table.”
�
��I appreciate it.” I sat down to the plate of venison and bread she’d put out for me. Sally got under the table and rested her chin on top of my boot. Deborah had warmed the milk and when I drank it, the heaviness in my limbs settled deeper.
Lydia, my wife, was the last woman to put supper out for me in my home. That was nearly six years ago. As bad as things were, it felt good to have Deborah here. But it was peculiar, too. Always before we had Samuel with us.
Just that quick, the image of the rockslide came back to me. When Carson and I were there, I was sure Samuel had been forced to turn around and go north through the Fish Lakes. I was sure he’d find his way through the high pass. I’d told Deborah he’d be home by the second week of January. At the latest. That was this week.
I put my fork down. My mouth had gummed up. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe something bad had happened to Samuel.
Deborah, across the room at the marshal’s bedside, said, “He has a family.”
Samuel bolted from my thoughts. “What was that?” I said.
“He has a family.”
“Did he say that?”
“He’s called out for a woman. Her name’s Mary Louise. At least I think that’s what he said.”
The daughter’s name, I thought. Not the wife’s but I couldn’t tell Deborah that. The less she knew, the better off she was.
Deborah said, “He has a pocket watch. When I moved him to ease the pressure on his head, his watch fell out of his vest pocket. I wound it thinking the sound of it might comfort him.” Her voice shook. “Inside the casing, there’s a photograph. It’s of a woman and two children. One’s a boy and the other’s a little girl. Brother Nels, they’re his family. He has a wife and two children.”
“The woman could be a sister. The children might not be his.”
“It doesn’t matter. She and the children are family.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He has a family. Everyone has one of some sort. No one walks this earth alone.”
Like I was holding it, I felt the weight of the marshal’s letter in the palm of my hand. He had a wife. There could be other relations. His mother and father could still be alive. He might have brothers and sisters. And here I sat, wanting a man with a family to die to save the families here.
The Glovemaker Page 14