“He was headed this way.”
“I didn’t see anyone.” I inclined my head toward the marshal. “Only him. Braden, whoever he is, must have gotten lost in the Wastelands.”
“Where’s Tom’s badge?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”
“You’re lying.”
I was but I couldn’t let him see that. I shook my head.
Henry said, “You all Mormons here?”
“Yes.”
“They charm you into joining?”
I looked at him, bewildered.
“Were you charmed into being Mormon?”
“No. I was born a Saint.”
“Saint?”
“That’s what we call ourselves.”
MacGregor said, “Saint? Good God. You call yourself a Saint? When you’re lying for a killer and a kidnapper?”
“Kidnapper?”
Henry said, “My sister’s with Braden. He used that book of yours to charm her.”
I felt myself staring at Henry trying to make sense of his words. His sister was with Braden.
Brother and sister. I went lightheaded. Their father was the marshal. The little girl in the photograph. Now sixteen years old. Braden’s third wife was the marshal’s daughter. This was what Nels had kept from me. And the claim of kidnapping.
“Goddamn it,” Henry said. Whirling around, he walked off and slammed his fist into the side wall. The wood cracked, breaking. “Damn it to Hell,” he said. “Pa’s dead.”
I froze.
“Damn the Mormons. Damn every last one of you.” His face was twisted with rage. “Braden killed him.” He came close to me. “Pa didn’t fall off Cinch. Braden killed him. He charmed my sister and did this. You know it and so does that neighbor of yours.”
I couldn’t move. Henry stood over me, his fists clenched.
MacGregor said, “What’s his name?”
I understood he meant Nels. I told him.
“How many people live with him?”
I stepped back a little from Henry. It was hard to think with him bearing down on me. I said, “He lives alone.”
“Where are his wives?”
“There was only one. She died. Years ago.”
“He doesn’t have others?”
Think, I told myself. Find a way to ease their anger. I had to make them believe we weren’t their enemy. I said, “We’re not like that here.”
“Not like what?”
“We don’t practice plural marriage.” That was a lie. One family did but they had come to question it. I said, “It’s why we live here. We don’t agree with everything the church says.”
“Is that so?” MacGregor said.
“Yes.”
MacGregor said, “They drive you off?”
“We left on our own.”
His eyes narrowed. I felt him deciding how much of my story was a lie. Henry’s attention had shifted. He was staring at his father. Think, I told myself. Say something to make them both believe me. I said, “Mr. Fletcher.”
Henry didn’t move. He might think I was speaking to the marshal. I said, “I don’t know anything about your sister. But we did all we could for your father. I tried to get the swelling down. Mint leaves helped his pain.” Henry was looking at me now. I said, “I stayed by your father’s side. He died in a bed. He wasn’t alone.” I paused. “That’s something you can tell your mother.”
Henry squeezed his eyes shut. MacGregor ducked his head. Henry opened his eyes, blinking them wide like he was afraid he might cry. “Hell,” MacGregor said. He put his hand on the marshal’s shoulder and leaned closed to the body. “Damn it, Cousin,” he said.
Cousin, I thought. The three men were family.
“I shouldn’t have let you go off on your own,” MacGregor was saying. “I could have pushed my horse to keep up, gimpy leg and all. If I’d been with you, this wouldn’t have happened.”
His apology was heavy with regret. I heard guilt, too. Like Braden’s apology to the marshal had been. Both men blamed themselves for what happened to him.
MacGregor cleared his throat and straightened. He said, “Henry, you done looking at your pa?”
Henry nodded. MacGregor covered the marshal’s body and face with the blanket, then closed the coffin lid. He patted the lid twice before turning to me. He said, “Where’s this neighbor you keep talking about?” The apology was gone from his voice. It had turned harsh with accusation.
“He lives about a mile down the creek.”
“Who all’s between here and there?”
I couldn’t lie. I had to say it. “My sister and her family.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Five. She and her husband. Three little boys. The oldest is seven.”
MacGregor looked at Henry. Henry’s attention was fixed on his father’s covered body. MacGregor said to me, “You’re taking us to your neighbor. I’ve got questions to put to him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NELS – CONVERGENCE
January 14, 1888
Sally’s bark broke the quiet. I came out of my barn. Deborah was on the bridge with two strangers. Sally ran to me, then bounded through the snow toward the creek. I followed her, hurrying, trying to run, the deep snow slowing me, everything inside me pounding. The marshal’s men. Deborah with them. Something had gone wrong.
My heart about to bust out of my chest, I shouted at Sally to get back and quit barking.
“Hold up,” one of the men called out. He aimed his rifle at me. So did the other man. Deborah was between them on the middle of the bridge. I came to a stop. “Control your dog,” the first man said.
Growling, Sally’s fur bristled on her back. I grabbed hold of her collar with one hand and held up the other to show I wasn’t armed.
“Brother Nels,” Deborah said, her voice raised. “This is the man’s family. His son and cousin.”
“You the one who says he found Tom Fletcher?” This came from the older of the two. The cousin, I thought.
I said, “That’s the man who’s dead?”
“That’s him.”
“I found him.” I was sweating. Both rifles were fixed on me.
The son said, “Where’s Braden?”
I couldn’t let myself look at Deborah. I couldn’t show my worry for her. Or that we knew more than we were saying. I said, “Who?”
“Lewis Braden. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your father was alone.”
“You’re lying. We were on Braden’s trail. You or somebody from here took him to Floral Ranch. He ambushed my pa. Killed him.”
“Nobody was killed. He fell.”
The cousin said, “You see it happen?”
“No.” I cussed myself for my carelessness. It was hard to think clear with two rifles pointed at me. I said, “Just put together what likely happened.”
“Where’s her husband?” The cousin waved his rifle toward Deborah.
I didn’t know what Deborah had told him about Samuel. I took a chance and said, “He’s been fixing wheels. He’s making his way home.”
“You sure he didn’t run off to Floral Ranch? After helping Braden kill Tom Fletcher?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
All at once, Sally started barking, lurching to break free from my hold. Movement on the other side of the bridge caught my eye. Deborah and the two men turned to look behind them. It was Michael.
He hurried toward us slipping some in the snow. He was bareheaded. His coat was unfastened and flapped around his legs. I put my hand over Sally’s muzzle to make her quit barking. My insides roiled. Michael would make things worse.
“What’s going on here?” he called out.
The son aimed his rifle at Michael. Michael came to a stop. The cousin’s rifle was still pointed at me.
Michael put his hands out, palms facing us. “I’m not armed.”
“Who’re you?” the cousin said.
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“She’s my sister-in-law.” Michael nodded toward Deborah. “What’s going on here?”
The son said, “My pa’s dead in her barn.”
“That’s your father?”
“Braden killed him.”
“What’s this? Sister Deborah, Brother Nels. Who’s this Braden person?”
Michael talked like there wasn’t a rifle aimed at his heart. If he and I hadn’t shuffled around the truth the night the marshal was dying, I would have said Michael didn’t know what this was about.
Deborah said, “I don’t know. Neither of us do.”
Michael kept his hands up. His spectacles had slipped down his nose. “Brothers. There’s no need for rifles.”
“We aren’t your brothers,” the cousin said.
“We’re all brothers in the eyes of the Lord.”
“Don’t give us any of your Mormon talk.”
Michael swallowed hard, then, “Gentlemen. Let’s sort this out. He was found on the bridge. It was icy. We believe he fell.”
“You’re in on this too,” the cousin said. “You’re hiding a murderer. And a kidnapper. He stole Tom Fletcher’s daughter.”
Michael’s face went wooden.
Sally started barking again, this time a series of shrill yaps. She strained to get away from my hold on her. Michael’s two oldest boys, Jacob and Joe, were crouched by a bush off to the side of the bridge.
I clamped my hand over Sally’s muzzle. Everyone was looking at the little boys. The bottoms of their gray coats bunched around them and the brims of their hats were pushed back. Their eyes were wide and unblinking.
“Boys,” Michael said. “Go home. Now.”
The boys didn’t move. It was like they were stuck. Their gazes were fastened on the tall man’s rifle that was aimed at their father.
The cousin said, “Mind your pa. Go home.”
Joe made a squeaking sound.
Michael said, “It’s all right. Do like he says.”
“I’m scared, Papa.” This came from Jacob, the older one.
“They have rifles.” Joe, hunched low, had an arm around his brother’s back. He was crying.
“Jacob,” Michael said. “Joe. Go home. Now.”
“Papa,” Jacob said. “I’m scared.” His voice was high-pitched. A seven-year-old boy’s voice. “Why are they doing this?”
The air went still. The marshal’s son, his rifle aimed at Michael, worked his hands, gripping it tighter.
Michael, his hands still up, looked from his boys to the two men. He blinked hard, squinting, his spectacles too low on his nose to do any good.
“Boys. It’s hard to understand.” It was Deborah. Her back was to me and I couldn’t see her face. She said, “These men have had sad news. Someone has died.” Her voice broke. She gave herself a small shake and went on. “And someone else moved far from home. It makes their hearts hurt with sadness. That’s why they’re doing this. Their hearts hurt.”
The boys stared at her. They didn’t say anything. Deborah turned to the marshal’s son beside her. His rifle was still aimed at Michael. “Please,” she said. “Don’t hurt these boys in any way.”
Her words hung over us. No one moved. The air felt so brittle it could crack. All at once, Henry shuddered and with that, I sensed a shift, a kind of loosening. He tilted his head back and looked up at the cliffs.
“Henry,” the cousin said. “You see something up there?”
Henry looked at him, then at Jacob and Joe. The color had drained from Jacob’s face. His lips quivered. Joe began to blubber again, crying. Henry’s gaze went back and forth from the boys to their father. Then he turned a little toward the direction of Deborah’s cabin and barn.
“What’re you doing?” the cousin said.
Henry lowered his rifle.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m taking Pa home.”
“What? We’re tracking Braden.”
“I’m not leaving Pa in Mormon country.”
“What about Braden? Your sister?”
Henry shook his head.
“These people here know where Braden is. He killed your pa.”
Henry looked off again toward Deborah’s place and then back to the cousin. He said, “You wrestle it out of them, then. I don’t want Pa kept in a barn. I’m not leaving him with Mormons. I don’t want him buried here.”
“Braden’s got your sister.”
“That’s Pa talking. That’s his account. That’s what he wanted to believe.”
MacGregor said, “What’s gotten into you? Braden charmed her with that book of theirs. You said so yourself.”
“Maybe I did. But he didn’t steal her. I never believed that, not all the way. That was Pa’s talk, not mine. Mary ran off. She was hell-bent on being a Mormon. She said so in that note of hers she left. Her mind was made up.”
His rifle still on me, the cousin said, “Me and you agreed to help catch Braden.”
“I know it. Because no daughter of Pa’s was going to take up with Mormons. And now he’s dead. I’m taking him home. Catching Braden can wait. You can go after him but I’m taking Pa home.”
The cousin shifted from foot to foot, still holding his rifle on me. He squinted at me. My heart walloped against my ribcage. He was a man with a debate raging in his mind. He was outnumbered in Mormon country. He didn’t stand much of a chance catching Braden on his own. Yet he’d likely given his word to the marshal that he’d help run down Braden.
“Damn it,” the cousin said. He spat into the snow. “Your pa would have my hide if I let you go off on your own.” He lowered his rifle.
I heard myself blow air out. A great weakness came over me. I felt the urge to sit down. Like it was happening from a far distance, I saw Deborah walk to the little boys. They ran to her, sliding on the icy snow. They wrapped their arms around her legs. She bent over them, her hands pressing them close to her.
Pushing his spectacles up into place, Michael started to go to them. He stopped. Sunlight glinted off the glass in his spectacles making it so his eyes couldn’t be seen. He coughed and turned to Henry. He said, “We’ll help you get your father ready for the trip home.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NELS – THE WARNING
January 15, 1888
Dawn was breaking when Michael, Carson Miller, and I rode through the snow to Deborah’s place. Henry and MacGregor had bed down in her barn for the night. Michael had offered his barn but Henry, the marshal’s son, wouldn’t have anything to do with that. He said he wanted to be where he could keep an eye on his pa. I took that to mean he didn’t trust us.
We didn’t trust them either. Last night, the men of Junction decided that Carson would travel through the Wastelands with the marshal’s relations. It was uneven country. In places, the coffin would have to be carried by hand. An extra man would make a hard job some easier. That was what Michael planned to tell the marshal’s family this morning. He’d keep it to himself that this was a way to make us look like good people with nothing to hide. He wouldn’t tell them we wanted to make sure they really did leave Junction.
Michael, Carson, and I wove our way through the orchard toward Deborah’s. The dawn’s light was a glimmer of orange on the peaks of the higher cliffs that surrounded Junction. Looking up at those cliffs that edged Junction made me feel the weight of our obligations. Michael was keeping his promise to help get the marshal’s body ready for the trip home. Carson had the job of guiding gentiles who had meant us harm. My obligation was to Samuel. He’d expect me to see for myself that Deborah was all right.
It worked on me, the men sleeping in Deborah’s barn. Michael hadn’t liked it either. Not wanting Deborah to be alone in her cabin with the men on her property, he’d asked her to stay the night with him and Grace. Deborah shook her head against that. What she did do was ask me if she could borrow Sally for the night. I’d agreed. I wasn’t any good at telling her no.
We halted our horses when we got close to the edge
of the orchard. Up ahead, lantern lights moved and flickered near Deborah’s barn. Men’s voices carried. Metal clinked. It sounded like Henry and MacGregor were hitching their horses.
My voice low, I said to Michael, “We’ll wait here.”
“God willing, there won’t be any trouble.”
“God willing,” Carson said.
I felt Michael waiting for me to say the same. When I didn’t, he clicked his tongue and his horse began to walk toward the last row of plum trees.
Me and Carson staying behind was the plan the three of us had worked out earlier. Believing Henry and MacGregor were likely to be twitchy with nerves, we figured it would be best for Michael to approach them by himself. They trusted him as much as they could trust any Saint. He’d tell them about Carson coming with them to help get the marshal through the Wastelands. Once they were agreeable to that, Michael would signal to Carson to come on in. As for me, I’d stay in the orchard to keep watch.
This worked on me, too, staying behind. I wanted to speak to Deborah. I wanted to hear for myself that Henry and MacGregor hadn’t done her any harm.
The thinking side of me, though, told me to stay away from those two. Seeing me could set them off. It could make them come at me with more questions about how I’d found the marshal.
I had to settle for Michael looking after Deborah. He’d do a fair job of it. I never thought to say this, but I’d come to see that he was steady in the face of trouble.
Michael had cleared the orchard now and was in the open. He called to Henry and MacGregor, said who he was. They didn’t answer. Carson and I waited, our breaths clouds of white in the cold.
“All right,” one of the men finally called. “Come on in.”
Michael and his horse, dark shapes in the dawn light, moved forward.
Carson and I watched. He leaned forward in his saddle. I felt his unease. If things went as planned, he’d be alone in the Wastelands with two gentiles. I gave him a sideways glance. Everything about him was tight.
Michael was close to Deborah’s place. Talk went back and forth. Carson and I were too far off to make out the words. The light was still dim but I was able to see the shapes of the men and the horses.
Carson said, “Looks like the coffin’s strapped to a toboggan.” His eyes were better than mine. He said, “Must be Sister Deborah’s, she’ll miss it sorely. They got the toboggan behind a horse, probably hitched to it.”
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