"I'm glad for that," Gabe said. "Killing a man isn't one of those things I want to be remembered for."
Ed put a hand on Gabe's shoulder and squeezed. "'Lot better'n being known for lettin' that reprobate get away. You might not like hearin' this, but somebody had to stop Joseph Hamilton, and you were the man for the job. I heard you were mighty fast with a gun even before Hamilton came along. Guess that encounter proved it,"
Gabe patted his holstered gun even now, a rather obsessive habit he'd acquired to assure himself it was still there. Unfortunately, as sheriff, gun-toting went with the job, as did the occasional gunfight.
"I'm praying for no such encounters in Sandy Shores,"
Ed smiled and pointed him to a chair. "It's a downright pleasant place to hang your hat, Sandy Shores. But enough of that. Take some weight off and tell me how you fared on your trip north. I trust you didn't run into any problems."
Hat in hand, Gabe felt himself relax as he plopped into one of the two leather chairs positioned in front of Ed's desk, Ed taking the one adjacent to it. "No problems-that is, not until I arrived here safe and sound, only to discover that I had a stowaway."
The judge crossed a beefy leg over his knee and settled back, hands folded in front of him, a curious expression elongating his brow. "How's that?"
Gabe proceeded to tell him about the nameless, mute boy he'd unknowingly hauled from Holland, how he'd carried him up to his third-floor room, fed him a big hunk of bread and a slab of dried beef, and then tried to pump him for information. That had gotten him nowhere, so Gabe had pulled back the blankets, thinking the offer of a real bed would win him points, but the kid made a beeline for the door instead. Then, he got fighting mad when he found it locked, and the slide lock beyond his reach.
A battle of wills ensued for the next hour, Gabe trying to get the boy to talk, the kid crossing his arms in belligerence and proving several times he had a tongue by sticking it out as far as it would go. Sheer fatigue finally forced him into a fitful sleep-not in the bed, but curled up in the chair next to the window.
Next, Gabe unraveled the events of the morning-how he'd won a measure of the boy's trust by taking him to breakfast and allowing him to eat his fill in silence. Then, how it all went downhill from there after Hannah Kane had scared the boy spitless with questions about his cuts and bruises, resulting in the wild goose chase down Water Street, until Gabe had managed to nab him by the sleeve in front of Sandy Shores Bank and Trust and carry him back to his office, albeit kicking, thrashing, and biting.
The judge hadn't appeared surprised when Gabe told him Hannah had stationed herself in the jail cell with the boy, determined to win him over. "Sounds like something one of those Kane girls would do," Ed said. "They have spunk, every one of 'em. 'Course, they come by it naturally. I've known Helena ever since she and Simon arrived here from England with their boy, Jacob. He must've been about eleven or twelve at the time. Like so many others, the family wanted a new start in America, so when Simon inherited a good amount of money after his parents' passing, they landed here and started up Kane's Whatnot. Right from the beginning, Simon got little Jacob involved in the general store, and it's a good thing. In 1879, Simon passed on very suddenly from a bad cough, almost the exact same time as my Marian. Later, folks speculated diphtheria was the culprit. It sent a number of folks to their graves that year. It could be quite an epidemic in those days, sweeping through both small towns and big cities. Anyway, that forced Jacob into the retail business full time. I think he was just out of school. He and Helena braved things together, but times weren't easy for a lot of folks."
Gabe detected the hint of reminiscence in the widower's faraway gaze, but he bypassed the temptation to prod him. Ed Bowers was a man who could converse for long periods, given the chance, but right now, other matters occupied Gabe's mind. `Any idea where I might start looking for this boy's parents?" he asked.
"What's that? Oh, that lad who jumped on your rig? Well, now, might be he's on his own. No telling how long he's been fending for himself."
"You mean, you think he's an orphan?"
"Can't say for sure, but there's a good chance. 'Lot of lingering unrest what with the aftereffects of the Civil War still weighing heavy on our nation, not to mention the westward expansion. 'Lot of youngsters have been lost in the shuffle. From what you tell me, this boy's experienced some pain along the way, physical and emotional. You might better take 'im over to the doc to see if he can find anything wrong with 'im:
"You're the second one who's suggested I do that. Problem is, he's not my son. I don't have time for messing with him,"
The judge's brow angled into a thoughtful frown. "I s'pose you could take him back to where you found him,"
`And do what with him? Leave him in the street? Come on, Ed, is that the best you can do? Isn't there some sort of orphanage or holding place where I can take him? Do you know of anyone around here who would foster him-at least until I can figure out what to do with him?"
The man's frown deepened as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and set his chin at a tilt. "There's no children's home in Sandy Shores, or anywhere in River County, for that matter, but I'll ask around to see if anyone would be willing to take him in. Don't go getting your hopes up, though. It's asking a lot to expect someone to take in a little rapscallion like the one you just described,"
"What about the churches? There must be some family who'd have room for him,"
The judge gave a pensive nod. "That's a possibility. I'll see what I can find out for you."
"What should I do with him in the meantime?"
Ed moistened his lips and fixed Gabe with a confounded stare. "Well, I guess that's something you and Miss Kane will have to decide together. Seems to me you both got yourselves into a pickle with this one."
he boy had spent the last hour staring daggers at Hannah, refusing to move from the cot. That's a good sign, she figured, considering he could have been throwing his fists at her. She coaxed, prodded, and talked in a gentle voice, but he maintained his obstinate demeanor.
`Are you hungry?" she ventured. "My grandmother makes a fine chicken and vegetable stew. Does that sound good to you? I know it's stew night, because I saw her dicing up potatoes and carrots yesterday evening, and she had my sister slicing up fresh chicken."
He licked his lips but quickly covered the move by drawing the wool blanket up over his face so that only his big brown eyes peered out.
"There's nothing like a good chicken stew to fix what ails you. Don't you agree?"
Even with her long skirts tucked around her ankles, a chill from sitting on the cold, damp cement scampered up her spine. She heard scuffling noises on the floor above and wondered if he planned to come down anytime soon. So far, the door at the top of the stairs hadn't so much as cracked. From the dangling, dim lightbulb, she could see by her wristwatch that five o'clock had come and gone. Surely, his appointment with the judge had ended long ago. Did he have even more appointments to follow that one?
She eyed the boy with caution. They'd been playing this staring game long enough. There had to be some way to get through to him. "Sure is nippy down here. You plan to sleep here tonight?" She exaggerated her chill by hugging herself and forcing her teeth to chatter. Truth was, the air, though damp and musty, felt far better than the muggy heat of the past several days.
The boy eyed her with a critical squint. Slowly, he shook his head from side to side. A reaction-a milestone! Hannah tried not to show too much delight.
"That's good. It'd be a might lonely in here, don't you think?" How many nights had he spent out under the stars, or perhaps holed up in some vacant building? Surely, solitude was nothing new to him. "Besides, this is a place for criminals, and you're no criminal. Nor am I. Fact is, I'd like to get out of here and go have some of that stew I was telling you about." She played with a lazy, auburn curl at her temple and tried to feign nonchalance, sitting forward to take in his coffee-colored eyes. "'Course, i
f you'd rather stay here, I would understand."
Suddenly, his hands came out from under the blankets and he sat up, swiveling on the cot so that his short legs dangled over the edge, his stockinged feet peeking out, his worn boots meeting the floor like those of a tired little soldier. Again, his head gave a slow shake, and he took great care not to show any emotion. Still, Hannah considered this reaction another milestone.
His black hair pointed everywhere like dry sticks on a leafless bush, and his grimy hands, arms, and face, covered in scratches and bruises, looked like they hadn't seen a tub of hot, soapy water in over a month. Was there a mother somewhere who had taught him the importance of cleanliness? Was she frantic with worry over her son's whereabouts? What was he running from-or was it that he'd just gotten himself so lost and in his plight had forgotten what it meant to trust another human being?
A sudden rush of steps overhead and a familiar female voice, rather demanding in tenor, drew her attention to the stairs. "Please open the door," she was saying.
"I'm coming, I'm coming. Bloomed if you Kane sisters aren't an impatient bunch," the sheriff's voice sounded.
The door hinge squeaked when it opened. Hannah sprung up from the floor, then turned and shot the boy a reassuring glance when his eyes widened with apprehension. "It's okay. It's just my sister, Maggie. You'll like her. And, of course, you know the sheriff" He didn't budge; he just pulled back his bony shoulders and sat taller, training his eyes on the stairwell, as if he had some weapon hiding under his ratty overalls and meant to haul it out if needed.
The tantalizing aroma of roast chicken beat the pair down the stairs. "Hannah Grace? Where is she, Sheriff?"
"Straight ahead," came his cool reply. "Watch your step."
"Oh, forevermore, it's like a dungeon down here. Hannah?"
"I'm here," Hannah said into the dimness of the room. "No need to make such a clatter." She found herself clenching the cold steel bars and pressing her nose between them.
When Maggie Rose came into view, it was with her brown skirts flaring and her arms full of covered dishes. Trailing in her wake was Sheriff Devlin, looking not the least bit apologetic. If anything, put out probably best described his manner, and the notion that he'd forgotten all about them made Hannah want to spit nails through his ears.
"Oh, for crying in a bucket, Hannah Grace, whatever are you doing in there? I heard you'd gone and locked yourself inside a jail cell, but I refused to believe it till I saw it with my own eyes. And who have we here?" Her eyes flitted to the bedraggled boy who'd kept his body stiff as a poker. "Kindly unlock the door, Mr. Devlin. I need to make sure my sister is unharmed."
"Oh, she's unharmed, all right," he said. The slightest grin tipped the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward and turned the latch-without the use of a key. Both women stared, dumbstruck. "What-you think I would really lock an innocent woman in a jail cell?"
"You mean...? Oh!" Hannah sputtered, abashed. She found herself propping her hands on her waist and pushing out her chin. "What of this innocent child?"
He cocked his blond head and squinted down at her, a most disarming maneuver. "Innocent? The little whippersnapper tried to bite me. He might be better to stay locked up for a while."
Hannah swallowed down a rejoinder when the young boy wriggled off the cot and walked across the room. Just when she thought he might utter the beginnings of a word, he pushed open the door, bypassed the sheriff, and walked up to Maggie. Wordlessly, she bent at the waist. Without a sound, he raised his soiled hand and lifted the towel on the casserole. Then, while peering under it, he inhaled loudly and gave the first hints of a smile.
Another milestone!
"I ain't shootin' no kid,"
Wispy clouds drifted past a shiny half-moon, which, along with the starlit sky and blazing campfire, emitted enough light to read by-if anyone had a mind to read, that is. But none did. The stale stench of cooked bluegill and burnt beans carried through the air, souring everyone's dispositions.
"You will if I say so, jughead," groused Rufus McCurdy, father to the three deadbeats lounging close by. "I tol' you right from the start, if you was gonna work with me, you was gonna go by my rules. If y' cain't abide by 'em, y' best scatand watch yer back on yer way out!" He spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the fire and watched his three boys, men now, go stiff as dead carps on hot sand. I've still got the touch, he thought; I still have the say-so 'round here.
"I ain't goin' nowhere," muttered the youngest, Luis, aka jughead. "But I ain't happy 'bout shootin' no half-pint."
"I'll do it-iffin' I catch 'im," said the oldest, Roy. "The squirt ain't easy t' catch, though. He been jumpin' from town t' town like a flea on a griddle. Thought we had'im back in that town o' Niles, till he climbed aboard that train and rode clear t' St. Joseph. The kid ain't dumb. Seems t' sense we's chasin' 'im. I swear, when he climbed the ladder on that movin' train, he looked back at me as if t' say, `You cain't catch me,' but, truth is, I don't know as he really saw me. All's I know is no li'l three-foot-high tadpole's gonna get the best o' me."
Rufus breathed a little easier, knowing he at least had the support of his oldest. Roy, twenty-two, had always been the most dependable of the sorry bunch. Luis, on the other hand, had a ways to go, being he was the youngest and not much more than a boy himself at fifteen. Reuben, the middle sonnow, he was another story. Pigheaded and impulsive, for sure, but slow on the draw. Rufus worried that one of these days, Reuben would get them all killed.
"It's important we stick together on this," he instructed, coughing up a wad of spittle mixed with tobacco juice. "And don't go talkin' t' nobody else." He eyed Reuben in particular. "You already opened your big yapper to that harlot in South Bend, you fool. I don't wanna hear 'bout you pullin' somethin' as dumbheaded as that again. You understand?" Reuben moved his head up and down while he scribbled in the dirt with a stick.
Rufus cursed and leaned forward. "That scrawny little imp saw me do his folks in while we was robbin' 'em. Fools would still be alive if that idiot man hadn't pulled a gun on us." He paused for dramatic effect. "Nobody pulls a gun on a McCurdy and lives t' tell about it. Figured I'd teach 'im a lesson."
The boys did the smart thing-they kept their mouths shut.
Rufus tossed another log on the fire, creating an explosion of smoke and sparks. Reuben, sitting closest to the blaze, lurched backward, brushing off several sparks that threatened to ignite his shirt. "Where you think he went off to, Pa?" he asked, maintaining his cool.
"Pfff. If he's true t' form, he's followin' up the lakeshore. Roy thought he got a glimpse of'im in South Haven when he saw 'im diggin' through garbage, but by the time he got close enough t' tell, the little goon up 'n vanished. I'll be cussed if he ain't part Injun, as sly as he is. He won't get much further, though. If he makes it out o' Holland, I'll be surprised. Ar luck's gotta change sooner 'r later. Cain't have 'im runnin' 'round with the image of ar faces in his head. He's bound t' tell somebody'bout us,"
An owl let out a mournful cry, and, in the northern sky, a meteorite shot a straight path toward earth, petering out within seconds.
Reuben picked up a piece of driftwood and cracked it in two. "We know fer sure he saw y' kill 'is folks, Pa? I mean, what if...?"
"You dim-witted schmuck, you're the one who spotted'im watchin' through the winder 'fore he took off like a streak o' lightnin' 'cross that field. You said his eyes was bigger 'n a barn. If you'd o' run after 'im, you could've caught the little twig and done the deed right there!" Gall heated Rufus's veins until he felt near boiling. "Instead, what do y' do but stand there lookin' dumber than a bag o' nails. By the time Roy took out after 'im, the kid was up some tree or lyin' low in a ditch,"
Rufus leaned close enough to see the whites of his boys' eyes. "Now, you listen hard, y' hear? For all I know, ar mugs is plastered on sheriffs' boards and in post offices. If it weren't for that little twerp, we'd ride out o' these parts fast as ar horses would take us, but him bein' a witness and all, well, l
et's just say we got us a job t' do first. And the sooner it's done, the quicker we move on,"
"We still got money, Pa?" Reuben asked. "'Cause if we got money, we could jes leave the country and start over, say, in Mexico."
Rufus breathed hard and narrowed his eyes on his middle son. "Mexico, you say?" He looked from Roy to Luis, then back at Roy. "Hear that, boys? He wants to go to Mexico." Then, to Reuben, "What state y' think we's in, anyways?"
Reuben raised one dusty brown eyebrow and squinted. A feeble shrug of the shoulders showed he didn't have a clue.
Rufus scoffed and spat, and, without another word, grabbed his bedroll and laid it out next to the fire, his movements short and snappy, his breaths gruff
His sons followed suit, sober as bricks.
Gabe and the boy walked up Second Street, their stomachs full of poached eggs and toast. It had been another breakfast eaten in silence, save for Lucy Watkins, the middle-aged waitress at the Lighthouse Restaurant, who was eager to chat up a storm with Gabe when she wasn't tending to other customers. He'd learned more from her in thirty minutes than he had all yesterday afternoon, poring over Watson Tate's piles of paperwork and criminal records and talking with Gus van der Voort and Clyde Oertmann, two of his deputies. There had been a holdup at Marie's Ice Cream Parlor two years ago, "in broad daylight, if you can believe that!" Lucy had exclaimed. "All they got ofPn Marie was a dollar fifty, though, 'cause Merlin Rogers came walkin' in for his usual afternoon double-dipper and that scared 'em off Dumb tourists was jus' passin' through town. Never did see hide nor hair of'em after that."
Gabe had learned that there'd been a fistfight at precisely 1:28 a.m. this past March at Charley's Saloon-precisely, because Lucy lived in the second-floor apartment above Isabella Peterson's Hat Shop, which happened to be adjacent to the saloon, and she'd been awakened by the ruckus.
Hannah Grace Page 5