by Janette Oke
The boy’s troubled question came timidly. “Can I help?”
“No, son. I can’t even drive my car in this. We’re all on horseback. And you don’t have a horse. Plus, school.” He turned to Lillian. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? You must be chilled through to the bone.”
“I’m fine.”
An argument rose in the corner of the room. “I didn’t say that! I just stated the fact that Thompson said he had Indian boys on his property Saturday. I didn’t say they done it, but you gotta admit it’s awful suspicious that she’s gone so soon right after that.”
Lillian watched as the line of muscles on Lemuel’s jaw tightened. She spun her glance toward the voices. A small group was assembled, still discussing the possible suspects. Only one woman was among them. All at once Lillian realized this was Maeve, her arm linked around a man’s. Lillian wanted to look away, but the face was turning in her direction. Only this time Maeve was smiling back, her lips puckered to one side smugly.
“We should go back to the school. I don’t think this is an appropriate place for us just now.”
“I’ll walk you.” Walter reached for his hat and coat.
Once outdoors, he motioned to a chestnut horse tied to a tree. “Hop up, Lillian. You can get out of the snow, anyway. I’ll lead her.”
She wanted to refuse and claim she was fine, but she knew better. “Thank you.” She hadn’t been on a horse since she was a teenager, and this was going to be difficult while wearing a narrow skirt and full-length coat. Still, her ankles were already burning with cold, and if she was exposed much longer, she feared frostbite. So she placed a foot into the stirrup, grasped the edges of the saddle for a good handhold, and pressed herself upward with all her might. For a moment she faltered, unable to turn her body in order to sit sidesaddle. She caught a glimpse of Walter behind her, his hands extended as if he would help if he could just figure out how. At last she was settled. He lifted the reins and moved out in front. They traveled in silence for most of the trip, each in his own thoughts, trudging through the deep snow toward Lemuel’s school.
At last Lillian ventured, “Walter, what will they do to whoever stole the horse, if that’s indeed what happened?”
“He’ll stand trial. Probably jail time. People don’t take kindly to horse thieves—it still amounts to stealing a man’s livelihood, even survival for some.”
“Oh.” Brooding silence. And then she asked, “How will they prove who stole her?”
“It’ll depend who has possession of her when she’s found.”
“Ah, I see.”
She began to slide down out of the saddle, and this time Walter reached up to help lift Lillian down.
CHAPTER 20
Sacrifice
Harrison, you need to talk to me.” Lemuel shook the sleeping boy.
“What for? Leave me alone.”
He whispered fiercely, “Get up. Get up now.”
Rubbing at his face and stumbling across the floor, Harrison followed Lemuel away from a sleeping George and into the hallway, onward to Lemuel’s smaller bedroom. “Whatcha want?”
Lemuel closed the door but continued to whisper. “Did you take the filly?”
“What?”
“Just tell me the truth. Did you take Marisol?”
“Why do you think—?”
“’Cause I can’t think of anybody else who would.”
The smaller boy started to turn away. Lemuel grasped a handful of his nightshirt. “Do you know what they do to horse thieves? Sometimes they hang ’em. Sometimes they shoot ’em. If they’re lucky, they go to trial and then to jail.”
At last he seemed to have gotten Harrison’s attention, had awakened him fully. “’Ow d’ya know that?”
“I was at the Mountie station today. I heard all the men talking. And even Mr. Norberg said so.”
Harrison’s face contorted with a series of thoughts. The very fact that he was giving so much consideration to his answer was proof enough for Lemuel.
“Tell me where you put her. Tell me right now. I’ll go get her and take her back.”
“No, he’ll sell ’er.”
Slapping at the side of Harrison’s head, Lemuel demanded, “She ain’t yours! And Mr. Thompson’s worried sick. This is so much trouble, you dumb stump! Just tell me where you put her.”
Harrison’s voice broke. “Fine then. There’s an old building in the trees, ’tween ’ere and Thompson’s. Maybe it used ta be somebody’s ’ouse. It’s made outta logs. I put ’er in there.” He began to beg. “But I been feeding ’er. Even shoveled out the room she’s in. I been takin’ good care of ’er.”
By this time Lemuel’s face had grown hot with anger. “She wants her mum. She wants Mirabella.”
Harrison hung his head in shame. “I know.”
The boy sniffled all the way back to his bed. Lemuel began to dress slowly. He was thinking about Walter’s words, about finding the thief based on possession. Was there some other way? If he merely put her back, would the trouble end? Could he claim to have simply discovered her in the woods? Or would anything short of a confession make folks continue to blame Raymond and his people? Should he tell Mr. Thompson? Should he tell Mr. Norberg? What would they do to Harrison if he told the truth? It was a desperate feeling. One thing he knew, Marisol needed to be back with her mother tonight. There was no time to waste.
He bundled up and headed out into the bright night. The full moon lit his path across the rutted snow. He knew the place that Harrison had referred to, had seen it often from the road as they walked past. He looked for a trail toward it in the snow. Why hadn’t the men who were out tracking Marisol seen Harrison’s footprints back and forth toward the house?
Then he remembered the river and how it passed close by the old place. That must have been Harrison’s route. He dropped himself over the side of the small bridge to the water’s edge. It was still early winter and the river flowed freely. At its shoreline, the rocks were large and jagged. Water lapping against them broke up the smooth surface of the freshly fallen snow. And there he saw evidence of another pair of boots. He knew instantly that he was correct. This was exactly what Harrison had done.
He moved along slowly, careful to keep his own footprints hidden from the road as best he could. Still, he couldn’t make a plan form in his mind. He was uncertain how to fix the troubles Harrison had brought down on them both. He could get to the cabin fine, but he knew he’d have to lead the filly out. There would be tracks. And the river flowed away from Thompson’s farm, making it no longer any help.
The filly was tied inside. Lemuel could see just enough in the darkness to know that she’d been cared for. But she was skittish and wild. At first she lurched away from Lemuel, her eyes large with fear. “Oh, Marisol, what’s he done to you?” His teeth chattered with the words.
Moving slowly, an inch at a time, he approached. “Whoa, there. That’s a good girl. You remember me. Settle down, Marisol. I’m here to help.” He cooed the words softly. He had no idea how much of the night was passing. At last he could touch her shoulder. He moved his thick mitten over her back as if he were brushing her out, as if nothing were amiss. “That’s a good girl.”
She calmed, stepped closer. He heaved a sigh of relief and brushed at her some more. “Let’s get ya home.”
Having determined there was no way to hide tracks any longer, Lemuel led the filly out the cabin door and straight through the woods to the main road. They walked along slowly under a clear sky filled to bursting with stars. It was peaceful. It was almost like a pleasant dream. At last they came to Mr. Thompson’s lane. Marisol danced sideways, let out a whinny. She knows where she is. Lemuel began the long walk between the now-barren poplar trees to the barn, wondered what he would do about the lock on the door. And then . . .
“Hold it right there.” A terrible voice spoke from the shadowed darkness. Lemuel heard the sound of a gun cocking.
Two men moved toward him. One stole the lead from his mittene
d hand and drew Marisol away. The other grabbed Lemuel’s wrist, spun him, and threw him to the ground. His face in the snow, Lemuel struggled to speak.
“Shut up!” He felt a rope tightening around his wrist, then the other arm was wrenched from under him. It became difficult to breathe. The second arm was tied tightly.
He was lifted up, dragged to his feet. “Come on this way, horse thief. We gotcha.”
As he was pushed toward the house, Lemuel’s mind refused to think. He lost his balance and dropped to a knee in a drift, was yanked back to his feet. “Move it!”
There were a number of horses tied in the yard. It hadn’t occurred to Lemuel that the house would be watched, that it would serve as a headquarters for those still searching. He stumbled up the porch steps, was shoved forward through the entryway and into the familiar kitchen.
“Lemuel?” Mr. Thompson gasped, leaping from his seat. “Let that boy go right now.”
“Oh, d’ya think? Well, he was leadin’ yer filly up the lane. Bringin’ her home. Here’s yer thief, right here.”
A voice interrupted. “Merle, turn him over.” A red coat appeared at Lemuel’s side, grasped his shoulder firmly but led him to a chair. “Sit, boy.”
He fell onto the seat, eyes on the floor, gnashing his teeth hard. “I was just bringing her back.”
The Mountie untied the ropes from his wrists. Lemuel crossed his freed arms defiantly and tucked his hands under his armpits, then released one hand long enough to wipe his coat sleeve across his eyes. He was utterly humiliated.
“Go tell the men to head home. It’s over now.”
“But what’re ya—”
“Go home, Merle. Take ’em all with you. I’m sure you’ll all know what happened before morning. And it’ll be the talk of town tomorrow. Go home.”
Men from all around the room moved together to the entryway, pulled on their coats and boots, walked out into the quiet night.
As they were leaving, Lemuel heard, “Figures it’d be a kid.”
“Yeah. But not one’a ours. He’s one’a them orphan kids. Wallace was right. Just a bunch’a guttersnipes. They steal ’cause they don’t know no better. Dirty little beggars, every one of ’em.”
Lemuel felt his chest begin to tighten painfully. Mr. Thompson came toward him, knelt down in front of Lemuel’s chair, searching his eyes. “This is a mistake. He wouldn’t do such a thing. What’s going on, son? What happened?”
Lemuel froze. He’d failed to determine a proper course of action, hadn’t even concocted a good lie. He sat looking back into the face of this baffled man who had trusted him, had been so good to him. He could think of nothing to say.
“Did you take her?”
If he said no, how would he explain how he came to have possession of her? If he claimed to have found her, they would just follow her tracks back to the cabin. He could only imagine how much easier the large Percheron horses were to track. Even the little filly had a distinctly large print. They would know someone had been caring for her there. They’d scour the grounds—and they’d find Harrison’s tracks along the river. Lemuel felt tears escaping. He held his tongue.
Mr. Thompson stood. “There’s more to this story than meets the eye.”
The Mountie nodded in agreement.
“I’m going to check on my horses, where they’re bedding the filly. I’ll be right back.” The tall man laid a gentle hand on Lemuel’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back, son. I promise.” His footsteps moved away.
Two Mounties remained in the room with Lemuel. They approached, dragging up chairs in front of him. “You’re out awful late.”
He didn’t answer.
“Best if you speak up, boy. Truth is always your best route. You don’t look like a horse thief, and there’s clearly a reason you brought the filly back, but unless you explain it we’ll have to take you in. You want that?”
Lemuel shook his head.
“Well then?”
He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “I can’t.”
“You won’t?”
“I can’t, sir.”
“Fine then, but we’ll have to take you down to the station.”
He heard a commotion from the doorway to a bedroom off the kitchen. “No, don’t do that.” It was Mrs. Thompson, still wearing a nightcap and struggling to tie her heavy robe. “What’s going on? Why are you talking like that to this child?”
“He brought your horse back, ma’am. It seems he knew where it was all the time.”
“Lemuel?”
Lemuel’s lips began to tremble. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Thompson’s feet pattered across the floor in her slippers. “Oh no, that can’t be true.” She stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, coming to his defense. “There’s some mistake. He couldn’t have done this. He’s just a boy. Arthur will tell you. Where’s my husband? Please, he’s just a boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Got one of my own at home—just about the same age. I take no pleasure in what needs to be done.” The Mountie shook his head sadly.
“Come on, boy.” The other Mountie wrapped thick fingers around Lemuel’s arm.
Lemuel rose, allowed himself to be maneuvered into the entryway. The door opened and he was directed outside. He was already numb, as if he were someone else. The dream he had felt earlier had become a nightmare. He hoped to wake up soon.
But instead he was loaded onto a horse behind one of the Mounties. He was being taken to jail. In the moonlight he passed by the lane to Miss Lillian’s house. They would all still be asleep. How would they learn of his troubles? Who would tell them? He shuddered and bit down hard on his lip in order to keep tears from overpowering him. In his heart he’d been certain that an end would surely come to the sense of belonging he’d allowed to take root—to the sprout of hope in his heart. But it figured that it would be crushed and he’d be alone again. It seemed to be fated for him.
Lillian woke to the sound of rapping on her bedroom door. She rushed closer. “Who is it?”
“It’s me—Miss Tilly. You should come.”
Lillian tossed her robe around her shoulders and hurried out in time to see Grace emerging from her bedroom. They descended the stairs together into the kitchen.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“What time is it?”
Miss Tilly was frantic. Lillian had never seen her in such a state. “Jesse Thompson, at the door. Said his mum sent ’im. They took Lemmy. He’s at the p’lice station.”
“What!” Lillian took a step toward the stairs, then forced herself to concede—quelled the urge to check his room just to be certain.
“Oh me, I gotta sit down.” Miss Tilly’s voice quavered.
“Slow down, dear. Tell us what you know,” Grace said.
“There came a knock at the door, a few moments ago. It was Jesse Thompson, all worried. He said they’ve took Lemuel ta the station on account’a he stole that pony.”
“Lemuel? What?”
“He was caught last night bringin’ her back.”
Grace stared. Lillian shook her head as if to loosen cobwebs in her brain. “Lemuel—he had the horse? He took her back in the middle of the night?”
“Yes. That’s what Jesse said.”
Lillian started toward the stairs again. “I’m going to get dressed. We’ve got to get down there.”
Grace fell in behind her. “We’ve got to wake up Harrison and ask him about this.”
Lillian stopped midstep. “Yes, let’s do that first.”
Miss Tilly called after them. “That ain’t all, girls. The pony’s sick.”
Lillian gasped. How could the news get any worse?
Harrison woke quickly, as if he hadn’t been sleeping soundly. “Miss Grace? What’s the matter?”
“Come with us.”
Down in the parlor their questioning began. “Do you know where Lemuel went? Did he talk to you?” Grace said.
The boy’s eyes shifted back and forth between th
em desperately. “No, I don’t think ’e did.”
“Do you know anything about the horse that was stolen?”
“Marisol? No.” They watched him swallow hard.
“Harrison, Lemuel is at the police station. He’s been arrested. Tell us what you know.”
His face contorted. “They’re not gonna ’ang ’im?”
“No!” Grace asserted her answer, then swept her eyes over to Lillian for confirmation.
“No!” Lillian answered indignantly. She turned back to Harrison. “But he is in very big trouble. He’s old enough that this could land him in prison. He’s already in jail. Speak, Harrison, speak!”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know nothin’.”
Abandoning the boy, they ran back upstairs to dress instead. Soon they were trudging through the snow again toward a darkened town.
“He knows,” Lillian muttered.
“I know.”
The police station was completely quiet. The door was locked. So they knocked and waited. After a moment it opened. “Good morning, officer.” Grace was struggling for breath in the frigid air. “My name is Grace Bennett, and this is my sister, Lillian Walsh. We’re the legal guardians of Lemuel Andrews. May we come in, please?”
“Yes, miss.” He stood aside, holding the door with one arm.
The room was empty. He pulled the door closed again, locking it behind them. “My name is Hayes, miss.” He nodded at Lillian and added, “Miss.” And then, “Would you both take seats at the desk, please?”
“Yes, of course,” Lillian said.
Brushing the snow from around their skirts and stamping their feet, Lillian and Grace hurried across the room. Lillian was grateful that the crowd from yesterday had disbanded.
“We’re holding Lemuel in the back. He’s to be charged with the crime of horse theft.”
“Oh, but he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. He’s just a boy.”
“I’m sorry, but we need to follow the law. These are serious charges.”