Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  “Adams,” Tom repeated, watching them closely. “Is she alone?”

  “She is,” Mrs. Heller said, but her eyes were still on her work. She was embroidering a kerchief, something she did beautifully and generally quickly. Today her needle was even slower than Tom’s. If she was exercising discretion, then the business at hand was serious indeed.

  Mrs. Young pushed a lock of golden hair aside, and Tom knew that look well. She was trying to see this in a charitable light.

  “Is Miss Adams not known to us?” he pressed.

  “She is not. She was invited here from some distance away, I understand,” Mary told him, and her eyes said more than her words did. She wanted him to drop it, but he had no plans to let them off so easily.

  “Will she be joining us? Or the other ladies, perhaps?” The womenfolk did far more than just sewing. There were plenty of chores in Friendly Field.

  That did it; Mrs. White snorted. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “No,” she replied. “No, I think not. In any case, Tom, we will be as welcoming to Miss Adams as we would to anyone else. You as well.”

  “Of course.”

  The topic was closed, then. There were limits to how far he could push. He was glad that Mary was there to remind him where the boundaries were, even if he didn’t always take her advice. He wasn’t terribly interested in this Miss Adams in any case.

  “You know,” he said, going back to his work, “in all my travels, and they have been considerable, there’s one thing I’ve never seen. And that is a witch.”

  If he’d irked them with questions about this Miss Adams, now he’d done the same again. They all looked up in surprise.

  “Really, Mr. Smith, this sort of talk is hardly,” Mrs. White began, giving him a frown, “well, Christian.”

  “It’s a theological matter, isn’t it? Though I’ve never met any of them myself, I have heard things. Actually, in New Orleans, I spoke to this man who—”

  She cut him off. “Mr. Smith, no one begrudges you your past, but perhaps not all your exploits need be shared here. Your candor does you credit, but I think we had best let things of that nature lie. They don’t have a place in Friendly Field.”

  Mrs. White had meant to end there, but Tom held her gaze, looking expectant. Flustered, she did what people tended to do and went on, though she didn’t really want or need to.

  “We have had difficulties with such business. But that was a long time ago, and I would not expect to ever have that sort of trouble again.” She hesitated. “We should not speak of the devil, or he may hear us and come to listen. And if he’s to hear us, he might as well hear us talk of something he won’t care for. Lunch today, for example. Alyssa is in charge of the cake, and I believe you’ll find it heavenly.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Frankly, Tom was surprised that he’d been able to go a full two weeks in Friendly Field without getting so much as a hint of a secret.

  “The stagecoach?” Asher frowned, wiping his brow. The sun was all but down, and the boy frowned up at Tom in the twilight. “It was hardly mentioned, but you understand there is not so much time for conversation in the fields.”

  There was a hint of annoyance there, and it was one of the rare times that Asher looked like someone his age ought to look. He put his back into it out there each day, and that would wear anyone down. All the while, Tom sat in a parlor with a needle.

  “It’s all right to complain a little,” Tom told him.

  The boy sighed, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Mr. Calvert, why not ask the Widow Black about the stagecoach?”

  “Oh, I aim to. Seems there’s been talk of witchcraft here before.”

  That got the boy’s attention. “Oh?”

  “They wouldn’t give me details. I guess it isn’t a subject they much care for.”

  Asher smiled, but he was tired. “I would wager you are correct.”

  “Thaddeus and the others don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Surely they are not afraid of a simple trinket.”

  “That’s the thing, kid. There’s nothing simple about it.”

  “I am hungry. That is a simple matter,” the boy said bluntly.

  “Me too, but forget it. We’ll eat when we get back. I already refused our invitation.”

  The boy looked stricken. “You what?” His voice came out a bit high and shrill. Would it ever change?

  Tom knew how fierce the kid got when he was hungry, but he didn’t care. He’d already told Jeremiah where they were going, and he had his lamp ready.

  Tom clapped Asher on the shoulder. “Maybe we’ll find your mushrooms this time.”

  “But I cannot eat them,” the boy moaned.

  The trek was as difficult at the end of the day as it had been at the beginning. The stars came out, but Tom and Asher kept climbing.

  “Which way, kid?”

  “There, I suppose” was the miserable reply.

  Tom was sympathetic, but Asher had started all this, and Tom couldn’t very well come alone. If he slipped and hurt himself, he might not make it back.

  The going was hard enough to leave him short of breath and sweating, but not so arduous that he didn’t feel the night’s chill. Shivering, Tom hauled himself up the slope, and Asher doggedly led the way.

  “Are you afraid of a witch, Mr. Calvert?”

  “I am,” Tom replied without hesitation. “It’s not like you think, though.” He put his hand out, and Asher reached back to help him past a tangle of roots. “I don’t believe in the devil. But there are folks who do and likely folks who believe in witchcraft. I’m afraid of people who don’t think clearly. You never know what they’ll do. You can work with a reasonable man, but the sort that would—well, that would make that thing you found, he’s the one you have to watch for. He’ll do things, and you won’t see them coming because they don’t make sense.”

  “I think I take your meaning.”

  “I’m afraid of what I don’t see coming,” Tom said, “because that’s what gets you.”

  “I think that’s very well said, Mr. Calvert.”

  It was. Tom never would have thought that it would feel good to say these things; it just wasn’t done for a man to go around talking of the things that frightened him. But Mary didn’t seem to disdain him for it, and neither did the kid. It was sensible to worry about the unknown, at least a little.

  Particularly now.

  He doused the lamp and clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth before he could go on.

  “Easy, kid.” He kept the words to a whisper; the boy had gone rigid. “There’s someone here.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tom hadn’t come up here hoping to find people.

  What he wanted had been some sign, something to help him make sense of things. After all, it was just some feathers and a bird’s skull. It wasn’t harming anyone, and if the kid hadn’t stumbled over it, no one ever would’ve known it was up here.

  Jeremiah had given Tom his blessing to come up to nose around. Tom had seized on that, as he did when he heard things that suited him. He’d allowed himself to overlook the detail that just because one of the town elders approved didn’t mean it was actually a good idea. His curiosity was to blame. He just couldn’t leave a loose thread hanging.

  The right thing to do would’ve been to just let it lie. It wasn’t his first regret, and he just had to hope it wouldn’t be his last.

  He gently pressed Asher against the tree and held him there with his hand on his shoulder so he wouldn’t move.

  There wasn’t much moonlight getting through the leaves, and there were still green stars in his eyes from his lamp, but none of that posed a problem for his ears.

  Someone was over there, not even twenty feet away. Whoever they were, they knew how to move in the b
rush, because they’d gotten awfully close. The noise of the crickets had nearly covered it.

  Tom was more or less in the open, and he’d have liked to find a tree of his own to hide behind, but everyone present would hear any move he made.

  So he kept still, and the night thickened around him and his ears.

  It was one thing to stare a man down over a card game, or even with a gun in hand—but Tom couldn’t take the measure of someone he couldn’t see.

  He was out there, though. The kid was getting squirrelly; even if he understood why they had to wait, he wouldn’t have liked it. The boy was patient for someone his age, but that wasn’t saying much.

  There was one way to take the upper hand: Tom could try to scare them, but it wouldn’t be convincing. His silence up to this point had signaled caution; the man out there would know that Tom wasn’t as confident as he wanted to sound. That, and the lamp. They might have gotten a look at Tom and Asher and seen for themselves that they weren’t threatening.

  This other party had no light at all. There were only so many possible reasons for that, and Tom didn’t like any of them.

  The minutes stretched, and only the breeze and the crickets disturbed the dark blanket of the evening. Nothing stirred.

  Had he been wrong? It would be a good joke if he was out here pretending to be a statue because of a rabbit.

  Tom started to let his breath out.

  “Well,” said a man in the dark much closer than Tom had realized, “I can’t tell if there’s one or two of them.” He sounded irked.

  A second voice spoke up. “It’s two.” This one was a little farther off to the right.

  Swearing silently, Tom pivoted and put his back to another tree. “One and a half, more like,” he said.

  “And who are you?” the first man asked.

  “My name’s Tom. This is my nephew.”

  There was a little pause, which told Tom something. This fellow wasn’t sure what to make of Tom’s confident and articulate way of speaking.

  “I ain’t looking for you and your nephew.”

  “Who are you looking for?” Tom replied easily.

  “A girl.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know her name.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “I ain’t seen her face,” the man replied. “But I seen the rest, and I liked that well enough.”

  “If you aren’t looking for us, you might as well come on out. I won’t shoot you,” Tom said tiredly. He emerged from behind the tree, squinting in the gloom. Two figures materialized, one to his left and one to his right.

  “How about your nephew keeps his hands where I can see them?” the man on the left asked. There was a funny scarf around his neck, and it was bunched up, making his silhouette look unnatural. The other one stood a full head higher than Tom.

  Asher complied. Tom was close enough to see the boy’s face, even in the dark. It was stony.

  “You all got no manners at all,” Tom scolded. Scarf had a hand on his gun, and the tall one had a rifle in his hands. “I didn’t pull on you.”

  “Ain’t no harm in being cautious, folks creeping around in the dark,” Scarf replied, shrugging.

  “Creeping?” Tom spread his hands. “We have a damn lamp, which I’m going to light again presently, and you were the ones creeping in the dark. My nephew and I were not creeping. Creeping is what dubious characters would do.”

  Clearly taken aback, Scarf didn’t have a reply for that.

  “Dubious characters,” the tall one echoed.

  Tom struck a match and lit the lamp, holding it up. The two men didn’t shy from the light; they were dressed for travel and grubby, but not too filthy. Scarf looked as though he’d taken some punches in his day, but he was only as old as Tom. The tall one was younger and in a little better repair. Their clothes weren’t exactly ragged, but these two weren’t bankers.

  “Nothing dubious about strolling in the moonlight,” Scarf said.

  “Looking for girls in the middle of the night?” Tom accused. “In the woods?”

  “It was night last time I seen her too.”

  “And when was that?”

  “That ain’t none of your business!”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Tom shot back. “I’m up here looking for a girl too, and I’ll wager it’s the same one.”

  “What’s her name, then?” Scarf asked.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Mister, you don’t make any damn sense.”

  “I’m not the one out here with no light.”

  “Would you let that go, please?” the tall one asked.

  “I will not,” Tom replied. “Makes me think you’re up to no good.”

  Scarf snorted. “Up to no good,” he repeated. “You haven’t told me your name yet. How’re we to know you ain’t the one up to no good?”

  “I told you my name’s Tom. You just weren’t listening. What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Tom too.”

  “So’s mine,” the tall one snickered.

  “Now, you come from down there, don’t you?” Scarf pointed, and Tom turned to look. They were fairly high up, and there was the slightest glow from Friendly Field. It wasn’t a proper town, but there were just enough lit windows to be visible in the distance.

  “I do.”

  “What sort of place is it?”

  “The village? Haven’t you ever visited?”

  “We have not. In fact, we never knew it was even there. Quiet place, ain’t it?”

  “It is,” Tom admitted. “Even when they’re singing hymns they got no music. No musical instruments, not a one.”

  “Not even a piano for company?” Scarf sounded taken aback.

  “There is no company,” Tom told him frankly. “Don’t you know? They’re Quakers. Most fun they ever have is picking potatoes.”

  “Quakers.” The tall one made a face.

  “That’s how I feel,” Tom said truthfully.

  “Ain’t you one of them?”

  “No, I’m not one of them. I don’t plan to stay. The deputy’s all right, but the sheriff’s a real son of a bitch. Truth is, it’s not my kind of place,” Tom lied.

  “God-fearing people, aren’t they? Quakers?” Scarf said, glancing at the tall one. “Don’t much like guns, do they?”

  “That is what I heard,” the tall one replied, leaning his rifle over his shoulder and scratching his unruly beard.

  “I heard that too,” Tom said, and shot him. Even the tiny shot from the derringer was loud in the stillness.

  He flung the lamp at Scarf, who recoiled and raised an arm to protect his head; the lamp burst, and flames spread across his jacket. Tom took aim and fired. Scarf jerked and stumbled out of sight behind a tree, falling to the ground and rolling to put out the flames.

  Tom limped forward and fell to his knees beside the tall one, who was flat on his back, blood spurting from his throat, eyes wide in shock. Asher stood frozen as Tom felt in the loam for the rifle. He found it and snatched it up, sending leaves flying.

  Curses and groans carried clearly; the shots had momentarily silenced the crickets.

  Tom worked the lever and lurched to his feet, but he couldn’t even raise the rifle before Scarf was up and running—shambling, really—and gone among the trees. Tom squinted and tried to follow, but it was too dark, and the woods were too thick.

  Heart thudding, he lowered the rifle and let out his breath.

  Behind him, the tall one gave one last, rattling gasp.

  Asher tore past him, intending to go after the wounded man, but Tom caught him by his coat and jerked him back, holding him fast.

  “No, kid.” His throat was dry. “Don’t try it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Asher had
figured out a moment too late that they couldn’t let either of these men go.

  Tom wished he could’ve let the kid chase that man down, but it was too easy to picture Scarf out there, hearing the boy crashing after him, hiding behind a tree with a knife. Asher would get himself killed; Tom wouldn’t risk it.

  He looked down at the dead man at his feet, and Asher touched his arm.

  “Mr. Calvert?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You think they would have killed us?”

  Tom peered at the dark trees for a moment before answering.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head. He cradled the rifle in his arms and stood up, nodding at the corpse. “But that’s Ben Garner out of Utah. I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s him all right.” He looked up from the body and squinted into the trees.

  Asher’s eyes widened. “Your acquaintance?”

  “No, kid. He’s—he’s a wanted man, or he was. He robbed a train with John Porter and Harry Peckner if my memory serves. And there was something in El Paso. More posters for him than for . . .” Tom trailed off there, rubbing his chin.

  “An outlaw.”

  “Not just one,” Tom told the boy, though he wasn’t really paying attention. “Look at him. He’s fed. Groomed, at least a little. He’s bathed in the past few days. He’s not on the run, Asher.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “That’s why nobody’s caught up to the Porter gang. They’re camped out here.” He looked east. “In these hills somewhere. There’ll be more of them. I don’t know how many.”

  Scarf was gone; Tom didn’t know what his name was, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was part of the gang. The question was, how badly was he wounded? Was it mortally? His first shot had been good, but Tom had all the time in the world to stand there and plan it while he jawed with the outlaws. The second shot, the one meant for Scarf—that had been another matter, and the derringer just wasn’t meant for this. With his own gun, they’d have been sure, clean kills.

  And that was what he’d needed.

  Tom had tried to find the right thing to say, something that might make those two lose interest or turn back, but there had been nothing. What could he have said? Telling them it was an ordinary camp or town down there wouldn’t have worked. They wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation.