Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

  “Ain’t you one of them?” the man asked, snorting.

  “Lord knows I’m trying to be, but I’ve only been here a couple weeks. I’m not much good at it yet. So your friend—and just like you said, another fellow, real tall—well, they turned up a couple nights back, drunk from head to toe. The tall one couldn’t even speak. And they were none too pleasant. Now, my nephew put them to bed. And the strangest thing happened.”

  John Porter was rapt. “What?”

  “They weren’t there in the morning. Neither was the silver, and a blanket, and a fair amount of dry beef. And,” Tom went on as John opened his mouth, “my neighbor’s daughter told everyone she was sure there was someone at her window that night. So I tell you what, John. I don’t know you well, but I reckon someone ought to have a word with those friends of yours.”

  John let out an incredulous breath and gave an exaggerated shrug.

  “I’d love to do that,” he said, and Tom was inclined to think he meant it, “if I could just figure where the hell they went to.”

  “They didn’t go back to Des Crozet?” Tom rubbed his cheek. “They didn’t have mounts, but you could walk it. It’s all they could’ve done. We looked for them ourselves on account of they were so sick from drink, they could do themselves harm. I was sure they must’ve walked to Des Crozet.”

  “I don’t believe they did.” John folded his arms and bit his lip, gazing out at the fields. “Where would they go to? There isn’t anything else like y’all around here, is there? Another camp I ain’t heard of?”

  “No one nearer than Des Crozet, surely.”

  “I didn’t think so.” John snorted again and crammed his hat back onto his head, glancing past Tom. The church doors were opening, and Jeremiah was coming out in the lead with Phillip—and it was just the two of them.

  Tom could picture what had happened. Mary had gone to Jeremiah, who had in turn told everyone to stay in their pews. There had been a murder here, and he was wary now. Wariness didn’t come easily to him, but he was capable of it. Saul wouldn’t have known danger if it had been chewing on his leg, and Thaddeus wasn’t any better. Jeremiah was like Phillip, though. He could be counted on.

  “Gentlemen,” Tom said, waving them over. “This is John. He’s come to visit us. He’s a friend of those two we met the other evening that were so sick with drink, then vanished in the night. I know I’ve asked you both before, and you didn’t know where they’d gone, but I wonder if you’ve heard anything from anyone. Have we seen those two fellas?”

  Jeremiah couldn’t hide his displeasure, but that was all right. John didn’t know that it was displeasure at being dragged bodily into a lie—he’d think Jeremiah was angry because Ben Garner and Scarf must’ve been terrible guests.

  John might’ve already found one or both of the bodies, or he might have Scarf home safe—and heard his story. Tom couldn’t predict every outcome or make provision for every possibility, but he was doing one thing very well: confusing the hell out of John Porter.

  And praise the Lord, Jeremiah and Phillip had the sense not to undercut him.

  “I don’t know,” Jeremiah said, and most of the bewilderment in his voice was real. “Peace be with thee.”

  John grimaced and nodded. He tipped his hat. “Well, I’m real sorry to disturb y’all. Just looking for my friends.”

  “No disturbance,” Tom told him. “Stay and eat with us. Service is about over. We’ll be cooking here any minute.”

  The man looked genuinely tempted. After a long moment, he sighed.

  “I’d better not. But if’n I can impose just momentarily, let me speak to your mayor. Or your lawman. I know my friends are a pain in the ass on their best day, so . . .” He trailed off, pointing at them knowingly. “I got a notion of what you been through. I’d like to apologize.”

  Jeremiah spread his hands. “No apology needed. And God is our mayor, sir.”

  “No apology? They stole from you,” John pointed out, frowning.

  “What?” Phillip couldn’t help himself.

  Tom waved if off. “Asher’s candlesticks. Some food. It’s nothing that’s going to harm anyone.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s awful Christian of you,” John said.

  “Well, we do try. You sure you don’t want to eat with us? These folks know more ways to fix potatoes than you’d believe,” Tom told him truthfully.

  The outlaw smiled. “No, I’d best be going. I can’t eat when my friends could be in trouble. It’s real good to make your acquaintance.”

  “Will we see you again, John?” Tom asked as the other man climbed into the saddle and patted his mare’s head.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” John replied. He tipped his hat again, cantered just enough that the hooves wouldn’t kick up the dirt onto the three of them, then pushed to a gallop.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tom muttered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr. Calvert, I have never wished to put my hands on another man before,” Jeremiah growled as he followed Tom into the house. He’d probably never growled before, either.

  Tom didn’t care; he wasn’t afraid of any Quaker, let alone one twice his age.

  He was afraid of a notorious band of outlaws, as any reasonable man would have been.

  Phillip shut the door of Jeremiah’s house behind them and didn’t say a word. His nerves were evident from the tremble in his hands and the wild look in his eyes. Phillip had a head on his shoulders and it was a cool one, but he was still a Quaker. Yes, he’d come to Friendly Field ten years ago as a young man—but Tom had learned that he’d come from another pack of Quakers to marry a Quaker girl. He’d had no more dealings with outlaws than Tom had, and the notion clearly terrified him.

  “I had to learn things from him, and lying was the best way to do it,” Tom replied, waving a hand. “That was John Porter, for God’s sake.”

  “Now we are a part of your lie,” Jeremiah said. “Deceit is never the best way.”

  “You want me to tell him the truth? That I shot both his men in the woods?” Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’d have done us any better.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?” Phillip’s voice came out slightly shrill.

  “Because, while I can’t speak for John Porter, I know that those two had designs on Friendly Field. I heard it from their own mouths. I told you this. And, more immediately, I had to protect the kid. They might well have done for us right there if I hadn’t shot first.”

  “Do you see a pistol on my belt, Mr. Smith?” Jeremiah asked tightly. “God protects this community. We do not take lives, even if it is for our own protection.” He was going to go on, no doubt to talk about how the son of God wouldn’t even lift a finger in his own defense—even Tom knew that part—but they didn’t have time for that.

  “Don’t you?” Tom raised an eyebrow. “I bet that witch you hanged would have a question or two about that. And where was God when someone was stuffing feathers in Saul’s mouth?”

  That shut them both up, but not for long—these people might not know how to fight, but they sure as hell knew how to argue. They never let Tom see it, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “I would rather die doing God’s will than live and carry the weight of that sin,” Jeremiah said, though it was very nearly a snarl.

  “And I’m not insulting you or trying to say otherwise,” Tom fired back, raising his voice enough to cow the older man, “because I’m already carrying all that, and I don’t like it much. I don’t want your blessing, and I’d think less of you if you gave it. But I don’t have the same faith you have. If I did, I wouldn’t feel the need to do things myself. But here we are.” Tom spread his hands. “God didn’t save Saul, and I don’t have a single solitary reason to think He’ll save you. You don’t have to like it. And you don’t have to like me, but I like you. That’s why I’m not about to
let John Porter make himself at home here.”

  “You’re doing this because it’s the only thing you know how to do,” Phillip snapped. “And you’ve put us all in danger.”

  Someone moved past the window, and they all turned to look. Tom reached over and pulled the curtains irritably.

  “You were already in danger. What I’ve done is let you know it’s coming.”

  “I already carried word to Des Crozet, and I believe that word will be our salvation.” Phillip had some of his confidence now. “If you don’t have faith in God, have faith in greed. These men are worth money, aren’t they?”

  “They are, and I have complete faith that someone will come. What I don’t know is when—” Tom was cut off by a knock at the door.

  Jeremiah opened it to reveal Mrs. Lester, who appeared concerned.

  “We need a little time,” Phillip told her over Jeremiah’s shoulder.

  Three men standing in a dim house with the curtains drawn and no lamp while everyone else was outside eating—well, Tom didn’t care what it looked like. He had bigger problems.

  “Please,” Jeremiah added.

  She nodded, even more worried, and shut the door.

  “Is this what you want?” Phillip asked. “Chaos?”

  That took Tom off guard. “What?”

  “Outlaws in the woods. Feathers and skulls. Saul.” The big man threw up his arms in exasperation. “It’s all to do with you, Tom.”

  “Maybe it’s you who should be under suspicion—you’re the one who got a promotion out of it.”

  Phillip balked, and Jeremiah’s eyes widened.

  “A—a promotion,” Phillip echoed. His hands became fists.

  “He must’ve had an enemy,” Tom told him frankly, “because your friends don’t put a knife in your heart and feathers in your mouth. And there isn’t any damn witch. I think you both know it. Someone used those feathers because they knew about the woman you hanged and thought it would throw us all off. It was real smart to hide it from everyone, but it doesn’t make the problem go away. You still have a murderer here and no idea who it is. But I’ll tell you something—it’s not me or you,” Tom said, pointing at Phillip, “or any man. The one who did it is a woman.”

  Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. “How can you know that?”

  “Because the outlaws saw a woman in the woods. She’s who made that thing we found, she’s who stole it back out of Thaddeus’ house, and she killed Saul. Who is it? Who didn’t like him?” Tom looked back and forth between the two of them. “Was it Eliza?”

  “What?”

  “Did Saul take advantage of her? Did they have an arrangement? Like Thaddeus has with Miss—Miss Adams?”

  Jeremiah’s face went beet red, but he caught himself. Then he shook his head. “No. No, Saul never did that.”

  “How do you know? Can you see through walls?” Tom pressed. “I don’t know who this woman is, but I know something about her. She’s angry. She’s been wronged.”

  Jeremiah and Phillip shared a long look. The older man sighed and went to the table, pulling out a chair to sit. He put his elbows on the rough wood and clasped his hands.

  “That hanging happened before I even came here,” Phillip pointed out. “More than ten years ago, closer to twenty, I thought. Eliza’s hardly older than my daughter. Even if Saul did something wrong to her, she can’t remember that witch, let alone think to use that business in this way. She is a sweet girl. She isn’t disposed to scheming.”

  “Someone could’ve told her,” Jeremiah said, rubbing his eyes. “Saul—I never thought he would do that.”

  “It might not have been her. It could’ve been any woman with a pleasing figure. The outlaws commented on that. They didn’t see her face, but they liked what they did see.” Tom leaned against the mantel. “And maybe Saul didn’t put his hands on anyone. There’s more than one way to give offense, and I didn’t know the man well. But he offended someone. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes.” Jeremiah groaned.

  Tom hesitated, then joined him at the table. He took a moment to let some of the irritation go, then softened his voice.

  “Listen, fellas. I spent a long time by myself. Always plenty of people around, other players and such. Always a pretty girl for the night. But it was really just me and the next stagecoach. For a long time,” he repeated. “It’s not the same here. I got the kid to think about, and it’s no secret that I’m sweet on Mary Black. I liked your way of doing things, at least when there wasn’t any trouble. But it’s different now.”

  “What if I told you that you were no longer welcome in Friendly Field?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I’d leave,” Tom replied easily. “Of course, you aren’t the mayor. And it’s not your way to turn folks away.”

  “As you reminded us, exceptions have been made,” the older man ground out.

  Tom didn’t blame him for this; in fact, he was glad of it.

  “Something tells me you aren’t likely to say that. I’ve already told you what I’ve done. I know all about that weight you’re afraid to carry. That’s the trouble.” Tom made sure he caught Jeremiah’s eye. “I can carry it. It might make me miserable, but I’ll still be standing at the end of the day. What I can’t do is just sit here and wait for the Porter gang to ride into a town of Quakers with no leader, no lawman, and no means to defend themselves. Not when that kid is here, not with Mary here. It’s not that I won’t let it. It’s that I can’t.”

  “What are you planning to do? Kill them?” Phillip asked, now more tired than angry.

  “No. Even I wouldn’t try to draw down on a whole gang, unless it’s an awful small gang, and I gave you my gun anyway. I’ll do what I’m good at. I’ll lie to them.” Tom leaned back with his hands behind his head. “I figured my bluffing days were over, but I guess the joke’s on me. Again.” He gave a little shrug. “I’ll talk them into moving on to someplace else. There’s no sense hoping they’ll do it of their own accord. You heard it from John Porter’s mouth. He’ll be back.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “Let me worry about that. You got your own worries,” Tom pointed out. “I’m guessing this woman killed Saul to settle a grudge. Now, provided that was her only grudge, things ought to go back to how they were. But I’ve been wrong before. You’d better find out who did it.”

  “Are you the mayor now?”

  “No. But if I were you, I’d sleep easier knowing what really happened and that it wasn’t likely to happen again. And if I am wrong, anyone could be in danger. Suppose it is a woman who believes in witchcraft and the devil. Or take it further and suppose it is the devil who’s got a hold on one of your people—you can’t just let it lie and hope it’ll go away.”

  “I know all of this, Mr. Smith.” Jeremiah straightened up, and Tom saw that it was true. It might’ve appeared as though he seemed content to simply move past it all, but he wasn’t. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The trouble wouldn’t be finding Saul’s killer—the town was too small for her to stay hidden for long. Once someone started asking questions, it would come out.

  The trouble was what they’d do when they found her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A lie was like a saloon, a card game, or a bear trap: getting out was never as easy as getting in.

  Tom was used to being the object of curiosity in the sewing room. It had begun this way, with the curious looks and the polite silence. Then the women had gotten over that and questioned him ruthlessly to satisfy their curiosity about the outside world.

  Now they were back to the silence.

  The whole village had been in the church, watching the three of them speak to John Porter. As far as they were concerned, the man was just a traveler who’d gone on his way, and no cause for alarm—yet these people weren’t blind or deaf. They knew something wasn’t right. Jerem
iah had given it away with his words during the service; apparently it was unlike him to preach that way, and Tom wasn’t surprised.

  Everyone in Friendly Field knew something was wrong, but they couldn’t ask about it because they didn’t know what to ask.

  When the day’s work was done, the sun set on a lot of uneasy Quakers, more than a few of them casting worried glances at the road. But the road led south, and Porter had used it to give the impression that was where he was coming from. He and his gang were more likely somewhere to the east, and after talking to a few of the men around Friendly Field, Tom had a fairly good idea where. The men didn’t often go far beyond their fields, but they had the lay of the land, and it sounded as though there was a valley among those hills that would make a comfortable place to camp awhile: plentiful game, a stream and a pond, and even some trees with nuts.

  Charming.

  Mary’s windows were wide open, and the house was brightly lit. That was unusual for her, but Tom was too exhausted from the day to be curious. He knocked, and Mary answered. Rather than ushering him in as she usually would, she stayed in place, blocking the doorway.

  Tom could smell the food, fresh rolls chief among the scents. Sometimes worry and nerves could take his appetite away, but not tonight.

  “Mr. Smith.”

  “I wish you’d just call me Tom.”

  “My mother’s gone to stay with Mrs. Beckett and Mrs. McHenry.” She was visibly troubled. “She tells me it’s because she’s in a foul humor and doesn’t want me to have to suffer it.”

  “But you’re worried she’s ill.” It didn’t take a great mind to work out that much.

  “Yes,” she admitted, scowling.

  Tom sighed. “I guess you can’t be alone with me, can you?”

  “We could eat outside,” she suggested.