Trail's End

by E. L. Ripley

Tom faced the congregation again, thinking fast. “I gather that no one here has a notion of why anyone might have wanted to see Jeremiah dead,” he said finally. “But do any of you know of any grievances against him? Is there anyone who didn’t like the man?”

  Silence.

  Tom sighed. “I thought so. At any rate—” He wasn’t finished, but he was cut off.

  “What about you?” That came from a man Tom knew: his name was Friedrich, and he did all the woodworking for Friendly Field. “I know Jeremiah was thinking of asking you to leave last night. You had a grievance with him, Tom Smith. What were your whereabouts?”

  Tom twitched. He felt no fear or worry, but he didn’t have time to consider the most practical reply or even to begin to craft a lie that would do the job. Mary didn’t give it to him. She got to her feet.

  “My house—,” she said, and there was only the slightest hint of coolness in her voice. The rest was all calm. It was almost a challenge. “—is where he was all through the night, and I can assure you that Jeremiah’s name wasn’t mentioned.”

  The church had already been quiet; the Quakers were too unnerved even to whisper. Now it was as though they’d all just died on the spot, though only for a moment. All eyes turned on Mary, who wasn’t fazed. She stood with her hands clasped over her apron, that same vaguely regal look on her face. She didn’t look at Tom.

  Her eyes flitted over to Mrs. Heller. “Spare me,” Mary said to her. “We’re all equals here. If you can overlook one indiscretion, you can overlook another.”

  It was as though she’d smashed a barstool over the head of every Quaker in the sanctuary. And shot Thaddeus in the face; if he’d gotten any redder, he’d have burst.

  “Oh, hell,” Tom muttered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tom was no stranger to a full day’s work—not anymore. And it did take the day, or very nearly all of it, to get the work done. To keep the Quakers in line, even when they grew tired and restless from waiting in the sanctuary. When they were hungry and afraid.

  Mrs. White had nothing to add. She had gone to bed while her husband had brooded downstairs, no doubt over what to do about Tom. She said it first to Phillip, then to Tom himself, and with no particular ill will. She wasn’t angry; she was just lost. Her husband hadn’t been a young man, but he’d been strong and spry, so there had been no expectation from anyone that his time was coming soon. The loss was such a shock to her that the detail that it had been murder—she hadn’t gotten around to giving that much thought yet.

  Or at least she said there was no one she had reason to suspect. She couldn’t suspect Tom; she’d sat next to him in the sewing room these weeks. She knew he wasn’t afraid in the slightest of being thrown out of Friendly Field.

  After a full day spent asking questions in the stiflingly hot church, there were only a handful of people who hadn’t been accounted for the night before. Everyone had a family; there was nowhere for any of them to go.

  Friedrich had been in his shop until late into the evening, working by lamplight. There was only his word for that, but he’d had no reason to hurt Saul or Jeremiah, and he wasn’t a woman.

  An old man who still believed in God despite outliving all five of his children had likewise been isolated enough that no one could vouch for him. He walked with a stick, and potatoes grew faster than he could move. He barely had the strength to lift his eyelids, much less a knife. He wasn’t capable of committing the murders or of getting up into the hills and the woods to make that thing with the feathers.

  Mrs. Washburn was the same; she’d been shut up alone ever since leaving Mary’s house, and though she was bad-tempered enough to kill, Tom couldn’t picture it. It was possible.

  Once Jeremiah’s body was brought back, Tom discovered that he’d been stabbed in the back as well. That wound had probably been inflicted first and sent him to the ground. Then the murderer had said whatever she wanted to say to him before inflicting the wounds that had killed Jeremiah.

  An older woman might accomplish that if she could take her victims by surprise, and that was probably what had happened. Saul had been killed in his bed. Jeremiah had first been struck from behind.

  But Mrs. McHenry, who was hosting Mrs. Washburn, said that Mary’s mother was weaker than ever, and Mary seconded that. Further, it was clear that Mrs. Washburn had scarcely left the house.

  There had been more to the job of killing Jeremiah White than just sticking a knife in him. His killer had lured him out of his house and done it without alerting Jeremiah’s wife. Mrs. Washburn—she had the brains for it, but Tom just couldn’t see how she’d have carried it all out without being seen.

  Still, she was the one who stuck in his mind. He knew now why she had left Mary’s house, and it wasn’t just to allow Tom to spend the night, though he was convinced that was part of it. Like her daughter, Mrs. Washburn chafed at some of Friendly Field’s hypocrisy. Holly’s arrival had upset quite a few people. It was one thing to know of a secret vice, and another for it to be flaunted in everyone’s faces. Thaddeus’ decision to simply have Holly in his house was fairly brazen, at least to Tom’s sensibilities. But the old man wasn’t trying to make trouble or offend people; he was just old and not especially bright. The effects of his actions on other people were lost on him. If he’d had any sense, he’d have just ridden out to Des Crozet and seen the women there, then come back.

  But he didn’t have any sense, and he was probably lazy and didn’t want to make the trip.

  Holly and Thaddeus and all of it—they irked Mary and Mrs. Washburn. But a lot of things irked people, and they generally didn’t reach for knives every time they were irritated. And why go after Saul and Jeremiah? Why not kill Thaddeus if that was what this was about?

  Among the meager handful of people who might have been free to commit the crime, Tom couldn’t find even one with a half-decent reason to do it.

  Evening was coming on when he had Phillip let them all out of the church. They’d lost a whole day’s work, but he didn’t care about that.

  “What if there was more than one?” Asher asked as they stood in the waning sunlight, watching the Quakers disperse. Some were going to see to essential chores, and others just returned to their homes.

  A few were openly grateful to Tom for trying to sort things out. Others were angry or suspicious, and they were all afraid. Mary had gone to her mother, but there was no reason for her to hide. The scorn and whatever else she might have expected wasn’t coming, at least not today. It wouldn’t matter once Tom married her, which he fully intended to do if she’d have him, but he couldn’t very well get on with that with this mess unsettled.

  It shouldn’t have been his business; it should’ve been the business of the town’s leaders. But now there were only two of them: one useless and one too new to the job to be any good at it.

  Phillip had pulled himself together, though. He joined Tom and Asher, pausing to massage his temples. It had been a long day, and his head had to hurt just as much as Tom’s did.

  “I thought of that,” Tom murmured to the boy. He had, when they’d discovered the wound on Jeremiah’s back. “I stewed on it for a while. And I don’t think so.” He yawned. “It would explain a lot, if it was more than one murderer, and they could lie for each other and so on, but I don’t think so. There is”—he gestured vaguely—“a secret, a reason, for those two men to die. And if folks knew what it was, they’d be acting . . . different. People like this—if they were knowingly hiding something, we would be able to tell.”

  “A conspiracy,” the boy supplied helpfully.

  “If that’s what it is, I like to think I’d be able to see it. See the ones who aren’t acting right. The only one acting suspicious is Mary’s mother, and she’s not killing anyone. And the rest? They wouldn’t make good criminals.”

  “Could it be one of your outlaws?” Asher asked.

 
“If one of them had survived and found us, he’d be after me. And Saul died before the Porter gang even knew me,” Tom pointed out. “There’s a woman here in Friendly Field, and she’s no witch. She’s just mad as hell.”

  “You sound so sure,” Phillip said.

  “I am, because I know exactly how she feels.” He rubbed his face. “I was on a boat on the Missouri, and a man I beat in cards accused me of being a cheat. Then he tried to accuse me of attacking a woman. None of it was true. And then another man said he trusted the man who did all that. I was mad enough to kill. This woman feels like I did that night.”

  Asher was staring at him.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “You sound as though you are on her side,” the boy remarked.

  Tom sighed. “No. No, we’ll have to stop her.”

  “And then she’ll hang.” That came from Phillip, and Tom wasn’t sure he’d heard the man correctly.

  “Do you mean it?”

  The big man scowled. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m angry as well.”

  “You all have been through enough.” Tom watched the Quakers jerkily try to get back to their day, as though that were possible. Things had changed. The murders. Mary’s words. Thaddeus.

  For a long time, Saul, Thaddeus, and Jeremiah had looked after these folks and done a good job. They had kept things the same. They worked their long days, but they lived in peace and comfort. It was as much as anyone could have asked for. It had to change, though. Those three men hadn’t been getting any younger, and sooner or later, something would’ve come along. If it hadn’t been Tom and Asher, it would’ve been the Porter gang.

  Or someone else.

  Tom didn’t know which would be worse: having to hang another of their own, or keeping the murderer prisoner and waiting for some lawman to come and deal with it. It would be a nightmare either way, and he didn’t want Mary to have to go through it.

  The door of Thaddeus’ house opened, but no one appeared. After a moment, a bag tumbled out into the open, falling down the steps and into the grass, then another. Holly appeared, carrying her other things.

  “What in the world?” Tom said, frowning.

  “She appears to be in a hurry,” Asher noted, and what was that? Amusement in his voice?

  Tom wasn’t listening. He limped out across the grass toward her as several of the Quakers looked on.

  Holly couldn’t possibly have all her things, but it was still enough that she couldn’t conveniently carry it all. Tom saved her from dropping them, and she glared at him.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, bewildered. “Is he throwing you out?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Throwing me out? No,” she hissed.

  “You’re leaving?”

  Of course she was. This wasn’t what she had come here for. Two people had been stabbed, and they still didn’t know why or by whom. All Holly knew was that she wasn’t very popular in Friendly Field. She didn’t feel safe, and Tom couldn’t very well blame her. For all she knew, she’d be the next one to wake up with a knife in her. Tom was fairly certain that wouldn’t be the case, but her comings and goings were her own business.

  “He got his money’s worth,” she told him, and it sounded as though that was all the justification she planned to offer for leaving before whatever time agreed upon.

  “You can’t walk to Des Crozet,” Tom told her flatly.

  “I will not wait.”

  “Hey, Finn!” Tom called out to a man carrying a sack of apples toward the church.

  “Yes?”

  “Thaddeus has offered Miss Adams a horse,” Tom lied. “Any one she likes. Can you go get her fixed up? She wants to leave right away.”

  Whatever irritation the Quakers might have felt at giving Holly a horse would be easily overshadowed by their relief at seeing her leave. They couldn’t help but see her as being far more of a problem than the fool who’d summoned her. Given enough time, they would twist the memory into one in which the wicked temptress had led the virtuous man astray instead of the amorous old fool spending money that wasn’t his on the very things he preached against.

  That, Tom could live with. He didn’t care for it, but the sun would keep rising.

  These killings, though—he couldn’t look at them quite the same way.

  “I’m not a damn lawman,” he muttered as he walked away.

  “Your pardon, Mr. Calvert?”

  “It’s nothing, kid.”

  He wouldn’t ever see Holly again, though he hadn’t realized he wanted to until she had turned up here. She was pretty and good at what she did, but it was her decency and sense that Tom had always liked. Now what he liked about her was familiarity. Everything was so strange here and only getting stranger—so there was comfort in having someone he had a feel for around. Someone who knew him. Not just who he was or who he was trying to be, but who he had been.

  “Make some dinner, will you?” Tom prodded the kid’s arm. “I’m starved.”

  “All right. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to call on Mrs. Washburn. And make inquiries about her health. Find Phillip and have Thaddeus come over to eat with you and me. Don’t take no for an answer. If Holly’s leaving, there’s no one to cook for him.”

  “Why with us?” the boy asked, taken aback. “I do not mind,” he clarified quickly, “but there cannot be any shortage of families keen to host him.”

  “He’ll feel safest with us,” Tom replied honestly.

  “But we are strangers.”

  “Yeah. I’m also the only thing in this place that scares him more than this murderer.” Tom took his hat off to fan himself, and in the light of the sunset, he could see the look on Asher’s face. “What?”

  “You believe him to be in danger?”

  “I don’t expect him to last the week. If our witch doesn’t kill him, his heart’ll likely give out. There’re two people in this village hiding something, and he’s one of them. I don’t know why he’d be good at keeping a secret. He isn’t good at anything else.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. McHenry was in her parlor with Mary. They both rose to their feet at Tom’s arrival, and he took off his hat. Mrs. McHenry couldn’t have been glad to see him, but at least there was no hostility on her face or in her voice. The sleeves of her gingham dress were stretched where she’d been clutching at them.

  “Peace be with thee.”

  “Also with you,” he replied, taking in the raw vegetables on the table and the cold stove visible in the kitchen through the door. “We’re having supper shortly. Could I bring you something?”

  “No, I will get started presently.”

  “Mrs. Black, may I have a word?”

  “Of course.”

  He took Mary into the hall but kept his distance. “I apologize,” he told her.

  “For what?”

  “All of it.”

  “I chose for myself to say it.” She couldn’t have possibly felt as carefree as she made the words sound. “And I did so on the one day it might not be the biggest scandal in Friendly Field.”

  There was a smile with those words, and Tom had to admit she was right. A clever way to ease her conscience while also easing the consequences. He doubted she felt any genuine guilt about what she had done, but she didn’t like dishonesty. She had wanted to tell. And she had to be far more troubled by the murder than by the scandal in any case.

  “Would it cause great offense if I waited until things settle down before I propose?”

  She gave him a look. “Why broach the subject if not to do it?”

  “I guess to assure you it was my intent,” he replied, a bit sheepish.

  “I never thought otherwise,” she murmured, then snorted. “If it wasn’t your intent, there would have been an
other murder in Friendly Field.”

  Tom was surprised to hear a joke like that, today of all days. Maybe today was when they needed it. Trying not to laugh, he twisted his hat between his hands.

  “No need for threats, ma’am. There’s nothing I want more. I’d like to do it right,” he went on. “I’ll even get down on one knee.”

  She frowned and eyed his leg. “Can you?”

  “It’ll hurt.”

  “Do it standing, then.”

  “Well, fine, I will.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “Very well. Is your mother in?”

  Mary sobered at once and nodded. “She is upstairs.”

  “Is she well?”

  “She’s out of sorts.” That was what Mary said, but she was worried.

  “May I see her?”

  She frowned and glanced past him, but Mrs. McHenry was busy in the kitchen.

  “For what purpose? She is not inclined to callers.”

  Tom believed that, but that wasn’t all he believed.

  He sighed and looked her in the eyes. “She knows something.”

  The frown deepened. “Of . . . ,” she began but halted, brows rising. “Do you mean to say she knows something of Saul and Jeremiah? That’s nonsense, Tom. How could she?”

  “She’s a sharp lady. If it’s nonsense, I’d like to hear it from her.”

  Mary was at a loss. Seeing that he was serious, she licked her lips and straightened up. “All right,” she said, looking dazed.

  “Thank you.” Tom ducked his head and went upstairs. The Quakers built sturdy homes, and the fresh pine hardly creaked at all.

  He knocked.

  “Is that Tom?” Mrs. Washburn asked wearily.

  “It is, ma’am.” He let himself in to find her in the chair by the window. She made no obvious show of displeasure as he closed the door behind him. In fact, she wasn’t even looking at him.

  “There’s weather coming,” she predicted, gazing out as the last light of evening faded.

  “Seems calm enough.”