by Jan Drexler
With that thought, he sat up and drained his dipper. Davey would need a loft to sleep in. Once he finished pulling this one stump out of the way of the barn he planned to build in the fall, he would start felling trees to get the lumber for the loft. He’d have it done before the wedding, that’s for sure.
By the time evening came, Cap had severed the taproot of the stump. Tomorrow he could hitch the horses to the chain and pull the stubborn thing out of the ground.
He glanced at the sun as he cleaned up in the cold water from the well. Nearly sunset, and he had missed his supper. He had just enough time to see Naomi before full dark came on and she went to bed.
When Cap emerged from the woods between his farm and the Schrocks’, he saw Naomi waiting for him on the back porch like usual, but tonight Davey was with her. They were sitting side by side on the porch step. As he came closer, Davey’s words drifted across the yard toward him.
“But, Memmi, I know someone opened it.”
“Was anything missing?”
Davey shook his head as Cap reached them.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Davey thinks someone got into his chest, but I can’t believe that anyone in our family would do that.”
Cap lowered himself to the step next to Davey. “What makes you think something like that happened?”
Davey rested his chin in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “When I opened it, Ma’s shawl was pushed aside. I always leave it on the top.”
“Maybe you forgot the last time you looked at it.”
Davey shook his head. “That was Ma’s and I’m always careful with it. I lay it on top of everything else and smooth it with my hand.” He demonstrated with a gentle motion, then leaned closer to Cap. “It’s like I’m saying good night to her.”
Cap nodded. He understood. He had done the same with Martha’s dresses during the first year after her passing. “Was anything else disturbed?”
Davey shrugged. “The papers were messy, but I might have done that.”
“Is everything all right now, though?”
The boy nodded. “Do you want to catch lightning bugs with me?”
“You go ahead. I want to talk to your mamm.”
Davey jumped off the porch step. “That’s all you two ever do. Talk and talk and talk some more.” He grinned at Cap. “I’m never going to be a grown-up.”
Cap grinned back at him. “Go catch your lightning bugs.”
Once Davey was off and running after the yellow lights that were thick in the dark shadows under the trees, Cap took Naomi’s hand.
“Do you mind if all we ever do is talk?”
Her smile warmed his heart. “Not at all.”
“Davey seemed pretty upset that someone had gotten into his trunk.”
Naomi brushed her shoulder against his, but he resisted putting his arm around her, conscious of Lydia and Eli sitting at the kitchen table only a few yards behind them, deep in their own conversation.
“He says someone did, but couldn’t he have just been careless the last time he opened it?”
Cap shook his head. “I don’t think so. When he needs to be, he can be very careful. And that shawl means a lot to him.”
“But who would disturb his things, and why?”
“Was someone home all day?”
Naomi leaned her chin in the heel of her hand. “I think so. Davey was up at Jacob’s most of the day while I was at Annalise Yoder’s. Mamm and Daed were home, though.”
A footstep sounded behind them. Cap turned to see Lydia in the doorway. “I ran an errand after dinner, up to the Hertzlers’. And your daed and Henry were busy plowing the east field all day.”
“So the house was empty in the afternoon.” Cap frowned.
“Do you think a stranger was here, in our house?” Eli had joined Lydia in the doorway.
“Was anything else disturbed?”
Naomi shrugged while Eli and Lydia exchanged glances.
“I didn’t notice anything,” Lydia said. “I suppose someone could have been here, but why would someone break in without stealing anything?”
Cap looked at Naomi. “Was anything missing from Davey’s chest?”
“He didn’t say so, but perhaps we should look.”
Naomi went into the house and took the lamp from the kitchen. Cap followed her up the ladder to the loft. Davey’s chest was along the left-hand wall, next to his bed. Cap took the lamp from Naomi as she knelt down to open it.
“Do you remember everything that was in there?”
“I think so.” Naomi lifted the shawl from its place and set it on Davey’s bed. One by one she put the other things on the floor until she reached the bundle of papers. “The papers are out of order.”
“Are you certain?” Cap leaned over for a closer look.
She picked up the bundle and shuffled through them. “When we put them away on Davey’s birthday, the deed to the land was on top. Remember? We wondered if Davey owns that land now. But look, Davey’s baptism certificate is on the top, and then his parents’, and then the deed to the land.”
Cap handed her the lamp and took the papers. He looked through them one by one.
“You’re right, and Davey’s right. Someone has gone through his chest.” He sat back on his heels. “But why?”
Naomi shook her head. “What use are papers like that to anyone?”
Friday morning dawned bright and hot, but Shem didn’t notice. He hunched his shoulders as he sat on the wagon seat driving toward Fort Wayne and the only shop in the area where he could buy glass windows.
Who knew how much they would cost? But Priscilla had insisted on glass windows for the new addition to the house, and she had given him money. So he was driving to Fort Wayne whether he wanted to or not. It was just one of the many things he did now, whether he wanted to or not.
He shrugged. Priscilla had the money, and he had to admit she enjoyed fine things as much as he did. Not fancy enough to raise eyebrows among the members of the church, but nice things. Store-bought fabric for their clothes, soft linen sheets for the beds, white sugar for their coffee.
She curtailed his freedom, that was for sure, but since she came to Indiana, his purpose in life had already benefited from her ambition. Over the last week he had visited each of the eighteen families in the Clinton half of the district, and all but one had been in favor of splitting the existing district in half. That one, Yost Bontrager, was a stubborn farmer steeped in the traditional ways, in league with the Yoders and Schrocks in LaGrange County. Eventually Bontrager would either sell his farm and move east with the rest of the conservatives, or he’d just have to come around.
Priscilla had also been the one to urge him to seek revenge for Cap’s interference in his plans. He patted the secret breast pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket and felt the satisfying crinkle. Even if he hadn’t been able to prove that Davey was Naomi’s illegitimate son, he had the names of the boy’s real parents and other relatives from the baptism certificates. And the interesting twist that Davey’s father had owned land in Steuben County. In some way that information would prove useful. He was sure of it. Cap Stoltzfus cared for Naomi Schrock, and the best way to hurt Cap was to make Naomi miserable. He patted the paper again.
Shem was about a mile past the little town of Ligonier in the late afternoon when a group of horsemen caught up to him. The leader slowed his horse to keep pace with Shem while the rest of the riders hung back, following the wagon.
“Good afternoon.” The man’s lowered hat made it hard to see the man’s expression, whether friendly or not, but the voice was pleasant enough.
“Good afternoon.” Shem glanced at the men behind him. There were at least eight in the group.
“You’re out traveling late for one of them Ay-mish.”
“I’m going to stop for the night along the way.” Shem smiled, trying to put himself at ease. This was the area where the Smith gang was known to frequent, and he had no intention of falling
on the wrong side of a bunch of thieves.
The horseman leaned toward him. “There’s a fine tavern up here, just where Stone’s Trace meets this road. You’ll want to stop there for the night.”
“I thought I’d go a bit farther this afternoon.” Shem worked to keep from glancing at the horsemen behind him. “I want to get to Fort Wayne early tomorrow and finish my business so I can start for home.”
The man shook his head. “There’s a dangerous band of criminals around here. You wouldn’t want to be caught on the open road at night. Best stay at the tavern.”
Shem weighed his options. Had the man just threatened him? Or was it only a friendly warning? He turned in his seat to study the rest of the riders. Priscilla’s coins for the glass windows dangled in a bag from his neck. The heavy sack bumped against his chest where his heart beat so loudly they had to hear it.
He licked his lips. “How do I know you’re not those same criminals?”
The entire group laughed at that. Shem licked his lips again as the leader pulled off a pair of leather cavalry riding gloves.
“At least you’ve asked a reasonable question.” The man pulled a paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Shem. “We’re some of the volunteers who watch this stretch of road, trying to keep travelers like you from finding yourself at the wrong end of the gang’s activities.”
Shem glanced at the paper. It looked official enough, from what he could read of the English writing. “So you think I should stay at the tavern?”
The leader took his paper back and folded it with careful motions. “You should. It would be the safest course to take.” He pulled his gloves back on and pointed down the road. “A half mile down there, just where this road goes southeast and Stone’s Trace continues south. You can’t miss it.”
Shem nodded his thanks as the riders formed into a double line and continued down the road at a trot.
He hadn’t planned to stop in a tavern, but at least he had brought some money of his own to spend on it. He could have a hot meal and a warm bed, and Priscilla would still get her window panes.
The tavern wasn’t crowded when he arrived, but he wasn’t the only guest. A wagon full of immigrants had pulled in from the eastern road just as he drove up, and the family was spilling out of the back of the covered wagon. A boy with light blond hair jumped down and Shem leaned forward. It wasn’t Davey Schrock, but the boy looked enough like him to be his brother. Shem watched the rest of the family as the mother gathered them together while the father drove the wagon on to the barn.
“We’re all here, then?” she said in German. The language was close enough to Shem’s own Deitsch that he could understand her words.
“Ja, Mutti,” the oldest girl answered.
Shem counted the rest of the blond heads. Eight children? No, nine. The oldest boy and the father were walking back from the barn. The youngest was the boy he had seen first, and he seemed to be about nine years old. The oldest boy was at least twenty.
“Well, Mutti,” said the father, “we stay in luxury tonight.”
The mother frowned. “Costly luxury. If it wasn’t for the danger from those thieves, we could save our money and camp along the trail.”
“I’ll not risk your life for a few dollars. It is better to be safe as we start on our journey to Oregon.”
The family walked into the tavern together as Shem drove his team on toward the barn. He fingered the crinkling papers as an idea formed in his mind.
The tavern served supper in the common room. A long trestle table filled the space along one wall, and the innkeeper’s family bustled from the kitchen to the table, setting bowls of steaming potatoes and bread pudding down among platters of roasted chicken, pork, and beef. Shem rubbed his hands together in anticipation. This meal would be well worth the price of the room.
He didn’t take his seat until the German family filed in and sat at one end of the long table, as far from a group of teamsters as they could get. Their obvious distaste for the rough language and unwashed bodies of the other group would work in his favor. Shem smiled. His plans were coming together nicely.
He took a seat next to the oldest boy.
“Good evening,” Shem said in German. “My name is Shem Fischer. You have quite a wonderful family.”
The young man blushed. “Vielen dank. Thank you very much.” He grinned. “Franz Hinklemann. There are many of us, isn’t that right?”
Shem nodded, his mouth full of tender chicken.
Franz cut his beef. “You travel alone?”
“Ja, for sure. I live north of here. I’m on my way to do some trading in Fort Wayne.”
“Ach, ja. Fort Wayne. We have just come from there this day.”
Shem smiled. “You are heading west then. How far are you going?”
Franz beamed. “To Oregon we go. Father learned of this place from a man in Philadelphia. Good country, he says, and a new home for us.”
Shem glanced at Franz’s parents. They sat at the corner of the table, heads together as they discussed something.
“Is your father worried about something?”
Franz glanced toward his parents. “Ja.” He kept his voice low. “Very worried. We have already used much of our money, and Father is afraid we will not have enough to take us all the way to Oregon. It is already much farther than he was told.”
“I might be able to help.” Shem cut another bite of chicken with his knife. “After supper, ask your father to meet me on the front porch of the tavern.”
Franz nodded. “Ja. I will. Danke. Danke.”
Shem finished eating before the Hinklemann family and wandered out to the front porch with a mug of coffee. He fingered the pouch under his shirt. Priscilla’s windows would have to wait, but she wouldn’t mind when she heard how he had worked things out. He grinned to himself. She would enjoy watching his plans unfold, just as he would. Now, if only the Hinklemanns would agree.
Wilhelm Hinklemann paused by the large fireplace in the taproom of the tavern and took a twisted paper spill from the crock on the mantelpiece. He tamped the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe, then lit the spill in the fireplace and held it to the leathery, pungent leaves. Drawing in air by puffs, he waited for the pipe to catch, but all the while he peered through the open door to the porch beyond. He hadn’t missed Franz’s conversation with the stranger at dinner, and when his son told him the man had an idea to help their family, he had grown suspicious. But it wouldn’t hurt to see what the proposal might be.
Once the pipe was lit, Wilhelm strode out to the porch, as if wanting to take the night air.
“Herr Hinklemann.” The little man appeared at his elbow before he was even away from the light that poured onto the plank flooring through the doorway.
“Ja, that is I.”
“Let us go to the end of the porch over here and have a seat.” He led the way to a table sitting in the lamplight that filtered through a window.
Wilhelm settled into his chair with a grunting sigh. The chair was well-built and felt good after a day on the hard wagon seat. “My son said you had a proposition for me.”
The other man shifted forward in his seat and placed his fingers together in a steeple. “My name is Shem Fischer. I’m a minister in the Amish church.”
Wilhelm nodded. “Ach, ja. I have heard of these Amish.” He frowned. “No one seems to like these Amish people, and yet, here you are.”
Shem Fischer paled, but went on. “I think you have a problem, and I think I have a solution.”
“Ja?” Wilhelm settled back in his chair. He did have a problem. Money was jumping out of his pocket faster than he could stop it. “How can you help?”
Herr Fischer leaned toward him. “In our community, if there is one in need, someone will step in to help him out. Even if that one is a stranger to us.”
Wilhelm raised his eyebrows, waiting for the man to get to his point.
“A few years ago, one of our members came upon an orphaned child. His family had
been killed in a storm, and only this little boy survived. She took him in and has been raising him ever since.”
Wilhelm nodded. “Go on. What has this child to do with me?”
Herr Fischer lifted his hands in a shrug. “The child is unhappy with us. He needs a family of his own kind.”
Eyes narrowed, Wilhelm leaned forward. “You think we need another child to raise?”
“You must let me finish.” Herr Fischer leaned back in his chair. “This boy, eight years old, inherited his family’s property when they were killed. He is the owner of one hundred sixty acres of land in Steuben County.”
Herr Fischer stared at him while Wilhelm took in this information. One hundred sixty acres of land? The child was as rich as Croesus.
“In addition, I am willing to pay ten dollars, in gold, for his care and any incidental expenses you might encounter.”
Wilhelm tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. Ten dollars would help him get his family farther west, but it wouldn’t solve his problem completely. “You say the boy is unhappy?”
Herr Fischer nodded, his face solemn. “He misses his family, his real parents.”
“Why do you think he would go with us?”
A grin settled over the other man’s face. “We will tell him that you are his uncle. His own mother’s family. You have been looking for him, and now you are overjoyed to have found him.” Herr Fischer leaned forward again. “The boy looks just like your family. In fact, when I saw your youngest son climb out of your wagon this afternoon, I thought he was our Davey.”
Another son. Wilhelm knew he had crossed a threshold, but smiled anyway. This boy would fit in with their brood easily enough.
“Eight years old, you say?”
Herr Fischer drew some papers out of his jacket and turned them to catch the lamplight filtering through the window. “David Muller, born June 1, 1838. Parents Charles and Edwina Muller.” The man peered at Wilhelm. “You’ll have to say your wife is the sister of the boy’s mother. That will solve any problems with names.”
