Manson spat off the side of the porch. “You men do what you think is best,” he said, walking down the steps and toward his forge. “I don’t have the heart to hunt Ephraim. Don’t matter what the price on his head is.”
Isabel’s eyes grew hot, and heavy tears began to course down her cheeks. She turned away from the window and ran upstairs to her bedroom.
Peyton returned at noon, a stack of printed bounty notices in hand. Isabel stopped polishing the candy counter as he removed his hat and approached her father.
“Can I post one of these outside your store, sir?” he asked.
Her father glanced at the paper and nodded. “Of course.”
Isabel’s whole body felt tense. “You’re going to let him post a bounty for Ephraim,” she snapped, “on our store?”
Peyton and her father both turned to face her. Peyton set the bills on the counter, removed his hat, and walked over to her. “Isabel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Isabel’s eyes pricked, hot tears blurring her vision. She slammed her fist down on the counter. “Everyone’s in a hurry to hang Ephraim, but he’s the nicest boy I know. Anyone that knows him would tell you the same.”
Peyton reached across the counter and put his hand on Isabel’s shoulder. His brows knitted together in genuine concern. She hated it.
“I know he was your friend, Isabel. I can’t believe he did what he did either. Just a few nights back, I was out huntin’ coons with him.”
“Well, I don’t care what you say. I still don’t believe he shot Silas.” Isabel felt her face reddening. Deep down she knew the truth, but she dared Peyton to challenge her.
Peyton shrugged. “Good folks go bad sometimes, I guess.” He cast about, looking for the right words. “My pa had a dog once, one of the finest foxhounds around. He was an excellent hunter, gentle with us when we were little. One day, he just went mad. Nobody could figure out what was wrong with him. He snapped at anyone that came near him. So Pa had to put him down.”
Isabel skewered Peyton with her gaze. “Don’t you dare compare Ephraim to some dog.”
Peyton retreated. “Isabel, I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”
“Go hang your reward outside, and get out of here,” Isabel said, raising her chin.
Peyton bowed his head and left the candy counter. He retrieved the bounty bills and went to the front door, arms hanging loosely by his sides. In the doorway, he turned and regarded Isabel with a heavy expression.
She glared at him, eyes still burning with hate and tears. “What?”
“I enjoyed dancin’ with you the other night. You’re quite a fine partner.”
Isabel didn’t know what to say.
“I was goin’ to ask if I might walk you to church this Sunday, but I don’t suppose you’d want that now. Look, I know you’re hurt because you’ve lost a friend. I’ve just lost a friend, too, and a brother. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
He tipped his hat and left.
Isabel glared at her father. He glanced from the door to her, his brow furrowed.
She burst into sobs and hunched over the candy counter, burying her face in her arms.
Her father’s footsteps came nearer. He cleared his throat and patted her back. “I know you were friends with the Cutler boy, Isabel, but I had no idea you were so attached to him.”
Her sobs grew louder.
“I didn’t mean that I don’t care for the boy, too,” her father continued. “What happened is a shame. His life ain’t been easy. His ma ain’t been well for some time. For all we know, she’s been filling his head with all kinds of madness. Even a straight tree will start to bend if the wind don’t let up.”
Isabel looked up from the counter. Her breath left a cloud on the glass she’d just polished, right over the horehound candy and lemon drops. “So you don’t think he’s all bad, then?”
“No, I don’t.” Her father rubbed his chin. His gaze drifted toward the window. “Some folks are the product of their own wicked ways; others are just victims of the times. There’s a lot of things around here that ain’t been the same since the war.”
A fresh flood of tears took Isabel. She walked into her father’s arms and buried her face in his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I think you must have fancied him your beau, and your heart’s broken, but that Henson boy is an honorable man. And Isabel, he aims to court you.”
Isabel didn’t wait to see if Peyton showed up on Sunday. At church, she found a seat in the back, far from him and everyone else.
She’d heard the talk. Every man and boy in town who owned a hunting dog had been combing the woods at all hours of the day and night, searching for Ephraim. And he’d been spotted in countless places: the old Sherman cabin, the Millers’ apple orchard, the Ewings’ farm. Hebe Washburne swore he’d had the boy on the run until he disappeared down a badger hole. Men had been stampeding from one end of the county to the other, flocking to every rumored sighting like prospectors in a gold rush. Everyone who stopped at the store talked about what they would do with the reward money.
Isabel surveyed the congregation and wished that lightning would strike every one of them. Here they were at church on Sunday morning, like good Christians, yet as soon as the sermon ended, they’d be back out hunting Ephraim. To them, he was no more than a coon with a two-hundred-dollar hide.
Isabel had the backmost pew all to herself. As she sat there, contemplating the hypocrisy of the congregation, the door to the church opened. She looked over her shoulder and saw a piece of paper flutter through the open door. A man entered behind it, snatching the paper out of the air. He ducked his head and took a seat next to Isabel.
The stranger’s clothing was practically in rags. He removed his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a head of greasy black hair, and smiled at Isabel, then turned his attention to the front. The warm scent of an unwashed body wafted over to her.
A moment later, Reverend Boggs appeared, Bible in hand, and walked to the pulpit.
The newcomer’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the preacher, and he fiddled with the scrap of paper in his hand. Isabel squinted at it. It was covered in a layer of grime, but several rows of tiny, neat handwritten script showed through the dirt.
Reverend Boggs cleared his throat and opened the Bible. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, “as you know, a dear member of our congregation has recently passed away.”
The man next to Isabel leaned forward, his jaw clenched.
Boggs continued. “I’ll save the eulogy for the funeral this afternoon. But suffice it to say that Silas Henson was a devoted servant of the Lord.” He laid the Bible on the pulpit and flipped it open. “Let us turn our attention to the Book of Exodus, chapter twenty, verse thirteen. It is from this verse I will be taking my sermon today, as it is a matter that concerns this small town of ours. The sixth commandment tells us, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ It literally means, ‘Thou shalt not murder.’ You see, while all murder is killing, not all killing is murder.”
Next to Isabel, the stranger shifted. He leaned over to her and whispered, “This preacher, how long’s he been here?”
Isabel leaned away from the man’s rank breath. “Um, about seven years, I think.”
The man nodded and sat back in his seat.
Reverend Boggs got into the swing of his sermon. “Those who kill in war are not murderers. However, those who engage in brutal crimes are.” He paused and held up a finger. “May I pose this question to you? Why is murder a sin against God?” He walked out from behind the pulpit, hands clasped behind his back. “Why do we find this injunction in the Ten Commandments?” He took several paces, frowning. He stopped suddenly and turned to face the audience. “It is because murder intrudes into God’s territory.”
A few murmured amens came from the front row.
Boggs paused for a moment and studied the congregation, judging the effect of his pronouncement. “Murder intrudes on God’s territory, brothers a
nd sisters. God controls man’s entrance into life, and he controls man’s exit from life as well.”
He turned and resumed his pacing. “Many of you have heard me denounce, from time to time, the practice of doctoring, the work of so-called ‘granny women.’ It is for this selfsame reason that I do so. Doctoring—attempting to prolong life through the works of man—intrudes into God’s territory in the same way that murder does.”
He turned and stared out over the audience again. Isabel thought she saw a flicker of recognition in the reverend’s eyes as they passed over the stranger sitting next to her. The man shifted in his seat, quickly bowing his head and clasping his filthy hands together in mock prayer.
Boggs frowned and shook his head. He appeared to have lost his place. He glanced back at the Bible before resuming. “Brothers and sisters, if there are any of you here today with a murderous spirit in your hearts, I am calling you to repent and forsake your evil ways here and now!”
Someone in the congregation called, “Amen!”
Boggs nodded. “Now, on to the subject of those who have committed this heinous crime. Murder demands justice!”
Isabel heard Peyton say, “Amen.”
“When a man commits murder, it is the duty of the law to make every effort to catch and punish the guilty. There is a price for murder—and that price is death!”
A flurry of amens erupted from the pews containing Peyton and his kin.
The stranger leaned toward Isabel again. “He’s talkin’ ’bout that boy, ain’t he?”
“What?”
“The boy, the one who shot that feller the other night.”
Isabel nodded. Did the whole world know what Ephraim had done?
“What’s his name? The boy’s?”
“Ho! In the back there,” Boggs said.
Isabel jumped. All the heads in the congregation turned to face her. She folded her hands in her lap and looked away from the stranger.
“Is there something the folks on the backmost pew would like to add to my sermon?” Boggs asked, his eyebrows raised.
The stranger ducked his head, donned his hat, and pulled the brim over his face.
“I don’t believe I’ve met you before, sir,” said the reverend. “What is your name, and what brings you to the church at Sixmile Creek this Sunday morn?”
Without a word, the stranger rose and walked quickly to the door. He opened it, stepped outside, and disappeared.
The buzz of a few whispered conversations arose, but Boggs cleared his throat, and the congregation quieted as everyone turned back to focus on the pulpit.
The reverend picked up the Bible and sauntered in front of the pulpit. “Romans thirteen, verse four,” he read. “But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid.”
13
The Sinkhole
Ephraim felt stir crazy. Five days had passed since Boggs had freed him from the jail, and apart from cautious trips to the privy, he hadn’t left the preacher’s home at all. After the church service on Sunday, Boggs had tried to talk with Ephraim about leaving Sixmile Creek, but Ephraim wouldn’t hear of it. He couldn’t leave Ma to fend for herself.
For most of the past few days, the reverend had been out helping with manhunts—to avoid drawing any suspicion to himself. Today, however, the reverend stayed home, sitting at the desk next to his bed. He had several volumes open, and he scratched notes in his book of sermons. Ephraim sat near the hearth and watched quietly.
A knock sounded at the door.
Boggs rose quickly from his chair. He reached into his coat and pulled out his tomahawk. “Hide in the cellar,” he whispered.
Ephraim lifted the hatch in the floor, climbed inside, and pulled the hatch shut. But he stayed at the top of the ladder, where he could hear what went on above.
There was the sound of the front door opening, and then a voice said, “Reverend Boggs, you’d better come quick! Lucretia Cutler has poisoned herself! She’s dyin’!”
Coldness struck Ephraim at the core. No. He backed down the ladder, putting distance between himself and the grim news. His mouth felt dry.
But… but I shot Silas! Ma said if I killed him, she wouldn’t drink the foxglove.
“I’m coming,” came Boggs’s voice from above. “You run along and tell her I’m on my way.”
As soon as the front door shut, Ephraim emerged from the cellar. “I’m comin’ too.”
Boggs slid into his coat and grabbed his hat from the peg by the door. “I wish you could, Ephraim, but under the circumstances it wouldn’t be wise. Let me go and see how she is. I’ll come back as soon as I can. We’ll find a way for you to see her if things are as dire as Lucy says. But until then, please stay here.”
Without waiting to hear the boy’s protest, Reverend Boggs stepped out into the yard and shut the door behind him.
Time trickled by. Ephraim sat the table, his head in his hands. Boggs’s words about Jonah’s bargain surfaced. Maybe I can bargain for Ma’s life.
He tapped a curled knuckle against his lips. Unable to sit any longer, he rose from his chair and paced the floor.
“Lord,” he said, “please take me and spare Ma. She’s crazy, and she don’t know what she’s done. I killed Silas, and I knowed better. Take me and let her live.” Ephraim looked at the ceiling, wondering if his prayer had been heard. He couldn’t bring himself to speak anymore, so he continued his pleading in silence. God, please save Ma. I’ll do anythin’!
As he passed the reverend’s desk, a book caught his eye: a handsome volume bound in leather the color of black cherry juice. Brass fittings protected its corners, and the cover was adorned with gold leaf in the shapes of stars and a crescent moon. Despite the turmoil of his thoughts, Ephraim felt an inexplicable curiosity.
He opened the cover.
The first page was torn; its right half was missing. Ephraim read the handwritten words that remained:
The Record of Abe
For the year of Christian Account
Containing a calendar of every season
A single dry leaf slid out from between the pages. Ephraim picked it up. It reminded him of the dried herbs Barefoot Nancy carried in her wagon.
Barefoot Nancy.
Ephraim looked up from the book. If anyone could save Ma, the old granny woman could.
I’ve got to find her.
He placed the leaf back in the book and closed the cover.
“How’s Ma?” Ephraim asked before the preacher had even finished shutting the door.
Boggs hung his hat on the peg before answering. “She’s weak, Ephraim. Only the Lord knows if she will survive this.”
“I think Barefoot Nancy could help. I need to find her.”
The reverend pulled out a chair and sat down at the table across from Ephraim. “Ephraim, you know what I’m going to say about that.”
“You don’t like Nancy, I know. But if anyone can draw the poison out of Ma, it’s her.”
Boggs leaned across the table and fixed Ephraim with a firm look. “Your ma has tried to take her own life. This is a matter for the Lord, and the Lord alone, to sort out.”
Ephraim’s chest felt hot. “You told me that for every problem in life there’s a way to work around it.”
The reverend gave him a sharp look. “There’s a difference between working out your own salvation and appealing to the witchery of a godless crone.”
“That’s easy for you to say—it’s not your ma that’s dyin’!” Ephraim snapped, slamming his fist on the table. He stood. “I’m goin’ to find Nancy.”
“Ephraim. I forbid it.” The reverend’s tone was icy.
“You can’t do that.”
“Indeed I can. You are a guest, a refugee in my home. I demand that you keep my rules. Barefoot Nancy is a sorceress, a witch. She meddles in matters of eternal consequence, things that should be left to God. You cannot go. She is not your ally. I am.”
Ephraim slumped in his chair.
“Besides,” Boggs said, folding his
arms, “in addition to the whole town hunting for you, I saw the stranger you mentioned the other day.”
Ephraim looked up. “The one that asked about you?”
“I believe so. He came into the church today.” Boggs’s expression grew grave. “I don’t have a good feeling about him, Ephraim. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a preacher, it’s to trust my intuition.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something demonic about that man.”
“Demonic? You mean like the Devil?”
Boggs stood. “We should be careful speaking of such things. Evil hears its name called. I’ll say this, and no more: it could be that your crime has drawn forces far more sinister than a lynching party to Sixmile Creek.”
After a supper eaten in silence, Boggs lit a lamp and lay on his bed reading the Bible, while Ephraim lay on a blanket near the hearth, staring into the flames.
Ephraim felt grateful to the reverend for freeing him from the jail. And Boggs was right about the foolishness of leaving the safety of this house: if anyone caught him, he would die. But somehow, this didn’t matter that much. Ephraim still hadn’t gotten past the idea that death might be exactly what he deserved. And now, with Ma’s life hanging in the balance, he felt he had no other choice. Ma was crazy, she was bitter, she had pushed him to do a horrible thing… but she was still his mother. Pa had left him to take care of her, and that duty mattered more to Ephraim than anything else.
Boggs closed his Bible and knelt by his bed, hands clasped in prayer. After a few minutes, the reverend stood and looked at Ephraim.
“Are you going to sleep soon?”
“After a bit. I can let myself into the cellar when I’m ready.”
The reverend nodded, blew out the lamp near his bedside, and lay down. Before long his breathing slowed and the tuneless whistle of his snores sawed through the air.
Ephraim waited, counting the preacher’s breaths. He eyed the door. If he didn’t try to save Ma, he’d have the weight of two deaths burdening him for the rest of his days. Whether he got caught or not didn’t matter. And as for the strange man, he didn’t share the reverend’s worry. The stranger had smelled worse than a rotting catfish, but he hadn’t seemed devilish.
Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1) Page 9
