Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  Feeling an increasing urgency, she placed a portmanteau on her bed and packed her other dress, a blue calico trimmed in a tiny band of white lace. She folded the two quilts they owned. Was she being foolish in running? She had moved so many times that she traveled lightly, carrying only necessities and a few clothes for both Michael and herself. For a moment she felt a pang. She had made good friends here in Natchez, and the pay was the best she had ever made. But she had kept Michael safe this long by trusting her instincts and skipping town whenever she felt something wasn’t right. She would continue to do the same. The tall man with the black beard made her nervous, and that was sufficient cause to move on.

  In minutes she was ready and shook Michael gently. “Michael, wake up. Honey, wake up.”

  He opened his dark eyes and looked up at her. “Someone’s after us, Mama?”

  It hurt to have him ask that question, yet what choice did she have? “Yes, I think so. We need to go now. You get dressed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she leaned down to give him a squeeze. He was warm and smelled of soap, and she wanted to pull him close and rock him and sing softly to him instead of packing and running away in the night.

  “Get dressed, Michael, while I write Tillie Mae a note and hitch the horse to the wagon.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As she stepped outside, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She scanned the yard for signs of anything unusual. Behind the house the high bluff was a dark, solid mass, moonlight showing on a jagged edge at the weed-covered top. It was a rough part of town, but she had felt secure in the little house and she hated to leave it. She hurried across the yard to the shed, which was merely a roof on posts. She took down the halter and crossed to hitch the bay to the wagon.

  “Whoa, there,” she said softly. It was dark and more difficult to see in the shed, and a sudden chill made the back of her neck crawl. Something scraped close behind her, and she stiffened.

  The tall black-bearded man from the saloon stepped out of the shadows and raised a revolver, pointing it at her. “Miss Dryden, I’ve been looking for you.”

  She gasped, turning to run, but his hands caught her and spun her around. He pressed the muzzle of the pistol painfully against her throat.

  “Don’t run from me!” he said in a rasp. “I’m taking you back. If you want the boy, you’ll cooperate.”

  “Please, don’t take him to Trevor Wenger. I’ll pay you more than he has if you’ll let us go,” she said, feeling cold terror. Her heart thudded. I’m going to lose Michael! I’ll lose Michael. They’ll take him away from me. “Please, listen.”

  “We don’t have time now.”

  “You have to listen. Trevor Wenger is a cruel man.”

  “I’m not taking you to Trevor Wenger,” he said, “and we have to go now!”

  Stunned, she gazed at him as he pushed her forward. “Go on, hitch up the horse. If you want the boy to be safe, you’ll do what I say as quickly as possible.”

  Shocked by learning he hadn’t been sent by Wenger, she barely heard him. “What did you say? Where are you taking me?”

  “Your father wants to see—”

  “My father?” she asked. She remembered fleeing home. She had wanted to keep Michael and to avoid a marriage she didn’t want. “After all this time, he can’t force me to wed a man I don’t love. I’m an adult now. Why—”

  “He’s ill. We have to go. I’m Irving Eisner with Pinkerton’s, and I’m not the only man after you.”

  She drew her breath and remembered the blond stranger who had been in the front row every night this week.

  “Get the boy and let’s get out of here. Do what I say. I’ll watch you while you hitch the horse to the wagon.”

  She moved quickly, her hands shaking while her mind raced for some way of escape. As soon as the horse was hitched, Eisner caught her arm.

  “Let’s get Michael and go quickly. We can talk when we’re moving.” He prodded her with the revolver. Was he telling the truth or lying to her? Either way, she didn’t want Michael in his care.

  “Please, I don’t want Michael to see your pistol.”

  “He won’t, but don’t run. Or I’ll grab the boy.”

  Her heart pounded. If Eisner wanted to take her back to her father, he wouldn’t grab Michael. Who was he really and where was he taking her? Who had hired him? She remembered her derringer in her portmanteau as she approached the house.

  Dressed in denim pants and his white muslin shirt with a broad-brimmed hat on his head, Michael was standing beside her portmanteau, the quilts, and his small satchel. Her heart ached with the thought that Michael might be hurt or she might lose him. He looked small and vulnerable, and she wished she had fled Natchez sooner. When he saw the man beside her, Michael’s eyes grew round.

  “Michael, this is Mr. Eisner,” she said, speaking quickly and trying to sound calm to keep from alarming the child. “He’s going to travel with us. Mr. Eisner, this is Michael.”

  “How do you do, sir?” Michael said, his dark brown eyes somber as he stared at Eisner. He knows. Michael knows this is a bad man. She felt more afraid than ever. She crossed the room, smiling at Michael and taking his hand. “We’re ready to go. I’ve packed food to take,” she said, handing Michael his satchel to carry.

  She locked the door behind them, and the weeds scraped against their feet and legs as they crossed the short space to the wagon. Acutely aware of Eisner, she put their things in the wagon, and then she turned to help Michael into the bed of the wagon, where she kept an old quilt. To her relief, Eisner didn’t touch her as she climbed up. He swung up and watched when she took the reins. His hand was beneath his coat.

  She shook, feeling desperate to get away from him. Where was he really taking them? Did he intend to shoot her and take Michael? Who had sent him after them? She didn’t believe it was her father.

  They turned out of the weedy yard and down the street, riding past the saloons on one side, the steamboats and flatboats on the other. Music began to fade as she wound up Silver Street, climbing to the top of the bluff, seeing the bend of the Mississippi below. Eisner waved his hand.

  “Head out of town on the Trace. Don’t go fast, now, because it would draw attention to us.”

  She thought of her savings from the past month, wrapped in a piece of gingham and tucked into the bottom of her portmanteau. When she could, she always sent money to a bank in St. Louis. Someday she planned to take the savings and go to a big city in the Northeast and open a millinery shop. Only now, that day might never come. Again her derringer came to mind. It was in the portmanteau on top of everything else, folded in the blue calico dress. If she got it, could she frighten Eisner into letting her go? Would he really shoot?

  As they rode, he turned on the seat often to glance over his shoulder. Was Michael worrying him? Was he frightening Michael with his continual stares? She glanced back and saw Michael was asleep, curled on the bed of the wagon, his head on the mound of quilts, his body jiggling as the wagon ran over the cobblestones. Resting beside the two folded quilts, the portmanteau was almost in reach behind her. Looking up at Eisner, she followed his gaze. He was watching the road behind them. He was concerned about someone following them, and his nervousness added to her fears.

  Leaving Natchez, they rode past elegant mansions that had survived the war, finally winding along on an empty road, stirring a faint cloud of dust behind them.

  She drew a deep breath. “May I stop and cover Michael?”

  “Don’t stop, and don’t try to get away from me. If you’ll tell me where the quilt is—”

  “I’ll do it,” she said quickly, turning and reaching back, tugging a quilt over Michael. “I want his jacket,” she said, reaching for the portmanteau. She casually opened it, but her head swiftly pushed clothing for the derringer, her fingers closing on the smooth metal grip.

  Eisner’s hand clamped around her wrist, and he withdrew the derringer. “May I help you find anything
else?”

  “Please, don’t harm him.”

  “I won’t. We need to keep moving. Miss Dryden, both of you are in danger, but you in particular.”

  She felt a chill at the urgency in his voice. Quickly she looked back along the empty road. They were headed up the Natchez Trace, closed in by trees on either side, and she knew this was a dangerous trail at night because of thieves. Tales of men disappearing in swamps along the Trace were common. She could hear the croak of frogs and the high chirp of crickets, night sounds that should have been reassuring but weren’t on the deserted road that had once been known as the Devil’s Backbone.

  She heard hoofbeats and saw Eisner turn. Emerging from the trees, a man rode at an angle toward them. Eisner whipped out his pistol as the man’s hand moved. The twin reports of guns made her jump so violently, she dropped the reins. Eisner gasped and sagged against her.

  She grabbed for his gun, but the mounted man was on her in a flash. He swung from the saddle to the wagon seat, pushing her down. When she tried to grab the derringer, he stomped on her hand.

  “Mama!”

  Claire cried out in pain as he yanked her up hard against him. “Shut up and don’t move.” He released her, grabbing the reins and tugging the wagon to a halt.

  “Mama!” Michael cried again in alarm, and she turned to pull him close and hug him.

  Glancing at Eisner, she drew a deep breath. “He’s hurt!” she exclaimed, releasing Michael to try to turn Eisner over. He was stiff and heavy, his long body cumbersome for her to move. She felt for a pulse against his cold throat, but there wasn’t any. “You killed him!” she gasped, terrified, wondering who both these men were.

  “Just do as you’re told,” the blond man said in a cold voice, “and you and the boy will be all right.” He motioned to her. “Get out of the wagon.”

  He was going to kill her. Michael would be alone with this man. An evil man. At her foot was Eisner’s pistol. But her hand hurt where the man had stepped on her, and he continued to hold his revolver pointed directly at her heart.

  “I won’t tell you again,” he said softly.

  Terrified for Michael, she climbed down. The stranger dropped to the ground behind her, spurs jingling as he landed on his feet. Reaching out, he shoved her. She hit the ground, scraping her hands, biting back a cry of fear so she wouldn’t alarm Michael.

  “Don’t hurt my mother!”

  She heard a click as Michael pulled back the hammer on the pistol. She looked up at the child, at the pistol wavering in his hands. A spasm of fear made her blood icy. “Michael! No!”

  With amazing speed the man knocked the pistol from Michael’s hands and slapped him. The moment Michael cried out and fell, she lunged at the stranger. Enraged that he would hurt Michael, she threw herself against the man and knocked him back. The voice screaming at him seemed to come from a distance as she tried to claw him.

  He hit her, his palm flat on her cheek. He kicked her feet out from under her, and she went down, knocking the wind out of her. Stunned, she gazed up at him as he stood over her with his pistol aimed.

  “Leave Michael alone! You monster!”

  Rough hands rolled her over, and a boot pressed into the middle of her back. He caught her wrists behind her, and she felt rope being wound around her wrists. He yanked it tight and knotted it, rolling her onto her back.

  “Please don’t hurt him,” she sobbed, shaking with fear, her face stinging from the slap, her wrists chafing from being tied tightly. Michael was crying, and the sound of his whimpering was the worst of all. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

  “Kid, get in the back and sit on the floor, or I’ll hit her again.”

  She felt a twist of pain at the sound of his sob.

  “The kid knows how to mind.” The stranger nudged her over with his foot and stood over her.

  “Who are you? What do you want with us?”

  “I’m Seeton Hardwood. I’m collecting on the kid. And I imagine I can sell you for a good price.” He pulled out a knife, and she expected him to slit her throat.

  “Please take care of Michael,” she said as he leaned toward her, holding out the knife. He caught the collar of her pink gingham and hauled her to her feet.

  Moonlight glinted on the blade as the knife swung, and she closed her eyes as cold steel grazed her throat. He slashed open the front of her dress, laying bare her breasts.

  She opened her eyes as cool air touched her skin. He studied her. She was bound, exposed. No man had ever viewed her half-naked, and she burned with hatred and embarrassment.

  “You’ll bring a damned good price. And I’ll have my fun on the way.” He ran his hand roughly over her breast. Repelled, she gasped and tried to draw back from his touch. He laughed, a cold, harsh sound, before he shoved her down and turned away. She twisted, tears streaking her cheeks as Harwood pulled Eisner’s body from the buggy and dropped him on the ground with a dull thump.

  Was Michael terrified? Was he watching? How badly was he hurt?

  “Kid, get down on that wagon bed and don’t get up!”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was firm, angry. Pride surged in her over Michael’s courage. He had been brave to pick up Eisner’s pistol and try to shoot Seeton Harwood. Michael was the one Harwood wanted, so he had to have been hired by Trevor Wenger. But who had hired Eisner? He had said her father was ill, but he had also been too concerned about Michael to have had taking her back to her father his sole purpose.

  Harwood led his horse past her, intending to hitch it to the back of the wagon. Michael rose to look over the edge of the wagon as the man walked past.

  “Raise your hands” came a deep voice out of the dark night.

  Shocked, Claire twisted around. What in heaven’s name was happening? Stunned, she watched a tall man stride forward, a rifle pointed at her captor. The man’s hat was pulled low, and his spurs jingled with each step.

  “Mama? Are you all right? Michael cried, standing up in the back of the wagon. Suddenly their captor swung Michael in front of him.

  “Get back or I kill the kid!”

  Chapter 5

  “Go ahead,” the stranger said quietly, and she felt as if her heart had stopped. The world spun, and Claire barely heard his voice as he continued. “I’ve been hired to take the woman to her father, William Dryden. You’re after the kid. You won’t get paid if he’s dead. Free the kid, or I’ll shoot off your knees.”

  “Take the woman. I’ll take the kid, and we’ll both profit.”

  “Hell, no. The kid’s worth something too. Let him go.”

  There was a pause that seemed like an eternity to her. She held her breath. Michael had a pistol to his throat. Michael …

  Suddenly the man shoved Michael aside and rolled beneath the wagon, firing as he hit the ground.

  Guns blazed while she screamed. “Michael! Get down!”

  Yanking at her bonds, she scrambled to her feet. Helpless, she cried in frustration, running toward the wagon.

  “You’ll hit the kid!” Harwood yelled.

  Heedless of being in the line of fire, she raced to kneel beside Michael, who was in the open. “Stay down, Michael!”

  Suddenly a burst of gunfire came from Harwood, and he rolled out from beneath the wagon. Grabbing his horse’s reins, he flung himself into the saddle. Into the dense brush and trees, he galloped, keeping the wagon between him and the other man.

  The man emerged from behind a tree and ran past her, firing at Harwood. Across the wagon, she saw Harwood lurch in the saddle and then disappear out of sight.

  Michael threw his thin arms around her. His frail body pressed against her while he cried and hid his face against her neck.

  “Michael,” she said, “listen to me.” She saw the man race to a tree and fire into the darkness. A shot was returned. “Hurry! Climb into the wagon and open the portmanteau. There’s a knife in the bottom. Get the knife and climb down on this side of the wagon. Keep your head down,” she ordered, watching the man take
cover behind a tree and continue to exchange shots with Harwood.

  Michael crouched and moved to the front of the wagon. She looked at the tall, lanky man firing at Harwood. They both were killers. Who was paying this one? She didn’t believe that her father would want her back now. Had Trevor Wenger hired men from several agencies?

  Michael climbed out of the buggy and dashed to her.

  “Cut the ropes tying my hands. Michael, hold the knife carefully so you don’t cut yourself or me. Take your time.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, and she could feel the rope grow tauter as he began to saw it with the blade.

  While the two men exchanged shots, Michael worked in silence. Her heart pounded with fear, for any moment the stranger could turn and see Michael cutting her free. She wanted to cry out to Michael to hurry, but his hands were so small. He was doing the best he could. Be patient, give him time. He’s only a child, she told herself, her palms growing damp with sweat.

  A shot struck a pan hanging on the wagon. The clang was loud, but it was drowned out by the next exchange of shots.

  Her wrists came free, and she twisted around to take the knife. “Michael, run and hide while I try to find my pistol. See that tree? Don’t go too far, and I’ll find you.”

  “Can I stay with you?”

  “No. Do as I say. Get behind the tree and stay as quiet as possible.”

  “Yes’m.” He ran, his short legs flying. Hastily she tied the neck of her dress together with the torn halves, giving her some coverage. She ran her hand over the floor of the wagon where the derringer had fallen. She spotted it on the far side and had to climb into the wagon to reach it.

  As the shots stopped, she dropped to the ground and ran for the trees.

  Spurs jingled and feet thudded on the ground behind her. An arm banded her waist and swept her off her feet. As she struggled to twist around, the derringer was yanked from her hands and tossed away. Terrified, she saw a silvery flash as it arced high in the air.