The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “You’ll need a story, and you’ll have to be able to stick to it,” Mr. Beasley cautioned.

  Lena’s mind raced. Stories were something she could contribute. After all, she had spent much of her time reading amusements. “You’re here as an engineer or surveyor. No, that would take specialized knowledge. You’re here to try your hand at mining. You were looking for work and you heard about Ducktown.” It was harder than she thought.

  “Then what’s he need the coal for?” Merilee asked. “Besides, not many folks travel alone way out here.” She chewed her lip. “How ’bout this: You heard there was work here, and you and your wife sold everything and came north. You’re headed farther, to a smaller mine just starting out. You need coal for heating your place, but the new mine isn’t producing yet, so they sent you down to Ducktown for supplies. I’ll go into town with you as your wife.”

  “That’s not bad.” Mr. Beasley considered. “You could pick up food supplies as well, but there’s considerable risk.”

  “I could go with him,” Lena said, feeling unexpectedly annoyed with Merilee’s plan. “You might run into someone who knew you from before.”

  “I was six years old. Don’t think anyone would recognize me from those days. Besides, you can’t let yourself be seen.” Merilee looked pointedly at Lena’s gloved hands and at her feet. “They’re suspicious of everything up here.”

  “I believe Merilee is right. We’ll wait for you here. I can start the modification of the firebox. First find out about the silence. Don’t take any unnecessary risks, and that means don’t give away any information that you don’t have to. Order the coal and say that you’ll be back to pick it up. We’ll have to find a way to transport several sacks.”

  Jimson looked only too ready to go. “We’ll be back before you know it. Ready, Merilee?” She straightened her shawl, slipped her arm through his, and they sauntered off toward the outpost.

  Jimson, Lena thought, appeared much too pleased.

  She scanned the miserable sky. Bleak. The clouds were low enough for their bellies to rest on the ridgeline. The only color was in the rusted hues of the roof of the foundry. She set the air rifle against the side of the coach. Why had she come on this adventure? She could be home safe in the City with her mother and grandmother, helping at the library, spending quiet evenings reading at home. But that picture felt no better.

  It was intolerable to be sidelined like this. Even Mrs. Mumbles had darted away into the underbrush—to hunt rodents, Lena presumed. She watched the receding backs of Jimson and Merilee with envy. She wondered what the marshal was doing now in their pursuit. Had he really planned to treat her like any Peculiar? Perhaps she’d misunderstood. She tried to recall his touch on her face, but when she did, she shuddered.

  Mr. Beasley was already tinkering with modifications for the firebox. What harm could it do to wander a little closer to the outpost? Just close enough to get the sense of a mining town. She would be stealthy, just like the stories Jimson told of Stanley searching for Dr. Livingstone.

  A STAND OF PINE AND BRUSH SEPARATED THE LANDING FIELD FROM the edge of the outpost. Lena found that if she walked carefully enough to avoid twigs, she could move almost silently through the low bushes. Besides, no one appeared to be out and about, and Mr. Beasley was occupied. She had slipped the spyglass into the pocket of her jacket and, once positioned behind a large boulder, she employed it.

  The outpost was a slipshod town of wood and stone. Most of the buildings were clustered along one muddy street. Lena recognized the saloon from the crooked sign O’GILLIGAN’S, and next to it a small, squat building with a smokestack in the middle bore the words WASH HOUSE in crude letters. At one end of the street was a steepled building that had to be a church, and at the other end was Gunter’s General Store. They were connected by a wooden boardwalk that would keep people a foot or two above the mud. She could see Jimson and Merilee from behind as they ambled along the wooden planks toward the store.

  The houses she could see were little more than shacks sprinkled among the pine trees. And sure enough, each had a wire-fenced duck yard, where muddy-feathered fowl squawked and strutted. A little girl ran into one of the pens with a bucket of something that she cast on the ground. She was the first person Lena had seen, and as she watched her, the child disappeared just as quickly back into the house. So, not completely deserted, Lena mused.

  Beyond the store, and beyond the mine itself, a dark pile towered to a height that almost matched that of the church steeple. Lena crept forward a few yards more. The pile was made of rubble and black clumps that must be coal. A waste dump for the mine. She had expected the mine to be a large hole in the ground with rails running down into it. But this building with its roofs, smokestacks, and scaffolding was more like a tattered castle watching over the meager town.

  She caught movement and turned in time to see two things happen at once. Jimson and Merilee emerged from the general store just as the doors of the church opened and a line of miners came out. They were dressed in black and carried long pine box after long pine box. Women in black with children in their grasp followed. A funeral, Lena realized.

  Jimson and Merilee stood to one side as the funeral procession passed down the center of the muddy street, veering left behind the wash house and saloon. How many of them had died? Lena crept to the edge of the tree line. Mourners were passing within a few yards. She drew back. They were a solemn lot, pale-faced and obviously wearing their Sunday best: jackets with vests and bowler hats. There was hardly a smooth-shaven face in the crowd. The women wore black shawls over their heavy dresses and black lace coverings over their heads. A group of men at the rear of the line struck up a mournful tune. A French horn wailed side by side with a trombone, and a short man built like a fireplug banged on a drum.

  Snow began to fall—thick, white flakes that pirouetted to the music. They frosted the handlebar mustaches and caught in the black lace covering the bowed heads. A man stopped and spoke with Jimson and Merilee, but they were too far away for Lena to see clearly through the snow, even with the spyglass. Feet squelched through the mud; the musicians droned a solemn rhythm. A boy turned his face skyward, stuck out his tongue, and caught white stars.

  These seemed to be people accustomed to grief. They marched as if they had done this many times before. Lena looked for signs of otherness. Which of these miners were Peculiars? But they looked like any gathering of poor folk, mourning their dead. She watched an old woman with a hunched back. Did the shawl cover a pair of furled wings? She gazed so intently that she was startled by the snort of a horse just behind her.

  “I think we caught us one!” A horse and rider suddenly appeared at her side from between the trees. They towered over her.

  “Look at those hands. That’s a freak if I’ve ever seen one.” The face that bristled down at her was as round as a moon, one cheek distended with tobacco. The man’s eyes were red-rimmed and watering.

  “Excuse me. I must be going,” Lena babbled, fear burning her throat. She slid the spyglass into the pocket of her jacket.

  Another voice came from behind. “Looking for others of your kind?”

  Lena spun.

  He was an Asian in a buckskin jacket, and he had a pale scar running the length of one cheek. Lena, who had never seen anyone from Asia up close before, suddenly remembered Nana Crane’s warnings about the dark alleys of Chinatown and young girls sold into white slavery.

  “Look at her feet.” The moonfaced man spit a stream of brown liquid close to Lena’s boots.

  Lena tried to draw them in under her skirt. She was trapped on both sides. Sweat prickled her armpits. She ran her tongue over dry, chapped lips. Why hadn’t she stayed near Mr. Beasley?

  “What’s your name, girlie?” Moonface spat again, and a trickle of saliva caught in the stubble on his chin.

  Lena pressed her lips together.

  “Hey, she don’t understand English. Why don’t you try some Chinaman talk on her?”

 
Scarface grumbled low in his throat but did not reply.

  Jimson and Merilee were too far away for her to call out. The end of the procession was passing now. She called out anyway. “Help!” If only she could whistle!

  Her voice was drowned out by the French horn. Before she could call out again, the scar-faced man was dropping a rope over her head. She was slammed to the ground as the rope slid down her legs to her calves and was pulled tight.

  “You been lassoed,” Moonface cackled.

  Her breath came fast now and shallow. “I have a birth disorder. That’s all. And if you need proof you can talk to—” She realized she was about to give her friends away and cut off her words.

  “A whole nest of Peculiars? Everyone knows they live like roaches. Find one, find an infestation,” Moonface said.

  Scarface remained silent, the rope in his hands.

  “How much can we get for her, do you think?” Moonface bit off another chunk of tobacco.

  Scarface finally spoke. “Maybe fifty dollars. Maybe more.” He bent over Lena, pulling her arms behind her back and tying them at the wrists.

  Sticks and twigs poked into her side. The rope was cutting off the circulation in her legs. Her wrists were chafed. The snow was falling harder. She would not plead. “You won’t get anything but trouble when they find out you’ve taken a citizen captive.”

  “Fifty dollars is good money,” Scarface said. “And we will get even more because you are so unusual.”

  “Wait a minute. I hear someone. Might be more of ’em Peculiars!” Moonface lifted a rifle from his saddle and pointed it hopefully into the trees.

  Lena heard a low murmuring in the trees, the snap of breaking twigs. But she saw no one. “Come out of there with your hands in the sky or we shoot this girl!” Moonface cocked the trigger.

  The murmur of voices grew louder, came closer.

  Lena looked up from the cold ground. If Mr. Beasley was coming with help, she needed to warn him. “He’s got a gun!’

  Scarface pulled the rope tighter. It bit into her calves.

  A flash of movement caught her eye.

  “I said show yerself!”

  A scrabbling in the underbrush and Mrs. Mumbles launched herself, spitting and hissing, at the man with the rope. He threw up one arm to protect his face; the other hand still clutched the rope. The cat’s surprise attack, her weight, and her sharp claws all caught Scarface unprepared and off balance. He teetered, flailing one arm at the cat.

  Mrs. Mumbles sunk her claws into his neck, bit at his flailing hand.

  Scarface’s feet scrabbled for traction on the slick new snow. They shot out from under him. Cat and man tumbled to the ground in a spray of snow and curses. “Get it off me!” he cried.

  “Why, it’s nothing but a cat! Han-jee, we’ve been fooled by vermin!” Moonface swung the gun toward Mrs. Mumbles.

  Lena scrambled to her feet. The now-loose rope dropped to her ankles. Scarface’s shout was muffled by the cat: “Don’t shoot! You’ll hit me, you fool!”

  With numb fingers Lena tried to slip the rope off over her feet, preparing to flee.

  “Think I can’t shoot?” Moonface pulled the trigger. The shot splintered a fragment of rock.

  Mrs. Mumbles fell and lay still.

  Scarface knocked her away.

  Lena screamed. She couldn’t leave Mumbles! But she hesitated a moment too long.

  Moonface grabbed her, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  She bit it.

  Cursing, he jerked his hand away and twisted Lena’s arm behind her back.

  “Music’s too loud for anyone to hear her, but that shot may bring a few folks.” He dropped the rifle to his side. “Han-jee, better truss her up again.”

  Han-jee, his face raked with fresh cuts, tied her hands and secured the rope around her waist.

  Lena stared at Mrs. Mumbles’s still form through a film of tears.

  Moonface spat into the snow. A small brown circle spread into the white. “We’re only upholding the law.” He gestured toward the back of the retreating funeral procession. “Townfolks in enough trouble already. Peculiars being buried in a churchyard when everyone knows they got no souls.”

  IT WAS DIFFICULT TO MUSTER ANY DIGNITY AT ALL WHEN SHE WAS lassoed around the waist with her hands tied behind her back, but she tried to keep her voice calm. “Just who do you think will pay for me? And how dare you, how dare you shoot that cat!” Tears coursed down her cheeks, but she had no way to wipe her eyes or nose. Where was Mr. Beasley?

  Moonface squirted a long dark stream of tobacco juice onto the frosted ground. “Money comes from the gov’ment. But we get paid by the town sheriff. Now, it looks like he may be otherwise occupied at the moment, but we can wait.”

  “I refuse to wait in this cold, Thaddeus. We will take her into the saloon.” Scarface walked over to his horse, boots crunching on the thickening ground.

  “I told you not to call me that, Han-jee.”

  Han-jee ignored him. “We’ll go slowly enough that you can walk.” Without a backward glance he vaulted onto the horse’s back and coaxed it to a slow pace.

  Lena was forced to follow. Her thoughts raced and her heart ached as she looked at Mrs. Mumbles lying in the snow. By now Mr. Beasley should be wondering where she was. Perhaps he’d come in time. If not, when they led her into town Jimson and Merilee would surely see her and get help. But Lena had no idea where they were at the moment.

  The funeral procession had left the main street of the outpost. Lena could hear a few cacophonous notes in the distance. The bounty hunters stopped outside O’Gilligan’s saloon. Thaddeus dropped from his horse with considerably less grace than his partner and tied the reins to a hitching post. Lena was dragged inside, but not unwillingly. The new wet snow had brought a chill that had begun to seep into her bones. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the interior. The air was warm with the smell of tobacco and alcohol. Despite the shabby exterior, someone had taken considerable effort to produce a long wooden bar that glowed with polish and an ornate gilded mirror that reflected back the faces of the patrons.

  The saloon was nearly empty. A barkeep and two patrons were clustered together at one end. Not a single one of the small round tables was occupied. Lena’s heart sank. She had been hoping . . . but why would she expect Jimson and Merilee to be there? The three at the bar looked up when they came in.

  “Caught us a Peculiar here!” Thaddeus called out. “And we need a little celebratory drink!”

  The two patrons—men who looked as if they might have slipped out from the line of the funeral procession for a quick refreshment—returned to their conversation, heads bent so close that the tops of their bowlers nearly touched.

  The barkeep made his way toward Lena and her captors. “You’ll find most of the town at the funeral. Mine explosion two days ago, seventeen killed.” He shook his gray head.

  “We’re truly sorry to hear that news. Nevertheless, we have business to attend to.” Han-jee pushed Lena forward as if to illustrate the point. “Perhaps you could tell us where to find the sheriff of this outpost.”

  “Not till we get a drink first, Han-jee. I’ll take a whiskey straight.” Thaddeus edged onto a bar stool, his face expectant.

  Lena felt the barkeep’s eyes on her. She looked up. His gaze was sharp behind his steel-framed spectacles. He gave her the briefest nod. “The sheriff is overseeing the funeral. They’re in the outliers’ graveyard, lowering the caskets even as we speak.”

  “Thank Jesus for that. Thought they might be trying to unload a bunch of ’em Peculiars in a Christian cemetery. ’Course, that could have advantages for us. Lots of money in reporting towns that don’t follow the law.” Thaddeus shot a practiced stream of brown into a brass spittoon at his feet.

  “Oh, I think you’ll find this outpost quite law-abiding.” The barkeep poured amber liquid into a tumbler and passed it to Thaddeus and then offered the same to Han-jee.

  A woodstove
roared in the center of the room. Lena began to thaw. She flexed her fingers, wishing they would loosen the rope that tied her hands behind her.

  “Fifty dollars will come in handy about now.” Thaddeus lifted his drink and contemplated the amber liquid. Then he tossed it back.

  “I am not a Peculiar, and you won’t see fifty dollars on my account.” Lena decided that the best thing to do was to brazen it out. The barkeep looked friendly enough; perhaps she could persuade him to her side.

  Thaddeus didn’t even look her way. “Not a Peculiar,” he mimicked. “Did you ever see hands like those? Puts a chill right through me. Untie her hands, Han-jee, so everyone can appreciate their beauty.”

  Han-jee grunted and released the tight cords. Lena almost swooned with relief. He kept a tight rein on the rope around her waist, however.

  “Take the glove off’n it. You know mebbe we could get more money selling her to a sideshow.”

  Lena curled her hand into a fist. They would not remove her glove. Han-jee looked uncertain. The other two patrons moved down the bar for a better view of the commotion. Lena could feel their eyes, hot with the thrill of seeing something titillating. Tears stung her own eyes.

  “Philosophically speaking, I am opposed to humiliating a female.” Han-jee crossed his massive arms.

  “Not your philosophy’n again, Han-jee. Don’t matter what you think. We don’t stand for no freakishness here.” Thaddeus was so close that Lena could smell the whiskey on his breath. He grabbed her right hand and pried the fingers back, and Lena shrieked in pain. Her black gloves fit snuggly. Thaddeus tugged. The glove clung to her hand. He grunted and pulled harder. “Oh, for the love of Pete.” The patrons and even the barkeep crowded in close. Their breath was hot and noisy. Thaddeus split the glove wide across the palm and jerked Lena’s hand out. A collective intake of breath as he lifted it high and waved it in the air. Lena cringed. The tears spilled down her cheeks.

  The door flew open. “What is going on here?” The female voice was strong, authoritative. The men drew back. Lena’s head spun. The two missionary ladies from Miss Brett’s stood hands-on-hips in the doorway of the saloon. Red poppies still bloomed on the larger woman’s hat. “We heard you outside! What are they doing to you, dear?” She moved forward swiftly. “This is no way to treat a lady!”