The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “This ain’t no lady. She’s Peculiar,” Thaddeus said with some satisfaction.

  “I wouldn’t even let you two handle a dog.” The woman with the red poppy hat whose name Lena could not recall put her thick arm around Lena’s shoulder and looked down at the exposed hand. “I recognize her from Knob Knoster. My, my. So, a Peculiar.” She drew away just the slightest bit. “Well, I suppose you must do your duty, but I’ll not have you treating her poorly. We’re to respect all living things, even those that are soulless.”

  Lena gulped. She would not sob in public. The men moved away and the barkeep with them. Thaddeus and Han-jee began to discuss the weather report with the two missionaries. Lena curled her exposed hand into a ball. The glove was beyond saving. Perhaps she was as well.

  “Snow’s not supposed to let up for three days. You fine ladies may want to delay your travels. I’m sure we could find a family to put you up.” The barkeep handed them each a mug of something steaming hot.

  The second missionary woman spoke. “Our work will not be delayed. We have been called to the interior of this wild land to serve those laboring in the mines.”

  The barkeep shrugged. “Just a suggestion, seeing how the weather can turn right nasty this far north this time of year.”

  Lena edged away from the bar. If she could somehow slide free of the rope by loosening it bit by bit . . . But even as she planned it, she realized it was hopeless. The rope encircled the narrowest part of her frame. She’d have to widen it considerably to slide it down over her skirts.

  Footsteps on the boardwalk. Chatter. The funeral must be over. The door swung open, ushering in the cold, and the room swelled with men.

  “Guess we should be getting back to business.” Han-jee looked meaningfully at his companion. “Sheriff will be back in his office by now. We can get paid and out of here before the snow gets too high.”

  Please, please, Lena begged silently, let Jimson and Merilee arrive with the crowds.

  The throng of miners seemed eager to quench their thirst after the solemn funeral. Not a single woman came through the door, and the missionary ladies had taken a table in the back of the room. Had the women all gone home to their little shacks? In her experience, Lena had found women to be more sympathetic to the plight of someone in need, and she felt sure she could make her case if she could only find one.

  “That’s the sheriff there. Jack Spaulding.” The barkeep nodded toward a large bear of a man who had just swaggered into the room. His hair and mustache were flaming red; his face was weathered and freckled. He stood a good head taller than most of the miners.

  “Jack! Over here. These fellows have some business with you.”

  The sheriff elbowed his way through the crowd, speaking with one person, commiserating with another. He stopped to laugh at a joke someone told, throwing back his head and hooting loudly. Lena tried to sink into the floor. Surely in this crowd there must be some way to escape before she was placed in the hands of the redheaded monster. She straightened her hair, then put her hands behind her back. If she couldn’t escape, she would put on the best face she could.

  “What you got for me, boys?” The sheriff’s voice, like everything about him, was larger than life.

  Thaddeus turned obsequious. “Sir, we’re bounty hunters, and we found us a Peculiar. She was hunkering on the edge of the outpost. There might be more like her nearby.”

  The sheriff turned his gaze to Lena. His eyes were deep-set, a rusty brown. He didn’t say anything.

  “You can see she is very different. An unusual specimen.” Han-jee looked at her bare hand with distaste, then picked up her gloved hand. He also pointed at her feet.

  “Hmm. I can see there are some abnormalities.”

  This was her chance, Lena thought. “Yes, chromosomal abnormalities. Just a genetic problem I was born with.” She tried her most convincing smile.

  “Aw, you can see she’s a Peculiar. You can smell it.”

  The sheriff turned his back to Thaddeus. “Now, Miss . . . ?”

  “Mattacascar.”

  “Miss Mattacascar. The law says that we must provide protection for anyone of a Peculiar nature. It’s for their own safety. You can appreciate that. Otherwise, folks like these two gentlemen here might try and take advantage. Peculiars in Ducktown have guaranteed work, food, and shelter. But what’s a young lady like you doing traveling alone?”

  Lena had expected the question. If she was to be sent to the mines, she would not incriminate her friends. Best to tell a half-truth. “I am traveling to join my father who owns a mine east of here.”

  “A mine owner, is he? What’s his name?”

  “Saul. Saul Mattacascar. It’s just a small family mine; I doubt you would have heard of it.”

  “Well, can’t say the name Mattacascar rings any bells for me. But we can’t be too careful these days, so you’ll understand if we hold you overnight. Besides, the weather’s not fit for travel.”

  “But I’m expected—”

  He now turned his back on Lena. “Boys, I’m taking her in till this gets sorted out. I suggest you cool your heels in town overnight if you want your reward.”

  “But by tomorrow the roads may be impassable.” Han-jee gave the rope a yank, causing Lena to wince.

  “You wouldn’t want to argue with the law, boys,” was all the sheriff said as he removed the rope from Han-jee’s hand. “If she’s Peculiar, you’ll get your reward.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Lena’s voice came out in a squeak.

  “Why, to the jail—to our finest accommodations, Miss Mattacascar.” And he made a mock bow as he led Lena toward the door.

  The crowd parted to let them pass. Were any of these patrons Peculiars, Lena wondered, or would they not be allowed in? There was so much she didn’t know. And what could she expect in jail? Her father had been in jail, and Nana Crane had always talked about it as a wicked place. Her heart quickened in panic. Jail was the domain of thieves and murderers. She’d be lucky to survive. As she was led through the crowd, she felt a hand settle on her backside. She pulled away. The press of people closed around her, but there in the back was a face she recognized, a face that looked curiously blank without eyebrows. Mr. Beasley winked.

  LENA WAS A SPECTACLE. CROWDS PARTED AS THE SHERIFF LED HER through the door of the saloon, and on the narrow boardwalk women gave them a wide berth, pulling children close, away from any possible contamination. There were two reasons a woman might be taken into custody in Ducktown: if she was Peculiar, trying to pass herself off as a citizen, or if she was a woman of entertainment who had overstepped her bounds. Women of questionable character were expected in the saloons of Scree. When they plied their trade on the streets, they risked running afoul of the ordinances of the outpost. It was a double standard no one was eager to explain; without working women, miners who came to seek their fortune, leaving home and hearth behind, grew restless. Brawls broke out. Lawlessness increased. But these same women who civilized the miners and helped keep the peace were not to be seen in the day-today life of the outposts.

  Lena did not care to be thought of as either type of woman. If she was Peculiar, she would learn to live with it on her own terms. She would not be flaunted before the entire community. But to be thought of as that type of working woman was almost more than she could bear. A deep shame spread from the tips of her alligator boots to the crown of her bare head. So she walked with her eyes down, listening to the tap of her shoes along the boardwalk, reciting some words her mother had repeated when life’s complications abounded: “All will be well, all will be well, all manner of things shall be well.” Mr. Beasley had seen her. Surely he’d be there any minute.

  The Ducktown jail was a cheerless place attached to the small office of the sheriff. Its most common use was to corral drunks until the fight went out of them and they could be released back into town. Occasionally, a fight broke out over mine claims, but rarely was a Peculiar held. The Peculiars knew their place, and wh
en they weren’t working the mines, they socialized only with one another and kept their distance from the citizenry. Peculiars were allowed to shop at the mine store and at the general store but only on Saturday afternoons from four to five p.m. Their homes were on the farthest outskirts of Ducktown in a subcommunity known as the Trenches.

  Lena was led into a small, dank room with stone walls. A single barred window faced east toward the mine works. An iron gate separated the cell from the sheriff’s office, and a wooden pallet with a thin mattress offered the only comfort in the place. Lena again felt tears brim, but she was determined not to let the sheriff see her cry. He had not spoken one word to her on the humiliating march through town, and he led her to the tiny cell with an almost apologetic speech. “I know it may not be what you’re used to, but it’s where you’ll be till we get this sorted out. There’s a physician comes by once a week who specializes in identifying Peculiars. Due here on Wednesday, but with this weather who can tell?” He shrugged.

  Lena’s heart sank even further.

  “’Course if you want to confess up front, we can get you moved into the Trenches, which are more comfortable accommodations than this. We’ve got a boardinghouse of sorts for single Peculiars.” His size dwarfed the already small room.

  Lena shook her head. “I’m a citizen, raised in the City. The sooner I’m released, the less this outpost will have to apologize for. The people at my family mine will be expecting me, and when I don’t arrive on schedule, I’m sure they will send out an expedition.” The simple speech exhausted her, but she was loath to sink onto the thin, questionable mattress that topped the wooden pallet.

  “So be it, then. There’ll be soup at sundown.” The sheriff shrugged his massive shoulders again, placed a toothpick in his mouth, and closed the gate. The iron clanged with such finality that the tears finally did spill, and Lena sat gingerly on the mattress wishing she had never left home. Her only consolation was that Mr. Beasley knew what had happened, but even his wink offered her no cheer.

  Outside, the noise of the mine works began again as the miners returned to work. There were still a few hours left in the day and they couldn’t afford to let the work stand despite the increasing swirl of snow. Lena could hear the roar of the steam engines, the clanging of rail carts, and noises she couldn’t identify. If she stood on the bed, she could see the falling snow and the roof of the foundry. She tried the spyglass, but there was nothing to see except snow-covered branches and the patches on the foundry roof. The window was set securely in stone, and the thick metal bars made the hope of any escape that way ludicrous. She sat on the bed, leaning her back against the stone wall. The noise of the mine droned in the background. In the other room she could hear the shuffling of papers and an occasional door open and close.

  The vision of Mrs. Mumbles lying in the snow haunted her. The cat had been trying to save her! Hot tears leaked from her eyes. Jimson would come to her rescue, she was sure of it. She would let her eyes rest . . . only for a moment while she planned the next move.

  The clang of the metal door startled Lena awake. Her neck was stiff and her head sore where it had rested against the wall. The sheriff ducked into the cell. “You’ve some visitors—Mrs. Fortinbras and Mrs. Fetiscue,” he said and then withdrew.

  The two missionary ladies pressed into the cell, faces crinkled with distaste. Lena recognized their names from previous meetings but couldn’t remember which was which. She sat up straight and buried her hands in the folds of her skirt.

  “We were compelled to see that you are being treated fairly. All creatures deserve that.” The lady sporting red poppies sniffed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her thick nose. “I am Mrs. Fortinbras, and this is my sister, Mrs. Fetiscue.”

  “I remember. My name is Lena Mattacascar, and I’m on my way to join my father at the family business.”

  “But Peculiars don’t run businesses, dear. Is your father working in a mine?” Mrs. Fetiscue lifted the hem of her black skirt a few inches from the ground so as not to soil it on the floor of the jail cell.

  “My father owns a mine. And I am being held illegally.” Lena stood to face the two women.

  “Well, well, I guess the sheriff knows what he’s doing. But he hasn’t mistreated you?”

  Lena could feel her face growing red and her voice rose. “I would call being held illegally mistreatment!”

  Mrs. Fetiscue took a step back. Her sister fixed Lena with a stern eye. “Please control your temper, young lady. After all, we have come at our own will to make sure that you are not being abused in some manner.”

  These women could speak in her defense, but they were of no use. Lena stomped one foot. “You’re not listening.”

  The outside door banged open. Lena could hear a high, insistent voice—a familiar voice.

  “And I will see my sister right now!”

  Merilee appeared in the doorway with Jimson at her side. Lena was so relieved, she felt her legs grow limp.

  “See here. The prisoner already has visitors.” Baffled, the sheriff looked from one set of visitors to the other.

  Merilee cut through his words. “Lena was always the black sheep of the family. When James and I were married, Mama told me to keep a careful eye on her. She’s always been trouble, probably ’cause of the way she looks.” Then she leaned toward the sheriff and hissed in a stage whisper, “Birth deformities. No man would marry her. So my husband and I”—here she poked Jimson in the ribs—“we took her under our wing. And what do we get? She’s always trying to run off. We’ll just take her home and—”

  “You mean she isn’t a Peculiar?” Mrs. Fortinbras’s eyes grew round with puzzlement.

  “Is that what she told you?” Jimson smiled his most charming smile. “Little sister, you could get yourself in a passel of trouble pretending like that.”

  Passel, Lena thought. Where he did ever learn a word like “passel”? It didn’t matter; she could hug them both. “Well, I wanted a little adventure.” She could play the part as well.

  “We’ll just take her home with us—” Merilee’s voice was commanding.

  “Now, wait a minute here. What proof do you have that this lady is your sister?” The sheriff blocked the doorway to the cell with his massive frame.

  “Birth certificates.” Miraculously, Merilee reached into her purse and pulled out two official-looking documents and thrust them under the sheriff’s nose.

  He grabbed them in his meaty hands and studied them carefully. “Lena Mattacascar and Gina Mattacascar Quiggley. Well, I . . .” He unlocked the door, and the two missionary ladies rushed out, followed by Lena, head held high.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Mattacascar, but you can see that it was a natural mistake.” He looked at her feet.

  “My family will hear about this,” Merilee said. She grabbed back the certificates, then took Lena firmly by one arm and Jimson took the other. They propelled her toward the door.

  Never had fresh air been so appealing. Lena took a deep breath. It took the greatest effort to keep from running. As the three of them stepped onto the boardwalk, followed by the two missionaries and the sheriff, a horse pounded up. Despite the cold, his coat was flecked with sweat. The rider, in his blue jacket with brass buttons, also shone with perspiration. His fair hair dripped with melting snow. “Pony Express with an urgent message for Sheriff Jack Spaulding.” He jumped from his horse, gathering the reins in one hand and thrusting a large envelope toward the sheriff with the other. His breath made little puffs of steam as he spoke.

  Lena looked at Jimson, who pinched her arm and continued to drag her from the boardwalk. Beyond, the steam from the wash house mingled with the heavy fall of snow. The entire world was white and swirling.

  The sheriff laid a hand on Jimson’s shoulder. “This might be important, son, something you might need to know to protect your family. I don’t want you leaving until I’ve read it.”

  With that, he unfolded the single sheet of paper and read out loud.
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br />   WANTED: Tobias Beasley, for collaborating with Peculiars and for the death of Abel Guthrie. Escaped October 30th in a flying machine with three other persons of interest, one young male and two females—maybe Peculiars. Consider all four armed and dangerous.

  The two matrons punctuated the message with shocked exclamations. The sheriff took another look at Lena. “How’d you say you arrived in Ducktown?”

  “I—we—” Lena’s brain felt sticky and slow. She thought she might faint, but her name wasn’t mentioned in the telegram.

  Jimson breathed into her ear, “Go. Go now.” He looked at the sheriff. “My wife and her sister have suffered a terrible shock. They need to get out of this cold. If you could use my services in any way to help capture these scoundrels, I will do everything in my power to assist you.”

  Lena let her head fall onto Merilee’s shoulder as if completely exhausted. Sheriff Spaulding looked at Jimson’s tense face and then at the downcast gaze of the girls. The wind picked up, whipping the snow into a frenzy. “Don’t leave town. I’m not through with you yet. Where are you staying?”

  Jimson blew on his hands to stall. Lena tried to imagine a reasonable place to stay in the mining outpost. Nothing came to mind. She couldn’t very well say they were staying in an aerocopter in the woods. If she invented an accommodation, the sheriff would be sure to check it out.

  “We just arrived and haven’t secured accommodations yet,” piped up Merilee.

  Mrs. Fortinbras was not about to let this opportunity pass. “We found rooms with one of the Great Northern Improvement foremen and his family. I’m sure I could put in a word for you.”

  The streets of the outpost were emptying. Everyone was fleeing the cold and night was approaching fast. Jimson nodded. “Thank you. We appreciate it.”