“I trust that will never happen.” I tried to soothe him. “I’ll certainly try not to get you in trouble. Do you want me to leave a note, just in case?”
“Yeah, right. What would you tell them, Boothenay? That a ghost from 1650 has taken you out with a phantom bullet? They’d love that, wouldn’t they?”
“Not ghosts,” I told him for about the umpteenth time. “This isn’t about ghosts.”
My hands steadied as I got over the nervous reaction, and I picked up a round wire brush, giving the old pistol’s barrel a few good swipes to loosen any corrosion.
“Look,” I said, holding the .32 rimfire out for them to see. “The bank robber might have worn this pistol completely out, or thrown it away, or lost it. Jeez, he might’ve killed somebody if I hadn’t been there…or been killed himself. Maybe that’s the reason I was there.”
“A little late, don’t you think?” Scott asked. “If what you say is true, this all happened a long time ago.”
Dad signed agreement.
“Well,” I said slowly. “Yes and no. Yes, it happened back in history, but it also happened just a minute ago.” I pointed to the blood splashed on my sleeve, not yet darkened to maroon and still faintly damp.
I think I’m basically a coward. Maybe between them Scott and Dad threw a scare into me. Certainly the foray as a bank teller had been a revelation. During the next few weeks, I managed to resist the magic and somehow maintain a precarious control. I studied Mom’s grimoire, only to find the authors had been more concerned with the problem of acquiring power than avoiding it. Caution became my watchword.
Then Dad had a bout with his heart that put him in the hospital. Of course, I blamed myself. I was afraid I had caused his attack by stressing him with my magical experiences when earlier they accelerated in both number and intensity.
When he returned home in time for Thanksgiving he seemed frail and shrunken, a pale reflection of his usual self. He’d doze off between one blink of an eye and the next, until Scott and I worried that one of these days he just wouldn’t wake up. Most days I helped him down the stairs from our apartment where he and I lived above the shop, so he could kibbitz with the customers while I kept an eye on him.
I expect I nearly drove him crazy with all the fussing, although at least I didn’t go off on any wild psychometric (or psychotic, as Scott would say) perambulations.
One morning in the week before Christmas, Dad and I arose to find a blizzard swirling snow into thigh-high drifts outside the shop door.
The poor, old dog did kangaroo hops as he made his way over the humps of snow in our back yard when he had to go out. He stayed just long enough to do his business before he yarfed to come back in, his slick hair already crusted with ice.
The automobiles out and about were scarce, and those few nearly at a standstill, which meant no customers came beating at our door. One thing about gunsmithing. It’s a slow paced, low stress profession—for average gunsmiths anyway. Only rarely does a rush occur, and I didn’t foresee one happening today.
I felt drowsy in the heat of a red-hot fire in the stove. Burning tamarack warmed the workshop, crackling an accompaniment to Dad’s soft snores as he slept in his comfortable, old rocking chair. The tick of the wind-up wall clock sounded loud in the quiet room.
The rifle waiting for attention on my workbench was a nearly mint, slant breech Model 1853 Sharps carbine. Someone in the collector’s family had recently discovered the rifle, hidden away for the last century and a half. He’d found the Sharps wrapped in what looked like a woman’s petticoat during the demolition of an old building on his property.
“I wanted you to be the first to see it,” he told me, turning back a corner of the fabric to give me a peek. And indeed, he’d left the stained petticoat on, the wrapping almost as intriguing as the rifle.
I should have been eager to get at it. This man had flown to Spokane from Kansas in the worst winter weather of the decade, just to put his Sharps in my hands. I’d already had the gun in the shop for ten days, yet only my sense of duty and a lack of customers forced me to overcome a curious reluctance in bringing it out today. I forced myself to pick up scissors and snip the twine that bound the cloth around the barrel.
This model Sharps is a valuable addition to anyone’s collection, yet just uncovering the barrel gave me a bad feeling. A shiver raised chicken-skin on my arms. I hoped it was only cold in the room, but with the stove roaring red, I knew better. The rifle gave me the creepy crawlies. I didn’t—no—I truly didn’t want to know its history, but before I could do more than squeak, a force too strong to resist blasted me away.
How can I explain the feeling? The first few paranormal episodes I endured as a—what shall I call myself? An out-of-time eavesdropper?—had made of me a spectator, a witness to events as they happened. That all changed when I helped Mrs. Frye shoot her husband. The curious experience as Mr. Booth altered things further by superimposing my being over the male bank teller’s body.
This time I felt as if I were an amalgamation of two persons; hard to tell where she left off and where I began. If she did leave off. If I did begin. I know I felt her every emotion, her every sensation, yet I was on the outside looking in at the same time. At first. Then my guts, her guts, cramped.
I closed the door of the outhouse behind me, breathing deeply of air the scent of a few late roses made bearable after the stench within the privy. My bowels kept up a periodical, painful cramping. Even in the muggy summer heat I felt chilled. I knew I would have been wiser to throw away the bacon I’d had for supper, but food was not so plentiful I could waste it. Instead of being smart, I’d eaten the last of the slab, mold or no mold, and now I was paying for my thrift. Everything in the icehouse had gone bad when the ice melted in the summer’s searing heat.
Old man moon rode the night sky, lending a bright silver sheen to the countryside. A scattering of cottonwood trees stood sentinel, outlined by the light, while small wildlife hid in the shadow of serviceberry bushes. Crickets sang with such deafening intensity I had trouble hearing my own breathing, let alone the stealthy movement my brother Marshall made when he crept from concealment under the shrubs overhanging the outhouse.
“Quick, sis,” he whispered. “You’ve got to help me.”
I jumped about a foot into the air. His harsh murmur was barely audible over the noise the insects made.
“Lordy, Marshall, you nearly scared the wizzle out of me.” I whispered, too, on a hastily drawn breath while my heart went knockety-knock. Without knowing why, a sense of dread kept my voice as quiet as my brother’s. “What are you doing creeping around out here?”
“Looking for sanctuary,” he said, with a wry half-smile. He didn’t look like he believed in sanctuary.
“What have you been up to?” My no-nonsense tone demanded an answer. “What have you done?”
“Nothing you’d disapprove of.” He cocked his head, as if to hear better. “They’re after me, Beth.”
“Who is after you?” All I heard was the screech of crickets and the fear in Marshall’s voice. I looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Quincy?” Inseparable friends, they’d left together before supper and ridden into town. To an abolitionist meeting, they’d said.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he thrust a rifle into my unwilling hands.
“Hide this,” he said. “Hide me. Quick, Beth, if you love me.”
“Oh, Lordy, Marshall. Is it that bad?”
He hesitated. I saw the indecision on his face. Saw dark smears on his shirt, too, that looked black under the moon, but would probably show red in daylight.
“What has that damned John Brown been up to now?” I snarled, sure as anyone could be that if my brother had trouble, it was because the Browns had led him by the nose. I hugged the rifle close, like a hard-boned baby. “What has he gotten you into?”
“We don’t have time for this, Beth. I’ll tell you tomorrow, if I live through the night.”
“Who is that, Marshall? Who
are you hiding from?” I heard hooves drumming on the turf down the road, nearing the turn-off to our farm.
Only a hundred yards away, their nearness left no time for explanations.
“Soldiers,” Marshall admitted.
“Soldiers,” I repeated, halfway to panic, even as Marshall’s eyes widened with terror. Soldiers, peace officers, settlers. My worst nightmare was a lynch mob, which made even soldiers preferable.
Almost beyond thinking, I grasped my brother’s arm and propelled him into the outhouse. He resisted.
“What are you doing, Beth? They’ll look in here. I’d look in here.”
“Shut up.” I motioned upward with my head. Not immediately apparent upon entering the privy, a double plank shelf cantilevered above the door. In the darkness it looked like part of the ceiling, and a person would have to enter and sit down before they’d notice the space where I kept lime, and papers, and lamb’s ear leaves. There might be just enough room to conceal a skinny young man up there between the shelf and the roof if he lay on his side. If he kept his nerve and a perfect silence.
“They’ll see me,” Marshall protested.
“They won’t look,” I insisted, giving him a boost up. I hoped they wouldn’t look, since I was betting my brother’s life on the premise.
“Tell me,” I whispered, my hand on the latch. “What makes you think I don’t disapprove of sneaking around, beating people up, or shooting anyone who disagrees with you? Or I should say, with that madman John Brown. If you know I hate slavery, then you must also know I don’t think all of this killing will solve anything. What it will do is start a war.”
“It’s hot up here,” Marshall complained, “and it stinks.”
So answered the reckless, wayward boy.
The noise of horse and harness sounded almost in the yard now. An officer’s low-voiced command carried indistinctly to my ears. What to do with the rifle Marshall had foisted onto me? It wouldn’t do to be caught standing in the dooryard, wearing only a thin summer nightie and packing a rifle. No time…no time. There. Halfway between the privy and the back door.
I ran toward the house on silent bare feet, just to where the heavy tripod bracing the clothesline poles loomed out of the darkness. A dishrag, left on the line overnight flapped gently, as though calling for my attention.
Beyond my own volition, for I don’t believe I had a rational thought left in my head, I propped the rifle in the tripod’s notch. Invisible now, it would be in plain sight come morning. I’ll deal with that problem if and when the time comes, I thought.
Horsemen circled the house just as I slipped inside. My innards gurgled again, protesting the excitement and fright. I ducked down when I passed the window, not wanting anyone to see me through the glass. I couldn’t see much either. Just enough to know one rider had dismounted and was strutting up the path to the door. I saw enough to know he wore soldier blue.
I’d gotten halfway up the stairs before the soldier threw open the door and entered, the big pistol he held ready in his hand leading the way. I stopped and drew a deep breath, knowing I was in plain sight and that retreat was impossible. I longed for a coat to throw over my nightgown. Appearing half-naked in front of a troop of soldiers was not suited to my taste. I shivered with cold. What I really wanted was to crawl under the bed and hide among the dust balls.
From the other side of the house, I heard the front door crash open on its hinges. They didn’t mean to wait for my invitation, for they brought their own coal oil lamps and quickly spread out to search. The house was small. Why did they need so many men?
“Who are you? What do you want?” I cried out, an involuntary reaction to the intrusion. An unfeigned quaver shook my voice. “What are you doing in my house? Get out.”
The intruders ignored my protest. “Where is he, ma’am?”
demanded the soldier who’d burst open the door. “If he’s here, you’d best trot him on out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I held my place on the stairs until a sergeant with the sharpest, most freezing glare I’d ever seen passed close on his way up. He knocked against me, on purpose I think, so my elbow rapped against the newel post.
No one waved a warrant in my face, but since I didn’t know if soldiers needed such a document, prudence kept me from mentioning the lack. Not when the house grew crowded as more soldiers, finished with their search of the homestead, pushed their way inside. A final man shook his head as he reported to the officer in charge.
“No sign of him, sir.”
“His horse?”
“Only animals around are a couple of wore-out work nags and one swaybacked, old saddle mare. Ain’t none of them been rode recently.”
The private looked me up and down as though I was one of the animals under discussion. I became even colder, and clamped my teeth shut against their clatter.
The icy-eyed sergeant came back downstairs. This time I knew he deliberately brushed against me for there was room for him to get past without touching. He, too, shook his head at the officer.
“Where is he?” The officer glared at me
“Where is who?” I countered. I tried to forget Marshall, roosting in the stench of the outhouse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. As you can see, I’m here by myself.” I assumed the squad on hand was complete. They hadn’t found Marshall.
“Your brother, ma’am. Where is your brother?” The leader’s tone of voice told me not to play stupid, that he was running on a short fuse.
“I assume he’s still over in Lansing,” I said. “He rode over three days ago when he heard there might be work.” The lie tripped off my tongue like I’d been practicing the speech for days, not that I felt any particular pride over it. Lying is something I don’t do very often, and then only in a good cause, an exceptional cause. I had a feeling this cause must be worth the sin on my soul.
One of the other men added his two-cents. “I heard that rumor, too,”
he said.
“What has happened?” I asked, same as I’d already asked. “What do you want with my brother?”
The lieutenant’s attitude eased a trifle now he heard a plausible, verifiable excuse to allay his suspicion over Marshall’s absence. “One of the settlers, a known proslavery man, was attacked outside of town this afternoon,” he said. “Somebody shot him through the lungs. Killed him deader than dog meat. Miserable way to die, choking on his own blood.”
I bit my lip. I really and truly do hate lying.
“Shot his oldest son, as well—a young fella about sixteen. A younger boy got away. I reckon the killers thought he was too young to matter. Sure too young to own slaves, not that any of that family ever did.”
“Does the boy know who attacked them?” Marshall didn’t only have to worry about the army authorities; he had me to worry about now. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell me the tale.
The lieutenant nodded. “Everybody knows John Brown and his boys. He had a couple of other men with them. The boy didn’t know either one of them by sight. Your brother is known to run with some of that bunch, so we came here first. You seen Quincy Roberts lately?”
A queer wave of faintness passed over me. “No,” I said, the lie numbing my lips. “Not lately. I think my brother is fortunate he’s away just now.” I couldn’t let on how mortified I felt. Marshall, running with the Brown boys, as if he were part of a wolf pack.
“Well, we still have a job to do, catching us a gang of murderers.
Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” The lieutenant tipped his hat and gestured his men outside.
I trailed along after them, just to make sure they all left before I went to rescue Marshall from the outhouse.
“I’ve got one more duty before I’m through tonight,” the officer said. He’d mounted his horse, a tired-looking bay gelding, and sat loosely in the saddle ready to go. He didn’t spur the animal, however.
He wasn’t done with me quite yet.
Since I knew he wanted me
to, and because I thought I might be rid of him faster if I did as he wanted, I asked, “What duty is that, sir?”
He gazed intently down at me. Then he said, “I have to go tell Mr.
and Mrs. Roberts their son Quincy got himself killed tonight.”
Over my rough, drawn breath he added, “While he was trying to escape after murdering that settler family.”
No words came to mind for me to say. I felt sick.
The soldiers tramped out of the yard and I listened as they went down the lane. The horses broke into a trot when they reached the road.
Except for the one who drew off a short distance away. The lieutenant had posted a sentry on the off chance my brother returned home.
Marshall still had a boy’s physique, not yet filling man-sized trousers or broad shouldered shirts, although the time was soon coming.
If he didn’t hang first. His old clothes fit me, with an adjustment here and there, well enough for me to skin out of the only window in the house I knew for sure the sentry could not see. At that, I was lucky.
Most pantries don't have windows, not even a tiny one like the one I crawled through.
The moon’s bright orb shone overhead, though dawn could not be far away. Knowing the sentry would notice an upright, moving figure, I crawled across the short open space between the house and the privy. I couldn’t wait for a better time, for the moon to set, or to take the long way around. Marshall had to get himself gone during the next few minutes, during the fuzzy time, just before daylight.
I ended up in the shelter of the same bush overhanging the privy that Marshall had concealed himself in earlier. Like maybe a hundred years earlier.
“Sissst,” I whispered. “It’s me.”
“I heard them leave,” Marshall said, too loudly. “Whew, it reeks in here. Is it safe to come out?”
“Be quiet!” I listened for a moment. Nothing stirred. “There’s someone on the hill.”
“Shit,” he said. “So I’m stuck in here.”
He made me smile, in spite of everything. Serves him right, I thought. A very appropriate place for him, although I answered, “No, you’re not. You’re going to have to get out and get away…far away.
In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1) Page 3
