Рита Браун - Tall Tail

Dennis caught up with them, and with no preliminary banter ordered, “Stop the cart. I’ve been tracking you for three days.”

Charles did as he was told. “ Whoa, Castor. Whoa, Pollux.”

John climbed down. “Mr. McComb, what’s wrong?”

“You will let me examine that steeple with no interference.” He pulled out his pistol.

“Of course.” John swung himself up on the wagon. He reached out a hand for Dennis, who tied his horse—well, Maureen’s horse—to the back of the cart. Taking John’s hand, he was pulled up.

Dennis waded through the straw. “Lift up the steeple.”

“No need for that. I can open the door. Let me just flip up the latch.” John put his forefinger under the latch, pulled on the door. Pulled again.

“Dammit!” Dennis yanked on the door with his left hand, pistol in his right.

As he did, Moses unlatched it from the inside, Dennis fell backward as Moses charged out of the steeple to land on him, hands around his throat. Dennis fired wide, then fought him off using his pistol as a billy club. Moses had not yet regained his strength. This exertion reopened his wound.

John Schuyler put his hands around Dennis’s throat. So powerful was the man that Dennis was dead in less than a minute. Choked to death with a broken larynx. John threw him on the straw. “Moses, get back in the steeple.” Noticing the bleeding, John said, “We will examine that later. We need to move along before someone else comes along.”

Charles called back, “Push him under the straw. When we find a likely place, we can throw him off.”

Sweating a bit, John jumped down. Slightly loosening the horse’s girth, he climbed up next to Charles, who had the flintlock in his right hand.

“You can put that away now,” John said.

Charles wrapped the flintlock back in the leather.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to fire it. Too much noise. No telling who it would bring.”

“I could dig a big hole,” Piglet offered.

John breathed deeply as Charles clucked to Castor and Pollux. “How did he figure it out?”

“I don’t know, but if Hiram sent him, we will make it to York before anyone else reaches us. If we don’t encounter bad weather or a band of thieves, we will make it.”

“We will, but if Hiram sent him, he will go to Ewing. He will search the farm.” John felt his stomach drop.

“We must rely on the judgment and intelligence of our wives if Hiram did send him.” Charles was as worried as John, but why show it? “My judgment is we can’t let an innocent man die. We’ve brought Moses this far.”

“Yes,” John opined.

They drove another two hours, the sun setting. A grove of thick trees lay up ahead on their right. They’d passed people walking, a few riding but the road had been quiet. Charles turned off toward a grove. He stopped the two gentle Percherons by the side of the road, climbing down.

John got down on his side. Happy to have a pause, the horses closed their eyes.

Back up on the wagon, John pulled out Dennis’s body as if he were a sack of wheat. He threw his body over the side, jumped down. Taking Dennis’s arm while Charles took his legs, they carried the corpse to the grove, swinging him twice to pitch him in.

Walking back to the cart, John wondered, “Maybe we should have gone through his pockets?”

“No. If someone finds him before the buzzards, they’ll clean him out. If Dennis carried anything which might signify that it belonged to him, the thief will be thought the murderer.”

“And his horse?”

“We give it to Bartholomew as payment. No one will travel to York, Pennsylvania, see that horse, and recognize it. I’ve never seen him on that horse. Must be new.”

An hour later, deep twilight, they pulled off at a farmhouse and asked if they could sleep in the barn, feed and water their horses. Charles produced two silver dollars, more than adequate. The farmer took it.

Once in the barn, John unhitched Castor and Pollux, placing them in the small paddock. He filled up wooden water buckets and threw out fragrant hay. He then untacked Dennis’s horse, put the gelding in an adjoining paddock, threw hay, and gave him fresh water.

With the door to the steeple open, Charles said, “Clear.”

Stiffly, Moses stood up, stepped out.

Charles opened his shirt. “Stopped bleeding,” he reported.

He jumped down, took a piece of cloth from the trunk tied to the inside of the wagon, dripped it in water he pumped up, and handed it to Moses, who put it on the wound.

John and Charles wiped down all three horses, patted them on their necks. The men then cleaned the horse collars, as well as the bridle and saddle from Dennis’s horse.

“Ssst.” Charles whistled low, for he spied a swinging lantern coming their way. Moses hurried back into the steeple.

A woman, perhaps in her fifties, the farm wife, carried a basket. “I thought you might be hungry.” She smiled. “Three apples for your horses.”

Charles reached into his pocket, pulling out another coin.

She put out her hand. “No, no, sir. You’ve paid us enough.”

“You are very kind.” Charles smiled.

“We start work at sunup.”

“We will be on our way by then.” Charles smiled again. “You’ve built a sturdy barn.”

She smiled. “My father and his brothers. I believe this barn will be standing when I am long gone.”

“No time soon, I trust.”

“I take your leave.”

Charles bowed slightly. “Good night, madam.”

John called as he walked in from the paddock, saddle over his arm. “Good night.”

Once they no longer saw the flickering lantern, the two climbed into the wagon and sat down with the basket between them.

“Moses.”

Moses stepped out.

“Sit down. We’ve been visited by an angel.” Charles lifted the cover to the basket, and if she wasn’t an angel, she certainly was a good cook. The aroma of sliced ham, corn on the cob, a heavenly apple cobbler, and a tankard of cold tea was shared.

Once they’d eaten, John and Moses scrubbed the plate, the big bowl, the wooden spoons, and the two knives, as well as the tankard, while Charles, retrieving his sketchbook, pulled out a well-wrapped bottle of ink he’d ground himself and a quill, then drew a certificate of thanks. He wanted to put the name of the owners of the farm in the center.

“Fletcher. Wasn’t that the name?” Charles asked.

“Is,” John, now exhausted, replied. “The owner introduced himself as Kevin Fletcher.”

The name, in Charles’s cursive hand, filled the center of the paper, and underneath he added the flourish: Twilight Farm.

—

That morning as the sun rose, the Virginians were already on their way. The carefully washed plate, bowl, tankard had been placed in the basket with the thank-you rolled up.

Kevin Fletcher picked it up, was going to wait until he’d done his barn chores, then thought he’d take it up to his wife.

She opened the basket, pulled out the paper, exclaiming when she saw it. “Kevin, what does it say?”

“ ‘To Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, thank you for your kindness.’ ” Then he traced the name underneath. “ ‘Of Twilight Farm.’ ”

“How beautiful.” She clasped her hands under her chin.

Her husband smiled. “Not bad.”

—

Two hours down the road, John and Charles took a right fork heading northeast. With luck, they’d be in York inside three days, maybe two.

The gelding walked behind the wagon. John fashioned a rope halter for him so he wouldn’t need to wear a bit.