two.”
The horse, alarmed by the sudden tension in both men, began to toss its head and shift about.
“Easy,” Jack whispered, hanging on to the bridle. “Whoa! Easy!”
“Out the candle. I’m going to draw them away,” Ike said, slipping outside before Jack could stop him. Incredibly, as his footsteps faded into the darkness, Ike began to sing, a rousing song about a little chicken that wouldn’t lay an egg, the one he used to sing on the march to make the Orphans’ Guild perk up and laugh.
“O, I had a little chicky and he wouldn’t lay an egg...”
Jack waited, listening hard, but the storm was nearly overhead and the walls too thick for him to hear whatever it was Ike had heard. All he could do was stay put and try to keep the horse from bolting. His hands were beginning to shake, but he didn’t let go of the bridle. He leaned his head close to the animal’s nose and breathed evenly, quietly, until he could loosen his grip. Then he reached into his pocket and gave it a piece of the peppermint candy.
“All right,” he said to the horse after what seemed a long time. “In for a penny, in for whatever’s in that leather pouch.”
He moved to the doorway and stood for a moment, then led the horse outside. It was still raining, but the worst of the storm had passed. He couldn’t see or hear any activity in the cemetery.
He made sure his haversack was secure, then he mounted the horse and let it find its own way among the tombstones until he reached the road leading out of town. He knew better than to take it. He cut through more back lots and alleyways instead, hoping the watchmen would be more interested in staying dry than in obeying Farrell Vance. Eventually he found a part of the town he could still recognize even in a downpour. He cut across a field, careful to stay between the rows of corn and not leave an irate farmer in his wake. Heading into the mountains was a better plan than Father Bartholomew had realized. Jack had impulsively told Elrissa that he was heading out West, and it seemed likely that she would have told her husband.
In a very short time and through any number of plowed and planted fields, Jack had ridden beyond the Lexington town limits, but he stayed off the main road until he was certain he was beyond any watchmen assigned to monitor the comings and goings of nighttime travelers. It was still raining, and he stopped for a moment and listened to get his bearings. Then he crossed into yet another field and ultimately came out onto the road again. He headed for London, and he didn’t look back.
Chapter Four
“Who are you?” The voice was muffled behind the closed cabin door, but Jack could understand her. He had managed to get this far—from Lexington to Knoxville and over the Tennessee border to Asheville, and then the final long hard trek toward Jefferson—without ever having to fully answer that question. At one point he’d even ridden rear guard on the stage heading through bushwhacker country on the so-called buffalo road, apparently the only way to get through the mountains, still without identifying himself by name. He had no intention of breaking that precedent now.
He wasn’t here by accident. Somewhere on the way to London, he had checked his haversack, and he had realized that he had a true destination after all. He just hadn’t expected how hard it would be to get this far.
He had some serious misgivings about his decision at the moment—since it was becoming increasingly clear that this endeavor could be as dangerous as facing Farrell Vance’s men. The best plan he could devise under these circumstances was simply to wait for the woman inside to give him the information he wanted and to hope she had a bad aim.
“I’m looking for someone,” he called after a moment. He couldn’t see the musket trained on him, but even without Ike’s skills, he could feel it.
“I don’t know you,” she said, and it was clearly a serious accusation. “Leave your hands where I can see them!” she shouted when Jack would have reached for his haversack.
“I was asked to deliver some letters and personal—”
“Letters for who!”
“Mrs. Garth.”
“And what Mrs. Garth would that be?”
“Mrs. Thomas Henry Garth,” he said. “Sayer.”
“Sayer?”
“Yes.”
“They come from Thomas Henry? Is he dead?”
“Where can I find her?” Jack asked instead of answering.
“Is he dead?”
Jack didn’t say anything, and after a moment the door cracked open and a woman stepped outside. The musket was still trained on him, and he had no doubt that she would kill him if she thought it the least bit necessary.
“Is he dead?” she asked again.
“Yes,” he said, and the woman let the musket fall.
“Oh, no! Oh, no,” she said, lifting the musket slightly and then letting the barrel swing downward again. “That poor girl.”
“Can you tell me where to find her?”
“She ain’t here,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re on the wrong ridge.”
“I’ve come a long way,” he said. “I just want to give her the letters and then I’ll be gone.”
“I’ll take them to her—if she’s alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“They got sickness at the Garth cabin. The two little girls—I don’t know about Sayer. She didn’t holler this morning.”
“Holler?” Jack asked blankly.
“It’s how we know one another’s all right. Give a loud holler so whoever lives closest can hear you. You send it back to them and if there’s anybody else can hear you, you pass it on. She didn’t holler. Ain’t no smoke coming out the chimney, neither.”
“You can see the place from here?” he asked, looking around for a clearing in the trees.
The woman stared at him warily without answering.
“I don’t mean her any harm. I just want to give her the letters and tell her what happened.”
“You was with him at the end?”
“Yes.”
“He die easy?”
“No,” Jack said truthfully, mostly because she had lifted the musket again and because he thought that this old woman would spot the lie before he got it out.
“You ain’t going to tell her that.”
“No. I’m going to tell her what he—Thomas Henry—wanted me to say.”
“Who are you?” she asked, studying him hard, and they were back to that again.
But
