Ralph Compton the Trail's End

Chapter One

Hills of white flowers rolled like waves, even in the gloom before dawn. They were all closed up, but still pretty and tall enough that one wouldn't so much walk through them as wade. It brought water to mind and made Tom feel light on his feet, which was no small task. He paused, leaning on his walking stick and peering at Asher, who determinedly forged a path ahead.

"Kid," he called out.

The boy paused and looked back.

"What's your hurry?" Tom asked.

"I am in no hurry, Mr. Calvert."

So Tom was just moving that slowly, eh? He pushed on.

Two weeks after arriving in Friendly Field, he still didn't know if he really meant to stay. It hadn't occurred to him that these people might welcome him, even knowing the truth about him. Or most of it, at any rate. He had made a lot of assumptions about these Quakers, and so far just about every one of them had been wrong.

"Mr. Calvert?"

"I'm coming."

"Morning exercise is your ritual, not mine," the boy pointed out.

"I take my exercise on the road," Tom shot back. "Not in all this." The boy was leading the way for a change, and it was difficult going among the hills.

"It will be worth your while," Asher promised.

Tom wasn't so sure. The kid claimed to have found a spectacular bounty of spring mushrooms in the woods. That was all well and good, but Tom couldn't truthfully say that he gave a damn. The kid was excited about it, though. That was what mattered, but Asher might regret wearing himself out before his day even began. On the other hand, the kid had what seemed to be limitless energy. On the trail, he'd managed the bulk of the work himself to keep the wagon rolling. Tom had been deadweight with a bullet in his leg, and the boy had more or less carried them both. He was tougher than he looked.

When the sun came up, all these flowers would open, and there would be such a scent that it would make anyone heady. Tom hoped they'd be on their way back by then. He didn't know why the boy wanted to be with him when he went for these walks before dawn. Tom had a good reason for doing it: if he didn't do something with his leg, it would be stiff and painful by midafternoon. That, and the food was entirely too good in Friendly Field. If he didn't make a point to move around, he'd get soft in a hurry.

They reached the trees, and Asher stopped. He didn't look back.

"Mr. Calvert," he said.

"Yeah?" Tom caught up and leaned on his stick, squinting in the gloom. He didn't see any mushrooms.

"What possessed you to do that?" The boy was asking about the day that they arrived. He wanted to know why Tom had thrown his story out the window and told the elders of Friendly Field the truth, more or less. It would've been too easy to present themselves as victims of some misfortune or wayfarers seeking salvation.

"I'm heavy enough to drag around," he said, rubbing the walking stick absently with his thumb. "Secrets and lies just make me feel heavier."

"Secrets and lies are the game of poker," Asher pointed out.

"Not exactly, kid."

"Were you hoping they would turn you away so you could go on without me?"

"Why are you asking?" Tom had to notice the serious look on Asher's face.

"Because this life is very different from what I would picture to be to your liking."

"Different from what I would picture too," Tom told him frankly. "Turns out, I don't mind it. Do you?"

Asher just let his breath out, then took a deep one.

"What were you hoping to find here?" Tom asked, because why not? They were well enough acquainted by now for this much surely.

"This," the boy said finally.

"What?"

"What we found is what I had hoped to find," he said, appearing to wake up. He returned Tom's gaze. "It is you that I worry for. No cards, no money. What is there for you?"

"Hell, kid, do you want me to leave?"

Asher's eyes narrowed. "You have shaved, Mr. Calvert."

"Very observant."

"So there is something of interest to you."

It wasn't a particularly astute observation; in fact, for the boy to be making it just now-he really wasn't paying much attention. But that stood to reason; they had found this place, and everything had changed. Things weren't the way they'd been on the trail. The wagon made for a small world, but this was a community. It wasn't just Tom and Asher anymore, so the boy could have his own life.

But he still wanted to get up early and drag Tom off to find mushrooms.

"Do you even like mushrooms?"

"No, I dislike them," Asher replied, but he forged on. "There are those who enjoy them, though."

"And you're sure they aren't the poisonous kind?"

The boy halted. "Poisonous kind?"

"For God's sake, kid. Your people taught you to talk pretty, but not that?"

This was turning into a long hike; ordinarily Tom liked to do a mile each way. They had to be close to twice that now, well beyond the potato fields-but there was no danger of straying onto someone's property. The Quakers were all alone out here; that was what made Tom optimistic that no one would come looking for him.

"Hold up a minute, kid."

"Another rest?"

"No." Tom looked over his shoulder as though there was even the slight possibility anyone might have followed. They were plenty far from the settlement. He unbuttoned his coat and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, taking out his derringer.

Asher's brows rose. "I noticed that you did not volunteer that item."

Tom didn't think of the little gun as a weapon; he never had. It was almost too pretty to shoot, with its gold inlay and pearl handles. He'd won it in a poker game from a very pretty woman who he remembered fondly. It was just a trinket for luck.

That was, until a while ago when he suddenly found himself with nothing else but a club that he was in no state to use. He'd never bothered buying bullets for a keepsake. That day he'd needed them.

He had bullets for it now. They were far enough from the houses that the report of such tiny cartridges wouldn't be heard.

"Who do you mean to shoot?" Asher asked, intrigued.

"Nobody, kid. I just wonder if I could hit anything with it if I wanted to." The barrel of the gun wasn't even as long as his little finger. All the same, he hefted it in his palm, then lifted it and took aim at a tree some seven or eight yards off.

Asher covered his ears, but he didn't have to. The little pop of the pistol would have been a good deal quieter than the constant hammering of nails and timber in Friendly Field during daylight. There was always a new barn, a new window, a new door being put on someone's house. Always. Tom had nearly gotten to where he didn't notice anymore.

After a moment the boy looked at him uncertainly.

"Why don't you fire?"

Tom took his finger off the trigger and lowered the gun, then shook his head.

"Sorry, kid. It's a habit. I figured I'd be past it by now."

Asher peered at him, and there was a shrewdness there that Tom wasn't accustomed to seeing on him. "Your habit is to be prepared."

"That's right."

"There's no harm in that."

Tom glanced at his bad leg and wondered if that was true.

"No sense arguing," he told the boy. And after a moment he held out the gun. "Why don't you take it?"

"There was a time, Mr. Calvert, when you wouldn't hand me a pistol no matter how incessantly I asked it of you. I did not ask for this one," he pointed out.

"I don't want it anymore."

Asher hesitated. "Why should I want it?"

"I'm lame, kid. Not blind." Whatever he said, the boy did covet the gun. Tom wasn't wrong about that.

Asher appeared to consider it; then he took a step back. "I think not, Mr. Calvert. I think neither of us has any need of it here."

That was very likely true. Tom considered the gun for a moment, then tucked it back into his pocket with his watch. He took up his stick and they pressed on.

For a moment he'd considered just dropping the little gun in the loam, but that would've been a shame. It had value, and now that it was unlikely he would ever have another taste of his old life, the memories meant more to him than the pearl or the gold. That was what he might've said if asked, but it wouldn't have been true. The truth was that he'd carried a gun for a long time, and he'd have felt naked without one. It didn't matter that the little toy probably couldn't protect him from a squirrel. It was just the principle of the thing.

But it was because of his trigger finger that he was struck by a gut-churning wave of panic whenever it even appeared that someone might be riding toward Friendly Field. The place wasn't even a village; it was just one large farm. No one would look for him there. Even if he'd told the Quakers his real name, he'd still have been safe.

He knew that. But what he knew just couldn't seem to make a dent in what he felt. He remembered the worst of the pain and the fever from his leg, and he'd gladly have traded his fear and unease for that agony.

Maybe it would get better in time.

He paused.

"Kid," he said, pointing with his walking stick. Asher looked back. The trees were thicker here, and there would be little light even at noon. "Is this the sort you saw?" He indicated a mushroom at the foot of a crooked tree.

"It is."

"Well, did you bring a sack or something?"

"What?"

This boy. Well, it was all right in this case.

"If you're going to gather something, hadn't you better bring a sack?" Tom asked, stifling a yawn.

"Yes, Mr. Calvert. I apologize."

"Well, you'd just as soon not gather ones like this."

"Why not?"

Tom leaned over and plucked the mushroom, holding it up. "One of these won't kill you, but it'll make you sicker than hell."

Asher was stunned.

"You said you found more? We'd better find them and get rid of them in case someone else as ignorant as you stumbles on them," Tom said tiredly, crushing the mushroom in his hand and throwing it aside. "I'm fairly sure you could die if you ate too many of them."

Asher wasn't listening.

"Kid? You all right?"

Asher looked around worriedly. He didn't reply. He just kept searching with his eyes, putting his hand on the trunk of a tree and leaning to look behind it.

"I believe this is the place," he said uncertainly.

Tom took a look for himself. "What were you doing up here anyway?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

One might think that after months in a wagon with Tom, the boy would want other people around. The Quakers were about the best folks Tom had ever met, but their friendly way of doing things was sometimes too much. It was nothing he couldn't handle, but the boy was being stifled.

"This is the place," Asher declared, annoyed. "I am certain of it."

There were no signs of mushrooms, apart from the one Tom had picked. It was difficult to see in the gloom, but the mushroom was pale. More like it would stand out clearly.

"Something probably came along and ate them."

"There were so many," Asher said, giving him a look. "But I suppose you are right." He was still suspicious. He moved through the shadows, searching irritably. Was he bothered that they'd made the trip for nothing? They didn't want these mushrooms; they were poison.

"There were so many," the kid repeated.

"Come on back." They'd already spent longer on this stroll than intended.

"We will be forgiven for tardiness," Asher replied, distracted.

Tom wasn't worried about God, but he believed in good manners. He always had.

"Kid, these folks are good to us. Let's return the favor."

Asher didn't reply. Tom straightened up and limped after him, finding the boy standing with his back to him, holding something. Tom took a look for himself, but he couldn't be sure what he was seeing. Asher looked up, then offered the object to him.

Tom took it and frowned.

It was a couple of sticks and some black feathers. And something else: a tiny skull. And it was all tied together with thread. The sticks formed a sort of cross, and the feathers had been arranged to fan out behind the skull, which must have come from a bird.

The thread was tied very neatly. Someone had made this with care.

And Tom didn't have the faintest idea what it was supposed to be.

Chapter Two

Rather than stiff and sore, Tom's leg was just sore from the morning's exercise. He didn't mind that particularly, and the ache was less severe in a warm spring than it would be in a cold winter. It was hot enough now to have all the windows open in the sewing room. Nothing could push all the worry away, but the sunlight and the breeze made a gallant effort.

Tom did as well.

Mrs. Heller whispered to Mary Black, and in the hush of the morning, there was no secrecy to be had at all. Some of the men were doing work on the roof of the Pilkin house just a hundred feet away, but when the hammers stopped, the whole place was as quiet as a grave.

Mary bore Mrs. Heller's foolishness stoically. Tom had noticed her change her seat on several days in the hopes of having a new neighbor, but to no avail. Mrs. Heller followed her, and the other ladies made no effort to rescue the widow. One nice thing to come of it was that Mary's poker face was getting better every day; when Tom first arrived, she had blushed when Mrs. Heller said these things. Now her face hardly changed at all.

Mrs. White sat closest to Tom, and she was visibly entertained. Tom wouldn't say it, but because she was the wife of one the town's leaders, and also the oldest in the room, it should've been her place to do something. It was also her house. This was a tedious way to spend the day in the best of times, but having to get through it with Mrs. Heller in your ear? That bordered on inhumane.