River of Mercy (13 page)

Twice in the same night now, the outsider had thrown a halt into his plans. He had barely had time to get out of the house and run for cover when Gant and Rachel pulled up front. Another minute or two and they would have caught him. And now, instead of going back to town after setting Rachel off, here Gant was again, this time by himself.

Fine pot of stew this was.

Might have known. Even if nothing much was said about it, everybody knew Gant was still sweet on Rachel. If the man caught anyone poking around her house, much less making a mess of things, there was no telling what he'd do. He was a big, strong type, and even though he apparently had Rachel and a few others fooled into thinking he was a good enough sort, he had a look about him that bespoke a mean streak if he should be riled.

Well, he hadn't been caught, and that was all that mattered. Not that it had ever been that much of a possibility. A big fellow like Gant wouldn't be fast enough on his feet to run him down. Besides, this wasn't about any face-to-face dealings with Gant, but about showing the People that the outsider had brought trouble upon them all when he arrived in Riverhaven and that he would bring even more if he stayed around.

Gant had to go. Unfortunately, from the looks of things, he had no intention of leaving. He was of no mind to leave Rachel. For sure, he wasn't the type to be scared off. No, the People needed to realize that having him around was only making their problems worse, that he was unable or unwilling to help them.

It was taking longer than he'd expected though. He hadn't counted on the People taking up with the man. He had thought that because Gant was a stranger from the outside world, they would distrust him and keep him a good distance away. Instead, some seemed to have taken a liking to him, even to the point of making friends with him.

Including Rachel and her family.

For the second time he heard a wildcat cry from somewhere on the mountain. He shuddered at the sound. He hated those creatures and their sly, sneaky ways.

There had been no movement from the other side of the road for several minutes now, no sign that Gant had seen him. He decided he'd waited long enough.

Clutching his coat more tightly around him against the rain, he started off for home, moving quietly and slowly until he had passed far enough away from the house that Gant couldn't spot him. As he slogged through the wet leaves, he began to recognize some of the mistakes he had made. At the same time, a solution gradually began to unravel.

What he needed now was a whole new strategy.

That was it—a new
strategy.
He liked that word. It meant he had a smart and well-thought-out plan to accomplish his goal. Maybe he had taken a few wrong turns, but that didn't mean he ought to give up. There were other ways. Already, ideas were beginning to form.

After all, the goal all along had been to get rid of Gant. With him gone, Rachel would be free. Her mind would no longer be clouded by confusion and wrong choices. She would be able to make the decisions that were best for her.

And eventually that would make things a whole lot better for
him.

12

Nobody else can do the work
That God marked out for you.

P
AUL
L
AURENCE
D
UNBAR

T
he next Monday Gant reluctantly admitted to himself that he wasn't as young as he liked to think he was.

After putting in several hours at the shop each day during the past week, except for Sunday, he'd spent almost as much time working at Rachel's house alongside Gideon and Doc. By bedtime every night he was more tired than he should have been and newly convicted that he needed to get more exercise from now on. Or at least not to spend so much time sitting on the shop bench while he worked.

The bright side was that he slept so deeply each night that a buffalo stampede wouldn't have roused him. The not-so-bright side had to do with the spasms that seized his bad leg when he least expected them. Like well-placed hammer blows, the pain ricocheted from his hip down to his ankle, threatening to take him to his knees.

Tonight he was working late again, but he'd finished up what needed doing at Rachel's that morning, so maybe from now on his days would be a little shorter and less tiring.

Besides cleaning up the workroom and repairing the damage, he'd replaced the glass in the broken window and repaired the frame. He also installed a new, sturdier lock and a sliding metal bar to the front and back doors and repainted them. Some of the shelves that held supplies for the birdhouses had never been properly sanded or painted, so he took time to finish them and set everything back in place after they dried.

He was bent over the lathe, plying the treadle as he finished the last leg for Mylon Baker's dining room table when someone knocked at the back door. Mac, dozing nearby, shot to his feet and gave a short bark.

Gant stopped and listened. When the knock came again, he wiped his hands and started for the rear of the shop with Mac following him.

“Who's there?”

There was a delay, then, “A friend of friends.”

The voice was low and sounded hoarse.

Gant hesitated only a moment before opening the door, edging Mac a little to the side. The figure standing in front of him was slight as a boy, but the dark expression that held Gant's attention was that of a man—grim, weary, and skeptical. He had the kind of skin that looked to be stretched tight across his face, with cheekbones like knife blades and a mouth set in a hard line.

“What can I do for you?” said Gant, caught off guard by the other's appearance and demeanor. This one was a different sort of runaway altogether. Moreover, for just a fleeting moment he looked vaguely familiar.

“I'm looking for Captain Gant.”

Gant regarded him with interest. “You've found him.”

The man—or was he a boy?—let his coat, a full two sizes too large, fall open a bit as he fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a piece of badly wrinkled paper. He thrust it at Gant, who didn't miss the hunting knife tucked behind the other's belt.

On the paper was a hastily scrawled note from Eldon Turner—cryptic, but words Gant understood: “Arrangements made for delivery. If practical, ship materials within the week. This being such a large order, could use some able-bodied help as we're shorthanded right now.”

So Turner would be the next stop down the line, and he'd be expecting the runaways to leave Gant's within two days.

Gant met the boy's eyes. “How many are you?”

“Eleven, with myself.”

Eleven.
And all on foot, from what he could see. That's why Turner had suggested more than one conductor and hinted at the need for two wagons instead of one. He looked past the boy to the others huddled in the darkness a few feet behind him, looking around as if they expected to be ambushed at any minute.

He could only pray Asa would be back in time with the extra wagon and team. Gideon could drive one wagon, if he were willing, and Asa the other. Of course, with both Gideon and Asa gone, he'd be alone in the shop again, but there was nothing else for it. He wanted no more overcrowding in one wagon, the way things had been until recently. It was just too hard on the people, cramped together like that. There'd even been talk of some runaways dying due to such wretched transportation conditions.

But if Asa didn't get back in time—well, there was nothing to do but wait. It wouldn't be the first time. He wasn't about to send this boy off on his own with that many fugitives.

“All right, then,” he said. “I'll take you out to the barn. Everything you need is out there. You'll have to stay below ground in the daytime. You can be up on the ground floor at night, at least for a short time. It's best to take turns. We can't risk someone coming by and seeing you or hearing you. I'll bring you some food as soon as I get it together.”

He stopped, looking at the boy, who had moved slightly to one side. The light from inside revealed a faint scar running down the side of one cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.

“And if I were you, son, I'd keep that knife well-hidden. If a slave catcher should run you down and spot a knife like that, he might just use it on you.”

The other visibly bristled.

“What's your name?” Gant asked.

“I'm called Silas,” the boy said, his tone grudging.

Strange. He didn't even talk like most of the other runaways. His speech was like that of a white man, even a somewhat educated white man. “Well, Silas, I'll get a lantern and take you and your people to the barn. You'll need to keep everyone as close together as possible and warn them not to make a sound. No talking, no whispering.” He paused. “Any children with you?”

The other nodded. “Two, a girl and a boy. Both of them are under ten years.”

“Well, keep them quiet.”

The boy-man leveled a look of impatience on him. “We know what to do. We've done it before.”

Gant gave a slow nod. “Aye,” he said, “I expect you have.”

With his new visitors finally settled in and fed and Mac padding along beside him, Gant made his last trip from the barn back to the house. He was more than a little weary and ready to turn in after all the commotion of the night.

“What do you say we share the last piece of that cornbread from supper and then call it a day?”

Mac chuffed in agreement, picking up his pace.

They were about to step inside when the bobcat gave a screech from the hill in back. This had become the creature's way of letting them know he was watching them. Especially when they had been away from the house for a while and then returned, the cat had taken to giving them that short, piercing cry.

Was this its way of telling them it was about time they got back?

In any event, the call of their nightly watcher no longer sounded quite so intimidating but more like a greeting.

On the heels of that thought, Gant decided he was more tired than he'd realized.

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