Ralph Compton the Trail's End

PROLOGUE

The sun was out, the breeze was just a whisper, and the blue sky was big enough to get lost in.

Tom Calvert had spent more than six months in a wagon, trapped with his thoughts, most of which had to do with his mistakes. Enough was enough; he was tired of worrying about the past. He couldn’t let go of what he’d done, and he certainly wouldn’t pretend he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t forget, not with his bad leg to remind him—but he didn’t want to forget. He just wanted to stop wasting time on it.

He’d never given a thought to the Idaho Territory, but he wouldn’t have expected it to be quite so nice to look at. He’d likely have said the same for Wyoming, and he’d been dead wrong about that. Even laid up with a fever, he’d been able to see country there that put all the rest to shame.

Friendly Field was what this place was called, but Pretty Field might have suited it better. Bright, clean whitewashing stood out against the green grass and the dark earth. There were vast fields of crops, all impeccably neat.

He nudged his mare forward, drawing up alongside the kid.

Less than a year had passed since they met, but Asher no longer looked or acted anything like the grubby little shrimp of a boy Tom had found on a riverboat on the Missouri. He was still small and looked even smaller in his habitually oversized clothes. Tom had tried more than once to convince him to see a barber, but the boy insisted on hacking off his own hair as though he knew what he was doing. The result was that he looked like an absolute madman, which was perhaps for the best. Past his short stature and insubstantial build, the boy had good looks, so one could hope that his ridiculous hair would keep the girls away, because even after all this time and Tom’s best efforts, Asher still didn’t know what to do with them.

There was only one thing Asher was even worse at than girls, and that was riding. His mare jostled, and Tom reached out and caught his arm to keep him from falling. Maybe they should’ve kept the wagon a little longer.

The boy didn’t even say anything, and Tom didn’t blame him. He let go and straightened up, following Asher’s gaze.

There were houses down there, but they weren’t laid out like they would have been in a real town. They were in a sort of circle, with several generous barns and such and a church. All of it was surrounded by potato fields. Mountains towered in the distance under the blue sky, and the forests ringing it all already had their leaves back. It was fair enough to say that it was pretty everywhere in spring, but the colors here were different. Brighter somehow.

Or perhaps it only seemed that way because Tom’s fever was finally gone.

No word came to mind to describe the look on the boy’s face. Asher had been searching for Friendly Field since well before he met Tom, but until not long ago they hadn’t been entirely convinced the place was real. So few people had heard of it, yet it was well-known in Des Crozet, twenty miles away, where their potatoes were traded.

What was that look on the kid’s face? Disappointment? He had to have known that even if Friendly Field was real, there couldn’t be much to it. Otherwise it would have been on the maps.

Asher looked downright grim. Maybe he’d hoped there’d be someone here to play cards with, but they both knew better than that. These people were of the Religious Society of Friends. That was where the strange name for the place had come from.

Quakers. Tom didn’t know the first thing about them, but he had a feeling they didn’t gamble much. The boy was likely thinking the same thing.

No poker here. Just potatoes.

Tom snorted and pulled his hat down a bit, squinting in the sunlight. The kid’s disappointment might not last; after all, they were here without an invitation and without a plan. For all either of them knew, they’d be back on the trail by midafternoon. And going where? There was no telling; Tom hadn’t thought that far ahead.

It isn’t what you thought it would be, he said after a moment, leaning over to rub his mare’s head.

Asher glanced over at him.

It is very nice to look at, he said in that polite way he had. It wasn’t haughtiness; it was just the way the boy had been raised.

Tom had a feeling he was right. Asher had hoped for something a little more robust than a few houses, a church, and a whole lot of potatoes.

You make your bed and you sleep in it, Tom told him frankly. We spent too long trying to find this place not to give it a chance.

Asher’s brows rose, and he gave Tom a look.

I was not thinking of leaving, Mr. Calvert.

Well, here’s hoping they’re friendly. Tom snorted. Hell, they’d better be.

They couldn’t just admire the view all day; there were plenty of people to see as they cantered down the hill. And plenty more in the fields, their white shirts standing out clearly against the freshly worked earth. It wasn’t clear what they were doing. Not tilling, but Tom was no farmer.

The Quakers noticed the strangers approaching. A life on the move had made Tom comfortable with being looked at this way. Everyone who played cards for a living knew him, but other folks? No.

Hello there, a man called out, waving as he strode out to meet them. It was by no means warm, but he was in shirtsleeves and he’d clearly been working.

Tom drew up and opened his mouth, but the man went on.

Peace be with thee, he said.

And also with you, Asher replied, the hint of a smile on his face.

Tom raised an eyebrow. He’d expected to have to do the talking.

Are you known here? the man asked personably enough. So the thee had been just for the greeting? That suited Tom.

No. Tom swung down from his mare and pulled his walking stick from the loop on the saddle. He limped forward and put his hand out. The man shook readily.

At least a dozen people were watching.

Asher dismounted as well.

We’ve come a long way, Tom said, and it wasn’t lost on him how peculiar he must come off. A well-dressed man with a bad limp who still hadn’t stated his business.

But these folks looked more curious than worried.

Alas, the man replied, giving him a sympathetic look, we have only just planted.

Tom smiled at him.

We aren’t here for potatoes.

*   *   *

A business?"

The man behind the desk looked as though Tom had just shot him. He glanced uncertainly at Sebastian, the man who had welcomed Tom and Asher to town—if town was the word. Village, maybe.

Sebastian had brought him here, straight to this house, which appeared no different from any of the others, at least from the outside. It was equal parts rough and fine; though many rich touches were missing, it was still beautiful to look at. And spacious.

Tom had sat in his share of offices that belonged to men who were, at the end of the day, in charge. This man was the one who ran the place. Thaddeus Mayfair was his name. Tom was past thirty, and this man was probably twice that, and more than twice Tom’s size. He was soft and genial, and he’d welcomed them into his office—or study, as he called it—with a good deal more enthusiasm than Tom would’ve had in his place.

A business, Thaddeus repeated, frowning. He licked his lips and glanced at Sebastian, then shot Tom and Asher a smile. I think we had best have Saul and Jeremiah here, Sebastian, if they can be found.

Tom and Asher had come to Friendly Field to stay, not to visit, but they had no claim, and they were not farmers. Thus, Tom had assumed that, to justify settling and making something like a living, they would have to . . . well, do something. As for what, that had seemed obvious until a few days ago, when the man giving Tom a haircut mentioned offhand that these people were Quakers.

It seemed safe to assume there probably wasn’t much need for a saloon in Friendly Field. Unfortunately, that was probably the only business Tom would’ve been confident about starting up and running with a convincing impression of knowing what he was doing.

Thaddeus cleared his throat and moved his chair a little closer to the desk, folding his hands as Sebastian left the room. He was about to say something, but his eyes moved to his right, and there was a child peering through the window.

The little girl froze, and Thaddeus made a ridiculous face. She ran off.

He looked back at Tom and Asher.

I don’t know precisely how to put this, Thaddeus admitted, scratching his chin. I do not know that I have ever fielded this query, but we are not a—or, rather, what I should say is that here we are a family. Commerce and business . . . He moved his hands a bit vaguely. These things exist, but perhaps not in the way that you’re accustomed to, my friends. He hesitated, frowning. I have to say, on the rare occasion when strangers come to our door, it is because they are seeking the light within, not profit.

‘Profit’ wouldn’t be the right word for what we’re after, sir, Tom told him frankly. Just a living, really.

"Please, please do not take these words to sound unwelcoming, Mr. Smith. There hadn’t even been a touch of suspicion when Tom had introduced himself with that name. But could you not find a living anywhere? Why make your way to our humble fields?"

Tom rubbed his eyes. Well, sir, there’s a story there. He expected the older man to cringe, as Tom certainly would have had someone said that to him—but Thaddeus only looked intrigued.

I am keen to hear it, he said, but we had best wait for my good friends to arrive. I have a notion this is something we should all hear, if that suits you.

Of course. Tell me, Mr. Mayfair, what are they like—the people who choose to join your community? Tom asked. It was up to him to do the talking; the boy hadn’t opened his mouth since stepping into this house, except to introduce himself. And even that, he’d done a bit stiffly. Of course he was anxious; this was all new.

Not like you, Thaddeus replied with a smile. And call me Thaddeus, please. We’ve known each other ten minutes now, and that should be enough to make us friends. No, only a few have come to us as you have. Families from other communities similar to ours and a few wayfarers, but not like you. You appear to have more means than ones such as those. I expect those folk come here lacking an alternative, but you—the two of you have come quite deliberately.

I expect the boy must have heard good things about you, Tom said, glancing at Asher, because Friendly Field sure stuck in his head.

Is that true, young man?

Asher smiled back at him. Yes, sir. Very good things.

Heavens, I wonder from whom. Well, we do have rather long-standing relationships with our vendors. Several of them are almost like family themselves. I never thought they might be out there telling people of us. And what about you, Tom?

I’ll admit that I was curious to see what a place called Friendly Field would look like. Would it be as friendly as its name?

Well? Thaddeus smiled.

Seems nice enough to me.

There were muffled voices and the creaking of floorboards. They all looked as the door opened to admit Sebastian with two other men. They were both leaner than Thaddeus, but close to him in age. One wore spectacles and had a piece of cloth wrapped around his forearm as a bandage. Both were eating corn bread from cloth napkins held in their hands.

Thaddeus looked affronted.

Did Mary’s mother make that? he asked sternly, suddenly looking very serious.

Of course, the bespectacled man replied, eying Tom and Asher with interest. He glanced at Sebastian, then swallowed and ducked his head in a sort of greeting. Good day, he said. Peace be with thee. The bearded man beside him was still chewing. Welcome.

Thank you, Tom replied politely.

Sebastian shut the door.

Shame on you, Jeremiah White. And you as well, Saul Matthews. It is rude to eat in front of guests that way. Thaddeus gave them a scowl. One might also call it rude not to bring me any, he added, looking hurt.

Oh, just finish up here and go get some yourself, Saul told him. He had a head of white hair, but he looked vigorous enough.

I intend to, Thaddeus told him huffily. Tom and Asher, this is Saul and Jeremiah. Our community has no need of what you might call a—a mayor or anything to that effect. Yet that might be the simplest way for you to think of the three of us. When it comes to doing things around here, we try to listen to everyone, and then the three of us quarrel about it and pray. Through the grace of God, we generally come to an agreement in time. So you understand why it’s for the best that they be here.

Seems reasonable, Tom replied.

These two young men, Thaddeus said to the others, indicating Tom and Asher, have come to us intending to start a business in Friendly Field. Have I understood you on that matter?

More or less, Tom told him, shrugging. It might be more precise to say we’re looking to make a life, and I just figured that starting a business was how I’d do it.

Saul and Jeremiah wore identical expressions of puzzlement.

Do you come from our brothers in Northley? Jeremiah asked, wrapping up the crumbs of his corn bread.

No. Tom smiled. We’re heathens, I’m afraid.

Saul snorted. Are you in a business relating to potatoes?

I play cards. I’m a gambler.

The silence that followed didn’t surprise Tom. Even Asher looked taken aback.

You may as well just hear us out, Tom went on. I’m not just a gambler. Some months ago I killed a man. He attacked my character and—he motioned toward himself—my person. So I shot him. And I did not conduct myself well. That was a generous way of putting it, but it wasn’t untrue. And then, not long after, I made a few more enemies. And I shot them as well. I didn’t come here for potatoes, and I didn’t come here for any reason of my own at all. I’m hoping to make a life somewhere out of the way, because of what I just told you. The reason we landed here and not somewhere else is because the boy was keen to find you. He saved my life. More than once.

Tom let it go there. He hadn’t planned to say all that or at least not in that way. There were a thousand stories he could’ve told that would’ve made these people welcome them with open arms.

He rubbed his bad leg absently and sat back in his chair.

That’s what it comes down to, he said, who we are and what we want.

You mean to say you are a—an outlaw, Thaddeus said, eyes a bit wide. Sebastian had stiffened, Saul looked sour, and Jeremiah’s eyes had become wary.

Tom sighed, then lifted a hand and wiggled it from side to side. Depends who you ask. That first man I spoke of—that was justified, but others might not see it that way. And to tell the truth, by now I wish I hadn’t done it. The same could be said of the rest. You make enemies when you play cards and do it well, and I have not treated my enemies in a very Christian way.

Asher was looking at him as though he’d lost his mind.

So I would understand if I wasn’t welcome, Tom told them all frankly, being a violent man. Funny enough, I never really thought of myself as one, but there’s no way around it. The boy’s different, though. He isn’t like me. He’s never hurt anyone, and finding this place meant a lot to him. I hope you won’t let my mistakes color your opinion of him. He didn’t know what kind of man I was when he saved me.

It was a lot of talking, at least by Tom’s standards. Not every detail in what he said was true, but it really was the long and short of it. It was impulsive to put his cards on the table this way, but it felt good to do. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but here he was all the same, seriously thinking about starting over. He wasn’t about to try to build a life on a foundation made up entirely of lies.

Well, Saul said, and he didn’t look happy. Tom thought he might go on, but he didn’t.

What I’m coming around to is that I hope you’ll still welcome the kid, Tom said, putting his hand on Asher’s shoulder, even if I’m not to your liking. I would not presume to go where I wasn’t wanted.

And if we hear you correctly, you are in fear of retribution for what you have done? Jeremiah asked. Of the three older men, he was the one who appeared to be taking this the best. He adjusted his spectacles and glanced at Sebastian, who looked appalled.

‘Fear’ isn’t the word I’d use. But I wouldn’t expect anyone to find me here. I don’t know if anyone’s looking or how hard. But to be safe, I avoid crowds.

That was the truth.

What sort of trouble would you bring to our door?

Only the law, Tom told him. If they track me here, they may come.

And if they do? Jeremiah pressed.

Tom sighed. I’d like to hope that they won’t. But if they do, I believe I’m finally ready to hang it up. He thumped his walking stick on the floor and gave him a dry smile. I don’t care for running ever since my leg got to be this way.

Jeremiah, Saul said uncertainly.

Easy, Saul. I like this gentleman’s candor.

He’s a murderer. By his own admission.

That is not true, Asher cut in. There was nothing he did that wasn’t in his own defense or mine. That is not murder.

Thaddeus appeared to consider that. Do you mean to tell us you would go to hang without resistance if a lawman came here looking for you?

The older man had his eyes on the pistol tucked into Tom’s belt. There was a part of Tom himself that felt the way everyone else in the room looked. Even Asher was thrown by it, but Tom couldn’t take any of it back now. And he didn’t want to.

He didn’t get to answer Thaddeus’ question because Jeremiah spoke up.

Sir, have you come here in the hopes that we will hide you from your pursuers? Because we would never turn you away, he said, as though it were obvious. In fact, it was almost startling the way he said it. "We would never turn anyone away. That would be . . . it would be contrary to who we are."

We could never hide you, though, Saul pointed out quickly. That would be inconceivable.

Tom hadn’t surprised anyone else half as much as he surprised himself. And these words rattled him further.

I wouldn’t ask you to, he told them, pulling the gun out of his belt. He leaned over with a groan, but hesitated, just holding it there.

Then he set it on the desk and never touched it again.

PART ONE

LIGHT AS A FEATHER

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