A Dangerous Promise (12 page)

It surprised him that this farm's livestock had been undisturbed. Most of the countryside where the armies had marched had been foraged. Pillaged. Plundered. Looted. There were many names for stealing someone's property, but whatever the reasons behind the thefts, Mike hated them as much as he hated unwelcome memories of his days as a copper thief.

The next morning, Mike awoke to bright sunlight. He stretched and yawned noisily before he realized there were sounds below him in the bam. Startled, he sat up, fully alert as a woman's voice called out, "Who's up there? Speak up, or I'll yell for my husband, who'll bring his gun!"

Mike's heart raced as he slipped his arms into the straps on his knapsack and rolled to the edge of the loft. Grasping the top of the ladder for support, he leaned out so the woman could see him. "It's just me, ma'am. My name's Mike Kelly. I'm traveling through and needed a bed for the night."

The woman looked like many of the other farm women Mike had seen lately: faded print dress, hair pulled back into a bun, weathered skin dried into early wrinkles, and cal-lused hands with stubby fingernails. But this woman was gripping a pitchfork, and there was fear in her eyes.

"Come down careful-Uke," she said, and Mike hurried to obey.

He stood in front of her, brushing hay from his clothes and smiling in friendship, thankful when the fear left her eyes and she leaned the pitchfork against the nearest stall.

"You're only a boy," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," Mike answered.

"Where's your family?"

"Spread out," he said. "Some in and near St. Joseph, some in Kansas."

"Is that where you're off to now? St. Joseph?"

Mike was tired of trying to dodge the truth. Even with a sore leg, he knew he could outrun this woman if need be, so he told her honestly, "I was wounded in the battle at Wilson's Creek, but I'm healed enough now to join my company. I think they're up near RoUa."

Her eyes widened with surprise. "You're too young to be a soldier."

"I'm a musician," Mike said proudly. "A drummer."

She shook her head in exasperation and repeated, "Too

young. Much too young." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "You're Confederate, aren't you?"

Mike took a deep breath. "No, ma'am," he said. "Union Army."

Fear returned to the woman's face, and she quickly glanced at the open bam doors. Dropping her voice, she said, "Get out of here quickly. My husband's got a vendetta against Union sympathizers. If he—"

The pattern of sunlight shifted as a large figure entered the doorway. "What's this, Essie? Who've you got there?"

"Just a boy, Henry," Essie answered firmly, although Mike could see her hands tremble. "Name's Mike Kelly, and he's goin' through to join family. He needed a place to sleep and picked our bam."

As Henry strode toward him, Mike felt as if he'd landed in the path of a giant locomotive. It was all he could do to keep from turning to run, but he knew this man would be too much for him.

Henry, his skin a mottled red and pufly with extra weight, loomed over Mike, taking plenty of time to study him. "He's just a boy," he finally said.

"That's what I told you," Essie mumbled.

"You got any hard cash, boy?" Henry boomed out.

Mike shook his head. "Not even a cent."

"Whatcha got in your knapsack?"

The uniform again! "Just a few clothes," Mike said. For an instant his knees wobbled, and he grabbed the ladder for support.

Essie stepped forward and put a steadying arm around Mike, who limped as she guided him toward the door. "Henry, it's plain to see Mike Kelly is hungry. And he's hurt. Look at the way he's limping. I'll feed him breakfast before we send him on his way."

Henry didn't give up. "What happened to your leg, boy?"

"I feU," Mike said.

"Cut it open, huh?" For some reason Henry chuckled.

"Well, if Essie's soft-hearted enough to want to feed you, then I won't object." He scowled at Essie. "No meat, though. The sausage we keep for ourselves."

Essie didn't answer, but once she had led Mike inside the kitchen, she began to pan-fry a couple of slices of pork sausage.

Settled into a rush-back chair at the kitchen table, Mike blurted out, "Aren't you afraid to cook the sausage? Won't it make him angry?"

Essie gripped the spatula, and her lips became stretched and tight before she answered. "Henry's my husband, and for the most part I've always done what he said because I had no cause not to. But I can't go along with the way he's hurting neighbors and former friends who are Union sympathizers—reporting them to the Confederates, riding with those military bushwackers to bum their bams and houses . . . stealing, hating—" Her voice broke. She turned away, cracking two eggs and dropping the contents into the sausage grease.

"Does your husband own slaves?" Mike asked.

Essie turned and looked at him, indignation on her face. "Not a one!" she said. "And neither do a lot of the folks who are against the Union. They stand on the principle that government shouldn't have a say-so in people's private Uves.

"To my way of thinking, the slavery issue is just an excuse to allow some people to do hateful things and feel righteous about it. I know that's all it is for Henry." A tear ran down her cheek. "It's turned some of our friends against us. It's turned me against my own husband."

Mike didn't know what to say. He wanted to cheer the kind woman up, so he said, "Maybe the war will be over soon, and things will get better."

"Things will never get better," Essie said in a dull, tired voice. She reached for a plate on which she'd sliced some bread and added the sausage and eggs.

Mike didn't try to make conversation. He ate ravenously.

After washing up at the pump outside, he thanked Essie again and Umped back to the road to RoUa, where he was lucky enough to pick up a ride with a farmer who was going as far as Lebanon. Mike finished the food Mrs. Ray had packed for him and spent the night sleeping under a tree.

For the next two days he walked, sometimes riding short distances, and gradually he came closer to RoUa. Although he was headed for his company and anxious to learn the fate of some of his friends, he couldn't get Jiri's evil grin out of his mind. So along the way, if the opportunity presented itself, he asked passersby, "Is there a Confederate encampment nearby?"

A few people assured him that last they'd heard, a small group of Confederate cavalry on an exploratory mission was up ahead, camped in a clearing some twenty miles or so east of RoUa.

"Stay on this road and you can't miss 'em," an elderly man told Mike. He winked. "Gonna join up?"

"I'm too young," Mike said, and stepped back into the road, wanting to get away from the man and his questions.

But the man shouted after him, "If n I was yoimg and healthy, I'd be off to join up, too. Got to beat those Yankees who come down here tryin' to tell us what to do."

Mike knew better than to answer the way he'd like to. He just plodded along the road, hoping to pick up a ride with another wagon driver.

As he drew closer and closer to RoUa, a spark tingled through Mike's body. With any luck, he'd soon catch up to Jiri. And no matter how brutal and ruthless Jiri was, Mike would have to outwit him. He was determined to get Todd's pocket watch and take it back to Emily Blakely. He'd promised.

In this hilly, forested countryside, Mike found few farms, but late that night he came upon a roadside tavern with a half-dozen horses tethered outside. Mike's nose, quivering at the fragrance of roasted meat, led him straight through the smoky, noisy room to the tavern keeper.

"I'll clean up for you," Mike said, "if you'll give me something to eat."

The man wiped his hands on a dirty apron tied around his bulging middle and stared sternly down at Mike. "Folks who come here pay for their food and drink."

"My pockets are as empty as my belly," Mike said.

The tavern keeper laughed. "Very well, a fair exchange. Roast chicken and bread in exchange for a clean kitchen." He paused and said kindly, "And if you want to sleep in front of the fireplace tonight, I'll have no objections."

"Thanks," Mike said. He held out his right hand. "The name's Mike Kelly."

"Knew you were Irish when I spotted that red hair." The

105

tavern keeper shook Mike's hand and smiled. "Around these parts I'm known as Pat Duffy." With his chin he nodded in the direction of a back room. "There's a cupboard just inside the kitchen where you can put your belongings. Rest easy. They'll be safe enough."

Mike found the cupboard easily and stashed his knapsack in it. When he returned to the counter, Mr. Duffy handed him a heaping plate of food, which Mike took to a table off in a comer. Delicious! He stuffed himself with roasted chicken, thinking of nothing beyond his plate, until a conversation at the next table caught his attention. 'Think those Confederates will be in here tonight?"

"I hope not. That one—the blond sneaky kind of feller—I wouldn't say it to his face, but I suspect he cheats at cards."

Mike nearly dropped the chicken leg he was holding. Jiri! That meant his unit hadn't left their encampment in the area! And Jiri was still up to his tricks of cheating people. Mike couldn't believe it. The biggest hoodlum in the entire Confederacy had stolen Todd's watch! Mike's mind raced. If Jiri's coming here, I'll have to stay out of sight Will Jiri have Todd's watch on him? And if he does . . . ?

One of the men put an abrupt stop to Mike's panic when he told his friends, "There's no chance you'll see 'em tonight —or any other night in the near future. Their party was fixin' to leave today and head north."

"North to where?" someone asked. "Are we lookin' at another battle?"

"Not unless they're goin' to rendezvous with the whole of Price's army and then some. I heard they were off toward Jefferson City."

"Then they may meet up with Fremont. Think they can take him single-handedly?"

There was general laughter, and the conversation shifted to local gossip.

How was he ever going to catch up with Jiri Logan and retrieve Todd's watch? He'd come so close and had missed

Jiri by only a day! Frustrated, Mike wiped his greasy hands on his pants legs and climbed off the stool, carrying his plate to a back room where other dirty dishes were stacked.

Mike had made a bargain, and he intended to keep it. He stirred up the smoldering fire in the fireplace, filled the kettle with water from a pump near the back door, and hung it on a hook over the fire. He emptied the sink, wiped it free of food and grease, and found a small sharp knife to cut slivers from a large chunk of lye soap.

When the water was hot enough to melt the soap, Mike plunged his hands into the suds and scrubbed the plates and cups in the dishpan with all his energy, getting rid of some of the anger and frustration he felt about Jiri.

When Mike reentered the main room of the tavern, he froze. In the center of the room, at a table with two other Rebel soldiers and some of the local men, sat Jiri.

Jiri's eyes were on the cards he was dealing, and the other players watched just as intently, so none of them noticed Mike.

Mike turned and slipped out of the room. Leaning against the wall for support and breathing deeply, willing his heart to stop banging against his chest, Mike tried to think clearly.

It seemed logical that the Confederate detail hadn't left the neighborhood yet, but they were bound to be packed and ready. Jiri would probably have Todd's watch either on his person or in his saddlebags.

The saddlebags would be an easy place to begin his search. Mike slipped out the back door. Circling the building, he discovered three horses carrying Confederate Army saddles, pouches, and bedrolls. The horses were tethered with other horses to the rail that ran across the front of the tavern. The Rebel cavalry must be planning to get under way at first light, and these three Rebs—packed and ready to go—had probably decided to spend their last night in the area at the tavern.

There was no way Mike could tell which of the Confederate horses belonged to Jiri. He might have to go through all the saddlebags. He spoke quietly to the first horse, a spotted gray, and stroked his neck until the animal stopped its nervous stomping and whinnying. Then Mike opened the clasp nearest to him and reached inside. He pulled out a fistful of papers—among them a girl's photograph and a letter addressed to Sergeant Tom McKinney.

As fast as he could, Mike shoved the papers back and moved to the next horse, a tan with white markings on his legs and forehead. The horse seemed to sense Mike's nervousness and shied away from him, bobbing its head, snorting, and stamping.

Mike finally managed to soothe the horse, but the commotion had made the other horses nervous and noisy. What if Mike was discovered? With shaking fingers he unfastened the clasp on the saddlebag, reached inside, and gasped as his fingers touched something round and cold. The watch!

As Mike tried to grasp the watch, it slid from his fingers, dropping to the bottom of the pouch. Mike stood on tiptoe, shoving his hand more deeply into the pouch. But the horse backed sideways, away from him, and he stumbled, nearly falling under the animal's feet. As the first horse whinnied and the third horse snorted and stamped, Mike clung to the saddle, trying to regain his footing.

Suddenly the tavern door opened and someone yelled, "Who's out there with the horses? What are you up to?"

"It's the anny horses that are actin' up," a man said.

Then Mike heard a familiar voice that sent chills up his backbone. "Whoever's out there won't cause trouble for long."

Jiri!

"Now, wait!" Mr. Duffy bellowed. "There's no call to shoot anyone. Put the handgun away."

"You there!" Jiri called out, ignoring Mr. Duffy. "Move

away from those horses! Put your hands up and come out slowly."

Mike had no intention of facing Jiri. He knew that the imderbrush was thick along the side of the road, the forest deep and dark. He picked up a small stone and skittered it along the dirt under the horses' feet. As the startled animals snorted and stomped, Mike bent low and dashed silently down the road and into the forest.