Echoes of Dark and Light (3 page)

He pulled on his starched white apron, smoothing it over his rounded middle, and grinned. “You still don’t trust people much, do ya?”

I shrugged. “Can’t help it. Some people are truly evil, and you can’t always tell by looking in their eyes.” I paused, then added, “Um, sorry about pulling a gun on your nephew.”

He snorted. “Ah well, nothing to be done about that now, except maybe not repeat the same mistake twice.” He grunted as he picked up a heavy crate from the floor and transferred it to the counter to unpack.

I grinned sheepishly.

“I must tell ya though,” Mr. Wilson said, pausing in prying the lid off of the sealed crate.“It is nice to have someone watching my back.”

“Glad I could help.” I stooped down to examine the glass case where a new shipment of knives displayed their shine. “But you’ll have to find someone else to watch your back. I’m skipping town for awhile.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Mr. Wilson turned back to his task of unloading the lanterns packed safely in sawdust.

“Something I gotta do.”

He looked up at me sharply. “What do ya mean, Bobbi?” He took in my bulging pack and sturdy boots. “What exactly are you planning?”

I shrugged, still studying the knives. “It’s personal, Mr. Wilson. But I’d really appreciate you keeping an eye on my family while I’m gone.”

“I’d be happy to look in on them, but…Bobbi, you’re not planning anything stupid, are you?”

“Who, me?” I straightened up and turned to Mr. Wilson with a grin. “You know me better than that.”

“Yeah,” he replied slowly. “I do know you, pretty well, in fact. I’ve watched you and your brothers grow up and get yourselves into all sorts of trouble.”

“I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

Mr. Wilson shook his head, a worried look crossing his face. “I have a bad feeling about this.” Then he sighed and shrugged. “But, I’ve learned that stubbornness runs in your family, and there’s probably nothing I could say to talk you out of whatever it is you’re planning. So, I’ll offer my assistance instead. Is there anything I can do to help you stay alive?”

I smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Mr. Wilson. And yes, actually, there is something you can get me.” I pulled the Colt back out and laid it on the counter. “I need some ball ammunition. And caps, powder and wadding, too.”

Mr. Wilson set down the lantern in his hand and picked up the Colt, examining the empty chamber. He looked up at me in surprise. “You pulled an unloaded gun on someone you thought was robbing my store?”

I nodded reluctantly.

He shook his head. “I don’t know if that was brave or stupid.”

“Well,” I tried to defend myself, “it did have one ball in the chamber, but the powder and cap got damp, so I emptied everything when I cleaned it.”

“Wait a minute, I know this gun! Look here, the initials Q. W. carved into the butt of the handle.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the gun I sold to your grandmother eight years ago. Hmm, doesn’t look much different.”

“I doubt it would. As far as I know, the thing has been stuffed in the back of Gran’s drawers this whole time and hasn’t even seen the light of day. I didn’t even know she had a gun.”

“I remember the day she came in here. She asked for a good, dependable used gun. I only had one in stock, but it fit her needs perfectly. It was made in 1851, but only just slightly used before it came into my store. And being a Colt, it is definitely high quality.”

“Mr. Wilson,” I interrupted, “can I ask you something? Do you know why Gran bought this gun in the first place? Gran hates guns.”

He nodded solemnly. “An hour after you three darkened your grandmother’s doorstep, she marched over here and asked for a weapon. She feared that monster of a father of yours would be coming for you. Geeze, a mere mortal man so arrogant he has the gall to name all three of his kids after himself; at least he consented to the female version of Roberta for you, and there’s enough versions of the name Robert to allow something different for each of ya. I’m surprised he didn’t come after you just to reclaim his trophies. Anyway, your grandmother swore that she wouldn’t let him take you three kids away, wouldn’t let him hurt you anymore.” He snorted and grimaced ruefully. “She only bought one bullet. She said that’s all she would need.”

His words stunned me into silence.
Gran said that? Gran was willing to kill Pa to keep him from taking us?
A wave of something powerful washed through my chest, making it hard to breathe. Mr. Wilson turned around and searched through the boxes on the wall for the .36 caliber balls, the percussion caps, powder, and wadding. Thankful for the private moment provided by his turned back, I quickly wiped the moisture from my eyes.

“All righty then,” Mr. Wilson announced, turning back to the counter with his hands full. “Here’s your order. Would you like it wrapped?”

I shook my head. “Naw, I’ll just stuff them in here.” I slipped out of my pack and plopped it on the counter. After stowing away the new supplies, I counted the correct change out of my meager money stash and started to hand it over to him. But I jerked back, surprised to find him staring intently at me with a concerned expression on his face.

“What?” I asked, suspicious.

“Look here, Bobbi,” he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and then blowing it out slowly. “I have a sneaky suspicion of what you’re attempting and I think it’s a bad idea— a really, really bad idea. I could attempt to try and change your mind, could tell you how stupid and dangerous and crazy it is. I could lecture you until the trout lilies poke their yellow petals through the soil next spring, and I know my breath wouldn’t make one spec of difference. There’s nothing I could say or do to talk you out of this. So I’m not going to waste my time.”

I didn’t know how to reply to his words, so I kept silent. I knew he couldn’t talk me out of this, and obviously, he knew that too. Nothing more to say.

Mr. Wilson sighed heavily, shaking his head. He walked over to the knife display. “Bobbi, do you still have that knife your grandmother bought you for your birthday a few years back?”

I shook my head. “I gave it to Robby; my sweet little brother needed a smile when I told him of my plans to leave. He’s been eyeing that blade for a couple of years now and, anyway…” I shrugged.

Mr. Wilson quickly dug into his trouser pocket, withdrawing a small golden key which he inserted into the locked display case. He paused, and then ran a finger over the shelves, coming to rest on the best, most expensive knife. Choosing a protective sheath to fit, he handed the items over to me.

“Mr. Wilson, there’s no way I can afford this,” I objected, though I couldn’t help admiring the sharpened six inch blade, the carved antler handle and the beaded leather sheath.

“This isn’t a sale; this is a gift.”

“No,” I protested immediately, “I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” He relocked the display case and leaned back against the sturdy glass. “Isn’t gift giving up to the giver whether or not to give the gift?”

“Well, for one, it’s too expensive, and two, it’s up to the receiver whether or not to accept the gift.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

Mr. Wilson shook his head in exasperation. “You’re something else, don’t ya know. Okay, fine. It’s not a gift, it’s a loan; you can return it later. Take this piece of advice from me: a person shouldn’t be out in the world alone without a good, sturdy knife.”

I pondered his suggestion, already feeling a tad more secure with the knife in my hand to compliment the revolver tucked in my waistband. I found the offer tempting. “And I can return it to you when I get home?”

“If you really feel you must, yes.”

A loan, just a loan. That would be okay. I smiled in gratitude. “Thank you.”

He nodded, leading the way to the front door. I followed, tucking the new sheathed knife into my pocket and re-shouldering my pack. As I started to step through the door, Mr. Wilson clamped a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. I met his unblinking stare boring into my eyes.

“Nothing you do will bring your brother back from the dead.”

I glared back at him, determination stiffening my spine and knotting my brow. I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting at the concerned shopkeeper; however, I couldn’t keep the angry words from exploding in my head.
My brother is alive!

Mr. Wilson shrugged and stepped away from me. “I’m sorry, Bobbi. I couldn’t help myself. You can’t blame me for trying to keep you safe, eh? God go with you.”

I dipped my head in farewell, still choking back my angry words. I knew he just worried and that he had no way of knowing about the connection I had with my brother. So I forced a smile for the kind man and stepped out into the budding autumn day.

“Ah, crud,” I muttered under my breath as I dropped down the boardwalk steps into the crowd growing in the dusty street. I’d meant to be long gone by now. This number of witnesses would make catching a ride on the train a bit more complicated.
Oh, well, I always love a good challenge.

I wove through the early morning shoppers and travelers, dodging a fast rolling wagon, getting pushed to the side and twisting my ankle in a wheel rut, and then narrowly missed getting squashed by a falling pile of crates.
Whew, and folks warned me about the dangers of war! Try walking down Main Street on market day.
Somehow, I made it safely to the train station, and what luck, the morning train still sat at the depot, the powerful steam engine spouting billows of gray-black smoke into the morning sky. I studied the scene and found men busy loading five of the fifteen cars with freshly cut logs and crates of recently mined iron ore, two of the Upper Peninsula’s main industry exports. I still had time to find a spot. I ran lightly up the steps to the loading platform and glanced curiously through the windows of the passenger cars slowly filling with people. A little girl with faded blue ribbons tied to the end of her braids pushed her face up against the grimy window, squashing her nose and lips distortedly. I smiled at the blond youngster, and she stuck out her little pink tongue at me. I returned the gesture, adding crossed blue eyes and sticking my thumbs in my ears and wiggling my displayed fingers, which caused her to dissolve into a fit of giggles. A tall fellow pushed by me, the reeking smoke from his cigar raking my nose. I continued past the passenger cars, knowing they didn’t have any seats available for a nonpaying customer, and noticed the row of advertisements plastered on the wall of the depot. Mr. Wilson had one announcing a sale on hats, the saloon at the end of town advertised a poker tournament, and the U. S. Government had posted a recruitment roster for the war.

I passed by the ticket counter, avoiding the eyes of the gray haired clerk in his freshly pressed uniform, and continued down the loading platform. As I came to the front of the train, I casually hopped across the tracks, ducking back behind the massive engine which snorted and grunted, eager to begin chugging down the trail. I paused, leaning against the giant steel wheels. I strained my ears for shouts of outrage or feet pounding on the wooden loading dock and skidding on the graveled ground. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear anything above the hissing steam engine and the swearing men attempting to load the box cars. But no angry face glared down at me, no strong hands grabbed painfully at my arm.
So far, so good.
Maybe this would be easier than I thought. I’d never snuck aboard a train before. And I didn’t feel guilty about stealing a ride; the way I saw the situation, my volunteering to fight for my country, offering my talents to the Union, putting my life on the line probably equaled the price of a train ticket, at least!

I quickly pulled away from the engine as its heat seeped through my jacket. I eyed the powerful machine, curious about its potential strength and hidden dangers. A shift in the wind brought a cloud of smoke from the locomotive’s gaping mouth, burning my eyes and choking my lungs. Coughing and gagging for air, I stumbled down the tracks away from the engine, wiping away the tears. Once free from the smoke, I glanced down at my hands and found grimy streaks of soot, and could only imagine what the tears and soot had done to my face. I shrugged; a bit of grime could only help my disguise.

I scanned down the train of cars, looking for a good candidate to tote my rear down south. The fourth car down appeared to have good potential, the peeling, yellow-painted walls beckoning a welcome, and more importantly, the partially opened stall declaring it mostly full of stacked crates with just enough room for one nonpaying passenger. I approached, my head cocked to the side studying just how to climb up into the box car. I grabbed a hold of the metal rungs that ran up one end of the car, wondering if I’d be able to reach the opening if I stretched my leg out as far as I could. Maybe if I—

“Hey! Just what do you think you’re doing?”