Mending Horses Read Free Page A

family,” said Caroline Dunbar in her grating squeal of a voice. “Slit their throats one by one and robbed ’em and then set the house on fire . . .”
    Chester circumnavigated the group, hoping to slip into thekitchen and fortify himself with a glass of rum before facing the horde. Walter Sackett stood on the doorstep talking to Amelia, his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead. The blather of the crowd kept Chester from catching any of his words.
    â€œ. . . ain’t nobody safe in their homes anymore,” said a man on Chester’s left. “He bashed in their brains while they slept, and then made off with a thousand dollars in silver and gold . . .”
    â€œ. . . assaulted the women and girls, then chopped them to pieces with an ax . . .”
    Chester told himself that his neighbors were probably stirred up over some newspaper story about a faraway crime. Nothing sensational ever happened here. Chauncey was so tiny, it merited only three sentences in the gazetteer.
    â€œ. . . a gruesome sight as you’d ever want to see,” someone grumbled in harsh bass tones. “He cut off their heads with a scythe, as easy as mowing hay . . .”
    Or perhaps the tale of the chicken massacre had circulated through town and returned transmogrified into something more ghastly.
    â€œ. . . and when the constable came for him, he shot him dead,” said a voice at Chester’s elbow.
    Then again, perhaps not.
    Daniel stood with his cheek pressed to Ivy’s, overseeing the blacksmith’s ritual of fitting, nailing, and filing. The familiar task was almost a comfort when set against the uncertainty and bewilderment that had been his lot for the past several days.
    The more time and distance he put between himself and Farmington and the Lymans, the more he discovered how ill-prepared he’d been for the journey. The number of simple things he didn’t know seemed unending. Finding a night’s lodging should have been easy enough. At first glance, landladies and tavern-keepers would greet him with fair and smiling faces. But their smiles faded when he opened his mouth and his Irishness showed itself—that Irish turn to his words he’d fought so hard to keep ever since that horrific day six years ago, when fire hadtaken his parents, his baby brother, and his home. Now he tried to flatten his vowels like a native-born New Englander. Even so, asking for food or lodging, or a barn to stable Ivy for the night, was a challenge. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t remember ever asking for anything where the answer hadn’t been no.
    Finding his way was another problem. A line on a map and a road on the ground were different things entirely. He might blunder about until winter, trying to puzzle out where to go, where to stay, how to speak, and how not to get robbed. Finding the peddler had quickly turned from a whim to a necessity.
    â€œThere, that should do it.” The blacksmith released Ivy’s foot and straightened.
    Daniel blinked out of his fog. “Yes, thank you, sir,” he said. At least he remembered to say
yes
instead of
aye
and
thank you
instead of
ta
. He stooped to check the smith’s work, then glanced up to ask about the peddler.
    The blacksmith wasn’t looking at Daniel or at Ivy, but at something behind them.
    Releasing Ivy’s hoof, Daniel rose and turned. A little sandy-haired man stood at the edge of the blacksmith’s yard, an ax in his hand. Another next to him held a pitchfork, and another a spade. There were more behind them and coming up the road. Others carried weapons rather than tools: a rusted sword, a twisted bayonet, battered muskets. Daniel wondered if he’d arrived in town on training day. Perhaps the blacksmith was captain of the militia and . . .
    But the men weren’t looking at the blacksmith. Their dark, cold gazes were fixed