“Yes.” Ebba’s nervous. “But I told you. I ain’t seen him for over a week. At least I think it’s been a week.”
I grit my teeth. I need to get out there. “Is somebody here, Ebba?” I holler.
“Who’s there?” the copper barks. “Come on out. Slow. Hands up.”
I push through the curtain, my sweetest smile pasted on my face as I raise my hands and walk slowly into the kitchen. The lawman’s cold eyes skim over me, his hand on the pistol at his hip. I see from his armband that he’s a US marshal and not one of our local deputies. Northrup sure enough called in the cavalry. “Miss Gracelynn Doherty, sir.” I offer my hand.
The marshal ignores it, his mouth set in a line under his mustache. “You Morris Doherty’s sister?”
“I’m his cousin.”
He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. “I have a warrant here for his arrest.”
I wrinkle my forehead, feigning confusion. “What are the charges?”
“Operating an illegal distillery, in violation of the Volstead Act.”
“Lands, this is the first I’ve heard about a still.” I laugh and go all wide eyed. “I ain’t seen Morris for over a week. Last I heard, he went to Blytheville to visit a girl he’s been courtin’ with.” Ebba glances at me and I subtly jab her with my elbow.
“We’ve found the still, and I have a reliable witness’s report that says he’s the one who runs it, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll take a look around the property. Are there any other people living here, Mrs. Doherty?”
“It’s Miss Doherty,” I say with a scowl. “I ain’t married. My cousin and grandma are still sleeping, in yonder.”
The marshal raises a dark brow under the brim of his hat. “The two of you stay put. Don’t leave this room.” He unholsters his pistol and makes a beeline for the pantry. He rattles through Granny’s carefully organized apothecary supplies. I reach for Ebba’s hand and squeeze it. He’s looking for Morris’s hooch, no doubt. Even though it’s supposedly legal for folks to possess liquor, just not to make or sell it, I’m more than a little thankful Morris finished off that fifth of Jack Daniel’s.
The cop moves on to the main room of the cabin, where Caro is stirring. I pray to God, or whoever else might be listening, she don’t smart off. He herds her into the kitchen, and she meets my eyes, ginger hair disheveled. She starts crying. I hug her to me and shush her, best I can. The marshal’s footsteps creak overhead. He’s in the loft. A few minutes later, the screen door slams, and my heart takes a swan dive into my stomach.
“Where is he?” Caro asks.
“Under the back porch,” I answer, my tongue thick. “I told him to keep quiet.”
“What are we gonna do, Gracie?”
“You just let me do all the talkin’， kid, and try to stay calm.”
We sit around the table, listening. Any moment now, I’m expecting a gunshot. The seconds drip by, thick as cold bacon grease. Finally, I hear the creak of the screen door’s hinge once more. A single set of footsteps echoes through the house. I let out my breath, daring to hope.
The marshal strides back into the kitchen. He shakes his head at us. “Did you say he was headed for Blytheville, Miss Doherty?”
I nod, maybe a little too quickly. “Yep, that’s what he said. I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”
“I’ll take you at your word and head that way. Any idea where he might be staying?”
I muster another smile. “I wouldn’t know, sir. His girl’s daddy weren’t too keen on them courting, so I’d imagine they’re layin’ pretty low.”
“We’ve notified the local sheriff and they’ll be looking for him. What’s his girlfriend’s name?”
“Charity McCoy,” I blurt. If there’s really a Charity McCoy in Blytheville, she’s gonna be mighty confused when this copper comes knocking.
He hands me an official-looking card with his name and a telephone code: United States Marshal Carl Pettigrew. “Aiding and abetting a suspect is against the law. I expect you’ll call me if he turns up.”
“Oh, we will,” Ebba says, fixing him with a cold stare.
“Ladies.” Marshal Pettigrew lifts the brim of his hat and leaves, letting a wash of humid air in through the kitchen door. We hear the engine turning over, and then the crunch of tires as he turns down the road.
I cross my arms over my chest to still my quivering. “Once that marshal gets to Blytheville and he don’t find Morris, he’ll be back. I only said what I said to buy us some time.”
I think about California. I think about the money that’s taken me years and years to save. I think about Abby’s kiss. I think about Granny and little Caro, whose mama ain’t fit for shit and might be gone forever. I think about that demon preacher and the rash burning on my back. But mostly, I think about Morris, and how if he stays in Tin Mountain, it’ll mean jail or Al Northrup’s hillbilly justice.
Right then and there, I know what I need to do.
We sit in silence, the three of us piled in Seth’s old Ford, none of us daring to say what we most want to say. Morris slumps against the window, his eyes on the dirt road as we chug our way down the mountainside. It’s still dark, and if we’re lucky, no one else will be out this early.
When we get to the logging depot, Seth parks the truck and cuts the engine. We sit there for a minute, the air thick with the scent of fresh-mowed timber.
Seth clears his throat. “Pa gave me all the rail connections. I wrote it all down for you.” He hands Morris a folded piece of paper. “He says there’s a stop just outside Billings. That’s where the ranch is. You’ll need to bail out before you get to each depot, so nobody sees you’ve stowed away. Wait till the train is going slow, though, and try to land on your good side.”
Morris nods. “He knows I’m coming, then?”
“I called him last night from the post office.”
I panic for a minute. “But the operators . . . you know Opal Richards just works that switchboard so she can be the first to spread gossip.”
“Don’t you worry, Gracie, I was careful. Pa knows. He’s anxious to catch up with my cousin Myrtle. Opal ain’t smart enough to figure the real story out.”
“Lands, Seth, couldn’t you have picked a better name than Myrtle?” Morris shakes his head.
“Ain’t no time for bickering,” I scold. “Come on. Let’s get you on that train.”
We fall out into the morning air. It’s already humid as hell. Seth hauls Morris’s knapsack out of the bed of the truck, packed with enough food and water to see him through the journey, along with my savings—all one hundred eighty dollars—and a hunting knife just in case somebody has a mind to rob him of it. Two trains sit on the tracks, one pointed north and the other south. The north-facing train has three boxcars, but only one of them is open. I walk toward it and hoist myself inside. It’s empty apart from a pallet stacked with square bales. The scent of dried alfalfa and fescue pricks at my nose, making me sneeze.