Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews Page B

sight, but he looked at the scars rather than into the eyes of Zoe’s brother, because those eyes were also holes of a kind, unblinking as a snake’s. Hassenplug realized he was a little scared, and wished he hadn’t left his pitchfork on the wagon.
    “Anything else to tell me?” Clay asked.
    “No, reckon that’s about all.”
    Clay took several steps closer. “Now you listen. I spoke with some people in town, a lot of people, including a doctor who said Zoe had a baby. You don’t remember the baby?”
    “Oh … the baby. Well, there’s things that’s not polite to mention.”
    “Who gave her the baby?”
    “Never told us. Never said a word. Could’ve been anyone around here; no way to tell, if the girl won’t say, I reckon.”
    “I heard stories,” Clay said. “There’s talk it was yours.”
    “No … nossir, not mine. I got a fine wife right here with me as can bear witness. I never touched her; paid for the doctor to come, even—he tell you that? Cost me money to let her have the baby safe and sound.”
    “She got on a train. They say you were at the station with her, you and your wife.”
    “That’s right, that’s correct, we seen her off. She wanted to go, wouldn’t listen to us when we said she can stay here. The missus, she begged her to stay on. We were hurt bad when she left that way, real bad, it’s the truth.”
    “The truth.”
    “That’s what I’m saying.”
    Clay stared at him for a long moment. A woman came out of the house, carrying a rifle. The window was open; she’d probably heard every word.
    “You believe in judgment, Hassenplug?”
    “Like the Bible says? I reckon so.”
    “That’s good to hear. I believe in it too.”
    Clay mounted and rode away. Mrs. Hassenplug joined her husband and let him take the rifle from her. “Ought to’ve killed him,” he said. “See the face that feller had? Like a dead man.”
    “Well, he’s gone now.”
    Shaken, Hassenplug took to his jug for the rest of the afternoon and evening. He was in no condition to act when his barn caught fire after midnight. Animals were milling in the yard, the entire loft was ablaze, and all he could do was stare at the conflagration and feel the tears on his face evaporating in the heat.
    The conductor on the express run saw a curious thing just west of Wister’s Landing that night. He saw a horse and rider racing alongside the train, keeping pace in the moonlight till the rider grabbed the rear platform of car three and swung aboard. The horse immediately slowed and veered away from the train.
    The rider entered the car and sat in a vacant seat. Every other passenger was asleep under the dimmed oil lamps. The conductor approached him with a mixture of curiosity and professional outrage. He slowed when he saw the rider’s face with its riven cheeks.
    “Ticket?” he inquired.
    The new passenger produced several large bills and handed them to the conductor. “End of the line,” he said.
    “You mean Indianapolis?”
    “That’s what I mean.”
    “You’ve given me too much, sir.”
    “No I haven’t. I got on back in Columbus, yesterday.”
    “Columbus?”
    “Yesterday. If anyone asks, understand?”
    “Yessir. Columbus through to Indianapolis. Correct change, sir. Can I get you a blanket?”
    “And a drink, unless it’s extra.”
    “Nossir; a stiff belt comes included in this amount.”
    The conductor left Clay alone, then returned with a glass and a blanket.
    “There you are, sir. Should be getting into Indianapolis just about sunrise.”
    “Thank you.”
    The conductor hovered a moment longer, but was ignored. He left to count his small windfall in private. Clay sipped at his very first whiskey, pulled the blanket up around his chin and wondered what in the world he would do now.
    All three, himself and Zoe and Drew, had been uprooted within the space of a few months, as if there existed a fantastic plot to ensure that they never came together again. Only God could have arranged such a