Prodigal Song - Softcover

Moser, Wendy

 
9781475920116: Prodigal Song

Inhaltsangabe

Outlaw Joshua Manning becomes a fugitive when his companion shoots a young Christian missionary in a robbery attempt a few days before Christmas in 1905. Escaping, he travels alone from Illinois to nearby Wisconsin, taking shelter in a thicket of pine

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Prodigal Song

By Wendy Moser

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Wendy Moser
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2011-6

Chapter One

Northwest Illinois December 23, 1905

Joshua Manning awoke in an unfamiliar room. The chamber stove in the corner sputtered on splinters of wood chips, the last of the heat escaping the grate like a sigh. Licking his chapped lips, he tasted the sour remnants of the potent whiskey he'd had the night before and wondered where he was and what he'd done that he'd surely be sorry for. He rolled over and covered his whiskered face with the threadbare quilt when he heard laughter coming from the other side of the room.

"Gran pay you a visit again, Josh?" his friend, Luke, called from his cot near the window, across the bodies of their companions Haley and Russell who were stretched out on the hard cots like corpses, hands folded on their chests and toes pointed straight up. They were snoring in unison.

Joshua moaned and crawled to the edge of the bed. The knees of his long johns stuck out when he straightened his legs, and they were stained where they'd rubbed against the dirty mattress. "Yeah, I suppose she did. Was I flyin' again?"

Luke nodded. "You looked more like you was swatting at somethin', but with a little imagination it could a been flyin'."

"I swear, Luke, she's tryin' to tell me somethin' in my dreams."

Joshua combed his fingers through his thick, black hair and made a face at Luke who stared back at him with brown, deep-set eyes, almost his mirror image. Luke had been like a brother to him since Gran's death, the only family he had known since they met in the orphanage, nearly two decades ago now.

Joshua rubbed his temple and closed his eyes, trying to recall the dream he'd had, the memory of his gran still so vivid after all the passing years.

He'd been in Gran's parlor, cold and empty except for a big, open coffin that was surrounded by burning candles, the wax dripping onto the shiny wood floor. Was it Gran in the casket? Joshua scratched his chin and squinted hard to see the vision more clearly. No, it was Papa dressed in his best clothes, his thick hair combed back smooth and shining. He never wore it like that.

Joshua, a boy again, was leaning against the coffin, his fingers wedged between his father's cold fingers. His chin was tucked into the stiff collar on his Sunday shirt. One tear splashed down his cheek and onto his father's dark frock-coat.

Suddenly, people filled the room. Gran lifted him to her knee just as old Bart, the farm hand, bent over him and called him a damn cry baby, his breath sickening from drunkenness. The tall, skeletal man leaned closer, muttering right into Joshua's ear.

"Why don't ya face it like a man," he said, "or yore gran will die, too." He staggered away laughing.

Joshua called to his gran not to die as she eased in and out of dream shadows, her calico skirt billowing in a death scene as she, too, was leaving him.

"Let me go with you, Gran," he cried out.

"You gotta learn to fly, boy," she warned, as she scowled beyond him. "Or you'll be just like him." Her eyes followed Bart as he stumbled into view.

"See," she said, lifting her arms up and down in a sweeping motion, "like the butterflies hoverin' over Gran's hollyhocks. Like an angel." Gran's voice disappeared in the last of her words. "Trust me, Joshua. Trust me," she called, her voice lost in his consciousness.

The dream always ended then, the child fading and the man reluctantly emerging.

Joshua's stomach churned and rumbled. He couldn't remember ever being so hungry, but there wouldn't be time for a meal until much later in the day, when their work was done. He brushed his fingertips along his bristly, upper lip and wished he could buy a shave and a haircut. As he poured cold water from the pitcher into the wash basin, thin sheets of ice broke like glass against the sides. The square of lye soap was like a chip of frozen ice, but it lathered up after he let it soak a bit, and he washed his face vigorously. He hoped the next small town would have a barbershop and a better hotel where he could have a steaming, hot bath.

After drying his face, he sat back down on his cot and covered up, shivering. Icicles had formed along the window sill. Stars were still shimmering in the early morning sky, and he looked at them through the open, dusty curtains.

The lace trim reminded him of his gran. He missed her the most after one of his dreams. But he was glad she'd gone on to her great reward and hadn't seen him like this, a thief taking money from weary travelers, a fugitive staying in a different flea-trap hotel every night, just a few steps ahead of the law. He was just about as far from Gran's angel as he could possibly be now. Instead of drifting over the earth like a butterfly, he pictured himself haunting it, draped in the chains of his misdeeds and regrets for all eternity, like poor old Marley in A Christmas Carol.

"Let's get those boys up, Joshua, and get goin'," Luke said. "The early travelers usually carry the most money."

Luke rummaged through his knapsack and found a small, wooden match, scratching it against the window sill a few times until it lit. He poked it against the end of a thin, black cigar dangling in the corner of his mouth and puffed three times. Thick smoke rings drifted about the room, and the stench of the cigar hovered with it, waking Haley who struggled to sit up. Luke handed the scowling man the lit cigar, and he took it with shaky fingers. Shoving it between his lips, he drew a deep breath and released it with a mucous-rattled cough, his eyes still closed.

Russell hadn't moved.

"We got good prospects today," Luke said, taking the damp stub from Haley and clenching it between his teeth as he pulled his pants over his long johns, "with it being so close to Christmas and all."

"Christmas," Joshua grumbled, as he dragged himself from his cot and peered out of the small window to look at the sky again. The stars had disappeared, and thick, gray clouds hovered over the small town.

A snow storm was coming.

Chapter Two

Joshua crouched low and out of sight. Loose curls fell across his forehead, and he brushed them aside as he watched his companion ride by, sitting tall in his saddle, most of his face hidden under the wide brim of his limp, weathered hat. Although Haley knew Joshua was hiding behind the bramble of twisted vines and small bushes, he kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on the bouncing buggy coming toward him on the narrow road.

A dark bandanna covered the lower half of Haley's face, and he kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the driver as the buggy crawled closer and closer, slowing down in hesitation. It stopped in a soft cloud of snow. Haley walked his horse several paces and lifted his gun in greeting.

"Howdy, boy," he said, looking over the young man and his female companion.

Joshua leaned forward and peered out at the couple, quite young to be driving a buggy in these parts, especially this early in the day. He looked to be around sixteen, barely old enough to tote a gun, and she looked only a wee bit older. The sun was grappling with the soot-tinged clouds just beyond the nearby stand of trees, and neither was winning.

"What is it you want, sir?" the young man asked, his voice shaky, his gaze resting keenly on Haley's menacing eyes, instead of the gun that Haley held casually against his saddle horn.

"Just about everything you got, mister," Haley said, in a husky voice. He lifted up from his saddle and dropped to the ground, taking a wide stance next to the buggy.

...

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