wagon took as he forced himself to think of other things besides his stump.
There was the portrait of Melinda, and he gripped it until the edges of the locket cut into the palm of his hand. He would see her soon. They would reach Nashville, and then he would go north to find her. Her perfectly round eyes would sink deep into him and take away his pain. Then, when he was better, he would sit for long hours and explain to her the story of her father. She would be sad, but Colby would be there to comfort her and console her.
He had made a promise to her father.
Holcomb drove for hours, finding a road when they eventually emerged from the underbrush they had been rambling through. The ride smoothed out, and they headed east along the road. Holcomb was watching for soldiers on the road, and he kept his rifle nearby. Wilder had left them, but he had also left them enough food and ammunition to last them no matter how long it took them to get home. Holcomb didn’t think the food would last long if Colby was up and able to eat. However, Colby had shown no interest in the food, so Holcomb assumed it would be plenty for him.
“Where are we?” he heard Colby call from the back of the wagon.
“Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “We’ll see if we can find a doctor to give us something for that leg of yours.” Holcomb knew there probably would be no doctor in the town, for the army had called most of them away to serve, but he still had a little hope. He was also hoping to find a way to get a message home to his wife in Murfreesboro, but he knew that when the Union soldiers had come through western Tennessee, they had cut or torn most of the telegraph lines. Perhaps he could write a letter and have it sent by post: if there were any riders available.
The town of Decatursville consisted of a scattering of houses along the road leading up to a central dirt road branching out to the east and the north. It was here a small collection of storefronts lined up neatly, and one of them bore the small emblem marking a pharmacy and general store. Holcomb didn’t see anyone as their wagon rolled closer to the center of the town. It was as if the town was abandoned. He saw a few faces peer out of windows, curious and fearful, but Holcomb’s wagon was not carrying Union troops.
“Hello?” called Holcomb as he parked his wagon and climbed down. They stopped in front of the general store.
“Stay here,” he told Colby as he walked through the dusty street and entered the store. The cool darkness was a sharp contrast to the bright sunshine outside. Holcomb’s eyes adjusted and the sharp smell of spice greeted him, but he saw no one inside. He walked through the store, boots echoing on the wood floor. Most of the shelves were bare: the army had already been through here and taken what they needed. There were a few gardening tools, shovels and rakes, hanging on hooks in a lonely array, but all of the barrels of seed were empty, and the racks that used to hold the horse tack were bare as well.
“Hello?” called Holcomb. “Anyone here?”
He moved over to the counter where a closed door led to another room behind it. He tapped on the wooden surface of the counter. “Hello!”
The clicking of a hammer being cocked sounded behind him. Holcomb froze, slowly putting his hands up. Another click, and Holcomb recognized the sound as that of a shotgun: both hammers now cocked and ready to fire into his back.
“Turn around real slow,” a voice said from behind the shotgun. “We’ve had enough trouble with thieves and don’t need any more.”
“I’m not a thief,” said Holcomb, edging around to face the voice. “I’m a customer.”
He turned around and saw two black holes: the end of the shotgun barrels, staring at him like unblinking eyes. Looking past the gun, he saw a young woman held it, her steel gray eyes matching the color of the gun. She lowered the gun a
There was the portrait of Melinda, and he gripped it until the edges of the locket cut into the palm of his hand. He would see her soon. They would reach Nashville, and then he would go north to find her. Her perfectly round eyes would sink deep into him and take away his pain. Then, when he was better, he would sit for long hours and explain to her the story of her father. She would be sad, but Colby would be there to comfort her and console her.
He had made a promise to her father.
Holcomb drove for hours, finding a road when they eventually emerged from the underbrush they had been rambling through. The ride smoothed out, and they headed east along the road. Holcomb was watching for soldiers on the road, and he kept his rifle nearby. Wilder had left them, but he had also left them enough food and ammunition to last them no matter how long it took them to get home. Holcomb didn’t think the food would last long if Colby was up and able to eat. However, Colby had shown no interest in the food, so Holcomb assumed it would be plenty for him.
“Where are we?” he heard Colby call from the back of the wagon.
“Decatursville,” said Holcomb. “We’ll see if we can find a doctor to give us something for that leg of yours.” Holcomb knew there probably would be no doctor in the town, for the army had called most of them away to serve, but he still had a little hope. He was also hoping to find a way to get a message home to his wife in Murfreesboro, but he knew that when the Union soldiers had come through western Tennessee, they had cut or torn most of the telegraph lines. Perhaps he could write a letter and have it sent by post: if there were any riders available.
The town of Decatursville consisted of a scattering of houses along the road leading up to a central dirt road branching out to the east and the north. It was here a small collection of storefronts lined up neatly, and one of them bore the small emblem marking a pharmacy and general store. Holcomb didn’t see anyone as their wagon rolled closer to the center of the town. It was as if the town was abandoned. He saw a few faces peer out of windows, curious and fearful, but Holcomb’s wagon was not carrying Union troops.
“Hello?” called Holcomb as he parked his wagon and climbed down. They stopped in front of the general store.
“Stay here,” he told Colby as he walked through the dusty street and entered the store. The cool darkness was a sharp contrast to the bright sunshine outside. Holcomb’s eyes adjusted and the sharp smell of spice greeted him, but he saw no one inside. He walked through the store, boots echoing on the wood floor. Most of the shelves were bare: the army had already been through here and taken what they needed. There were a few gardening tools, shovels and rakes, hanging on hooks in a lonely array, but all of the barrels of seed were empty, and the racks that used to hold the horse tack were bare as well.
“Hello?” called Holcomb. “Anyone here?”
He moved over to the counter where a closed door led to another room behind it. He tapped on the wooden surface of the counter. “Hello!”
The clicking of a hammer being cocked sounded behind him. Holcomb froze, slowly putting his hands up. Another click, and Holcomb recognized the sound as that of a shotgun: both hammers now cocked and ready to fire into his back.
“Turn around real slow,” a voice said from behind the shotgun. “We’ve had enough trouble with thieves and don’t need any more.”
“I’m not a thief,” said Holcomb, edging around to face the voice. “I’m a customer.”
He turned around and saw two black holes: the end of the shotgun barrels, staring at him like unblinking eyes. Looking past the gun, he saw a young woman held it, her steel gray eyes matching the color of the gun. She lowered the gun a
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