baited all the same. He told Molly, “It was a ripe piece of luck. They might have cut you into ribbons. You were foolish to run off, risking other people’s lives.”
Molly didn’t answer, didn’t duck or look abashed. The crowd was on her side and, after everything she’d suffered, being lectured by the sheriff was a small thing to bear.
“Leave her be,” Bess said, and everyone agreed.
Pitt flushed and turned his furious attention to the Maimer, asking questions that the whole bristling crowd wanted answers to. What was his name? Who were his companions? Where were the others hiding? The Maimer stared ahead without a ripple of acknowledgment. The crowd grew impatient and began pressing in, and Tom and Pitt were shoved together, touching boots with the prisoner.
“You took a man’s tongue and even he said more” came a voice from the back.
“We should start trimming pieces till he talks,” said another.
That caused a ripple. The Maimer had been lulled by the bland interrogation; now he looked at Tom and Pitt with wide, veiny eyes, seeking reassurance from the safety of the law. There was a tumult in the crowd as someone raised a knife, which was passed hand to hand until it came to Tom’s side, jabbing forward so dramatically the Maimer flinched away.
“Chop a finger!”
“Take an ear!”
“He wouldn’t hear the questions.”
“’Course he would, you dolt. He’d still have the hole.”
Tom and Pitt reached together for the outthrust knife. Pitt got it first and Tom grabbed his wrist. They traded urgent looks and Tom let him have it.
“Back up,” they said together, surprising the crowd with unity. The people did as they were told and cleared a wider space, softening the crush and leaving Tom, Pitt, and the Maimer in a spotlit gap.
“He’s a butcher and a rogue!” someone said.
“He’s got it coming!”
Reasons came forth—frightened children, ruined travel, body parts and property the bastard had to pay for—and when the circle tightened up again and words would not suffice, Tom unslung his rifle and said, “No one’s cutting him up.”
A farmer at the front, named Hooker, grabbed the gun. They stood together, face-to-face, hands upon the rifle. Tom saw the fury and the fear in Hooker’s eyes and so he head-butted him, knocking a bit of sense—or stupefaction—into the farmer’s big skull. He took the gun back and stiffened, daring anyone else to try. Hooker rubbed his head, angry but embarrassed.
“Tavern’s closed,” Tom said. “Everybody out. We’ll lock him upstairs and do it lawful come morning.”
Tom’s fearless reputation from the war, coupled with his temper, gave the order more power than the crowd’s indignation. They respected him and dreaded being banished from the tavern, and when Pitt backed him up and said, “You heard him, off you go,” the disappointed crowd grumbled to the door.
Even the travelers stood to go, carrying their drinks.
“Not you,” Tom said.
They sat and looked chastened.
Once the townspeople left, Tom locked the door and returned to the taproom, where he walked around Pitt without acknowledging their teamwork. He felt profoundly self-conscious after countering the mob, as if by opening his mouth he’d opened himself to judgment.
Molly and Bess sat in the corner holding hands, warm and sisterly. The Maimer slumped forward in the chair, not blinking. His face was moist and grimy, he was trembling at the knees, and his dislocated shoulder sagged pitiably low.
Tom said to Benjamin, “You need to check his wounds?”
“Breaks and bruises,” Benjamin said. “He’ll survive until the morning.”
It was a cross-grained answer from a doctor sworn to heal, betraying his resentment of a man who lived to injure.
“Get up,” Tom said to the Maimer.
He made the prisoner stand without untying him from the chair, forcing him to stoop with the angle of the seat back. They crossed the taproom and started up the stairs with Pitt behind them. Criminals were commonly held in the tavern, and the Orange had a room well suited to the purpose: small and unfurnished, holding nothing but a corncob mattress, with window bars and a heavy, lockable door. They led the Maimer into the room and kept him fastened to the chair.
After Tom had shut the door and left him in the dark, Pitt said, “You’re sure that lock is strong enough?”
“My knots are,” Tom said.
He had misgivings about the prisoner altogether, truth be told, and when Ichabod returned from ferrying the horses, Tom sent him upstairs to guard the room. Back downstairs, he told the travelers, “Go to bed,” and they immediately complied. Nabby