Mending Horses Read Online Free

hand. The blacksmith’s face flushed, and he looked as if he wanted to strike Daniel. “Stolen, then,” the blacksmith said. “How do we know you haven’t killed this fellow and stole his goods and his papers?”
    â€œOf course I didn’t kill him. He’s me.”
    â€œAnd what proof do you have?” the justice of the peace demanded, rapping the candlestick against the table. The constable winced as the metal knocked the polished surface.
    â€œIs there anyone who can vouch for you, boy?” The constable’s voice was almost gentle. The justice of the peace looked disgruntled that the constable had taken over the hearing—if the hubbub could be called a hearing—but the constable continued, “Anyone at all who knows you?”
    Daniel shook his head. Ivy was the only one who knew him. She could show them all she pleased that nobody else had a right to her, but they’d only see her as stolen goods.
    The constable massaged his forehead, then his temples. Helooked almost as miserable as Daniel felt. “So you have no proof you’re who you say you are. And you, Jacob”—he pointed to the blacksmith—“have no proof he isn’t. And I have no grounds for a warrant.”
    Somebody at the back of the room shouted, “But we know he’s a thief!”
    Daniel stared at the papers at the blacksmith’s feet—the papers Silas had worked so hard to gather. If they wouldn’t believe Silas’s papers, surely they’d believe the man himself. “Send word to Silas Lyman in Farmington—Farmington, Massachusetts, that is. He’ll speak for me. I used to work for his father, George Lyman.”
    â€œAnd how will he do that with his throat cut?” snarled the blacksmith.
    â€œC-Cut?” Daniel clutched at his own neck. It couldn’t be true, and yet it made all too much sense. It must have been an unforgivable betrayal for Silas to turn against his father and help Daniel to freedom. It wasn’t hard to imagine the elder Lyman slitting Silas’s throat in revenge. What better vengeance than to place all the blame on the Irish lad who’d just left town?
    â€œWhat—what’s become of himself, then?” He barely managed to choke out the question.
    â€œHimself?”
    â€œHis da. Silas’s da, I mean. George Lyman.”
    The slight man stepped forward, shoving at Daniel’s shoulder. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re the one that killed them all.”
    â€œAll? They’re all of ’em dead?” Lyman had seemed subdued and shaken the last time Daniel had seen him, but mad? Insane enough to kill his whole family and himself?
    â€œAll—killed in their sleep,” called a voice from the crowd.
    The accusations grew louder around him. The justice of the peace and constable shouted for order, and the justice rapped the table, but everything melted into a sea of angry faces, a whirlwind of frenzied voices confirming the death of every last Lyman.
    Daniel’s knees gave way underneath him. His stomachrolled and pushed up into his throat. He cradled his head in his arms. “Oh, God, oh, God. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
    A massive hand grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. “There, you see?” The blacksmith’s voice boomed in his ear. “There’s guilt written all over him.”

Chapter Three

    â€œMr. S.?”
    â€œMmm-hmm?” Jonathan Stocking peered through his spectacles at the collection of tousled yellow hair, rumpled clothes, and dirty feet and hands perched next to him on the wagon seat. Hadn’t he cleaned the child the last time they’d stopped to water Phizzy? How could a body get so disordered just riding in a wagon?
    â€œThere’s something queer about this town,” Billy said.
    â€œQueer?” Jonathan said. “How do you mean?” He was less concerned about the answer than