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  “I’ll get the sheriff involved,” threatened Pa.

  “Will you, Mr. Boat?” said Rufe Jones. His voice sounded more menacing now. It had none of the previous lightness.

  “The name is Bird,” answered Pa.

  “Right. Martin Bird, the photographer of Boneville, who lives way out in the middle of nowhere with his son, Silas Bird.”

  “You best get,” rasped Pa.

  “All right,” answered Rufe Jones. But he didn’t spur his horse.

  I was watching all this breathless, Mittenwool right next to me. A few seconds passed. No one moved or said a word.

  3

  “HERE’S THE PROBLEM,” SAID RUFE JONES, his arms still out at his sides. The singsong lilt returned to his voice. “It’s a bother, our going all the way back across these fields, through the Woods, only to come back tomorrow with a dozen more of us, armed to the teeth. Lord knows what can happen with all those guns pointing every which way. You know how it goes. Tragedies can befall. But if you come with us tonight, Mr. Boat, we can avoid all that nasty business.”

  He flipped his hands over, so the palms faced up now.

  “Let’s not draw this out,” he continued. “You and your boy will have a nice jolly ride with us on those fine horses. And we’ll have you both back here in a week. That’s a solemn promise from the big man himself. He told me to tell you that exactly, by the way. To use the word solemn. Come on, this is a good business proposition for you, Mac Boat! What do you say?”

  I saw Pa, his rifle still trained on the man, his finger still on the trigger, clench his jaw. His expression was foreign to me at that moment. I did not recognize the taut angles of his body.

  “I am not Mac Boat,” he said slowly. “I am Martin Bird.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Bird! My apologies,” replied Rufe Jones, grinning. “Whatever your name is, what do you say? Let’s avoid any nastiness. Put your rifle down and come with us. It’s only a week. And you’ll return a rich man.”

  Pa hesitated for another long second. It felt to me like all of time was contained inside that moment. And it was, in a way, for it was inside that moment that my life was forever altered. Pa lowered his gun.

  “What’s he doing?” I whispered to Mittenwool. I was suddenly more scared than I recall ever being before. It was as if my heart had stopped. Like the world had ceased its breathing.

  “All right, I’ll go with you,” Pa said quietly, breaking the stillness of the night like a thunderclap, “but only if you leave my boy out of it. He stays right here, safe and sound. He won’t breathe a word of this to anybody. Nobody comes around here anyway. And I’m back here in a week. You said I have Ollerenshaw’s solemn word. Not a day longer.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” Rufe Jones grumbled, shaking his head. “Mr. Ollerenshaw said to bring the two of you back with us. He was very specific about that.”

  “Like I said,” answered Pa, his voice resolute, “it’s the only way I’ll go with you peacefully tonight. Otherwise, it will become nasty business, whether it’s here and now or whenever you turn up again. I’m a good shot. Don’t test me.”

  Rufe Jones took his derby off and rubbed his forehead. He looked at his two companions, but they said nothing, or perhaps they shrugged. It was hard to see anything in the darkness but their flat pale faces.

  “Fine, fine, we’ll keep it peaceful, then,” Rufe Jones agreed. “Just you it is. But it’s got to be now. Toss your gun over here. Let’s be done with this.”

  “You can have it when we get to the Woods, not before.”

  “All right, but let’s go.”

  Pa nodded. “I’ll get my things,” he said.

  “Oh no! I’m not in the mood for any trickeries,” Rufe Jones answered quickly. “We’re riding now! You get on this horse here and we leave now, or else the deal is off.”

  “No, Pa!” I cried, rushing to the door.

  Pa turned to me with that expression, which, like I said, was unfamiliar. Like he’d seen the holy devil. It scared me, his face. His eyes narrowed into slits.

  “You stay inside, Silas,” he ordered, pointing his finger at me. He sounded so harsh, I stopped in my tracks in the doorway. Never in my life had he spoken to me like that. “I’ll be fine. But you’re not to leave this house. Not for anything. I’ll be back in a week. There’s enough food for you until then. You’ll be fine. Do you hear me?”

  I said nothing. I couldn’t have said anything even if I’d tried.

  “Do you hear me, Silas?” he said louder.

  “But, Pa,” I pleaded, my voice trembling.

  “This is how it has to be,” he replied. “You’ll be safe here. I will see you in a week. Not a day later. Now get back inside, quick.”

  I did as he said.

  He walked over to the giant black horse, swung up on him, and without so much as another look my way, turned the horse and galloped away. Within moments, he and the other horsemen vanished into the vast night.

  This is how my pa entered into the services of a notorious counterfeiting ring, although I did not know it at the time.

  4

  I COULD NOT SAY HOW LONG I stood by the door watching the ridge over which Pa had disappeared. Enough to see the sky begin to lighten.

  “You come sit down, Silas,” Mittenwool said gently.

  I shook my head. I was afraid to look away from that spot in the distance into which Pa had gone, for fear that, if I lost sight of it, I’d have no way of finding it again. The fields around our house are flat in every direction save the ridge, which rises slowly eastward and then slopes down into the Woods, a tangle of ancient trees encircled by dense ironwoods through which even the smallest wagons could not pass. That’s what they say, at least.

  “Come sit down, Silas,” Mittenwool repeated. “There’s nothing we can do now. We just have to wait. He’ll be back in a week.”

  “But what if he isn’t?” I whispered, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “He will be, Silas. Pa knows what he’s doing.”

  “What do they want from him? Who is Mr. Oscar Ren-whatever? Who is this Mac Boat person? I don’t understand what just happened.”

  “I’m sure Pa’ll explain it all when he comes back. You just have to wait it out.”

  “A whole week!” By now the tears had blurred my vision so much that I lost sight of the spot into which Pa had disappeared. “A whole week!”

  I turned to Mittenwool. He was sitting next to the table, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He looked forlorn, for all he tried not to show it.

  “You’ll be fine, Silas,” he said assuredly. “I’ll be here with you. And Argos. We’ll keep you company. You’ll be fine. And before you know it, Pa will be back.”

  I glanced down at Argos, who had curled up inside the broken dough box he used for a bed. He was a scrappy hound, one-eared and wobble-legged.

  And then I looked back at Mittenwool, his eyebrows raised, trying to instill confidence in me. I have already mentioned that Mittenwool is a ghost, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the right word for him. Spirit. Apparition. Fact is, I don’t know what the right word for him is, exactly. Pa thinks he is an imaginary friend or some such thing, but I know that’s not what he is. Mittenwool is as real as the chair he sits on, and the house we live in, and the dog. That no one but me can see him, or hear him, doesn’t mean he’s not real. Anyway, if you could see or hear him, you’d say he was a boy of about sixteen or so, tall and thin and shiny-eyed, with a shock of dark, unruly hair, and a hearty laugh. He has been my companion for as long as I can remember.

  “What am I going to do?” I said, breathless.

  “You’re going to come sit down,” he answered, patting the chair near the table. “You’re going to make yourself some breakfast. Get some hot coffee in your
stomach. Then, when you’re ready, we’re going to take stock of the situation. We’ll check the cupboards, see what food you have, and set enough aside for seven days so you don’t run out of anything. Then we’ll go milk Moo and bring in the eggs and turn some hay for Mule, just like we do every morning. That’s what we’re going to do, Silas.”

  I sat down at the table across from him while he talked. He leaned over.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he said, smiling at me reassuringly. “You’ll see.”

  I nodded because he was trying so hard to console me and I did not want to disappoint him, but I did not think in my heart that everything was going to be fine. And it turns out I was right. For after I had milked Moo and seen to the chickens and turned some hay for Mule and gotten some water from the well, and after we had emptied the pantry to tally the food, setting aside a portion for every day of the coming week, and swept the floors and cut the firewood into tinder bits, and then made hotcakes that I would not end up eating for I had no hunger at all but a queasiness in my stomach from the swallowing of tears, I looked up through the window and saw the bald-faced pony standing in front of the house.

  5

  HE WAS NOT AS SMALL IN THE daylight as he had seemed in the dark. Maybe the other horses around him had been especially big, I don’t know. But now, grazing by the charred oak, the pony seemed of average height for a horse. His coat gleamed black in the sunlight, and his neck was arched and muscular, topped by that bright white head, which made for a most peculiar spectacle.

  I went outside and looked all around. There was no sign of Pa or any of the men who had ridden off with him. The distant fields were silent, as they always were. It had rained a bit in the late morning, but the sky was clear now save for a few long clouds stretched thin as smoke.

  Mittenwool followed me as I walked toward the pony. Animals usually get riled around Mittenwool, but this one just eyed him curiously as we approached. He had long black lashes and a small muzzle. Pale blue eyes, set wide like a deer’s.

  “Hello there, fella,” I said softly, cautiously reaching up to pat him on the neck. “What are you doing back here?”

  “I’m guessing he couldn’t keep up with the big horses,” Mittenwool suggested.

  “Is that what happened to you?” I asked the pony, who turned his head to look at me. “Did you get left behind? Or did they cut you loose?”

  “He’s a strange-looking creature.”

  There was something about the way the pony was regarding me, so directly, that warmed me somehow. “I think he’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Face like a skull.”

  “Do you think they sent him back for me?” I said. “Remember they’d wanted me to go with Pa, too. Maybe they changed their mind about my staying behind.”

  “How would the pony have known to come here?”

  “I’m just speculating,” I answered, shrugging.

  “See if there’s something in the saddlebag.”

  I gingerly reached over to check inside, afraid to startle the pony. But he continued to observe me coolly, taking me in without fear or timidity.

  The saddlebag was empty.

  “Maybe Rufe Jones sent one of the brothers back for me,” I said. “And he brought the pony for me to ride, but then something happened to him, he got thrown from his horse or something? And the pony just went on without him?”

  “I guess that’s possible, but it still doesn’t explain how he would have known to come back to the house.”

  “He probably just followed the same path he took last night,” I reasoned, but before I even finished my words, something new occurred to me. “Or maybe it was Pa!” I gasped. “Mittenwool! Maybe Pa got away from those men, and was riding back home to me on that big black horse, but he got thrown—and the pony kept going!”

  “No, that one doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why not? It could be! Pa could be lying in the Woods somewhere! I have to go find him!” I started putting my foot, bare as it was, into the stirrup. But Mittenwool got in front of me.

  “Hold on, slow down. Let’s think this through rationally, all right?” he said soundly. “If your pa had gotten away from those men, he wouldn’t have dragged this pony back with him. He would have taken off at full speed so he could get home as fast as possible. So what you’re saying just doesn’t make a lot of sense, you see. What does make sense is that the pony somehow got lost in the Woods, then wandered back here. So I say, let’s get him some water, because he must be all tuckered out, and then go back inside the house.”

  “Mittenwool,” I said, shaking my head, for many things had occurred to me while he was talking. And these thoughts had become a call to action in my mind. “Please hear me out. I think this pony being here…it’s a sign. I think he came back for me. I don’t know if Pa sent him, or the good Lord himself, but it’s a sign. I need to go look for Pa.”

  “Come on, Silas. A sign?”

  “Yes, a sign.”

  “Pshaw,” he answered dismissively.

  “Believe what you will.” I raised my foot back up to the stirrup.

  “Pa told you to wait for him! You’re not to leave this house. Not for anything. That’s what he said. And that’s what you have to do. He’ll be back in a week. You just got to be patient.”

  For a moment, my resolve weakened. It had been so clear a second before, but Mittenwool did that to me sometimes. He could talk me out of things, cast doubt on my perceptions.

  “Besides, you don’t even know how to ride a horse,” he added.

  “Of course I do! I ride Mule all the time.”

  “Mule is more donkey than horse, let’s face it. And you’re being a bit of a donkey now, too. Come on inside.”

  “You’re the donkey.”

  “Come on, Silas. Let’s go back in the house.”

  His prodding almost convinced me to abandon my intentions. Truth be told, I’d only ever ridden a horse a couple of times in my life, and both times when I was still so small that Pa had lifted me up onto the saddle.

  But then the pony snorted, nostrils flared wide, and I somehow took this as an invitation to ride. With my bare foot still half inside the stirrup, I quickly heaved myself up to the saddle. But as I tried to round my other leg over the side, my foot slipped out of the leather tread and I fell backward into the mud. The pony gave a short neigh and swished his tail.

  “Dangit!” I yelled, slapping my hands in the slosh. “Dangit! Dangit!”

  “Silas,” Mittenwool said softly.

  “Why did he leave me?” I cried out. “Why did he leave me all alone?”

  Mittenwool crouched down next to me. “You’re not all alone, Silas.”

  “I am!” I answered, feeling a big tear suddenly, unexpectedly, roll down my left cheek. “He left me alone here, and I don’t know what to do!”

  “Listen to me, Silas. You’re not alone. All right? I’m here. You know that.” He was looking right into my eyes when he said this.

  “I know, but…” I hesitated, wiping my tears with the back of my sleeve. I was having trouble finding the right words. “But, Mittenwool, I can’t stay here. I can’t. Something is telling me to go out and look for Pa. I feel it in my bones. I need to go find him. The pony came for me. Don’t you see that? He came for me.”

  Mittenwool sighed and looked down, shaking his head.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I added. “Gosh, maybe I am crazy. I’m out here in the mud arguing with a ghost about a pony that came out of nowhere. Sure sounds crazy!”

  Mittenwool winced a little. I knew he disliked that word, ghost.

  “You’re not crazy,” he said quietly.

  I looked at him, eyes pleaful. “I’d only go to the edge of the Woods. I promise, I wouldn’t go any farther than that. If I leave now, I can
get there and back by nightfall. It’s no more than a two-hour ride, right?”

  Mittenwool gazed out over the ridge. I knew what he was thinking. Maybe I was thinking it myself. I’d been terrified of those Woods for years. Pa tried to take me hunting there once, when I was about eight, and I literally fainted from fear. I have always seen in trees all kinds of malevolent forms. It is no coincidence, I think, that I was struck by lightning standing near an oak.

  “And what are you going to do when you get to the Woods?” Mittenwool argued. “You’re just going to peek inside and say too-ra-loo and come back? What good will that do?”

  “At least I’ll know that Pa’s not somewhere close enough that I could’ve helped him. I’ll know he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere nearby, in trouble or hurt, or…” My voice cut off. I looked at him. “Please, Mittenwool. I have to go.”

  He turned his face away from me and stood up, nibbling on his lower lip. He always did this when he was thinking hard on something.

  “Fine,” he finally said, regretful. “You win. No use arguing with a person when they feel something in their bones.”

  I was about to say something.

  “But you’re not riding out barefoot!” he continued. “Or without a coat. And this pony needs water. So, first things first, let’s bring him to the trough, feed him some oats, and then go pack you some provisions. After that, sure thing, we’ll go to the edge of the Woods to look for Pa. Sound good?”

  I could feel my heart beating in my ears.

  “Does that mean you’re coming with me?” I said. I had not dared to ask.

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Of course I’m coming with you, you chucklehead.”

  TWO

  The story of I love you,

  It has no end.

  —Anonymous “The Riddle Song”