Free The Salem Witch Society by K. N. Shields Page B

drew back a massive fist to finish him off. Grey, still holding the noxious liquid in his mouth, stuck the burning brand directly between their faces and sprayed the Sagamo Elixir. The man fell to the ground, screaming as he slapped at burning bits of hair. Grey seized another small cask from the wagon and smashed it down on the man’s crown.
    He hauled the unconscious body a safe distance from the wagons, then tossed the cask onto the fire and watched the smoke drift skyward. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Fire! Fire! The wagons are on fire!” He repeated this twice more, collected his broken walking stick, and disappeared into the trees.

11

    A n hour afterthe confrontation with the mob, Lean sat in a midsize tent with his ankle wrapped in a cool compress. Grey’s fire had startled the mob into thinking their means of escape had been sabotaged. The spirit of the attack had been broken, and the men had fled into the night. The whole affair ended quickly, keeping major injuries to a minimum on both sides. Lean suffered a twisted ankle in the melee and also came away with bruised knuckles. Now he and Grey were inside a makeshift museum of Indian artifacts that served as a bunkhouse for the performers after the shows. Chief White Eagle was present, as well as several Abenaki men of various ages who were around a table, smoking and playing cards. The kind-faced fortuneteller, Sister Neptune, was tending to Lean after taking care of some other cuts and bruises. Also present was the attractive Indian sharpshooter, who, Lean observed, was taking a keen interest in Grey’s minor scrapes.
    The fortune-teller handed Lean a clay mug. “Drink this. It will help keep the swelling down.”
    “Thank you, Sister Nep—”
    “Agnes. Just call me Agnes. Least I can do for your help out there. That could have been a load of trouble.”
    Lean took a sip and nearly spit it out. “My God! Tastes like cat piss.”
    “Well, when you move about the way we have to, you learn to make do with what’s at hand.” Agnes smiled at Lean’s incredulous look. “Don’t worry, it’s a simple herb-and-bark tea.”
    Lean forced downa second sip, then handed the mug back. He stood up and limped over to Grey. “We should be going.”
    Grey glanced at his pocketwatch. “I doubt the train will be coming back after all this. And the road to Old Orchard won’t be safe for us to walk tonight. Besides, you’re in no condition to be moving about on that ankle.”
    “I told my wife I’d be home,” Lean said.
    “Listen to your friend,” said Agnes. “After all, a husband who’s late is better than one with a cracked skull.”
    “We’ll bunk here on spare cots. Your wife will understand,” Grey said.
    One of the card players passed a bottle to Lean. “If you’re staying, you might as well have something real to take care of the pain.”
    Lean took a swig and felt the harsh warmth rush down into his chest. He handed the bottle to Grey, who passed it along without drinking.
    Chief White Eagle spoke in a quiet voice. “I don’t know any called Grey. What was your father’s name?”
    “He went by Poulin. Joseph Poulin.”
    The chief nodded in recognition. Lean was not surprised by the name, being familiar with the practice of Indians in Maine to assume names showing a French-Canadian influence.
    “I knew him,” said one of the other men at the card table. He paused and peered at Grey. “I remember you now too. Wouldn’t have known you if you hadn’t said the name, but now I see it plain enough. Scrawny kid, you were.” The man stubbed out his cigarette. “I was there the day they found your father. When they pulled him out of the water below the falls. He was a good man, though I suppose you know that well enough.”
    “Thank you. I don’t actually recall. Awfully long time ago.”
    Lean stared at Grey, astonished to hear that his father had drowned when Grey was just a boy. Even more surprising was that Grey hadn’t