Free Fear Weaver by David Thompson Page A

one of Sullivan’s family, I won’t harm you. I’m here with Peter and Erleen. They should show up shortly.”
    “Don’t shoot! I’m coming out!”
    It was a big-boned woman in a dress and a bonnet, clasping two long knitting needles and a partially knit shawl. She smiled an anxious smile, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether he was truly a friend, or a foe.
    “I am with Peter and Erleen Woodrow,” Nate repeated, lowering his rifle. “I mean you no harm.”
    The woman came closer. “Intery, minstery cutery corn, apple seed and apple thorn.”
    “What?”
    “You’re not really you, are you?”
    “Lady, I am as real as you are,” Nate assured her.
    “You think I am really real?”
    “Of course.”
    “If all the world were water, and all the water ink, what should we do for bread and cheese? What should we do for drink?”
    “Why do you keep saying nursery rhymes?”
    “Why do you not say them?” The woman laughed.
    “Are you Philberta?” Nate asked. She answered the description he had been given.
    “This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.”
    “Talk sense, will you?”
    “This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none.”
    “Cut that out. And tell me. Are you Philberta or aren’t you?”
    “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure anymore.” She laughed again, a sad sort of laugh. Then she swept a knitting needle over her head and cried, “Let’s see which of us is real!”
    And with that she attacked him.

Vanishings
    The wild gleam in her eyes, her wild talk, had warned Nate she was unbalanced. He was ready when she lunged. Screeching, Philberta stabbed the knitting needle at his eyes, her face twisted in pure hate.
    Nate swept the Hawken up, one hand on the barrel and the other on the stock, blocking her blow. She was strong, this woman. The force jarred him onto his heels. He could have shot her but instead he sought to reason with her, saying, “I’m not here to harm you! Get that through your head.”
    “Liar!” Philberta cried, and came at him again. She had the second knitting needle in her other hand, low against her side.
    Nate backpedaled. He hadn’t counted on this sort of reception. He’d figured that the survivors, if any, would be overjoyed to see him and learn their relatives were on the way. “Stop it!” he commanded. But she paid him no heed. He dodged a needle to the neck, shifted, and evaded a stab to the groin.
    Philberta crouched to try again. She was quick as well as strong, and unless Nate did something, fast, she was bound to skewer him.
    “For the last time, I’m not your enemy!”
    Philberta grinned. “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack, jump over the candlestick.”
    “Why do you—?” Nate began, and got no further. She came at him, thrusting high and low, and it was all he could do to stay out of her reach.
    “Stand still, consarn you!” Philberta’s bosom was heaving and a sheen of sweat dampened her brow. “You are worse than a jackrabbit.” She feinted and went for his groin, but he sidestepped.
    Nate had taken as much as he was going to. Springing back, he leveled the Hawken. “The next step will be your last.”
    “One, two, buckle my shoe.” Philberta raised both needles. “You might get me but I will get you.”
    “Philberta!
What on earth?”
    At the shout, Philberta turned. Shock replaced the hate, shock so profound, she shook from her bonnet to her shoes. “I must be dreaming.”
    Ryker and the Woodrows had arrived. Ryker was smirking in amusement, but the Woodrows gaped in horrified disbelief.
    Erleen had found her voice first, and now spoke again. “Put down those knitting needles. That man is a friend of ours. He helped us find you.”
    “Erleen? Peter?”
    “It is indeed us, my dear.”
    “Am I seeing things again?” Philberta had forgotten about Nate. She ran a sleeve across her face, and swayed. “It must be the strain. I’ve finally snapped.”
    Erleen was clambering from her horse.