The Witch of Tin Mountain(42)

Ebba waves us away and pulls on her housecoat. A booming knock comes, loud enough to shake our little cabin to its foundations. My mouth goes dry.

“Get under the porch,” I whisper to Morris. “All the way to the back. And don’t you dare move until I come back and say it’s all right.” Morris stumbles to his knees and crawls under the porch, wincing as he works himself backward on his one good elbow. I peer under at him. Sure enough, he’s fairly disappeared into the shadows. “Good. I’m gonna go in now.”

“Be careful, Gracie.”

“I will. Now shut up and keep still and pray they ain’t got a dog.”

I ease up onto the porch, stepping over the loose boards. I pry open the screen door, making sure it don’t slam behind me. Granny’s breath rasps softly from the daybed.

I creep past Caro, who’s sound asleep in the main room, and stop and listen, waiting for the right moment to make my entrance so I don’t get a gun pointed at my face.

“Now ma’am, we know Morris Doherty lives here.” The cop has a voice like metal scraping over rusty gears.

“Yes.” Ebba’s nervous. “But I told you. I ain’t seen him for over a week. At least I think it’s been a week.”

I grit my teeth. I need to get out there. “Is somebody here, Ebba?” I holler.

“Who’s there?” the copper barks. “Come on out. Slow. Hands up.”

I push through the curtain, my sweetest smile pasted on my face as I raise my hands and walk slowly into the kitchen. The lawman’s cold eyes skim over me, his hand on the pistol at his hip. I see from his armband that he’s a US marshal and not one of our local deputies. Northrup sure enough called in the cavalry. “Miss Gracelynn Doherty, sir.” I offer my hand.

The marshal ignores it, his mouth set in a line under his mustache. “You Morris Doherty’s sister?”

“I’m his cousin.”

He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. “I have a warrant here for his arrest.”

I wrinkle my forehead, feigning confusion. “What are the charges?”

“Operating an illegal distillery, in violation of the Volstead Act.”

“Lands, this is the first I’ve heard about a still.” I laugh and go all wide eyed. “I ain’t seen Morris for over a week. Last I heard, he went to Blytheville to visit a girl he’s been courtin’ with.” Ebba glances at me and I subtly jab her with my elbow.

“We’ve found the still, and I have a reliable witness’s report that says he’s the one who runs it, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll take a look around the property. Are there any other people living here, Mrs. Doherty?”

“It’s Miss Doherty,” I say with a scowl. “I ain’t married. My cousin and grandma are still sleeping, in yonder.”

The marshal raises a dark brow under the brim of his hat. “The two of you stay put. Don’t leave this room.” He unholsters his pistol and makes a beeline for the pantry. He rattles through Granny’s carefully organized apothecary supplies. I reach for Ebba’s hand and squeeze it. He’s looking for Morris’s hooch, no doubt. Even though it’s supposedly legal for folks to possess liquor, just not to make or sell it, I’m more than a little thankful Morris finished off that fifth of Jack Daniel’s.

The cop moves on to the main room of the cabin, where Caro is stirring. I pray to God, or whoever else might be listening, she don’t smart off. He herds her into the kitchen, and she meets my eyes, ginger hair disheveled. She starts crying. I hug her to me and shush her, best I can. The marshal’s footsteps creak overhead. He’s in the loft. A few minutes later, the screen door slams, and my heart takes a swan dive into my stomach.

“Where is he?” Caro asks.

“Under the back porch,” I answer, my tongue thick. “I told him to keep quiet.”

“What are we gonna do, Gracie?”

“You just let me do all the talkin’, kid, and try to stay calm.”

We sit around the table, listening. Any moment now, I’m expecting a gunshot. The seconds drip by, thick as cold bacon grease. Finally, I hear the creak of the screen door’s hinge once more. A single set of footsteps echoes through the house. I let out my breath, daring to hope.

The marshal strides back into the kitchen. He shakes his head at us. “Did you say he was headed for Blytheville, Miss Doherty?”

I nod, maybe a little too quickly. “Yep, that’s what he said. I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”

“I’ll take you at your word and head that way. Any idea where he might be staying?”

I muster another smile. “I wouldn’t know, sir. His girl’s daddy weren’t too keen on them courting, so I’d imagine they’re layin’ pretty low.”

“We’ve notified the local sheriff and they’ll be looking for him. What’s his girlfriend’s name?”

“Charity McCoy,” I blurt. If there’s really a Charity McCoy in Blytheville, she’s gonna be mighty confused when this copper comes knocking.

He hands me an official-looking card with his name and a telephone code: United States Marshal Carl Pettigrew. “Aiding and abetting a suspect is against the law. I expect you’ll call me if he turns up.”