Hedge of Thorns: Bartering
I skirt potholes as I lead the mule past a store front. We’re half way to the first intersection, when a beer-bellied man jogs out of a convenience store, and blocks my way.
“What you doing with that mule?”
“Bringing her back from a meadow on the other side of the river.”
He reaches for the lead rope. I keep it from him. For all I know, he wants her himself, but I have more to do than bicker and dicker, and he’s not getting my gear she’s carrying. I change the subject.
“Who’s reliable and will carry messages?”
He blinks.
“Well?”
“Matt Corcoran, I suppose.” He beckons. I’m led around the corner to where another man is hunkered over a lawnmower engine in his driveway.
“Matt,” my leader says, and the fellow looks up.
“Would you carry two messages to Portland, and get them forwarded from there?”
“Long way. Why’d you come here to ask?”
“Glenoma’s closest.”
Matt stands and stretches. “What’ve you got?”
I dig Tumble’s messages from my pack and hold them so Matt can see the addresses.
“And?”
“A box of .22 cartridges, and two willow poles.” Even as I say the words, I know it won’t be enough.
He shakes his head. “The mule and the cartridges, and you’ve got a deal.” Matt steps away to ring a bell on a nearby pole.
“She’s not mine.” I jerk the lead rope to distract her from eating Matt’s lawn.
“Yes, she is, from the minute you found her. She was Amos Salter’s, and he got so fed up with her escapes from his picket line, that he planned to shoot her.”
He stepped closer, and lifted her lip. “She’ll be useful for mail delivery come winter. Bring her around behind the post office. I’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks.” I back Jenny away. When we’re within sight of the post office, Jenny’s ears go back, and she breaks into a trot.
Behind me, I hear a menacing rumble. I lead her behind the building and shut her into a metal pipe corral before unloading my gear and undoing the girth of the pack frame. The mule is rolling as I climb over the rails.
There’s an odd smell that grows stronger as I pass the building. In front, three motorcycles, converted to run on used cooking oils, idle. One rider pulls off his helmet. It’s Matt.
I pass him the notes, which he tucks inside his leather jacket. When I hand over the box of ammo, Matt stuffs that down a pocket.
“Lady, I’m in the mood for a road trip. The boys and I will take your messages all the way to Carmel.”
With a sketchy salute, the group departs, leaving me in a cloud of their pungent exhaust.
I adjust the straps of my pack, and trudge off, dragging the willow poles.
On my way out of town, I see signs celebrating reconstruction of the footbridge, and I follow the arrows, saving myself another swim through the river.
Hedge of Thorns: Bartering is part of a serialized short story that posts on Friday.
Find previous episodes and other stories here.
Krystine Kercher
Heidi Kortman
Ruth