A Sparrow Alone by Mim Eichmann

Author:Mim Eichmann [Eichmann, Mim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780965711395
Publisher: Living Springs Publishers LLP
Published: 2020-04-14T22:00:00+00:00

XIII. Six Pistol Shots

Psalm 119-83: For I am become like a bottle in the smoke; yet do I not forget thy statutes.

It was several hours until Abigail’s spasmodic shaking finally ended. Then she wanted to hold Alice, who had fallen asleep just after birth and had no interest in attempting to nurse. Abigail fell asleep shortly afterwards, the sleeping Alice nestled in the crook of her arm. A long lock of Abigail’s hair encircled the two of them as they slept peacefully. She was a beautiful, healthy baby. I shuddered wondering if Dr. Hughes could really just dump his beautiful granddaughter in some rancid infant asylum for illegitimate offspring, hoping it would die before becoming old enough to get transferred to an orphanage -- like dumping slag down the ravine.

While they slept I made an attempt to wash out the horrible laundry from Laura-Belle’s. Even using the strongest soaps, the animal smell of the garments permeated the air far worse than anything I had ever washed coming from the Old Homestead. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot, but even so, my arms ached after all the scrubbing, double and triple rinsing, and running everything through the wringer, which had been extremely hard to crank over the last couple weeks and needed repair. After I had pegged everything up on the line I left a short note next to Abigail that I was going to try to find us some kind of food from one of the saloons. This was far more expensive than shopping at one of the markets, but we had eaten absolutely nothing since I had spent the entire day looking for laundry work. I was desperate to find something quickly.

An eerie dry wind had picked up and now howled around the entire town. Boards heaved and rumbled loudly in our shack. Though wrapped tightly around me, my shawl served a meager buffer as it flapped in the blinding swirls of dust. The wind was so strong it had surprisingly dried up all the standing rainwater in a matter of a couple of days. A thick carpet of broken glass surrounded the pine doors at Crapper Jack’s so I picked my way around the carnage to its nearest rival, the Heritage Saloon. Several men were slumped over tables, probably after a long night of gambling and drinking. The bartender would more than likely give them another hour to wake up and start drinking again or just have them thrown out back in the drunk room as soon as business started to pick up. A fairly nice-looking, clean shaven man, he looked up from drying a collection of sturdy glassware.

“Help ya miss?” he called out. “If ya tell me jes’ who yer lokin’ fer, I might be able to tell ya if they was here or not. Or still is,” he added with a low chuckle, nodding at the sleeping men.

“Actually,” I replied quickly, almost tripping over a pair of badly scuffed boots that had dislodged themselves from their snoring owner’s large feet, “I’m looking to buy any scraps you might have.

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