“Aren’t you taking the rifle?” I called after Papa as he slipped through the doorway. I’d just dunked the last plate into the rinse water and was handing it off to Sadie to dry and put away.
Through the kitchen window, I saw him pause on the steps leading to the side yard, back to the house. I couldn’t read his expression, but his shoulders seemed to soften as he considered the question.
“You think we really ought to?”
I wrung out the washcloth before joining him on the porch. “Maybe. Just to be safe?”
Papa turned. “He say anything that makes you think we need it?”
I remembered the stranger’s tone of voice, the way he’d always seemed just on the verge of mocking me, and how badly I’d wanted the rifle in my hands. Looking back, I could clearly recall the feeling, but not what inspired its urgency. After a moment’s reflection, I shook my head. “I guess not.”
Papa glanced up at the sun. “It is an awfully warm day. Why don’t you go get it for me anyway? There could be snakes.”
The prickly ball of worry that was lodged in my stomach eased, like a porcupine lowering its guard. Papa would be able to get all the information he needed from that boy.
If he was even still around.
* * *
We spotted him as we wove through the lines of clothes. Still laid out on the rock, feet still in the water. He’d covered his face with a dark wool hat and was so utterly motionless that I assumed he’d fallen asleep.
“You might want to be careful dipping your toes in that creek there,” Papa called out, warning our approach. “Water snakes liable to think your toes are salamanders. They’re not poisonous, but that won’t make a bite hurt any less.”
The boy removed the hat and used it as a sun block to peer at us. With a languid stretch of his back, he sat up, keeping his legs resolutely in the creek. “Water snakes, you say?”
Papa nodded.
After a moment of wary silence, he eased his feet out of the creek. “All pins and needles anyway.”
“I’m Gideon Downing,” Papa said. He’d stopped a few yards from the waterline, making no attempt to hide the rifle from the stranger’s view.
“The beekeeper,” the stranger said.
Papa leaned against the butt of the rifle. Though his stance seemed casual, there was a wiry energy racing through him that set my teeth on edge and made every word of their banter feel weighted with tension. “Passing through, or are you aiming to stick around?”
“Making the rounds,” the boy answered noncommittally.
“With your folks?”
“Just me…and my partners,” he allowed.
“That so?”
The ambling speed of their conversation was maddening. My fingers itched to grab the rifle, shoot a warning shot into the sky, and demand that actual answers be given.
“We’ve got a little campsite up a ways.” He pointed toward the mountain farthest west. “I was following the creek when I stumbled across…” He drew his sentence out as if he’d already forgotten my name. I was surprised at how much that stung my pride.
“Ellerie,” Papa supplied.
“Ellerie,” he agreed. “Didn’t mean to scare anyone. She set me straight on your property line. I’ll make sure to stay far from it. Don’t want to be stepping toes onto anyone’s claim by mistake. Man could get himself shot over less in these parts.”
“You shouldn’t run into trouble with anyone in the Falls,” Papa said, his stance relaxing, degree by nearly imperceptible degree. “We keep clear of the forest unless we’re heading out of the pass.”
The stranger rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking pleased.
“It’s actually why I wanted to speak with you. There’ve been some sightings of…wolves recently. They overtook our supply train last week. Six men died.”
The boy whistled through his teeth. “That a fact?”
Papa hummed an affirmation, the set of his lips grim.
“Awful sorry to hear that. Haven’t seen any traces of wolves, but I’ll certainly keep my eyes out. Appreciate you warning me.”
Papa scratched at the back of his neck, his gaze falling on the stranger, as sharp as a razor. “I don’t believe I caught your name, son.” The last word rang out, flat and atonal, an unspoken threat, and I wanted to cheer, knowing he hadn’t fallen for the boy’s tactics.
“You wouldn’t have; I never said it.” There was an uneasy beat before he let out a laugh, breaking the tension. After brushing off his pants, the boy waded across the creek, reaching out a friendly hand. “The name is Price.”
It wasn’t.
In Amity Falls, every name seemed to have a pragmatic purpose. Names were weighty, seared to the identity of the person or place as if with a branding iron. Tall dark mountains? Blackspire. A lake choked verdigris with blooms of algae? Greenswold. The rightness of a name was woven into the very essence of the thing itself.
Whoever this person was, he wasn’t Price. The name “Price” rested atop his elongated frame like an ill-fitting coat, puckered and gaping.
If Papa noticed the lie, he didn’t comment. He shook the boy’s hand, and they fell into an easy discussion about God’s Grasp. Price, as he called himself, hadn’t been raised in these parts and said he’d be grateful for any tips Papa could impart. When Papa asked about his home, Price glanced my way with a chuckle.
“Out west,” he said, skirting around another answer.
“Where?” I interrupted. “Out west where?”
“Ellerie,” Papa scolded. “He’ll tell us if he wants.”
Price laughed once more, but it sounded strained. “Along the coast.”
“But where?” I pressed. “It’s a big country. There’s an awful lot of coast out west.”
“Curiosity has always been one of Ellerie’s strong suits,” Papa apologized.
The stranger looked me over with fresh eyes. He was finally close enough for me to make out their color. They sparkled, clear and light, like the creek behind us. Soft gray one moment and amber the next. Hints of green crept in as they squinted into a smile, pleased at whatever they saw in me. “Tenacity too, I reckon.”
Papa gave him a knowing look in agreement. “Will you be near the Falls long?”
“Thinking of it. My first tour has been promising.” His eyes drifted back toward the pines. “Quite promising. Could be my best season yet.”