“What does the winner get?”
“First bath tonight!” I promised, and Sadie laughed with glee.
Our moment of fun didn’t last long.
Pounding hooves raced up the drive. At first I feared it was Papa and Whitaker, already turning back. Something must have happened to Mama, and I wanted to retch up every bit of hot bile roiling in my gut.
But it was one of Cyrus’s farmhands, riding up on his stallion. Though the morning was still cool, both man and beast were covered in a sheen of sweat. He must have ridden from town at an absolute breakneck pace.
“Is Gideon still here?” he shouted from the horse, without bothering to dismount.
“They already left,” Samuel said, and the worker let out a curse of frustration. “What’s the matter, Isaiah? You look as though you’re about to keel over.”
“You’re needed in town, all of you.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why all of us?”
“You four are the only witnesses we’ve got.”
Merry frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The fire last night,” the farmhand said, squeezing his thighs as the stallion beneath him pranced with impatience. “Joseph Abernathy and Philemon Dinsmore say they know who started it. But you’ve got to come to the Gathering House and try to reason with them all. It’s gotten out of hand.”
“What has?” I asked.
“The whole town is out for blood. Come on!”
The stallion, misinterpreting his rider’s command, took off galloping down the path, racing back to town.
Carried by the wind, the last of his cries echoed over the farm. “They’re going to hang Cyrus Danforth!”
“Rule Number Four: Seek not to harm your fellow men, for Amity’s wrath circles round again.”
We ran all the way into town and arrived outside the Gathering House, gasping for breath. The hall was crammed past capacity. Younger children spilled out into the yard but were still keenly focused on the proceedings at hand. No one jumped rope. No one played jacks. Everyone stood on tiptoe, smudging noses against the windowpanes.
“They’re here! The Downings are here!” Bonnie Maddin announced, her voice screeching as she spotted us rushing up Potter Road. “Everybody out of the way; let them through!”
The crowd turned toward us. Their faces—still smudged from the fire—ranged from sympathetic to furious. My heart swelled as I remembered how they’d all come to our aid when we’d needed them most.
We had our house, our farm, our very lives because of these people.
I opened my mouth, wanting to thank them, but hands pulled us into the Gathering House. I felt like a salmon fighting upstream as we were pushed toward the front of the hall. There were too many people and too little space. My lungs could hardly draw breath, and I worried something might snap and we’d all be crushed in a sea of shaking limbs and angry faces.
“They’re here! They’re here!”
Voices shouted for the Elders’ attention. The three huddled together, conferring and closed off from the rest of the crowd in their tight triad.
We were pushed to the front of the room, pressed against the Founder Tree. There was no Book of Decisions, no bowls of pigment to cast our votes and judgments. I glanced behind us. Most of the children were out in the yard, but I still saw small faces hiding behind their mothers’ soot-stained skirts, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the proceedings.
There would be no Deciding today, then.
“Where’s Cyrus?” Samuel whispered to me.
“He must be here someplace,” I said, searching the crowd for his unpleasant face. Isaiah had made the situation seem completely dire, but the man in question wasn’t even present.
A ruckus sounded from outside, breaking up the nervous din that had settled over the crowd, an explosion of obscenities thrown about like grenades.
Cyrus.
He was manhandled into the hall, trussed like a lamb to slaughter. His hands were pinned behind his back, wrapped in thick, prickling hemp rope. The rough cording had worn welts into his skin, which was opened raw in some places, and was stained with blood. His two accusers—Philemon Dinsmore and Joseph Abernathy—shoved him forward, struggling to get the protesting man through the crowd.
“Let me go, you pair of whoresons,” he growled, foaming at the mouth. His face was swollen red with indignant rage. As he passed through a dense cluster of people, someone spat on him. It landed on his cheek and stayed there, as wet and unmoving as a fat slug. He contorted into painful angles, tossing his head about to dislodge the slime. “Damnit, let me loose! I swear to God Almighty, when I’m out of these blasted ropes, I’m going to tear you limb from limb, Dinsmore. I’m going to reach down and rip out your ba—”
“You heard it!” Philemon shouted in triumph, drowning out the rest of Cyrus’s blustering. “Straight from his own mouth—more threats of murder!”
“I haven’t murdered anyone, you son of a bitch! But you’ll be the first if someone doesn’t get me out of these damned things.”
The Elders shifted, forming a dark, solid wall. They all wore long, black cloaks with scarlet embroidery along the edges. My breath hitched as I caught sight of the red thread. It wasn’t a pretty pattern, a series of French knots or seed stitches. It was words. The Rules. Suddenly the empty Founder Tree made perfect sense.
This wasn’t a Deciding.
It was a Judgment.
Leland Schäfer cleared his throat, casting an uneasy hush over the crowd as they strained to hear his soft tone. “Cyrus Danforth, you are brought before Amity Falls today accused of high crimes against your neighbors and fellow men.”
Cyrus lunged at the Elder, only to be stopped by Philemon and Joseph as they pushed him down. His knees hit the floor with a crack so loud, I winced even before he unleashed a firestorm of insults.
Leland paled and held up a bit of paper with shaking fingers. “On the night of September ninth, you were seen at the Buhrmans’ tavern in an intoxicated state, and were overheard making threatening remarks against Gideon Downing and his family—”
“There’s no crime in that—no crime!” Cyrus interrupted. “Amos, how long are you going to let this charade go on? I told you what Samuel Downing did to my storeroom, and you refused to take action. Suddenly I’m shackled on the hearsay of these two loons? This is a joke.”
“Stand down, Danforth,” Amos warned, raising one bushy white eyebrow with admonishment.