Fitcher's Brides by Gregory Frost Read Free Book Online

churches stood on opposite corners: a Methodist of stone on the left, and a shining white Presbyterian on the right. The latter had its own sign planted in the middle of the path leading to its double doors, proclaiming one word: TEMPERANCE ! The road sign there identified the crossroad as MILL CREEK ROAD . Arrows below pointed the way south to the Watkins flour mill and to an unnamed grist mill.
    To the north, traffic moved along the Mill Creek Road—wagons and pedestrians, some of whom they recognized from the steamboat. A large black dog dashed into view from behind one of the wagons. Its breath steamed out of its nostrils and it ran across the main road as if in pursuit of something, disappearing within moments into the woods.
    They’d only been there a few minutes before their own cart appeared. The stevedore, walking beside his mule, tipped his cap as he reached them. “And where is it you ladies want your belongings took?” he asked as if only a moment had passed since they’d spoken.
    Amy thought it queer that her father or Lavinia hadn’t told him, although it might have been one of Lavinia’s tests, to see if the girls were paying attention. Vern at least had. She answered, “Our house is on the Gorge Road. It’s called the Pulaski house, I believe.”
    â€œ That’s your residence?”
    â€œWhy, yes.”
    He shifted his stance from side to side as if making up his mind how to proceed. Then with a solemn shake of his head he prodded the mule and headed farther out the main road. The girls followed close behind. A carriage raced around them. Its rear wheel hit a rock and jumped it precariously onto two wheels for a moment before it bounced down onto all four rims again. The stevedore muttered, “That fool’s breakin’ the speed limit. Somebody oughta ’rest ’im.”
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    The graveled sidewalk ended just beyond the churches, but there was little traffic, and the girls flanked the cart—its wheels flung off bits of mud, and they quickly learned not to follow in its path. A few people rode by on horseback, heading toward Jekyll’s Glen. They looked the girls over, and the contents of the cart, but there was nothing welcoming in their faces. Amy looked at them with the foolish notion that she might spy someone she knew. Sometimes strangers could look familiar.
    They walked another half mile on the main road, which the stevedore informed them was the Catskill Turnpike. Already the town was lost behind them.
    The Gorge Road branched sharply off to the south. They passed only three houses on it, all of which sat well back from the road. As much as a half mile separated each from the other. Then there were no more houses and the cleared land was swallowed up in woods, and Amy began to wonder if the stevedore knew where he was going. Trees overhung the road, and though there was hardly a breeze now, the air took on a chill. Sunlight spackled them through the almost leafless branches, lacking any warmth. One wheel of the cart rolled through a hole, and it cracked a thin layer of ice so that the hole spat brown water. The girls shivered and pulled their cloaks more tightly around them. The civilized world had become a myth, a remembered story, and they’d been lost in wilderness their whole lives.
    Then, up ahead, a horizontal line emerged out of the dimness—a long, straight pole supported by two posts, one on either side of the road. To the right a kind of sentry box stood next to the pole. Amy expected at any moment someone was going to emerge from the sentry box to demand a payment from them. That was how it was on turnpike roads, and they hadn’t brought any money with them, at least she didn’t think so. But no one came to take their toll.
    A clearing came into view as they neared the pike. A house sat in the middle of it.
    The stevedore abruptly switched the mule, and drove the cart off the road and across the dirt lawn,