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"Open up in there!" a deep throaty voice commanded. "Open up." Amy heard Clarissa's light, trembling footsteps, then the squeak of door hinges. "G-good morning, sir," Amy heard Clarissa stutter. "I...a...was about to put some bread in the oven. Won't you come in." "I intend to, madam," the deep voice barked. "Marshal Orson Forbes of the United States government, ma'am. I was told you're the sole Protestant in town." "Then you'll be obliged to tell me who the polysamists are and where they live." "I-I'm afraid I can't be of any service to you, sir," Clarissa's voice shook. "What do you mean, you can't be of service?" his voice was deep slow, drawl. "I'm . . . new in town. I don' t know many people." "Come on, lady, This is a small town. A real small town, if you've been here a week you know everybody. Let's talk, huh?" There was no answer. Clarissa must be close to the door, Amy thought. She could hear her drawing long, quavering breaths. Amy put her arm around Chariotte, who was huddled close to her against the door. "Charlotte," she whispered, "We must let the other families know there is a marshal in town. Go to the window and climb out as quietly as you can. Then run and tell the town." Charlotte crept to the window. There was a brass water pitcher on the windowsill. Carefully she put one little leg throuch the window and slid her body onto the sill. She brought her other leg to the opening and collided with the brass pitcher. It thundered to the floor, shattering the tense silence. - 13 - |
