Angie’s face clouded. “You teachin’ school in place of Miss Norah?”
“No, no. Goodness, no,” Lucy said quickly. She had no desire to teach school. None.
“Good. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do, soon as I pass my grade 8 exam. I jest passed my grade 7 exam. With flying colors, Miss Norah sez. Not a single mistake.”
“Biggerty. She brags on herself all the livelong day.” Fin turned to Lucy. “See what I have to deal with?”
Angie scowled at Fin before she turned back to Lucy. “So why’re you here?” There was an edge to her voice.
Lucy had to fight back a smile at this girl’s direct ways. Her face gave away every feeling she had. “I’m employed as Cora’s stenographer.”
Angie’s face crinkled into a question. “What’s that?”
“It means she’s working for Miss Cora. And today, so am I. We gotta go.” Fin gave Sheila a kick and started along a thin trail that wound through the grass behind the schoolhouse.
Lucy waved a gloved hand at Angie and squeezed Jenny’s sides with her legs to urge her forward. The pony didn’t budge. She dropped her neck to chew on some grass. Jiggling the reins, Lucy could feel Angie’s amused eyes on her. The pony still didn’t move. By now, Fin realized she wasn’t following and circled back to grab the reins to yank Jenny along. “Ya gotta be the boss with her.”
“I’m trying my best,” Lucy said.
“Try harder,” Fin said, sounding irritated.
Lucy had a feeling his sudden bad mood had something to do with Angie. “She’s a very attractive girl.”
“Angie Cooper?” He shrugged, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Her paw is the trustee for Little Brushy.”
“Don’t like her much?” Because Angie was obviously smitten with Fin. Besotted.
“She’s a know-it-all. Betcha by now she’ll get word to my maw that she seen me. She’s been tattling on me since as long as I can remember. Prickly as a thistle, that girl.”
Lucy grinned, glad Fin was facing forward. No wonder he emphasized to her that Miss Cora had asked him to work for her today. “She seems quite knowledgeable.”
“Angie’s been known to give advice,” he warned. “Most any time, you don’t gotta ask for it.” He thought for a moment. “That’s pretty much true of everybody here.”
This boy was good company. “Fin, how old are you?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Oh? When’s your birthday?”
“February.”
Lucy choked back a laugh. Today was the fifteenth day of March. “So, you must be in grade 8?” She could see his back stiffen and wondered what she’d said now to make him bristle. Goodness, he could turn fractious fast. “That’s how it is in Lexington. Boys your age were in grade 8 or 9.” Actually, more like grades 9 or 10.
“Different here,” he said gruffly. “I’m needed to work. Cain’t be bothered to waste time in school.”
“School isn’t a waste of time. It’s important to know how to read and write well, and to use arithmetic.”
He stopped Sheila abruptly and turned to face Lucy, a cross look on his boyish face. “My paw didn’t need learnin’, his paw didn’t neither. I’d ruther be outside any day of the week than stuck inside a stinkin’ schoolhouse.” He turned Sheila back around and continued along the trail, as if to signal the conversation was over.
But not for Lucy. “Then, why do you bother to go to school?”
Fin led Sheila through a shallow rock-strewn stream of water that looked clear and cold, and took his time answering, so long that Lucy thought stalling was his way of not answering. “Miss Cora,” he said as they reached the other side of the stream and waited for Jenny to plod along. “Since she’s been superintendent, she’s been chasing after every boy and girl in the county to git to school. No chance to escape.”
“Angie seems to like it.”
He shrugged. “She’s the only one in Little Brushy who’s had straight-through schooling, on account of her paw being the trustee. She’s planning on being a schoolteacher for Miss Cora as soon as she can. She tries to practice on everyone. Thinks she’s boss of everybody in the whole holler.”
“The Little General.”
“Exactly.” Fin pronounced it egg-zackly.
“That’s the nickname Cora’s father gave her when she was a girl.”
“Well, that makes sense. Angie tries to walk like Miss Cora and talk like her and boss people around like—”
He stopped abruptly, glancing at Lucy, as if he just realized to whom he was griping. Lucy had to bite on her lip to keep from laughing.
Fin spotted another woodpecker, which seemed to cheer him up. He chatted companionably for what seemed like a long stretch on a thin dirt trail, though it was difficult to get any sense of time in the thick woods.
“Up that ridge is by Sam Stamper’s place. You oughta stay clear of Sam’s place.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a whiskey maker. He ain’t here but his son is working in his place till he gets out of jail. If’n he ever gits out. I think he likes the pokey. Three meals a day.” Fin grinned, rubbing his stomach. “He had his chance to git out. Last February, four prisoners escaped from the county jail. Sam coulda made a break for it along with them prisoners, but he decided he’d jest ruther stay put.”
“How did they escape?”
“They’d been sawing the bars on the window for months and the sheriff never caught wind of it. Middle of the night, out they climbed, free as birds.”
“Why were they in jail in the first place?”
“Well, let’s see. Grant Gilkerson, he was in for cutting Marshall Moore.”
“Cutting?”
“Murder.” Fin made a slashing movement with his hand. “He’s known for being good with the knife. I figure he’s the one who got the ideer of cutting the bars. Now, Jess Adkins . . . I do believe he was arrested for forging checks. Cooper Alley and Nora Byron . . . hmm, I can’t remember what they was in the pokey for.”
“After the escape, were they ever caught?”
“Naw. Sheriff’s still workin’ on it.” He glanced at Lucy. “You might hear about mountain folks catching glimpses of Grant Gilkerson roaming the hollers on moonlit nights, slashing away. Practicin’.” He brandished his arm like a sword. “Grant left a note on his jail bunk that he’s out for revenge on the town for lockin’ him up.”
Lucy couldn’t quite tell if Fin was making stories up to frighten her or if this was the strange new world she had come to. And if it was the latter, she had no one to blame but herself. Her father had tried to warn her.
Just ahead of Fin, in the gloom among the thick shelter of trees, she could barely make out the bones of a tiny dilapidated cabin.
When they came to the clearing of the yard, Fin hopped off his horse in one seamless move. He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Miss Mollie? Mollie McGlothin? It’s me. Finley James.” He turned to Lucy. “Some folks say she’s as mad as the moon, but don’t believe a word o’ it.” He shouted out to her again. “Always best to let her know who you be. She’s a little deef and she may be older than dirt, but she still got good aim.”