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HARRY GRABBED THE SIDE of the wagon to prevent being thrown from his seat. The deeper they rode into the woods, the more the road narrowed. Tree roots snaked across the path, making the horses work extra hard. He swore it was worse than any of the cratered roads in France. At least there he was able to step around the rocks and holes, not forced to bounce in, out, and over them. He didn’t know what hurt more, his backside or his head. It was clear with every grunt, moan, and wince, Fin was feeling it, too.
“You all right?”
Fin held his breath when they hit another root. “Just dandy.”
Harry tried to light a cigarette but only managed to burn himself. “Damn it!” He returned the unlit cigarette to the package. He inspected his hand, already starting to blister. “This is more a deer path than a road.”
It was getting near impossible to hide his irritation. The trip home was taking far longer than anticipated and, while he considered Fin his closest friend, spending so much time alone with him was starting to get on his nerves. Now this blasted obstacle course left him feeling bruised. He swore his teeth were about to drop out.
“Well, there’s no room to turn around, and your complaining doesn’t help matters. We’re just going to have to hope the way improves soon.”
Fin was saved from Harry’s imminent right cross when a rear wheel hit a large rock, slammed down the other side, and splintered with a snap. The wagon bed tilted and dropped to the ground, bringing them to a jarring halt. Several preserve jars slid and shattered against the hatch. Harry scrunched his nose as the pungent odor of pickled pig’s feet assaulted them. It didn’t appear they’d lost anything good.
Fin set the brake so the horses wouldn’t try to drag their load over any more rocks. They climbed down to see if there was any way to fix it. Of course, there wasn’t. The broken wheel lay shattered beneath the back corner of the wagon.
Harry slammed his palm against the side of the bed. “Son of a bitch!” He kicked the other rear wheel. Now both hands hurt—and his foot.
Fin swiped a dirty, worn, handkerchief across his forehead. “You might want to start cleaning up your language. Alice doesn’t approve of cussing. War or no war.”
Harry jammed his fists into his hips. “Really? That’s what you have to say to me right now?”
Fin shoved him back a step “Hey, I’m not the one who insisted we stay right at the fork, when left was clearly a better choice—a lot wider.”
Harry stabbed a finger into Fin’s chest. “And a lot steeper. You really think we’d have done better trying to control the horses down that hill? I didn’t come this far to die under a wagon at the bottom of some God-forsaken hill in the middle of Nowhere, Wisconsin. Besides, I’m not the one who bought this rickety old thing in the first place.” Harry raised his fist then let it drop to his side. He wanted to belt Fin in the worst way, but it wouldn’t solve anything. And, in all honesty, it really wasn’t Fin’s fault any more than it was his.
He let out his breath. “Now what?” It was a dumb question and Harry knew it, but he needed to ask. Neither of them knew how to fix a broken wheel, and even if one were available, they didn’t have the money to buy one.
Fin stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “We load whatever will fit into our packs and mount up. Use your blanket to save your horse from chafing.”
“What’s to protect me from chafing?”
“You can always walk.”
Harry grumbled a few more choice curse words then threw the blanket over his horse’s back. He used his clothes to wrap the glass preserve jars and laid them gingerly in his pack. The last thing he needed to deal with was broken glass and spilled food in his drawers. He counted the jars, both his and Fin’s. By his figuring they didn’t have near enough left to get them home. What were the odds they would find another dead woman’s pantry to pilfer?
* * *
A TOWN LAY NESTLED in the valley below as they rode out of the trees. Lamps glowed in a few windows. The setting sun reflected off others like gold. Harry steered his horse toward the houses, rather than away.
“Where are you going?” Fin pulled up on his reins and stopped. “I thought we were avoiding towns. Influenza, remember?”
“I need to send Father a telegram.”
Fin followed. “How do you plan on paying for it? You must be almost out of money by now. I know I am.”
“I’ll have to rely on my good looks.” Harry gave his friend a crooked smile. “I’ve always been able to count on them in the past.” Or the pity of strangers.
Except for the ticket master busy counting receipts, the train station was empty. A wall clock ticked away the minutes. “No more trains tonight, gentlemen.” He kept at his work, his lips moving as he silently counted the pile of bills in front of him.
“I want to send a telegram to Harold Barnes, Sr., President of the Pine Lake Bank and Trust.” Harry took the offered sheet of paper and wrote.
Fin leaned over his shoulder, quietly reading as Harry wrote.
“Do you mind?” Harry stepped to the side.
“Have him tell my parents, too.”
Harry returned the paper and pencil. “Harold Barnes, Sr., President of the Pine Lake Bank and Trust,” he repeated.
The ticket master did some quick calculations.
“We don’t have any money. I thought maybe . . .”
The man pushed the paper back through the window. “Return when you do.”
“Listen, we’re trying to get home.” Harry was getting desperate and found himself hovering somewhere between whining like a child and screaming like a madman.
The rear door to the office opened and a man walked in. He stopped and looked Harry up and down. He was a tall man, barrel-chested, someone who appeared perfectly capable of taking out the both of them without breaking a sweat. “Is there a problem here, John?”
“These two want to send a telegram, but they don’t have any money.”
Harry turned on the old charm. Maybe this guy could convince him to send it for free, just this once. His father could send him the money later, if needed. “Our families thought we were coming on the train last week, but they wouldn’t sell us tickets in Chicago.”
He pointed at their uniforms. “France?”
Fin stepped forward. “Yes, sir. Our mothers must be terribly worried. We have no way to get them word.”
“Did you happen to know a Private Andrew Hanson?”
Fin looked at Harry and shrugged.
Harry shook his head. “No, sir. We met a lot of guys, but that name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Haven’t heard from him in a while. His mother is beside herself.” He hesitated. “I hoped . . .” His voice trailed off.
Fin nodded. “Then you understand.”
The man sighed. “Send the telegram, John. I’ll pay for it.”
Harry reached over the counter and shook his hand. “Thank you. We greatly appreciate it.”
“And, John, send it to both families.” The man handed the station master a bill, tipped his hat, and left.