Doc was certain something was troubling his wife. Clara was generally honest with him, rarely keeping anything to herself. During those occasional times, however, where she was holding a secret for one reason or another, she became skittish, paranoid, and even a touch defensive. The inventor knew that Leslie Tannen had done something to her earlier in the day -- but what, precisely, he could only imagine, and imagine he did as the afternoon wore on.
Once he had taken up some lunch to the room for his wife and Marty, he had gone outside to supervise the boys playing in the snow and grumbling about the injustices of their sledding ban. By the time they had grown bored, it had already begun to grow dark, so there was little protest at going back inside to dry off and warm up before supper.
Perhaps having heard their footsteps and voices in the hallway, Clara met them at the door to their room before Doc could even open it. She put a finger to her lips as she looked past her husband to their sons. "You're going to need to be quiet," she said in a very soft voice. "Marty's sleeping in there."
Verne frowned a little, tugging off his winter hat to scratch at his unruly hair. "I thought Dad said you were gonna have to wake 'im up, anyway?"
Doc looked at Clara, his eyebrows raised. "You have been doing that, haven't you?" he asked, suddenly anxious.
"Of course, once an hour," she said, looking a bit insulted that he would think she wouldn't follow orders like that. "But disturbing him unnecessarily would be rather rude."
Doc couldn't argue with that. They entered the room as quietly as they could, and Clara was quick to shoo the boys into Marty's empty room to take their boots and coats off. After he added a couple more pieces of wood to the fire, stepping over Einstein lying next to the hearth, he turned to the couch to take a look at his friend himself. "How long has he been asleep?" he asked softly.
"No more than a couple hours, I would say. I've only had to wake him once -- and if you want to do that, now, to settle your own worries, Emmett, go ahead. It's been about an hour since I talked to him."
Doc frowned for a moment, thinking, then decided to do just that. He leaned over Marty, huddled under a couple blankets with a cold compress still resting on the bump that had caused all the trouble, and shook him gently. It took only a moment before the teen's blue eyes were blinking up at him, a little dazed.
"Martin Seamus McFly," he muttered before Doc could say a word. "June seventh, 1968, and January something, 1855."
Doc looked to his wife, completely baffled. She smiled faintly. "I asked him for his full name, his birthdate, and today's date when I woke him," she explained. "If he's still remembering those questions, I'd dare say that's a good sign."
The scientist had to agree. He glanced down to Marty, who had closed his eyes again. "How's your head?"
"Still hurts," the teen mumbled. "If you got any more Tylenol, I won't say no."
Clara took the hint and went to fetch the medication while Doc tried to draw a little more out of him.
"Are you feeling hungry? Did you want us to bring some supper up to you?"
"Whatever."
Doc lifted the damp washrag off the bump and looked at it for a moment. It looked as if the swelling had gone down and the impact hadn't broken the skin. He touched it, gently, and Marty hissed a breath through his teeth, opening his eyes enough to squint up at him.
"Does it look as bad as it feels?"
"Not so much anymore. I think you'll feel much better tomorrow, but you'll still need to take it easy."
The teen sighed and closed his eyes again. After Clara returned and gave him a couple more of the painkillers, he seemed to drift off again. Doc headed to the room he was sharing with Clara, his wife following him inside as he shut the door, half to muffle their voices so they wouldn't disturb Marty and half for the privacy.
"Marty seems to be on the road to recovery," she said as she put the Tylenol away. "It was fortunate his accident wasn't any worse than a bump on the head. You shouldn't fret about it too much, Emmett."
Doc blinked. "Who says I'm fretting?"
"Well... you've certainly seemed worried and preoccupied since it happened."
This, now, seemed like the perfect opportunity for him. "It's not just Marty's accident," he admitted. "Is there anything you care to tell me?"
Clara blinked, looking confused. "What do you mean?"
"Something happened between you and Tannen earlier, outside. What was it?"
His wife fidgeted nervously, pacing a couple steps. "Later," she said, a note of pleading in her voice. "After the boys are in bed we can discuss it."
Doc studied her carefully, even more concerned, now. "What on earth has got you so on edge?"
"You'll know later tonight," Clara said. "Please, Emmett, trust me. And until then, you have to promise me something," she added, almost as an afterthought.
"What's that?"
There was a pause as the former teacher clearly thought, hard, chewing her lower lip. "Oh... nevermind that. Perhaps we should forget that, now. If I tell you, I'll have to explain everything."
Doc gently took his wife by her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Why don't you tell me now?" he asked softly, calmly. "You'll certainly feel better. Great Scott, Clara, you look like you're on your way to an execution."
Clara smiled, the expression tense and nervous. "Nothing of that sort. I'd simply like to wait until later tonight. We can discuss things without any interruption, then, and that's important to me."
Doc sighed to himself. One thing about Clara -- she could be incredibly stubborn when she wanted. It was a trait that both frustrated him and, paradoxically, made him love her even more. She was such a strong woman! "All right," he said, backing off. "Tonight, after the kids are in bed."
Clara sighed. "Thank you," she said, giving him a quick peck on the lips.
There was a soft rap on their door. "Can we come in there?" Jules asked through the wood.
The adults looked at each other for a moment. "And this is why we'll talk tonight," Clara said softly with a faint, amused smile as she stepped out of her husband's embrace and opened the door. "Keep your voices down," she warned, ushering them inside. "You don't want to disturb Marty."
"Is he stayin' in his room tonight, or do we get to?" Verne wondered as he followed his brother into their parents' room.
"He'll stay in his room tonight," Doc said. "Once we get back from supper we'll help him move there.
"Can we go downstairs, now?" Jules asked. "I know dinner's not until six, but at least we can talk downstairs without disturbing Marty."
"I don't think that's unreasonable," Doc said. He looked to his wife. "Do you?"
Clara visibly hesitated. "No, I suppose not. Perhaps I should wait up here, though...."
"Why?" Verne asked bluntly. "Haven't you been up 'ere all day?"
"Well, yes, but someone should stay here with Marty."
"He won't die if you come down to dinner," Jules said matter-of-factly. "And your company would be missed by Father."
Clara looked at her husband, but Doc completely misinterpreted her concern. "I think Marty will be fine for a couple hours alone," he said. "If something were to have happened, it would've already. He'll probably sleep right through our absence."
"I suppose," Clara said. "But promise me that you won't leave me alone down there, Emmett."
Doc made the promise, a little confused, and a few minutes later the Browns arrived in the parlor of the house where a cozy fire burned in the hearth and lamps illuminated the entire room with a comfortable glow. As soon as they came in, the boys veered over to the table set up near the sofa, collecting a couple of the small sandwiches laid out on trays for snacking.
"I knew their had to be an ulterior motive for coming downstairs," Doc murmured to Clara. He was sure the comment would at least elicit a smile from her. She didn't seem to have heard him, however, her face abruptly paling as her eyes were trained on something else across the room. Doc followed her gaze and found Leslie Tannen, reclined in the loveseat by the window. His own eyes were locked on Clara, and he wore a rather suggestive smile.
"Emmett!" Clara hissed suddenly. "You're holding me too tightly!"
Doc consciously relaxed his grip on her hand, unaware that he had been clenching her so tight. "Sorry," he muttered, not mentioning the rest of his thoughts to her. I just wish that slime would stop staring at you!
Tannen got up from his seat and sauntered over, dressed in another pristine white suit. "Hello Mr. Brown, Clara," he added, looking at the woman. She frowned at his presumption.
"I don't recall asking you to call me by my Christian name, sir," Clara said to the Tannen, her voice chilly under it's Victorian politeness. "It is Mrs. Brown if you are addressing me."
Tannen grinned, the gold tooth glittering. "Whatever you wish, Mrs. Brown."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, filled with mostly leering looks from the southerner. The inventor felt himself grow tenser and angrier with every second the creep looked at his wife and, finally, decided it was time for him to speak.
"Look, Mr. Tannen," he began, choosing his words carefully even as his voice vibrated with a tightly controlled anger. "I'm sure my wife is flattered by your... ah... hospitality, but neither of us find it particularly welcome. We've been married quite a long time and have children of our own. Your attention is simply not wanted by her -- or me."
Doc thought he had been fairly civil, under the circumstances, considering he really wanted to kick him out of that inn. Tannen stared at the scientist a moment, a twisted smile resembling the Tannen smirk crossing his lips. "I should say you've been married for a long time," he said.
Doc ignored the crack about his age. He'd heard worse since he and Clara had become a couple. Even those in his present day Hill Valley had found it difficult to believe that "crazy crackpot Brown" had, at his age, met and married a woman as young and attractive as Clara. In some ways, people in times like these were far more polite, not daring to say anything of their thoughts as those back in the 1980s were. Tannens, of course, were an exception to that rule.
Although he wasn't going to react in any way to the dis about his age, Clara wasn't about to keep quiet. Provoked, no doubt, by that, she spoke up. "Mr. Tannen, we're asking you nicely to leave us be," she said sternly. "Clearly, if you are indeed a gentleman, you will be kind enough to accept that."
"Or what?" Tannen asked, his face losing any traces of the amusement and tolerance it had once contained.
Clara's momentum faltered and she looked to her husband for the answer. "Or we'll leave," Doc promised, though he wasn't particularly wild about that idea.
Tannen folded his arms across his chest, staring at Doc with an almost challenging look in his eye. "Has Mrs. Brown told you 'bout the embrace we shared?" he asked, a new malicious smile playing about his mouth. "An' of the kiss we had?"
Beside him, Doc heard Clara give a faint gasp. Doc felt his temper rise out of the realm of control, but none of his anger was directed to his wife. He glared at the southerner. "How dare you say that about my wife!"
"I speak only the truth," Tannen assured him, smiling widely, now. His eyes shifted to Clara. "Ain't that right, Mrs. Brown?"
Clara's face had gone quite pale, but anger smoldered in her eyes as she regarded Tannen. "You kissed me!" she said in a low voice. "Against my will and wishes!"
"I doubt that... it takes two people to kiss, m'dear," Tannen said.
Doc felt his face redden even more as Clara's lost more color. He realized this was most certainly the secret that had weighed his wife down all day. Yet he wasn't mad at her that she had kept this quiet. A little hurt and confused, perhaps, that she hadn't felt she could confide him him.
"I doubt very much that my wife would kiss you on her own behalf," Doc said as calmly as he could to Tannen, fighting desperately to keep his temper in check. He didn't want to make a scene, especially when they weren't even in their local time. And definitely not with the boys a few feet away, watching the confrontation intently. But the temptation to smash something into that golden smirk was almost impossible to resist....
"But can you be certain?" Tannen asked coyly, knowing full well how much he was bothering Doc and enjoying it to the hilt. "Were you watchin'?"
Doc felt his hands tighten into fists without thinking about it as he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. Tannen interpreted Doc's silence to be an admission of his ignorance. He smiled wider at the red-purple shade that Doc's face had turned. "I'd be careful, old man," he drawled. "Y'all don't wanna have a stroke, now."
Without warning, Clara's hand whipped out and slapped Tannen, hard, across the face. There was a moment of stunned silence from the others gathered in the room as all other conversations ground to a halt.
"Way to go, Mom!" Verne cheered from the sidelines. Jules shushed him with a sharp elbow to the side and a dirty look.
"I would've thought striking you earlier, when you took those liberties with me, would have taught you a lesson, but I can see I was wrong," Clara hissed to Tannen, bright splotches of red staining her cheeks now. "I have never met a man as despicable, ignorant, and sleazy as you! It's one thing to attempt to soil a woman's reputation when it was you who tried to take advantage of me! But when you attack my family, whom I love dearly...." Clara slapped the stunned Tannen, who was starting to open his mouth, as if to respond, once more across the face. "Will this suffice in proving that I am not interested in you? Now leave us alone or so help me I'll -- I'll --"
Her voice broke off, suddenly, as if only then aware that there was an audience observing her actions. Clara lowered her hand, trembling not from embarrassment but from a pure anger coursing through her veins. Doc put his hand on her arm, steadying her as best he could with his presence and tenacious calm. Leslie Tannen stared at Clara, shocked into silence, one hand pressed to his tender cheek. For his part, the inventor was secretly pleased and bemused that his wife had slapped Tannen not once but three times -- for all the good that was going to do them. He, most of all, knew never to push his wife beyond her limits, having experienced firsthand the wrath of Clara's Irish temper.
"I see," the Tannen said after a moment. Perhaps it was the only thing he could say, under the circumstances. But he turned his head in such a manner that the gaze of the others in the room did not see the fuming anger blaze up in his eyes. "You ain't heard the last of me, woman!" he hissed, then walked quickly from the room.
Doc looked at Clara once the southerner had left. The anger left her as quickly as it had come, now that the source of her fury had gone away. "Oh, Emmett!" she moaned softly, burying her face in her hands. "What did I just do?"
The inventor put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her trembling body close. "You stood up for yourself," he murmured, turning enough to shield her from the curious eyes of the other patrons in the room. To their credit, they did looked slightly chagrined when Doc matched their stares, quickly returning back to whatever they had been occupied with before the confrontation. "And I must say if you hadn't, I would've probably rearranged his so-called dental work myself."
"That was so cool, Mom!" Verne cried, bouncing over to the two of them with his eyes as wide as saucers. "You really nailed that jerk! I wish I had a videocamera!"
"Can we take the train back and see it repeated?" Jules asked, earning himself a stern look from his father, mostly by his vague mentioning of the time machine in public.
Clara sniffed, raising her head to look at her sons. "I lost my temper for a moment," she said quietly. "It was a foolish thing to do and I don't want to give you boys the wrong impression -- it's better to walk away from situations like that."
"But sometimes you just gotta let 'em have it, right in the smacker!" Verne said, slamming his fist in his palm.
"Verne!" Clara gasped, aghast.
"It's true, Mother," Jules said. "I don't believe that the Tannen would take your theory of turning the other cheek, not if you hit him already earlier today. He was completely asking for what you gave to him."
"Now, boys, your mother's right," Doc said, rubbing Clara's shoulder. "You shouldn't fight back with bullies like that. Especially now!" he added in a voice softer but just as firm. "You never know what... problems could be triggered from such behavior."
Jules and Verne looked at each other. "Mmmhmm, whatever you say," Verne said, his tone making it clear he was just humoring his parents. "But I still think that was the best thing in the world to see! Too bad we didn't get it on camera!"
Clara sighed. "What do you think he's going to do now?" she asked her husband uneasily. "His family usually retaliates against such behavior, don't they?"
"I wouldn't worry," Doc assured her. "We'll be leaving here on Monday and so long as we all stick together, I think we'll be fine. If not, we can leave early and find a new place to stay."
"And the inn has plenty of witnesses if he tries something," Jules added helpfully.
* * *
The clock chimes stirred Marty from his late afternoon nap. Once awareness returned, it was fairly muddled; he wasn't sure where he was immediately, let alone when it was. His roaring headache had faded considerably, but it had left him feeling weak and drained -- or, perhaps, that was the result of the foul tasting tea he had choked down earlier. He blinked a few times in the shadowy room, lit only by the fire in the hearth and a couple oil lamps, trying to get his bearings and clear his head. Marty's eyes focused on the clock set on the shelf above the fireplace. Six on the nose.
"Hello?" he croaked out as the last chime faded. "Clara? Doc?"
Silence answered him. Marty sat up for the first time in hours. He felt dizzy, but the sensation passed after a few deep breaths. He noticed Einstein watching him from where he stood, next to the couch. The dog whined.
"What is it, Einie?" Marty murmured, clearing his throat. "Do you know where everyone is?"
The dog padded over to the wall in response. But not just any wall: it was the one with the bookshelf, the one where Jules and Verne had heard noises coming in.
Marty swung his legs over the side of the couch, tugging the blanket free of his ankles, and sat for a moment. His souvenir from the fall outside, the bump on his head, throbbed a little, but it wasn't overwhelming him anymore. After a moment he stood, slowly. The room did a brief dance, then settled back down to its rightful place. He let out a sigh of relief, then groaned softly as he crossed the floor to meet the dog; his head wasn't the only thing that was sore after that spill from the sled. I guess I got off pretty lucky, though, he reflected.
Einstein whined again, reaching up to paw at the bookshelf. Then Marty heard it -- a muffled thump and creak, one right after the other, coming from right behind the bookshelf, inside the wall.
A cold chill slid down his spine and goosebumps popped up on his skin. What is that?
Driven by curiosity and a touch of fear, Marty started pulling the heavy volumes out of the shelf and piling them on the floor. It struck him that leaning in there and putting his ear to the wall for a better listen might tell him something. He had cleared out half of the books -- thick, boring novels about everything from housekeeping to table manners -- when he noticed one appeared to be stuck in the shelf. Marty glanced at the title as he struggled to pull it loose. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
The teen had heard of that book before, in one of his history or English classes. Didn't it help bring awareness to slavery or something?
The thought had hardly been completed when Marty heard a faint click in the wall. He pulled his hand back, confused, just as the bookshelf started to move inward, sliding away from him. Marty gasped at the sight.
"What the hell....?" he whispered. Einstein growled in the back of his throat, staring at the dark space that was revealed. Marty stood there frozen for a minute, trying to figure out what had just happened. After a moment of shock, he decided to investigate it, heading over to the desk near the window to light a candle before returning to the mysterious opening in the wall. Marty braced one hand against the bookshelf, keeping it open as far as he could while he leaned inside. The candle threw light on a space not much bigger than a walk-in closet. It was empty save for some worn quilts piled in one corner.
"Oh God... it's a stop on the underground railroad!" Marty realized aloud, pleased with his deductive skills. This would explain those noises the last few nights, I guess. Except... how did people get in here without going past us?
Marty took his hand away from the side of the shelf and took several steps into the cool, musty room, trying to discover that answer. He heard the protesting creak of hinges and turned around in time to see the bookshelf door fall closed, clicking shut. The whoosh of air stirring in the small chamber snuffed the candle out, leaving him in utter darkness.
Marty swallowed hard, not liking the situation at all.
He stepped towards the secret doorway, his arms outstretched so he wouldn't walk smack into the wall and possibly bang his head up some more. It took only two steps before his fingertips brushed against the rough wood of the bookshelf door. Marty bent over to set the dead candle on the floor, then ran his hands over the wall before him, fingers searching for a latch to open the door. Rough wood was the only thing he felt. Marty cursed softly as he felt a splinter catch in his one of his fingers, snatching it away from the wall.
"Dammit," he muttered. "I can't be trapped in here! There's gotta be a way out!"
Unfortunately, without a light, it was going to be impossible to find unless he literally stumbled into it. Marty opened his eyes as wide as he could, straining them in the darkness to see anything, but blackness surrounded him, thick and impenetrable.
"Hey!" he yelled, pounding his fists against the wall. "Lemme outta here! Anyone! Hello?"
On the other side of the wall, he could hear Einstein pawing at the bookshelf, whining in sympathy.
Jules Brown knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into their room and Einstein nearly knocked him over, barking.
"Watch it!" he told the dog firmly, trying to push him down. Einstein backed up a few steps and stopped barking, but paced back and forth, whining.
"What's with Einie?" Verne asked as he followed Jules in the room, watching the dog with a frown on his face.
"I don't know. Maybe he just needs to go outside for a walk."
Clara came in after Verne, a glass of water in her hand, with her husband bringing up the rear of their group carrying a tray of food for Marty. "Where's Marty?" Jules heard his father asked a moment later, looking around the room. The boy turned to the couch where they had last left the teen, asleep. It was empty, the quilts thrown aside.
Einstein barked, trotting over to the wall with the bookshelf and pawing at it. Jules narrowed his eyes, noticing the volumes that had once been nearly arranged on the shelves were now stacked on the floor. "Did someone move the books?" he asked, crouching down to get a better look at them.
Clara glanced at the novels, curious. "I haven't touched them." She turned to Doc, poking his head in the bedrooms, still balancing the tray of food. "Emmett, did you move the books?"
"No," he called back, distracted. "I don't think I've even looked at them." Doc sighed, setting the tray down on the desk. "Marty isn't in any of the other rooms, unless he's opting to hide under one of the beds."
"Perhaps he went downstairs and we just missed him," Clara said.
"Maybe the Tannen kidnapped him!" Verne suggested excitedly, his eyes wide.
Doc and Clara exchanged an uneasy look at that idea. It had happened before, after all. Jules was about to put in his own two cents when he heard it. "Hey!" a muffled voice called, hardly audible in the room. The bookshelf started to shake suddenly. Jules jumped away from it, tripping over the books on the floor in his haste to get away and landing smack on his bottom. He hardly noticed the jarring landing, however, his heart pounding in terror. I think we can rule out wildlife, he realized vaguely.
Every head in the room snapped over to the bookshelf. Verne wore a look of terror on his face that Jules could feel mimicked on his own; Einstein barked again, continuing to paw at the shelves; the two adults in the room simply looked extremely puzzled.
"Doc? Clara?" the disembodied voice called, the bookshelf shaking again.
Doc stepped over to the wall. "Marty?!?" he said aloud, his voice a mixture of confusion and surprise.
"Yeah!" the voice called back. Now that his father had brought it up, Jules realized it was Marty's voice!
"Where are you?" Clara asked, joining her husband by the shelves. "Behind the bookshelf?"
"Uh, in a manner of speaking," Marty said. "Listen, see that book on the third shelf? The one about Uncle Tom's Cabin?"
It was the only volume still on the first few shelves. "Yes," Doc answered for the four of them.
"Pull it," Marty's voice ordered.
Doc looked at the other three members of his family, puzzled. After a moment he did as Marty had asked. The book refused to move at first, then it suddenly it tilted back. At the same instant there was a sharp, clear click from somewhere in the wall. The Browns watched in amazement as the bookshelf moved, creaking backwards. A second later Marty emerged from the dark space that was revealed, a bit dusty but otherwise unharmed.
"Oh, man, I thought I'd be stuck in there all night!" he moaned, as he came into the common room. There was a moment of silence from the others.
"It's a secret passage," Jules said aloud as he got to his feet, amazed.
"Wow, really?" Verne cried, impressed. He gasped suddenly. "Oh wow, maybe it's haunted! That'd explain the noises!"
"So would the Underground Railroad," Doc said dryly, stepping forward for a look in the dark room. He glanced at Marty, concerned. "How'd you end up in there?"
"I heard some noises from that wall around six, so I decided to take the books out of the shelf and see if I could get my ear up to the wall. But when I tried pulling that book" -- Marty pointed to the volume that had triggered the wall to move -- "it seemed to be stuck. So I tugged on it a little and the next thing I knew the whole wall and bookshelf was opening away from me. I got a candle and went inside for a look, but the thing closed on me. Then the candle went out and I couldn't find a latch to open the door again."
Marty held up his hands and looked at them. Jules could see faint scratches on his fingers, looking red and tender. "I tried feeling around the walls for some kind of knob or switch but I just ended up getting lots of splinters, instead."
"So you've been in there for nearly an hour?" Clara asked.
Marty chuckled once. "It seemed a lot longer! I was afraid you guys wouldn't be able to hear me from in there."
Doc picked up one of the oil lamps from nearby and stepped into the small chamber. Verne was right on his heals, but Jules held himself back, for the moment. "Fascinating," he heard his father say after a moment. "This location's most likely used by the Wallaces to hide escaping slaves."
"Then where are they now?" Marty asked. "I heard something in the wall earlier, no doubt, but when I got in there, it was empty."
"There's probably another opening somewhere in here," Doc said, examining the walls closely. He looked up for a moment to glance at Verne. Jules expected him to tell the blond to back off and give him some room, but instead he asked, "You and Jules heard noises originating from here, correct?"
Verne nodded vigorously. "Every morning, real early." He looked to his older brother, creeping closer to the hidden space. "What time was it, usually?"
"Around five," Jules said. "What do you think that means, Father?"
"Well, if the only time noises can be heard is around dawn and shortly after dusk, I'd venture a guess that those are the times when the runaway slaves are arriving and departing from here," Doc said slowly, his eyes back on the walls, searching for the second exit. "Typically passengers on the Underground Railroad moved around at night and waited out daylight in places like this."
"Ohio played a large part in the Underground Railroad," Clara added. "Many people in these parts had very antislavery views. I had a uncle who ran one of the stations."
Doc shook his head slowly, glancing at his wife for a moment. "Can you imagine the risks the Wallaces are taking with this? Concealing slaves while running an inn at the same time? They're very brave people."
"What'd happen if they got caught?" Verne wanted to know. "Would they get hung or go to jail?"
"I think they would be put on trial," Clara answered, frowning faintly. "If they were found guilty, they would spend some time in jail and be fined. But I don't believe my uncle Alexander was ever caught, so I'm not entirely sure."
"If the slaves were caught, they'd be forced back to the locations where they escaped from," Doc said grimly. "And that was a fate worse than death." He let out a faint gasp. "Ah! I think I found the other doorway!"
Jules, Clara, and Marty surged forward to crowd into the small room as Verne peered around his father. "Where is it?" the boy asked.
Doc knelt down and set the lamp on the floor. "Here," he said, tracing his fingers lightly along the dusty floorboards before him. Jules crawled in for a closer look and saw the faint outline of a trap door.
"No wonder I didn't find it!" Marty said, rolling his eyes. "I never thought to check under my feet."
The inventor found a small knothole in the floor and gripped the catch with his fingers, pulling it up. The door creaked faintly, but the sound wasn't as loud as the hinges on the bookshelf door. When it was opened, a wooden ladder built into a narrow passageway was revealed, the glow of the lamp failing to reach the bottom.
"This must be how they get in and out of here," Doc said, peering down the vertical passageway.
"Then why's there a door in the wall?" Marty asked, jerking a thumb back at the open bookshelf. "Isn't that a little risky?"
Doc eased the trapdoor closed with barely a sound. "Perhaps our rooms used to be occupied by the Wallaces and the bookshelf was the original entrance. Then the trap door passageway was added later when they turned the rooms into ones for rental."
"Then why didn't they seal it permanently?" Jules asked, frowning. "As Marty said, it seems like a high risk to leave things be. What if the Tannen got this room and found its secret? The Wallaces and the runaway slaves on the property would be in big trouble."
Clara gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. "Oh my goodness!" she cried. "Mr. Tannen mentioned today how he was in this area because he was trying to find some escaped slaves!"
Doc got back to his feet. "Then we all must be very quiet about this," he said seriously, ushering everyone out of the cramped chamber. "We can't let the Wallaces know that we've discovered their secret, and especially none of the other guests." His eyes flicked over to Marty. "As you might've noticed at dinner our first night here, many of these people staying here are in support of slavery."
"We can't tell anyone?" Verne asked, looking a bit disappointed. Jules knew that was just going to eat at him -- he hated keeping secrets.
"Not a soul," Doc repeated firmly as he closed the bookshelf door. "This sort of thing could definitely influence history."
After his little accident the day before, Marty was under strict orders to stay indoors and take it easy on Friday. He wasn't quite sure what kind of problem Doc or the medical doctor here were afraid of, now, a day later. After a good night's sleep, he'd felt almost entirely back to normal, albeit a little sore from the bruises he'd picked up. The bump on his head still hurt, yes, but he wasn't getting any more dizzy spells or anything. But Doc wasn't backing down over the subject and there really wasn't much Marty was interested in doing outside, anyway, so he hung out in the front parlor, where he could watch Jules and Verne build all array of snow sculptures while their parents supervised and occasionally pitched in.
Nevertheless, he was pretty much bored out of his skull, considering how... eventful the day before had been, between his spill and the discovery of a secret passage adjacent to their room. By an amazing stroke of luck, no one else in the inn was any the wiser about their find. After getting verbal agreements from everyone to keep this under wraps, Doc had replaced the books on the shelf the night before, making the bookshelf look just like a typical bookshelf to those unaware of it's secret. And at breakfast that morning, their group had kept quiet. Marty noticed Leslie Tannen was missing and commented on it after the meal, when they had returned to the room. It was only then Doc had outlined that confrontation from the night before, which has been all but forgotten with the find of the passageway. Marty wasn't entirely surprised by that turn of events, but he was disappointed he'd missed seeing Tannen put in his place by Clara. Like the elder Browns, Marty wasn't quite sure Tannen's absence at breakfast was a positive sign. Louisa said he had yet to check out, so he was still around... somewhere. And with Tannens, the adage "out of sight, out of mind" wasn't exactly the best attitude to cop.
Shortly after a few maids carted in some tea and goodies for a late afternoon snack, Jules and Verne apparently tired of their snow games and came inside. Marty, on the verge of a doze in one of the chairs near the window, where he had been keeping watch, looked up as they came in, wondering if the kids had some kind of sixth sense when it came to food. Clara snagged them by the backs of their coats before they could attack the currently untouched array of little cakes and snacks, aiming them instead upstairs to first get out of their wet and slushy things. Doc poked his head in as they headed up ahead of him.
"We'll probably be back down in about fifteen minutes," he said. "Did you want to stay here?"
"Might as well, if you're coming back down here. I kind of had my fill of the room yesterday."
Doc nodded in understanding, then followed his family up the stairs.
Marty turned back to the window and rested his head against the side of the wingbacked chair, staring outside and watching the snowflakes fall in increasing numbers. He sighed, thinking of his girlfriend, now. With all the excitement yesterday, he had almost completely forgotten about her. In some ways that had been a relief but now that distractions were down.... Man, this summer's never gonna end!
A few minutes after the Browns left, he was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Heavy footsteps approached the parlor -- two men by the sound of it.
"Is it safe here?" a voice asked after a moment. "No one's in here."
Marty frowned at that. Because of the increasing darkness outside and because only one lamp was lit in the room, on a table near the fire with the food on it, the room was dim. The teen was also slouching down in an armchair facing the window, making him all but invisible to anyone entering the room. He was about to stand and make his presence known to the others in the room when the second man spoke up.
"Yeah. I'm awful glad y'all helpin' me with this."
Marty's eyes widened. The voice belonged to none other than Leslie Tannen! He slid down deeper into the chair, praying no one would notice him now. He was almost positive that Tannen knew he was staying with Doc and his family, and if this had anything to do with him or Clara....
"You owe me big, Tannen," the other man said. "I could lose my job for this."
Tannen chuckled, the sound threatening to Marty's ears. "I promised y'all a handsome sum, did I not?"
Marty heard the rustle of something paper-like. Bills, perhaps?
"You promised me a hundred dollars," the stranger said after a moment. "This is only fifty."
"You'll get the other half after a job well done," Tannen promised. "Have y'all the papers for Clara's arrest?"
In the armchair, Marty gasped silently.
"Right here," the other man answered.
"And y'all know I want the old man shot if he tries to keep his wife from capture," Tannen added sternly. "Maybe his death'll weaken the woman's fire." He chuckled again. "Not all of it, I hope. I like a lady with spirit in 'er!"
Marty felt his face pale at the words approving the shooting of the Doc. Jesus, I gotta let them know about this! We gotta get outta here!
But until Tannen and his partner left, he had to remain where he was. Marty had the feeling speaking up now and alerting the two men he'd been in the room the whole time would be a very bad idea.
"You plan to post bail, then," the other man said.
"Of course," Tannen drawled. "An' there'll be a bit extra for you too, Sheriff."
Marty got a sick feeling deep in his gut. We can't trust anyone around here! he realized in horror.
"You're too kind, Tannen," the sheriff said, his voice with a touch of sarcasm in it.
"Ah, Henry," Tannen said, as if they were old friends -- and maybe they were. "Y'all know it. Let's me an' y'all have a cocktail, then we'll have our fun."
The footsteps left the room, fading off up the stairs. Marty stayed where he was a moment, trying to calm his racing heart. Then, fear and terror propelling him, he leaped to his feet and hurried up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. He was relieved that he didn't run into Tannen in his haste, knowing that the man would probably take one look at Marty and know he knew about their plan.
The eighteen-year-old reached the third floor without seeing into another soul. He burst in the room without knocking, slamming the door harder than he wanted at his back. "Doc! Clara!" he called in the empty common room, a part of him sure that Tannen had already reached them.
Doc emerged from the bedroom, his face concerned. "What's wrong, Marty?"
Marty turned the bolt in the doorknob, locking it from outsiders. "We've gotta leave, now!" he said urgently.
Clara joined Doc in the doorway of their room. "Why?" she asked, unconcerned.
"I was downstairs, in the living room," Marty said rapidly. "Tannen and another man -- the town sheriff -- came in and they didn't know I was in there. Anyway, we're in trouble! Tannen's bribing the sheriff and they're gonna arrest Clara tonight and probably shoot Doc! We've gotta leave!"
Clara gasped at the news, her hand going to her throat. Doc remained almost unnaturally calm. He took Marty by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Are you sure that's what you heard?" he asked softly.
Marty nodded once, so hard that his head spun a little. "Positive!"
Doc turned to his wife. "All right. Clara, you get our things together, I'll get the boys." Clara ran back into the bedroom without hesitation. "Jules! Verne!"
The boys emerged from Marty's room a second later, more puzzled than anything else. "What is it?" Jules asked. "We weren't doing anything wrong...."
"We're leaving tonight, now," Doc answered briskly. "Get everything you brought together and pack it away, then get your coats and boots on!"
"Where are we going?" Verne asked. "The train doesn't get back until Monday."
"We'll find another place to stay," Doc assured them, hurrying around the room to collect whatever personal items were lying about.
There was a knock at the door a couple minutes after the boys went back into Marty's room to pack up. All movement seemed to freeze for a second. "Yes?" Doc called after a moment, his voice betraying not a smidgen of tension.
"It's Sheriff Davidson," a voice called through the wood. Marty recognized it from the conversation minutes earlier. "Might I have a word with you?"
Einstein, who had been pacing around rather nervously, growled deep in his throat at the sound of the man's voice, as if sensing his intentions. Clara hurried into the room, her coat already on and the bag she and Doc were sharing latched closed and slung over one arm. "I've got our things, Emmett!" she said.
Doc gave a nod, gesturing to Marty to go into his room and, presumably, get Jules and Verne and their stuff. Marty did so, colliding with the kids in the doorway just as they ran out of the room with their bag, nearly knocking them both to the floor. "Just a minute," the inventor called to the sheriff, obviously stalling. Marty's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach and a terrible feeling of despair washed over him.
"We're trapped," he murmured, leaning against the wall.
"No, we're not!" Verne whispered loudly, his face lighting up. "The secret passage!"
Everyone stared at the bookshelf for a moment as another round of knocking hit the door. "Mr. Brown, please let us in. We must speak with you and your wife!"
Doc hurried to the shelves, making the decision for all of them. "Marty, get a lamp," he hissed over his shoulder as he reached for the key novel.
Marty grabbed the oil lamp off the desk near the window, nearly dropping it in his haste. He reached the bookshelf just as it opened.
"Go," Doc said, ushering Clara, Jules and Verne into the hidden chamber. Einstein ran inside as Marty slipped in, and Doc followed last, carefully easing the secret door shut as to not knock any of the books over and give anything away.
Einstein growled again in the darkness that followed, the sound rumbling from deep in his throat, and Marty was suddenly aware that the room seemed awfully crowded. He heard Verne let out a little gasp.
"We're not alone!" the boy said aloud.
"Shhhhhh!" Clara said sharply. The pounding continued at their door.
"Open up! This is the sheriff! I have a warrant for an arrest!"
Marty heard three hard thumps against their door, then a crack of wood giving way. He winced in their dark hiding place, knowing that the sound meant that their door had been busted open in some manner. Heavy footsteps thundered into the room where they had been only moments before.
"Where'd they go?" the teen heard Tannen ask after a moment. "They were just here!"
"I dunno," the sheriff answered, clearly puzzled. Marty heard the sound of things being moved around in the other room.
"They can't 'ave just vanished into thin air!" Tannen cried after a moment, his voice full of frustration and anger.
"I'll check downstairs," the sheriff said. "You wait here." The lawman ran out of the room, his footsteps pounding on the stairs.
In the moment of silence that followed, Marty heard the sound of a match striking behind him. He turned around and saw the outline of an unfamiliar face put it to a candle. As the wick caught, the glow brightened enough for Marty to see that there was more than one stranger in the room. Huddled at the back of the chamber was a handful of unfamiliar figures -- three adults and one child, all of whom shared the common trait of staring at them with large eyes full of fear.
"Who're you?" the man with the candle asked in a ghost of a whisper.
"We mean you no harm," Doc said, so softly that Marty almost couldn't catch his voice. "Could you help us leave this place without being seen?"
The dark-skinned man stared at their group for a long moment, appearing to size them up. His eyes were suspicious, calculating. He put a hand to his closely cropped beard, considering.
"Why you runnin'?" he finally murmured.
"A man named Leslie Tannen wants to hurt my husband," Clara whispered.
The gentleman with the candle jerked as if he'd been jabbed by something sharp. He raised his eyebrows so high they almost leapt off his face. "Leslie Tannen -- from Mississippi?"
Doc nodded.
The man looked sharply at the group in the corner. Another man, a woman, and a little girl. They, too, were dark-skinned and it was then Marty finally realized who they were.
"You guys are runaway slaves, aren't you?" he said, amazed.
The man with the candle almost glared at him. "I thought y'all said you wasn't gonna harm us?"
"We won't," Doc assured the group, quite calmly.
The man stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Doc met the gaze unflinchingly. Finally, the man crouched down and pulled up the trap door. He started to descend down the rungs of the ladder, pausing when his head was just above floor level.
"Y'all best be speakin' the truth," the man said. "If not, may the Lord have mercy on your souls."
The woman followed the man with the candle after a moment, the child going next, then the other man bringing up the rear. He glanced at the time travelers before ducking out of sight.
"Y'all comin' along with us?" he whispered. "Jasper didn't come out an' say it, but y'all can tag along with us, outta here."
"Thank you," Doc told the man sincerely. He looked at his family just as more footsteps echoed down the hall.
"They weren't downstairs, and no one has seen them leave," Marty heard the sheriff say.
"Dammit!" Tannen yelled. "They were just in this room! How could they be gone?"
"Let's go," Doc murmured, gesturing to the trapdoor. He looked at Marty. "You first."
Why me? Marty thought. But he didn't bother to argue. He wanted to get away just as much as they did. He slipped his arm through the wire handle of the lamp, then stepped down the first of the ladder rungs, slowly followed the group of slaves and doing his best not to jostle the lamp as he went.
It seemed to take forever for the teen before his feet touched ground again -- although it was probably only a minute or two at most. The walls had gone from wooden to dirt. The man -- Jasper -- was still holding the candle. Marty watched as Clara, Jules, Verne, and finally Doc, carrying Einstein over one shoulder, finished their descent down the ladder.
"Where to, now?" Marty asked Jasper.
Jasper handed the candle to the second man in his group and turned to a shelf nearby, stacked with glass Mason jars. He reached for the glass balanced on the top of the shelf, in the right corner, and pulled it out. There was a faint click, then the shelf swung away from the wall.
"Another secret passage!" Verne cried in delight. Clara quickly shushed him.
The false shelf revealed a tunnel made of stone with a ceiling about five feet high. Only the kids didn't have to duck as Jasper led them through the tunnel. It wasn't long before even Marty started to get seriously uncomfortable from the stooped posture. Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he felt a chilly breeze and a moment later they emerged outside, from a cave in an area surrounded by trees.
"Where are we?" Doc asked Jasper as the group paused outside the cave.
"We're 'bout a half mile away from Stange," the man said. "Did you replace the hidden doors?"
"Of course."
There was a long moment of silence. Jasper took the opportunity to pull out a tattered map from the inside of his coat, studying it closely by the light of the candle. "Who are you guys?" Marty finally asked. "Where're you going?"
"To a life of freedom, we hopin'," the second man said. "We're goin' to the Promised Land. We can be safe from recapture and slavery there."
Marty frowned. "I thought you just had to get to the Northern states to be safe?"
Jasper looked up from the map, regarding Marty with a squinty look of confusion and suspicion. "Not since the Fugitive Slave Law came 'round five years ago. Only place we can be truly safe now is Canada."
"Where are you running from?" Clara asked the slaves.
"Mississippi," the other man answered. A haunted look crossed his features. "Mr. Tannen was our master there, y'know. Worse than the Devil Himself."
"I understand," Doc said, his tone communicating volumes to the strangers.
The man smiled for a moment, sticking his hand out to Doc. "Name's Jacob. Jacob Curtis. And this woman's my wife, Ruth. An' the child is ours as well -- Phoebe." He nodded to the little girl who looked to be around five, tops.
Doc shook Jacob's hand without hesitation. "Emmett Brown," he said. "This is my wife, Clara, and our boys Jules and Verne. And this is a close friend of ours, Marty," he added.
The little girl, Phoebe, pointed to Einstein, sniffing around nearby. "That your doggie?" she asked softly.
Clara nodded with a smile. "Yes. His name is Einstein."
Phoebe frowned, her small face puzzled. "Why'd y'all name a doggie that?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she added, "Can I pet 'im?"
"Of course. He won't bite."
Jasper seemed to get his bearings and put away the map. He looked at Marty. "Might I borrow your lamp?"
Marty suddenly remembered the object dangling from his arm. "Sure," he said, passing it over. "Be my guest."
Jasper gave him a strange look as he accepted the lamp. "Pardon?"
Marty rolled his eyes at his own forgetfulness. Oh yeah, that expression probably isn't around yet, he realized. "Never mind."
Jasper used his candle to light the wick of the lamp, turning the glow low. "Are y'all travelin' with us?" he asked Doc.
Doc glanced at his family and Marty. "Just a moment," he said to the leader of the group, stepping over to confer with the others. "Well?" he asked softly. "What do you think?"
"What do you mean, Emmett?" Clara whispered. "I would say this is your decision, not ours. Do you think it'll be safe to travel with them?"
"We don't have much of a choice, I think," Doc said. "I'll bet money that Tannen will conduct some sort of search for us in this area. I don't think it's safe to stay in this town for the rest of this trip."
"But what about the train?" Marty asked. "You can't change the destination of it now... can you?"
Doc shook his head. "No. If I could, I'd simply bring it to us now." He glanced at the waiting runaway slaves. "I think we should follow these people for a bit, until we get to the next town or two over. By tomorrow or Sunday, I'm sure things will have settled down enough for us to catch a local train back here so we can meet our train."
"What if they don't?" Jules asked. "Do you think the train will be safe until we get to it?"
"That's one of the reasons why I decided it would be best to depart a couple miles from town," Doc said. "Just on the off chance something would delay us."
"Where are we going?" Verne asked. "Are we going to go to Canada with 'em?"
"I don't think we'll get to Canada by then," Doc said. "We'll follow them tonight, maybe tomorrow, until I think we've put enough distance between us and Tannen."
And knowing Tannens, that'll be a while, Marty thought, not sharing his pessimism with the others.
Doc turned back to the slaves, awaiting their answer. "Yes, I think we'll take you up on your invitation," he said.
"Y'all realize that travelin' with us will be dangerous," Jasper warned.
"We've been in dangerous situations before," Marty assured them, thinking back to the Doc B incident and a multitude of other misadventures through time.
Jasper looked at the teen skeptically before turning back to the inventor. "Y'all must do what I say and ask no questions," he said firmly. "I've come this way three times, now, and I know the path well."
The Browns and Marty all nodded in agreement. Jasper's eyes focused on Jules and Verne, standing between their parents. "Are your child'n able to keep up with us? We'll be doin' a lotta walkin' at night, restin' durin' the day."
Doc and Clara exchanged a look. Jules and Verne decided it was their turn to answer a question.
"Sure, we can keep up!" Verne said brightly. "Piece of cake. Right, Jules?"
"It shouldn't be a problem," Jules agreed.
Jasper stared at them for a minute, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he turned and started walking away from the cave, towards the skeletal outlines of the trees. "We best hurry up, now," he said to the others. "We're behind schedule."
With that said, the time travelers started to follow the runaway slaves. Here we go, again, Marty thought with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
* * *
Leslie Tannen's eyes narrowed into thin, burning slits as he gazed around the room where the Browns were supposed to be staying. It was very, very odd; they seemed to have vanished into thin air. Even their mutt. It was made all the more puzzling because Tannen was certain he'd heard them inside the room when Henry Davidson, the sheriff, had knocked on the door and asked to be let in. Moments later, however, after they'd broken through the flimsy lock, the room had been completely empty.
"Where are they, Henry?" Tannen demanded. "They was in here! We heard 'em!"
Sheriff Davidson was peering out the windows. "I'm as puzzled as you are, Les," he said. "I can't see any sign of them having gone out the window -- and such a fall would certainly hurt them."
Leslie let out a growl of anger. He swung his arm out, sweeping a dozen books on the floor from the room's bookshelf. I was so close, dammit! he thought in frustration. I almost had her!
The sheriff jumped at the noise. "I don't believe that's constructive in finding them," he said, amusement coloring his words.
His mild reprimand just made Tannen even angrier. He relieved another shelf of it's books, then another. On his third sweep, Tannen noticed one book remained stubbornly upright. He glared at it, grabbing it with one hand and tugging it out with enough force to whip it across the room. But the book didn't come out of the shelf. Instead, it tipped forward with a sharp click -- then the bookshelf swung away from Leslie.
"I'll be damned!" the southerner muttered. The sheriff hurried right over to investigate, his face grim.
"It's a secret room," he said after a moment. "I'll bet the Wallaces hide slaves here."
As if knowing that she was being discussed, Louisa Wallace suddenly entered the room. "What are you men doing?" she demanded, her hands on her hips as she glared at the visitors. "The guests on the second floor are complaining about the noise!"
Tannen turned away from the gaping doorway of the secret passage to look at the innkeeper. "You little liar," he growled, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "You been hidin' slaves!"
Louisa's eyes widened from either his words or his grip. They glanced to the side, quickly, taking in the open bookshelf. The color drained quickly from her face. "What are you doing in this room?" she cried, instead. "This isn't your place!"
"I got a warrant for the arrest of a Clara Brown," the sheriff said, reaching into his pocket to pull out the paper.
Louisa looked coldly at the men as she stepped back and shook her arm free of Tannen's grip. "She doesn't appear to be here right now, does she? Why are you in her room?"
"She was here a moment ago," the lawman said. "Then they all vanished."
Tannen looked at the darkness behind the bookshelf doorway, then stepped over to Louisa, grabbing her arm again and twisting her wrist ever so slightly to elicit a cry of pain from the woman. "Where does that lead?" he asked, leaning close to her face.
Louisa scowled in spite of the pain the southerner was provoking, trying once more to pull her arm away from him. She wasn't successful, this time. "It's simply a storage space! It leads to nowhere!"
Leslie looked at the sheriff for a moment. "Right," he drawled, skeptically. "If it was only a storage space, why'd y'all have a bookshelf hidin' it?"
Louisa looked flustered. "It would be foolish to have a closet," she said. "This used to be the quarters of Jon and I until we expanded the inn, and we still have personal items to keep there that we didn't want the guests to get into. If it was simply a regular locked door, it would only arouse more curiosity."
Tannen didn't believe her words for a second. He let her go, though, and grabbed one of the lamps from nearby, swiftly lighting it. "I'm seein' this 'storage space' for m'self, then," he said, his words causing Louisa's eyes to narrow and her mouth to draw together in a tight line.
Leslie stepped in the small chamber with the sheriff at his back. He looked around carefully, searching for a second doorway in the walls. As his eyes took in everything, he spied a pile of blankets, unfolded and rumpled, in one corner. It appeared to be the room's only contents.
"If this 'ere is storage space, I ask you why there ain't nothin' stored?" Tannen called out to the main room. There was no answer.
A closer examination of the room revealed nothing of an exit. Leslie frowned, puzzled and confused. Then the sheriff let out a grunt of satisfaction, dropping down to his knees.
"Trap door!" he said, slipping a finger into what appeared to be a knothole. The lawman gave it a pull and a space two feet across and two feet wide was revealed. Tannen grinned in satisfaction, but only for a moment. He turned and went back into the main room. Louisa stood by the window, rubbing the wrist that the southerner had wrenched in his efforts to extract information from her.
"Where does that trapdoor lead to?" he demanded. The innkeeper turned around, her blue eyes chilly.
"Why don't you just follow it and find out?" she suggested, sarcasm clear in her tone. "You'll simply do it no matter what I say."
Tannen glared at her and grabbed her by her shoulders, squeezing them in his need to vent the anger he felt. "You'll be payin' for this," he warned. "Keepin' slaves away from their owners is a crime!"
Louisa did not flinch back. She matched Tannen's glare. "And I think keeping slaves and forcing them to work for nothing is a crime!" she snapped.
Tannen shook her a moment, so frustrated was he, then abruptly let her go to head back to the secret room. "I'm goin' after them!" he vowed to her. "I have a warrant for the lady's arrest. And if they're with slaves, so much the better for me!" He chuckled as he started down the trapdoor's ladder, envisioning the healthy reward sums to come his way for such a capture.
"I'm cold and my feet hurt!"
"How much further until we get to stop?"
Doc gritted his teeth against the complaints, issued from Verne and Jules, respectively. Although the boys had pledged to keep up, they weren't doing it without complaints, which grew more numerous and issued in pitches of whining the later it got. It wasn't particularly welcome, however. Up ahead their guide, Jasper, gave them a sharp look and put a finger to his lips. Quiet was of the utmost importance in the journey, especially since slave hunters could be anywhere.
Although, Doc thought, they would have to be desperate on a night like this.
Snow had been fallen steadily since the late afternoon, and now a sharp wind was kicking in. The weather was probably an advantage in the long run, as it helped to fill in the tracks they were leaving in their wake. But it made things mighty uncomfortable for the travelers.
"Hush up!" Clara said to the boys. "We know you're both uncomfortable and tired," she added in a softer tone of voice. "And I'm not sure how much further we're going to be traveling. It's very important we keep quiet, however."
Verne frowned, his cheeks flushed a cheery pink from the biting wind. In their haste to escape, Doc hadn't thought to add such things as hats and scarves to their wardrobes. He tried not to worry about the cold too much -- as long as they kept moving, it wouldn't be a problem. "Can you carry me for a bit, Dad?" Verne asked, looking at his father with wide eyes. The shadows of fatigue under his eyes made him look even more vulnerable and younger than his years.
Doc shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Verne."
Verne pouted, his forehead creasing with the expression. "Why not?" he whined. "I'm tired. My feet are all numbed up from the snow...."
"You're getting a little big for that, son," Doc told him. "And you'll be even colder if you aren't moving."
"But I need a break," Verne insisted, not letting up, tugging on his father's arm, hard, to stop him from walking forward. "Just for a few minutes. Please?"
Doc looked at Clara. She sighed, her breath whipped away from her mouth almost as soon as it froze in the air. "It's up to you, Emmett," she said. "I can carry the bag."
Doc also sighed, this one in resignation. "All right," he told his youngest son, handing Clara the bag. "But just for a few minutes."
He knelt down, grabbing his son under the arms and hauling him up, until he was half balanced over his shoulder, with Verne's arms wrapped securely around his neck, then resumed the walk, this time at a drastically slowed pace. Marty, bringing up the rear of their group, along with a snowy Einstein, was able to catch up with him. Doc noticed that, aside from looking as tired and frozen as the rest of them did, his friend also looked uneasy. "Is anything wrong?" Doc asked him after a moment, as Marty glanced at the dark shadows behind them.
"Huh? Oh, I'm fine," Marty said, distracted.
"You keeping up okay? Your head not bothering you?"
"No, that's fine.... Things are fine."
The scientist still had his doubts. "Then why are you spending so much time checking your back?"
The teen shrugged. "I dunno, I just have this weird feeling. Like we're being watched or followed or something."
"On a night like this?" Doc asked, rolling his eyes. Barren, skeletal trees surrounded them, illuminated only faintly by the snow, which was drifted in piles of up to six inches on the forest floor. With the blowing snow that made it's way into the thickly wooded area, it was almost impossible to see beyond ten feet. Even the lamp Jasper held at the front of the group was only a faint, vague glow from Doc's perspective at the back of their party.
Marty glanced behind them again, at the ground. "It's not real hard to track someone in this weather," he said. "Just look for the footprints."
"Which are probably being filled up an hour after we pass through with this weather," Doc finished. "Even if we are being tracked -- not that I think so," he added, "but even if that was happening, I don't think we'd have much to worry about."
Marty stared at him as if he was crazy. "What are you talkin' about, Doc? Of course we'd have a lot to worry about!"
Doc shook his head as best he could with Verne weighing him down -- and, was it his imagination, or was that kid getting heavier by the second? "No. Our traveling companions do -- but we could just give the excuse that we're accompanying our slaves somewhere and save both of our necks."
"But the sheriff has a warrant for Clara's arrest!" Marty insisted. "So we're actually fugitives, now, too."
"Only the sheriff in Stange has that warrant, and we left that town hours ago," Doc said. "And you know as well as I do that the basis for the warrant was an underhanded bribe. I have serious doubts that the sheriff and the Tannen know where we are right now."
"What if he discovered the secret passage?"
"What if he did? There's not much we can do about it at this point. And you're forgetting that the weather is actually working to our advantage right now. I doubt that Tannen has the fortitude to follow us in this, at this time of the night."
Marty snorted, skeptical. "I dunno about that," he said. "Buford tracked me down in the middle of a storm that one time."
Doc sighed at the valid concern, but he wasn't really that worried. "Marty, I'm fairly confident that we're not being followed now. Only a fool would trail us for miles and not immediately capture us on sight. That's not how things worked now. The groups that were formed to capture slaves would do so immediately upon finding them. And I really don't think they'd come out on a night like this. Most sensible people are in their warm beds right now."
Marty groaned softly. "I wish you hadn't said that. I'd almost forgotten how cold I am!"
"Well we're all uncomfortable. But I think we'll be stopping soon to rest. Daylight's a few hours away."
"A few hours!" Marty said with a wince. "I thought it was sooner."
"Try not to think about it," Doc advised. He noticed the group had stopped up ahead and hurried to catch up, wondering what was causing the delay. After a few steps he stopped and lowered Verne back to the ground. The boy immediately whined and protested this treatment, but his father was immune to the words, his arms and back aching from just a few minutes of carrying his weight.
Jasper was standing on the edge of the treeline, surveying the large prairie that stretched out before them. "We're almost to the next station," he reported to the group in a soft voice. "'Bout a mile more. I know it's hard travelin' in this weather, but we shan't have to worry s'much 'bout bein' caught."
Jacob looked up at the sky, a mass of swirling snowflakes. "Y'all sure we're movin' in the right direction? I ain't seein' no North Star tonight." In his arms rested Phoebe, clutching a rag doll. In spite of the late hour, the girl was wide awake and looking around with big, dark eyes.
"I've traveled this line b'fore," Jasper assured the man. "Just 'cross the lake is our next station, managed by a woman named Rachael."
Jacob's wife, Ruth, pointed to a parchment sign nailed to a tree on the edge of the clearing. "Is this 'bout us?" she asked Jasper. Their leader stepped close to the tree and raised his light. As the illumination fell on the paper, Doc could read it plainly:
$500 Reward!
For the return of runaway property James Woodland and his wife Mary Anne. Escaped from Daniel Covington on the 25th of November, 1854, in Lynchburg, VA. James is nearly six feet tall, with a shaggy beard streaked in grey. Aged 45. Mary Anne wears long hair, is five foot two, and is missing her two front teeth. Aged 37. If captured and returned whole, expect a healthy sum.
* * *
They reached their next destination not a moment too soon in Clara's opinion. Once out of the woods, they had been at the mercy of the wind and the driven snowfall, which felt like tiny, cold grains of sand on the skin. The coat that Clara had hastily grabbed in their unexpected departure did little to shield her head from the weather; like the others, she had left behind the hat and scarf that was supposed to. As a result, by the time they reached the next stop on the underground railroad, her hair was coated in ice and she felt the closest to a popsicle as she could imagine. The promise of a hot meal and warm hearth was just about the only thing that kept her moving forward.
Rather than heading straight for the front door, as Clara had expected, Jasper circled around to the back of the house and rapped softly on a window with a lamp burning in it. A moment passed, then a face appeared on the other side. There was too much darkness -- not to mention blowing snow -- for Clara to see it clearly, let alone discern if it was a man or woman. A moment later the face vanished, then a back door was opened and a figure in a long white nightgown stood in the doorway.
"Into the house, quickly, all of you," said the figure -- a woman, Clara realized. Their group shuffled inside the warm bungalow -- Jasper first, followed by Jacob with little Phoebe in his arms, and Ruth. Then Clara, Jules, Verne, Marty, Emmett, and Einstein bringing up the rear.
The woman -- Rachael, if she was recalling Jasper's words of earlier correctly -- shut the door quickly, surveying their large group for a moment. Her eyes focused on the time travelers, narrowing.
"What are people like you doing out at this hour of the night?"
Clara was confused for a moment by what Rachael meant by "people like you." Then she realized what the question really was. Why are you white people traveling with runaway slaves?
"We've had the unfortunate luck of angering the same individual whom these people are running from," Emmett explained.
Rachael frowned at the frozen group, excluding the slaves from her gaze. "Y'all aren't wanted by the law, are you? I don't harbor no fugitives."
"No, no, we're not wanted," the inventor assured the woman. "Not by the law."
Rachael stared at him for a moment, skeptical, then turned and headed for a pot cooking on the stove. "I can give y'all some soup, then y'all will have to go in the basement for the day."
"Thank you," Jasper told the woman sincerely. She sniffed at the praise, taking the lid off the pot. A delicious smell of soup drifted through the air, making Clara weak with hunger. Their last meal had been a hurried snack shortly after they had started their hike, hours ago. She sat down on the worn couch near the fire, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to bring some feeling back in them.
"This is vicious weather," she murmured, half to herself.
"Ain't that bad," Ruth said, kneeling before the flames. "While this 'ere weather's a mite ugly, we all's seen it at it's worst."
Clara looked at the dark-skinned woman with a mixture of shock and sympathy. "I don't know how you all do this," she admitted. "Night after night, in the cold and damp...."
Ruth shrugged her slender shoulders, bundled up in a worn coat and a few layers of holey sweaters. "What choice have we?" she asked simply. "To stay with our master and risk bein' sold and separated?" She shook her head firmly at the idea. "I'd travel to hell and back to get to the Promised Land."
Clara's eyes drifted to Ruth's daughter, bunched around the fire with Jules and Verne while Emmett, Marty, Jasper, and Jacob stood near the stove and talked in low voices. "You have a lovely family," she said. "Your daughter is very well-behaved."
Ruth glanced at her for a moment, pride shining in her eyes. "Me an' Jake 'ave taught 'er the best we can," she said. "None of us know how to read an' write a lick, but Phoebe will. An' when we get ourselves to the Promised Land, Jake an' I'll finally give 'er the life she deserves. She's the real reason why we're leavin' things behind -- she needs a future."
Clara smiled in understanding. "Have you thought about what you're going to do in Canada when you get there?"
"We wanna own a store," Ruth said without hesitation. "We've been savin' up for it for years, least time we get anythin' extra. I'll make dresses and Jake'll sell dry goods and Phoebe will help us out 'ere when she's a mite older, after schoolin'."
"Sounds like you have everything figured out," Clara said, her hands finally losing some of their numbness.
"We've taken plenty of time to think about it, workin' the fields," Ruth agreed. "The master pushed us hard, but he couldn't chain our minds."
Clara shuddered at the mere idea of being owned by a Tannen. "Thank God for small favors."
The slave looked at Clara carefully a moment before asking a question of her own. "What exactly did our master do to y'all?"
Clara opened her mouth to answer, but before she could--
"Supper's served," Rachael announced, gesturing to the nine bowls laid out on the table. "You best eat quickly. The sooner you get in the cellar, the sooner you'll be safe."
The food was delicious and hot. After she had finished off her portion, Clara felt almost human again. She wasn't the only one who felt better with the food; their entire group perked up considerably. Even the boys, both of whom had been uncharacteristically reserved and quiet. Clara had been worried about them. She wasn't too happy to have them hiking around in the frigid weather all night long, but under the circumstances, it couldn't be helped.
Rachael was clearing the table when the knock came at the door. She froze for a moment, looking at the group around the table, then hurried to a rug in the middle of the floor, rolling it back. "Quick, all of you in here!" she whispered, yanking open a trapdoor.
Jasper went into action quickly, the first one down the hole. The rest of the slaves followed without a word. As the time travelers went down, Clara noticed Rachael gathering together their bowls and utensils and setting them in the washbasin.
A small flight of stairs led into a medium-sized room under the house, with earthen walls lined with jars of preserves. "Stay quiet," Rachael said sharply, then shut the trap door. Thick darkness slipped in the room. Up above, Clara could hear a light rustling over the door as the rug was rolled back into place. Then, footsteps crossed the floor to the door.
"Who's there?" Verne murmured, his voice coming from the space near Clara's left elbow.
"Maybe it's the Tannen," Jules offered in a whisper.
"Shhhh!" Emmett warned sharply.
Upstairs, Clara heard the sound of the door opening. "Yes?" she heard Rachael ask the visitors.
"We're sorry to trouble you, ma'am," an unfamiliar male voice said, "but we're out lookin' for a family."
"They may be runnin' with some slaves," a second voice said -- one that was all too familiar. Clara's hand flew to her mouth at the sound of it, and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. Leslie Tannen was indeed up there now, right above them. "This family, they're white, an' have an old man with white hair, his younger and prettier wife, and two boys. They're also travelin' with a young man and a dog."
"I've seen no one fitting that description," Rachael said without hesitation.
"Funny, that," Mr. Tannen said. " 'Cause we followed tracks that led 'ere."
There was a sharp intake of breath by someone nearby at Tannen's announcement.
"A group of slaves came by," Rachael said after a pause, "but I sent them away. I don't need to get mixed up in their business."
"Then you won't mind if we take a look around?" the first man who had spoken said.
"Of course I mind!" Rachael protested. "This is my home!"
"Then you must be hidin' somethin'," the Tannen insisted. "By law, you're supposed to help us with our search."
There was another pause on Rachael's end. "If you feel you must, search my house," she said. "But be quick about it!"
Heavy footfalls entered the house, the floorboards above creaking under the weight. From the sound of things, Clara guessed their were at least two other men with Leslie, possibly three. She heard the sound of heavy things being moved around -- furniture, perhaps.
After several endless minutes, the noises died down. "Are you satisfied?" Rachael asked. "As you can see, there is no one here but I."
"Yes, ma'am, we see," one of the newcomers said. "We're sorry to trouble you."
The footsteps headed towards the door. Clara started to breathe a little easier.
"If you see this family or any slaves 'round these parts, be sure an' let us know," Tannen said to the woman. "They're great rewards out for 'em."
"Why do you wish to get this white family?" Rachael asked as the group upstairs prepared to leave. "Why are they running?"
"The woman committed a crime against me," Tannen said. "An' she must be punished. We got a warrant out for her arrest."
"Is she dangerous?" Rachael asked, sounding startled with the news.
"I wouldn't try makin' her angry m'self," Tannen said. "Who knows what she might do? If you see her or her family, please let your lawmen know."
"Of course," Rachael agreed. Clara heard the door close, then footsteps heading towards the trap door. The rug was rolled back, then the door was opened. Rachael's face peered down at the group. Her eyes focused on Clara for a moment, then moved to Emmett a couple feet away.
"I thought you weren't wanted by the law," she said, her tone accusing.
"We aren't!" Emmett said firmly. "That man who was just here -- Leslie Tannen -- he became angry when my wife spurned his affections for her and he convinced the sheriff of Stange, Ohio, to write out a warrant for her arrest."
Rachael frowned at the story, unconvinced. "I've half a mind to call back those men," she said. "I don't tolerate liars."
Clara looked at the woman in horror. "Oh, please, don't!" she urged. "My husband didn't mean to deceive you! But really, we mean you no harm! I never committed any crime against him, you have my word!"
Rachael still looked undecided. Then Jasper spoke up.
"They're trustworthy, Miz Rachael. They're runnin' from the very same man my passengers are. I've known Leslie Tannen, and I know that he ain't beyond bribin' officials to get what he wants. An' if Miz Clara turned him away... well, I can certainly be seein' why he's after her an' her family."
Rachael gave Jasper a long look, then sighed. "Well, if you think it's fine, I'll leave y'all be. Now keep quiet. My daughter's family is coming for a visit today and I don't want them to know what I'm doing. I think it would be best."
Jasper nodded agreement for the group. Rachael took a moment to give them a lantern and some blankets, then shut them in for the day.
"No," Jasper said in answer to Ruth's question. "It ain't for any of you. But one of our kind is in danger." He ripped the poster down from the tree and let it go in the breeze, then started across the smooth field before them.
A few hours later, once things had settled down for those in the cellar, Marty gave up on his unsuccessful attempts to sleep to join Doc and Clara, gathered together in one of the corners of the room with the lantern burning low. They looked to be involved in an intense whispered conversation, but the teen figured it couldn't be anything too personal, considering their surroundings, so he didn't feel too uncomfortable in approaching them.
"What are we gonna do, Doc?" he asked when he was within earshot, keeping his voice pitched low. So far as he knew, they were the only ones still awake in the cellar; even Jules and Verne, who weren't as used to reversing their natural schedules as the slaves no doubt were, had drifted off without a problem. Either from all the nervous tensions and stresses, or else from spending a lot of time the last couple days lying around and resting, Marty was far too keyed up to fall asleep. He was definitely tired -- hiking all night could do that to a person, after all -- but his eyes just didn't want to stay closed and he felt twitchy and jittery.
"I'm not entirely sure," Doc admitted softly, answering his friend's question. "It's a bit of an oversight on my part; I never thought that Tannen would actually have enough intelligence to track us in the snow."
"You really think he tracked us?" Clara asked, her face a pale oval in the scarce glow of the lantern.
"I'd find it to be an extraordinary coincidence if he simply stumbled across this house," Doc said. "If you'll recall, he mentioned us in conjunction with slaves. He discovered the passage; there's no way he would say a thing like that unless he did."
Marty shuddered at hearing his fear confirmed. The inventor went on.
"That Tannen was able to gather together some sort of vigilante group -- I suspect he's traveling with two or three men, by the sounds we heard -- and persistently follow our tracks tells me that this man is as stubborn as his relatives when it comes to getting what he wants. We might've underestimated him."
Clara frowned, faintly. "It seems we shouldn't be doing that anymore," she said quietly.
"I know," Doc said with a sign that bordered on guilty. "I suppose Biff was at the diluted end of the genepool...."
"And even he was an ass," Marty said. "I still remember the way he was from before, and I saw him a hell of a lot growing up, always hanging around my dad. Biff may be more laid back now than he was when he was younger, but you and I both know that the potential for evil is still in there."
He was thinking, quite clearly, of the mess with the almanac from not quite a year ago. Doc met his eyes and nodded once, understanding. "Quite true," he said. "Then it's very possible that Leslie Tannen is out there, still, having noticed that there were no prints that led away from the house."
In spite of everything, Marty was a little skeptical about that. "All day in that snow and cold? You really think he'd be that obsessed to do that?"
"That's a very accurate choice of words, Marty: obsessed. But do you really think if he was going to go after us all in the middle of the night he would turn around and go home without success?"
Marty hated to admit it to himself, let alone aloud. "Yeah, good point, I guess...."
Clara touched her husband's arm, drawing his attention to her. "Emmett, do you think there may be another way out of the cellar? Like the tunnel we took away from the inn?"
"It's not improbable, but I didn't particularly get that impression when we were put in here. If there had been another way out, I suspect Jasper would've known and perhaps let us know -- or even the owner. That way if people did discover her trap door, those in the cellar would be able to get out without anyone getting in trouble."
It was another good point. Marty sighed heavily. "If only it wasn't snowing," he muttered. "That jerk wouldn't've tracked us this far otherwise. It's those damned footprints; we just can't stop that!"
"And the cold is no picnic either," Clara agreed. "But that's all water under the bridge. We can't change the weather."
Doc sighed. "I feel somewhat responsible, bringing everyone here. If I hadn't blown out the power--"
"Nonsense, Emmett," Clara said, her voice very firm. "None of this is your fault. Don't you dare start blaming yourself; we certainly aren't."
"Yeah, Doc," Marty said. "It's the Tannen family itself. Sometimes I think the best thing in the world would be to trace 'em back to whatever pond they crawled out of, then snuff them out before they could really start breeding."
The eighteen-year-old half expected Doc to launch into some lecture as to why they couldn't do that -- which he kind of already knew -- but the scientist smiled instead, grimly. "Don't tempt me," he said. "Unfortunately, our lives and our travels are now tangled up so much with the Tannen lineage that it'd create enough paradoxes to blow the universe to hell and back."
Conversation kind of died for a few moments on that note. Marty's mind drifted from the subject of Tannens to the question of how long this was going to go on. "Do you think we can make it back by the time the train is due in?" he asked the inventor, subtly prodding for an estimation on how long Doc thought they'd be running.
"I'm still optimistic. That's a few days away, yet, and maybe Tannen will get tired of this game and go home." He sighed, sounding rather unconvinced of that."
Clara, who had looked to be thinking hard, her eyes cast down on the floor, suddenly looked up and turned to her husband. "Emmett, do you think it may be possible that our traveling companions would know of a way to leave here without leaving tracks? They've got to be used to such matters by now."
"It's possible," Doc said after a moment. "We'll have to ask them."
"Anything we do has gotta be enough to outsmart those morons," Marty said, brightening with the idea. He looked to Doc. "Is there a way we can walk and not leave tracks?"
"It depends a lot on the texture and depth of the snow," Doc said. "If the snow is shallow, powdery and frozen, it'll be much easier to hide our tracks if we perhaps dragged along pine or fir tree branches behind to brush them away. If the snow is wet and deep, though, we're out of luck."
"So you don't really have any hoverboards around, on you?" Marty asked wistfully, already knowing the answer to that question.
The scientist smiled wanly at the inquiry. "Unfortunately, no. But even if we did, I'd be hard pressed to use them with our new friends around. I'd like to keep our origins a secret."
Clara pursed her lips together as she glanced over at the slaves, sleeping together at the opposite end of the room. "You don't believe we're changing history, traveling with them, do you, Emmett?"
"I hope not, but it's always possible."
Marty frowned, not seeing how hanging out with them was really gonna be the end of the world. "What could we do that would change their history?"
"Many things," Doc said. "One of the simplest scenarios would be this: because of the size of the group -- nine, counting us -- we could prevent the slaves from being able to hide in a location where they originally were to stay. Or with additional bodies, there might be additional noises made that would draw someone to find us. Then the slaves would be caught and sent back to Tannen, where they might've escaped originally."
"But how'd we know that didn't happen before?" Marty asked. "We don't even know if they made it to Canada... do we?"
"No, we don't, but we might discover it in a hurry if our intervention made the history books or skewed the world off," Doc said. "Best scenario has but a handful of things changing, none of which made a real ripple in the world. You can just imagine the worst case scenarios. You know how much can spin off from the seemingly insignificant."
Marty nodded at his own memories, suddenly feeling a lot more nervous. "So you think we should split with them ASAP?"
"Once we've put enough distance between Tannen, I think we will," Doc agreed. "But right now we need their help. Jasper knows this area the best and we'll be safely hidden from Tannen during daylight hours."
"Then what?" Marty asked. "Once we lose the Tannen, what's the plan?"
"We have enough money right now to catch a train to Stange, Ohio from wherever we might end up. After that, it's simply a matter of meeting up with the train and returning home, preferably before the train gets here."
"Sounds too easy if you ask me," Marty said.
Doc looked down at the flame of the lamp. "Actually, it's fairly complicated. Relies a lot on timing and luck."
Clara nodded once, almost to herself. "And what might happen if we are caught?" she asked.
Her husband took her hand from her lap and gave it a warm squeeze, looking her dead in the eyes. "We won't let that happen," he vowed simply.
Clara's face remained pinched with worry in spite of the optimistic words. "Be those your feelings, Emmett, I'd feel much more settled if we had a plan to fall back on, just in case. Remember, we didn't think anything would come of Midas Tannen either... and we were clearly wrong."
Doc frowned faintly, obviously remembering things that Marty was slightly vague on. He'd been brought to the Middle Ages after Clara had become captured by the enamored king, not before. But this situation now did seem to have some striking parallels to it. Clara meets Tannen, Tannen likes Clara, Clara spurns Tannen, Tannen gets pissed, Tannen tries to take Clara for his own, Marty thought. Yeah, I've lived this once before already, and that was enough.
So far, however, Tannen had not actually taken Clara. Maybe history could stop repeating itself right there.
"I don't have a plan right now," Doc finally admitted, reluctantly. "There are too many variables and unknowns in this situation. We'll just have to hope that it doesn't happen and if it does... well, we'll play it by ear."
* * *
Leslie Tannen glanced away from the house for a moment to speak with the men he had managed to gather for his mission. Once he had discovered the tunnel from the cellar of the Wallace inn, the southerner had immediately returned to the building to gather horses, equipment, and a crew to help him out with the pursuit. None of the supplies were that hard to find, not even the mounts and equipment. The Wallaces bred horses on the side and, due to the Fugitive Slave Law, were forced into allowing him some of their handsome steeds as well as anything else Leslie saw to aid his cause. Rounding up people in the town's saloon was equally simple. It didn't take him too long to persuade three other men that their help was needed, and they were only too happy to have an opportunity to earn a reward of the job was well done.
"I think they ain't gonna leave until after dark," Leslie announced, ducking behind the drift of snow where they were keeping vigil. "We might as well get some shuteye in town."
One of the men, Zeke Conner, a dark-haired and bearded fellow, frowned. "What if they cut and run durin' the day?"
"Then we'll be able to follow their tracks," Tannen said, irritated by the lack of intelligence with his group. Obviously, he was the one who was the brains of them all. "It don't look to me like any snow's gonna fall b'fore then." The sky was flawlessly clear, the storm from the night before completely cleared out.
"An' you're sure we're gonna get a reward for this?" the young, blond man named Chet Davidson asked, taking a moment to spit out some tobacco he was chewing.
The redheaded knife enthusiast in their gang, James "Bowie" Warner, decided to add in his two cents. "Yeah, how do we know that they're goin' with slaves?"
Tannen pointed to the prints in the snow that led to the back of the house, nearly invisible now between the snow that had gathered since they were left and the glare of sunlight on the powder. "They're only five in that group, plus a dog. No way can five people make so many prints. They're more than that, an' I think those others are slaves."
"But where's that old woman hidin' them?" Zeke wanted to know. "I didn't see no space big enough for that many people in that shack of hers."
Leslie's eyes narrowed as he gazed at the small two room home. "I'm thinkin' she has a secret room in there, maybe underground." His hand curled into a fist as he thought about that, wishing they could kick the woman out of the house while they did a more thorough search. Right now, the law was on their side, though, and if he gave into that urge, the tables would turn too quickly.
"What are we gonna do once we find 'em?" Bowie asked, a wicked smile crossing his scarred face, evidence of his many barroom knife fights. "Kill 'em?"
Tannen considered the suggestion again for a moment, then shook his head with as much reluctance as he had before, when the idea had whispered to him. "No, the slaves must be taken alive, otherwise we ain't gettin' no reward. I want the family unharmed an' brought directly to me, so I can deal with that." A smile crossed his face as he thought of Clara. "I got special plans for 'em all."
* * *
After discussing the situation as much as they could, Doc and Clara both decided to finally try and get some rest before they would have to be on the move again, likely around dusk. In less than an hour both were asleep, leaving Marty the only one awake in the cellar. The time dragged by. He paced a little, exploring the cellar to see if maybe there was another passageway out. (A couple mason jars were sacrificed to the ground before he concluded, sadly, there wasn't.)
Once he started feeling tired enough that sleep didn't seem a hundred percent out of reach, he tried to find a comfortable place to settle down. The slaves and Jules and Verne had already made use of the blankets the owner of the house had provided. Doc and Clara had used their coats for the same sort of thing. Marty figured he'd follow that example and stretched out on the floor near the wall. Lying on the dirt, though -- which was not only kind of cold but damp -- wasn't particularly comfortable. Neither was sitting up, with his back against the wall. He finally leaned forward, rested his head on his knees, and was almost dozing when he heard the door open from above. His eyes snapped open and his head jerked up, immediately, turning to see who was coming down the stairs.
His reflexes didn't appear to be quite as sharp as Jasper's. One minute Marty was sure the guy was sleeping in a corner; the next he was on his feet, his eyes glittering in the faint light that spilled from the upstairs. After a couple blinks, Marty realized that the footsteps and form belonged to the owner of the house, Rachael.
"I got supper almost ready and it's gotten dark out," she said quietly to Jasper, having caught sight of him standing. "Might want to get your people up an' ready to eat and move on."
The former slave nodded once to acknowledge the words. Rachael went back up to the stairs and Jasper began to wake those who had not stirred from the woman's arrival and announcement -- just Jules and Verne, it turned out, and Phoebe. The adults all seemed to be enough on an edge that the slightest sound would startle them awake. Marty understood that feeling, intimately, and envied the others who'd gotten at least an hour or two of rest. He knew it was going to hit him later that day, hard.
By the time everyone had trudged upstairs to great a new night, the clock was showing that it was a little after six. Doc didn't look like he'd had much success in resting, either; his face had that haggard look it got when he'd stayed up all night and was under a lot of stress. "Who would thought it'd be this hard?" Marty muttered as they sat down at the table.
"What's that?" the inventor asked immediately.
"Switching things around with the body. Sleeping in the day and being up all night, I mean. If I got anything, it was five minutes, tops."
"I don't know if that's as much of the problem as it is knowing this situation isn't yet resolved," Doc said softly, pitching his voice low so the boys or Clara wouldn't overhear. "I'm sure by the time we stop again we'll both be thoroughly exhausted and able to ignore all the other factors and discomforts."
Marty glanced to one of the windows, concealed by curtains. "What's it doing outside now? Still snowing?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose we'll find out once we leave.
Rachael bustled around the table, dressed in clothes rather than her nightgown, now, her hair pinned up, serving out the rations to everyone. She had fixed up quite a spread -- there was beef stew, hot rolls with jam, and large mugs of coffee and tea. Even Einstein had a treat, a sliced up chicken. Marty didn't hesitate to dig in, knowing it might be a while before his next meal and eager to get a boost in energy from the food. Although there were enough chairs for everyone to sit around the table, Jasper ate standing, keeping careful watch out the window through a crack in the curtain.
The kids, who had probably gotten the most rest and were oblivious to the very real dangers hanging over them, took up the task of conversing around the table. Jules and Verne, of course, did most of the talking, keeping their parents on their toes as they tried to curtail the occasional and unintentional mentions of the future from their sons' mouths.
"This is so so neat," Verne said from beside Marty, around a bite of roll. "Using all these secret passages and rooms -- it's like we're in a book or movie!"
Jules frowned from the seat next to Verne. "Not exactly so," he said. "There are definite differences...."
"Yeah," Verne said, not noticing the tone in his brother's voice. "It's better!"
"But the risks are more real," Jules said -- making Marty wonder if he was as careless as he seemed with their situation. "Don't you see, Verne? This isn't some sort of hide and seek game. Leslie Tannen wants to get his hands on Mother and take her away."
"Didn't that already happen in the Middle Ages?" Verne groaned. His words elicited a faint smile from the teen, who couldn't resist adding in a couple cents.
"You know what they say about history repeating itself...."
Jules frowned scornfully. "I think that statement is just an expression," he said. "History cannot repeat itself."
"Perhaps not in the literal sense," Doc said, joining in the discussion perhaps with the hopes of steering it somewhere else, where the kids wouldn't forget themselves and say something about time travel. "But specific trends seem to cycle back to us over the years."
"Anyway," Verne said, turning to his brother with a smirk, "if history can't repeat itself, how do you explain why we keep running into Tannens?"
"Simple coincidence," Jules said, though a hint of a question could be heard in the words. "Looking for connections where there aren't any is stupid."
Jasper put his dishes into the washbasin rather noisily a few minutes later, the sound capturing the attention of everyone around the table. "We gotta go, now," he said, bluntly. "If we're all caught leavin' this house, there'll be big trouble. Y'all finish the last couple bites on your plates and get your things."
Wonder if the rest of this trip will be like this? Marty thought as he hastily gulped the rest of his stew, downed the bitter coffee, slipped his coat on, and got ready to leave with the others gathering at door. He felt like he was now running on a treadmill that simply couldn't stop, pause, or give him any kind of breather.
Five minutes later there were as ready as they were going to get. Jasper was the first outside, making the others wait as he scoped out the surrounding area. After a moment, he gestured for the rest to follow outside. Unlike the night before, it was clear out, the sky glittering with enough stars to cast shadows. As they walked away from the house, Marty noticed footprints in the snow. They weren't from the night before; those prints were nearly invisible now, filled in by the last of the snow from the night before. These tracks were far newer, and there appeared to be hoof prints from horses mixed in with them. Marty rushed to catch up with Jasper at the front, curious about the prints' origins.
"What are those from?" he asked, gesturing to the tracks.
Jasper glanced at them, his face not changing in expression. "Visitors to Miz Rachael's house, I s'pose," he said. "Nothin' to be worried on."
Marty looked at the tracks again, a feeling of disquiet settling over him again. "You really think so?"
The older man nodded firmly. "I been leadin' groups like this before," he said. "I know the signs. It ain't nothin' more than visitors to the house. If it was, I'd let y'all know and we'd change course, right away."
* * *
"They're leavin'," Chet reported to Leslie. "Are we goin' after them now?"
Tannen lifted his head above the snow drift enough to see the party walk away from the house. There were nine of them in all -- the Brown family, their friend and dog, two Negro men, a Negro woman, and a little girl of that race. Tannen squinted at the slaves. They seemed vaguely familiar to him, despite the distance and darkness that prevented him from getting a good look at their faces.
"Soon," Leslie said, his restraint surprising even him. "I wanna follow them for a while, see where they plan on goin'. Then we'll have our fun."
"Seems like a bad idea to me," Bowie said as he sharpened one of his knives. "Ain't you 'fraid of them gettin' away?"
"Impossible!" Tannen declared. "Unless it's snowin' hard out, they won't be able to hide their tracks from us. We'll be catchin' up with them in due time." He studied them a moment as they walked, then made his decision. "Next time they stop, we'll make our move."
They reached the next stop on the railroad shortly before dawn. After nearly twelve hours straight of hiking, Doc was only too happy to have a chance to rest -- especially since the storm moved in. Around midnight the sky clouded over and the wind picked up. Shortly thereafter it had begun to snow, the fury of the flakes increasing steadily. The weather was fast approaching whiteout conditions, now. The inventor didn't even seen the homestead that marked their destination until they had nearly walked into the buildings.
"We'll pass the day here," Jasper announced to the group as they paused to look at the handful of buildings, vaguely in sight behind the thick, driving curtains of snow. The one closest to them appeared to be a two story farmhouse. Once he was positive that everyone in their group was accounted for, Jasper headed for a door and rapped on it. A moment later a it cracked it open and a hand slid out, gesturing for them to come inside. No one hesitated at the invitation. The filed in quickly, tracking in snow caked in their boots and over their coats.
"Is this everyone?" the man asked Jasper as Verne and Marty brought up the rear, with a very cold Einstein. Marty had picked up the dog and carried him when he had fallen too behind, his tender feet not used to the ice and snow on the ground.
"Yes," Jasper said. "These white folk, they're travelin' with us, runnin' from our ol' master who's got bad business with 'em."
"I see," the man said, a faint English accent coloring his words. He closed the door and latched it, allowing Doc his first good look at him. The man looked to be in his mid-forties or thereabouts, a head of dark hair flecked with grey at the temples. His eyes contrasted with his hair, bright blue, with lines etched in at the corners, evidence of an easy smile. Clara was watching him -- staring at him really -- a strange expression on her face that her husband didn't quite understand.
Doc leaned close to her ear. "Is something wrong?" he whispered as the man turned to tend to a stove set in one corner of the room.
Clara shook her head, the gesture sending a few slushy chunks of snow sliding free of her hair, faint lines of puzzlement snaking across her forehead. "No, no, I don't believe so," she said very softly to him. "I just... I feel as if I know that man, silly as that may be. He seems familiar. But I know that's impossible."
Doc looked at the gentleman as he removed the lid of a pot and began to dish out servings of what appeared to be soup. He saw nothing that triggered any familiarity for him but, strangely enough, the inventor felt as if he had met him before. Most likely the power of suggestion, he decided.
"Well, it's possible you did meet him, at a later age," Doc suggested to his wife. "You were born this year, after all."
Clara frowned, her face still settled into an expression of confusion. "Perhaps," she said, doubtfully.
The man brought bowls of soup to the table and stood back as the group took seats and started to eat. There was little conversation; even as the hunger was sated, all of them were beyond exhausted. "I've prepared the cellar in the barn," their host said. "It's the only place I have big enough for these groups. It's a bit damp, but I've got some warm horse blankets down there, and you may have use of a few lanterns."
"Sounds right nice," Jasper said for all of them.
Verne frowned as he stirred his soup around, staring at the food with a look of distaste. "When are we gonna have something else than soup?" he asked, not quite in his normal voice, but far from a whisper.
"Verne!" Clara hissed, embarrassed. But the man, overhearing his complaint, laughed.
"I understand the boy's feelings," he said. "One does get awful sick of soup after a spell, but it keeps one warm in winters, and it's not terribly trying for a bachelor to make."
Clara looked flustered. "Well, perhaps that may be true, sir, but it needn't be said. You're already doing more than enough for us."
The man waved her words aside. "It's far from a burden. I'd do anything to help this cause. It sickens me to see the way Negroes are treated down south."
"Where are you from, originally?" Doc asked, changing the subject to one he was more curious about. "Is that a hint of a British accent I'm detecting in your voice?"
The man nodded, looking a little surprised by the question. "My family came to America from England when I was a small lad, not much older than your son," he added, nodding to Verne, who had started to eat the soup in spite of his complaints. "Though I was mostly raised here, in America, I've carried the accent with me."
"Does your family still live in the area?" Clara asked, seeing what her spouse was up to.
The man shook his head. "No, they're all in the East. My youngest brother, Daniel, traveled West about five years ago, but he didn't stay. After he met and married a woman on the wagon train, and lived out there for a year, he came back and settled with his bride in New Jersey."
Clara underwent a strange transformation at this information. Her face grew quite pale and her dark eyes widened minutely, a sudden glow glittering in them. A light of understanding. Doc touched her shoulder gently. "What is it?" he whispered.
She sighed softly, not answering her husband, her eyes on their host. "What is your name?" she asked him.
"Clayton," the man answered. "Alexander Clayton."
Great Scott! Doc thought, nearly speaking the thought aloud. He dropped his spoon instead. Clayton!?
"Clayton?" Marty echoed, speaking for the first time since they had arrived in the home. He glanced at Clara and Doc, seated to his right, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, is he--"
The scientist cut off the rest of the sentence with a gentle jab to Marty's ribs with his elbow. The teen's mouth obediently clicked shut before anything regrettable could slip out. "Not now," Doc murmured softly. Jules and Verne had heard the name as well, but they were either doing remarkable jobs of acting nonchalant or were so worn out or focused on their food that it didn't occur to them as anything out of the ordinary.
Once everyone had eaten their fill, their familiar host led the group back outside, to the barn several dozen feet away. The snow had eased up a little, but not much. Doc had a feeling that things were going to get worse again with the weather before they would be better. He hoped the storm would pass by nightfall and, yet, at the same time, it wasn't a terrible thing. Perhaps it had persuaded their pursuers to ease off, or else allowed them to lose them completely.
Alexander carried one lantern on the hike out of the warm home while Jasper held another. After they reached the barn, Alexander led them to a pile of hay over the floor of an empty horse stall. He passed his lantern to Jacob, then knelt down to brush aside a few armfuls of the hay until a trap door was revealed. When the door was raised, Doc saw a small set of stairs leading down, like the first "station" they had stayed in.
"I'll fetch all of you when the time is right to leave," he promised as the slaves started into the cellar.
Einstein growled suddenly, the noise causing Doc to look at his pet. Until Marty had offered to carry him the last couple hours, he had worried about the sheep dog's health, considering they weren't especially equipped for hiking in the brutal winter weather. The dog hadn't seemed to have any problems, though, and once he had warmed up and had a meal, he had seemed more or less like his old self, in spite of their unusual surroundings.
"What is it, Einie?" Verne asked, glancing at his pet. The dog whined deep in his throat, his eyes locked on the closed doors that led out of the barn. Doc half expected someone to come in through them, but they remained closed, rocking a little from the gusts of wind.
"It's just the storm, Einstein," Doc told his pet as Marty and Clara went down into the cellar. "Nothing to be concerned about."
The dog looked up at his master, whining again, skeptical.
"I can keep him with me during the day, if you'd like," Alexander offered. "It doesn't seem that he wants to go down into the cellar."
Doc frowned. He was pretty certain that wasn't the reason for the dog's behavior, but was at a real loss as to how to explain it, otherwise. Plus, it wasn't very fair to keep him cooped up in the dark for the entire day. "That's a generous offer," he said, "but we wouldn't want to impose anything on you."
Alexander shook his head firmly as he knelt down to scratch the dog behind the ear. Einstein twitched his tail in a half wag, but he seemed to be too preoccupied to really enjoy the attention. "Nonsense," the host said. "I like dogs, and it's just for a day."
"Well...." Doc looked at Einstein, indecisive. "I suppose that would be all right. Thank you." He joined the rest of the group in the cellar. Alexander waited until he had safely reached the bottom of the stairs before closing the trapdoor and replacing the hay that had been concealing it from view. Footsteps echoed from above, moving away from them.
"Well," Marty said softly, once it had grown quiet and he had dragged Doc and Clara over to a corner away from the slaves, "let's hear it? Is that guy up there related to Clara?"
She answered the question herself. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, he is. That was -- is -- my uncle. Uncle Alexander. He was the oldest in my father's family."
Doc nodded to himself at the information. The boys, who had followed the adults as they moved away from the slaves, looked slightly intrigued by the news, particularly since they had no relatives back home. "Really, Mom?" Verne asked. "Didja ever meet him before?"
"Once, as a girl," Clara said. "That was my father he was talking about, Daniel Clayton. Papa met and married Mama along the Oregon Trail, in 1850. After a year or two in the West, they moved to New Jersey to start a family. My brother, Christopher, was born soon after. And I was born there in 1855." She blinked, looking startled by something. "Oh, goodness, I suppose my family would be expecting me right now!"
"This is the same uncle you mentioned several days ago, isn't it?" Doc said, remembering the conversation that had come up when the secret passage had been discovered at the Wallace's inn.
His wife nodded. "Yes. Uncle Alexander came to our house for a visit when I was twelve, if I recall correctly. He had been married once, before now, but his wife had died soon after and he never remarried." She paused a moment, her gaze far away from the dim cellar room. "He had to be in his fifties, then. I don't remember his visit too well, I'm afraid. I only met him once and it was a long time ago, for me. But I do recall him telling us that he'd had a hand in the Underground Railroad. The stories fascinated my brother and I."
"And now here we are, sharing in the experience," Doc finished softly. "Amazing."
There was a sound from above, then, a muffled sort of thump, followed close by a startled human cry. All eyes in the room rose up to the ceiling. "What was that?" Jules whispered, sounding uneasy.
Somewhere above them, in the barn, Einstein started barking. The scientist felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as a cold certainty settled on him. Something was wrong; it was clear by the way the dog sounded. "I'm going to have a look--" he began, already walking to the stairs. He stopped only when Jasper grabbed his arm, suddenly, shaking his head firmly.
"You mustn't!" the conductor hissed. "We best to lie low here!"
Up above, there was a thunder of heavy footsteps. It sounded like a small army was invading the barn.
"There's something wrong!" Doc insisted quietly, his tone urgent. The words were barely out of his mouth before there was another heavy thump on the floor above.
"Which is why 'tis best we stay put!" Jasper said firmly, his voice eerily calm. "I'm used to this work -- are you?"
Before Doc could think of how to answer that question -- because, truthfully, he did have some knowledge of handling delicate and dangerous situations -- the trap door above was yanked open. All the faces in the room turned towards the exit. Little more could be seen of the figure standing above, beyond a dark outline. "Well, well, well," a familiar voice drawled. "What do we have 'ere?"
Great Scott, it can't be! Doc thought, feeling the color drain from his face. His wasn't the only face to grow pale; every one in the room, including the slaves, looked sick in the lantern light at the sound of that Southern voice.
"What are you doing here?" Doc asked, looking up at the dark outline of Leslie Tannen.
"Tryin' to make good on my warrant for your lovely wife," Tannen said. "An' maybe make a few dollars of mine own with those slaves down there."
"We ain't goin' back!" Jacob shouted at Leslie, stepping forward from the shadows of his room, his face suddenly flushed with anger. The Tannen visibly jumped at the voice, leaning over to peer deeper into the cellar room. When he caught sight of the slaves, illuminated in the low glow of the two lamps down in the cellar, his eyes went wide with recognition.
"Sons of a bitches!" Leslie swore, his face suddenly livid. Doc took a step back in spite of himself, suddenly afraid the Tannen would rush down in the cellar. Perhaps he would've done just that, but they were fortunately interrupted.
"Hey, Les, we took care of that man," a voice said from above, near Leslie. "But that mutt's givin' us trouble. Got Zeke cornered. Whaddaya want us to do with it?"
Tannen glanced away from the group in the cellar for a moment. "Shoot it, Chet!" he yelled, his rage at the slaves made clear in his voice. "Just shoot that damned dog!"
Doc was up the stairs and out of the cellar before anyone, including himself, could stop it. "Only a coward would shoot a dog," he hissed at Tannen when he was at the top of the stairs, now face-to-face with the man. The inventor spared a second to look at Einstein, who was barking and growling at a large bearded man he had indeed cornered. "Einie!" he called out to his dog. "Run!"
The animal stopped barking and turned to regard his master, cocking his head to the side, as if asking, "Excuse me? Did I hear that right?"
"Go!" Doc ordered the dog as Chet, a young blond fellow, started to raise a rifle from a couple feet away. Einstein barked once more at the bearded man -- Zeke -- then turned and ran outside. The blond lowered the rifle and looked at Leslie Tannen for directions.
"Want me to go after it?"
"Not now," Leslie said. With a move that was as fast as it was unexpected, he grabbed Doc's wrist and yanked it behind the inventor, twisted him around as he simultaneously pulled him close. Doc felt something cold and hard pressed up against the base of his spine. A gun! he realized, horrified, even has he counted his blessings that Leslie hadn't simply shoved him down the cellar stairs; he'd been standing at a perfect spot for something like that.
"Listen up!" Leslie called down into the cellar, where the others still waited. "I got this ol' man here with a gun to 'im. If y'all don't come up, now, I'm afraid I'll have to shoot 'im!" Tannen cocked the gun, the sound cutting through the noise of the storm outside the walls. "Y'all have ten seconds," he said. "One..."
Clara was out of the cellar before the southerner could reach the second numeral. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned with hatred as she looked at Leslie. "How dare you hide behind my husband!" she hissed, taking a step towards the man. "Let him go!"
A moment later she was grabbed from behind by a large redheaded man. Clara struggled, kicking her legs and thrashing her arms around in an attempt to shake him off. "Get your hands off me!" she demanded.
The man gave her arm a good twist and Clara gasped in pain, her struggles momentarily stopped. The redhead wasted no time in pulling out a large knife from his belt and placing the blade to Clara's exposed throat. Doc's wife grew very still, her eyes wide and her breathing shallow.
Leslie nodded at the redheaded man, smirking. "Good job, Bowie." He looked back to the cellar door. "Y'all have five seconds left!"
To Doc's dismay, the threat worked. Marty emerged next, with one hand on Jules and the other on Verne. Then came the slaves: Jasper, Jacob, Ruth, and Phoebe. Marty glared at Tannen as he stepped away from the trap door, but thankfully kept his temper in check. Doc thought the sight of the guns, in particular, was probably the one thing holding him back. Since the episode with Doc B in June, Marty had developed a healthy respect -- even borderline fear -- for guns and what they could do.
"Why are you doing this?" Marty asked Tannen. "What the hell did we ever do to you?"
Tannen's eyes narrowed at the teen. He looked like a snake eyeing his next prey and weighing weather or not another kill was worth it. "Shut your mouth, runt!"
Marty drew his lips together, looking like he wanted to say much more on the matter. But before he was given the chance, Chet -- the man who was going to shoot Einstein -- trained the barrels of his rifle on Marty. "Why don't y'all stay there and keep quiet?" Chet suggested.
Sobered instantly, Marty swallowed hard and nodded once, raising his hands in the air to prove he was unarmed. Jules and Verne, hovering close to him as their parents were out of reach, did the same. Doc's temper arched sharply at the sight of that jerk waving a gun at his kids. Like Marty, they were still a little skittish about weapons after the fiasco with his alternate counterpart. Damn Tannens and their gangs and guns!
Clara, too, was riled up by the gesture. "Get that thing away from them at once!" she ordered, seeming to forget about the blade pressed to her throat. "They're just children!"
Tannen glanced at her with a dangerous smile. "No harm'll come to 'em... if you do what we say."
Something troublesome occurred to Doc, then, even as he shuddered at the unspoken suggestions in Leslie's words. "What did you do to the owner of the house?" he asked. "You didn't hurt him... did you?"
"He's just... restin' right now," Tannen said, chuckling to himself over the humor of that. "The town sheriff will be needin' him alive so I can get my money from 'im, seein' as he was keepin' my slaves."
The inventor's eyes darted over to their traveling companions, who were huddled together several feet away from the rest of them. The bearded man, Zeke, was keeping an eye on them, with his own gun trained on the group. "What are you going to do with them?"
"Wouldn't y'all like to know?" Tannen mocked. Doc felt the pressure of the gun leave his back, quite unexpectedly. A pulse of fear rather than relief coursed through his body, wondering what had prompted Leslie to make such a move, and he opened his mouth to ask. He never had the chance to verbalize the question, though. Something hard crashed in the back of his head, there was a hot bolt of pain through his skull, then all went black.
* * *
Jules and Verne clung to one another, watching with a mixture of horror and helplessness as the events unfolded around them. Neither of them dared to say a word or move from where they stood, afraid to draw any attention from Tannen or his men. Jules stomach twisted sharply at the sight of Leslie hitting his father in the back of the head with his gun, causing the scientist to collapse to the ground. Doc lay there, unmoving, and the older boy had a feeling that he was not simply playing possum. Verne's hand clutched Jules' arm hard enough to cut off the blood supply, but he hardly noticed.
"Emmett!" Clara shrieked as he spouse toppled to the floor, her entire body surging forward to go to his side. Bowie, who had her wrists held behind her, had his hands full for a moment, finally yanking her back so roughly that both nearly fell to the ground.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Marty yelled at almost the same time, hatred twisting his face as he looked at Leslie Tannen. He stepped towards the southerner, gun or no gun in the Tannen's hand, balling his hands into fists and looking like he was going to take a jab at the taller man's face. Before he had a chance, Chet swung his rifle around, aiming the barrels in Marty's face once more. That stopped the teen dead, in spite of his anger, though he was practically twitching from the effort of holding his temper in check.
"Stay put," Chet suggested, his face darkened by a scowl. Leslie stepped away from Doc's still form on the ground to turn his full attention to Marty.
"Now, now, Chet," Tannen chided, putting a hand on the rifle and pushing it down until it was aimed at the floor. "Let's not be so hasty. I'm sure the runt meant no harm. In fact, I'm in such a fine mood that I'll accept an apology for that disrespect."
A shudder passed through Marty's body. Jules first thought he was scared -- until he took a closer look at the teen's face. Uh oh, the boy thought, tensing. Verne let out a gasp, probably picking it up as well, and Jules realized he was clinging to his brother's coat just as hard as the blond was clinging to his. He wanted to move, at least get out of the way of the squabbling adults, but fear of calling attention to himself and his brother locked his feet to the floorboards.
"All right," Marty began in a deadly calm voice. "Here's my apology." Before anyone could stop him, he drew his arm back and threw a punch into Tannen's face, connecting solidly with the southerner's mouth. Leslie never saw it coming. His hands flew up to his mouth and he let out a bellow of pain and rage. A few drops of blood oozed through his fingers, the gore looking strangely unreal in the dancing shadows of the lantern light. As Tannen took one hand tentatively away from his face, possibly to see if he was indeed bleeding, something small dropped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. The man was quick to bend over and retrieve the small object, blood dripping from his lip. In the scarce light from the lantern, Jules could make out a glint of gold in his palm.
"My gold tooth!" Tannen gasped, the expression of shock on his face almost comical. Before Jules could feel any satisfaction or amusement, however, a dark rage seized the man's face. "You lost my gold tooth!" he fairly screamed at Marty. "Sonofabitch!"
The southerner snatched the rifle from Chet's hands and for one horrible, terrible moment Jules was certain he was going to shoot Marty, point blank. The thought obviously crossed the teen's mind as well, for his face lost color so quickly that the older boy was almost positive he was going to faint then and there. Maybe he would've if Leslie had toyed with him at all, but the Tannen was far too angry to play games anymore. Rather than shooting Marty, though, the man rammed the front of the gun as hard as he was able into Marty's stomach. The eighteen-year-old doubled over immediately, his breath audibly whooshing out, toppling to the ground a moment later. Jules didn't think he passed out, but he remained curled up tightly on the ground, gasping for the air that had been lost, his eyes screwed shut.
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood!" Tannen bellowed, tossing the rifle back to Chet. "Let's go now, b'fore sunrise!"
Jules and Verne watched helplessly as their mother was ushered out of the barn at gunpoint by Leslie, with Bowie keeping a firm grasp on her. She stared at the kids as she was taken away, her eyes telling them to stay where they were. Chet and Zeke pushed and shoved the runaway slaves out of the building, who didn't resist. The door to the building fell shut after the last of the departures were out, cutting off the sharp wind that had scattered snow on the barn floor far and wide. Although the danger was out of sight, now, the boys remained where they were like their mother had wanted, clutching each other, half hidden in the shadows of the barn, too traumatized and reeling to do much more.
Seconds after their view of the others were cut off, there were shouts and the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle outside of the building. Then, suddenly, with little warning than an angry bellow, there was the crack of a gunshot. Only one. A woman let out a cry of pain, and a dog started barking. Einstein, by the sounds of things. Verne let out another gasp, as if he had been the one hurt.
"Did they shoot Mom?" he whispered, his eyes almost bugging out of his face in horror.
"I don't know," Jules murmured back, his heart thumping so hard against his ribs that he trembled from the force of it.
The sound of the gunshot hadn't even faded entirely away before the adults outside began to yell at one another. The sound of the storm made it nearly impossible to catch more than a few words.
"Damn fool... mess to clean up... damaged goods...."
After a few impossibly long minutes, during which neither boy moved, there was the sound horses and a vehicle of some sort moving away from the barn. Then, all was quiet outside.
"What now?" Verne asked softly, breaking the stillness in the barn.
Jules let go of his brother, his paralysis broken by the knowledge they were almost certainly out of immediate danger. "I'll check outside."
Verne grabbed his arm like a drowning man taking hold of a life preserver. "Don't! What if they're still out there?"
"I don't think they are. We heard them leave and I don't think they'd leave anyone behind to guard us. They already got what they wanted." Jules pried his brother's fingers off his coat. "Anyway, we should see which directions their tracks lead, before the snow erases them."
"I'm going with you, then," Verne said. He followed close to Jules' heels, so close that he stepped on them once or twice. The ten-year-old hardly noticed, his mind too distracted by what they might find outside.
The hinges of the barn door creaked softly as Jules pushed on it, resisting for a moment before easing open. A blast of icy air containing what felt like frozen grains of sand struck his cheek. Narrowing his eyes against the frigid mix, the boy scanned the surrounding area. It seemed empty, though it was hard to be certain with the dark and the snow and the shadows. Looking down, he saw what appeared to be horse and sleigh tracks embedded in the snow -- and something else, something that shook him to the core. Jules squatted down for a better look, hoping that it was just of trick of light he was seeing. But no. The dark spots on the snow were definitely from blood.
"Oh no," he murmured, his heart accelerating all over again.
"What's wrong?" Verne asked, managing to catch his words in spite of the moaning wind.
There was a bark from nearby, then Einstein ran over, his fur coated with ice. He paused, barked at Jules and Verne once, then continued past them, into the barn. Father! Jules remembered suddenly, stepping back into the barn.
"It's nothing," he said aloud to his brother, in answer to Verne's question. "Probably nothing," Jules added at the skeptical look that crossed the blond's face. "Anyway, we've got other things to worry about now." He bent over, scooped up some snow into his palms, then went back inside.
Einstein was licking Doc's face when Jules reached him. "You go check on Marty," he told Verne, kneeling down at the side of their father. Einstein's nudging was doing nothing -- Doc was still out. Jules pushed the dog away, took the snow in his hand, and rubbed the cold ice on his father's face, trying to bring him around.
"What happened?" Jules heard Marty ask after a minute or two, still wheezing and gasping a little. "Did they leave?"
"They left," Verne confirmed, scooting next to his dad's side once it was clear Marty wasn't in any danger. "But we heard a gunshot and they took Mom and the slaves and we don't know where they went or if Mom got hurt!"
Jules heard their friend get to his feet, groaning as he moved, and shuffle over to where they were gathered. "How's Doc?"
"I'm trying to bring him around now," Jules said. He glanced at Marty for a moment. He didn't look entirely back to normal, hunched over a little and still holding his stomach, his face an unhealthy color. "Are you all right?"
The teen grimaced. "I think so, but if I start coughing up blood, we know who to blame." He took another breath and let it out slowly, with a kind of shuddery sound. "Good thing Tannen didn't hit me in the head, or I'd be in worse shape than Doc now. I almost blacked out, as is."
"That's wasn't necessarily a bad thing," Jules said, his hands nearly numb from the snow he gripped. "If you would've gotten up again, the Tannen would've done something worse to you."
"Yeah, probably," Marty agreed, dropping down on the floor above Doc's head.
Doc started to groan, finally coming around. Now that he was getting somewhere, Jules tossed the rest of his snow across the barn and started to lightly slap his dad's face. "Father? Can you hear me?"
Doc's eyes suddenly popped open and he gasped. "Great Scott!" He made a move as if to sit up, then Marty's hand was on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
"Whoa, Doc, not so fast. How's your head feeling?"
"It's been better," Doc said curtly, ignoring Marty's instructions to sit up. His face paled noticeably with the gesture, but he made no complaint as he looked around, slowly, his hand drifting to the back of the head where the bump was. "What happened?"
"Leslie Tannen and his gang left, taking Mother and the slaves with them," Jules said quickly. "We also...." He hesitated, wondering if he should give his father the rest of the news now, when he still was recovering from the blow to the head.
"What?" Doc asked.
"We heard gunshots," Verne finished for them. "Well, just one. But then someone screamed and it sounded like a girl's voice, not a guy's."
"And... and I found bloodstains in the snow outside," Jules added, reluctantly.
Doc looked between his sons, his eyes filling with a terrible fear. "Do you think it was your mother that was shot?" he asked quietly.
"We don't know," Verne said, speaking for them all.
The inventor sighed. "Well, then, it's useless to worry about it." He climbed to his feet, wobbling a little as he stood. "I think right now we need to--"
His words were interrupted by a moan nearby. All four of them jumped. "What was that?" Verne whispered, clutching his father around his waist.
Marty blinked. "Maybe it's the owner of the house? They didn't kidnap him, too, did they?"
The boys shook their heads. There was another low groan. They tracked it to a nearby horse stall -- fortunately empty. There, in the shadows, lay Alexander Clayton, his face being licked by Einstein, who had slinked away once the kids had showed up to help their father. The man's forehead was cut and bleeding, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. Alexander opened his eyes as the time travelers reached his side. He looked at them a moment, then sighed and winced simultaneously.
"Did those men find the trapdoor?" he asked weakly.
Doc knelt down next to him, a touch unsteady on his feet, still. "Unfortunately -- but it's not your fault."
Alexander sat up carefully, Verne and Jules helping him a little, touching the bump on his forehead. He frowned at the small bit of blood that stained fingertips. "Did they take them away?" he asked, ignoring his injury, for now.
"If you mean the slaves, yes," Doc said. "But they also took my wife."
Alexander looked at him in surprise. "How odd," he said. "I'm very sorry. This was entirely my fault."
Doc held up his hand, rather than shake his head. "No, it wasn't. It was just... bad timing."
Alexander sighed again, not buying that. "But if I'd--"
Doc cut him off with another raised hand. "If is the most loaded word in the dictionary," he said. "The situation's happened and there's nothing we can do to change that... right now. But there has to be something we can do to turn things around and I'm sure you can help us with that."