Healing Grace by Elizabeth Courtright Page B

few private rooms. The second window was to one of them. Several tables were set up, some with mismatched chairs. A handful of broken seats and a table without legs were leaning against one wall. Otherwise it was empty. The third window was also to a private room, but no lamps had been lit in the interior. Beyond the pane was nothing but darkness.
    The fourth window was to the main bar room, and it was full. Every stool at the bar itself was taken, and most of the randomly set tables were in use. Etienne scrutinized one man after the other—this wasn’t easy through rain-dappled panes—seeking someone he recognized. Despite Edward Murphy’s denial that his pals had no plans to be here tonight, Etienne’s instinct told him differently. Apparently, however, as far as Edward Murphy’s entourage went, he’d been wrong.
    A noise—the monotone chanting of drunken men—had Etienne quickly stepping away from the window. He continued moving up the narrow path toward the front of the building, just as two men rounded the corner at the back of it.
    Because of the way the passage was shrouded by walls, it was like a dark tunnel. Soon, even though Etienne could hear the men coming, he couldn’t see them. But that meant they couldn’t see him, either. As soon as he reached the front end, instead of turning left toward Fisher’s entrance, he went right and hunkered down in the shadows beside the porch of the next building.
    There, under the eaves, at least for a moment, he wasn’t being pelted with raindrops. As it was, his hair had become a straggly mop, and the non-descript clothes he’d purposely changed into, were soaked through. The only dry parts left of him were his feet, and this was only thanks to well-made boots.
    He waited there, hoping as he listened to the slurring words of the two men, that they would say something Klan related. But they didn’t. They sauntered right on past, not noticing him at all. Their destination, however, was obvious. They were going to Fisher’s. And, Etienne supposed, so was he.
    He grappled up and followed them, his moves so stealthily made, the man he caught the door behind startled.
    “Oh, shit,” the man prattled, “Didn’t see ya there, laddie! Do I know ya? Nope, don’t think I do. You sure is a tall one, ain’t ya? No matter. If yer lookin’ for some good spirits, dis be da bes’ place in town. Cheapes’, too. Would ya like ta join us? The more the merrier, I alus say! What’s yer name?”
    At least the drunk was the friendly sort. Etienne held out his hand only to have it so vigorously shaken, his shoulder joint cracked.
    “I’m Tom Peepers,” he told them. “Up from Pulaski on surveying business.”
    “Yer name is Peepers?” the other chap guffawed.
    Etienne laughed too, while more or less being pushed through the door and having an already filled glass shoved into his hand.
    Subsequent eavesdropping yielded little, but soon enough he was going from table to table, buying rounds, embroiling himself in one drunken dialogue after another, inserting leading remarks where he could. It wasn’t until he told them he’d ridden into town with Stone that one of them bit.
    “Stone was on the same stage?” the man gulped. “What’s he doin’ here?”
    “Don’t matter. Stone ain’t gonna do nothin’. Da Klan be gone fer good,” a burly character cut in. “’Tis a damn shame.”
    Another said, “Stone or no Stone, even if they was ta git back together, I ain’t gonna join up. ’Taint worth it, no siree. I ain’t goin’ ta prison like good ol’ Murph. Poor ol’ coot.”
    As the comments continued, several men admitted to having been involved with the Klan before its disbanding, but this was no surprise. If, however, Stone was behind a recent resurgence, either they were keeping quiet or they weren’t aware. Because of how loose-lipped they’d become, Etienne was fairly certain it was the latter. Sympathies toward Murphy, Houser and Simpson were