Maggie, part something

After they had been there about an hour, Henry popped his head in. Maggie happened to look up and catch the grimace he aimed in her direction, and chuckled in spite of herself.
At this Sister Clegg looked up, glanced over at Henry where he dawdled in the open doorway, and sighed.
“Go get me a nice string of trout, you two,” she said.
Maggie stared at Sister Clegg, then slowly rose from her chair.
“Take off my nice clean apron first. And no catfish. No suckerfish. I said trout, and I mean trout.” She shook a stern finger at her son, who shrugged.
“I reckon there’s a few bass waiting for us. Water’s shallow, but we can find ourselves a nice deep pool, right Maggie?”
Maggie felt almost as if she could cry with relief as she walked out the door. She skipped a little, then ran for the shed where she knew her fishing pole, and Henry’s, had waited, neglected, for weeks on end.
“Hey,” A voice called out as they came in. “You fixing on heading upriver and get a few trout?”
Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. It was Hyrum. When was the last time she’d thought of him? Her mind had been occupied by much more unpleasant things lately.
“Nah. We figured we’d stick around and muck out the stable.”
“Pole’s not much use for that. I’m coming. I’ve got to get out of town… feeling a little crowded, and muffled in all this dust.” Hyrum came out from behind a large pile of baling string and burlap sacks, and Maggie thought her heart would like to fly out of her chest and land, thud, she thought, in the sawdust at his feet.
“You have looked a little crowded lately. Though it didn’t seem to me you minded all that much.” Henry’s tone had a bit of a barb to it.
“Yeah, well. A fellow’s got to get out sometimes. How are you doing, Maggie?” He came up beside her and patted her shoulder.
“Fine,” Maggie said, and smiled up at him. “Your Ma asked us to bring home a string of trout; only trout. So we could use your pole, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll get the mule hitched. Coming down from drills I saw a likely looking pool up in the canyon.”
“Drills?” Maggie grabbed her pole and walked quickly so that she could keep up.
“Nauvoo legion,” Henry cut in. “Didn’t you hear? Hyrum’s joined up. Talk is, he’s trying to impress some of the local girls—“
“Shut it, Hen. Don’t worry about me honing in on your territory.”
Maggie felt a little odd at this response, but the talk soon returned to the sort of funning and friendly chatter she had grown accustomed to with Henry and Hyrum. As they passed the town square, her heart sank as she suddenly remembered Mother Holden.
“I can’t stay too long. Three hours, I’ve got to be back at Holdens,” she called out.
Henry turned and frowned at her. “You sure? Like as not she can find some other girl to help her out this one afternoon?”
Maggie shook her head. Mother Holden had been all manner of kindness with her; it was, she thought, too much kindness to cast away simply because something she fancied more had come along. “No, I’ve got to be back,” she said.
Henry whipped the mule to a faster trot. “Reckon there’s a pool lower down we could try this time?”
Hyrum shrugged. “Sure. There’s a spot or two just below deer creek that might do.”
They made a fine afternoon of it, sitting on the banks and talking and laughing. Hyrum related a few of his brother Samuel’s exploits in the Drama Association. Henry tried to press him for details about his drilling with the Nauvoo Legion, but Hyrum remained fairly evasive on that front. “We’re just doing exercises. Getting used to positions, weapons… learning maneuvers and going on patrols. Nothing to get worked up much about.”
“Reckon they’d let me join? I’ve got a bit of time on my hands these days.”
“What about Turners’ wheat harvest?”
“That’s near on finished.”
“There’s corn. Pa’s set up for us to trade with Walls; they’re going to help us with apples and peaches and cherries.”
“Consarn it. Why do you get to go off in the canyons, Hy, and I’m still tripping along behind people picking up corncobs like I’m still in skirts? You’re only two years older’n me, after all. Maybe I ought to get myself a straw hat and some slicking grease.”
Maggie couldn’t help a chuckle at the thought of Henry combing oil through his hair, wearing a straw hat and trying to look charming and grown up. This was the boy, after all, who still flung mud on young ladies and had to be reminded by his mother not to swear.
He turned and gave her a baleful glance, then tossed a pebble at her.
She ducked.
“That all the answer you’re going to give me, then? Just duck and cover, is it? I think I like that. You’ve gotten right docile, Maggie. Downright ladylike, in point of fact.” Henry reached for a handful of mud.
“Holdens!” Maggie screeched. “I can’t show up covered in mud, Henry.”
Henry wiped his palm on his pants and sighed. He cast his line again, and watched the current, a brooding expression on his face.
The ride back was quiet, restful. An hour of sun and the sounds of the river had nearly erased all the panic from Maggie’s thoughts. She felt more able to separate them out—the good from the bad, the probable from the unlikely.
Uncle Forth. Maggie nodded to herself, and rested her back in the corner of the wagon. The scenery went by lazily, and as they descended back into the valley, Maggie was amazed at the sudden feeling of tenderness she felt for the little collection of buildings and streets that ran, criss-crossed and neatly squared off, against the dusty brown of the desert. She saw the Cleggs’ orchards, green in contrast to the brown, as they blanketed several blocks east of town, and the tall, waving fields of wheat and corn.
Uncle Forth liked to be stirred up. He listened to those who would give him what he wished—a scandal. Ma Alden had never been very keen on her situation, either; Pa Alden was the one who had the faith. But he also tended to step back and let others take charge.
It could be true, Maggie thought. What Uncle Forth was saying could be true in some ways. People taking the law into their own hands; it happened. She knew of several examples; selfishness and fear and greed existed and in a place like this, there was less consequence for such things because people thought they were less likely to be found out. Some people, Maggie thought, live the gospel because they believe it. Others come along because it would mean abandoning the people one loved, if one left it. And still others could get het up in their mind as to their own importance; they could make things up in their head and take more on themselves than they ought. Killing was no small thing. It made her sick to think something like that might have been done in the name of anything brother Brigham preached.
And that was the sticking point for Maggie’s thoughts. Uncle Forth had said Brother Brigham preached something called Blood Murder, and Ma Alden had said she remembered it, too. It wasn’t just a fancy for Ma Alden, either… there had been real fear in her voice.
Maggie reckoned she ought to ask. Someone safe to ask… that was the thing of it. Who could she talk to about this and not have it spread all over town that she was coming to a bad end, or have it ricochet back onto Pa Alden and make people speculate?
That evening, as she rocked the littlest Holden to sleep, and watched as Sister Holden began tidying up the dishes left behind by the Literary Society, the thought came to her that she could perhaps ask this woman, this redheaded woman who seemed not to shock easily when she asked frank questions about love poetry and who seemed to take life honestly as it came, might be the one to ask. Surely she wasn’t a gossip; she wasn’t someone who was weak-minded enough to need to spread things about others. And she was intelligent enough… she was perceptive and curious enough that she had to have heard something about Blood Murder, if it ever had been preached.
There was no real easy way to get into it, Maggie thought to herself. Best just ask. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.