These Honored Dead by Jonathan F. Putnam

I was acquainted with, who lived somewhere about these parts, has turned up dead. Her name was Lilly Walker. Have you heard of her?”
    “A little,” the boy said without looking up from untying our two horses.
    “What have you heard?”
    He shrugged. “Dunno.”
    “Well, did you know her yourself?”
    “Only times I ever talked to her was when she’d come collect her brother. Jesse. That little fellow likes to pretend to help me out.” I smiled. The stable boy himself was barely larger than the “little fellow” Jesse.
    I followed after the stable boy as he led the three horses back into the yard. Simeon trailed behind me.
    “Do you know anyone who was angry with Lilly?” I asked. “Anyone who might have wanted to do her harm?”
    The boy got to his loose pen and let his horse inside. Then he led Hickory and Simeon’s nag over to an open stall with a water trough and small pile of hay. The boy squinted up at me and asked, “Other than the Widow Harriman, you mean?”
    My heart raced. Before I could say anything, Simeon stepped in front of me and asked, “What’s your meaning, son?”
    “I heard Lilly and her arguing all the time. The whole village has. Plenty of days I could hear ’em all the way back here in the yard when they was out on the commons, they was yelling so loud.”
    “What were they arguing about?” demanded Simeon.
    “It ain’t my concern,” the boy said. “I think this girl Lilly didn’t take too kindly to being told how to act by some strange old woman.”
    “She was no stranger,” I protested. “She was her blood, her aunt. She’d saved her from the poorhouse.”
    “If you say so,” the boy said with a shrug. “As I said, it ain’t my concern. Now do you want me to keep charge of your horses for the afternoon?”
    “That’ll be fine,” Simeon said. “Come, Speed, let’s let the boy get back to his chores. We appreciate your time, young man.” He gave the stable hand a half-dime, and the boy touched his own forehead in gratitude.
    Another hour of canvassing the settlement yielded no one else who would talk to us. “Why don’t we eat before hitting thetrail for Springfield?” I said. “We could do worse than that public house over there next to Harriman & Co.”
    By habit, when we entered Johnson’s public room I led us to the small table in the corner where Rebecca and I used to sit. When I realized what I’d done, I turned around to find another, but Simeon was already lowering himself into the small chair, and I figured trying to get him to move would prove more trouble than it was worth.
    “It looks like Prickett’s suspicions about the Widow Harriman might be on target after all,” Simeon said.
    “You mean what the stable boy said?” I replied with a dismissive wave. I knew the newspaperman was trying to provoke me. “I don’t put stock in that, and I’m sure you don’t either. Young people are always thinking the adults around them are bossing them without reason. I know I used to.”
    “It sounded a good deal more serious,” said Simeon.
    Johnson came over, nodded with familiarity at me, and promised to return with two ales.
    “But it’s nothing you could print,” I said after he’d left. “That a young woman argued with her guardian—it must happen fifty times a day in Springfield. A hundred. That’s not news.”
    “When the young woman turns up with a knife through her neck it is.”
    “But surely Lilly Walker— yeow !”
    Johnson had returned and now stood beside us; one of the tankards that had been in his hand a moment earlier clattered onto the tabletop, the ale cascading out and spilling all over my riding pants. I looked up and saw to my surprise the innkeeper’s red face was twisted not in apology but rather in fear.
    “I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave at once,” he said, his voice trembling.
    “Us? But we’ve caused no disturbance,” I said.
    “Nonetheless. If you please.” He held out his arm toward