Turncoat by Don Gutteridge

naïveté even, about the beardless young man before him that begged his confidence and trust.
    â€œJesse died a year ago December,” Durfee said. “That’s why Joshua came back. And why we done all we could for him and Beth these past months.”
    Marc waited quietly until Durfee whispered, “He hung himself. In the barn. His wife found him.”
    E MMA DURFEE PRESSED M ARC TO STAY for supper, but he assured her that Winnifred Hatch was expecting him to dine at the mill within the hour. Mrs. Durfee, as round and plump as her husband was spare and gnarled, smiled as if she were privy to some mutual conspiracy. “Ahh,” was all she said, but it was meaning enough. When Marc failed to take the bait, she added with feigned reluctance, “Well, there ain’t a man in the district brave or foolhardy enough to ignore the wishes of the handsome Miss Hatch.”
    Marc was beginning to wonder if “handsome” was part of Miss Hatch’s Christian name, in the manner of the pilgrims’ “Goody.”
    When Emma Durfee left the room to tend to her own cooking, her husband leaned forward and said to Marc, “You must’ve had some other reason for droppin’ by than to say hello and sample my finest.”
    â€œHatch tells me you have a safe.”
    Which turned out to be an understatement, for the iron box that governed the otherwise modest space of Durfee’s office (itself adjoined to the taproom by a sturdy oak door) was roomy enough to have housed a successful brood of chickens and intimidating enough to have kept them safe from a regiment of foxes.
    â€œIt’s been in the wife’s family for years. We sledded it over the lake last February.” Durfee fiddled with the dial and then drew the door open slowly, like a proud jailer who has no doubt about his dungeon’s impregnability. “What’ve you got that needs protectin’?”
    Marc dropped the leather pouch he had taken from the Yankees’ saddlebag onto Durfee’s rolltop desk. Then he gave the innkeeper the same abbreviated and carefully edited version of his encounter with Connors and O’Hurley he had given Hatch.
    â€œI’m surprised to hear that,” Durfee said, letting his breath whistle through the pair of wooden teeth on the left side of his jaw to emphasize his point. “Them two’ve been sidlin’ about the province for several years now, and they’re like most Yankee peddlers we get here—quick with the lip and about as trustworthy as a bull in a field of heifers. But they’ve never been known to do violence to anyone: all bluster and no delivery.”
    â€œI kept their saddlebag as security,” Marc said. “As an agent of the Crown, I’d like you to witness my opening it, and then keep it in your safe until I can deliver it personallyto Government House or the sheriff of York. I’m going to write up a description of the two renegades and have you send it off to Toronto tomorrow.”
    â€œI’ll put it on the special courier comin’ out of Cobourg at noon,” Durfee said, and he stood beside Marc while he unbuckled the pouch and shook its contents onto the desktop. A wad of papers secured by a lady’s pink garter fell out.
    â€œA souvenir of the peddlin’ wars,” Durfee said dryly, giving the garter a playful snap. “But this ain’t the profits from tinkerin’,” he added.
    â€œIt’s money of some sort,” Marc said.
    â€œAmerican banknotes,” Durfee said, riffling the two-inch wad.
    â€œThey look brand-new.”
    â€œThey are new. Hundred dollar notes of the Second Bank of the United States.”
    Marc nodded to Durfee to place the confiscated money and the pouch in the safe.
    â€œGuns or grog, I’d say,” Durfee said as he gave the dial a spin.
    â€œI’ll let the sheriff know about it,” Marc said. “I’ve done all I can for