Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855
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Copyright © 2021 Robert Tomaino
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.
Cover art/photography: Johannes Plenio (coolfreepix.com)
Front cover design: Alison McBain (alisonmcbain.com)
Layout artist: Zoey Moyal
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-1-949116-95-3 (paper: alk paper)
ISBN 978-1-949116-96-0 (electronic)
First Edition
Distributed by Independent Publishers Group
To the Fairfield Scribes (every one of you), for whom without this book would not exist. And to those who preceded them, and laid all the groundwork--thank you all!
CHAPTER 1
The stagecoach rumbled into town, clouds of dust in its wake. A pair of stray dogs nosing around Kendall’s Saloon scampered away as the street filled with townsfolk who scurried and hustled toward the New Madrid stationhouse.
Jack Ellard, leaning against the doorframe of the stationhouse, shook his head. In his five years in town, the stagecoach had always attracted a crowd, especially when it brought the mail, but today the coach carried… more. Jack frowned.
“Is that the coach?” George Duncan asked from inside the stationhouse. He walked to the doorway and squinted outside. His weathered face had grown haggard. George had arrived at the stationhouse an hour before the stagecoach was expected, taking his revolvers out over and over again and repeatedly asking what the time was.
Jack sighed. He understood Duncan’s impatience, but New Madrid was a hundred miles from Ste. Genevieve. Stagecoach punctuality was rarer than visitors from the East.
“Yep, and it’s only a little after three o’clock,” Jack said. “It’s on time for once.” His voice was flat, a practiced skill that rid it of emotion.
“Thank God for that,” George muttered. “Maybe our luck is changing.”
“Is it God’s will or luck?” Jack said. “I never understand how you can credit both at the same time.”
George’s back stiffened. “Maybe if you hadn’t left the church, you’d understand.” His voice deepened and a little of the old George flickered in his eyes. “I choose to keep my faith, no matter how God challenges me.”
Jack opened his mouth, but hesitated. George tried to hold his gaze, but his head dipped, the momentary flicker of life fading from his face. The older man’s hands trembled and he could barely hold onto his black felt hat.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said, and he meant it. George’s slouched appearance hinted that sleep had eluded the older man for some time. “I shouldn’t let my prejudices question your faith. I’m just not sure this is for the best.”
George nodded so slightly that Jack was unsure if the man had acknowledged him or if it was simply another trembling tic.
Wagon wheels crunched to a halt on the hardened dirt. George turned and scuttled out. Jack stepped toward his scattergun hanging on the far wall before reluctantly following. As they neared the coach, the door banged opened. A man dressed in a dark cassock paused in the doorway like a charmed cobra rising from its wicker basket. He hopped to the ground, and then stood, taking in the crowd, a thin smile chiseled onto his face. He reminded Jack of the ringmaster from the traveling circus he’d seen in Philadelphia as a child. All this stranger lacked was more colorful clothes and a whip.
The man turned back to the stagecoach. A darker-skinned man stepped down without hesitation. He wore denim pants and a faded shirt, but Jack immediately recognized him as Lenape, possibly Choctaw. Jack’s hands clenched, seeking the rifle he’d left behind.
Murmurs arose from the crowd. The nearby Choctaw had never bothered the town, but the townsfolk were still wary of them. The Lenape man stood behind the black-garbed man. He ignored the crowd, his face inscrutable, as if some sculptor had failed to etch on the finer details of his features.
“I am Pastor Elijah Prescott,” said the man in the black cassock, raising his right arm with a slight twirl as he turned to take in the crowd.
For a moment, Jack thought maybe the man did have a whip. Jack expected him to introduce his companion, but instead the pastor swept his head back and forth across the crowd like a bird of prey perched atop a tree, surveying the ground below.
“Where is the father of the girl?” the pastor finally asked.
George held up his hand. He shuffled toward the pastor, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust. “George Duncan,” he said.
“Has she been found?”
George opened his mouth, but only a stifled gurgle emerged. He shook his head.
“Ah, yes. Unsurprising. But I am here now, good sir.” He smiled and lay his hand on George’s shoulder. “Your daughter shall be found.”
He stepped back and his gaze swept over the crowd. “People of New Madrid, I am here now. I know your eyes have seen wickedness and turpitude, and that your hearts have wavered. But do not despair. The Lord is here as He always has been. He looks over you, which is why He sent me. Go home now and pray and rest. I am here to shelter you.”
The crowd dispersed, mumbling amongst themselves. Ethel Jones and her spinster sister, Myra, strode past. “… About time. This town needs some religion brought back to it,” Ethel said. Myra’s response came too late for Jack to hear, but brought cackles from Ethel.
“He brought a savage with him,” someone murmured behind him.
“The Bible says to help the less fortunate,” another voice said. No words agreeing with that opinion reached Jack’s ears.
“Will you find her? Truly?” The words came softly but with strength, carrying a note of challenge in them. Jack turned. Sarah Duncan stood in the street a few paces away from the men. She wore a light blue dress and a white bonnet tied under her chin. She was twenty years younger than her husband but, where their calamity had aged and battered George, she had grown stronger.
Prescott smiled at Sarah, but his eyes swept up and down her frame, lingering along the way. Jack shifted from one foot to another.
“Ma’am, I will find your daughter no matter what demons of Hell stands in my way.”
“Thank you, Pastor. If there is any way that I can help, I’d …”
“Ma’am, these are matters for men. Your husband and I will find your daughter, I assure you. Go home and rest.”
Sarah’s face tightened and her jaw set. “Surely I can help?”
“Sarah,” Jack said with more force than he intended. She looked at him and he shook his head slightly.
“But she’s my …” she stopped. She glanced from one man to the other.
Jack tried to meet her eyes, but he glanced down at his boots, caked with mud and grit from the trail. He heard her exasperated huff and wished he could offer her more than a self-anointed pastor and no answers. When he looked up, she was striding back down the street.
“Ah. I’ve heard of the fervency of women in the West,” Prescott said as he watched her leave. His companion remained impassive.
“I think it’s understandable, under the circumstances,” Jack said, grinding his teeth to keep from saying more.
Prescott turned. His smile compressed so only the edges of his lips remained upturned. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Jack Ellard. I’m the station master.” He held out his hand.
Prescott glanced back at the stationhouse, as if he was surprised it was there. He turned back and shook hands with more strength than Jack had expected. But the man’s han
d was coated with sweat and Jack, with no attempt to conceal his actions, couldn’t help wiping his hand on the side of his breeches after he let go.
“Pastor Elijah Prescott.”
“Yes, you mentioned that you’re a pastor,” Jack said. “But don’t pastors have congregations?”
“Yes, they do.” Prescott’s eyes narrowed. The hint of a smile remained, as if it always stayed on the pastor’s face.
“And where is your congregation, Pastor?”
Prescott’s lips turned up in annoyance. He tilted his head, regarding Jack for a moment before responding. “The West.” And he swung his arm in a half-arc for emphasis. “The West is my congregation. I’ve brought the word of the Lord from civilization to all who abide in the wilderness. I bring light unto the darkness.”
Jack used his hand to shield his eyes from the blistering rays of the sun. “As you can see, Pastor, we have plenty of light.” He paused before addressing Prescott again. “And I think you’ll find that most people here prefer our simple town to … civilization.”
Prescott glanced around the town, his gaze coming to rest on the stationhouse. “Running the stationhouse can’t take up all of your time, Mr. Ellard?”
“Like anyone here, I have a lot of responsibilities.”
“He’s the new marshal for these parts,” George said.
“I haven’t accepted that offer, George.” Jack glared at his friend. George scowled and stepped back from the two men, donning his hat as if it could hide him from their eyes. Jack looked back at Prescott. “But I am the sheriff.”
“Ah. There’s no marshal, then. Their powers are much broader than a simple sheriff, correct? I guess it’s no surprise then that a young girl has gone missing. Well, I’ve arrived just in time,” Prescott said with a note of triumph in his voice.
“A badge or a collar isn’t necessary to protect people,” Jack said.
“Yes, well, here it is, apparently.”
Jack didn’t respond. Prescott’s face was congenial, but wrinkled. The Lenape eyed Jack with surprise, as if he had dismissed him outright but was now reassessing him. George stepped forward and opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words broke the silence, and neither Prescott nor Jack acknowledged him. George hung his head and stepped back.
“George,” Jack finally said without taking his eyes from Prescott. “Please show the preach… um, pastor to his room at Milly’s.”
After they departed, Jack walked back to the stationhouse. He gazed up into the sky. A bright speck shone white in the heavens. The comet, with its small, uplifted tail had appeared more than two hundred days ago in March. It burned brighter each day as it inched across the sky.
“What do you think it means?” A voice behind Jack snapped him out of his reverie.
He turned to find the man who had accompanied Prescott standing behind him.
“I’m not sure it means anything,” Jack said.
“My people call it Tecumseh’s comet after the Shawnee chief who is uniting the tribal nations.” He paused and gazed at the comet. “I think it heralds war.”
Jack glanced back to the sky. “Or it’s just a comet.”
The man shrugged. “Or it’s just a comet.”
“I’m Sheriff Ellard, but you can call me Jack.”
“My name is Chata,” he said in a relatively flat tone. “I should go with the preacher to the hotel.” He nodded and departed after Prescott.
Jack watched him go for a moment before returning to the stationhouse.
CHAPTER 2
The sheriff’s office only contained two cells. In his short time as the de facto lawman, Jack had never needed to close the door to either one. George sat huddled on a small stool in a corner of the room. One of the cells loomed behind him, door ajar as if it might swallow him whole. Jack resisted the urge to shove the older man in and slam the door shut.
“What do you actually know about him?” Jack asked for the second time. He sat on the edge of his wooden desk. George refused to make eye contact.
“What I know is he’s here to help,” George said with a staccato deliberateness that made the words sound as if he had spat them out.
“You put a lot of faith in a man you barely know.”
“What do you know about faith?” George diligently picked at something between the wooden slats of the wall.
“I don’t put faith in people I hardly know.”
George shifted in his seat to face Jack. “You don’t trust anyone, Sheriff. That’s your problem. No one knew you when you came to this town, but we took you in.”
“And if I hadn’t served in the army? Would you have still taken me in?”
“Jack, c’mon. You’re a good man. Give the preacher a chance.”
Jack took off his hat and tossed it on top of the desk, causing several small wisps of dust to puff into the air. He wiped his brow. The air in the small room shimmered in the heat. Despite the numerous gaps and crevices in the walls, Jack often felt as if he couldn’t breathe within the wooden confines.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, is all, George. I’m not sure what this fella can do.”
George said nothing. He stood, walked over to Jack and handed him a small rectangular card.
Pastor Elijah Prescott
Pythonissam Venator
Jack mouthed the words slowly to himself. He frowned. “What does pytho … issam, whatever mean?”
“It’s Latin.”
“I know it’s Latin. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” George snapped. “But he handles special cases. Problems that other people can’t explain. He told me he’s received special training from the church to handle matters more spiritual.”
“And what church trained him to do that?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does. You sent for this man and you know nothing about him.”
“My cousin, the farrier in St. Louis, wrote me about him a ways back. When we heard he was headed toward Ste. Genevieve, well, I wrote to him. What would you have me do? My girl has vanished. No one can tell me what happened.”
Jack stood. He was every bit the Western lawman, broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and a strong jaw. His skin was a dark olive from his days in the sun. He was almost six feet but, although a tad shorter than George, he carried himself with more conviction. Jack shook his head and took a deep breath. “Fine, George. You’re right. But you shouldn’t trust him just because your cousin ‘heard something.’ Don’t let desperation make you a blind fool.” He handed the card back to George, stalked around the desk, and plopped into his rickety chair, which creaked in protest.
George looked at the card in his hands. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Sheriff. But it’s my choice and I think he can help.” George shoved the card into his pocket and turned to leave. He paused and added, “I appreciate all you’ve tried to do, Jack, but maybe the preacher can figure out what happened. Maybe the explanation is something only he can understand or help with.”
“I know you want answers, but…” The words faded away, as Jack had no answers to offer.
George was in his mid-fifties and had built a cattle ranch a few miles from town. He had worked to build the business until he met Sarah, twenty years his junior. Abbie was their only child, only eight years old, but precocious and bright. The friendly child was well-liked throughout the town. The life of a cattle ranch owner was difficult, and George was slowing down.
“I just want to know what happened to my daughter. It’s been almost two weeks.” His voice was thick. “Will it even make a difference if we do find her?”
“Hey, best not think like that.” Jack moved toward the other man, but was unsure how to comfort him. “We’ll keep looking. Till we find her, you gotta keep hope. All right?” The words sounded hollow to Jack as he spoke, and he wished he had more to offer George.
George nodded and trudged toward the door.
“I under
stand you need answers,” Jack said. “Just be careful with the preacher, is all. And, please, don’t give him any money.”
George nodded, a tiny smile creasing his face.
“And George” Jack called as the older man entered the doorway leading outside. George hesitated and glanced back, his face half-illuminated by the midday sun.
“There’s enough wickedness in men’s hearts that you needn’t go around looking for it somewhere else.”
New Madrid had about a hundred homes scattered about the river plain. The wide streets ran parallel to the Mississippi River. A hotel, general store, blacksmith, and the saloon stood in the center of town, with the jailhouse mere steps away.
Jack crossed the street, heading for Kendall’s Saloon. He entered into the main room of the saloon, the dusty floorboards creaking as he walked through. The bar ran the length of the wall on the left. A giant mirror behind the bar made the room appear larger than it was. On the far side of the room across from the doorway, a large bannister staircase ascended, leading to lodging rooms. A large glass chandelier dominated the ceiling.
“Jack! Jack, come here.” Pierre Broussard’s Cajun drawl echoed through the establishment.
Jack hesitated, a step from the bar. He nodded to the bartender and waited for the man to pour him a whiskey. Then he made his way to Broussard’s table. With the Cajun was August Miller, the head of the town militia, and the newly arrived preacher, Elijah Prescott.
“Have you met our marshal?” Broussard asked, gesturing to Jack.
Prescott nodded. “I have, Mr. Broussard. Although I believe he is not yet your marshal.”
“Rubbish,” the Frenchman said. “Jack is the law here, and everyone knows it. Just a formality, is all.”
“I’m not a marshal, Pierre,” Jack said.
“You sure act like it,” August said. Jack turned to the militiaman, who smiled. “Joking. Just a joke.” Jack frowned at the man. August and the other three members of the New Madrid militia wore cockades, simple knots of blue, red, and white fabric. The colors contrasted with their dirty, scraggly shirts and fraying trousers. They’d never seen actual combat, and the only violence they dealt with was whatever fisticuffs they’d drunkenly triggered or broken up. When Jack didn’t smile, August shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Gosh, just a joke.”
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