New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  Several of the dockworkers muttered in agreement. And Jack was sure he caught the word “witch” from one of them.

  “Get yer whiskey, and I’ll let it go,” Jack said finally.

  Harrison smiled and sauntered after the other dockworkers.

  “What the hell happened?” Jack asked Sarah as he helped her move Cavanaugh to a crate. “August, go fetch Doc Waters.”

  Sarah ignored Jack, checking on the blood and bruising marking the captain’s face.

  Cavanaugh held up his hands. “Okay. I’m okay.” His words were faint, but clear. “I’m the one who needs that whiskey.” He laughed, grimacing at the effort.

  “Sarah?” Jack asked.

  “I was hoping the Captain may know something about Abbie.” Her face crumpled into a mishmash of furrows and wrinkles. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “They started harassing her,” Cavanaugh said. “I tried to help.”

  “I didn’t ask for it,” Sarah said, but she couldn’t bring anger to her tone. “Thank you for trying.”

  “They seemed fired up about something,” Jack said. He looked in the direction that the dockworkers had left.

  “It’s that preacher,” Cavanaugh said. “He got them fired up good. Says he’s gonna clean this town up.”

  Jack didn’t speak for a moment. “I guess the preacher’s been busier than I thought. Are you all right?” he asked Sarah.

  She nodded.

  “I will find your daughter, but I gotta keep a better eye on Prescott as well.”

  Jack downed the last of his whiskey, savoring the faintly sweet aftertaste. He shook his head when the bartender offered more. His eyelids hung a bit heavy, but he remained clearheaded. He had spoken to the ship captains and questioned some traders who had arrived at town earlier today. No one knew anything about Abbie.

  A man in a long black trench coat approached various tables. He had a thick, bushy mustache that almost outpaced him as he walked. Jack recognized him—Bill or Bob or something like that. A peddler who could apparently cram all of the useless trinkets and knick-knacks scattered about the frontier into one covered wagon.

  The peddler avoided the table in the corner; six men huddled around a faro board, shouting in exuberance or despondency every time the dealer flipped one of the painted cards. His eyes swept around the saloon and caught Jack staring at him. He smiled and strode through the maze of tables and chairs. He reached Jack and thrust out his hand. “Sheriff! So good to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you too, uh?”

  “Bozeman. Barton Bozeman.”

  “And what are you selling this time, Barton?”

  “Call me Bart, Sheriff.” Bart said. He then spread his arms out as wide as he could. “And my catalog never changes. I sell everything and anything you can imagine. I’ve got pewter, glassware, bifocals, ironware, oakleaf cigars, Connecticut clocks and tinware, buffalo hides, buffalo tongues, Comanche headdresses, Chickasaw pipes, Sewapois arrowheads, eagle feathers—”

  “Wait, you have Sewapois arrowheads?”

  “The genuine article.”

  “That’s impossible. The Sewapois were slaughtered.”

  Bart’s back straightened and he seemed to grow taller, a smile spread so far across his face that his upper lip peeked out from under the jungled hairs of his mustache. “To a man, women, and child. Horrible, horrible stuff.”

  “Then, where’d you get them?” Jack kept his voice level, but his hand clenched the whiskey glass so tightly that the rim started to grind into his palm.

  “Bah. Why bother with such trivialities?” Bart started toward the door and waved the sheriff after him. “I have it at my wagon. I’ll cut you a deal, since I’ve just arrived.”

  Jack palmed his shot glass and followed the peddler outside. Bart’s wagon looked as if the canvas had torn in multiple spots and all of his goods and wares were slowing seeping out. Pots, pans, bows, hammers, hatchets, furs; every manner of sundries imaginable. Bart leaned into the back of the wagon, rummaging through a dark wooden chest, before spinning around, holding an arrowhead aloft in his hand.

  He handed the arrow to Jack. The simple metal triangle glowed a faint coppery red. Jack didn’t know how the Sewapois imbued the metal with such a glow. None of the other tribes knew the secret, and the Sewapois had refused to explain how they did it. He spit on the metal surface and rubbed the arrowhead forcefully against his wool trousers. No change. He poured the last drop of whiskey from the shot glass on the arrowhead and ground it in with this thumb.

  “Sheriff, Sheriff. Stop!” Bart pleaded. “I can assure you, it’s authentic.” The peddler grabbed at the sheriff’s arm.

  Jack yanked his arm from away from the peddler. He studied the arrowhead; the coppery veneer had streaked, and the metal underneath gleamed dully in the sun. “It’s fake.” His voice deepened.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff, but …”

  “It’s fake,” Jack said, and shoved the arrowhead in Bart’s face. “The color doesn’t fade from Sewapois arrowheads.”

  “Now, Sheriff, I’m sure you’re mistaken,” said Bart with the practiced ease of a man experienced and confident in defending himself. “That swill you drink will curl the bark off a pine tree, and the mystical quality of Sewapois workmanship is greatly exaggerated.”

  “It’s not exaggerated,” Jack said and pulled out a small arrowhead that he wore on a cord around his neck. He held it up, and the coppery red tint on the metal blazed in the afternoon sun.

  Bart gaped. “Where? Where’d you get that?”

  Jack didn’t answer and snatched his hand back as Bart reached for the arrowhead. Jack pulled up his shirt, revealing a jagged scar on the left side of this torso.

  Bart blinked and then gasped. “You were there.”

  Jack nodded.

  Bart trembled, quivers running up and down his frame. “Please, Sheriff, tell me you have more. Sewapois merchandise is in high demand. Irreplaceable.”

  “There’s no more.”

  “No more?” The excitement seeped out of Bart. “You were at the battle, and you didn’t take anything. Do you know how much—?”

  “It wasn’t a battle, it was a massacre,” Jack snapped, stepping forward. Bart stumbled backward into the wagon, grabbing at the canvas to keep from falling.

  “Sheriff, I understand, but …”

  “No, you don’t, Bart.” Jack grabbed the peddler’s hand and slammed the ersatz arrowhead into his palm. “Take your crap and get out of New Madrid. Try St. Louis. And if you ever come back this way, you’d better be selling the real thing.”

  “Sheriff, this is just a little misunderstanding.”

  “Enough jawing. They were slaughtered. Wiped out. Selling what’s left of them is bad, but selling fakes is worse.”

  “I assure you, Sheriff, I had no idea about its inauthenticity. It is no longer for sale.” He smiled, but so weakly that it failed to emerge from his whiskers.

  “Be out of town by dusk or spend tonight in a jail cell.” Jack’s voice returned to its accustomed flatness.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be gone.” Bart scrambled around the side of the wagon. He didn’t look back.

  As he returned to the sheriff’s office, Jack passed the church. The faded sign still read Parish of Saint Isidore. The outside was covered with planks of cypress timber and carried the discolorations of age. One of the doors stood ajar, and Jack decided to see who was inside.

  He entered and doffed his hat. The walls were made from the same cypress timber, and the light brown wood had held up better inside. Five windows ran down each side of the main room. A dim light peeked in through the glass. An eight-foot-high picture of the Virgin Mary dominated the far wall, dwarfing a small altar with a cherry wood tabernacle.

  Elijah Prescott turned around when Jack’s footfalls announced his presence. “It’s a shame,” Prescott mused. “This is a house of worship, but the town has let it fall into disrepair.”

  “The last priest died several yea
rs ago,” Jack said. “We get the occasional mass from the priest in Ste. Genevieve.”

  “How far is that?”

  “About a hundred miles or so.” Jack sighed. “The word of the Lord does not really reach this town.”

  Prescott walked down the aisle, stopping in front of the altar. “The Parish of Saint Isidore.” He ran his hands on the tabernacle. “It was Father Pierre Gibault, the renowned Patriot Priest of the West, who founded this church, was it not?”

  “Yep, back in ’03.”

  “Eight years is a long time to go without a priest,” Prescott mused as he studied the tabernacle. “I do find it strange.”

  “Strange that we haven’t had a priest in eight years?” Jack asked.

  “Strange that Father Gibault, who was a British subject under the authority of the bishop of Quebec, came to New Madrid, a town formerly of Spanish and French rule, to construct this meager edifice for the newly founded country of America.”

  “This is the frontier,” Jack said. “It draws many types of men for many types of reasons.”

  “That is the truest thing you have spoken,” Prescott nodded. “I never thought I’d step foot in New Madrid, but here I am, reveling in all its glory. Called here, I surmise, to lead the good people of this town back from the wrongful practices so abundant in the untamed West.”

  Jack studied the preacher’s face. His wrinkled, pale skin suggested his age could run anywhere between fifty and seventy. His eyes, however, flared every so often like a young child’s. “I thought you were here to help find Abbie Duncan.”

  “So did I.” Prescott sauntered back down the aisle till he was a few feet from Jack. “But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and I believe that I have another purpose here.” He smiled. “A man can have more than one purpose.”

  “I’d be chiefly interested in you helping to find the girl,” Jack said.

  “And you?” Prescott nodded to Jack. “What brought you here? What is your purpose here?”

  “I came to leave my past behind,” Jack said matter-of-factly.

  “Ah,” Prescott noted. “Such veracity and self-assurance of one’s actions. Rare in men.”

  Jack shrugged. “People keep telling me that a man can have more than one purpose.”

  “And have you discovered a new purpose?” Prescott asked.

  “I believe I have, Pastor.” Jack nodded with just the hint of a smile. “I really should be getting back to work. There’s still a little girl missing.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Widow Emma Hughes’ place lay three miles west of New Madrid, nestled near the Mississippi River. The homestead was well known to most folks around town. New Madrid was on a bend of the river called “l’anse a la graise” or “cove of fat/grease,” and the Hughes farmstead was situated a stone’s throw from the water.

  Emma’s husband, Frank, had been well-liked and generous, and many travelers stopped off at the homestead before heading to town. Fred had died three years ago, following a long illness that caused his skin to shrivel and his muscles to waste away.

  Jack had tried to convince Emma to sell the homestead after her husband’s death. Instead, she took on seasonal help, including a vaquero named Anselmo who remained as a full-time farmhand. Anselmo handled most of the physical labor required to make the farm work.

  His help also gave Emma a chance to paint. She painted the landscape. The sunrise. The sunset. The open expanse that surrounded her homestead supplied endless vistas, from the vast prairie to the distant tree-lined hillsides to the shimmering beauty of the Mississippi River to the west. The pictures would fetch money, especially back East where imagery depicting the sheer vastness of the western wilderness held great allure.

  Jack never understood why she hung paintings in her home of the same exact landscape that she could see simply by walking out to her front porch. But Widow Hughes had no interest in selling her work. She gave away most of the pieces.

  Abigail Duncan loved painting, and Emma was willing to teach her. Although Sarah encouraged the girl’s artistic side, George hated it. So, Abigail stole off to Widow Emma’s whenever she got a chance. During one of these visits, Abigail had disappeared.

  As Jack led his horse to the widow’s home, he spied Sarah’s horse, Dragonfly, already hitched to the post. The speckled mare with the brown spots waited patiently, its tail occasionally swishing. Jack tied up his horse and walked to the porch. He took off his hat, knocked softly at the door, and then again with more force after a few moments. Soft footsteps sounded from inside, and then the door creaked open.

  “Why, Jack, what a surprise,” Emma said. “Do come in.”

  “That’s all right,” Jack said. “I’m here to see Anselmo.”

  “Oh.” Surprise lilted Emma’s voice. “He’s not here right now. But you can join Sarah and me. We’re making soap.”

  Jack followed the older woman into the kitchen. A giant pot bubbled atop the hearth of the brick fireplace, wisps of steam curling upward. Sarah sat at the table in front of a pot of water and a plate with some grease or fat. Her face sagged, but she smiled politely.

  “Morning, Sarah.”

  “Morning, Jack. So you decided to come see Anselmo.” A slight edge hardened her voice. Without thinking, she spun the turquoise ring on her hand.

  “I’m covering all the ground I can,” Jack said. “Recovering, if need be, to see if I missed any tracks. Anything that can help us. Help Abbie.”

  “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can to find her,” Emma said and patted his arm.

  “I feel like I’m not doing enough.” Jack sat and put his hat on the table. He leaned forward and rubbed his hands against his face.

  The two women exchanged glances. Emma smiled amiably at the sheriff. “Jack, you’re trying. We know that. Sarah knows that.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Sarah said, but she couldn’t brighten her face to encourage him.

  Emma shifted uncomfortably. “Sarah, why don’t you offer Jack some lemonade? I’ve got to go check on my laundry.” The older woman hustled out of the kitchen with surprising nimbleness.

  Sarah rose to grab the lemonade, but Jack motioned her to sit down. “No, I’m fine. Anselmo’s not here, so I’m not staying.”

  “I can’t stay either,” Sarah said. “I’ve got to get back to make George lunch.” She sat back down. She pried a mold of soap from a long, narrow wooden box. The pale-colored soap bar was about six inches long. She grabbed a knife and cut the bar into smaller segments.

  “Where is he?” Jack asked.

  “Out on the ranch,” Sarah said. She played with the bowstrings on her dress.

  “Maybe I’m too hard on him,” Jack said. “He does work hard, and he has a ranch and fifty head of cattle. And he provides a safe, secure home for you.”

  Sarah shifted uneasily in her chair. “Well, security isn’t everything. And with Abbie gone, nothing feels secure at all.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not his fault, I guess,” Jack said.

  “No, it’s not. George is a good egg in his own way,” Sarah said, but her tone lacked conviction.

  “I’m just saying, I know there’s more good there than I realize.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You deserve better than okay,” Jack said. He coughed immediately after speaking the words, regretting he had said them.

  Sarah’s expression was unreadable. “Life’s not a fairytale.” She shrugged. “And he was nice when I met him.”

  Sarah sighed. “It’s not like in the picture books. Kind strangers don’t just show up from out of the blue.” She stood and moved toward the counter. She had her back to Jack. “And if they do show up, they never do at the right time.”

  Jack laughed softly. “No. You’re right about that.”

  Sarah took a plate of meat fat, lard, and vegetable oil and dumped it into a kettle. She placed the kettle next to the pot on the hearth of the fireplace. “Have you ever been married, Jack?”

  “Yes,
” he said softly.

  “What?” She spun around, unable to hide the shock on her face. “You told me no before.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said, and his face reddened. “It was a long time ago.”

  “What happened? I don’t mean to pry, but …”

  Jack stood. He walked to the pot and grabbed a small towel. He lifted the lid and the bubbling grew louder. The mixture boiled. Atop the water was a thin layer of lye.

  “After I was kicked out of the army, things changed. We tried to get past it, but, I mean, the massacre changed her, I think.” He stood holding the pot lid in his right hand, his skin protected by the small towel. After a moment, he said, “So she left. I don’t think she ever got past everything that happened.”

  “Is it possible that you’re the one who couldn’t get past it?”

  He set the lid back down with force, a metallic thud echoing throughout the room. “It’s not that easy.”

  “I didn’t say it was. I just can’t imagine she’d leave you.” Sarah hesitated and Jack felt as if she’d left something unsaid.

  “Why? Women leave sometimes. Would you ever leave George?”

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably, her head and neck twisted away before she spoke. “That’s none of your business.”

  Jack sighed. He walked by the kitchen window. His horse and Dragonfly stood resolutely at the post, tails swishing as flies buzzed about nonstop. “I dunno. Just seems like you guys are always fighting.”

  “Who doesn’t? Except people with no one to fight with.”

  Jack winced as he gazed out the window. “He’s got a temper.”

  “I didn’t ask you to worry,” Sarah said, then sighed. “Don’t forget, I grew up out here. I know what it’s like. He tries.”

  “You can take of yourself.” Jack’s voice rose. “Better than most men.” He smiled in earnest. “Although your temper probably matches his.”

  “You’re a man,” Sarah said, unable to hide the bitterness in her tone. “Your opportunities are different. I owned a farm. It failed. I couldn’t run it the same way a man does. Traders demanded more money or … other things. Ranch hands didn’t want to work for me. People didn’t respect me.”