“I was just commenting how much Miss Fischer is the spitting image of Moonshine Mary of Georgia,” Prescott said.
Jack smiled. “Moonshine Mary? She’s supposedly a pretty good shot. If that were true, I’d have her run the militia.”
Broussard laughed, but Prescott frowned. Mary picked up a bellows and walked toward the forge.
“A notorious outlaw and one not to be trifled with,” Prescott said with disdain. The flames in the forge flared as Mary emptied the bellows into the fire. For a brief moment, an eerie reddish glow bathed the workshop, the faces of the men illuminated like the ghosts of a horror story.
As the men’s voices faded, the crackling of the flames echoed through the room as they sought more oxygen. After a moment, Broussard laughed. “She’s probably hiding somewhere on Stone Mountain. Our Mary is the best danged blacksmith in all these parts.”
Unassuaged, Prescott turned to Jack, who simply shrugged. Prescott sighed and looked back to Broussard. “Fine. Please continue what you were saying.”
“The preacher had more questions about the town,” Broussard explained to Jack.
“The original concept is beguiling,” Prescott said. “What you’re trying to do here is quite amazing. But, I fear, a folly born of man’s hubris.”
Jack frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Let me ask you this: are you actually constructing anything different?” Prescott walked to the door of the blacksmith workshop and gazed out at the town. A few townsfolk hastened about, most likely on daily errands. Two horsemen made their way down the dusty street.
“We’re not building anything,” Jack said.
Prescott considered Jack for a moment. “Then what is your role here?”
“He’s the sheriff,” Mary said. “You use a lot of big words, but don’t get that?” She grabbed a pair of tongs from the wall. She pulled a horseshoe from the flames. The metal glowed a bright yellow. She placed it on the counter and took a hammer, repeatedly smacking the glowing metal with force.
“I’m the sheriff. I’m not sure why I have to keep repeating this to you?”
“Fine, Sheriff.” Prescott emphasized the title with great gravitas. “These people are building something, are they not?”
The flames flared and waves of heat blasted the small room as Mary jabbed the horseshoe back into the fire.
“A town.”
“A town?” Prescott laughed heartily. “Not just a town. The town. A place of harmony, religious freedom, and good will unto men.”
“A place where a former slave can run her own business,” Mary said. Her voice was level, but her eyes flared. She pulled the horseshoe from the forge, jabbing it into a barrel of water. A hiss resounded through the establishment and smoke poured from the barrel into the rafters. The heat in the room grew oppressive, and all three sweated profusely. Jack removed his hat and a short time later so did Prescott.
“This town welcomes all comers, then?” Prescott asked.
Jack shrugged. “It’s a town. Those buildings are just like any other buildings. The people are just like other people.”
Prescott pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Jack. It was a circular extolling the virtues of New Madrid—cheap, fertile land, religious freedom, self-government—as well as the plan for the development of a booming trade port on the banks of the Mississippi River. The circular was one that the founder of New Madrid, Colonel Morgan, had created and disseminated throughout the East Coast. Jack handed the paper to Broussard.
Broussard gave the circular a cursory glance and shrugged. “Yeah. One of Morgan’s.”
“That’s why I came,” Mary said. “I saw that brochure and thought maybe I might have a chance to live my own life.” She gestured around the shop. “A chance to have my own business.”
“I don’t see that anywhere in the brochure,” Prescott said.
Mary glared at Prescott. She placed the horseshoe next to another one on the counter. She turned from the preacher.
“I’m surprised these are still turning up out East,” Broussard said. “Someone should tell them that the Spanish Governor brought his heel down. Don’t know why they agreed to let this town self-govern and be free from taxation in the first place.”
“That was a peculiar decision,” Prescott said.
“They were Morgan’s only two conditions,” Broussard said. “He met his part of the bargain.”
“Perhaps more astute minds realized the potential for ruin here,” Prescott said.
“Or maybe they granted his conditions because they didn’t think he’d make it work,” Jack said. “And then when he did, well, that’s when they jumped in.”
“You may be correct.” Prescott nodded. “Regardless, that doesn’t make their actions wrong.”
“It doesn’t make them right, either,” Mary said.
Broussard spit chaw off to the side of room with deep rumble of his throat. “Morgan’s gone, and his dream’s dead. This town ain’t what he imagined. They gouge the tourists, fight amongst themselves, and good people leave all the time.” He shrugged. “But we have good relations with some of the tribes nearby, like the Choctaw. Others fight every time we come across them.”
“Pierre Broussard!” Mary shouted. “Do you spit chaw on the floor of your house?”
“I just …” Broussard stammered. “It’s a mess in here.”
“Out! All of you. Out!” She hustled the men from the workshop and onto the boardwalk in front of the building.
Prescott regarded the doorway after Mary slammed the door shut. “I rather suspect that even if she is not Moonshine Mary, she may be more formidable.”
Jack and Broussard exchanged glances, but said nothing.
Prescott sighed. “I realize you have good relations with the Indian tribes nearby, but I’ve heard of a Shawnee warrior seeking to unite the tribes into a confederacy,” Prescott said. “Will you fight them if they come here?” He addressed Jack.
“I will not,” Jack said, his hand springing to the cord around this neck. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
Ethel Jones rounded the corner of the building and saw the three men standing there. Her eyes focused on Prescott. “Preacher,” she said with genuine affection. “So nice to see you again.” She nodded at Broussard and Jack, and sniffed disdainfully at the blacksmith’s shop.
“Miss Jones, my pleasure,” Prescott said and doffed his hat.
She tittered and blushed slightly. “Your arrival gladdens my heart. We do so need some spiritual guidance and protection from … undesirables.”
“If you’re having problems with someone, you know I’ll help,” Jack said.
“Oh, Sheriff. I’m talking about things beyond your capabilities. The preacher was sent here to help us for a reason.” She stood close to the preacher while addressing Jack.
“I don’t follow, Miss Jones,” Jack said.
Ethel sighed. “You fought off those bandits. Thank you. But the preacher can help save us from spiritual ruination. I must be going. Good day to you, gentlemen.” She nodded to the men and continued on her way.
Jack watched her go, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Broussard shrugged.
Prescott shook his head. “As Miss Jones pointed out, perhaps I have a role here too. Just as you do, Jack.”
“And you see our roles as the same?” Jack said. The preacher’s insistence on his role or job irritated him. “I don’t understand.”
“No, they are not the same.” Prescott’s tone had changed, and he spoke with an edge that expected no rebuke. “You represent the New West, the New Hope, the open frontier where all are welcome. You bring together different people to build a new world.” He swung his arms in a great, exaggerated manner, as if to personally try to pull in the entire countryside.
Jack’s expression was completely flat as he regarded the preacher. “Mockery doesn’t suit you. It’s just a frontier town. And the vision you described was run out of here when they drov
e Morgan out.”
An incredulous smile spread across Prescott’s face. “Jack, try as I might, I simply cannot dislike you. You’re a good man. I truly hope that I am there when you realize what the stakes are.”
Jack ground his bootheel into one of the wooden slats, his hands on his belt. He looked up. “I don’t understand what you are talking about it. I simply don’t, but when I find out, I’m guessing you’ll be there too.”
“If I bring some whiskey, can I be there too?” Broussard said.
Jack fought down a smile. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I’ve got to check on those horseshoes from Mary.”
He entered the blacksmith’s, shutting the door behind him.
“Sheriff,” Mary said with mock surprise. “Whatever can I do for you?”
“What was the preacher doing here?” Jack asked.
“The preacher has been making his way around,” Mary said. “Apparently, he’s concerned about the wickedness in this town.”
“He said this?”
“To me?” Mary laughed. “No. His eyes near jumped out of his skull when he saw me. I didn’t know you white folk could get even whiter, but he sure did.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Drink?” Mary asked.
Jack sighed. “Sure.”
Mary walked to the back of the workshop. She reached between a couple barrels and picked up a glass jug from the dusty floor. She pulled two small glasses from the shelf above her head. She walked over to Jack and plopped everything down on an oaken barrel.
“You’re reserving judgement?” Jack asked as he watched Mary pour out two glasses of grainy white liquor.
“Nope,” Mary said. She handed a glass to Jack. “I’ve seen white men who might be the devil on the earth. He’s not the worst I’ve seen, but there’s something off.”
Jack and Mary touched glasses and downed the harsh liquor. Jack gagged a bit as the burning fluid with hint of corn scoured his throat. Mary grimaced ever so slightly.
After a moment, Jack smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is moonshine, Mary.”
“Why, Sheriff? Whatever do you mean?”
After visiting the post office, Jack returned to his office. When he entered, he took off his hat and tossed it on the desk. A flicker of movement caught his eye. His hand shot to his revolver, but the gun remained holstered as the preacher’s Lenape companion, Chata, emerged from one of the cells.
“That’s a strange place to wait,” Jack said.
The man shrugged. “Nowhere else in here to lie down.”
Jack removed his hand from his revolver. Jack nodded to the chairs in front of his desk. “What can I do for you?”
Chata’s eyes had twitched slightly when Jack let go of his revolver. He did not sit in the proffered chair. “I hear you’re pretty good with a gun.”
Jack paused, as was his custom when surprised by a question. “You have to handle a gun out here, especially if you want to be marshal.”
“Do you want to be marshal?”
Jack sighed. He walked to the desk and sat down. “Sit.” He gestured to the chairs again.
Chata took out one of his pistols. He spun the gun several times before sliding it back into the holster. “I can handle a gun too.” He smiled. “But what I mean is, I hear you’re the best in these parts.”
Jack folded his hands on the desk. “What exactly can I do for you, Chata?”
“Oh, nothing really. Prescott likes to get to know the local law because we’ll be working together.”
“I don’t recall saying that we’ll be working together.”
Chata shook his head. “The parents sent for the preacher. You might as well use him. And trust me, he’s not someone you want to be up against.”
“That’d be up to him, not me. I don’t want to go up against anyone.”
Chata finally sat in the chair in front of the desk. “We’ve heard things about you.”
Jack didn’t respond.
Chata waited a few moments. “Aren’t you curious what I’ve heard?”
“No.”
Chata’s eyes narrowed. He drummed the desk with his fingers. “I heard you’re a killer.”
“I am,” Jack said, his voice monotone.
“You admit it,” Chata said. His face remained stoic, but his voice was tinged with surprise.
“I killed two men today.”
“Outlaws,” Chata said. “Your job is to protect this town. Nothing wrong with killing those men. Not like they’re innocent women and children.” Chata let the final words hang from his lips.
Jack didn’t move, and his breathing had slowed to be almost imperceptible. He seemed a statue except for his eyes, which had narrowed and taken on a darker shade. “Either say what you gotta say or get out.”
Chata stood. “You’re a human being.” He tilted his head. “Aren’t you? It’ll be nice working with you.” His hand drifted down and patted his holster. “Just let us know how we can help.” He sauntered out of the office.
Jack left the office around lunchtime. He was walking toward the saloon when shouts arose from behind the jail. Sarah’s voice carried down the street, shrill with anger. He hurried to the back of jail and found Sarah with August and William.
Sarah turned as Jack walked toward them. Her face was red and her breathing ragged. For an instant, Jack thought about leaving and letting her deal with the situation. It was rare to see her lose her composure, but when she did, she plowed through everyone like a dust storm.
August’s trademark smirk shielded his face, but his rigid muscles belied his discomfort. William looked like he had just been challenged to a duel by the best gun in town.
“Problem?” Jack didn’t address anyone in particular.
“The problem is the militia are too lazy to do their jobs.” Sarah spat the words out.
“We’re not errand boys,” August said. “We don’t have time to run around for you.” The smirk grew into a sneer.
“Oh, I understand,” Sarah said, the mocking lilt dominating her voice. “It must be hard between all the drinking and whoring to do your job.”
William’s eye bulged and he refused to meet her gaze.
“Not really.” August shrugged.
Jack stepped between them, mostly to protect August from Sarah, whose hands had curled into fists. “Enough!” He frowned at August.
“Jack. Doc says she’s got exhaustion or something.” August grinned at Sarah.
Sarah rushed toward the man, raising her hands as if she planned on slapping him. “I’m sick of men telling me what’s wrong with me.”
“Maybe you should listen more often,” August said with a sneer.
Jack held his hands out in either direction. “All right, now.”
Sarah sidestepped Jack and lunged toward August, who danced around the sheriff like a maypole. Jack reached for Sarah, but hesitated before pulling his hands back.
“Stop. How did this start?” Jack asked.
“We don’t have to do stuff just because she tells us to.” August failed to keep the petulance out of his voice as he spun around Jack again.
Jack stepped in front of Sarah, who plowed into his chest and stopped with a “harrumph.” She stumbled back and glowered at both men. Jack snapped at August, “Yeah. Well, what if I tell you to listen to her?”
August’s confidence, or insolence, flickered. “You don’t officially run the militia. You point that out yourself all the time.”
“I’m not officially the marshal, either.” Jack shrugged. He walked over to the bench. William scurried out of his way, pointedly avoiding Sarah. August moved, but stood next to her. Jack addressed August. “Do we really need to get into this now?”
“You can’t pick and choose when you want to run things,” August muttered.
Jack took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “Do you want to run things, August? Be my guest.”
August refused to meet Jack’s gaze.
“Do
you?”
“No,” he mumbled.
“Great,” Jack said. He addressed Sarah. “What do you need, then?”
“I need the militia to look for my daughter.”
Jack flinched at the raw desperation in the words. “I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry we’ve found nothing.”
The four of them stood quietly for a moment. Sarah looked down, not wanting to meet the gaze of any of the men.
“What specifically did you want from them today?” Jack asked.
“I gave them a list of places Abbie likes to spend time.”
Jack looked at August.
“We’ve already searched most of them,” he said without looking at Jack.
“Let me see the list,” Jack said.
August shuffled his feet, kicking up pockets of dirt. William swallowed and tried to speak, but only a couple strangle syllables emerged.
“They threw it out,” Sarah said, her arms folded across her chest.
Jack stared at August, disbelief etched on his face. “Go get it,” he snapped when August didn’t move.
“It’s in the trash in the jail,” August said.
Jack placed a hand on his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. “August…”
“I’ll get it,” William said, and the young man scurried into the jail.
“What are all of you doing out here, then?” Jack asked.
August looked away, and even Sarah looked abashed.
The alley ran along the back of the sheriff’s office before reaching the stables. A fence surrounded the stable yard. Tin cans lay scattered along the ground around the fence near the old stables. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. One can remained on the far side of the corral, tucked next to a fencepost and partially shielded by the wood.
“Target practice?” Jack asked.
“She said she was a better shot than us,” William said shrilly as he emerged back from the jail.
“So what?” Jack said. “She is.”
William’s face crumpled. The two men said nothing, but August stiffened and glared at Jack. “Yeah, but we’ve been drinking.”
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