New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  “How many shots you waste gunning for that last can?” Jack asked. The fencepost underneath the final piece of tin was pockmarked with bullet holes.

  “Not that many,” William said.

  “She couldn’t hit that shot either,” August said, sneering at Sarah.

  “It’s an impossible shot,” Sarah fired back.

  August smiled. He nodded toward Jack. “Betcha the marshal can hit that shot.”

  Jack shook his head. “So, now I’m the marshal?”

  August shrugged.

  “Aw, take the shot, Jack,” William said. “If anyone can hit it, it’d be you.”

  “Let’s clean this place up, then check out Sarah’s list,” Jack said and started to pick up the bullet-riddled cans.

  “I dunno,” August said. “Sarah’s sure no man can hit that shot.”

  “Or woman,” Sarah snapped.

  “We’ve got more important things to do,” Jack said.

  “One shot,” August said. “You heard Sarah. No one can hit that shot.” Jack stared at the can. “You hit that shot, and me and William will get cracking right away.”

  “You’re going to get cracking no matter what,” Jack said.

  “Aw, Sheriff,” William said. “Please. Take one shot.”

  “Fine. one shot, but if I hit it, you’ll both stop your drinking till after you’ve done your work.”

  August shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you say.” He held out his rifle.

  Jack took the rifle. He aimed, with his left hand lightly steadying the gun at the barrel. The butt of rifle was tucked into his right shoulder. He eyed the can, but didn’t move. No one spoke. After a few moments, he pulled the trigger. A loud bang was followed by the crumpling of the tin can. The can popped into the air. Jack turned around before it smacked onto the ground.

  “Damn!” William said with a big smile. “You could shoot the hat off a man’s head from fifty paces.”

  “Great,” Sarah said. “Now, can the men find my daughter?”

  Jack glanced at Sarah before handing the rifle back to August. “Take the list and get looking for Abbie.” The two men stared at him. “Go!” he shouted, and the two hustled off.

  He shrugged. “You work with what you have.”

  Sarah frowned, but didn’t say a word.

  “What?” Jack said.

  Sarah shook her head. “Sometimes, Jack, you’re just, ah, I don’t know.”

  “You act like you’re looking at one of them.” He gestured at the retreating forms of August and William.

  “No, not them.” Sarah looked him in the eye. “I’m staring at a man who can be goaded into doing things he doesn’t want to.” She glanced back at the soup can still spinning slowly on the ground. “Damn nice shot, though, Marshal.”

  Jack sat with Broussard in the main room of the Kendall Saloon. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey sat in the middle of the table between the two men. Jack downed another glass as the swinging doors banged shut. Prescott wended his way through the scattered tables and chairs with a languid confidence. He stopped at the table and nodded to one of the empty chairs.

  “Suit yourself,” Jack said.

  Prescott regarded the men. “I’d imagined your every mortal effort would be toward locating the whereabouts of the absconded child.”

  Jack grabbed the bottle and poured himself another glass. He shoved the bottle toward Prescott, who flinched but stopped the decanter from tumbling off the table. Jack slid an extra glass toward the preacher with less force. Prescott hesitated. His narrow eyes grew smaller.

  “I’ve sent some men to look again at the girl’s favorite places. I rode out to the trader, Remington La Forge, north of here. I’ve stopped travelers on the road. I’ve been down to the docks when new ships come through.” He sighed. “No one has seen or heard from the girl. I’m running out of ideas of what to do.”

  “C’mon, drink,” Broussard said. “Jack and I are discussing town business.”

  Prescott took the proffered glass and filled it to the brim. He slammed it back almost immediately in one swig. The tip of his tongue flicked out to wipe down his lips. He pushed the empty glass away.

  Broussard reached across the table, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and refilled the preacher’s glass. “We’ve been dealing with some issues of speculation.”

  “I must admit, business and financial matters are not my purview, nor do they hold my interest,” Prescott said.

  “People came here for a better life,” Jack said. “Cheap land and hard work, and they thought they could make a living. They arrived, and a handful of people had already bought up all the property, and now those people are trying to sell it at a much higher price.”

  “Avarice is, unfortunately, the governing principle in these parts, I fear, gentlemen,” Prescott said. “You situation is hardly surprising.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Broussard said. “But good people have traveled a long way to build a home here. They shouldn’t fall prey to speculators who don’t want to work for their money. You can’t a build a community if no one can afford to live here.”

  “You cannot build a community without God first,” Prescott said. “The people come second. And the West seems to have as many scoundrels and rapscallions as good folk. That is what happens when your church and your faith fall into disarray and, perhaps, disuse.”

  “We’ve petitioned for a new priest,” Jack said. He knew the preacher was aware of the town’s founding principal of religious freedom, so mentioning it again seemed like a waste of breath.

  “Hopefully, your petition will be granted soon,” Prescott said. “It does not take long for good men to be led astray, especially so far from civilization.”

  “New Madrid is a different place,” Broussard said.

  “It seems the founder did not engender widespread support or fealty from the townsfolk. Many of whom, I gather, yearn still for a return to Spanish rule.”

  “People always think things are better in the past,” Broussard said.

  “That’s not true,” Jack said. Broussard looked surprised. “Not everyone does.”

  “The goal of man is to inexorably toil toward greater understanding,” Prescott said. “Deliberations of the past are important.”

  August arrived in the bar. He headed over and plopped himself down in an empty chair. He tossed a newspaper onto the table. “See this story here?” He jabbed a finger at the bottom of the page. “You may be right.” He addressed Prescott.

  Jack grabbed the paper. The St. Louis Missouri Gazette had been published for almost three years. At least three columns were in French, no doubt because of the high French population in the region. Jack’s eyes darted to the story August had indicated. The black ink, darkly bold against the faded white pages, jumped off the page.

  “What is it?” Broussard asked, trying to pick out what story August had pointed to.

  “There was a hanging in Bardstown, Kentucky,” Jack said. “They hanged a witch.”

  The three men faced the preacher. He pursed his lips. “The unfortunate culmination of my line of work.”

  In a small box in the lower right corner was a story about the witch trial and hanging. The story talked about a young woman hanged for the crime. “According to the story, there was nothing but empty accusations,” Jack said. “A sick child, a withered crop of tomatoes, and some storms. So, basically, natural, normal stuff.” Jack handed the paper to Broussard.

  “How better to sow discord and villainy than through misfortune that appears normal?” Prescott said. “We treat these matters trivially.”

  “These trials tear towns apart,” Jack said. “They prey on people’s fears.”

  “People should be fearful,” Prescott said, his voice rising in earnest. “These are dark times, and we seek to combat dark forces.”

  “I thought these had been stopped,” Broussard said.

  “They have not been stopped,” Prescott said with irritation. “The most recent Amendment to the Const
itution states that it is a crime for any person to claim possession of magical powers or to practice witchcraft. Punishable by death. It will spare us from further perversion and depredations.”

  Jack tapped his empty whiskey glass on the table. “Law or not, fewer and fewer trials occur,” Jack said. “People no longer have the stomach for them.”

  “And that is why so much ill fortune is upon us,” Prescott said. “And you underestimate the appetite of good people for justice and the rule of law.”

  “Something may be a law, but that doesn’t make it just,” Jack said.

  “Do you think our problems are because of a witch?” August asked.

  “What?” Jack said, unable to contain his annoyance.

  “I assure you, Mr. Miller, that if there is an untoward presence in this town, I will discover the perpetrator and take just action.”

  “There are no witches in this town,” Jack said.

  “The river is rising, there are fights among the townsfolk, a young girl is missing, land speculation is rampant. There is something plaguing this town, Sheriff.” Prescott spoke calmly but with a strength that carried past their table.

  “Times are difficult,” Jack said. “Times like these require people pulling together. Working together. Not casting accusations against one another.” He could not hide the contempt for Prescott’s words from his tone.

  Prescott eyed Jack with exasperation. He downed his second whiskey and stood. His chair screeched as it slid across the wooden floor. “Well, I see we disagree. Let’s hope the river doesn’t force New Madrid to rebuild yet again, and that its future is more fortuitous than its past. Good day, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Broussard burst through the door of the sheriff’s office. His cries of “Jack!” had preceded his arrival, and Jack had already grabbed his holster and hat.

  “It’s Mary,” Broussard said as he gathered his composure. “Stubborn woman told me not to involve you.” He stooped over to catch his breath.

  “Tell me what?” Jack said, unable to hide the exasperation from his voice.

  “The Masons. They’re making a move on her still.”

  Jack hung his head, a deep breath expelling from his lungs. “God damn it, Pierre. I thought this had something to do with Abbie.”

  “Sorry, Jack.” Broussard’s face, already red from exertion, bloomed a deeper crimson. “She went to head them off. Took William with her.”

  “Well, August would do anything to guard a still,” Jack said.

  “She couldn’t find August,” Broussard said.

  “Just the two of them?” Jack’s rising voice hinted at disbelief. “All right. Let’s go. They won’t be able to hold out long.”

  As Jack stepped outside the sheriff’s office, he found Prescott and Chata waiting for him.

  “Now is not the time, Preacher,” Jack said as amiably as he could muster.

  “Nonsense.” A scowl briefly flickered across Prescott’s face. “We are here to help. We heard outlaws may be causing some vexation, and we’re offering our services.”

  Jack glanced at Broussard, trying to hide the dismay on his face. Broussard shrugged.

  “Fine,” Jack said, eying the two tomahawks hanging from Chata’s belt and the holstered pistol. Prescott appeared unarmed, and Jack was unsure what, if anything, the preacher would offer in a gunfight. “Get your horses and meet me by the north side of town.”

  A few minutes later, the three men rode toward the hills northwest of New Madrid. Broussard let the way, with the other three men trailing behind. At the top of the first rise, Broussard veered into the rocks and underbrush. As the group slowed to a walk to pick through uneven ground, Prescott spoke.

  “Mary Fischer runs a still,” he said in annoyance. No one answered. “Yet you claim she is not the ill-reputed Moonshine Mary from Georgia.”

  “Making moonshine is not illegal,” Broussard said with an exaggerated smile. He glanced nervously at Jack.

  “That is not my concern,” Prescott snapped. “And the trade of moonshine is illegal, if she deigns to renumerate her taxes to the federal government.”

  “Mary pays her taxes,” Jack said. “And, more importantly, she has paid her dues.”

  Prescott’s lanky frame swayed uncomfortably in the saddle. “Justice cannot be dispensed so haphazardly,” Prescott said. “You are a lawman, not a judge.”

  Jack reined his horse to a halt. The other men stopped their mounts as well. He eyed the preacher.

  “This woman bought her freedom, came out here, and built a life. I will not take her freedom again when she has done no wrong and simply defended what is hers.”

  Prescott considered Jack’s comments. “I find it difficult to manufacture the distinctions you create.”

  “It’s not about distinction to me,” Jack said. “It’s about what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  “And you are the sole arbitrator of what is right and wrong?”

  “I am not.” Jack laughed heartily. “Nor would I ever want to be. The town decided Mary should have a life here, and so she does. And I will defend her as I do everyone else.”

  “Are you beholden to no country or religion then, Jack?” Prescott asked, the amazement evident in his voice.

  “I’m beholden to people,” Jack said. “Community. Country and religion just complicate things.”

  Prescott let out a half-stifled snort, either unsuccessful or unwilling to try to contain the derision. “And yet you came to New Madrid to escape your past and avoid people and community, did you not?”

  A shot rang out before Jack could answer. The piercing whir echoed about the hillside. The shot came from somewhere just up the trail. A couple more shots rang out from a bit farther away.

  They rode hunched over in their saddles to a small thicket of trees near the hilltop. More trees and vegetation spread out along the rim of the hill. They dismounted, tying their horses to the branches. More shots rang out. The horses whinnied and stomped their feet.

  Jack pulled out his rifle. He motioned Chata and Broussard to the left and then moved off with Prescott to the right. From the tree line, they could see Mary’s moonshine shack. The plywood building stood with a looming hillside of rock behind it. The dilapidated structure looked ready to collapse in upon itself. A wisp of smoke hung near the one window.

  A flicker of movement near the trees to his left drew Jack’s attention. A man aimed a rifle at the shack and fired. Jack recognized Jeb Mason. Jack brought his gun to fire, but stopped. Another of the Mason gang was heading toward the shack at an angle away from the window. Jack spun and brought his rifle up. Before the sheriff could fire, a piercing cry arose from the woods and a tomahawk emerged from the trees, thudding square into the man’s back.

  “Injuns!” A panicked cry arose, reverberating off the hillside. The sound of breaking branches followed. Jack took several steps out from the trees. The first man he had seen was now gone. He spied no movement anywhere.

  A deep thwack sounded behind him. He spun around just in time to see Harvey Mason crumple to the ground, a long hunting knife dropped next to him. Prescott stood behind him, a thick tree branch in his hand. A bloody splotch stained the back of Harvey’s head.

  “I may have swung too hard,” Prescott said. The branch dropped to the ground.

  Jack stared at the Preacher for several long seconds. “You didn’t have to get involved.”

  “Have you ever considered that we are on the same side, Jack?” Prescott said. He didn’t smile, but his facial expression softened.

  Jack glanced at the unmoving form of Mason. His eyes lingered briefly on the knife. “Thank you,” he said finally. “C’mon. Let’s see if Mary is all right.” He headed toward the shack without waiting for a response.

  The door creaked open and Mary emerged, a rifle still clutched in her hands.

  “This was not your fight, Jack Ellard,” she said, but her tone, softer than her normal deep voice, sapped the vigor from her words.
The militiaman William emerged from around the back of the house.

  “I’m the sheriff,” Jack said. “How is it not my fight?”

  “Because I didn’t ask you to help.” Mary sniffed as if declaring the matter was settled, although Jack suspected she actually wanted an apology. Her face was set in a grim, stoic manner that defied challenge.

  Broussard walked over from the woods. Jack doubted the man had fired a shot, but appreciated that he came along all the same. Chata stood over the body of the fallen gang member and, with one quick motion, yanked the tomahawk out of his back.

  Jack shook his head. “I’m just glad you are all right.” He smiled at Mary, who looked surprised and pleased at the words. Jack turned to William. “Head over that way.” He gestured to where he and Prescott had come from. “Harvey Mason’s out cold there. Tie him up and toss him on the back of my horse.”

  “Sure thing.” William loped off toward the unconscious man.

  Chata walked over. His tomahawk was secured to his belt again. Jack hesitated a moment and then asked, “Can you toss that one on William’s steed?”

  Chata’s eyes darted between Jack and Prescott. Finally, he shrugged. “Sure.” He ambled back the way he had come.

  “Should I address the obvious question of Mary’s operation here?” Prescott said.

  “I think we’ve settled that,” Jack said tersely.

  “Very well.” Prescott stalked off toward the horses.

  “Are you working with him now?” Mary asked as she watched the preacher depart.

  “No, but he did help. Maybe I was too hard on him.” Jack scratched the stubble on his face.

  “Trust your instincts, Jack.” A wry smile eased onto Mary’s face before she shook her head. “That is your problem. You’ve got the best instincts about people I’ve ever seen. You just don’t trust them enough.”

  “Jack!” William knelt next to Harvey Mason’s body. He shook his head back and forth.

  “All right then,” Jack yelled back. “Get him and the other one tied up. We’ll take them to the undertakers.”