New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  Jack looked at Mary and sighed. He took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “Am I doing the right thing?”

  Mary took a step toward him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Does anyone know the answer to that question? I mean truly. I gave you the best advice I could, trust your instincts, Sheriff. Trust ‘em.”

  The next morning, Jack almost ran headlong into Ethel Jones. She stood on the wooden sidewalk in front of his office. When she saw the sheriff, she tilted her head sideways and smiled.

  “Miss Jones, I’m sorry. A lot on my mind.”

  “No need to apologize, Sheriff. With the Duncan girl taking up all of your thoughts and all.”

  “It’s awful, but we’ll find Abbie.”

  “Oh, yes, her too.” Ethel smiled sweetly. “So sad.” She thought for a moment, then her face brightened. “Oh, but heavens me! Thank you for running that charlatan out of town. You should have done it the last time he was here.”

  Jack stared at the old woman, his brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “The peddler, Sheriff. That damned man selling his junk. Some men never learn.” She shook her head.

  “That peddler keeps coming because you all keep buying his junk.”

  “Heavens, Sheriff. Not me. I did see August Miller buying something from him. And Sarah Duncan too. Poor girl.”

  “Is there something you want, Miss Jones?” Jack asked.

  Ethel remained on the sidewalk, watching him with a small, polite smile. “Oh, I’m just surprised you’re not out at the Widow Emma’s with the preacher and the Duncans.” She retained the polite smile, but her eyes narrowed, as if assessing a cut of meat on the butcher’s block.

  “We’ve already searched every inch of that place. There’s no sign of Emma or Abbie Duncan. There’s no—” He stopped. Ethel’s smile widened. “Duncans? Sarah went with them?”

  Ethel’s smile reached its apex. “Oh, yes. She insisted. Rode out with George and that nice preacher a couple of hours ago. I understand it’s her daughter, but,” she paused, leaning in close to Jack so she could whisper. “Such untoward behavior. All alone with those two men and that big savage.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Jack. His steps had already carried him backward. “But I really must be going.”

  Jack reined his horse in front of the main building of the Hughes homestead. Four horses were tied to the hitching post. He found Sarah in the sitting room. She stood with her back to the door, staring at one of Emma’s painted landscapes.

  Jack took a step into the room, and the floorboards groaned under the weight of his boots. He stopped.

  Sarah spun around. “Jack!”

  “Sarah.” Jack strode into the room, but stopped well short of her. “What are you doing here?”

  “We are conducting an investigation.” Elijah Prescott’s voice boomed from the adjoining room. He appeared in the doorway, but made no move to enter the sitting room.

  “I’ve already conducted an investigation here,” Jack said.

  “Yes, and your investigation turned up nothing, did it not?”

  Prescott appeared impossibly large, dwarfing the door frame. Dressed in the same black cassock, he looked as if he could swallow the contents of the entire room.

  The preacher made no motion to enter the sitting room. “A missing child. And now a missing farmhand.”

  “What?” Jack looked at Sarah.

  “Anselmo’s missing,” George said. “Emma came this morning and told us he’s been gone.”

  “I asked around.” Prescott eyed Jack. “Lots of people in the town wonder if the farmhand didn’t just take off with the girl.”

  “Jack told us Anselmo wasn’t involved,” Sarah said, her voice wavering slightly. She looked from Prescott to Jack, her brow furrowed.

  “We looked into it,” Jack said. “And why would he return if he took her?”

  Prescott shrugged. “Who knows what drives the wickedness in men’s hearts?” He stared at Jack. “When we find Anselmo, we’ll have to ask him.”

  “I knew it,” George shouted, the cry carrying past the preacher and buffeting around the room.

  Jack winced. Despite his best efforts, several townsfolk had been convinced that Anselmo was involved in the kidnapping.

  “That Mexican is no good,” George shouted again. Although Jack heard the older man clearly, he couldn’t see him behind Prescott.

  “George!” Sarah cried.

  Prescott stepped back as George squeezed through the narrow doorway and faced his wife. “That no-good scoundrel made off with our daughter. He should be strung up from the nearest tree.” Sarah flinched and George glanced at Jack sheepishly. “I mean if the preacher says it was him, then it was him. My family deserves justice.”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Duncan.” Prescott emerged from the doorway, his black cassock soaking in the faded light from the window. “The sheriff is correct that we shouldn’t rush to convict.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Sarah. She stepped forward, and Jack could make out a glint of life in her eyes.

  Prescott approached Sarah. “The Devil casts aspersions on the weak and the lost. Often to hide his true agents. Those with true wickedness in their hearts must often be ferreted out like a rabbit from its warren.”

  Sarah blinked. Her muscles tensed as Prescott loomed in front of her, but she held her ground. Before she could respond, the floorboards creaked in the front hallway. They all turned as Chata entered the room.

  He looked at each person individually before addressing the preacher. “I found a body.”

  Sarah gasped and stepped forward. George placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. He struggled to talk. “A girl? A girl’s body?”

  Chata did not acknowledge George or Sarah. He held the preacher’s gaze. “A man. Mexican.”

  A wail came from Sarah. Her knees buckled and George rushed to hold her up. “No, no, no.” She fought back tears.

  “You found Anselmo?” Jack approached the man, stepping in front of Prescott so that Chata had to face him. “What happened to him?”

  Chata did not move, standing just a few feet from Jack. His eyelids drooped slightly over his narrowed eyes, which bore into Jack. The dark, weathered face creased with several long wrinkles.

  “Not sure. The body’s in a ravine.”

  “Abbie. Was Abbie there?” The words came from Sarah so weakly that Jack could barely hear them. George said nothing, his concentration focused on supporting his wife, who had sagged against him.

  Chata glanced at Sarah. His stoic façade flickered. “No. There was no girl.”

  The words did little to mollify Sarah. The rancher’s arms enveloped her, and he seemed to relish a chance to shelter his wife.

  Prescott approached the couple and spoke softly to them. He guided them to the door. “Jack, I will take Mr. and Mrs. Duncan back to town. My companion,” he nodded toward Chata, “will take you to the body.” He turned toward his companion. “Please take the sheriff to the body.”

  He held the man’s gaze until Chata nodded.

  Prescott smiled. “Thank you.” He walked to the doorway and stopped. “I’m sorry about your friend. I hope we can find out what happened.”

  Jack said nothing. The front door opened and banged shut, followed by footsteps on the front stairs. Chata stared across the room, as if he had already passed judgement on Jack.

  Jack sighed. “Let’s go then.”

  Chata spoke, and said with much better pronunciation than he used with Prescott, “Yes, let’s go.”

  Chata led Jack northwest of the Hughes farmstead, away from town. He failed to acknowledge the sheriff in any way. He barely swayed in the saddle as his gold-colored palomino picked its way through the scattered rocks and tufts of grass that ran up to the small outcroppings that marked the hills beginning northwest of town.

  If Chata followed a trail, Jack couldn’t tell. His men hadn’t searched the outcroppings in earnest. No tracks had led there,
and no trace of anyone had shown up during a quick exploration.

  “How’d you find him?” Jack asked.

  Instead of answering, Chata directed his horse toward the nearest outcropping. Before them stood a series of large gray rocks stippled with blackened spots. The roundish ovals appeared to have erupted from the ground like the decaying fingers of a corpse digging its way out of its own grave. A lone, dying spruce tree, most of its fine needles scattered beneath, stood in the middle of the rocks like a forlorn sentry.

  Chata dismounted. He nodded toward the rocks. “In there.” He turned to face Jack.

  Jack scanned the outcroppings but saw nothing. He edged his horse forward, squinting toward the direction Chata had nodded. A narrow trail partially covered by leaves, emerged from the back and wended its way upward.

  Jack shook his head. Despite being tucked away, his men wouldn’t have missed the trail, but likely had considered it too far out of the way to search. “What made you look up here?”

  “The Great Father led me here. I followed the signs.” Chata spread out his arms and gestured toward the sky. He looked back to Jack, who frowned. Chata shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a better tracker than your men.”

  “Your English is darn good when you want it to be.”

  Chata stared momentarily before answering. “For an Injun?” he said, slurring the words with a drawl that made it sound as if he’d spat them out like chaw into a spittoon. Jack remained on his horse, his hands resting on the pommel. Chata was as rigid as the rocks behind him.

  Finally, he shrugged. “I went to school in Baltimore. The Oblate Sisters of Providence. It’s for black kids, but they let me in till I was old enough to go to the public high school.”

  “You left your tribe?”

  “My parents were killed. The nuns took me in. The sisters were from Africa. Anyone tossed aside by the white man had a home with them, I reckon.”

  Jack knew children from the Lenape and other tribes didn’t simply leave their families if their parents died. Unlike “civilized” society, an entire tribe functioned as one extended family. Chata should have been taken in by another family and not abandoned to an orphanage or a school for black kids. Jack sensed he was leaving something out.

  But Chata offered nothing more about his family. Jack could respect a man who didn’t want to revisit his past. The sheriff glanced toward the rocks. “Where’s the body?”

  “Dismount,” Chata said.

  They tied their reins to the spruce tree. He led Jack up into the foothills. Trees had grown across them like a mossy carpet. Chata slowed and picked his way with more deliberation. Their boots crunched on the red and brown leaves, the sound carrying through the empty wilderness like a bear’s growl. Once into the trees, Chata slipped through a deeply-shadowed crevice between two of the large rocks. Jack followed.

  They stopped next to an almost sheer embankment that plummeted into a rock-strewn dell. Chata nodded toward the edge. Jack approached the embankment, keeping himself more than an arm’s length away from the man. He looked down. After a moment, he spied the crumpled body of Anselmo partially covered by leaves in the shadows of a shortleaf pine tree.

  “How the hell did you find him way up here?”

  “I followed his tracks.”

  “We didn’t find anything.”

  “Yet there he is.” There was no challenge in Chata’s voice. “And he brought the girl here.”

  Jack scanned the woods and rocks around them. Nothing indicated the passage of people through the area. “Is … is she down there?”

  “No. I assume she is with the Choctaw.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath. “Now, how the hell do you know that? Are you a tracker or a fortune teller?”

  Chata walked to his horse and pulled a thin wooden shaft from his saddlebag. He handed the shaft to Jack, who recognized an arrow that had been snapped in half. Longer and heavier than traditional arrows, the broken shaft was likely an iti naki, or “wooden projectile” in the Choctaw language.

  “Where’s the rest of the arrow?”

  “In Anselmo.”

  Jack returned to the edge of the embankment. Anselmo’s body lay near the trunk of the pine tree. He couldn’t discern any details from the huddled lump.

  “The Choctaw killed him,” Chata said.

  “How do you know that?”

  Chata’s brow furrowed. He held up the broken shaft.

  “Did you see a Choctaw brave shoot that?” Jack asked. “Let’s look into it, but reserve judgement until we know what happened.”

  Chata flipped the arrow shaft in his hands, turning it over and over again. “Okay, Sheriff. But some men have already condemned themselves through their actions. Evidence or not.”

  The wind picked up, and dust and dirt lashed against them. “Can you tell for sure if they’ve taken her?” Jack asked.

  Chata shrugged. “I’m a tracker, not a fortune teller. But it seems your vaquero friend made off with the girl. Maybe the Choctaw saw she was in danger.”

  “But why wouldn’t they bring her back to town?”

  “Maybe the danger is in the town?”

  “New Madrid is safe,” Jack said, his voice rising.

  Chata regarded the sheriff without expression. He sighed softly before saying, “Why? Because you keep it safe?”

  Jack took a step toward Chata. “You act like you know me.”

  Chata finally smiled. “I do know you. All you soldiers are the same. How many Indians have you killed?”

  Jack mind blanched momentarily. “You don’t know me!”

  “How many?”

  Jack fought down the stress surging through his muscles. “What tribe were you?”

  “I am Sewapois!” Chata shouted.

  “You’re a liar,” Jack said. He raised his arms, hands balled into fists, without thinking.

  “You don’t know me, Sheriff,” Chata slurred the final word.

  “The Sewapois were slaughtered—to a man, woman, and child,” Jack said. His arms dropped to his side.

  A fist flashed. Jack’s jaw exploded in pain, and his head snapped back. He sprawled backward, skidding across the leaves and scree, tiny pinpricks of pain mushrooming across his back.

  Chata sprang forward. Jack raised his legs and used the man’s momentum to shove him aside. Chata tumbled toward the edge of the embankment, scrambling on all fours to maintain his balance. Both men jumped to their feet. Chata charged again. Jack sidestepped him like a bullfighter and threw him to the ground.

  “Stop,” Jack said, his voice a rasp. His jaw throbbed. The dank smell of moss and dead leaves fouled his throat. Chata stood, but did not charge. His chest flared up and down like a locomotive pulling out of a station.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I tried to followed orders.” Jack winced as he spoke.

  “Orders? You slaughtered people, and you say orders.” Chata charged. Jack tried to dodge, but Chata caught him in the chest with his shoulder.

  “Oof!” Jack gasped. The two men toppled in a heap toward the embankment. Jack wheezed and heaved as he struggled to find air in his lungs. He tried to stand, but Chata grabbed him and they locked arms. He slowly overpowered the sheriff, driving him back to the ground. Jack spun to the side, causing the younger man to stumble forward. Jack’s fist crashed into a tawny cheekbone, and Chata crumpled to the ground inches from the embankment. Jack took a small step forward, then stumbled sideways.

  “Enough!” he cried, his jaw searing in pain.

  Chata stood, but hesitated. He glared at Jack, who struggled to hold the other man’s gaze.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Jack said.

  Chata laughed. “As if you could. I don’t care what hogwash you tell yourself.” He reached down to his boot and pulled out a Bowie knife with a long wood-carved handle.

  “There’s no point,” Jack said. “I can’t change the past.”

  Chata’s hand tightened around the knife’s han
dle. “No one can.” He rushed forward.

  Jack feinted left and smashed his fist into the side of Chata’s face, who sagged to his knees, his body trembling. Jack advanced. Chata lurched to his feet and swung the knife in a wide arc.

  Jack caught Chata’s arm and twisted his wrist. The younger man gasped, dropping the knife. Jack tried to kick it over the embankment, but it slid to a stop several feet from the edge. Chata yanked his arm down, and then kneed Jack in the stomach. The air thundered from the sheriff’s lungs in a whoosh, his back arching from the force of the blow. Chata grabbed the sheriff’s shoulders and threw him toward the edge. Jack toppled forward, but stopped his momentum before careening over the side.

  Chata scowled, then sprang at Jack. Jack braced himself, but Chata did not dive toward him. The knife! Jack darted to his right, colliding against his opponent. They thudded to the ground, their hands scrambling through pine needles, dirt, and scree for the knife.

  Rather than the knife, Jack’s hand found a jagged stone. He rose to his knees, but dropped the stone. Chata snatched at the knife, and Jack slammed his fist into the back of his head.

  Chata crumpled to the ground, moaning.

  Jack rolled him over. Chata coughed, blood spraying from his mouth. His eyes fluttered open, but struggled to focus. They carried a dazed look bereft of their earlier enmity. He coughed again, his breathing ragged. “Finish what you started.”

  Jack’s body ached. After a moment, his shoulders sagged. “No more.”

  “Just finish it.” Chata labored to get each word out.

  “No,” Jack said. “I have bandages in my saddle bags. I’ll get you back to Doc Waters’.” He picked up Chata and, like a groom carrying his bride, lurched down the hill with his listless adversary.

  “Why?” Chata asked.

  Jack slowed as he sought the safest way down the hill. He didn’t look at Chata.

  “There’s been enough fighting,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jack hesitated at the door to the stationhouse. His spine stiffened at the racking sobs that emanated from behind the wooden walls.

  When he entered, Sarah had her back to him. She stared out the window at some distant point on the horizon. George sat by the desk, his sobbing growing softer when Jack entered.