New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  Sarah turned. Her expression was difficult to read, as if she had years of practice suppressing her emotions. A soft gleam in her eyes seemed to plead to Jack for help.

  “Do they really have her?” The words slipped from her lips so softly, Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “I don’t know.” He walked to his desk and took off his coat. He nodded at George, who managed a morose smile. “I’ll take some men to the Choctaw village.”

  Sarah walked across the room. She stopped, glancing from Jack standing next to the desk to George who had crumpled into the wooden chair.

  “Why would they take her?” She looked back at Jack.

  “I don’t know,” Jack said, absent-mindedly fidgeting with his belt buckle. The brass piece depicted a steer’s head, and he ran his fingers on one of the horns.

  “They’re savages,” George spat. “She’s probably already dead.”

  “George!” Jack snapped. He glared at the older man, who shrank farther into the chair. Jack glanced at Sarah, but her face briefly flashed irritation and anger. She looked away.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” George said, but he remained balled up in the chair. He didn’t look at Jack or his wife. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “You keep saying that,” Sarah said. Her eyes flashed. “Is that all you can do?”

  “I told you not to talk to me like that,” George said, his hands tightening around the armrests of the chair. He stood and glowered at her.

  She inched backward, but gritted her teeth and stopped. She held her head up.

  “George!” Jack snapped. “Enough. Will you calm down?”

  George started and stared at Jack. His eyes flared briefly. He unclenched his fists and looked at his hands. “Sorry, Jack.” He kept his eyes on his hands, before looking up with a sheepish smile. “I’m just worried.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Sarah said, her voice flat, all trace of emotion gone.

  George sat back down with a thump. “You’re my wife, Sarah. You do as I say. If you’d just listen.”

  “I listen, George. But, sometimes, I do not agree.”

  Jack hesitated. Normally, he’d slip away from one of George and Sarah’s arguments, but this time there was too much at stake. George was too set in his ways to change, and Jack wondered why the older man had even come out to the untamed West. The new rules of the frontier frustrated George to no end. Sarah was born here, and Jack had always doubted George could handle a woman like her.

  “If it’ll help ameliorate the predicament, I offer my assistance to help with marital relationships.” Elijah Prescott stood in the doorway. None of them had heard him approach, and they stared at him uneasily. “Granted, it’s usually unnecessary on the road and on the frontier.” He nodded. “Women seem to do what they want around here, but then I guess you have to claim certain prerogatives in such a harsh environment.”

  “Can we help you?” Jack asked.

  Prescott pursed his lips. “I heard you were undertaking an excursion to the Choctaw village. I humbly came to offer the services of my servant Chata.”

  “The Indian?” George asked.

  Prescott ignored George and directed his answer toward Jack. “Chata is well-versed in various tribal languages. His schooling is exemplary, and I’m certain that his perspicacity will prove eminently advantageous.”

  Jack said nothing. George blinked at the preacher before jumping from his chair. “You’re not taking the savage, are you?” he asked Jack.

  Jack ignored George and stared at Prescott. The preacher stood framed in the doorway, sunlight cascading around him but leaving the man encased in shadows. “No,” Jack said softly. He faced George and said deliberately, “We are.”

  “Wh—what?” George sputtered the word out. He back away from Jack, the office chair tripped him, and he flailed at the desk, barely keeping from falling.

  “George, what is the problem?” Jack stepped forward and grabbed the man before he toppled over the chair.

  “I have no desire to go to an Indian village.”

  “Why not? They’ve traded with the town for years.”

  “I don’t deal with Indians,” George said, but again refused to look Jack in the eyes.

  “The Choctaw are not a war-like tribe.” Jack insisted, his frustration mounting.

  “She’s our daughter.” The words shot from Sarah’s mouth and echoed around the small stationhouse. A hint of disbelief tinged her tone.

  The men fell silent. Prescott said nothing, a bemused look on his face.

  “Jack will handle it,” George said, smiling crookedly at his wife.

  “Enough.” Jack’s words resounded in the small room. “You’re coming, George.”

  “I can’t.” Although George stood, he shrank back, as if Jack’s words had physically struck him.

  “Then I’ll go.” Sarah faced the three men with her arms folded.

  “No, you won’t!” The words came from both Jack and George as if it were choreographed. Prescott stared at Sarah, his dark eyes shining dully, his face an unreadable mask.

  “She’s my daughter.” The words barely trembled as she spoke.

  “I forbid it!” George rose up.

  Sarah faced her husband. She flinched ever so slightly and rocked back a smidgen. Her eyes closed as she fought to keep her composure. “You are welcome to change your mind and come with us, George.” She turned toward Jack. “But I’m coming.”

  “Sarah, I think George is right,” Jack said, but his hound dog expression suggested otherwise. “The Choctaw are peaceful, but maybe …” The words dried up before he finished.

  “I agree with Mrs. Duncan.” Prescott had not entered the building, but remained framed in the doorway.

  “Wh—what do you mean?” George stammered.

  “I believe it’s important for one of the child’s parents to be there, Mr. Duncan, and if you have forsworn that obligation, then perhaps your wife can pick up the mantle.” The corners of Prescott’s mouth turned up slightly in what must pass for a wide grin for him.

  “Fine,” Jack said, but his words lacked emphasis. “We’ll take Chata and Remington La Forge, the French trader. He’s on good terms with them.”

  “Splendid, Sheriff.” Prescott’s continued smile somehow conveyed no warmth. “The sooner the better, so we can put this nasty business behind us.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, while deliberately ignoring her husband.

  “My dear, such a simple expression of gratitude is unnecessary and does you no good service. I’m here to assist in locating your daughter and make things safe for her inevitable return. Your presence in this endeavor may prove more propitious than that of your husband.” Prescott nodded slightly and tipped the brim of his hat. “I’m intrigued by you, Mrs. Duncan,” he said. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you.”

  As the final words escaped his mouth, his smile vanished. He turned and retreated back to the street.

  The horses pounded down the trail, kicking up dust. The trader, Remington La Forge, led the way. Sarah followed, with Jack shortly behind. Chata brought up the rear.

  Jack urged his horse after Sarah’s, but her head was bent close to her mount’s head to minimize the wind rushing past, and she didn’t acknowledge him. Despite Jack’s years in the calvary, his military career paled in comparison to her childhood and life on the frontier, and he marveled at how effortlessly she controlled the animal.

  The rutted trail wound northwest from New Madrid. The land was dotted with oak, maple, and hickory trees. The grass plains spread out to the west, and the shimmering waters of the Mississippi periodically wended into view to the east.

  Remington held up his hand and then reined his horse to a stop. Sarah pulled up alongside the trader as Jack let his horse continue a few paces ahead. They wore bandanas over their faces to shield themselves from the wind and dust as they rode.

  Sarah twisted in the saddle toward the trader. She pulled her bandana down. “Why are we
stopping?”

  “The village is around this bend and down the hillside.” Remington’s bandana hung by his chin. He spat chaw onto the ground. “Thundering down without warning might cause a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  “But they have my daughter.”

  “You don’t know that,” Chata said as he edged his horse forward. He wore no bandana.

  Sarah eyed him for a moment. “Then let’s go find out.” She turned to face Remington. “You can set the pace.”

  Remington regarded Sarah, as if assessing the health and value of livestock. Sarah’s horse shifted in the path, but Sarah held her mount steady and met his gaze with a scowl.

  “You handle that horse well,” he said with a hint of surprise.

  “So do you,” she replied in a similar tone, but with a mocking edge.

  Remington smiled, but Sarah’s expression remained unchanged.

  Jack guided his mount forward. “Let’s just keep moving.”

  Remington snorted and shook his head, his smile even wider. He took off at a trot.

  They skirted the edge of the nearby foothills. The Choctaw village lay just over the next rise, nestled among the trees dotting the plains. The trail led straight into the village. Small egg-shaped huts sat interspersed on either side of the trail. The huts were constructed from saplings that had been driven into the ground and arced to form a conical shell at the top. Additional saplings were interwoven through the standing ones. Woven mats and animal hides lay attached to the sides or irregularly scattered across the top to form walls and a roof.

  European traders had reached the Choctaw a century ago and had established a prosperous trading relationship. This enabled the Choctaw to serve as an intermediary to the other tribes in the region and left them well-acquainted with European customs and wares.

  As the riders edged into the village, most of the tribe eyed the strangers. Two women wearing deerskin dresses knelt behind a disemboweled deer carcass splayed out in front of them. One woman held a large knife poised in the air, blood still dripping from the blade.

  Four Choctaw men stepped into the riders’ path. They were bald except for a sprout of hair near the back of their skulls that hung down by their shoulders. They were clad in deerskin, loincloths, leggings, and moccasins.

  Remington dismounted and approached the men. The eldest-looking Choctaw man smiled. “Brother Remington,” he said. “Have you eaten?” He spread his arms in welcome.

  “No, Chula humma,” Remington said. “I’m sorry. Bad times bring us here.” He then spoke briefly in the Choctaw tongue.

  The elder regarded Jack, Chata, and Sarah. His smile brightened when regarding her, but then faded. “I sorry. No girl here.”

  A small, pained breath escaped Sarah. Chata said nothing, but Jack pressed Remington, “What about the arrow?

  Remington spoke to the man, who frowned but eventually nodded. The trader gestured to Jack. “Show him.”

  Jack took the broken shaft from his saddlebag and handed it to Chula. The man studied the broken arrow. He turned and said something in Choctaw to one of the other men, who ran off.

  He smiled at Jack and Remington. “Arrow is Nashoba nowa.” He pointed to a notched engraving of a circle on the shaft. “Nashoba nowa.”

  Remington nodded. “That’s one of the younger warriors. I’ve traded with him. He’s saying it’s his arrow.”

  “How is he sure?” Sarah asked.

  “The kid marks all of his arrows with that circle,” said Remington.

  “Then he murdered Anselmo?” Sarah asked, as much to herself as to the men.

  “It just means it was his arrow,” Chata said. Jack frowned. Chata shrugged and turned away.

  “Where is he, then?” The words dropped from Jack’s mouth as he noticed a younger man approaching with Chula.

  The younger man spoke to his elder. Their conversation flew back and forth so fast that Jack couldn’t distinguish the individual words. At one point, the younger man became agitated, gesticulating toward the west. The elder snapped angrily in a guttural tone and motioned the young man away.

  After the young man stalked off, the elder turned back to Remington. He held up the broken shaft and spoke in low tones. “His mark. Not his arrow.”

  Jack watched the young man depart, and he wondered if he should pursue the brave.

  “He traded the arrows.” Remington spat chaw on the ground again.

  “What?” Jack spun around. Even Chata appeared surprised.

  “Traded them?” Sarah asked. She inched her horse forward. “To whom?” Her words echoed in the men’s ears.

  Remington paused, looking from Jack to Sarah. He addressed Sarah. “The peddler.”

  “Bozeman?” The name slipped from Jack’s lips. “What do you mean?”

  “Dressing glasses.” The elder gestured toward where the young man had departed. Annoyance flickered across his face. “Glasses.”

  Remington shrugged. “Mirrors. The young brave traded some arrows for a couple of mirrors.”

  “Do you believe him?” Jack asked, unsure himself of the truth.

  “Ah, really?” Chata laughed. He shook his head. “The brave said he never saw a girl, but he must be lying, no?” Jack’s anger faded as he stared at Chata. “Your peddler man wouldn’t take the girl, of course.”

  “He’s just a peddler,” Jack said.

  “I don’t like him.” Sarah’s declaration was firm. The men turned to regard her. “I’ve never liked him, Jack. He’s always trying to sell something that’s never what it seems. And I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

  Jack took off his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t like Bozeman, either. But he just peddles junk. That brave is a warrior.” Jack’s final words held no conviction. He had studied the young Choctaw man and seen nothing but fierce denial to the elder’s words.

  “I want to know what you really think, Jack Ellard,” Chata said. His words were deliberate and reserved.

  Jack looked off in the direction that the brave had left, but the young warrior had long since disappeared. He shook his head. “I don’t think he did it.”

  Chata nodded.

  Jack turned to Remington. “What do you think?”

  “I’ve traded with these people for fifteen years, Jack. They’ve never done me wrong. Never. Never heard of them doing no one wrong.”

  “Now what, Jack?” Sarah asked. Her voice shook slightly.

  Jack put his hat back on. He sighed “Now? Now, we find the peddler.”

  CHAPTER 8

  After they returned to town, Jack headed back to the sheriff’s office. He found Father James Maxwell seated in front of his desk. The priest stood and grinned, his freckled face sagging from the long trip from Ste. Genevieve.

  “Jack,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Father Maxwell,” Jack said and extended his hand. “I wish you made it down here more often.”

  “You are not the only one to say that to me,” Father Maxwell said. “I try to get to every parish I can, but my main responsibility is Ste. Genevieve.”

  Father Maxwell was the Vicar General of the Bishop of Louisiana and the parish priest of Ste. Genevieve. He was also instrumental in building the Academy, a public school perched atop the highest hill in the city. The school, constructed entirely of stone, offered classes in English and French, and taught to native peoples and black students as well. In order for settlers and the others to thrive in the burgeoning United States, being able to conduct business in English was vital.

  The inclusiveness of the school had impressed Jack, and he liked Father Maxwell immensely. The priest stood tall, with muscles that implied a rancher or farmer and not a man of the cloth. A bushy red beard dominated his face, yet did not obscure his warm and friendly nature.

  “How long are you staying?” Jack asked.

  “We’re leaving soon. I waited because I wanted to talk to you. You missed Mass.”

  “Sorry, Father, but
I have to find the Duncan girl.”

  “Ah, yes,” Father Maxwell said. His beard seems to droop. “Terrible situation. I spoke to the father.”

  “George is a good man. Not always, but good enough, I guess.”

  “Jack,” Father Maxwell said with a hint of admonishment. “It is not your place to judge.”

  “I know. It’s just… will God help them, Father?”

  Father Maxwell looked pensive. He sat back down in one of the chairs in front of Jack’s desk. His large frame appeared cramped in the small chair, but he was completely at ease. Jack remained just inside the doorway.

  “God does what he can,” Father Maxwell said. “But it is up to us to find our own answers.”

  “That I believe,” Jack said. He entered the office and sat behind his desk. He removed his hat, but held onto it. “We need a priest here.”

  “I agree,” Father Maxwell nodded. “We are trying to find one who’ll fit in. He may not be as untraditional as Father Gibault, however.” Father Maxwell stood and walked to the doorway. He looked outside, and his eyes swept over the town. “But I will try and find someone to match your town’s independent spirit.”

  Jack nodded. He fumbled with his hat.

  Father Maxwell regarded him for a moment. “You know, I would think you of all people would understand the difficulties of my position.”

  Jack looked up quizzically.

  Father Maxwell sighed. “Hundreds of miles to administer and no way to give everyone everything they need … Marshal Ellard.”

  Jack shook his head, but Father Maxwell continued before Jack could speak. “I know, I know. You haven’t officially accepted the position.” He smiled. “Have you ever considered that the position chose you?”

  Jack stood. He placed his hat on the desk. “And why would that be?”

  “Someone thinks you have something to offer,” Father Maxwell said and gestured to the ceiling.

  Jack sighed. “I cannot be riding around all of Upper Louisiana. I have responsibilities here. In this town.”