New Madrid

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New Madrid Page 9

by Robert Tomaino


  “Your responsibilities extend throughout all of these lands. Not just here. You cannot hide out here forever.” Father Maxwell’s voice tightened, and the roughened edges echoed in the small room.

  Jack said nothing.

  “You know. There are saloons in every town.” Father Maxwell’s tone lay flat and carried no judgement.

  Surprise and shame flickered across Jack’s face, replaced almost instantaneously with a determined frown. “Nothing wrong with a man enjoying his whiskey.”

  “Your answers are measured. Always.”

  Jack didn’t respond. He tinkered with the papers on his desk. “I can do my job. Whiskey doesn’t change that.”

  “In moderation,” Father Maxwell said, his tone softening. “Everything in moderation. We need you. I never said it would be easy. I don’t like traveling around everywhere, but I still do it. You can do this, Jack.”

  Jack shoved his hat across the desk, clearing a path free of dust and dirt.

  Father Maxwell ran his hands down his black cassock, momentarily straightening the creases. He walked over to the desk. “Do you need me to hear your confession?”

  “You’ve already heard my confession. What more is there to add?”

  “That was two years ago. And, as I recall, it involved things from twenty years earlier.” His face was kind, but unsmiling. “Are you without sin the last two years?”

  “Maybe I’m still trying to make up for the past ones. Isn’t that the right thing to do?”

  “You’ve atoned for those sins.”

  “Have I, Father?”

  Father Maxwell sat down again across from Jack. He motioned for the sheriff to sit. “It’s easier if you just say what you mean.”

  “You’ve told me not to question why God would allow the slaughter of all those women and children. You told me my place is not to question this.” He hesitated. “But I failed.”

  “How? How did you fail?”

  “I didn’t stop it, Father. I didn’t stop them.” Jack’s voice trembled. He did not look at the priest. His right hand swept to his chest, clamping on the arrowhead under his shirt.

  “I wasn’t there,” Father Maxwell said. “I only know what you’ve told me. How could you, a young officer, stop that massacre?”

  Jack sat there. His eyes cast down, and he said nothing.

  “How?” Father Maxwell asked again.

  “I couldn’t.” The words barely rose out of Jack’s mouth. Silence hung in the air, mingling with the dust. A stray sunbeam cut across the desk, leaving the two men in shadows. Jack met Father Maxwell’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Why was I there? Why would God put me there to see that, if I wasn’t meant to do something?”

  “Maybe He wanted you to see what man is capable of. Maybe He needed you to know that, so the next time when you do have the power, you will be able to stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  Father Maxwell shrugged. “I don’t know. We don’t get all the answers. Sometimes we don’t even get the questions.”

  “I came out West to be left alone,” Jack said. “I just wanted to live my life as quietly as possible.”

  “That’s not true,” Father Maxwell said. “No one comes out West for peace and quiet. You came for another reason.”

  “What would that be?”

  Father Maxwell glanced toward the window. His fingers drummed softly on the arm of the chair. “You’ve never told me what happened back East. It might help to tell me what happened. What you did.”

  “You just said that I’ve atoned for those sins,” Jack said.

  “You’ve never told me the whole story. I am always willing to listen, if you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Jack said. After a moment of silence, he added, “Did you send Elijah Prescott here?”

  Wrinkles of worry spread across Father Maxwell’s normally amiable face. “Elijah Prescott is no pastor of any church that I am aware of. He was in an orphanage in Pennsylvania. Its reputation is not good. The nuns there are quite strict.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means a man can come out of that environment with a hatred of women.”

  “Are you saying that is why Prescott holds witch trials?”

  “I’m saying be careful with him.” Father Maxwell tapped his hand on his thigh. “Whatever motivates him, it is not the voice of God. He may not even know why he acts.”

  “I don’t trust the man.”

  “There are many who use the Lord’s name for wickedness. I fear them most of all.”

  A rueful smile spread across Jack’s face.

  “What?” Father Maxwell asked.

  “You are a good man, Father. As good a man as I’ve ever met, but sometimes you and Prescott do talk alike.”

  “We may talk alike, but I suspect that’s where our similarities end. Judge not a man on his words, but his deeds.”

  “Is that in the Bible?”

  “That is one of my laws of the West.” Father Maxwell sighed. He clasped his hands together. “I know Prescott pushed for a witchcraft trial in Ohio. I’d hope that we as a society would have moved past this by now, but once the populace is whipped into a frenzy, it is difficult to pull them back.”

  Jack, lost in thought, made no reply.

  “I’d suggest you keep an eye on him.” Father Maxwell asked. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Jack pursed his lips. “There is never a moment to relax anymore. Abbie’s missing, the Masons attacked the cutter service, the dockworkers are fighting, and Anselmo’s been killed. Prescott is causing problems. It just seems like one thing after another.”

  Father Maxwell stood. “I know you came out here for peace and quiet. But you’re the law now. No one to tell you what to do. But it means that you can’t sit this one out.”

  “Yeah, I’ve realized that.”

  “You’ll act, or the Lord will urge you to act.”

  “How will He do that?”

  “It’d probably be best to just act on your own.” Father Maxwell donned his hat. “You know, Judge Mathers from St. Louis is traveling with my group. Why don’t you stop by and say hello?”

  Jack let the unspoken question hang in the air, ignoring the implication. “When are you leaving?”

  “About twenty minutes.” Father Maxwell’s expression was unreadable behind the bushy, red beard, but his muscles tensed as he awaited Jack’s response.

  Jack let silence creep into the room. After a moment, he said, “I’ll be there. I’ll meet with the judge.”

  “Great,” Father Maxwell said. His eye brightened in relief, or perhaps excitement. He shook Jack’s hand with vigor before walking back to the door. “And don’t forget us up in Ste. Genevieve. There’s always a home for you there too.”

  A few hours later, Jack sat in the saloon. He had downed his third whiskey by the time William found him. The young man, as was his nature, hesitated. He hovered just off the periphery of Jack’s vision.

  “Out with it, William,” Jack said, although his eyes remained on the whiskey.

  “You’d better get to the jail.”

  It was the flat tone of William’s voice, devoid of its characteristic nervousness and hesitation, and not the words themselves, that pulled Jack’s gaze from the bottle of alcohol.

  “Fast,” William said.

  Jack grabbed his hat and followed William out the door. They entered the jail to a chorus of voices—shouting, pleading, cajoling, and mediating. The chorus ceased when he entered.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Jack said.

  The jail was packed. George, Sarah, Prescott, August, and Broussard were huddled around his desk.

  George stepped forward and handed Jack a note.

  “Well? What is going on?” Jack asked.

  “Ask Broussard,” George said. His reddened face seethed.

  “In France, we call it raenson.” Broussard sighed as Jack stared at him blankly. “
It means ‘to buy back.’ It’s when a person is taken, and then the family buys the person back.”

  Jack read the note. His brow furrowed. “Bozeman? He wants money for the girl?”

  “That’s what it means,” Broussard said.

  “Jack, you have to do something,” Sarah said. The worry etched freely across her face took him aback. Sarah had always held herself strongly throughout the whole ordeal.

  “Bozeman usually visits the miller whenever he leaves town,” William offered sheepishly. His body shrank back when everyone turned to look at him.

  “He took her for money?” Sarah asked. Confusion spread across her face.

  “Honey, the doctor said you should lie down,” George said.

  Sarah’s face grew red. “George! I swear—”

  “All right, enough!” Jack said. “I’ll head out to Tom’s place. Give me a chance to get ready. Out.” He herded the townsfolk like cattle and ushered them to the door. Everyone shuffled out except for Chata and Broussard. Jack stared at the two men.

  “I’d like to go with you,” Chata said.

  Jack hesitated, then sighed. “Very well.” Chata slipped out the door. Jack returned to his desk and sat down.

  Broussard remained next to the door, his arms folded across his chest. He stopped and smiled. “Raenson, Jack. The word has another meaning.”

  “And what’s that?” Jack hung his head in his hands, but the exasperation could still be heard in his words.

  “Redemption.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The rutted dirt tract led Jack and Chata through a small apple orchard. They had left New Madrid and ridden about fifty miles south, hoping to catch wind of the peddler’s destination.

  An Englishman named Thomas Riddle had built a small mill along the Pemiseo River, a tiny tributary of the St. Francis River, itself a western tributary of the Mississippi. The two men now wended their way through Riddle’s orchard.

  As his horse passed below one tree, Chata reached up and yanked an apple down. He bit into the fruit, juices running down his chin. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “Must be awful lonely out here so far from town,” he said without much emotion.

  Jack rode a few paces ahead of Chata. He didn’t turn around. “Some people prefer the isolation.”

  “I know,” Chata agreed. “But why come so far out here?”

  Jack looked back. “I just told you. Some people like being all alone.”

  “A man does not need to be away from people, away from a city, to be all alone,” Chata said.

  Jack didn’t respond. His horse clip-clopped through the trees. His head thudded against a low-hanging branch, snatching his hat as it tumbled off his head.

  “Injun!” A small boy’s cry rose from somewhere up ahead. “Pa, Pa. There’s an Injun coming.”

  Jack slowed his horse. Chata pulled up alongside him. They continued at a slower pace.

  “Thomas Riddle,” Jack shouted. “It’s Jack Ellard.”

  A door banged open, or possibly shut, in the distance. A small farmhouse peeked into view from among the trees. Jack and Chata rode up as a large man walked to meet them. Several children and his wife stood on the porch, watching silently.

  “Jack, how are you?” Riddle said. He stood taller than both of the other men. A bushy blond beard that descended to his chest hid his features. When he reached them, he extended a large, calloused hand to Jack after the sheriff dismounted.

  Jack smiled as he shook Riddle’s hand. “Hoping you could help us. Has the peddler, Bozeman, been through these parts?”

  Riddle eyed Chata warily. He briefly glanced back and forth between the two visitors. After a moment, he nodded politely to Chata. “Yep. A few days back.”

  Jack’s muscles stiffened. “Did he have a little girl with him?”

  “What? No. Just his usual stuff.”

  “We’re still looking for the Duncan girl.” Jack’s head drooped, disappointment etched on his face.

  “You think Bozeman has her?” Riddle glanced back at his family.

  “Not sure, but I feel like he knows something about her disappearance.”

  “Did you look in his wagon?” Chata remained on his horse. He stared at the Englishman. “Could he have the girl hidden back there?”

  “No, I didn’t search his wagon,” Riddle said defensively. “Why would I? There was no girl.”

  “You wrong, Pa!” the smallest boy shouted from the porch. The shrill cry sounded like the boy who had announced their arrival.

  “What are you talking about, James?” Riddle asked.

  The boy immediately clammed up as Jack and Chata turned toward him. His mother whispered to him and pushed James out from the porch.

  He slunk over to the three men, his head hung low. “I’m sorry, Pa. Sorry.”

  Riddle placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “It’s all right. You’re not in trouble.”

  James pushed in closer to his father. He ignored Jack, focusing instead on Chata. He studied the man with a sense of wonder and awe on his face.

  Riddle gently shook James. “Out with it, boy.”

  “When you and Mr. Bozeman where looking at the mill, I snuck in the back of the wagon.” His shoulders drooped.

  “James Riddle,” His father said harshly. His mother gasped on the porch. “What have we told you about respecting people’s things?”

  “There was a girl inside, Pa.” The words tumbled out of James’ mouth in a torrent as he sought to deflect from his crimes.

  “What?” Jack said, the surprise evident in his tone.

  The boy gazed at Jack a moment. “Dunno. She said she was hiding, and that it was a secret. She told me not to say nuttin.” He pulled away from his father. “I got scared and left. I didn’t do nuttin. I swear, Pa. Nuttin.”

  “Can you describe her?” Jack asked.

  “She had black hair and a blue dress,” the boy said. He nodded for emphasis.

  “Was she all right? Was she hurt?” Jack tried to keep the worry out of his voice.

  The boy thought a moment before answering. “She seemed fine.”

  “Go back to your mother.” Riddle pointed back to the farmhouse. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “I need to know where Bozeman was headed,” Jack said.

  Riddle hesitated as he mulled over what to say.

  “Tom,” Jack said again with a softer tone. “Do you know where he went next?”

  “I’d reckon maybe to see the Masons,” Riddle said.

  “What?” Surprise was an expression that rarely crossed Jack’s face, but this time his mouth dropped open. He closed his eyes momentarily. “What possible reason would there be to go there?”

  “He’s a peddler. He sells to everyone. Outlaws included. I think he meets them somewhere by the Robertson place up north. I’m sorry. I know you’re not their favorite person.”

  Chata laughed. The two other men turned to him. “A man without enemies is usually not worth knowing.” The other two men regarded Chata for a moment, but let the comment go.

  “Is that where he said he was headed?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” Riddle said. He took off his hat and scratched his head. “That’s where he said he was headed.”

  Jack turned to Chata. “C’mon. We gotta get back to town. We can’t hit the Mason homestead without help.”

  “You won’t make it back to town before nightfall,” Riddle said. “We’ve got plenty of room. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “We’ve gotta go, but I appreciate the offer.” Jack shook the miller’s hand before hopping onto his horse. He and Chata thundered back through the orchard while the family watched them depart. James yanked free from his mother’s arms and ran after, till Jack and Chata faded from view.

  Jack and Chata made their way along the ridge a short distance from the mill. A dense stretch of woods spread out before them. A rustling came from somewhere ahead, and a small doe burst from the tree line. The animal’s hecti
c flight took it toward the two men before it veered back toward the trees. A thwack and a hiss sounded. The deer collapsed, blood jutting out of its side. The deer flailed, attempting to rise as a man emerged from the woods and dispatched the animal with a knife. Another man approach from the direction the deer had come. Both of them hesitated when they saw Jack and Chata.

  “Quapaw,” Chata said.

  “The town’s never had any trouble with the Quapaw,” Jack said, yet he shifted in the saddle. Chata remained at ease.

  Chata called out a greeting, and the men responded. They exchanged words. Despite the sense of tension, Chata explained that they had been invited back to their fire. “We should go,” Chata said simply.

  “There seemed to be some deliberation,” Jack said.

  “The Chickasaw raided the Quapaw for years,” Chata said. “Until the Quapaw allied with the French.”

  “I thought you were Lenape?” Jack asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chata replied. “The battles were many years ago.”

  “How long ago?” Jack asked.

  “Long enough.”

  The Quapaw men had hoisted the deer, and Chata signaled that they should tie the animal to the back of his horse. Once the deer was fastened securely to his mount, Chata and Jack followed the two Quapaw men on horseback at a slow pace. They navigated their way slowly down the slope, the horses carefully treading across the scattered rocks and dirt. After the four men reached the bottom, they made their way toward the Quapaw’s small camp.

  One of the warriors at the camp spoke poor English and, after exchanging greetings, the Quapaw invited Jack and Chata to join them for their late day meal. Jack hesitated a moment before accepting the hospitality.

  The men wore breechcloths with leather leggings and long robes fashioned from buffalo hides. Tan-colored moccasins protected their feet. Their coal-black heads were shaved expect for a scalplock, a long, single braid of hair in the back. The shaved part of their heads glistened with some type of grease that reflected the evening sunlight.

  Jack knew that the Quapaw had sometimes intermarried with French settlers, but was struck that a couple of the men possessed faint French features such as sharper, more beaklike noses. One man could be a distant cousin of Broussard.

 

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