New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  “I formally accepted two days ago,” Jack said. “Father Maxwell’s party included a regional judge. So, you can start addressing me as Marshal Ellard.”

  The smile disappeared from Prescott’s face. “Such austere declarations don’t suit you.” Prescott removed his hat and nodded slightly.

  Jacks sighed. The fire in his mind ebbed. “I’m just saying you can’t hang an old woman for witchcraft. There hasn’t been a hanging in years.”

  Prescott shook his head. “That, Marshal Ellard,” Prescott drawled the words out, “is most certainly an erroneous contention.”

  The sun beat down on Jack’s back. The sunlight illuminated Prescott’s body, but the overhang shielded his face. The gallows were backlit, and Jack sighed. “I may have found Abbie. The peddler might have taken her to the Mason gang. There’ll be no hanging in my town.”

  “So, now it’s your town, Marshal?”

  Jack stared at Prescott, and wished the man would emerge from the shadows. He nodded slightly. “It’s not my town. It’s everybody’s.”

  Chata and Remington approached and stopped short. Remington shifted uneasily. Chata stepped forward. “I’m ready. The sooner, the better, I’d reckon.”

  Prescott stepped down from the wall. “Where are you going?”

  “With Jack,” Chata said, his face without expression. “We’re going after the girl.”

  “It would be better if you remained here.” Prescott’s trademark sardonic smile disappeared as he emerged from the shadows. The façade of humor was completely gone.

  “Aren’t we here to find the girl?” Chata’s ability to remain stoic, yet insolent, impressed Jack.

  Prescott gritted his teeth. “There is a higher purpose now. Remember your instruction. God’s will can vacillate when a greater evil reveals itself.”

  “Are you saying you cannot handle an old woman on your own?” Chata asked.

  Jack cut in immediately. “There will be no hanging. This will be settled when we return.”

  Prescott shrugged, a small frown skirting his face. “Fine. God’s will may be delayed, but it will not be denied.”

  Jack turned to leave, but stopped. “One question?” Jack eyed the preacher. “Why build gallows, when any barn post would have worked all the same?”

  Prescott hesitated, a credulous smile on his face. “These affairs are not be trifled with. The townsfolk demand satisfaction. God demands an audience!” He waved his hands with a flourish, taking in the gallows as if they carried some divine provenance.

  “And what do you demand, Preacher?” Jack asked.

  “I humbly serve. That is all.”

  Two hours later, Jack, Chata, William, Remington, and two of the cutter marines, Charlie and Sam, assembled by the stationhouse. August and Broussard joined them.

  “Do not let him start anything,” Jack told August. “You hear me?”

  August shrugged. “I’ll keep the peace.”

  “I’ll be here too,” Broussard said.

  Jack smiled, a trickle of relief crossing his face. “Are the rest of you ready?” He grabbed the pommel of his saddle, placed his foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself onto his horse.

  Broussard came forward, and Jack leaned down. He shook Broussard’s hand. “I’m counting on you.”

  “It’ll be fine. I promise,” Broussard whispered.

  Jack straightened in the saddle. “We’re heading to Robertson’s trading post and, from there, hopefully we can find out how to get to the Mason place.”

  Broussard nodded. “Good luck.”

  As they prepared to leave, Mary Fischer rode up on a light brown Morgan horse. The blacksmith carried a rifle strapped to her saddle bag. The men regarded her quietly, and a couple glanced at Jack.

  “Someone once said to me, ‘This isn’t your fight,’ ” Jack said.

  “Someone once said to me that we can’t remove ourselves from a community,” Mary said. “And if helping a little girl isn’t my fight, then what is? Besides,” and she paused to take in the other men, “I’d like to see what this side of a posse looks like.”

  “Well, then,” Jack said. “Let’s get going.”

  The small posse galloped out of town, kicking up clouds of dirt and sand, the horses pounding down the street. They headed north.

  Chata and Remington had pushed ahead to scout. The trader was well-versed in the areas surrounding New Madrid and the Mason gang hideout. Jack rode next to William. Mary trailed a bit behind them. The two marines, Charlie and Sam, brought up the rear.

  “What the hell happened while I was gone?” Jack asked.

  William swallowed. “Can’t rightly tell you. The preacher called everyone to church. Said he had proof that Emma Hughes was a witch.”

  “What proof?”

  “He had a book,” William said, his voice dropping. He leaned toward Jack. “Said it was a book of the cult or something.”

  “A book of the occult?”

  William thought for a minute. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

  “And people believed him?”

  “He’s been going around talking to people,” William said. “Talking about land speculation and the river flooding. Saying it’s the work of witches and demons.”

  “Our problems are normal, not supernatural.”

  “Lots of strange things,” William said softly. “I dunno.”

  “William!” Jack said. William jostled in his saddle, as if he’d been physically struck. “C’mon now. Widow Hughes is not a witch.”

  William reddened, and somehow his long neck seemed to retreat down into his uniform like a turtle’s head retreating into its shell.

  “He’s getting folks riled up,” Mary said. “He doesn’t bother with me, but people come in the shop and talk about it. Some are repeating what he’s saying and others are worried.”

  Jack turned in the saddle. “What has he been saying?”

  Mary urged her horse closer to the two men. “Just what William says.” Mary nodded to the young militiaman, who smiled warmly back. “He says our town is vexed. That darkness has settled in, and that it must be cast out.”

  “And people believe him?” Jack asked.

  “Enough that I’m concerned,” Mary said. “I know you gotta find this girl, but you’ve allowed that preacher to roam around unchecked.”

  “I can’t believe anyone would believe some of the things he says.” Jack swore under his breath.

  “I’ve learned that some people tend to believe the worst in other people,” Mary said. “And rarely do they see the worst in themselves. I reckon unless you really go looking for what’s in your soul, how’ll you ever find it?”

  Before Jack could respond, Chata and Remington came thundering over the rise. They pulled up before the other five men and Mary.

  “Edward Robertson’s place is just ahead,” Remington said. “He’s refusing to tell us where the Mason hideout is. You’ll need to convince him.”

  “Yep,” Jack said. “Let’s go.” He spurred his horse forward.

  Edward Robertson had arrived in these parts years earlier and set up a trading post. Jack knew he had good relations with the Choctaw of the region, and Jack had purchased supplies and dry goods from him on occasion. Robertson was also one of the land speculators who caused such issues around New Madrid, as well.

  Jack sighed. “I’m not going to turn down any help.”

  They made their way down to Robertson’s ramshackle cabin, which appeared as if it might collapse in upon itself if the wind blew harshly. The logs were haphazardly stacked, and the home appeared built for expediency and convenience rather than comfort or stability.

  Robertson emerged from the rundown abode, along with a younger man who Jack assumed was Moses Hurley, Robertson’s son-in-law. Both men had thick, dark beards. Their clothes were torn and unkempt. Robertson held a rifle, without conviction, across his arms. The younger man stood with his arms folded. Two pistols were holstered on his hips.

  “Sheriff,�
� Robertson said in a neutral tone. He nodded to Remington and then Mary. His eyes paused briefly at Chata before landing back on Jack. He ignored William and the two marines.

  “It’s marshal, now,” William said eagerly, and then shrank back into his saddle as everyone turned to stare at him.

  “That so?” Robertson said. “That why you here, Marshal? I bought that land fair and square.” Although his voice remained level, his back stiffened and his muscles tensed. His eyes never left Jack.

  “I’m not here about the land, Eddie,” Jack said. “I’m here about the Duncan girl.”

  Robertson blinked a couple of times. Relief swept across his face. “I can’t rightly help you there. Already told you that.”

  “Actually, you might be able to help,” Jack said. “The Mason gang has her.”

  The old trader’s face crinkled up. “You sure? That don’t sound like them.”

  “They got a damned Frenchman with them. They’re trading her for money.” William didn’t slink in his saddle this time.

  “That so?” Robertson’s eyes never left Jack.

  “That’s what we reckon. They’ve been acting up a lot lately. We’re gonna pay them a visit and see what’s true and what’s not.”

  Robertson hesitated. He pulled some chaw out of his pocket. He shoved a hunk of the tobacco into his mouth, his left check bulging outward. “How you fixin’ to do that?”

  “We need you to show us the way there,” Jack said. He met Robertson’s gaze unflinchingly.

  “I can’t do that. Man’s word’s gotta count for something.” He gestured to the other man. “Only me and my son-in-law knows the way. And we ain’t gonna show you.”

  “They took a little girl,” Jack said. “Are you really going to do nothing?”

  “That may be so, but it’s not my business,” Robertson said with conviction. “I’m a trader. Can’t just be giving up people’s secrets.”

  “Just get us close. We handle it from there. They’ll never know who sent us there.” Jack fought the frustration building up in his chest.

  Robertson worked on the bit of chaw in his mouth. A sliver of brown juice trickled out. He spat on the ground. He glanced at his son-in-law, who shrugged. “This your posse? Dang, Marshal, are you sure you want me to take you there? It’s not an easy place to approach. I heard about the docks the other day. You shouldn’t be itching for another fight.”

  “It’s for a little girl,” Jack said. “Can you just show us the way? When we’re done, they’ll be no more Mason gang.”

  Robertson grunted out a hoarse laugh. “I reckon. Or maybe they’ll be no more posse.”

  Jack stared at the man without responding. His eyes bore into the man without judgement, but imploringly. That his eyes could reveal both a steel heart and a tender soul confounded people.

  Robertson sighed. He turned to his son-in-law. “You all right running them up that ways?”

  Hurley shrugged. “No difference to me.”

  Robertson turned back to Jack and the posse. “Fair enough. My son-in-law will show you the way, but he’s not helping beyond that.” He addressed the younger man. “You don’t get involved, you hear. Just show ’em the way and git.” Hurley nodded.

  Jack smiled, his breath escaping his lungs in a rush. He hadn’t even realized he was holding it in.

  CHAPTER 11

  Hurley explained that the Mason gang’s hideout sat in a dell surrounded by a ridge on three sides. The forested ridges created a shaded nook that housed a small log cabin. The cabin had been built from nearby silver maple and white pine. Other trees, including colorful sweetgum, had been hewn to create a space between the homestead and the surrounding forest. A corral encircled the back of the cabin.

  Hurley reined his horse to a stop and motioned the others to follow. “Not much farther, now,” he said. “I’d tie up the horses here and approach on foot.”

  The men and Mary dismounted and tied their horses to the trees. Jack asked Hurley to stay with the horses.

  “I’m coming with you,” Hurley said.

  “Your father-in-law was pretty clear about what he wanted.”

  “He can do what he wants,” Hurley said. “I made no promises to the Masons. If you’re sure they got that girl, I’m in.”

  “I’m not sure, but there’s a Frenchman there who knows where she is,” Jack said.

  Hurley nodded. “Good enough for me. We can only reach the cabin from straight ahead.” He pointed through the tree line at a space between the ridges. “Not much choice in how to approach.”

  “What’d you want to do?” Remington asked. “They see you coming, they’re going to start shooting.”

  “I plan on walking right up to the front door and taking that girl back,” Jack said.

  The men stared at Jack, unsure if he was serious. William shyly looked away. Remington coughed softly.

  “For a smart man, you think up the dumbest plans,” Mary said. Her frown attested to the fact she wasn’t joking.

  Jack’s entire countenance screamed disagreement: rigid muscles, tight lips, hands balled into fists. Eventually, his shoulders sagged. “Maybe I should hang back,” he said with reluctance.

  “Good,” Remington said, the relief evident on this face.

  “Sometimes you just gotta spell it out for him,” she said.

  Jack frowned, his eyes flicking from Mary to Remington.

  Remington coughed. “You’ve traded with them?” he asked Hurley.

  The man nodded, his face better suited for a poker table.

  “Okay. Me and Hurley will go. Let’s go back and get our horses. We’ll bring a third one along, like it’s a pack horse carrying supplies. We’ll ride in and can at least see whether they’ve got the girl inside or not.”

  Remington picked up a stick and drew the cabin and surrounding ridges in the dirt. He tapped the ground with the stick. “What do ya think?” he asked Jack.

  “One man on each ridge. William on the east and Sam on the west.” He nodded to William and the older of the two cutter marines. “Remington, you and Hurley approach the cabin. Charlie, Mary, and I will spread out in the woods.” He nodded to the younger marine, who nodded. Mary shrugged. “Find a good spot that gives you a clear line of sight.”

  “It’s a crappy plan.” Remington shrugged.

  “I know,” Jack said. “You got a better one?”

  “Can we even get them to give the girl up?” Hurley said.

  “We already know what they want,” Jack said. “Money. They’ve asked for a ransom.”

  “A what?” Hurley said.

  “It’s a French thing. Trading people for money.”

  “They got a Frenchman in the gang.” Wrinkles formed on Remington’s brow. “Can’t remember his name. Squirrely fella. Don’t really like him.”

  “How do we even know that they’re in that cabin?” William asked. “I mean, after the shootout, you’d think they’d skedaddle.”

  Jack stood. “Well. There’s one way to find out.”

  The cabin was quiet as they approached. Two horses stood in the corral, quietly nibbling on grass. Except for the horses, it’d be impossible to know whether anyone was there.

  Jack leaned against a towering oak. The rough bark ground into his back as he pressed against the tree. The shade provided relief from the day’s blistering sun. He tried to relax for a moment, but remained tense. However, he also felt at ease for the first time in days. He pulled out his rifle and doubled-checked everything.

  He waited. His hand instinctively rose to feel for the Sewapois arrowhead, and his index finger tracing its familiar triangular shape through his shirt.

  Atop the western ridge, William waved upon reaching the summit. Jack cursed to himself and silently urged the young man to take some cover. The second marine, Sam, had reached the eastern summit and taken refuge among some rocks, lost to sight for the moment. Mary was several paces away from Jack, pressed upon against a sweetgum tree. She held her rifle and nodded to J
ack. Chata had faded into the trees and shadows, lost to Jack’s awareness as if he’d never existed at all.

  Remington and Hurley rode into the clearing. They walked their horses toward the cabin. They held their hands at their sides close enough to their bodies that they could still draw their weapons but, hopefully, far enough away as to discourage hostility.

  “Stop right there!” A shout emerged from one of the windows. A dog-lock musket poked through the window, training directly on Remington. The front door creaked open, and Willie Mason stood with a flintlock pistol aimed at them. “I don’t recall inviting you fine folks here.”

  “Damn it, Willie,” Hurley said. He and Remington stepped apart from each other. Hands remained away from their bodies. “Put that gun down.”

  “Sheriff Ellard ain’t out there somewhere, is he?”

  “It’s Marshal Ellard now,” Remington said.

  Willie frowned. He adjusted his grip on the pistol. “That so?”

  “Yep. That so,” Remington said. “That’s why we’re here. Figured you’d be taking off for a spell. Maybe need some supplies from us before you vamoose.”

  “Don’t recall ever inviting you here, Remmy,” Willie said. “You know the rules, Hurley.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to come to me, so I made the trip here,” Remington said, an uneasy smile on his face.

  “Yeah? That’s a might bit neighborly of you,” Willie said. “You sure Jack ain’t nosing about?” His fingers flexed on the trigger. “You out there, Marshal. Why not show yourself?”

  “He’s trying to find that girl,” Remington said.

  “What girl?”

  “Jeez, Willie.” Remington sighed. “Abbie Duncan. Been missing for days. Whole town’s up in arms about it.”

  “Sarah Duncan’s girl?” A leering smile spread across Willie’s face. “Shame, that is. Fine woman like that.”

  Remington and Hurley glanced at each other. “You seen the girl?” Remington asked.

  “Me?” Willie blinked. The pistol sagged a bit in his hands. “You joking? How long’s it been? That girl’s dead or a squaw by now.”