New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  Jack could hear the talking from his vantage point. Enough distance existed between the three men to force them to shout. He couldn’t make out Willie’s expression well enough, but his voice definitely carried surprise. Jack’s hands tightened on his rifle.

  “The peddler, Bozeman, been up here?” Remington asked.

  “Bozeman?” Genuine confusion sounded from Willie. “We meet him off the King’s Highway. He ain’t never been here. What’s Bozeman go to do with anything?”

  “Last person to be seen with the girl, that’s why,” Remington said.

  Jack took several deep, practiced breaths. He struggled to remain still. His mind screamed at him to act, as the conversation appeared to be going nowhere. His rifle, trained dead-on Willie Mason, didn’t move an inch.

  A shot rang out from the western ridge. Immediately, Remington and Hurley sprang aside in either direction, scrambling back to the relative cover of the forest. Willie’s head turned toward the western ridge. However, his body crumpled into the doorway as the bullet from Jack’s gun, fired seconds after the first gunshot, struck the Mason gang member full in the chest.

  A shot discharged from the rifle in the window, which then pulled back. Moments later, someone yanked Willie’s body from the doorway and slammed the door shut.

  Jack inched behind the tree for better cover. “Who fired?” he shouted to Mary.

  “William took it in the back by the looks of it,” Mary said. “Pitched right over the ridge.”

  Jack cursed softly. He scanned both ridges, but couldn’t see anyone. Smoke drifted near the eastern ridge.

  The rifle reemerged from the front window and fired into the woods near where Remington had scampered. Jack fired once into the open window, and there was the sound of the rifle clattering to the floor. Silence reigned from the cabin.

  A shot rang out from the western ridge. Sam, crouched behind some rocks, had fired. A corresponding shot rang out from the other ridge, and rock chips scattered in the air, raining down on the marine.

  Jack scanned the eastern ridge. He thought he spied a man partially hidden behind a large, jagged rock. Jack couldn’t tell which Mason member it was. The man’s eyes, trained across the way to the far ridge, never saw the shot that ended his life. Partway up the eastern ridge, Mary was kneeling, rifle still trained in the man’s direction. Jack had learned early on never to underestimate the blacksmith.

  Remington had made his way through the woods to Jack’s side. “Seemed like Willie Mason had no idea what I was talking about.”

  Jack nodded. “Sounded like it. We gotta find that Frenchman they’ve got with them.” He glanced back toward the window and hoped that it wasn’t the Frenchman who had held the rifle.

  “Gotta run for that cabin,” Jack said.

  “Jack, I don’t know,” Remington said.

  Hurley joined them, slipping as quietly through the trees as he could. Jack pointed to himself and motioned to the cabin. Hurley nodded. “Just cover me,” he told Remington. The trader shrugged.

  Jack nodded to the two men, who nodded back. Remington wore a grim smile on his face. Jack set down his rifle and unholstered a pistol. He breathed deeply, and then broke out in a sprint toward the cabin.

  No gunfire greeted him as he emerged from the woods. No sound whatsoever arose as he bore down on the cabin. He reached the door, splintering it open with a thunderous kick from his boot. Shards of wood sprayed inside the doorway. He ducked inside, stepping over the unmoving, supine form of Willie Mason. A glance toward the window revealed Daniel “Ole Danny Boy” Mason crumpled on the floor, a bright red splotch on his forehead.

  Jack ducked in and out of the three rooms of the cabin. The rooms were empty. Abbie wasn’t there. He went around to the back and scanned the corral, but found no one.

  He exited and waved everyone from their shelter in the woods. “No Abbie, no Frenchman.” He sighed. “Who was on the ridge?” he asked Mary.

  “Cody Mason,” Mary said.

  “That’s all the Masons then, Jack,” Remington said. “Mason gang ain’t no more. That’s something.”

  “Where is Abbie?” Jack shook his head. “That Frenchman must have written that letter demanding the money. I don’t think Willie had any idea what you were talking about.”

  “Nope,” Remington said. “Willie ain’t have much of a poker face. But he ain’t the brains of the bunch. That’ll be Daniel.”

  “Yeah, not anymore.” Jack glanced back toward the window. “It’s just not how they do things, you know. It had to be the Frenchman.”

  “What do you want to do now?” Remington asked.

  Jack looked around at the expected faces, but had no answers. He found himself resolute despite the fruitlessness of the search. “We find that Frenchman.”

  “Any ideas where to start?” Remington asked.

  “No,” Jack said, and could hear the frustration creeping out in his tone.

  “Jack,” Mary said sternly, but with sympathy. “We did a really good thing here today. Don’t forget that.”

  As the words left the blacksmith’s mouth, a man lurched out from the woods not far away from them. He sprawled face-first onto the ground amid the leaves and twigs. Chata burst from the forest moments later.

  Chata grabbed the man by the back of his shirt, hoisted him part of the way off the ground, and hurled him forward. The man staggered to his feet for several paces before tumbling to the ground again.

  Chata walked to the rest of the posse. “A Frenchman, I believe.” The others stared in amazement. He shrugged. “But you all tend to look alike, so I’m not sure.”

  The man rose to his knees, moaning softly. His face was reddish-purple, and a huge welt sat atop his blackened right eye, which was partially closed.

  “You the Frenchman?” Jack said.

  “Oui,” the man replied morosely.

  “Where’s the girl?” Jack asked.

  “Girl?” Surprise flickered across the man’s battered face. “What girl?”

  “The Duncan girl,” Jack said, his tone flat, but his voice trembling slightly. The man hesitated. “The Mason gang sent a ransin or ransone, or something. It’s French.”

  The man laughed, a bit of blood splaying out of his mouth. “Bad idea. I told him. We needed time.”

  Jack looked at Remington, who shrugged. “Do you mean Daniel Mason?”

  The man laughed harder, and blood seeped from his mouth and ran down his chin. “Daniel Mason is a savage.” He stared at Jack. “Bozeman.”

  Jack grabbed the man by the shirt, and pulled him to his feet. “Where is the girl?”

  “In a better place.” The man attempted to smile.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  The man found his strength and wrenched himself free from Jack’s grip. “It means that I don’t hurt children, and I don’t shoot men in the back. That’s why he’s alive.” He nodded toward Sam.

  Jack glanced at the old marine and looked back at the Frenchman in confusion.

  “Danny boy wanted us to sneak up the ridge and shoot ’em in the back, like with the other one.” He nodded to the eastern ridge. “I don’t shoot men in the back, or hurt children.”

  The eastern ridge stood silent, the wisps of smoke gone. Jack had forgotten William in his rush toward the cabin. He cursed under his breath. He nodded toward Charlie and Sam. “Go grab William, will you?”

  “Get the man some water,” he told Hurley, who walked to the cabin. “Where’s the girl?” he asked the Frenchman again.

  “Like I said, in a better place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. But maybe you should step back and really think about it.” The Frenchman spit a wad of saliva and blood on the ground. “Maybe people are trying to help her.”

  Jack opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. He thought of Abbie Duncan, happy and carefree, like most children. Then her growing moodiness and how little she smiled anymore. He thought of George’s temper and how
Sarah would flinch around him.

  “George?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” the Frenchman said. “I was just asked to help get the girl away from New Madrid.”

  Jack looked at Chata, who shrugged his confusion. Mary nodded, however.

  “There is a network of people who help slaves escape to the North.” She stared grimly at Jack. “I believe there is one for women and children too.”

  “Escape? Who was Abbie escaping from?” Jack asked.

  Mary frowned. “You know.” Her tone was emphatic.

  “George?” Jack looked at the Chata, who shrugged. “I—”

  “What right do other people have to take a kid from their parents?” Remington asked. “Ain’t right.”

  “Maybe they feared for the girl’s life?” Chata said.

  Hurley had returned with the water. “Pshaw.” His agitation skewed his face. “Bull. I whooped my boys good. They needed it. Girls too. Kids are all good.”

  Jack ignored the man’s parenting lesson. “Why would they take her from Sarah?” Jack asked. “Why would they put her through this?”

  “She knows.” The Frenchman’s words came out stronger. The brief respite had allowed him to regain some of his wits. “I’m guessing she’s the one who asked.”

  No one spoke. Charlie and Sam made their way into the clearing. They lay William’s body gently on the ground. Remington walked over, took one look at Jack’s face, and said, “Sam and I will get the horses.” He disappeared into the woods with Sam trailing behind him.

  “What do you mean, ‘She knows?’” Jack asked the Frenchman, his anger abating. Sweat lined his face. No one spoke. “You saying she lied. She lied to me.”

  “You don’t think her behavior is strange?” Chata asked. “I know Prescott does. He said so.”

  “I’m not sure Prescott should be the judge of anything,” Jack said.

  Remington and Sam returned with the horses.

  “Bind him up.” Jack gestured to the Frenchman. “Toss him onto one of those horses.” He nodded to the two mounts still tied to the hitching post. “Tie William to the back of mine.”

  “We can put William on the back of his own horse, Jack,” Remington said. “It’s not a problem.”

  “I know,” Jack said. “But he’s my responsibility.”

  “Jack,” Chata said softly. “Let the man ride his own mount out.” Jack stared at Chata, his eyes almost closed. “He’s still your man.”

  The rode back down the hillside and did not stop until they reached Robertson’s trading post. Robertson came out, holding a piece of paper in his hands.

  “No girl, I see,” he said. “Frenchman?” he nodded at the bound man.

  “We know where the girl is, and the Mason gang won’t be causing you trouble anymore,” Jack said.

  “They never did,” Robertson said. He walked over to Jack and handed him the piece of paper. “For you, from Broussard.”

  Jack read the note, his face blanching. He crumpled the paper into a small ball. His face reddened and his jaw clenched.

  “Jack?” Remington said.

  “Prescott has accused Sarah of witchcraft.” Any trace of emotion was gone from Jack’s voice. He stared off toward town. “The trial is tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The small posse thundered into town, their horses exhausted and winded from the effort. Sweat glistened from the animals’ coats. Remington slowed his mount, but Jack plunged ahead, reaching the town square before the trapper.

  The gallows dominated the town square, casting a shadow that covered one entire side of the open space. Several townsfolk watched as cutter marines and townsmen put the last wooden boards in place and hammered in the final nails.

  “Where is she?” he snapped at August.

  August stopped dragging a piece of siding, the faded white wood sagging into the dusty street. “Emma? The preacher freed her. She won’t be hanged.”

  Jack let the bait lie. “Where, August? Where’s that lunatic taken her?”

  August’s expression slowly changed from impertinence to stoicism. “Um, in the jail.” He readjusted the wooden siding he was carrying.

  Jack quickly dismounted from his horse, muttering, “Unbelievable.” A cutter marine ripped another piece of wood from the church wall. “And what the devil are you guys doing with the wood from the church?”

  August’s face paled, and the young man shook. “Just what we were told.” He yanked the wood forward and half-trudged, half-stumbled to the growing wood pile.

  “August! Come back here,” Jack said as the man hurried away.

  “No need to shout, Marshal.” Elijah Prescott’s words reached Jack from somewhere behind him. The deliberate, monotone cadence caused Jack’s hairs to stand on his neck.

  “The gallows are almost complete.” Prescott glanced at the wooden structure. “Such a shame that they have only a singular purpose.”

  “They will have no purpose in this town,” Jack said.

  Prescott laughed and raised his hands to the heavens. “I have all the support I require, Jack. Never forget that. Besides, the woman’s own husband made the claim against her. Were you aware of that?”

  Jack shook his head. His stomach roiled. The faces of his two army commanders, who had ordered the massacre, arose in his mind. Once again, the cries, the smoke, and the sounds of that day assailed him.

  “Awful stuff, marital disharmony, but then again, who would know a woman best but her husband?” Prescott said. “All I can do is see that the truth reigns.”

  The sound of wood boards smacking together caused both men to turn. Two of the militia had dragged over a large piece of the church wall and deposited it near the gallows.

  “A rather unpleasant undertaking.” Prescott walked to the pile of lumber. “But justice and the will of God should not be delayed. As such, the young Sarah Duncan will be judged and will be hanged until dead—if found guilty, of course.” Prescott turned, a crooked smile across his face. He regarded the marshal, as if waiting for a reaction.

  “No one will be hanged in this town,” Jack said.

  Prescott nodded to a man approaching the pair. Harrison Tucker, his face uncharacteristically expressionless, waved a leatherbound book in his hand. “You’re wrong, Jack. New Madrid can hold the trial and the punishment here. We can adjudas, um, adjudict.”

  “Dear lord, man,” Prescott growled. He snatched the book from Tucker. He flipped absentmindedly through the pages. “As you know, or perhaps do not, the capitol of your territory is in St. Louis, some two hundred and forty miles to the north. The closest representative judicial qualification, Ste. Genevieve, is a hundred miles from here.” He paused and waved the book at Jack. “As such, your forbearers here had the good prudence and perspicacity to establish courts of Common Pleas and Quarter Sessions in New Madrid. This grants the town the power to accommodate trials for felony. So, such trials can be held and adjudged here.” Prescott stepped forward. “Without appeal.”

  Jack was too shocked to react. Yet his mind screamed in fury. He found himself back at the massacre. Fires raged through the Sewapois village, and he choked on the fumes as smoke stung his eyes. The screams of children, women, and men alike pounded his ears from all directions.

  He took a moment. “You put her in jail?” His faced betrayed no emotion.

  A flicker of annoyance flashed across Prescott’s face.

  The two men face each other without speaking. Prescott looked away. “She’s at the jail.”

  Jack made no acknowledgement as he walked away from the men. Prescott spoke, but Jack ignored him as he hurried toward the jailhouse. He burst through the door and found George Duncan slumped at Jack’s desk. The jail cells were empty.

  He walked to the desk. “Where is she?” He slammed his fists on the desk.

  George failed to look up. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Jack’s anger simmered. Scenes from the Sewapois slaughter faded from his mind. His hand start
ed for the arrowhead around his neck, but stopped. These memories had flared his whole life, especially when he was pushed, but this time he found himself unable to hold onto the guilt—it no longer provided the crutch it once did.

  “Where is she?” Jack asked, keeping his tone level, but strong.

  “At Doc Waters’,” George said. He still refused to look at Jack. “Helping with Emma.”

  Jack yanked the wooden chair near the wall. He set it in front of the desk and sat down. “Damn it, George. What happened? You don’t believe Sarah’s a witch, do you?”

  “She took my daughter.” He finally looked up. His eyes were red from tears. “She admitted it. She lied to me.”

  Jack sighed. He ran his hands through his hair. “Why didn’t she trust me?” he muttered to himself.

  George looked up. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Jack shook his head. He knew Sarah had tried to protect him from her problems. The same way he tried to keep her away from his. “You hit her?”

  “Jesus Christ. She just doesn’t listen.” Both his hands curled into fists. “I don’t mean to, I swear. I just, I just lose it sometimes.”

  Jack’s eyes bore into George, who shifted uneasily in his chair. “Did you ever hit Abbie?”

  George’s sagging countenance became defensive. “Back off, Jack,” he barked. “I’m the one that has all the hard stuff to do. Not them.”

  Jack stood, and the wooden chair screeched across the floorboards. “Damn it. You’re twice her size.”

  George slammed his fists on the table. “Don’t lecture me. She’s my wife, not yours!”

  The thudding of George’s fist echoed in the small room before petering out. Silence crept in and seemed to settle like fog over a marshy stretch of land.

  “That’s right,” Jack said. He fought to control his breathing, briefly closing his eyes. “But if she were my wife, I’d never hit her.”

  George snorted. “She’s tougher than you.”

  “You’re right. But she’s definitely tougher than a bully and a coward.”

  George stood so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor. He walked around the desk. “Now, watch it. Talking about my wife is one thing, but you’re crossing a line now.”