New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  “George,” Jack snapped at the man. “Let it go. Maybe she shouldn’t have hidden Abbie and lied about it. But this is as much your fault as anybody’s. The only difference is you’re the only one who doesn’t want to take any responsibility.”

  “How about her? Women are supposed to do what they’re told!”

  “Maybe she doesn’t agree with that opinion,” Jack said.

  “C’mon.” George waved his hands.

  Jack sat down in the chair. “What could she have done? You think she wanted to send her daughter away? She did it to get her away from you. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Am I a monster, then? Because she says so.”

  “Did you hit your daughter?”

  George hustled around the desk. He closed on Jack rapidly, stopping inches from his face. “What are you saying? You calling me a coward again? Do it again! I dare you.”

  Jack didn’t back away. He held the older man’s gaze. The stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke wafted across his face. When he spoke, the words came out softly but firmly. “Look at yourself. Really do it. They’re going to hang her. Is that what you want?”

  Confusion flickered across George’s face. He rubbed his hands together. Jack didn’t move except to blink.

  “She took my daughter.”

  “To protect her from you.” Jack fought to control his voice. “You gotta understand that. This is about Sarah, not you. She lost Abbie too. You think she loves her less than you do? She’d rather lose Abbie then watch her suffer because you can’t control yourself.”

  George opened and closed his fists. He looked at his hands as if he didn’t recognize what they were or how they worked. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

  “What did you say to Prescott?”

  George turned away. “I told him she practiced witchcraft.”

  “You lied.”

  “I wasn’t the only one,” George cried. “Emma Hughes named her first. Then that damned August Miller and Ethel Jones.”

  Jack teetered backward, as if he’d been physically struck. “Emma?” He couldn’t believe it at first, and then he knew. “And what happened after Emma named Sarah a witch.”

  George stared at Jack, his body trembled, his eyes pleading for forgiveness.

  “George,” Jack said in low tone that demanded an answer.

  “The Preacher lifted her sentence.” George looked away. “He spared her.”

  “Emma’s scared for her life and August’s an idiot.” Jack laughed in disbelief. “And since when does anyone listen to Ethel Jones?”

  “He wants your job,” George said tentatively. “You know that?”

  “Who? August?”

  George nodded.

  “Yeah. Sure. He can have it if he wants it. Let’s see him try and handle everything.”

  George snorted. “Don’t tell him that.”

  Jack stood at the window. A hint of sunlight peeked through, and small particles of dust danced in the air. Three holsters hung on pegs on the wall. He pulled one off and traced the stitching in the leather with his fingers.

  “She needed you. Do you understand that? Your wife needed you. You abandoned her.”

  “God damn it.” George’s voice shook. “She doesn’t listen. It’s not my fault. Not all this.” He waved his hands frantically. He fought tears.

  “What did you think would happen?”

  “I didn’t think Prescott would hang her.”

  “And why’s that? That’s what he does. He hangs people.”

  “Jack, don’t say that. He’s a man of God.” George’s words carried disbelief and a hint of fear. His eyes widened as he implored Jack to rethink his words. “You gotta take that back.”

  “A man of God? He’s a man. No different from you or me, except for some obscure, unknown title. He works for no church anyone has heard of. Who knows who he really is?”

  “There hasn’t been a priest in this town for years. Maybe we’ve forgotten what it means to be Christians.”

  Jack walked around the desk and opened the top drawer. He fished around till he pulled out a small tin star. He affixed the badge to his shirt, patting it gently two times. “I’m the marshal in this town now, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I know, Jack, but—”

  “But nothing. I didn’t even want to do this. You and the rest of them insisted you needed me. Well, I’m here now.” He strode to the front door, but stopped. “I’m going to find Prescott. And you, George, God damn it, you better back me when the time comes. Help us save her.”

  George faced crumpled into a miserable sagging of flesh. “She hates me.”

  “So what? You hit her. Will you help me or not?”

  Jack walked over to George. He placed his hands on his shoulders, squeezing him gently. “I need you, George. Prescott is going to come after you when we try to save Sarah. You’ve gotta take back what you’ve said.”

  George laughed. “You’re all smarter than me. I just get in the way.”

  “Who do you trust the most George—Sarah or the preacher? Which one?”

  George stared. He tried to answer but hesitated. “You, Jack. I trust you.”

  Some of the enmity toward George drained from Jack’s body. He stood before the older man and placing his hands on George’s shoulders. He squeezed and then gently patted the man’s shoulder. “Then listen to me. You will go to Prescott and take back what you said. Do it now.” Jack waited till George stood. “We’re going to find a way to save her, and I expect you to be there when I need you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jack knocked on the door of Doc Waters’ house. The doc opened the door and smiled sheepishly. “Come in, Jack. She’s with Emma.”

  One of the cutter marines stood next to an interior door. Jack couldn’t remember the man’s name. The marine nodded to him, but stood ill at ease as Jack approached. Jack nodded back and walked into the adjoining room.

  Two small beds were pressed against the wall. Emma Hughes slept in one, and Sarah sat on the other. She looked up as he entered, trepidation in her eyes, as if fearing the worst. Instead, upon seeing Jack, her eyes widened. She sprang to her feet and rushed at him, throwing her arms around him. His heart beat so fast that he thought it’d push her away, but she clung to him tighter than anyone ever had. Then, she stepped back and punched him in the shoulder as hard as she could.

  “Where they hell have you been?”

  “I’m trying to find Abbie.” Jack rubbed his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Do you know where she is?” Her face lit up again.

  Jack sighed. “The Mason gang didn’t have her. Bozeman never gave her up.”

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, thank God for that.”

  Jack blinked, and couldn’t quite hide the hurt and confusion he felt. “I don’t understand why you did this.”

  Sarah walked to the window. “Bozeman was supposed to take Abbie away.” She placed her hand on the glass. “George would never let me go. I had to find a way to get her out.”

  “You gave Abbie to the peddler?”

  “Anselmo took her to him,” Sarah said. “Bozeman was to help her get to Nashville to my aunt’s house. I don’t know what happened with Anselmo or what the Mason gang had to do with it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” The words carried his pain, and he wished it wasn’t so obvious. His voice dropped. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “Jack. Please.” Sarah looked miserable. “You live twenty years in the past. Half your time is spent in a bottle. Would you trust yourself?”

  The words struck Jack with more force than a bucking bronco. “I would have done everything I could to help her,” Jack said. “And you too.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “You’re great when it’s helping other people.” Her face radiated sadness and warmth. “I should have realized that. Your problem is helping yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” The words left Jack’s mouth witho
ut strength or conviction. “But you still could have trusted me.”

  “I wished you’d have let me in. Then I would have.”

  Jack and Sarah both stood, facing each other from across the room. The marine in the hallway coughed. The sound echoed in the house as if it were thunder.

  “So, Abbie’s in Nashville?” Jack asked.

  “I hope so,” Sarah said. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I don’t know what went wrong, but Bozeman has a good reputation.”

  “Bozeman?”

  “Yes, at least for getting people out of trouble.” Sarah walked back to the bed. “I don’t like him, but he helps people.”

  Jack shook his head. “So, you’re a witch?”

  Sarah tried to smile, but couldn’t. “Apparently so.”

  Jack’s hands felt for the arrowhead around his neck. “What did George say to Prescott?”

  “He said I was lying about Abbie.”

  Jack gripped the baseboard of the bed, as if he was trying to rip the wooden bed apart. “What gives him the right?”

  “I was lying,” Sarah said. She shrugged when Jack gave her a credulous look. “Just not for the reasons he claimed.”

  “I’m going to try talking to him again,” Jack said. “George is going to take back his accusation. Maybe Prescott will listen.” He hesitated and looked at Sarah, trying to hide the fear he felt.

  “Do you actually think he’ll listen this time?” Sarah asked.

  “No, but I have to try.”

  “Jack, it’s not your fight,” Sarah said, her lips trembling.

  “That’s what I never realized,” Jack said. “It’s not just one person. This is everyone’s fight. This is about all of us.”

  A hive of activity greeted Jack as he entered Saint Isidore Parish. His footfalls went unheard. The inside of the church had fared better than the outside. The hewed log walls had faded, and the three short rows of pews that occupied the center of the church were chipped, but remained sturdy. In front of them was a lectern and a small altar. To the left of the platform, a wooden organ with cylindrical lead pipes sat against the wall. A small door to the right of the platform led to the vestry.

  The room was dimly lit, but a generous amount of sunlight streamed in from two windows on both sides. However, while the sun illuminated the areas in front of them, the rest of the church appeared like the town at dusk, filled with shadow.

  In front was a small, raised dais. To either side of the dais, a table and set of chairs had been placed. Several people milled about the room.

  Prescott stood to the left of the dais near the old organ. Jack had realized long ago that Prescott observed, but rarely did, any actual work.

  Prescott noticed Jack and approached him, wending his path through the people, tables, chairs, and down one aisle. “She’s safe. You’ll see her at the trial tomorrow.”

  “We have a meetinghouse,” Jack said, glancing around the church. “Isn’t it more appropriate to hold legal business there?”

  “These proceedings answer to a higher power. You don’t want to believe that—fair enough. But your incredulity and lack of faith will not alter that validity.”

  “Lack of faith?” Jack laughed. “Everything I do, every day, is taken on faith. Faith doesn’t require removing one’s spine.”

  “Perhaps the stage is best for you, Sheriff. You’ve mastered the art of melodrama.”

  Jack shook his head. “All I know is that everything anybody does is on faith—faith in their fellow man, faith in their country, faith in their actions.” He sighed. “Faith in God—if you believe in Him.”

  “And you most certainly do not.” Prescott drew himself up, and he was slightly taller than Jack, giving the impression that he was looking down on the sheriff. “Your words straddle blasphemy.”

  “If there is a God, I wonder what that God would consider blasphemy. Words? Words from one random man.” Jack met the preacher’s gaze unflinchingly. “Or a preacher running a sham trial against a woman he knows innocent of the charges against her?”

  Prescott pursed his lips and Jack could almost hear the man’s teeth grinding together. Prescott studied Jack, as if he simply didn’t understand what was standing in front of him. “I’ll give you this. You are unlike any man I’ve met before.”

  Jack didn’t respond, unsure how to take the preacher’s words.

  Prescott chortled, momentarily losing his self-assured demeanor. “It is intended as a compliment and praise, and certainly not some base cajolery. Perhaps our differences are mere miscommunication.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack spoke slowly. “It seems your intentions have been precise from the day of your arrival, if not clear to anyone else.”

  “You should take an olive branch when it is offered.” Prescott turned his attention to the preparations. “Tomorrow, this will all be settled and the town will need a sheriff.”

  “There will be no hangings in this town.”

  “I think you underestimate the fervor of the townsfolk. They are afraid. Afraid for their souls. This town teeters amidst sin and debauchery. It’s more a waystation to Hell than a doorway to the West.”

  “Hanging Sarah Duncan from those gallows will condemn them to Hell sure enough.”

  “Hmmm. She’ll receive a fair trial, but if she has partaken of the Devil’s magic, it is the town that matters, not her.”

  “That’s rubbish, and you know it,” Jack snapped. “She’s one of the finest women I’ve ever met.”

  “You speak so familiarly of another man’s wife.” Prescott eyes danced. “Maybe if this town’s sheriff was more invested in his job than a housewife barely risen above a painted girl, my presence wouldn’t be necessary.”

  Jack shook his head. Prescott’s words, delivered so casually, still stung, but he knew better than to give Prescott the satisfaction. “I won’t speak to your presence here. But perhaps you’ve miscalculated whose judgement is upon us.”

  In the days that Jack had known Prescott, the man’s confidence and self-assurance had never wavered. But for the first time, the unflappable countenance faltered as Prescott’s mouth closed and his lips drew tight. Wrinkles spread across his face like cracking ice on a river. He shook slightly.

  “Men practice dark magics too, Jack. Warlocks are as much as an abomination as witches. You need to know your place.”

  Jack struggled to contain the laughter that burst forth. “I’m trying to figure out my place, in this town and in this world.” He stared Prescott down. “And it’s marshal, not sheriff.”

  “I think you place too much credence and faith in the generosity and kindness of your fellow man. This world’s history is written in the blood of men so foolish.”

  “You may be right. But I’d like to believe in the greater good of man.”

  Prescott laughed, a harsh grating sound, as if his throat muscles struggled to create the vibrations. “You won’t be the first man left wanting by such fallacy.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” Jack said softly. “But I won’t be the last one, either.”

  As Jack exited the church, shouting from down the street yanked his attention back to the present. A metallic crash sounded from the blacksmith shop. He ran down the street, shoving the oaken door open. Harrison Tucker stood in the center of shop, a bag of nails scattered on the floor at his feet. Mary faced him in her blacksmith’s apron, a stern defiance set upon her face.

  “Tucker!” Jack shouted.

  Tucker’s expression shifted into a sneer. “Back off, Jack. This is a business disagreement.”

  Jack glanced at Mary, who rolled her eyes, but he sensed genuine fear behind her stoic expression.

  “And what business is that?”

  “Prescott needs nails and tools for building the gallows,” Mary said, and she looked away from Jack. “I’ve been working as fast as one woman can. But they can’t seem to grasp this.” She spat the words at Tucker.

  “Work faster,” Tucker said, his hands balled into fists. Jack
could smell the whiskey whenever the man opened his mouth.

  “Get out,” Jack said.

  “I think she’s slower than molasses, and that ain’t right.” Tucker glared at Mary, who ignored his insults. “Unless she’s just lazy.” Mary’s eye’s bulged from her head, and she reflexively took a step toward the dockworker.

  Tucker brought his arm up, and Jack caught him by the wrist. The dockworker swung his other arm. His fist glanced off Jack’s head. Jack let go the man’s arm and stumbled a few paces away.

  Tucker rushed forward and threw a roundhouse. Jack ducked and slammed his fist into the other man’s stomach. Air expelled from Tucker’s mouth and he doubled over. Jack swung again, but the experienced brawler batted his arm away. Tucker’s fist struck Jack’s side near his hip. Jack gasped. The dockworker’s left swung out, catching Jack full in the face. Jack sprawled backward, scattered nails biting into his face. Tucker stood above him.

  “Enough.” Mary’s tone was matter-of-fact, but delivered with finality. The rifle pointing at Tucker’s chest spoke louder than her words. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I get back to work.”

  Tucker sneered at the woman. He looked down at Jack. “Anytime you want to finish this, you know where to find me.” He stormed out of the shop, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Mary helped Jack to his feet. “I can’t slow my work forever.” Her eyes took in Jack with a mix of compassion and frustration. “Do you forget that you’re the sheriff, um, marshal now? Just arrest him.”

  “I can’t arrest him for fighting.” Jack felt his lips as blood oozed down his face. “I’d lose the respect of half the town.”

  “Yeah. I get it. Men are stupid where I’m from too. All of you. Maybe you should stop worrying about what everybody thinks and start doing your job.” Mary still held the rifle, tucked under one arm now.

  “I’m trying,” Jack said. “Between Abbie, the preacher, the Masons, the dockworkers…” He shook his head.

  Mary frowned, her face lacking sympathy. “If you’re looking for comfort, forget it. I don’t even want to talk about what I had to do to get here. Try harder.”