Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  “So,” Sheriff Greene continued. “This is your bat?”

  Shooting his sulky glance my way, Jack muttered, “So Annabelle says.”

  Pa smacked his head again, harder. “Do you want to go outside and get a switch on your backside, boy? You’re not too big for me to whup, and if you think you are, I’ll show you different.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Jack, just answer the sheriff’s questions,” said Ma. She was exasperated with him, too, by this time.

  “All right, all right. Yes. That’s my baseball bat.” There were tears in Jack’s eyes, but I’m sure they were an automatic reaction to being whacked so hard. I was also sure he’d rather have died like Hazel than cry in front of that group—and probably any other. He was too stupid—or, more likely, too obnoxious, being twelve and all—to leave it at that, but added resentfully, “But I didn’t have anything to do with killing that stupid girl.”

  He must have known he’d said the wrong thing, because he lifted both hands to cover his head. That didn’t help much, because Pa lifted him out of the chair by his two arms and shook him as if were a rag doll. I hadn’t realized how strong Pa was, but I guess he kept his muscles in tone by lifting supplies off wagons and chopping wood and stuff like that. “One more snotty remark, and you’ll regret it for a long time, Jack Blue. I’m ashamed to call you my son.”

  That was probably the bitterest thing Pa could have said to any of his children. I know that Jack felt it more deeply than he’d felt the various smacks and shakes he’d received thus far that morning. He seemed honestly cowed. Pa slammed him back in his chair and knelt in front of him, not letting go of his arms.

  “Now I’m going to tell this you one more time. Answer the sheriff’s questions. Don’t add any of your sassy remarks, and don’t ask why. Just answer the questions. A girl was brutally murdered last night, by means of your baseball bat, which you carelessly left behind after you’d disobeyed your mother and me and played ball instead of attending the revival meeting. And if there’s one person in this family who could use a good dose of Jesus and the Good Book, it’s you. Do you understand me, Jack Blue?”

  Jack didn’t seem to be sullen any longer. His eyes were huge when he said, “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Do you have anything else you want to say to the sheriff?” Pa punctuated this question with another shake.

  Jack looked puzzled for only a moment. Then he licked his lips, looked up at Sheriff Greene, and said, “Sorry, sir.”

  The sheriff wisely didn’t say, “That’s all right,” or anything of that nature. He only nodded and said, “Now, son, you confirm that this is your baseball bat?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you took it with you tonight when you and some other fellers went out to the revival tent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You didn’t go to the meeting?”

  Jack didn’t hang his head, but he looked mighty uncomfortable. “No, sir.”

  “You and some of your friends played baseball instead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And during the time you played ball, did Miss Fish see you playing ball in the field, Jack?”

  Jack took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she speak to you?”

  After licking his lips, Jack said, “Yes, sir.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said we ought to be in the tent and not playing baseball.”

  Pa muttered something under his breath, but I didn’t hear what it was. Probably just as well.

  The sheriff went on, “And did you chase Miss Fish at that time, and threaten her with your baseball bat?”

  After a brief hesitation, Jack said, “But it was only a joke. I never—”

  I guess Jack saw Pa make a movement as if to do something else to him, because he shut his mouth and when he opened it again, he only said, “Yes, sir.”

  “And did Miss Fish leave you alone after that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when the revival meeting was over, did you go home with your friends?”

  “Well, yes. You see, we’d stopped playing ball after the lights in the tent went so low we couldn’t see anymore. Then we just loafed around and talked. I-I guess I forgot my bat after that. I sure never hit anybody with it.” He shot a glance at Pa to see if this interjection would earn him another smack. It didn’t, although Pa looked as if he’d just as soon flush Jack down the drain as acknowledge his presence in his house.

  “All right. Now, can you give me the names of the other boys who were playing ball with you last night?”

  “None of them—” Another movement on Pa’s part brought this editorial comment to a halt. Jack cleared his throat. “Um . . . there was Jesse Lee Wilson. Adolph Wilson. Bill Wilson. Um . . . Clarence Small and Joe Piney. I guess that was all.”

  Ma shook her head sadly. “Poor Mrs. Wilson. As if she didn’t have enough worries without you leading her sons astray, Jack Blue. I’m ashamed of you. I’ll call her up and apologize to her in the morning.”

  Boy, that must have been a blow, hearing both of his parents tell him how ashamed they were of him in one evening. Morning. Whatever it was by that time.

  I had to agree with Ma, though. Mrs. Wilson had a hard life, even when her children didn’t misbehave. Her husband, a Methodist preacher who used to ride the circuit between Rosedale and East Grant Plains, had died only a couple of days after their fifth child was born, leaving Mrs. Wilson with five of her own children to rear without a father, as well as six children from his previous marriage to Mrs. Wilson’s best friend, who had died years earlier. What’s more, she had to rear all those kids in a three-room house, working as a seamstress. It seemed to me, as it must have seemed to my parents, that Jack could have thought of something better to do with his time than get the Wilson kids to play hooky from a meeting that even I could see might have done them more good than a sneaked-in baseball game. Even if the message was delivered by the Reverend Strickland and his seductress of a sister.

  Looking stricken, Jack started to say, “I wasn’t—” But he didn’t get any farther than that, because he glanced at Pa and thought better of it. A wise decision on his part. It was undoubtedly the first wise decision he’d made in a very long time.

  Ma just sat there shaking her head and gazing at Jack as if the son she’d born twelve years earlier had turned into a hydra-headed monster before her very eyes. My secret glee was undoubtedly evil of me, but I’ve already said more than once that I’m not very nice.

  The sheriff went on as if he was used to family dramas like this and they didn’t faze him. “Do you recall where you left the bat when you boys stopped playing, Jack?”

  Jack thought for a minute or two. “We were sitting on the fence a little way from the tent. I guess I put it down there. When the tent emptied, I guess I forgot it was there.”

  “When people started leaving the tent, what did you boys do?”

  “We joined the crowd and headed home.”

  I was surprised when the sheriff directed his next question at me. “Did you see Jack as you left the tent, Annabelle?”

  “No, I don’t remember seeing him at all after we left home to go to the revival meeting.”

  “Well, I was there!” cried Jack, as if I’d told the sheriff he was a liar.

  “I didn’t say you weren’t,” I pointed out. “I only said I didn’t see you. There were a lot of people there.”

  “Who were you with, Jack?” asked the sheriff.

  “Davy and the Wilson kids,” Jack said, as sullenly as he thought he could get away with. I know that because he shot Pa another glance to make sure he wasn’t going to get whomped again.

  “Good,” said Sheriff Greene, making a note. “I’ll check with them in the morning.”

  Jack said, “Huh,” and gave yet another glance at Pa, who was standing right next to his chair by that time, towering over him, with his arms folded across his chest. Pa looked as if he was just wa
iting for the next opportunity so he could knock Jack out of his chair and kick him out into the dark, cruel world. Not that Pa would ever do anything like that. In fact, when he’d mentioned a switch, it had surprised me, since he’d never laid a hand on any of us that I could recall until that night when he’d whupped Jack, who’d more than deserved it.

  “And Miss Annabelle,” the sheriff went on, “did you say that Hazel was walking with you when you left the tent?”

  “Yes. For a minute or so, then she veered off.”

  “Do you remember which direction she went?”

  I thought about it. “Um . . . not really. She walked a few steps with Myrtle and me, and then she wasn’t there any longer. At least. . . .” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but can’t remember.”

  “Do you recall if she said anything to you when she left you?”

  I wracked my brain to think of anything Hazel might have said that registered with me. I regretted then that I had become so accustomed to ignoring her. “I don’t think so.”

  “Who else was walking with you at that time?”

  “Myrtle Howell and I went to the tent together, and we walked home together. Hazel walked with us for only a few yards, then she. . . .” Then I remembered something. “Oh, yes! She said she wanted to thank Reverend Strickland again for preaching such a moving sermon. I think she went back to the tent to talk to him.”

  “I see. All right, then. If you remember anything else that you think might be helpful—anything at all—let me know. All right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, vowing to try to remember every single little tiny thing that had happened the evening before. It just seemed incredible to me that a girl I’d known all my life, had gone to school with, for heaven’s sake, had been so brutally murdered. Things like that didn’t happen in Rosedale, New Mexico. Kind of like poisoning. Mercy sakes.

  “And, Jack, you too. If you can think of anything else, let me know. All right? Anything at all.”

  Jack said, “Yes, sir.” He had finally got his comeuppance, by gum, and I silently rejoiced in the fact, although I felt kind of guilty at the same time. Not about Jack, but about feeling glad of anything at all under the circumstances.

  The lawmen rose, and Sheriff Greene chucked the wrapped baseball bat under his arm. I wondered what they were going to do with it. Hold it for evidence, I reckoned. I then wondered if they had equipment to identify fingerprints here in Rosedale, or if they’d have to send the bat to Albuquerque or Santa Fe or someplace like that to have the fingerprinting done. I’d have asked, but such a question didn’t seem appropriate under the bleak circumstances.

  “Thank you kindly for the coffee cake, Mrs. Blue. Thank you for helping us look for that poor girl, Mr. Blue and Miss Annabelle.”

  Pa and I nodded, and I heard Pa say something, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  “And Jack,” said the sheriff. He was standing in front of Jack and looking down at him in what I could only regard as a calculated manner, and I grinned inside. Sheriff Greene might look like a hick, but he knew a thing or two about getting people to pay attention to him. “I think it’s about time you remembered where you live and who your parents are. There aren’t two finer people living on this earth than William and Susanna Blue, and I should think a feller like you would do everything you can do to make them proud of you.” He didn’t wait for Jack to say anything, which was just as well—if Jack had been totally humiliated instead of just a little bit humiliated, he might have rebelled even harder—but shook Pa’s hand and headed for the back door.

  Jack hung his head.

  I said, “We’ll let you know if we hear anything, Sheriff and Chief Vickers.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” Chief Vickers said to Ma, giving a last, longing glance at the coffee cake.

  Ma and I cleaned up the kitchen after the men left, while Pa and Jack went back to bed, Jack without saying another word to anyone. I was curious to discover if the events of that night would affect his behavior from then on. I was hoping for the best, but not anticipating much, if you know what I mean. The obnoxiousness of twelve-year-old boys is a tenacious disease. Besides, after being called to task that evening, he might even be more inclined to misbehave. Pa might have something to say about that if he tried it.

  With a sigh, Ma said, “I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

  I’d collected the plates, forks, cups, and spoons and deposited them on the sink. As Ma began washing the dishes, I wiped down the table. “I sure never expected to find Hazel like. . . .” I couldn’t repress another shudder. “Like that. It was really awful, Ma.”

  “I’m sure it was. I’m sorry you had to see her that way, Annabelle.”

  “I just hope they catch whoever did it. And soon. It’s kind of creepy, thinking there’s a vicious murderer in town. And right after Kenny was poisoned, too.”

  “Mercy sakes, that’s right. That’s two murders in as many days. In Rosedale. I just can’t take it in.”

  “It’s pretty astonishing,” I agreed. “I wonder if the same person committed both murders.”

  “I guess whoever it is must have. It’s difficult to imagine there being two murderers in a town this small.”

  “Well. . . .” I didn’t want to disagree with my mother, but I’d read lots of murder mysteries. “The thing is that the two murders were so different. Don’t murderers generally stick to one method?”

  “I have absolutely no idea, Annabelle Blue, and I don’t want to.” Ma’s tone was acerbic as she rinsed the last dish and put it in the drainer.

  “Well, I guess I’d rather think there’s one person in town murdering people than two of them.” I started wiping the dishes dry and putting them away.

  Ma had picked up the wash bucket and headed for the door to pour the used water on the vegetable garden out back. She paused at the door and looked at me. “Do you really think it’s somebody from town, Annabelle? I can’t imagine it.”

  “Well, I can’t either, really. But don’t forget that there are lots of people in town these days who aren’t from here. There are all the rodeo people and all the revivalists. And there are always drummers and salesmen and cattlemen and so forth coming through town, too. We live in a small place, but lots of folks pass through.”

  She looked thoughtful. “True. That’s true.”

  “It’s probably one of them. I can’t imagine anybody we know. . . .” Again, Hazel’s bloodied head loomed in my mind’s eye, and I tried to shove it out.

  Ma shook her head and turned the doorknob. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “It’s hard.” I tried to keep the image of Hazel’s battered head from recurring to my mind’s eye, but didn’t have much luck. Deciding it would be better not to mention this problem—after all, I had volunteered to search for her and then disobeyed the sheriff when he’d told me not to look at her body—I considered suspects.

  There really were lots of people to consider. Including Jack. Who slept in the room right next to mine.

  Shoot, I wished I hadn’t thought about that.

  As I was hanging up the dish towel, I remembered how Hazel had acted when she’d come back to our bench after talking to Reverend Strickland, being run off by Esther Strickland, and going outside and being run off by Jack. What was it she’d said to me? Something about having seen something that would knock the socks off the entire town of Rosedale? She never had told me what it was she’d seen, but I decided I’d best tell the sheriff what she’d said to me anyway. I couldn’t imagine how it could help him, but you never knew.

  When Ma came back indoors, we both went to bed. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, but I did. Soundly. In fact, Ma had to shake me awake at seven-thirty that morning. She didn’t generally let me sleep so late, but I guess she figured I’d had a rough night and needed my rest.

  She was right.

  Chapter Eight

  For the first time since I could remember, Jack didn’t whine about having to do his cho
res in the store that afternoon after he got home from school, which, following tradition, let out at noon during rodeo days. He swept the whole place out without saying a word. That was fine by me, since I generally had to listen to him gripe and grouse, and it was always difficult for me to keep my temper with him. And, naturally, when I lost my temper, he reacted by being even more of a brute than usual.

  That afternoon, however, there were no arguments. In actual fact, there was no noise at all, except for the broom scratching across the scarred wooden floor and then the clunk of tin on tin as Jack restocked the canned-goods section. I peacefully read The Case of Jennie Brice when I could tear my thoughts away from Hazel’s murder. The occasional customer was certain to come in and interrupt me, but I didn’t mind that.

  Pa was out back mending the fence, and Ma was in the garden, probably harvesting the seven billion pounds of squash and pumpkins the vines always produced at this time of the year. Even though we Blues owned a dry-goods and grocery store, Ma always preserved as much food as she could in order to save money feeding the family. I loved the results, although I wasn’t too keen on helping her can pumpkins and squash. I’d much rather clerk in the store, which was lucky since that’s what I generally got to do.

  The first person to show up in the store after lunch was the sheriff. Tom Greene was a tall, rangy fellow, a little on the thin side, and with an air of authority Pa claims he got when he was a Texas Ranger. I wouldn’t know about that, but I liked him all right. He also had a nice daughter, who was a little bit older than I.

  “Hey, Sheriff.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack duck behind a table filled with bolts of fabric. He clearly didn’t want another confrontation with the law. Well, we’d see about that.

  “How-do, Miss Annabelle?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Tell the truth, I’m a little low, Miss Annabelle. Two murders, and one a young woman.” He shook his head.

  “I know. The whole town’s upset.” I shook my head to show how much sympathy I felt for everyone.