by Lynn Squire
Pulling on the ends of his drooping mustache, Dixon sighed and marched toward the two. He knew Barty would start a fight. Sure he had to do it now, when Dixon wanted to keep an eye on that stranger.
“You gone done put a hole in my bucket,” shouted Nathaniel, putting all his five-foot-five into it. He planted his pudgy face inches away from Barty’s large nose. A lock of straggly brown hair hung down in front of Nathaniel.
“What you done doin’ puttin’ that bucket on my shootin’ range?” Barty shouted back.
“Whoa there, you two.” Dixon laid a gloved hand on each man’s shoulder.
A scream then a shot rang through the air.
Dixon’s heart pounded as he whipped around to see Joab Black with his rifle at his shoulder. Dixon’s gaze followed Joab’s sights.
Wild dogs scattered in all directions, and Rupert lay crumpled on the far side of the tracks. Where’d those dogs come from? Dixon scanned the road as his feet took flight. Where’d the stranger go?
“Barty, get Doc Petrie!” Dixon shouted over his shoulder. His feet pounded against the dry ground with increased speed.
“Rupert. Rupert. It’s all right, son.” Joab’s voice quivered as he lifted the still boy from the ground. “Rupert?”
Every muscle in Dixon’s body tensed. He pulled up beside Joab.
Rupert lay limp. His neck was ripped open, exposing its innards.
Dixon’s stomach soured. He touched the boy’s chest.
No movement.
He looked up and met the father’s round eyes. They reflected the fear pounding in his own heart.
Joab stepped around Dixon, his jaw set.
“Joab.”
“Got to get him to Doc.”
“Joab.”
But the man rushed down the road. The doctor would deal with him better, anyway.
Dixon glanced after the wild dogs, still nauseated by the vision of the boy’s mauled body. Not a tail could be seen. “Probably them animals headed for the Indian reserve.”
He turned after Joab and caught sight of the stranger’s glimmering overcoat slinking into Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant at the end of Main Street. Did that man tell Rupert to cross the tracks? But to what end? Dixon shook his head, but he couldn’t get rid of the feeling the man had something to do with this.
He slapped the side of his leg and headed for his office. Better he got a group of men to go after the dogs than to dwell on improbable scenarios. If the animals were rabid … he didn’t want to think of the horrors that would bring on the young village. Bad enough about Rupert. His throat tightened, and he broke into a run.
Chapter 2
Joab stared at the blood on his hands. The voices in the outer rooms of the doctor’s office drifted like echoes on the prairie wind. His only son—dead— when an hour before he had been full of life, enthused about his trip to town.
Joab stared at the blood on his hands. The voices in the outer rooms of the doctor’s office drifted like echoes on the prairie wind. His only son—dead—when an hour before he had been full of life, enthused about his trip to town.
He laid his hand on the boy’s arm, dark against pale. Warmth from his son’s body dissipated.
Cold crept over Joab’s. Why did this happen? What could have caused those dogs to attack like that?
A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see that Dixon’s darkened features mirrored his pain. His cheek twitched in an attempt at a smile for his friend, but Dixon’s frown only deepened in response. Joab frowned then too.
“I’m taking Barty and Nathaniel.” Dixon toyed with his Stetson. “We’re going after the dogs.” His jaw muscles flexed. “Did you want to come?”
Joab shook his head. “What good would that do now? They’ve done their damage.”
Dixon’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry Joab. I …”
“I’ve got to get Sarah.” Joab turned back to his son. His shoulders drooped. What would he tell his wife? For seven years Sarah had prayed for a son before Rupert was born. Each of those seven years his brothers had a boy. Jerod had four sons, and Caleb had three.
Now Joab had none. He choked on a sob then wiped his mouth. Squeezing the boy’s arm he said, “Goin’ to get your mama, son. I’ll be right back.” Rupert could give no response.
How would Sarah take the news? With the stress of harvest just beginning, she’d have to hold out or they’d not get the crop in and winter would be upon them without enough to carry them through to spring.
He glanced at his son, and pain shot through his chest. Turning to the sergeant and the doctor, he took a deep breath, and then let it out long and slow. “I’ll bring the buckboard in to take him home.”
He moved slowly toward the outer office, his shuffles echoing against the walls, a hollow forecast of life ahead. “I appreciate your help, Doc, Dixon.” His muscles shook as he opened the door. He’d rather have lost his farm than his son. God, help him. How was he going to face Sarah?
Sarah Black shook out her apron and coughed. “This dusty prairie will surely be the death of me.”
The old milk cow had made quite a mess of her corn patch and damaged the pumpkin plants. She placed her hands on her hips. “But, what’s done is done.”
The cow was put back in the corral, the gate was tied with an extra rope, and now she could glance at the sun. She needed to scramble to get supper on before Joab and Rupert returned from town.
Stopping at the step of the new plank-sided house, she took a moment to admire it. Joab had finished work on the interior yesterday. He had worked into the wee hours of the night during haying, nailing by lamplight.
She stroked her abdomen and smiled. This winter they need not fear the cold. Joab said the plaster on the inside was as good as any city house in Ontario. Plaster—huh. Who would have thought that a prairie farmer would be able to plaster his house? But she was thankful. No doubt they were the talk of the town.
A smile played on the corners of her mouth as she looked across the white fields begging to be harvested. Joab planned on cutting the barley tomorrow. He had told Rupert he could drive the team. Hard to believe the boy was old enough.
She rubbed her hands and picked up the water bucket on the step. Pushing open the door, she stroked it with her free hand. An oak door brought on the train from Ontario. What a treasure.
She stepped into the kitchen and caressed the plaster wall. So nice compared to the dirt walls of the sod house. Joab had even put in a new hand water pump. It wasn’t working yet. “After harvest,” he had said.
At the sink, she set the water bucket down. The potatoes needed scrubbing, and the carrots needed to be peeled. With a carrot in one hand and the knife in the other, she paused to admire her new coal stove and the table Joab built last winter. God had truly blessed them.
A hymn came to mind as she worked. Amazing Grace. This afternoon, she’d hung the gingham curtains that graced the glass window. Her heart swelled at the beauty of them and the homey feeling they brought to the house. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
A shadow crossed the window. Was that Joab?
She wiped her hands on her apron. Where was Rupert? Surely, Joab wouldn’t have left him in town. Her chest tightened, and she hurried to the door.
Joab stopped at the step. His pale face drooped and, worse yet, blood stained his blue linen shirt.
Sarah’s hand fluttered to her throat. Something terrible must have happened. “Joab, what is it?”
“Sarah, go in and sit down.” He pulled the red kerchief from around his neck and wiped his brow.
She took a cautious step back through the door while she eyed her husband. “Where is Rupert?”
“Sit down.” He cast the kerchief onto the wood counter by the sink.
She pushed a runaway blonde curl off her forehead then eased herself down onto the bench without taking her gaze off the bloodstains. “Is he hurt?”
Joab lowered himself onto the other end of the bench. He leaned his elbows on his knees and s
tared at the floor while his muscular back rose and fell with heavy breathing.
Sarah gripped her hands. Lord, please let Rupert be all right.
“Wild dogs …” His voice croaked. “Rupert. He crossed the railroad and wild dogs …” Joab rubbed his face with both hands. “I shot at them.”
She took in a quick breath. “Is he all right?”
“I scared them away, but it was too late. Rupert was already gone.” Joab buried his face in his hands.
She covered her mouth. Gone? “God, please, no.” Her knees buckled, and she fell onto the bench. Joab had to be wrong. “This just doesn’t happen.”
Her husband moved to her, his pale face speckled with red blotches.
She reached out to him. “It couldn’t have happened.”
He took her hand and pulled her to him. His earthy smell engulfed her as she buried her face into his shoulder. Tears flowed, hers on his shirt and his in her hair. “God, how could you have let this happen?” Just that morning, they’d left—Rupert healthy, laughing, expecting to buy his own pony. He couldn’t be …
Joab sank down beside her. “I’m going to hook up the team, and we’ll bring him home.” He ran his finger along her cheek. “Sarah, you must be strong. I saw him. He was there. He talked with Rupert.”
“Him?” She gripped his shirt. “You mean …”
Her husband nodded.
“I don’t believe you. How could he find us out here?”
Joab’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but he didn’t answer.
Sarah rose to her feet. “You have to be mistaken. It couldn’t have been him.”
Joab’s lips grew thin. He turned and walked to the door. “God knows.”
God did know. So why would He let him come back into their lives? She lowered herself to the bench. No. Joab was wrong. It was someone else.
Chapter 3
Dixon pulled his horse to a halt just outside of Surbank, its buildings dark against the evening sky. The sun set on the gray snow-peaked mountains in the distance. The close of a horrific day for the village. Pink and orange colors deepened as they lined the western horizon. The sun slipped behind the mountains, and purple edges formed along the ends of the colored sky.
Beneath him, his horse’s sides moved in a steady rhythm, and the smell of its sweat swirled around him. He frowned and stroked the gun that lay across the front of his saddle. The hunt for the wild dogs had been unsuccessful.
They disappeared much like the golden sun.
With a gentle squeeze of his legs, he urged his mount into town and down Main Street to Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant. His horse’s hooves clip-clopped on the hard ground and sounded as tired as he felt.
He pulled up at the hitching rail, dismounted, and flipped open his pocket watch. 9:00 pm. Mrs. Clumpit usually closed before 8:30 pm.
Voices filtered from the building and wafted through the cooling air. Sounded like a full house.
He pushed open the white door and stepped into the building. The chandelier cast shadows in the corners, giving a somber air to the room. On each of the seven tables a wax candle lit the patrons’ faces. All of those faces, maybe twenty of them, focused on one man who sat at the center table, under the chandelier.
Dixon squeezed his fists shut.
The stranger from earlier that day.
The man appeared luminous as before, and sung a low, almost mournful tune. His voice, a fine tenor, held his audience captive and sent chills down Dixon’s spine.
Not a person made a sound as the man sung of sorrow caused by straight living and the lonesome life of the prairie farmer. Tears stained every cheek.
Dixon let out a short huff. Nothing like playing on people’s emotions. What was the man up to?
With a grunt, he stepped around to a chair by Barty and lowered his sore body onto its hard seat.
Barty nodded to him but kept his eyes fixed on the stranger. “Says his name is Abbadon.”
What nationality was that? So many people came from other countries to Alberta, but most of them European. Abbadon wasn’t a European name. Sounded more Jewish or perhaps Arabic, but the man didn’t look it.
The stranger turned to Dixon. “Any luck catching those wild dogs, Sergeant?” The man’s eyes flipped and flickered in the candlelight. A challenge perhaps or maybe he mocked.
Dixon shook his head. “It’s as though they disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Abbadon raised his chin like he knew something the rest of the crowd did not. “Happens sometimes. Why, I was in another town the other day and a similar incident occurred. The dogs just disappeared. Turns out the boy that got killed was the son of a successful preacher. Well, it came out that this preacher was dipping into the church’s coffers. God’s justice, I say.”
Everyone nodded and mumbled in agreement.
Dixon narrowed his eyes. Two similar incidents while this man was around. Not enough to convict, but an interesting coincidence nonetheless.
“Joab is such a good man, and his wife is the prettiest thing this side of Ontario,” said Mrs. Kirkland. She folded her hands neatly on her lap and sat straight as a board against her chair.
“Mm-hm.” Abbadon nodded and winked at Dixon. “No man is perfect, if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am.”
Dixon tapped his heel on the floor, but kept his thoughts to himself. Joab was likely the best man around. Maybe not perfect, as the man said, but hardly someone God Almighty would consider a criminal worthy of His wrath.
“Everyone has their secrets.” Abbadon leaned back and looked at Doc Petrie who toyed with the brass buttons popping out from his tight-fitting waistcoat. “Right Doc? You know a few, don’t you?”
Doc stiffened his neck, which started to redden, and then he leaned into the shadows behind him.
Barty chuckled. “Old Doc could tell a few on all of us, I’m sure. How badly I eat, for one.”
The crowd laughed, and everyone started talking.
Barty leaned toward Dixon. “I’m sure you know a few too, eh, Sarge?”
Dixon tilted his head. He didn’t want to get into this. Gossip usually led to trouble, and gossip came to life in this restaurant. He stood and walked over to Mrs. Clumpit who leaned on the kitchen door holding a cup of tea. “Are you tired, ma’am?”
“I’m all right, thank you.” She sipped her tea and her pleasant brow wrinkled. “Feel awful about Rupert. He was such a dear boy.”
“Did you want to close up? I could shoo everyone out for you if you like.”
She placed her calloused, hot hand on his arm. “You’re sweet.” She nodded toward the crowd. “It’s times like this we need each other as a community. I’ll keep the doors open for as long as they need to talk.” She turned. Tears wet her gray eyes. “Sarah will be needing some comfort that only womenfolk can give. I’ll ride up there first thing tomorrow morning. Carrie can take care of the restaurant for awhile.”
“You’re a kind woman.” Her goodness warmed him. Few people went out of their way to help another the way Mrs. Clumpit did.
“It’s a hard place to live in times of sorrow.” She looked out the window. “The prairies just suck the life out of you when you’re alone. They are as endless as life without hope.” She looked back at him. “And that’s what it feels like, life without hope, when you lose someone you love—especially a child.”
Dixon patted her hand. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”
“I thought my life was over when baby Joe and Jethro died two winters ago. I’d look across that snowy expanse and think how endless it looked, not even a hill high enough to escape to. How do you get out of a place like that? Death in that plain, well you can’t get over that.” She choked back a tear. “But you go on, and you find some way of blocking out the empty expanse. I put up walls and made this restaurant. Keeps me busy enough not to be looking out across that lonely land.”
Her sorrow still pulled on her face, and it pulled on his. He looked at the floor. “I’m going to my
office. If you need anything just send Barty over. I’ll come in a jiffy.”
“I’ll be fine. You look like you need a rest.”
His heart surged. He tipped his head goodbye and moved across the room. Sorrow enough in this world, why add to it with the heartache of love? He’d best be careful, or he’d be getting himself into something he wouldn’t be able to escape from.
Resting his hand on the door handle, he glanced back at the stranger. Abbadon smiled and saluted him. Dixon didn’t acknowledge him. A knot of tension formed between his shoulder blades as he stepped out the door and headed to his office. Something was up with that man. He was certain of it. Whatever it was, he hoped he’d be able to stop it before it went any further.
Chapter 4
The red embers in the fireplace caught the dry kindling Dixon poked into them. One flame, then another, flicked up under the iron poker, casting shadows over the bars of the cell in the back of the office. Satisfied with the small fire, he settled down at his desk and pulled pen, inkwell, and paper from his drawer. Perhaps the NWMP in Calgary knew of the man named Abbadon and could shed some light on what he might be up to. Such a unique-looking person would not go unnoticed.
Dixon leaned back in his chair and flexed his jaw muscles. He was probably over-reacting. But for the safety of his community. … These people trusted him to uphold the law and keep them safe.
Of course, he had no reason to believe Abbadon intended harm—just a feeling.
The door to the stable behind his office stood ajar, letting in the smell of grain dust and sweaty horses. Piercing zigzags of white crossed the northern sky sending their quick illumination through the window.
Dixon’s jaw locked. The sky’s exhibition looked too much like the tornado-producing storms of the past. Change of weather came without warning in these parts. No clouds on the northern horizon at sunset, but then that was typical Alberta weather. He’d better hurry if he wanted to get this cable off tonight. The station master wouldn’t appreciate being made to come out in a storm.