Joab's Fire

by Lynn Squire

  Dixon jotted his short cryptic note. “Info Abbadon, albino.” He placed his pen in the drawer and stood, sniffing at the dry air. Likely no moisture in this storm. Could be all wind. He grabbed his Stetson and overcoat before he stepped out of his office onto the boardwalk. Thunder greeted him, and he glanced over his shoulder at the northern horizon.

  Angry clouds rolled over each other hiding the stars in the northern sky. Soon they would cross the Bow River.

  The rumble of wagon wheels came from the main road, and the full moon in the southeast lit the ground as the Blacks’ Morgan team came into view. Dixon rubbed the stubble on his face. His message would have to wait. The Blacks would need help.

  “Hate to see this happen to such a fine couple.” The doctor’s bass voice trembled as he came up behind Dixon and halted his uneven tread.

  No doubt his bad hip was giving him trouble.

  “Guess we’d better get the pastor.” Dixon stepped off the walk. Since the pastor never said goodbye Dixon assumed the man didn’t leave when planned this afternoon.

  Dr. Petrie cleared his voice. “The pastor left immediately after seeing that Abbadon man. Mrs. Kirkland said it seemed to her as if he just up and disappeared.”

  Dixon mumbled, “Probably had business elsewhere.” But his chest tightened. It wasn’t like Pastor Perkins to leave like that. Even though the man had other churches to visit in the area, he usually didn’t leave without poking his nose in the office and asking Dixon to come to church the following Sunday.

  The Blacks’ wagon pulled up before the doctor’s office. Sarah Black’s stiff back looked a formidable wall against what was coming her way.

  Dixon took a tentative step toward the wagon, but halted when Joab came around to lift his wife down from the seat. Joab’s face wore a rigid expression, and his eyes flashed with anger. He had always been a moderate person, but losing a child could change a man. Dixon stepped aside while Joab led his wife into Dr. Petrie’s office.

  Sarah refused to believe Rupert was dead. This couldn’t happen to them, not after moving here and starting over with a good farm and new house. Not after all the blessings the Lord had showered on them. Please Lord, let it be just someone’s idea of a joke.

  She stood on the threshold of Dr. Petrie’s office. Her throat cramped when Joab’s warm hand nudged her elbow. She bit her lip and stepped into the candlelit receiving room, barely noticing the empty wooden benches and large desk, then moved with a halting gait into the examination room.

  Rupert lay still. His dark hair framed his pale face. Dark blood clung to a ravaged throat. His green shirt was ripped and scratches marred his little chest.

  She reached for him with one hand clasped against her chest. Surely he breathed.

  His chest did not move.

  Air could not move her chest. Her gaze fell upon the mutilated neck. She gagged and covered her mouth. What mad beast could do this to her son? “God, give him breath,” she pleaded and leaned over him.

  “Sarah.”

  She let out a tortured sob and fell on the boy’s chest, pounding it, pushing it, shaking it.

  “Sarah.” Joab’s voice screeched. “Stop. He’s gone.” His hands grabbed hers.

  She spun into his arms and pressed her face into his chest, choking back sobs. “I don’t want him to be dead.”

  Joab led her across the room. The warmth of his body provided no real comfort.

  Her legs moved as though weighted with lead, not wanting to take her away from her child. This couldn’t be true. It had to be a dream. She’d awake soon.

  A gust of wind shook the small building.

  She shuddered with it. Would she feel wind in a dream?

  The bun at the back of her neck fell apart, and her blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders, just like her world. “Rupert can’t be gone. This is a hoax.”

  “I’m sorry, love.”

  Lightning flashed outside the window. A storm was rolling in—how fitting.

  “You can stay with my wife and me tonight.” The calmness of Dr. Petrie’s voice scraped across her nerves.

  She pushed away from Joab and lifted her chin. “I want to take him home.” Her voice cracked. He belonged in his own bed … one more night in his own bed.

  “But the storm, you’ll get …”

  “He must come home.” She fell back against Joab. Could they not understand? Rupert needed his wounds cleaned. Look at his clothes. She needed to wash them and mend them. He must come home. “I want him to rest in his own bed.”

  “Sarah.” Joab spoke just above a whisper, his voice tight. “It would be better to stay in town than to be out in this storm.”

  “I want him home,” she implored and looked at Joab.

  His eyes rimmed with tears. One escaped down his tanned cheek.

  A sharp pain at her side caused her to wince. She pressed her hand against it and held back a cry. She must be careful, must not overstress herself.

  Joab sank back against the wall. He dropped his gaze to the floor and ran his fingers along the brim of his hat.

  The wind rattled the shingles above them, and the air filled with the dry static of an electrical storm.

  “Please?” It might not make sense … but Rupert needed a bath, some care, before …

  Sergeant Dixon cleared his throat. She hadn’t noticed his presence in the room before this.

  His fingers rolled over his Stetson. “Joab, I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  “She’ll need blankets.” Joab’s voice sounded calm and strong. He reached for her, pulled her near with a gentleness his large hands seemed incapable of, and drew a blonde lock off her forehead.

  A rush of gratitude flooded her. She took Joab’s hand between hers. He loved her. He would not deny her, but how cold and clammy his hand felt. “Sergeant Dixon, do you have an extra overcoat for Joab?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She swallowed against the ache in her throat. Hot tears blurred her vision. They were taking her boy home. He’d be better there.

  Joab stepped toward the door. “We must leave right away, love.”

  Nodding, she leaned heavily on Joab’s arm as they walked across the room. It was as though her feet forbid they leave Rupert’s side. Her heart forbade it.

  Sergeant Dixon and Dr. Petrie’s voices moved out of the building. The world stood aloof and cold.

  She turned back and pulled her son to her chest ignoring the dried blood and torn skin. “God help us.”

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me …” Joab’s voice drifted over her heart like a Chinook wind, warm and strong. He eased their son from her hands.

  Oh God, please be with me.

  Joab grew quiet. The wind howled a mournful refrain as it whipped around the buildings.

  The scent of sage pulled her attention to her son’s hand. He clasped the herb in his fist, locked in the grip of death and wilted against his flesh. She touched Rupert’s hand and caressed the dying plant. Must have been the last thing he did … picking sage.

  “Great Jehosaphat!” rasped Joab as he touched the wilted leaves. “Was that why he crossed the tracks?”

  Gathering sage would not draw the attention of a pack of wild dogs … under normal circumstances. Something more powerful worked evil here. Rather someone.

  Sarah’s gaze locked with Joab’s. He knew it, too.

  Chapter 5

  Dixon stepped across the entrance to the doctor’s examination room. Joab’s exclamation slammed against him, and he followed his friend’s gaze to the plant that lay wilted against the boy’s fist.

  Sage. A patch of sage grew where the dogs attacked. Why would this child leave his play to pick sage? Abbadon—had he suggested it? He couldn’t have known about the dogs, could he?

  Dixon shook his head. What reason would the man have to want Rupert dead?

  “Perhaps we should get Mrs. Black onto the buckboard and home before the stor
m hits.” Dr. Petrie motioned toward Joab’s wife.

  Joab’s gray countenance wrenched Dixon’s heart. If God cared, He’d not let this man and wife suffer more, but a glance at that sky suggested otherwise. The last time Dixon saw clouds like that he had to use a shovel to clear the hail from his step. “Mrs. Black”—Dixon faltered—”I’m sorry. We should …” He rubbed his rough chin. “Joab, perhaps you should bring your wife and help her into her seat.”

  Joab nodded and placed his hand on his wife’s elbow. “Sarah.”

  The woman stared at Dixon. She looked fragile, ready to shatter at any moment.

  Dixon rubbed his NWMP insignia. He didn’t have much experience with women, and whenever they fell to pieces he felt more out of control than a wild horse fleeing prey.

  Joab guided her to the buckboard. “Love, we need to hurry.” He settled her in the seat and came back for Rupert.

  Dixon followed him out the door.

  As Joab carried his son across the boardwalk, a gust of wind hit him, and he stumbled. The boy’s body shifted in his arms.

  Dixon lunged to steady his friend, and he glanced at the sky. Lightning lit up the lower line of the northern horizon. The storm had crossed the river—only a matter of minutes before it hit.

  “Don’t think they’ll make it home.” Dr. Petrie huffed. “That looks like a bad one. Reminds me. …”

  “Let’s just get this over with.” Dixon laid his hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

  Dr. Petrie grimaced. He wiped his nose with his fist and grunted as he glanced at the boy’s body now lying in the back of the wagon. “Make sure Mrs. Black is warm, or she’ll be coming down with pneumonia.”

  Dixon climbed in beside Joab’s son. “Say, Doc …”

  Dr. Petrie looked up. His pale face reflected Dixon’s own feelings.

  “Could you get this over to the station master?” Dixon handed him a slip of paper. “I’d like this cable sent out right away.”

  “Yes sir. No problem.” Thunder clashed, and Dr. Petrie glowered at the sky. “Better run these horses, Joab. Prove their breeding. You should get home in under ten minutes. Lord willing the storm will hold off until then.”

  Joab nodded. He snapped the reins on the backs of the horses. “Yah!”

  The team jolted forward.

  Dixon’s heart lurched when a chunk of hail hit the back of the buckboard. If the size of that hailstone was any indication, there’d not be much left of the crops.

  “God, get us home!” Joab shouted to the wind.

  Dixon clung to the sides of the buckboard and watched the boy’s body bounce as the horses raced homeward. If only Joab’s prayer would be heard.

  Chapter 6

  Flashes of lightning streaked across the night sky, and the thunder rolled, matching the pounding of Dixon’s heart. The wagon lurched and bounced. His hands ached from gripping the sides of the buckboard.

  A hailstone hit his leg. He winced as the walnut-sized piece of ice bounced and fell to the road. These horses had better run like wildfire.

  The wagon careened to its side as Joab turned into his yard.

  Dixon twisted around to see his friend hauling on the reins. At this speed they’d hit the barn.

  “Whoa!” Joab leaned back, pulling on the reins.

  Dixon leapt from the wagon as the horses slid to a stop inches from the building. He raised his arm over his head, blocking a cascade of hail, and ran to the door. The wind fought him. He bent into it and thrust open the barn, but the wind grabbed him and the door and flung them to the side. “Argh.”

  Dixon’s head slammed against the building, sending sharp needles of pain through his skull. “Confounded storm.”

  Thunderous pelting drowned the rumble of wagon wheels as the buckboard entered the barn. Dixon hauled on the door while hard balls of ice battered his body like a firing squad. Gritting his teeth, he raced inside, and the door swung shut behind him. Others had told him tales of these violent storms, but he had never experienced one like this.

  Weeping rose over the roar of the wind and the fierce drumming of the hail.

  He focused on the Blacks now huddling together on the seat of the buckboard.

  Sarah Black wailed while the sounds of the fierce storm echoed through the empty building. Poor woman.

  Dixon scanned the barn, breathing in the scent of wet wood and sensing something amiss. Joab’s livestock. They were still outside, being pummeled by hailstones. A cold sweat broke over him. No telling in what condition they’d find them. His hand wrapped around the door latch. To go out to help them would place him in the same risk.

  A flash of lightning lit up the barn, and Dixon caught Joab’s expression of horror. It was obvious his friend knew his animals’ fate.

  One violent whoosh and all fell silent.

  Dixon blinked. His skin tingled. He reached for the oil lamp hanging above him and lit it.

  Shadows sprawled through the building. Though one of the horses stomped, rattling its harness, an eerie silence birthed apprehension in his soul. If he were a spiritual man, he’d say that storm carried evil with it, but such foolishness did not play well with the logic a NWMP sergeant needed.

  He ground his teeth and stepped toward the buckboard. “You both all right?” What a foolhardy thing to say. Of course they were not all right.

  Joab helped his wife down.

  She clung to her husband. The look on her face dragged Dixon’s heart, and he pulled away from her gaze.

  “Your livestock …”

  “I put them in the barn before we left.” Joab’s voice sounded hollow, and he surveyed the barn as though trying to find what was not there.

  The barn door was shut when they arrived. How’d the animals get out? “Let’s get your wife to the house.”

  “Not without Rupert.” Her voice shook.

  Dixon nodded and headed for the wagon. He glanced out the barn door as the Blacks swung it open. Moonlight radiated from the ground outside. He lifted the boy’s body and lumbered out of the barn. The sky looked phenomenal. An eerie glow orbed the heavens and flashes of lightning streaked the dark in the distance. The yard shone as bright as a snowy winter’s night, but no snow lay on the ground. Only a heavy blanket of hail smothered the grass.

  Swallowing, he glanced at Joab and saw his friend’s wide-eyed expression fade into dismay. There would be nothing left of their crops.

  Rivulets of water cut through the powdered dirt path to the house, while their boots crunched hailstones. Dixon choked up at the sight. No good could come from this.

  Mrs. Black screamed. She pointed to bodies of dead chickens strewn across the farmyard.

  Dixon’s stomach knotted. They lay as though someone had pressed them into the ground, their bellies level with the earth around them.

  A whimper escaped Mrs. Black’s lips. “They were in the coop when we left.”

  “Keep going, Sarah.” Joab took her elbow and led her to the house. “Let’s take care of Rupert first, and then we’ll worry about this.”

  But they halted.

  Dixon shifted the boy’s body to his other shoulder. What could be the problem now?

  “Our milk cow,” she whispered as she wrapped her hand around her throat.

  Dixon dropped his gaze to the cow in front of the couple. Its tongue hung from its mouth. It had been battered to death by hailstones. One the size of a baseball lay by the animal’s head.

  Mrs. Black wailed and raced for the house.

  Joab’s pale face turned to Dixon. “What more?”

  “Surely this is it.” But something in Dixon’s gut told him this wasn’t the end. Was this the force of Mother Nature or the vengeance of an angry God?

  Chapter 7

  The stormy night, the loss of life, these weighed heavy on Dixon as he carried the Blacks’ son into their home. The cheerful kitchen faded in the light of the horrific events. Events, if he were not mistaken, that pointed to something or someone beyond his realm of understanding.
/>
  He shrugged the boy off his shoulder and Joab helped him lay Rupert on a cot near the fireplace.

  Dixon glimpsed back at Mrs. Black. From the distant look in her eyes and the blank look on her face, she had withdrawn from the situation. He rubbed the back of his neck and surveyed the room. “Looks like you need some kindling. Where’s your axe, Joab? I’ll split some wood.”

  His friend pointed to a red-handled axe in the corner of the firebox. Dixon grabbed it and rushed outside. The Blacks needed to be alone.

  Across the northern sky danced the many colors of the Aurora Borealis—the northern lights. He stopped to watch the awesome sight. How unusual to see them this far south so early in the year. One might think tonight was the war of the gods.

  He glanced back at the house and frowned. Joab once told him there was only one true God, but if one god, why not many?

  On the path to the back of the barn lay the dead body of Joab’s prize-winning Hereford bull. A bull Joab had brought on the train from Ontario. He’d used it to service some of the Kirkland’s cows in exchange for some heifer calves he’d get after weaning. Add that to the loss of their milk cow and the chickens—how many animals were killed in total? If Joab’s God existed, he must be a fierce God.

  Rounding the back corner of the barn, Dixon found some driftwood and a stack of poplar logs. Probably brought up from the river. He lifted a large piece and set it on a stump by the stack.

  “God holds no place in my life.” He swung the axe and let its head fall on the end of the log. The wood split with a loud crack. His mother had been Catholic, but religion hadn’t helped her survive Riel’s revolt. That’s when Dixon had given up on God.

  He pulled a splinter off the side of the log and set it on the ground under the barn’s eave.

  He’d seen enough in life to know that there was good and evil in the world— forces beyond his control. But no caring God existed. The Blacks didn’t deserve this devastation.

  He swung the axe against the log, driving it through the wood with more power than he meant to employ. He thrust the axe down on another piece and continued attacking the wood as though it were the enemy. When he had a large mound of kindling, he wiped his brow with his coat sleeve and gathered the wood in his arms then bent low to grab a stick that rolled away.