by Lynn Squire
He frowned and slapped his blackened gunny sack against his leg. As a NWMP officer, he must remain objective in his investigation; but as a man—well, he could feel what he wanted. Much as he’d like to go ring the man’s neck, he’d forgo the pleasure for now in exchange for making sure his friends were all right.
“Hey, Nathaniel.” He waved to the blacksmith. “Can you go with me to the Blacks’?”
“Sure, Dixon. I’ve got time.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the smudges of soot from his cheeks. “Hope they survived.” He shook his head. “Mighty hard on them, losin’ their son … and now this.”
Dixon looked to the Blacks’ farm, or at least in its general direction. Now only charred remains stood against the smoke-filled sky. “Mighty tough, indeed.”
“Wonder if they lost those nice Morgans.” Nathaniel fell in step with Dixon. “They were the finest pair of steeds in this country. Joab brought them up from Vermont when he got that prize bull from Ontario. Always wondered how he came up with the money for that trip. Mind you, he’s the best farmer around. Ain’t never seen crops like his.”
Dixon rubbed the back of his neck. How would the Blacks survive winter? “Until this year.”
Nathaniel sobered. “Until this year.” He made his way through the burnt stubble. “Wondered what damage the storm did last night. Guess what the hail didn’t destroy the fire did.”
Images of dead animals strewn across the barnyard pulled on Dixon’s conscience. “The storm did more than enough to match the fire.” Perhaps, in a small way, the fire was a blessing. It would have burned the carcasses and that would keep the coyotes away.
“Funny thing, that storm. Kind of hit and miss.” Nathaniel tugged on his ash-laden sideburn. “My pa used to say a storm like that was the finger of God dispensin’ judgment.”
“Mighty rough judgment, don’t you think?” Dixon smothered a growl. If that was God’s judgment then God was unjust.
“Yeah, but He’s a holy God. My pa said ain’t no sinner could stand before Him, and we all are sinners.”
Dixon twitched his mustache. “Then why did He bother making us?”
Nathaniel chuckled. “Guess He just needed somethin’ to do.”
Dixon snorted. Was God really a distant spirit that stirred the pot of human lives just to hold His interest? Yet, Joab said He was a God of love. Wonder if Joab still thought that.
The black ground crunched under his boots, and puffs of ash swirled around him. What good did destroying a man do? Perhaps it wasn’t God. Perhaps this Almighty just set things in motion and left. Dixon narrowed his eyes, and anger stirred in his chest as he recalled Joab’s words from last week. “Someone once told me we were created for God’s glory. How does destroying a good man bring God glory?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “No one knows the mind of God.”
Dixon lifted his hand over his eyes to block the sun as he scanned the area. “Hey, there they are, in that circle of stubble.”
“Yeah. Looks like they fought fire with fire.”
Dixon broke into a run. “They’re not standing. Come on, Nathaniel.” He could see they were bent over as though praying.
“Sergeant Dixon, Mr. Blake.” Mrs. Black stood. “Please get the doctor. Joab’s badly burned.” Tears cut white streaks down her cheeks. Her blonde hair, gray with ash, blew like a racehorse’s mane in the wind.
“I’ll go.” Nathaniel spun on his heel and ran like a rabbit on short legs.
Dixon gulped back bile as he surveyed Joab’s injuries. They brought back images of a fire years ago. A fire for which he was responsible.
“Can you help me take him to our old soddy?” She bent down and grabbed her husband’s hand.
“Yes Ma’am.” Dixon pushed aside the memories and wrapped Joab’s arm around his shoulder. The smell of burnt flesh churned his stomach.
“Thanks.” Joab moaned as he tried to stand on his feet then fell to his knees. A cry of agony escaped his lips, and he turned white as a sheet under the soot covering his face.
“Steady. Take your time.” How could the man endure this?
Mrs. Black wrapped his other arm around her neck and they tried again. With great care, they half-carried and half-dragged him to the old sod house built into the side of a coulee on the south end of their property. What a wonder. At least they would have some form of shelter.
The blackened grass on the roof matched the world around it, but the inside of the house showed no signs of the fire, though he could smell smoke. Dixon and Mrs. Black laid Joab on the dirt floor.
Joab moaned then called for his wife.
With a lump in his throat, Dixon stepped back and surveyed the house. One small, empty room filled with nothing but dirt, and lit by a single window covered with oiled parchment paper. A wood stove stood in the center. Its pipe stretched to the low ceiling. In the corner stood an empty crate, the only thing left to indicate the Blacks once lived there. A far cry from the house that once stood as a symbol of their success. What cruel god would allow such destruction?
Mrs. Clumpit peered around the entrance. “I brought some blankets.” She stepped into the sod, and her gaze rolled over the bleak interior, but her expression remained unchanged, still tender, still compassionate. She handed Mrs. Black the blankets.
Dixon moved aside to make room for the gentle woman.
“Nathaniel’s coming with the wagon and the doctor. As soon as I saw the men had stopped the fire, I headed up to your farm. I saw you come in here.” She touched Mrs. Black’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Black shook her head but didn’t speak. What could one say in the face of such devastation?
Rolling his Stetson through his fingers, Dixon pointed his gaze at his friend. The man’s case seemed hopeless. How does one rise above utter destruction?
Joab moaned and shivered beneath the blankets. His face looked like a festering pool of ash and dirt with red eyes as sharpened and pointed in their gaze as rapiers.
“This cold ground can’t be good for him.” Fresh anxiety rolled over Dixon as he watched Joab’s chest make weak attempts to rise and fall. He looked to die, as those men in his past.
Dixon wiped his face of the memories, but he couldn’t wipe away the hopelessness. What lay beyond one’s last breath? A man like Joab had hope in a heaven, without sorrow or pain or death. Could such a place really exist? Or did one merely cease to exist? And if so, what meaning did life hold?
The rumble of a wagon announced the doctor’s arrival.
Dixon hustled out the door, muscles knotted and spine straightened as he greeted Dr. Petrie.
“How bad is he?” The physician asked as he jumped from the wagon before it stopped.
Dixon shook his head. “Not good, sir—not good at all.”
Chapter 11
The seriousness of Joab’s condition weighed heavily on Dixon. He’d seen enough over the years to know such injuries led to death. Like the fire at the fort years ago. He pinched the bridge of his nose to press away the memory. No good bringing up the past. Better to focus on the present.
Mrs. Clumpit led Mrs. Black from the sod house, her arm wrapped about the poor woman’s shoulders. “It’s tough, I know, losing someone in this wretched country, let alone a child.” She stopped at the wagon and leaned in to pull a large pot from underneath a blanket. “Sit down, dear, and have some stew.”
Dixon smiled at her and drummed his fingers on the edge of the wagon. The smell of smoke and burnt grass still clung to the air—would for several weeks. A constant reminder of the ruthlessness of life.
He pushed away from the wagon and paced, his feet crunching the charred grass. Dr. Petrie had been in the soddy for over an hour now. Blisters covered Joab’s body. No doubt the doctor had his work cut out for him.
“I’m not really hungry.” Mrs. Black eased herself onto the wagon.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying, you haven’t eaten for quite some time. I know you didn’t
eat last night, and I doubt you did this morning.”
Her hands trembled. “Please, I really couldn’t.” She then pressed her hand against her stomach and covered her mouth.
Dixon frowned. She’d faint from hunger, and what good would that do?
“Well, can’t say as I blame you.” Mrs. Clumpit lowered the ladle. “Why, I know when I lost my dear Jethro and little Joe I didn’t eat for days.” She gave the younger woman a quick hug.
Dixon turned away and pressed down the acid rising in his throat. Mrs. Black didn’t look good at all, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. Good thing Mrs. Clumpit came. She’d at least be a comfort to the woman.
As Mrs. Clumpit covered the stew and wrapped a blanket around her friend’s shoulders, Dixon creased his brow. Prairie farming came with hardship. He shuffled his feet and checked his gun. The Blacks received their hardships all at once. Why?
Dr. Petrie emerged from the soddy, his jowls dropping as though he had aged twenty years. “Ma’am, do you have any burns?”
Dixon rubbed the back of his neck. Some husband he’d make. He never thought to ask if she had any burns.
“No, I’m fine.” Mrs. Black slid off the wagon and peered at the door. “How is he?” Her hands still trembled, though she clasped them in front of her soot-stained dress. Based on how she looked, she had little stamina left.
Dixon drew up beside her.
“I don’t want you to have any false hope. He’s in pretty rough shape. His legs are badly burned. I’ll leave you some ointment to apply to them. If infection sets in we may have to amputate. Those burns on his body and face are blistered, but they’ll heal, provided they are kept clean.” He laid his hand on Mrs. Black’s shoulder. “I believe I must be forthright. Most people with burns like these don’t make it.”
Mrs. Black’s eyes widened, and she grasped the doctor’s hand.
He laid his hand over hers, his eyebrows furrowed together. “I need to tell you what to look for, so listen closely.”
She paled, leaned against the wagon, but nodded.
Dixon pulled on his mustache while the doctor explained Joab’s care. A lot of work for one woman, and given her present state, she’d need help. He’d make sure she got it.
When the doctor left and Mrs. Black settled on a bench outside, Dixon stepped into the soddy. Perhaps, if he could wrangle up some men to sit with Joab, it might provide her with some relief. Of course, she’d need womenfolk around as well.
Joab lay on a mat. His pant legs were piled in the corner. Angry red flesh marred his bare legs and black, burnt skin outlined the wounds.
Dixon winced. “I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Joab moaned and glanced his way. Pain etched the corners of his eyes, and the stark whites of his eyes gave him a tortured look.
Like a boiling pot of water, Dixon’s innards churned at the sight. “I’ll find out how this happened. If someone started this fire, he’ll pay. He’ll pay in hell.”
Joab turned away and winced. “God have mercy.”
Dixon huffed. God have mercy? God is merciless. “I’ll be back this evening with wood and food.” He turned on his heel and left the room. God have mercy, indeed. Were there a God that had mercy, this would never have happened.
Before heading back to Surbank, Sergeant Dixon stopped by the Blacks’ farmstead. While the storm the night before had enough electricity to start a fire, it was long gone before this blaze started. Something about this whole catastrophe needled him.
He scanned the burned remains of the Blacks’ house. What a shame. Not a finer house this side of Calgary. Looked like a city house. Mrs. Black had decorated it nicely, too. She had a flare for that, just like his mother.
He huffed and circled to the back of the charred remains. It was possible the fire started from a spark going up the chimney.
A faint, yet harsh scent wafted in the air. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. Was that kerosene oil? He sniffed again. Yes sir. His gaze roved over the ground for anything that might suggest foul play. An impression in the ground the size a man’s boot crossed a muddy crack.
He squatted for a closer look. Stuck at the toe of the print was a silver boot tip. Placing his index finger on it, he pressed down so the end lifted; then he removed the pouch from his belt and dropped the tip into it. Where had he seen a tip like that before? Was it on Abbadon’s boots? Maybe, but he’d have to see them to be sure. Dixon wasn’t willing to make a mistake in this investigation. Whoever started this fire must not get away on a technicality.
He ran his finger along the edge of the print. Judging from the ash in it, the print was made before the fire. There was no other indication of a person being there.
He sniffed the air again. The scent of kerosene diminished. Could it be on the tip? He opened his pouch and sniffed. That’s where it came from. While the evidence was not conclusive, it certainly could be damaging to the person who owned that boot tip.
With jaw locked, he headed across the prairie for town. Just a matter of time now, and he’d know who started the fire.
Chapter 12
Dixon’s stomach growled at the aroma of Mrs. Clumpit’s famous pheasant stew wafting down the street. He stepped into his office, dropped his pouch in the safe behind his desk, and hustled out the door. He could already taste the savory feast he aimed to get.
The restaurant rumbled with conversation. More people than the usual afternoon tea crowd sat around tables dressed in calico cloths. Dixon took a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful smell of fresh barley bread and stew. He removed his Stetson, setting it on a chair beside him, and lowered himself onto another.
“Sure amazing how that fire stopped right by my pasture.” Blain Kirkland slurped his coffee. “God’s favor must be smilin’ on me.”
The crowd laughed.
“You mean on your wife.” Barty slapped Blain’s arm. “Everyone knows it can’t be you.” He guffawed, and Dixon chuckled as well. Blain and his wife were as different as night and day. Blain never placed a boot in a church and his wife never missed a service.
Mrs. Clumpit clucked as she set a bowl of steaming stew before Dixon. “You men ought not to be making light of this. That poor couple has suffered so. You ought to be counting your blessings.”
“Ma’am, that might be true.”
Dixon turned to see the stranger who spoke. He hadn’t noticed Abbadon sitting at the corner table when he came into the restaurant. Glancing down at Abbadon’s feet, he hoped to see the man’s boots, but they were tucked away from his view.
“Yet one’s got to wonder why there is such a distinct line drawn. My experience, from all my travels, has proven there is a reason for everything that happens under the sun.” Abbadon leaned forward. “And it is usually connected with a person’s secret life.”
Dixon cleared his throat. “What exactly do you do in all your travels?”
“I’m a student of mankind. A scientist of sorts, studying what makes a society tick.”
Dixon raised his eyebrows. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to observe, mainly.”
Dixon suppressed a growl. “Any other reason?”
“No, not really.” The stranger tilted his head. “Pretty interesting things happening here. I wonder if my hypothesis that all men come to the same demise will hold true.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Every patron locked his gaze on Dixon.
He bit his tongue. Yes, there was accusation in his voice, and they all heard it. He’d better back down, or he’d be sure to stir trouble. Better to observe than to force an issue. Undeniably, this man held an element of suspicion in his eyes, but Dixon needed proof. Even so, he couldn’t even come up with a reasonable motivation for Abbadon wanting to destroy the Blacks. How did he expect to substantiate his accusation with what little he had to go on?
“Well Sergeant, my scientific observation has consistently revealed that anyone blessed by God with plenty wil
l inevitably turn against God, should it all be taken away.” In the fading afternoon light, the stranger’s eyes flickered with those unnerving multiple colors. “My observations have also revealed that rarely does a farmer exceed beyond his neighbor’s wealth unless he’s doing something other than farming.” He nodded his head as though agreeing with himself. “I’m sure you’ve all observed much the same in your years on this harsh land.”
Murmurs rolled through the room, and Dixon gritted his teeth. How could they agree with this stranger? He had no business studying this town. Who did Abbadon think he was, anyway?
“It’s not my place to say,” Abbadon lifted his cup to the crowd, “but I’m sure you’re all wondering how Mr. Black could afford the house he built.”
Dixon clamped his jaw tight. He couldn’t believe the brazenness of this fellow. Nor could he believe the nodding heads in the room. It was as though they were under a spell. Who could possibly think ill of Joab Black? The man did more for each of them in their time of need than anyone else.
“I’ll admit I wondered last year how my wheat brought twenty bushels to the acre and his was forty, since our fields lie side by side.” Mr. Shackly wiggled his nose as though sniffing out a reason to accuse.
“Yup, and Mrs. Black’s chickens always lay more eggs than anyone else’s. I asked her once if she had some secret formula. She just laughed and collected the money I gave her.” Mrs. Hawkins touched her bun.
Dixon wiped his mouth on a napkin. He wasn’t much for Mrs. Hawkins. She thought too highly of herself and gossiped something fierce.
He swallowed his last bit of stew, and then laid his spoon on the table. “Good stew, Mrs. Clumpit, as always. Got to get to work though.” He picked up his Stetson and stood. “Have a good afternoon.”
“We’ll see you in a few hours for supper.” Mrs. Clumpit smiled.