Joab's Fire

by Lynn Squire

  Dixon tipped his Stetson and stepped out the door. Across the street stood the Richard’s boardinghouse. It would be a good place to start his investigation since Abbadon stayed there.

  After knocking on the door, he studied the blue mat beneath his feet. His mother’s rug was like that, made from bits of yarn. She rarely had time to create things of beauty, but that winter in Manitoba she sat by the fire each night hooking the pieces together. She said each piece was a testimony of God’s goodness to them. That rug burned with the house, killing Dixon’s father. The fire was started by the Métis, those fractious half-breeds, during the Riel Rebellion in Manitoba. He was only a youngster at the time.

  The boardinghouse door opened, and Mrs. Richard’s square face and hawk nose peeked around the corner. “Why, Sergeant.” She opened the door wide and waved him in. “What brings you here?”

  “Wanted to ask you a few questions, ma’am.” He removed his Stetson and fingered the rim.

  “Sure. Just you come in here and set yourself down in that green chair.” She motioned him into the parlor. “Did I ever tell you my Josiah brought that with him from Utah?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe you did.” Dixon eased himself into the soft chair.

  “My Josiah, he was proud of it.”

  “Ma’am, could you tell me about this man, Abbadon?”

  Her chubby cheeks turned a rosy red. “My, isn’t he handsome? Why, if I wasn’t so old I’d be setting my sights on him.”

  “Yes, well.” Dixon cleared his throat. “Could you tell me where he was last night?”

  She tapped her forefinger, crooked with arthritis, against her chin. “Well, he spent the evening at Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant. … He’s a fine one. He’s smart, too. Now my Josiah, he was a good man, but not too bright at times. Did I ever tell you about the time he rode a mule off a cliff?”

  Dixon gave her a quick nod. “Yes. Now what did he—I mean Mr. Abbadon—do after that?” He leaned forward in his seat.

  “Why he came back here and went to bed. I stayed up a little later than usual. Got myself interested in one of those romance books Mrs. Hawkins’s been stocking in her store. My, but they can get my heart in a twitter.”

  Dixon sighed and resisted shaking his head. “So, he stayed in his room, all night?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Now, why would you be asking? Surely you don’t have something against the good man. He’s such a sweet gentleman. So refined. Why, did I tell you how kind he was and brought me some flowers?” Her hand fluttered in the direction of the vase, filled with wild roses, sitting on a table under the front window.

  Dixon stood. “No ma’am.” His shoulders knotted. This woman could beat all.

  “Well, you needn’t worry about him, Sergeant. I’ve never had a finer boarder.” She blushed again and picked up a fan from the side table, waving it in front of her.

  “Thank you ma’am. I’d best be going.” Dixon strode to the door like a rabbit out of a fox’s den. He stepped out, breathed in the fresh air, and slapped his Stetson against his thigh. He had forgotten to ask in which room the man stayed. That woman was enough to drive a man batty. Yet, she ran a clean place, and most spoke well of her.

  He walked to the corner of the house and scanned the ground. That morning Abbadon had come around this corner. The outhouse was back there, but so were the bedroom windows. Dixon stepped off the boardwalk and followed footprints to the back of the house. Below the trellis that led to a second floor bedroom window was a mess of boot prints. He squatted to study them. Boot prints with lines at the toe made by tips. Interesting. He pulled on his mustache. Not enough evidence to convict, but certainly enough to begin asking questions.

  No doubt he needed more information on this stranger. He stood and strode across the street to Mrs. Clumpit’s, the sweet lady. He smiled and warmed to the thought of her. I’ll call the man to my office. That should reveal a thing or two.

  Chapter 13

  “This is a tough land.” Abbadon’s voice filtered through the screen door of Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant.

  Sergeant Dixon gritted his teeth. Who was this stranger to make such a comment? He didn’t belong here. Just another drifter, no doubt intent on causing trouble before moving on to the next town.

  Dixon stepped into the dining room and witnessed the restaurant’s patrons nodding their heads in unison to Abbadon’s monologue. It was as though they were puppets on strings. Their countenances bore the marks of sorrow and pain, yet their eyes seemed to hunger for more from this stranger.

  “It’s especially tough on women.” Abbadon tipped his head to Mrs. Clumpit. “You should know, ma’am, having experienced loss yourself.”

  Mrs. Clumpit fanned herself, blushed, and slipped into the kitchen.

  Why the blush? What was the scoundrel up to with her?

  But before Dixon could follow her and get an explanation, the dear lady came back through the swinging doors with a plate of her famous saskatoon pie topped with ice cream. He frowned at the great extravagance. Ice cream of all things. He didn’t even get ice cream after saving her milk cow from the coyotes last winter.

  “Ma’am, you have a heart of gold.” Abbadon’s pearly smile glistened like water on a spider’s web.

  “Oh, posh.” Her blush turned a deeper red, and she gave him a quick curtsy before shuffling a few steps back.

  Dixon’s jaw clamped down tighter than a vise. Surely, she wasn’t falling for this man’s charm.

  “Just think what that poor Mrs. Black has gone through and, no doubt, even more.” Abbadon took a bite of the pie, raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Most delicious, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Clumpit’s eyelashes dropped against her ivory skin. “’Tis a terrible thing, I know, to lose a child—and then to lose your home on top of that.”

  Dixon removed his Stetson and cleared his throat. But no one noticed him. All eyes were fixed on the stranger. Even Mrs. Kirkland stared at the man, though her pert lips curled down in a scowl.

  “Yes. I imagine her life was tough enough, slaving for a man hungry for success as it appears Mr. Black was.” The corners of Abbadon’s lips rose in a sly smile.

  “Mr. Black’s a good man.” Mrs. Kirkland stretched up to her full height and lifted her chin.

  Dixon grinned at the woman. She had always been outspoken, and today he applauded it.

  Abbadon raised his hand in defense. “No doubt he is. No doubt he is, but ambitious, would you not agree?”

  The crowd nodded their heads. To look at them one would think they were all mesmerized. Barty, in particular, seemed enthralled by the man. His eyes lit up as though Abbadon’s suggestion explained a mystery he’d been struggling to solve.

  “Why, just last week I met a gentleman who owned a coal mine near Canmore. He left his wife to tend to the farm while he went to Calgary to look after the coal sales. The dear woman, expecting their fourth child, was kicked in the stomach by a workhorse while plowing a field. She died.” Abbadon leaned back in his chair. “Now that woman wouldn’t have died had her husband not sought wealth elsewhere. He should have attended to the farm and his family.”

  “Joab’s never left the farm for mining.” Mrs. Kirkland fussed with her bonnet.

  “Yeah, but he’s made a few trips after that prize bull and those horses, and other things.” Barty puffed on his pipe. “One such time, Mrs. Black was pestered at night with coyotes. They were around her house and no doubt hungry, for they were too near to be safe. I know ’cause I headed up there with a load of hay from the Kirklands’. No doubt those coyotes thought the chickens would be worth a picking, and maybe they had some intentions towards the milk cow, for it took me all my time to keep them off at night. Didn’t unload the hay until I shot a few, and they finally gave up.”

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Kirkland, a fine Christian lady such as yourself should comfort poor Mrs. Black. Coyotes are frightening enough when you have a fine house and barn to hide in, but imagine how she must feel in that soddy, with no
able-bodied man to protect her.”

  Mrs. Kirkland marched from the building, her mouth held in a straight line.

  Had Abbadon played her? She had often spoken of Christian duty—pouring out the fury of God’s judgment for sins of neglect on that poor husband of hers—but Dixon hadn’t ever seen her exercise this Christian duty. No, Mrs. Kirkland was not much for living out this so-called Christian charity. Whenever the opportunity came to lend a helping hand, she usually found some way to excuse herself.

  Dixon pushed out his chest and cleared his throat. This defaming discussion of a good man’s life had gone on long enough. “Mr. Abbadon, would you please see me in my office?”

  Chapter 14

  Sarah sat on a crate by the wood stove, breathing in the soddy’s earthy smell and cool air. They blended together to sink her heart into a pit of black mud. Never could she have dreamed such horrible things could happen in her life. Her childhood had been filled with luxuries, a loving mother and father, a beautiful home, friends …

  Joab moaned and shifted. She looked at him, barely seeing his burned body. None of this seemed real. Was it possible this was all just a dream?

  Joab’s hand reached out and touched her foot. She stared at it. If it were a dream, she could not feel the clamminess of his hand through her stocking.

  She pulled her foot back and tightened her stomach muscles. If he had kept a better eye on Rupert, the boy wouldn’t have been killed by those dogs. How often had she told him not to let the boy out of his sight? Why couldn’t he have done a simple thing like that? But she couldn’t blame him for the fire.

  She pressed her eyelids shut. God had turned His back on them. Could there be any other explanation?

  “Water,” her husband whispered.

  She drew the ladle from the bucket by the stove and knelt by his head. Lifting the ladle to his parched lips, she carefully poured water into his mouth. Her stomach revolted at the smell of his burnt, pussy skin. Lesions caused by the sparks of the fire now covered his once-handsome face. Bile rose to her throat, and she looked away then pressed her hand to her stomach. She could not afford to vomit anymore.

  How could God do this to them? They were good honest people. Joab tithed regularly. They never missed a single Sunday church service, nor a Wednesday night prayer meeting. Joab was a deacon, esteemed by all.

  And he prayed. Oh, the hours he spent on his knees. Seemed each week she had to sew patches onto his pants. No one was more righteous than he.

  Sarah dropped the ladle in the bucket and walked to the door. No one cared for their neighbors and friends like they had.

  His moans raked her back.

  She should see to him, but she needed fresh air first. Her hand rose to the door and pushed it open. A breeze brought a whiff of grain dust mixed with smoke and the delicate scent of the prairie roses growing beside the soddy. Surprising they didn’t burn as well. Won’t be long, though, and they would fade.

  A mile to the east stood the Kirkland’s slider stacker used for putting up loose hay. When Blain Kirkland broke his ankle last summer, Joab built the stacker for him and helped cut his hay. To the south, the Underhill Barn stretched across the horizon. Joab helped raise that barn in the spring. From the Underhill Barn clear to Vulcan, a good thirty miles, there were no other homesteads. Surbank, a small town on the rail line didn’t draw many people. “God what do you mean by bringing us hurt when others who do not seek Your will prosper? What kind of a God are You?” This was a lonely place, not like Ontario.

  She choked on the memories of family and neighbors, and the rolling hills surrounding Barrie, Ontario. Why did we leave?

  The grinding sound of wagon wheels on burnt sod announced the coming of a friend. “Ruth Clumpit.” She brushed the dust from her skirt and smoothed the frays of hair about her face.

  The buckboard pulled to a stop in front of her, and Ruth stepped down.

  “How are you holding up?” The woman’s brow crinkled with concern, and a sympathetic smile dangled about her lips.

  After a quick embrace, a tear slipped down Sarah’s cheek. She brushed it away and strangled the words of defeat forming in her mind. No weakness must be shown. That was the creed of a prairie farmer’s wife.

  “I brought you some fresh stew and bread.” Ruth studied her a moment, the warmth of her eyes easing the chill of loneliness that clung to Sarah’s heart. “Why don’t you come sit awhile on the wagon bed and rest? I’ll take this into Joab.”

  Sarah did feel weak, and the thought of smelling Joab’s festering body while feeding him turned her gut. She nodded and climbed into the wagon. Leaning her sore back against the sides felt so good, so much more comfortable than the crate. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and let the warm evening sun relax her numb body for a few minutes.

  Rupert had liked to lie in the sun. He’d watch the clouds and give them names or tell stories of the pictures he saw in them.

  She whimpered. If only she could hold him one more time … tell him how precious he was to her. It was on an evening like this he and Joab had walked along the coulee top and talked of salvation. He had come home beaming with new life. Joab had also beamed. So proud he was of his son.

  “Joab’s not eating well, is he?” Ruth’s voice drifted over her like a cool wind.

  Sarah opened her eyes to see the endless blue prairie sky above her.

  “He looks horrible. I still think you should bring him to my apartment.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Moving would be too painful for him, not to mention it might inhibit the healing of his wounds.”

  Her friend frowned as she sat down beside her. “A man covenants with the government that for his ten dollars he can make a living on 160 acres of land, and just when he thinks he’s going to win, the forces of this prairie rise up against him. Ain’t fair.”

  A whirlwind stirred up dust and tossed it against the wagon, sounding like the retort of a thousand rifles a million miles away.

  “Anytime you’re ready, you just come, and we’ll fix you and Joab up for the winter.” She pointed to the northern sky. “There’s another storm building across the Bow River. My joints say it’s a cold one. I’ll send Barty and Nathaniel out with a load of wood. They’ll sit with you and Joab through the storm. You’ll be cold tonight.”

  Sarah glanced across the flat prairie and let her gaze follow the gold of the land as it merged with the dark gray of the clouds piling up on the other side of the river. She gaped at the tumbling boulders of white cloud that towered at the top of the thunderhead. They seemed ready to topple down on them, blocking away the blue of the southern sky, the sky she wished could hold it back.

  “Prairie weather,” Ruth shook her head, “so unpredictable. Warm one moment and freezing the next. And its fickle nature only intensifies at this time of year.” Her friend stood and moved to the front of the wagon. “Now I’ve filled this trunk with a few blankets and clothes. Ain’t much, but I managed to convince Mrs. Hawkins that her donation would be well received and honored by the good Lord.” She tugged on the wooden trunk.

  “Thank you. This is very kind.” Sarah grasped the leather handle and pulled. For how long though, could they live on the charity of neighbors? They had nothing for the winter. No food. No seed for the spring. No animals. Not even a shotgun for hunting.

  Together, the women carried the trunk into the earthen home.

  It would have been better if God had taken them with Rupert. At least then, they would be with their son. A sob gripped Sarah and rocked her body.

  Ruth set her end down then came and wrapped her arm about Sarah’s shoulder. She said nothing, and Sarah was grateful. What could a person say that could heal wounds inflicted by God?

  After another quick embrace, Sarah waved goodbye to the kind widow, wishing for all the world she could go with her. Perhaps they should … a pain touched her abdomen and she looked to Heaven. Forgive me for such thoughts.

  A meadowlark chorused nearby, and the sun be
gan to slip behind the jagged ridges of the Rocky Mountains 150 miles away. She picked up the oil lamp Ruth left and stepped inside, away from the forlorn world into a den filled with the stench of a dying life. Her soul, abandoned by God, sunk into the deep dark mud of despair. “My God, how will we survive?”

  Chapter 15

  Dixon eyed Abbadon from behind his desk. Most men would flinch under his gaze, but this man … this man wore the expression of one who considered himself above the law. Not the mien of the innocent, not the demeanor of one falsely accused, but one of a self-appointed judge and jury. And, by all appearance, Abbadon judged himself not guilty.

  The albino stranger settled into his seat with the coolness of a cougar sprawled upon a tree branch waiting to spring on some innocent prey. That prey—Joab, Sara, Rupert, and who knew what other member of this community. The man crossed his legs and smiled as he webbed his long fingers together in front of his stomach and leaned against the back of the chair. Too confident. Most people called to the NWMP office writhed in their seats.

  After rubbing his nose, Dixon leaned forward and rested his forearms on the pine desk. “There’s been a great deal of trouble in our community since you arrived.”

  “‘Tis a shame, isn’t it? That poor family has suffered so.” Abbadon tipped his head to the side and lifted the corners of his mouth in a manner that raised the hairs on the back of Dixon’s neck. That kind of smile you’d find on a snake. “Now, what can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  Dixon shoved off from his seat and walked around to look at Abbadon’s boots. Both boots had silver tips.

  His skin grew cold, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. “How long have you had those silver boot tips?”

  “Ah, these.” Abbadon stroked the tip on his left boot. “I’ve had them for quite some time. They were a gift from a man in Fort Macleod. An American who came up to escape persecution. A Mormon, you see. Good people, those Mormons.”