Joab's Fire

by Lynn Squire

A grunt in his chest caught Dixon by surprise. Mormons seemed a bit odd to him. He scratched his chin as he stared at the tips. “Do they come off easily?”

  “No.” Abbadon waved his finger at Dixon. “Say, I believe I saw similar tips on that Black fellow’s boots.”

  “Joab Black?”

  “That’s the man.”

  It would make sense for the boot tip to be Joab’s. Dixon frowned. He’d check it out when he paid the Blacks a visit that evening. “Have you ever lost one?”

  Abbadon’s eyes didn’t narrow. He didn’t change his expression at all, displaying no hint of deception, no hint of guile. Why then did Dixon’s stomach churn?

  “I suppose I’ve lost one a time or two.” Abbadon chuckled. “Once, while riding into Calgary, I stopped to cool my feet off in the river. A tip came off in the mud. That was just this spring.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Well, let’s see.” The man looked off to the right. “After having supper at Mrs. Clumpit’s, I went to bed at Mrs. Richard’s boardinghouse.”

  No good. That was exactly what the women had said. But there was one last clue. The torn cloth he’d found on the corner of the barn. “Could you stand for me, please?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s a nice overcoat.” Dixon circled the man. No visible tears in the material. “Could I get a closer look?”

  “Certainly.” Abbadon handed Dixon the coat.

  Laying it out on the desk, Dixon ran his hands over the entire length, looking for any sign of a rip or stitching. Not a single thread, however, was out of place. “Is this your only coat?”

  Abbadon snorted. “How many coats should a man have?”

  Dixon handed the garment back and frowned at the evasive response. If he could just get into Abbadon’s room, perhaps then he could find some clue. There were the footprints beneath the window he should study as well. But perhaps this was all useless. The fire could quite possibly have been just an accident.

  He massaged the back of his neck, wishing to rub away his doubts.

  “I believe, in my travels, I’ve heard your name in relation to the Duck Lake Massacre.”

  Ice moved over Dixon’s heart. While it was well known that the NWMP lost the battle against the Métis rebellion driven by Louis Riel, few, if any, knew about Dixon’s role.

  Abbadon placed his hand on Dixon’s shoulder.

  The ice over Dixon’s heart now coursed through his veins, and he could not move. Not even to shrug off Abbadon’s hand. Dixon wanted to forget Duck Lake. A place where his emotions, and, yes, hate—he’d admit that—had controlled him.

  “Passions ran high that year.” Abbadon patted the sergeant’s shoulder. “Many people have skeletons to hide. Am I not right?” He slithered to the door and rested his hand on the latch.

  A sucking sound came from Dixon’s throat as the memory rose to life before him. He swallowed it away and waited. If life had taught him nothing else, it was to wait. But he could not stop the images that plagued him at that moment. He had betrayed his own country. If he had not been so impulsive, if he had not been an agitator, Duck Lake might never have happened.

  He hated the Métis. He hated Riel. He hated how the rebel dared to establish a provisional government right in the heart of Canada’s West.

  More than all that, he hated himself.

  Dixon walked to the window. But how could Abbadon know about Duck Lake? No one knew—at least that was what Dixon had thought all those years.

  The big prairie sky revealed all. In this part of the world little could remain hidden. Yet, at Duck Lake he was able to hide and spy, and—he swallowed— sabotage.

  Inspector Dickens, his superior at the time, knew of the unrest. The inspector warned the men. He sent cables. But what Dickens didn’t know was Dixon’s determination to take things into his own hands.

  He clamped his jaw down hard.

  “You are looking for a reason for the fire.” Abbadon glided up to him. “An arsonist perhaps?”

  Dixon did not respond. He cleared his throat, attempting to push down the memories of his own weaknesses.

  “Perhaps there is someone in Joab’s past who hates him. Perhaps a neighbor he has offended?” Abaddon stepped to the door. “If I were you, I would start there, with motivation. Hate, resentment, bitterness—these are the seeds that lead to great crimes, as you well know.” He lifted the latch and exited.

  In the past, great was Dixon’s ability to judge people. Too bad he lacked judgment in other areas. His gut wrenched at the memories of dead comrades lying in the snow and ice, all because he agitated the Métis with his acts of hatred. Had his past now come back to haunt him?

  Chapter 16

  The wind roared above the soddy’s roof. It rattled the stovepipe and snapped the oiled parchment window while Sarah sat on the crate in the corner, her nerves stretched taut. The men, including Sergeant Dixon, and Mrs. Hawkins, arrived an hour before sunset, and on their heels came the dark clouds. She welcomed the people but not the storm.

  Mrs. Hawkins’ scowl only accentuated Sarah’s agony. The lady never visited anyone, though she had promised to see Sarah’s new house. Her new house that was no more. A low moan escaped her lips, matched by Joab’s.

  “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb …” Joab mumbled the words. He rolled, and then howled in pain. The fever must have stolen his senses.

  Nathaniel and Barty sat on the dirt floor, leaning against the sod walls. The scent of tobacco from their clothes mingled with the rank smell of infection, and the earthy odor of the cold home.

  Sarah’s stomach rose to the back of her mouth. She swallowed the acid. How much more could she take?

  “Naked shall I return …” Joab groaned.

  Sarah slammed her hands against her ears and rocked back and forth. Why must he quote Scripture? Why couldn’t the doctor have given Joab something to make him sleep? At least then she would not have to listen to his senseless ramblings.

  Dixon walked to the parchment window. She’d nearly forgotten he was there, he’d been so quiet. Almost as though he were studying the situation, churning that analytical mind of his over the events. She pulled her shawl tighter around her neck. What must he think of God now, with all this trouble brought on them? Some testimony of a loving God.

  He peered outside. “Snowing.”

  “Drought and heat consume the snow waters: so doth the grave those which have sinned.” Joab rolled to his side and cried. “Snow, white as snow …”

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut.

  A hand touched her shoulder, gentle, compassionate. She opened her eyes to see Dixon watching her husband, his face as pale as Joab’s.

  Barty pushed himself to his feet and circled her husband. He crouched by Joab’s face, blocking Sarah’s view. Just as well, she couldn’t stand to see the oozing sores anymore. “Come to your senses, man.”

  Joab bawled, and Barty leaned away. Sarah pushed up against the damp sod walls. What did Barty do?

  “Leave him.” Nathaniel grunted. “The man doesn’t know what he’s about.”

  “The sons of God … all that a man hath … Touch his bone and his flesh …”

  Those quotes came from the book of Job. Sarah trembled. Did Joab think Satan did this? She looked at Dixon. Was it possible for Satan to do this?

  She launched away from the wall, stood, and paced. Where was the pastor? Why did he not come? She clutched her stomach. God has abandoned us.

  “Behold, he is in thine hand.” Joab gurgled then gasped. “But save his life.”

  Oh, would he stop?

  “Receive good … receive evil.”

  “Silence!” Sarah yelled and took a step toward him. “Why don’t you just curse God and die?”

  A hand came down on her knotted shoulders.

  “Mrs. Hawkins, could you take Mrs. Black to town with you,” whispered Dixon.

  Sarah sensed more than heard Dixon’s steady breathing—slow, calculated, as
though attempting to maintain control over his own emotions. Her shoulders relaxed, and Dixon removed his hand. She should feel guilty for her outburst.

  She didn’t. How much could be expected from a woman?

  Dixon turned her around and looked into her face. His brown eyes widened. She must look a fright, like some witch or worse.

  Joab groaned again.

  She turned her gaze to the festering face, a face she once knew. Now it looked like a demon’s.

  Her stomach heaved. She covered her mouth, and Dixon rushed her outside. The contents of her stomach exploded from her, knocking her to her knees. She stroked her stomach. Her husband … would he ever be the same?

  “Take her to Mrs. Clumpit’s apartment.” Dixon’s voice echoed from another world. A world where sanity reigned, not evil … not devils sent to destroy their lives.

  “Yes sir.” Mrs. Hawkins’ high-pitched voice floated in a surreal world of snowflakes. Snowflakes … like those that fell near Father’s farm.

  “Gracious Lord, help us.”

  A voice Sarah didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was her own, and yet how could it be?

  Red arms surrounded her, lifting her. Those arms lowered her onto a hard bed of rough wood, and as they drew away, the cold air cloaked her. Another snowflake landed on her cheek. It melted into the tears that met it. Wheels crunched the snow, moving through a white world. She closed her eyes and drifted away.

  Chapter 17

  A time to every purpose under the heaven. That’s what Dixon’s mother used to say. Likely it came from the Bible. A time to be born, and a time to die. His mother would probably say that Joab’s time to suffer had come. Did everyone have to endure hardships? That just didn’t seem right.

  Dixon cleared his throat and walked across the dirt floor of the Blacks’ soddy to the parchment window. Not much could be seen through the window in the day, but at night, well one had only to listen to know what was going on outside. A blizzard.

  Joab moaned and pushed his blanket off, exposing the raw sores covering his body.

  Bile rose to Dixon’s throat. He didn’t like that the sight sickened him. Joab’s friendship made life in Surbank bearable. When Dixon was first stationed there Joab was the only one who treated him with due respect. It took a year for the others to even acknowledge Dixon’s presence, let alone allow him to do his job.

  A blast of wind snapped the window and thrust a skiff of snow under the door.

  He grabbed a blanket and shoved it against the crack. The snow was as invasive as a certain stranger. He snorted. It made him mad that Abbadon suggested Joab might have enemies. Joab proved a kind and faithful neighbor to everyone. The only way the man could entertain such a thought was through the pure ignorance of an interloper.

  Across the room Nathaniel sighed heavily and rested his forearms on his knees. Barty sat on a crate in the corner holding his head in his hands. This would be a long night. Since Mrs. Black left for town, no one had spoken a word. For three strenuous hours, they all watched Joab’s agony.

  “Oh my God, my God, why was I born?” Joab took in a ragged breath that caused his chest to quiver.

  Dixon stepped to his side and knelt. He reached for his friend’s hand, but saw the angry-looking blisters. His own hand stopped mid-air, unsure where to go.

  “Why didn’t you let me die at birth?” Joab bent his head back. His puffy face screwed tight. He let out a cry that vibrated through Dixon like the call of the dead.

  Taking a couple of short breaths, Dixon grabbed the wet cloth from a pail beside him, and, with shaking hands, gently placed it on Joab’s forehead.

  Joab shrieked.

  Dixon jerked the cloth away. His friend was burning up with fever, but the sores on his head were too tender to touch. Determined to provide some relief, Dixon carefully placed the cloth on his friend’s brow again.

  This time Joab accepted the touch though his body trembled. “I wish I were dead.”

  “Shh.” If only he could tell him it would soon be over, but that would be lying. How long could a man endure such pain?

  Barty cleared his throat, and the sound echoed off the stove. “Do you think he’s delirious?” Wind whistled through the pipe in return, an ominous response.

  Dixon rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. “Likely. He’s quite hot.”

  “Look at him shiver now. There’s soup on the stove. Why don’t we see if he’ll take some?” Barty stood and ladled a small amount of barley soup into a pewter cup.

  Dixon lifted Joab’s head. It felt hot, and the smell of infection caused stomach acid to rise to the back of Dixon’s throat, but he swallowed it and breathed through his mouth.

  Joab’s breath came quick as Barty lowered the cup to his lips. He coughed when Barty poured a bit into his mouth and roared as the hot liquid spilled across his raw lips.

  Waving his hand for Barty to move away, Dixon lowered Joab back to the ground. “It’s no good. Too painful for him.”

  But Joab seemed to rally his energies.

  A shudder swept through Dixon as he saw hollowness in the once warm eyes.

  Joab grabbed Dixon’s hand and winced. “I feared this.” He gasped for breath. “Devastation.”

  Was there something to the possibility that someone sought revenge against Joab? Dixon leaned closer.

  “It had to come.”

  Surely it was not true. Someone as good as Joab couldn’t have enemies. Yet, from the man’s own mouth …

  “Things were going too well. I was not in safety.” Joab’s hand shook as his grip tightened. “I could never rest.” He took a ragged breath and slumped back. “I had not remained quiet and trouble came.”

  Did someone threaten Joab? Had the man been a witness to some heinous crime? That had to be it.

  Dixon’s mind whirled, and he stood to pace. But what crime? Could it have happened before the Blacks moved to Alberta? An incident in Ontario?

  He scratched the stubble on his cheek. For the years he’d known Joab, there’d been no serious crime in Surbank. The man had no association with the criminal element. In fact, Surbank offered little in the way of criminals. Sure there’d been the odd reprobate passing through, but Joab dealt with none of those.

  This fear Joab had, it must originate from Ontario. Where was it they had lived before? Barrie or Berriefield? He would ask Mrs. Black as soon as he got back to town. Then he’d send a wire off. Perhaps the police there knew something. He almost felt guilty for feeling a bit of elation over this discovery, but at least it was a lead.

  Joab shuddered and an uneven breath rattled his chest.

  Dixon glanced at his friend. Solving the crime would be of little consolation to Joab. Nonetheless, it was the least he could do for him.

  Chapter 18

  Dixon watched Nathaniel pull the blanket over Joab. Once the blizzard passed, he’d head to town and send the wire to Ontario. Could it be possible Abbadon had previously known Joab? Abbadon, in all his travels, could easily have been to Joab’s home in Ontario.

  Nathaniel shook his head and squatted near Joab’s face. “I can’t go on sitting here without saying somethin’. You’ve done so much for the church, preachin’ when the pastor was not available, teachin’ Sunday School.”

  Indeed, Joab had been faithful. A low growl rumbled in Dixon’s chest. He’d catch the scum who did this to such a good man if it were the last job he did as a NWMP officer.

  Nathaniel rolled back onto his buttocks and linked his arms around his legs. “You always were there for others, helpin’ Blain when he broke his leg, helpin’ build Mrs. Clumpit’s restaurant.” He chuckled. “You kept me from headin’ after the man who stole my horse and gettin’ myself killed. Told me to let the law take care of it, and sure enough, Dixon caught the man.” He grunted. “Didn’t know the thief was a murderer.”

  Nathaniel always did go off half cocked. He sobered right down when Dixon told him the thief was wanted for three murders in Montana.

  “An
y time your neighbors experienced trouble, you’ve been there for them, listenin’, helpin’, doin’ what you could.” Nathaniel leaned forward and tapped a place on Joab’s shoulder that didn’t have a sore. “But did you do it all out of fear? Did you think these acts would hide your own sins?”

  A rod rammed down Dixon’s spine. What was the man saying? Could he actually be suggesting that Joab was covering something? Yet, he could not deny the possibility. Men had a way of takin’ you by surprise. But, surely not Joab.

  “I’ve never known good people to be, what would you say? Cut off? We all know you reap what you sow.”

  “Plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, reap the same,” Barty whispered from his seat on the crate.

  Dixon shot a barbed look at Barty. The man wasn’t exactly known for his own righteous living. How could he sit there and judge Joab?

  “God calls judgment on them that sin.” Nathaniel wiped his mouth. “You know what came of the wolfers and the whiskey traders. Justice was served.” He waved his finger at Dixon. “Riel got what he deserved.”

  Dixon’s fists curled into iron balls. Riel did not get enough of what he deserved, but what did that have to do with Joab? There wasn’t enough goodness in Riel to even fill the tip of Joab’s little finger. Argh. The man was crazy.

  Nathaniel leaned over Joab’s face and studied it for a moment.

  Dixon squelched the desire to squirm as though he were the one under scrutiny.

  “Now, someone told me in secret,” Nathaniel looked away and scratched his head. “I listened only a little,” he whispered.

  The man should be ashamed. Dixon’s chest rose and fell with force. How could Nathaniel give ear to gossip? How many times did Joab feed the man at his own table? What kind of gratitude was this?

  Dixon stretched his fingers out. He shouldn’t be letting it get to him. He should be looking at this case objectively.

  “Abbadon …”

  Ah ha! That’s who had fed Nathaniel these lies. Dixon should have known. But his conscience told him his judgment was prejudiced. Bah!

  “Abbadon said—I believe he was quoting from the Bible—‘shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his Maker?’”