Joab's Fire

by Lynn Squire

  Chapter 31

  Music floated across the street, giving the cool, fall air a feeling of celebration. But no celebration rang in Dixon’s heart. He stood by the door of the boardinghouse, tingling from the rush of blood in his veins and waiting for an answer to his knock.

  None came.

  He twirled his Stetson on his finger and watched the restaurant. Black shadows of human forms moved across the windows. A round of laughter followed by a lull, and then a tenor voice singing a sweet melody, ensured him that the crowd would remain inside, at least for a few minutes. It looked like a full house tonight. Likely, that was where Mrs. Richard was—why she wasn’t answering his knock. The widow rarely left her house, but if there were things happening worth gossiping about, she’d be at the restaurant to gather her next week’s rumor-mill fodder.

  Quite different from Mrs. Clumpit, a woman of integrity and selflessness.

  But tonight he was on a mission and he needed to focus. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Mrs. Richard?” He stuck his head through the door.

  No one answered.

  “Mrs. Richard, I hate to bother you, but do you mind if I come in?”

  No one answered.

  He stepped into the dark room, and his gut knotted. Red coals glowed from the fireplace to his left. She hadn’t been in for a while or there would be more than coals burning. He picked up a candle off the mantel and lit it. The single flame waved its influence over the cozy contents of the room. Entering a private home without permission went against his training and his personal moral code. Usually, people were willing enough to let him seek out the information he needed.

  Then again, when was the last time a criminal mastermind came to Surbank, Alberta?

  He stepped toward the stairwell.

  Yesterday, he had sent for a warrant. But if he waited the week for it to arrive, Abbadon may well be gone. If he could prove that Abbadon had something to do with Rupert Black’s death—he placed his boot on the bottom step—if he could prove that Abbadon started the fire that burned down the Black’s farm, he could justify the search—at least in his own mind.

  His other boot rose to the next stair. The floral carpet beneath his feet muffled his next steps and led the way down the hall to the guest room. Mrs. Richard had two boarders besides Abbadon. One left yesterday for a business trip to Banff. The other traveled to Calgary to meet relatives.

  Dixon tapped on the first door as he walked by, and then on the second. The third door had to be Abbadon’s.

  The candlelight revealed a dull gray door surrounded by a white doorframe. A small clump of clay rested against the threshold.

  He knelt to examine it. Too much time had passed since the fire to determine if it had anything to do with the case. However, the clay did suggest that Abbadon had been walking on something other than wood floors and plank sidewalks. Sand and gravel made up the streets of Surbank, and the soil in town was black loam, not clay.

  There was no way to determine when the clay appeared. Mrs. Richard was known to run a clean establishment, so likely this clump appeared sometime today.

  He stood and clasped the door knob. It turned.

  Dixon raised his eyebrows. He thought for sure Abbadon would lock his door. Perhaps the man was getting cocky.

  Music, though faint, drifted from the restaurant. There might be enough time to discover some evidence before Abbadon returned.

  He stepped through the door and picked up on the scent of kerosene. A lamp stood in the corner. Would be natural to have a kerosene lamp, but it does prove the man had access to what started the fire.

  So would almost every person in the community.

  The room was sparsely furnished. Under the window stood a single bed with no head rail or end. Just a mattress on a basic wooden box. Beside it, a small end table held the kerosene lamp and a leather bound book. He’d look at that in a moment. On the west wall, a basin, pitcher, and towels sat upon a long, narrow table. Beneath the table stood a pair of boots.

  Dixon lowered the candle. The light flashed against silver tips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tip he found by the burned remains of the Black’s house. His fingers ran over the engraving. The tip in his hand matched the ones on the boots. But each boot had a tip.

  He picked up one boot. It was newly polished. He bent the toe to see if there was evidence of the tip being replaced. Grains of dirt had slipped between the tip and the seam to the boot’s sole. Clay to be precise. Clay like that near the Blacks’ house. But that didn’t prove anything.

  He picked up the other boot. It, too, had been freshly polished. Some of the polish smeared on his hand. A mark in the leather near the flat end of the tip could indicate that this wasn’t the original. He turned the boot on its edge. No dirt and no scratches. This tip looked brand new. An exact match to the one he’d found at the Blacks’.

  His pulse quickened. He set the boot down and straightened. This was the first bit of evidence linking Abbadon with the fire. Not enough to convict him but still …

  A creaking sound came from downstairs. The front door must have been opened. Voices with no distinguishable words floated up the stairs. Dixon needed to get out. He could just walk down the stairs, but then there would be questions. Was he prepared to answer them?

  “Mrs. Richard, I have reason to believe my work here is nearly completed.” Abbadon must be standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Dixon tiptoed to the window and pushed it up. He’d rather not have to explain his presence.

  A quick glance to the door. He’d better hurry.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  Dixon lifted his leg through the window. He grimaced at the ground below the window. If he wasn’t careful a fall would break his leg.

  He rested his foot on the shutter of the first-story window.

  Footsteps came down the hall.

  Taking a deep breath, he swung his other leg out the window. With fingernails curled into the window ledge, he scooted outside, precariously standing on the window box, and then he slid the window shut. His muscles shook as he lowered himself down and clung to the edge of the window box. Soil pushed into his fingernails and the scent of pansies tickled his nose.

  He glanced down at the dry ground beneath him. The muscles in his fingers screamed for relief. He’d have to drop and roll.

  The door to the room opened.

  He let go and rolled into a ball. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs when he hit the ground, and he scrambled to hedge’s cover. If fate be with him, no one saw him.

  His stomach knotted.

  He had left his lit candle on the table above the boots.

  Chapter 32

  “You think you have me, don’t you?”

  The door banged, and Dixon jumped from his chair. He pivoted to face Abbadon. “You’re a swindler.”

  The scoundrel’s height stretched to the ceiling, towering over Dixon, and his presence saturated the room.

  Dixon’s blood flowed to an icy halt.

  Abbadon circled him, a hawk ready to dive for his prey, but Dixon was not about to be caught in the man’s talons. He leaned toward this enemy. “You’ve worked your last scheme and—”

  “And you have trespassed. Any evidence you use will be disregarded in a court of law.”

  “I’ll get a warrant and—”

  “By then, I’ll have had opportunity to remove any so-called evidence.”

  “So you admit to—”

  “I’ve admitted to nothing.” Abbadon tugged on the index finger of his glove. “You’ve assumed much.”

  “With the testimonies of the Blacks and others, you’ll be condemned and placed where you belong.”

  The corner of Abbadon’s mouth lifted. “The Blacks can prove nothing, except that Lord Dunsbury is dishonest. What happened in Ontario was a mere slip of judgment on the part of Joab’s father.” He stepped toward Dixon and looked down at him.

  The man’s eyes were remarkable—fierce, yet c
ompelling.

  Dixon stifled a shudder.

  “You were the one to break the law. Entering a private citizen’s quarters without permission, last I heard, was a criminal activity.” He twisted away and glided to Dixon’s desk. With a pale finger, he caressed the edge. “Then again, you’re an old hand at breaking the rules, aren’t you?”

  “You have nothing on me.”

  Abbadon tipped his head and peered at Dixon from the corner of his eye. A smirk danced upon his lips. “I have much on you. Much that would end your career as a North West Mounted Police Officer.”

  “You’re fear-mongering.” Dixon stretched his stiff fingers then clenched them. He strode around the desk and looked Abbadon in the eye. “That is how you gain control of people.”

  “I gain control because I’ve got what people want.”

  Dixon snorted. “You have nothing I want.”

  “Really?” He swiveled and moved to the fireplace. “You desire peace. You desire that all those ‘mistakes’ you made at Duck Lake would go away, never to be remembered. And you desire a certain someone to be more than just a friend.”

  Dixon held his tongue. This fiend would not manipulate him into revealing his past.

  “You think you have something on me—that you can bring me down.” Abbadon smirked. “I’ve been around for ages and no one has been able to accomplish that. You’ve played into my hands, Dixon. I own you.”

  “And just how do you own me?”

  “Your pride keeps you from confession. Your pride drove you to my room. Your pride saw what it wanted because you want to be the hero to make up for playing the fool in the past.” Like a snake moving toward its victim, Abbadon slithered up to stand inches from Dixon’s face. “I hold your pride in the palm of my hand and can shape it to my liking as a potter would clay.”

  Dixon huffed and moved away, but his heart pounded like a locomotive. Pride did hold him. It drove him. “That has nothing to do with your criminal activity. Arson, blackmail, God knows what else. You’ve destroyed a man’s livelihood.”

  “And your actions led to the death of many good men.”

  “This is not about me.”

  “This is all about you.”

  “If you are so confident of your innocence, why don’t we take a trip to your room and examine your boots, among other things.”

  Abbadon grinned. “Let’s do that.” He gestured to the door.

  Dixon grabbed his Stetson while his skin tingled. This was too easy. Abbadon likely got rid of the boots—the link to the Blacks’ fire—in the few minutes before he came to the office, but he’d have had to dump them somewhere close.

  Then there was the book by the bed. Even though Dixon didn’t get a look at it, he was certain it would contain damning information.

  He pulled the door closed behind him. Would Abbadon have destroyed that book? Most of what Dixon had on him was circumstantial evidence. But what evidence did Abbadon have on Dixon’s involvement in the massacre at Duck Lake?

  Chapter 33

  Sarah wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and shuffled closer to the stove. Joab had finished the last of the stew from last night and lay with his eyes closed. How long could they last on the goodwill of their neighbors? Soon their friends would tire of giving, considering their debts to the Blacks paid.

  A fluttering in her stomach, and she placed her hand over it. When the fire happened, she wasn’t certain of her condition. Then, with the stress of losing her son … she drew her hand away and pulled the blanket tighter.

  “God will provide.” Joab’s eyes remained closed, but his voice was strong.

  Sarah stared at the roots hanging from the soddy’s ceiling. “I can’t see how.” And with a baby on the way. How would she tell Joab?

  “That’s when He can perform miracles.”

  “Winter is coming. We have no food, no wood laid up, no clothing. We don’t even have a gun to hunt with.”

  “The Indians didn’t either.” Joab wore a peaceful expression on his face, despite the angry red scars.

  Sarah let out a long breath. Outside a coyote howled and an owl hooted. Once comforting noises, reflections of home and hearth, reminders of God’s protection. Tonight they seemed like hunters and she the prey. Oh, stop it. She mustn’t let her thoughts wander so. Not now. Not when she had just regained her hope.

  Joab coughed and took a deep breath. “Even the lilies of the field, God clothed.”

  “I’m not a lily.” Sarah lifted the corner of her mouth. “Sorry. My faith is not what it should be.” But would God choose famine to take away her second child? Pray God, have mercy. I know I must trust. Help me to trust.

  A knock came at the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Black?” It was Pastor Perkins’ voice.

  Upon Sarah’s face a smile sprang to life. Her knees cracked as she stood. How good it was of him to come. “Do come in, Pastor.” She folded the blanket and laid it in the corner.

  The door pushed open and the pastor’s bright face peeked around it. He removed his hat and stepped inside. “I hope you don’t mind a few visitors this evening. I thought, since you could not come to Wednesday prayer meeting, we’d come to you.”

  Sarah smoothed her hair. What a time for visitors, but she couldn’t help the smile in her eyes. “Come in. Come in.” She bounced to the door and waved everyone inside. God, You are good.

  Pastor Perkins stepped aside, and Mrs. Kirkland entered with a bonnet firmly tied to her head. She held a kerchief to her nose.

  Sarah restrained a grin. She’d gotten used to the dank smell of the soddy and the putrid odor of infected flesh, but to this self-appointed pillar of society, the room must be unbearable. “I’d offer you some tea, Mrs. Kirkland, but I’ve only hot water, would that do?”

  The woman waved a no with her gloved hand and sidled along the far wall.

  Mr. Kirkland followed, carrying a huge gunny sack in one hand and an enormous wicker basket in the other. His full mustache moved up and down. “Where’d you like for me to put this?”

  Sarah gasped. Her hand fluttered to the far corner where she set her blanket. “My, you didn’t need to bring things.”

  He grunted, set the items down then pulled off his wide-brimmed hat. “Cow and calf tied to the hitching rail out front. She’s not got much milk left, but likely will last until November or so. The calf’s a good size. Healthy, too.” He nodded to Joab and moved over to stand by Mrs. Kirkland. “And we still owe you twenty heifers after weaning for your bull servicing of our cows this spring. You’ll have a good herd this winter. I’ve a yearling bull I’ll throw in for, well, for old time’s sake. He should do a good job with your heifers this spring. I’m sure he’ll give you a fine start.”

  Joab opened his mouth, as though to respond, but the jingle of spurs drew his eyes to the door.

  Sarah looked too and saw Barty step inside. His hat rested on the back of his head, its tie gripping the bandana around his neck. His sheepskin chaps flapped against his legs as he edged over to the Kirklands. “Joab, you remember that colt I’ve bin breakin’. Well, he’s tied up outside for you. Figure you could use another strong horse, and he’s better than any of them animals those Americans are bringin’ up. Them ‘Steel Dust’ horses can’t hack this country.” He guffawed. “I’d bet my two bays he’s better than that Morgan team you have. By the way, I found them down by the river. I’ve got them at my place and will bring ‘em up soon as we’ve got some corral’s built for ya.” He scratched behind his ear. “And I’ve got another team of Clydesdales I’m aimin’ to sell come spring. I’ll use them for haulin’ wood this winter. Maybe we can work somethin’ out for next spring. You’ll be needin’ a good team.”

  “Now there you go a boastin’.” Nathaniel’s voice boomed as he crossed the soddy’s threshold. He twirled his hat in his hands, and the parted hair on his head shifted forward and back with the movement of his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’ve put shoes on one of them ‘Steel Dust’ horses, and they’ve go
t a fine disposition.” He tugged on his collar. “Can’t say the same for yer cayuse.” He looked at Joab and wrinkled his brow. “Barty and I, we’re sorry about being so hard on you. Just wanted to help, come up with a solution for yer problem.”

  Joab nodded his forgiveness, and Sarah chuckled. “It’s good to see you both.” She clasped both men’s hands. “Thank you for coming—and for being with Joab through this.”

  Nathaniel bowed to her. “Now, I’ve brought you a wagonload of pots and hay and grain and some jerky, and some of that pemmican your husband’s so fond of.”

  Sarah twirled around at the smiling faces as more neighbors squeezed into the one-room home.

  One family brought a pair of chickens, another clothing, and others sacks of grain. Within minutes, the chatter of neighbors filled the soddy as each rubbed elbows and shuffled along to squeeze in with the others.

  Pastor Perkins leaned to Sarah’s ear. “Mrs. Clumpit sends her regards and will be out to visit tomorrow. She can’t get away tonight.”

  Sarah nodded. Just as well. There was no more room.

  The pastor raised his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, quite tight quarters tonight, so we’ll make this short. In this rough land, our neighbors’ needs become ours. If one family does not survive, it lowers the chances of our own. God tells us in His Good Book to bear one another’s burdens. Tonight, I am proud to say I can shepherd a church such as this, who would come together to help another in need. Let this be our legacy, and may we tell it to our children, reminding them to follow in our footsteps.”

  As he continued, Sarah surveyed the group of neighbors huddled together. Warmth filled her. Imagine Blain Kirkland coming to a church service. God must be doing a work. And Barty and Nathaniel being civil to each other. She always knew they were the best of friends, despite their fights. ’Twas sad that Ruth couldn’t make it, but she’d been a faithful friend and would not have stayed away except there be good reason.

  How good the Lord was. Hope was not just for life after death. Hope was for the here and now. Even in this life, God could choose to bless.