by Lynn Squire
Joab’s scarred face turned toward the pastor. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, as though he no longer experienced the pain that had plagued him for days.
Sarah’s heart swelled and sent tingles throughout her body. Tonight, when the guests were gone, she would share with Joab the extra blessing contained within her womb. To God be all glory and honor and praise.
Chapter 34
Dixon drew in a long breath before stepping into Abbadon’s room. His gaze darted to the boots beneath the washstand. Still there.
He glanced back at Abbadon, who now filled the doorway. He cleared his throat and said, “I see you haven’t moved anything.”
Abbadon lifted his hand to study his fingernails. “I have nothing to hide.” He rubbed his nails along his white coat. “Perhaps you should peruse the notebook you didn’t have time for earlier.”
Dixon’s cheek twitched. How did Abbadon know that he hadn’t looked at it?
The leather-bound journal rested beside the lit kerosene lamp on the end table. Dixon strode across the room and studied the cover. His fingers twitched before taking a pencil and opening the book with it. His breath checked at his throat. Would these notes reveal how Abbadon came to know things about Dixon no one else could know?
July 14, 1872
Clarence Dixon stole a saddle off a neighbor’s dead horse and hid it in a gully near Winnipeg, Manitoba.
Dixon clamped his jaw. Where would Abbadon have gotten such information? Besides, it was a lie. Yes, he had taken the saddle off the dead horse and hidden it, but he’d also returned it to the family’s cabin only to discover their farm destroyed and the family murdered. He’d kept the saddle. What else could he have done? There’d been no one to claim it.
October, 1873
Clarence Dixon lied about his age on his application for the North West Mounted Police.
Dixon had lied, but it was well-intentioned, even if the consequences …
He ran his hand through his hair. He’d been sixteen when he had run away from home to sign up with the NWMP. That’s why his mother had followed him to Duck Lake. If he would have waited until legal age, his mother would not have moved to such a dangerous location.
A cool sensation washed over him. She might even be alive today.
He glanced at Abbadon, and the man’s insolent eyes met his. “What’s the meaning of these notes?”
“I have my reasons. Keep reading. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Dixon’s heart pounded as he flipped pages. The notebook contained every mistake, every lie, every—yes, admittedly, every sin he’d ever committed. Yet not always the whole truth. Sometimes, like with the saddle, it was only damning words and not the whole story.
February, 1885
Sub Constable Dixon of the North West Mounted Police rendezvoused with Louis Riel at Duck Lake.
The taunt muscles of Dixon’s cheek pulsated as he scanned those words once more. It was a list of insinuations, deadly suggestions that he, a loyal Canadian, had sided with the rebel. If this book got into the hands of the commissioner, Dixon’s life would be under a thorough investigation and he would hang as a traitor.
“Rather convicting isn’t it?” Abbadon leaned against the door frame with a smug smile.
“I wasn’t a traitor.” Dixon pressed the pencil into the book margin. His cold fingers shook. His entire life, everything he’d worked to hide was exposed here.
“Pretty tough to prove, don’t you think?”
“Pretty tough to prove your words.” Anger rumbled in his stomach, but fear cooled its fire. His reputation, his future were at stake. How could he ever look Ruth in the eyes again?
“People believe whatever they want, and, if guided well,” Abbadon straightened and walked toward Dixon, “most people believe what I want them to believe.”
No doubt. Dixon bit his tongue though he seethed with angry words now rising past the fear. However, Abbadon would turn those words into fodder for more lies. He couldn’t let that happen. “What do you plan to do with this?”
Abbadon clasped his hands behind his coat and tilted his head back. “Nothing, at the moment. But what happens in the future depends on you. See, I could burn the notebook. Save you a lot of sorrow, give you the peace in this world you want. Only problem is: what does it get me? As long as I have this, I own you.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Another soul to keep at my beck and call.”
Dixon grew numb. It came down to his badge or justice—to give his life in order to put behind bars one of the most evil men he’d ever met.
“Will you dance with the devil?” Abbadon stood so close his breath raised the hair on the back of Dixon’s neck. “How much is a traitor’s life worth, anyway?”
“You’ve set out to ruin a man much better than myself. This is not about me. This is about Joab.”
Abbadon snorted. “Joab’s a toy. I used him as I use everyone. By ruining his life I am able to keep you under my control.”
Dixon met him nose to nose. “So, you admit you committed arson and murder.”
Abbadon laughed. “Murder? Is that what you think? I merely suggested Black’s son gather some sage for his mother. He crossed those tracks on his own volition. Who could possibly know those wild dogs would attack?”
“But you do admit to arson.”
“Accidents happen, you know. Kerosene lamps are so easy to knock over.”
Dixon squared his shoulders and reached for his gun. “Abbadon, you’re under arrest.”
Abbadon chuckled. “And I’ll be glad to hand this notebook over to the commissioner.”
Dixon refrained from glancing at the leather-bound journal. This might cost him his career, but …
“And it will be your word against the written testimony of my husband.”
Dixon’s gaze snapped to the door to see Mrs. Clumpit holding a scroll in her hand.
Abbadon snatched up the notebook and spun around. The look on his face was one of hatred.
“Freeze.” Dixon pulled his gun and pointed it at the devil. He’d not let Ruth get hurt.
The man swung back and knocked Dixon’s wrist. Dixon cursed as the gun flew through the air. He threw a punch, but Abbadon blocked it and grasped Dixon by his neck.
Pain wrapped around Dixon’s throat. He tore at Abbadon’s hands, but the devil lifted him off the floor, keeping the air from Dixon’s lungs. Where’d the man get the strength?
Dixon kicked at him but missed. He beat Abbadon’s hands, but his own arms grew rubbery. He tried to cry out “Run, Ruth,” but the words couldn’t escape his gagged throat.
Abbadon flung him onto the bed. Dixon’s head slammed against the wall while he fought for breath. God, help us!
He pushed to his feet and saw Abbadon shove Ruth to the floor. “Stop.”
The scoundrel loomed over the woman and snatched after the scroll.
Dixon scrambled for his gun lying beneath the bed.
“In the name of my Lord, Jesus Christ,” Ruth screamed.
Dixon swung around to see Abbadon pale and jump back. Terror gripped the man’s features like that of an animal about to be consumed by a mountain lion. He glanced at Dixon then fled from the room.
Dixon rushed toward Ruth. She pushed herself up, her face pale, her hands shook, but she seemed to be gathering her composure. “You okay?”
“Yes. Go.” She waved him out the door.
Dixon ran down the stairs and out onto the boardwalk. Though he searched up and down the street, there was no sign of Abbadon. The man couldn’t just disappear.
He sped around the corner of the house, but there was no sign of the stranger back there either.
Best get Barty and Nathaniel and start a manhunt. This character was not getting away, even if it cost Dixon his life.
Chapter 35
It was a miracle Dixon could hold the reins, let alone ride. His neck still pained him from Abbadon’s death grip, and the thought of what that brute might have done to
Ruth … He punched the pommel of his saddle.
Barty and Nathaniel bantered out a strategy to hunt down Abbadon, but Dixon doubted they’d find the man. Too much time had passed between when the scoundrel ran and when Dixon rounded up help. Should have gone out on his own, but the land was too vast to search by himself.
“We’d better cover the reserve and the Buffalo Hills.” Barty drew on the frozen ground with a stick and poked at a southern and a northern point. He stopped and rubbed the stubble on his face. “Amazing that Abbadon left no tracks. None, leaving town. How’d he do that?”
Nathaniel shrugged his shoulders. “If I hadn’t been searchin’ right beside you, well I’d have thought you blind. But not a print to be found or anything else. Eerie.”
Dixon leaned on the saddle pommel, arms shaking as the prospect of his own conviction loomed. If he didn’t catch this man, if he didn’t prove Abbadon was the scoundrel he was, chances are the entire town would believe his lies. And Joab Black’s good name would be smeared permanently. “He’ll head for the Bow River.”
“Sergeant, you all right? You look like you’re ready to collapse.” Nathaniel furrowed his brow then scratched the top of his head. “Did he hurt you in your fight?”
Dixon shook his head, but he could still feel Abbadon’s hands about his throat. “He’s evil personified. And Ruth …”
“Hurt?” Barty moved closer and rested his hand on the neck of Dixon’s horse.
“Bruised and scared.” Spoken aloud that way, the words seemed to belittle the encounter. “He knocked the gun from my hand or I’d …” He gripped the reins. “We’d better find him. He’s hurt enough people.”
“We’re off.” The two men mounted and spurred their horses in different directions, while Dixon straightened in his saddle. He needed to ride out too, but his legs remained still at his horse’s side. Abbadon disappeared as though a ghost. And why did he spook at Ruth’s words? At the name of Jesus?
A gentle hand touched his thigh.
He knew who it was without looking, and turned to gaze upon her face, creamy white in the moonlight. “Ruth …”
She took hold of the rein near his mount’s bit and smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes. “You’ll not find him.”
“It’s my fault. Right from the day I was born, I was no good. Every mistake I made, written down in that book of Abbadon’s, and they all point to my hanging.”
“We all deserve death. By God’s mercy, we live.”
Dixon shook his head. “I should have stayed home and helped my mother when I was a kid. That one selfish act … even cost Joab.”
“Abbadon is the Accuser. That is what he does. And that is how he controls people.”
“The Accuser? What do you mean by that?” He shook his head and waved her hand to silence her reply. “He’s a man. A man that is evil, yes, but just a man.”
Ruth tipped her head away.
After taking a deep breath, Dixon sighed. Was obvious she didn’t agree, but women don’t think like men.
He stared in the direction of the river. How could he get out of this mess? Hang it all. He had decided the end of Abbadon’s malicious work was worth dying for, but first he must go through with the chase. Would be easier if he were shot in the process.
He ran his hand over his face. “If there were a God, He’d stop that man and end this misery.”
“There is a God, and one day it will end. But where will you be when that judgment day comes?”
Dixon’s throat choked up, and the pain in his chest deepened. “Not now, Ruth. I can’t get into this now.” He spurred his horse into a gallop down the road to the Bow River. But her words plagued him, chasing him like he did Abbadon. Would they catch him?
The wind whistled in his ears and bit with its cold teeth. He leaned into his horse’s mane letting it whip the sides of his cheeks, a beating for every foolish act he’d ever committed, and yet, not severe enough. These thoughts must stop or they’d work against him.
After a couple of miles, the sides of his horse heaved, and its gait faltered. As much as Dixon wanted to continue running, he needed to spare his animal. Sitting deeper in the saddle, he brought his mount to a jog and continued his search through the river valley at a slower pace.
As the sun sent its early morning rays across the eastern sky, dark blue met strips of bold pink and orange, and by the time the sun crested the eastern horizon, Dixon had scoured the banks of the Bow River south of Gleichen. He then headed straight west. By noon, he’d covered the miles in a zigzag pattern from bank to bank until just south of Carseland. There he stopped to let his horse take a short drink. Hope of finding any fugitive dwindled with every hour; how much more one that never left a track or any indication which way he headed. It was as though the man was spirited away.
Dixon slapped his cheeks to dispel those thoughts and urged his horse across the river. Abbadon likely headed into that hamlet to catch a train. If he hopped on one, there’d be little hope of tracking him. If he sent a wire to Calgary, perhaps they’d catch Abbadon there.
As though on cue, a train whistle blew in the distance. Dixon kicked his horse into a gallop, but the fatigued animal could only go a mile at that speed. Thirty minutes later, he pulled up in front of the telegraph office and vaulted to the ground.
“Been riding hard, I see.” A man poked his bald head out the door.
Dixon loosened the girth on his saddle. “Need to get a wire off to Calgary.”
“Yes sir.” The man stepped back into the office and sat at his desk.
Dixon dictated the message to the man and watched him tap it out. Ruth might be right. The chances of catching the man were slim, but the Accuser? Joab once talked of the Accuser. It’s another name for the devil. Surely Ruth didn’t really believe that this man was the devil himself.
“Sergeant.” The man stood from his desk.
“Yes.” Dixon ran his hand over his face to wipe away his thoughts.
“This ain’t no business of mine, but I’ve been at this work for some time now, and ain’t no one can tail that man.”
Why does everyone doubt? Dixon headed for the door. The smell of his horse’s sweat greeted him. The poor animal stood with his head low and resting one hind leg. Its sides still labored. “Can I buy some hay for my animal?”
The man nodded. “Carl!” A young boy appeared from a back room. “Carl, feed and water the horse outside. No grain. And give him a good rub down.”
“Yes sir,” the boy answered.
“Looks like you could use some coffee,” the clerk said. He pulled a tin cup from under his counter and poured. “Sugar?”
Dixon nodded. “Thanks.” He put a few coins into the clerk’s hand and sighed. “Thank you for everything. So, you’ve heard of him? This Abbadon?”
“The devil, they call him.” The bald man followed him, lips tight and thin.
Dixon rubbed the back of his neck, but his heart pounded in agreement. Dash it all. “Did you see him get on the train?”
“No sir.” The man toyed with his armbands. “Does he have a list on ya?”
Dixon’s jaw flexed. He has a list all right. More than a list, a book of Dixon’s sins. Sins his mother paid for, and others.
“Don’t have to admit it. He’s got a list on everyone. But his day will come.”
That’s what Ruth said. “If you have something on this man, speak up. He’s resisted arrest and admitted to arson. I’ve got enough evidence to send him to jail.”
The little man lifted his eyebrows. “You must be a hard case for him to take such risks. You been talking to someone he doesn’t like?”
Joab. Abbadon had it in for Joab. But the scoundrel let Dixon believe he did Joab in to get to Dixon. “He’s a double-crossing …”
“Now don’t get your gut all tied in a knot.” The clerk shuffled back behind his desk. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I imagine you’ll not see him around. Something spooked him well and good. What happened?”
Dixon scanned the western horizon where mountain peaks jutted against blue sky. Ruth’s husband’s testimony scared the scoundrel. But it wasn’t the testimony that made him run. It was what Ruth cried out. He shook his head. Abbadon looked ready to kill Ruth before she uttered that name. “Would the name of Jesus frighten the man?”
“Only name that would. ’Course not everyone believes that. But if you been in the world long enough, you get to know there’s a war going on most people can’t see ’cuz they’re blind.”
Dixon gulped down the rest of his coffee and set it on the desk.
The clerk sunk into his chair and put his hands behind his head. “If I were you, I’d head home and keep the name of Jesus close.”
Dixon touched his hand to his Stetson in a salute and walked out to his horse. He pressed another coin into the boy’s hand. Every town had its legend about some sort of spirit. The Indians said Turtle Mountain, the site of a major coal town, moved. No one believed them, until that April when Frank Slide happened. But that wasn’t spiritual. He’d heard the slide himself in Surbank. It had sounded like a rifle shot. Wasn’t until days later before the town learned about the slide. Pastor Perkins said it was God’s judgment on that wild coalminers’ community. Maybe. Maybe not.
He rested his hand on the pommel of his saddle and breathed in the grainy scent of the prairie air.
There was the folklore of the wetigos, werewolf-like creatures that feasted on human flesh. Most people laughed off such a tale, but then the Calgary Herald reported about that incident in Wabasca, north of Edmonton. A village killed a young hunter whom they thought was possessed by a wetigo spirit.
With a shudder, he looked to the railroad. The North West Mounted Police hung a Cree near Sturgeon Creek who resorted to cannibalism. Rumor was the man had become a wetigo. Possible spiritual warfare could exist, at least in the minds of those who believe it could.
But all this was not getting him any closer to Abbadon. Maybe he should ride on to Calgary. At least he would be able to identify the fugitive, if he were caught. He reached into his saddlebag and took out a stick of beef jerky then he mounted and turned his horse westward.