by Donis Casey
Crying Blood
An Alafair Tucker Mystery
Donis A. Casey
www.doniscasey.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2011 by Donis A. Casey
First Edition 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2010932085
ISBN: 9781590588314 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781590588338 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781615952489 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
The Main Characters
Indian Territory
Oklahoma
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Indian Territory
Producing, Preserving, and Cooking Meat
Alafair’s Recipes
Historical Notes
Oklahoma Creek Place Name Pronunciations
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
This is a book dedicated to all the men I love:
my husband, my brother,
my brothers-in-law and nephews, uncles and cousins.
But especially for my father.
For good or ill, our fathers are the first
to teach us what it is to be a man.
Acknowledgments
I owe a debt of gratitude to my editor, Barbara Peters, who held my hand through this book and basically showed me that I can still tell a story. Many thanks also to Jere Harris and Nancy Calhoun of the Local History and Genealogoy Department at the Muskogee Public Library for helping me to find Sheriff John Barger.
Map
The Main Characters
The Family
Shaw Tucker, farmer and breeder of horses and mules
Alafair Tucker, his wife
Their children:
Martha, age 24, engaged to Streeter McCoy
Mary, age 22, engaged to Kurt Lukenbach
Alice Kelley, age 21, married to Walter Kelley
Phoebe Day, age 21 (Alice’s twin), married to John Lee Day
Zeltha Day, age 1, their daughter
G.W. (Gee Dub), age 19
Ruth, age 16
Charlie, age 14
Blanche, age 10
Sophronia (Fronie), age 9
Grace, age 3
Sally Tucker McBride, Shaw’s mother
Jim Tucker (d.), Sally’s first husband
Six children, including
Josie (m. Jack Cecil)
Shaw (m. Alafair)
James
Jerry & Jimmy, James’ sons
Leroy—one of Sally’s bunch of grandkids
***
The Creeks
Crying Blood, an enigma
Odell Skimmingmoon, tracker of fugitives
Lucretia Goingback Hawkins, who owns land
and is the mother of two Goingback children
and two Hawkins children
Goingback, Lucretia’s first husband
The Old Pony Soldiers
Peter McBride, Sally’s second husband
Roane Hawkins, Lucretia’s second husband
Doolan, who won’t take no for an answer
The Law
Scott Tucker, Town Sheriff of Boynton, Oklahoma. Shaw’s cousin
John Barger, Sheriff of Muskogee County, Oklahoma
Trent Calder, Scott’s Deputy
The Clergy
The Reverend Edmond, Methodist minister in Eufaula, Oklahoma
The Critters
Charlie Dog, The Tuckers’ family dog
Buttercup and Crook, Shaw’s hunting dogs
Happy, James Tucker’s bird dog
Penny, Gee Dub’s horse
Hannah, Shaw’s horse
Red Allen, Peter’s amorous Tennessee Walker stallion
An alluring mare
Two apologetic bloodhounds
Several mysterious snakes
Two unfortunate hogs
Indian Territory
1905
There was no place left to hide. It was sheer luck that he had managed to elude his pursuer for most of the day, anyway. He didn’t know the country as well as his hunter did. Even if he had, there was no one within a hundred miles who would be inclined to help him.
He thought he had been going in circles, through woods, up and down hills and through gullies, across open spaces, crawling through brush and grass that moved like silk but cut like razors, behind rocks, following weedy creek banks, slogging through mud. Now he was trapped, boxed in at the end of a dry wash. The walls of the gully were severely undercut, forming a ledge that loomed out about fifteen feet over his head. The bare dirt was full of roots and for an instant the man held a dim hope that he could use them to climb the awkward angle. But every root he grabbed pulled free and every toehold crumbled under his weight. He only made it up three or four feet before the sandy clay gave completely away and he landed on his back with a thud, knocking the wind out of himself. From his new perspective, his eye fell on a small cave-like indent in the bank under the overhang that was partially hidden by a small stand of young chokecherry bushes.
He scrambled onto his knees and crawled behind the bushes that
pushed up from the dry creek bed. The opening was maybe three feet high and a little less wide, barely deep enough that he could be able wedge himself into it. Perhaps it had been washed out by an eddy the last time water ran in the wash, but he thought it more likely that some critter had dug it for a night’s shelter.
It was a desperate last effort, but he was grateful for the chance. He could already hear his pursuer moving toward him through the brush. He struggled to catch his breath, to regain some semblance of control over himself. He had never been so terrified in his life, even when he was fighting the Apaches in Arizona. At least he hadn’t been alone, then. He was drenched in flop sweat. His eyes stung with it. Even if his pursuer hadn’t been such a competent tracker, he could probably smell the reek of fear. The man’s jacket and pants legs were covered with stickers, mud, stained with who knew what. The gnats and nosee’ums were eating him alive.
He sighed at the rueful realization that it was his own fault that he had come to this pass. He never could leave well enough alone. If he had never come to the Indian Territory he wouldn’t be in this mess. If he’d never left the Army. If he’d never left Ireland…
Hindsight wasn’t going to help him now. He drew his revolver and waited.
His pursuer broke through the brush and stopped dead. He was holding an axe in his right hand.
***
The hunter’s eyes were aflame with hatred as he looked directly at his enemy hunkered down behind the shrub. The man in the hold twitched. A movement in the brush drew his eye. He realized with shock that the boy had followed them. Cruel.
The man leaped to his feet and his pursuer sent the axe flying through the air, end over end. “Jaysus!” he shrieked, just as the axe took off his ear and embedded itself in the cliff wall. His pursuer let out a whoop of triumph and drew the six-gun from the holster strapped to his hip.
Trapped like a rat. But he’d be damned if he was going to die cowering in a hole. The man was shaking so much that it was a miracle he was able to stand. He closed his eyes, leveled the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Oklahoma
1915
Chapter One
Six men spread in a line across the field, wary and still, shotguns at the ready. The sun had barely sunk below the tree line, but the few moments of the peach and pink of evening had faded, leaving the sky clear, cloudless, and the color of new cream. In the woods behind him, Shaw Tucker could hear the discordant gabble of birds gathering in the trees, settling down for night and making their plans for the following day. Grackles, sounded like. It was late in the season and any birds who were going to fly south for the winter were gone.
Shaw flexed the fingers of his free hand, trying to ease the stiffness out of them. It was getting cold. He had to resist the temptation to stamp his feet. A sigh of a breeze briefly ruffled the tall grass, making a shushing sound that faded quickly back into stillness. Nothing moved.
They were in there, he knew it. It was a test of nerves, now.
To his left, Shaw could just see his brother James and James’ two teenaged sons out of the corner of his eye, arrayed across the clearing at twenty yard intervals. He turned his head to the right to look at his own two sons. Gee Dub and Charlie were standing tensely, watching the brushy field, unmoving as stone, only the fog of their breath in the sharp November air betraying the fact that they were alive.
It had taken the six of them a quarter of an hour to ease themselves out of the woods and into the clearing far enough to be able to get a clean shot, but Shaw figured that any further would be pushing their luck. Two black, tan, and white hounds were sitting close to his feet, one on either side, obedient but quivering with excitement. He could tell by their riveted attention that they had marked their quarry.
A speckled bird dog was working the field, back and forth in a zig-zag pattern, his nose to the ground. As the dog moved further into the field, only his back and feathery tail protruded above the tall, dried grasses.
The dog slowed and took a tentative step or two before his head popped into sight and his tail dropped, creating a straight line from nose to tail-tip as he froze on point.
Shaw emitted a tiny whistle between his teeth and his dogs shot forward into the grass like a couple of bullets, one to the left and one to the right, approaching the pointer in a wide circle. As they neared, James signaled the pointer with a piercing whistle of his own and the dog leaped forward. Faced with a three-sided assault and no escape route, the entire covey of quail flushed.
Shaw was peripherally aware that his companions raised their shotguns at the same time he did, aiming into the air above the dogs’ trajectory. He barely had time to seat the stock on his shoulder before the half-dozen quail took to the air in a panic. He chose his prey and sighted it along the barrel of his gun as it rose above the treetops. A shot rang out to his right and one of the birds nosedived, but Shaw didn’t allow himself to be distracted. He pulled the trigger and his target spun in the air, flapped a couple of times, then managed a crazy, zig-zag landing at the far edge of the field.
Shaw barely heard the blasts of the guns on either side of him. He had more than likely only winged his quarry. He huffed, torn between feeling disappointed that he hadn’t killed the creature outright and pleased that he had hit it at all.
The dogs were still crashing around through the tall grass, each heading for dead or wounded birds to retrieve. Shaw had never seen his brother’s bird dog hunt before. He was impressed. He had only had the opportunity to see Happy at family gatherings and hadn’t thought much of the pup’s brainpower. He was aptly named, though, as goofy and good-natured as a creature could be.
Shaw had owned his two hounds for years. He had trained them himself and he had to admit that Crook and Buttercup were two of the best hunters he had ever run. They were ’coon hounds, natural stalkers, and unusually smart. They seemed to know automatically what kind of game their master was after and exactly which skills were required of them on each hunt. They could tree raccoons, trail foxes, keep a bear at bay, flush birds, and were good retrievers on land or water. Their only defect was that they were both terrible watchdogs since they were friends with everyone they met. But Shaw couldn’t fault them for it. They loved children, and for a man with ten of his own, that was a good trait for a dog to have.
James and the boys all descended on him, laughing and excited and talking at once.
“I didn’t hit nothing, Uncle Shaw, but I think Daddy did.”
“I don’t know, Jerry, I think mine got away, too.”
“Gee Dub sure got his, Daddy. Blowed his head clean off!”
“I saw two more go down, Dad. One looked to be still alive.”
Shaw put his arm around his oldest son’s shoulders. “That was mine, Gee Dub. I just nicked him, looked like. When the dog fetches him back, I’ll have to wring his neck, I reckon.”
As he said the words, Crook emerged from the grass with a headless quail in his mouth. Shaw praised the dog before he took the bird by the feet and held it up with a laugh. “Well, I’ll be switched! I guess Gee did blow his head clean off! Go on, Crook, bring me another one.”
Crook disappeared and Shaw handed the bird to Gee Dub, who put it in the satchel slung over his shoulder.
James nodded toward a wave of moving grass. “Here comes Buttercup yonder with another bird.”
The hound trotted out of the field with something in her mouth, her head high and her tail awag, obviously pleased with herself, and sat down at Shaw’s feet.
Charlie leaned over to inspect her treasure. “What do you got, girl? This ain’t no bird. Why, it’s an old boot!”
“Thanks, Buttercup.” Shaw sounded more amused than unhappy about it. “I believe I’ve got plenty of footwear.”
Shaw’s nephew Jimmy moved up to take a better look. “That old thing has sure seen better days! Looks like it’s been lying out in the woods for a spell. There’s something inside it.”
“Probably a dead critter or some such,”
Gee Dub said. “I bet that’s what interested her.”
Amid the sounds of disgust at this suggestion, Charlie turned the boot upside down and gave it a shake. Dirt and leaf litter fell out onto the ground with a plop. The boy stirred it around with his toe before peering back down the boot top. “There’s something still in here. Looks like a couple of sticks.” He shook it again, but his only reward was a rattling noise.
Shaw was suddenly struck by foreboding. He extended his hand. “Let me have that, son.”
A glimpse of two jagged, grey protrusions confirmed his fear.
“What is it, Uncle Shaw?”
“Nothing, Jerry. Some furry little thing built a nest in an old boot, is all. You children check the field for more downed birds. Charlie, you find Crook.”
The boys scattered but James didn’t move. “Shaw?”
“It’s bones, James. Seems we got us a boot complete with its own leg and foot.”
An expression of dread passed over James’ face. “Old?”
“Yes, right old, no worry about that. Stick with the boys a spell and I’ll see what Buttercup has dug up.” Shaw knelt down in front of the dog and held the boot under her nose. “Where’d you get this, gal? Show me!”
He gave a short warbling whistle and Buttercup took off through the grass, heading toward the curve of woods bordering the clearing to the north with Shaw hot on her heels.
***
The dog put her head down and sniffed around in a little circle right at the edge of the woods. Because of the grass, Shaw was practically on top of her before he could see what had momentarily distracted her. Another small piece of grey bone with a finger-thick vine wrapped around it was lying on top of a flat rock that was half embedded in the dirt.
Shaw’s first thought was that this shard of bone had fallen out of the boot when Buttercup was carrying it. He reached for it, but jerked his hand back when the vine moved.
A small, greenish brown snake lifted its head and regarded him. Shaw backed up a step. What on earth was a snake doing out at this time of year? The earlier part of the day had been mild and obviously the snake was soaking up whatever warmth remained in the rock. But still…
It was November and the evening was frosty! That critter should have been curled up in a hole with his kinfolks for the past month.