“I, Amboise A. Tarn, my turn being up at chair, hereby call this meeting of the citizens of Osage Township to order. Who will serve as secretary?”
“I will,” quavered Daniel Lindsay, the blacksmith. Looking ill-at-ease, he folded and unfolded a single sheet of white paper with his sooty fingers.
“Any old business?”
“In the m-m-matter of the school board elections for District 30, the votes have been counted and duly recorded by the town clerk.”
“So noted. Please read the tally.”
Lindsay raised the paper to within six inches of his nose and squinted. “For the first position, Mr. C.G. Groen, forty-two votes, Mr. A. Fairleigh, fifteen votes. For the second position, Mr. H.H. Reid, twenty-eight votes, Mr. J. Sawforth, twenty-one—I mean twenty-seven—votes. And for the third, unopposed position, Mr. Leroy Dick, seventy-two votes. Those are the results.”
Lindsay folded the paper. There was little reaction to news of the election among the people: Charlie Groen, the first designee, stood front and center, but merely frowned.
“Any other old business? No? So resolved without objection.” Tarn tapped his ink pot again, continued, “On to new business, then. Leroy, you have something to present?”
“I do,” said Leroy as he stepped in front of the blackboard. Some of the onlookers had vaguely pleasured looks on their faces just to see him fill their field of view. Before the chalk clouds on the slate, his white suit cut a striking figure, like a gleaming sail against a stormy horizon.
“Kindly proceed.”
“Good morning, friends. It’s good to see so many of you have come today, on short notice. I promise you this won’t take long. You should know that we wouldn’t have called this meeting without good cause. I’m guessing some of you have already figured what that cause might be. Even so, I ask you all to give this matter your utmost consideration, because it affects us all and likely will continue to do so until it is dealt with, once and for all.
“Putting it to you straight: the disappearances that have lately occurred on the Osage have not only raised concern in these parts, but have alarmed the entire state. The parties concerned have been almost entirely from other places, bound for territories outside our borders. But I think you all must see that a reputation for lawlessness is not in our interest. Especially not in our interest, given certain tragic events in the recent past. It also goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that even if you don’t care a fig for any of that, even if you believe it has nothing to do with you, the prospect of mortal danger on our thoroughfares has concrete consequences. There have been reports from some of our merchants—only reports, so I cannot vouch for their accuracy—that parties transiting west have begun to bypass this part of our state, and even Kansas entirely, by using trails through Nebraska. I believe Mr. Bohlander of the Parsons Mercantile Association has much to say about that situation, as well as Mr. Watts in Thayer, should you wish to talk to them.
“I reckon we can all agree, then, that regardless of how you see the nature of the threat, it is something we must deal with. Short of apprehending those responsible, just showing our good faith by eliminating our community from suspicion would be of positive benefit. Therefore, as your trustee, it is my duty to lay before you the following proposal—”
“Hold on right there, Leroy!” George Mortimer called out. “What gives anyone reason to believe we have something to do with this business? These are good people here.”
A murmur of agreement swept the gathered, moving others to shout, “Good people!” The groundswell rolled on to the back wall until it broke against the promontory of Flickinger’s disdain. Instead of joining his neighbors in their civic pride, he impulsively kicked his legs out, screwing up his lips into a sneer of contempt.
Leroy replied: “I believe that goes without saying, George. Our problem is that some of the vanished were tracked to this area and, it appears, went no farther. I believe we have a special speaker this morning to tell us more about that. With the permission of the chair . . . ?”
“No objection.”
Leroy looked to the figure standing at the back door. For the occasion, Colonel York had doffed his riding clothes and put on a proper black suit, with starched cuffs and a blood red cravat. Stepping into the classroom, he removed his hat. But instead of standing by Leroy Dick’s side, he stood a good distance away, as if his auctoritas could not be shared.
“This is Alexander M. York, out of Independence. Some of you may know him from the War, when he led the Twelfth Kansas Volunteers. Last November he was elected state senator, representing Montgomery County. He must shortly leave for the capital to take up his duties. But before he goes, he requested the opportunity to make a direct appeal to the people of this township. Senator?”
York surveyed the audience before he spoke, an appraising grimace on his face. Far from playing the supplicant, he wore an expression that challenged them all, as if it was they who were about to be tested.
“Morning to you. As your trustee has said, I have been entrusted with the office of senator. But the honor came as a reward for my service in the late war. I ain’t no campaigner, and the appeal of the hustings is quite beyond me. I am a soldier, and as such will speak plainly, hoping you will understand the circumstances that cause any indelicacy on my part.
“It has been near on two weeks ago that my brother, Dr. William York, went missing. If you don’t know him, he is like unto me in coloring and build, though he favors a more genteel style of dress. He was returning from Fort Scott in the runabout he has often used for such trips. Four days ago his buggy was found abandoned near the Verdigris River. There was nothing in the traces. Upon further inquiries, my agents have found a man in Parsons, a shopkeep, who sold cigars to a man matching my brother’s description. He reports that the customer got back on a runabout and headed west, in the direction of Cherryvale.
“There’s no reason to believe he ever made it there. In the last few days, myself and a few volunteers swept all the stream bottoms between the Verdigris and the Neosho. I have sent representatives as far as Ottawa in the north and the borders of Indian territory in the south, posting inquiries. None of the railroad agents up there remember seeing him buy a ticket or board a train. For these reasons, I strongly believe that whatever befell my brother must have happened in this area—perhaps no more than a few miles from this very spot.”
He paused to observe the effect of his words. Despite his disavowals, his military experience had given him ample experience in compelling listeners. Yet the general sentiment was not positive: an air of indefinite skepticism, even hostility, was palpable in the room. Minister Dienst cleared his throat.
“You should know, Colonel York, that there has been talk hereabouts regarding the manner in which your men have conducted your search. Reports of armed men trespassing, trampling fences. We’d all sure appreciate you treating that subject.”
“I’d be delighted,” the colonel replied. “And I’d so do by saying categorically that anything like that was done despite my expressed orders to respect property lines. Fences were never supposed to be crossed except between streambeds. It is sure regrettable, and if anyone would come to me and show cause for restitution, he will get no argument from me. That is my pledge as a gentleman and an officer.
“You should all be aware, though, that the disappearance of my brother has caused a great amount of distress among your neighbors in Independence. He was a good man—a good family man—who gave of his time and his skill without regard to his convenience. Many of the men who rode with me here have been fixed up by Billy—Dr. York—personally, whenever they’ve had the need. They all have an attachment to the man, and in their zeal to find him, they may have crossed certain lines . . .”
York paused, continued in a lower, confidential tone: “His wife and daughters fear the worst. They are
obviously distraught. They should be here themselves, to beseech your patience, but they could not come. They just could not.
“I could sit here and appeal to you in the name of our common humanity, and for justice. Now that I’m here, it’s hard to speak as anything more than a man facing as great a loss as a brother can bear. We already lost our eldest at Spotsylvania. After that, we both learned a lesson about what is truly important in this world. We swore to look after each other throughout the years the Lord vouchsafed us.
“I’m a man of some means. I have resources—but there is nothing more I can do without the help of the good people of this township. We need to search every inch of every farm. We need to eliminate possibilities, and hopefully drive those responsible into the open. For that, I humbly beg your sufferance. And I thank you for your kind attention today.”
As Colonel York had reached the end of his request, involuntary cries of sympathy went up from some of the women. Gone were thoughts of busted fences. Every citizen of Osage Township who had lost a husband, a brother, or a cousin fighting back East felt compelled by his misfortune. The colonel rose, and with a stiff-legged gait that betokened his pain, left out the back. His men were gathered outside, chewing on tobacco and stalks of bluestem. None of them met York’s eyes. He went to his horse, reached into his pack, and pulled out a fifth of whiskey. He uncorked it—but thinking better of it, covered it again. He would not drink until business was completed inside.
Amboise Tarn called for a vote on the proposition to devote the community’s resources to York’s quest, but none was necessary. The measure was approved by acclamation, and a committee comprised of Leroy Dick, Daniel Lindsay, and Minister Dienst appointed to draw up a release for the local newspapers. The announcement was drafted over oatcakes, jam, and coffee at the Dicks’ kitchen table.
At a meeting of the citizens of Osage Township, Labette County, Kansas, held at the schoolhouse in District #30, April 13, 1873
A.A. Tarn was called to the chair, D.D. Lindsay appointed Secretary and the following preamble and resolutions were unanimously adopted:
Whereas, Several persons from adjoining counties are missing, and supposed to have been murdered; and,
Whereas, Suspicion appears to rest upon the citizens of this community, and believing ourselves to be unjustly accused, therefore
Resolved, That we heartily sympathize with the friends of those who have been slain, and that the citizens of Osage Township will make every effort in our power to detect and bring to justice the murderers,
Resolved, That the Independence, Parsons, Chetopa, Thayer, and Osage Mission newspapers be requested to publish the foregoing resolutions.
To the resolution—which amounted to a townshipwide warrant to search every property—the Bender men had joined the overwhelming consensus. John Junior raised not just one hand but both, making it appear that the old man had joined the acclamation.
Last to arrive, Flickinger and John Junior were also the first to leave. When they’d mounted the army wagon and wobbled some distance down the road, the old man turned to Junior.
“Es ist vorbei.”
THE PROPERTY SEARCHES began the next afternoon, but without Colonel York. An important vote had come up in the State Senate, for which the Republican party required every member of its caucus. With an escort of three, York reluctantly set out for the LL&G railhead, then located at Thayer. He sent two of his men back with instructions that occurred to him on the trail. One of them was to delay sweeping the Bender place until after the legislative session. It was the only search he wanted to conduct personally.
Harmony Grove was visited first, under Whistler’s close supervision. Men were sent into every room and cellar and corncrib. Teams tested the ground, probing for soft spots in the soil with iron tamping rods. Trash piles were sifted and burn pits examined for unusual remains. The investigators were meticulous and grim—except when Mary Ann Dick surprised them with a table of savories and lemonade. The search of the Dick place therefore took longer than any other.
At the Tom Mortimers’, beside the vegetable garden, the rod men discovered signs of a recent burial. Mortimer explained that a puppy, the favorite of his youngest daughter, had been planted there after being stepped on by a horse. Whistler insisted on digging up the grave anyway. As the girl wept and protested, the men exposed the articulated skeleton of a dog, still fur-draped. Whistler ordered them to probe for anything hidden underneath. When they were done, they tossed the jumbled bones back in the hole. By that time the girl had lapsed into a gibbering reverie that disturbed her parents more than her sobbing.
“Now was that really necessary?” asked a perturbed Tom.
“Yes, it was,” replied Whistler.
Spring surrendered to a premature summer. Sodden winds arrived from the south, summoning prairie grasses that stemmed an inch a day. The sultry conditions tempted livestock to range far from their feeding troughs. It was not unusual for small-time ranchers like Billy Toles to find calves had slipped through loose fence rails, goats absconded to the streams to browse on fresh brambles. Retrieving them became a seasonal pastime; Toles wandered the fields with a lead rope in one hand and cigarette in the other, his quest becoming a sort of walking meditation as he smoked and felt the spring sap rise.
He felt it rise especially when he contemplated the lovely Kate living just a short distance away. Kate in her domestic dishabille, hair overflowing her shoulders, a smile or a manly cussword on her lips. Her closeness was the inspiration for many encounters he imagined over the long winter, fantasies that excited and shamed and confronted him with the dilemmas of manhood. Eventualities—circumstances that would make him the gentleman savior or the conquering rogue—pursued each other around his brain. Ideally, he would be both, savoring her helpless beauty and honoring it with his chivalry, his tenderness. He carved her name on the inside of his privy to contemplate as he relieved himself.
On that fateful day he found himself on the perimeter of the Bender claim, looking for a heifer that had pushed down a fence post. The cabin was quiet: there was nothing rising from the stovepipe, and the front door was shut. Old Man Bender’s chair was empty, turned and leaning against the wall, and there was no one in the orchard. Are the Bender men away? Toles wondered. Have they left the women alone?
He waited, pretending to examine his cigarette in case they were observing him. But after five minutes it seemed clear to him that the place was entirely empty. He took a few steps onto the property, thinking he would quickly withdraw if someone appeared at the window. No one did. He ventured closer—and that’s when he heard the moaning.
It was not human, but contained too much despair to be animal. The lowing came from the rude corral the Benders had set up out of barked wood and thatch. Walking casually, hand in pockets as if he was perfectly entitled to be there, he went to the corral, snubbed out his cigarette, and peeped inside.
What he saw was something he had never encountered in a lifetime around livestock. A calf was lying inside the shelter, tied by the neck. From the number of flies on it, and slow undulation of masses of maggots under the skin, it must have died days earlier, maybe a week. Its mouth was open in that way he’d seen dehydrated cattle on open range, the tongue blue and extruded. Even in death it was still pointed in the direction it had strained to go in its last moments.
The cow was still standing there, just out reach of her calf. On seeing Toles, she cast a soft brown-eyed gaze on him, shook her head and loosed a long, groaning utterance that seemed to invite her own death. Between her legs hung the entrails of her burst udders. These were fibrous and pink and peppered with flies planting their young in her living flesh. Abruptly the breeze shifted, and he was struck in the face by the smell—the dank stench of the calf and the putrid emanations from the mother as she rotted from within.
Before Billy Toles was quite sure of what he was doing, h
e was running. Quite forgetting his horse, he ran all the way to Harmony Grove, not stopping for wondering passersby but jabbering about corruption and the Benders and the inhumanity he had seen. He ran to the house of Leroy Dick and pounded on the door with two hands, frightening Mary Ann Dick half to death when she opened up.
“Goodness, is there a fire?”
Called to speak, his tongue had gone too dry to utter a word. He bent over, hands on his knees, collecting himself as Leroy’s boot steps sounded across the boards. And then he was there, breakfast napkin stuck in his collar.
“What’s on your mind, Billy?”
“The Benders . . .” he rasped. “The Benders is gone.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hell’s Half-Acre
APRIL 23, 1873
“MEN, GET YOUR shovels!” Leroy cried. “I think I see a grave.”
The searchers ran en masse to the orchard, their heels churning up the soil Pa Bender had so frequently groomed. The oblong patch of ground was so difficult to see that Dick lost sight of it from ground level.
“Billy, fetch that rig over here!” he ordered. Mounting the runabout again, he saw the outlines of the grave, its backfill less shrunk from the rain because it was packed tighter than the seed mounds around it. By gestures, he directed George Mortimer to the spot. Mortimer looked at his feet for a few moments until, with a rueful nod, he perceived what Dick meant.
“Bring me a spade.”
The Mortimer brothers, George and Tom, made short work of the digging. Just a few feet down the edge of George’s shovel struck something half solid. He eased the soil aside, exposing a surface that was at first impossible to read. With another nudge, some of the caked soil fell away, revealing a human scalp.
“Sweet Jesus!”
“The Lord spare us!”
The Mortimers dropped their shovels and exposed the body with bare hands. The victim was a white man, facedown and naked, his knees bent at shallow, awkwardly opposed angles. By evidence of the light gray of his hair he was about forty years old. The dirt made it difficult to assess the condition of the skin, but Leroy could tell this was not an old burial. Forced to guess, he’d have said he died within the week.
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