Ax & Spade: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 1)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  “Ach, if you’re gonna make us come out all this way, you might as well be ready.” That was the High Constable, Sam Druckenmiller. He held the reins of the first carriage.

  “Missed you yesterday, Kamp. Didn’t think you’d make it.” The Big Judge’s voice boomed in the dark and silenced the men and animals. “Everything good at home?”

  Kamp said, “Morning, Judge.”

  Druckenmiller said, “If you’re weary, we got a bed in the back.” He could see the outline of a second team of horses pulling what appeared to be a small boat with a flat bottom. “You can sleep in the punt.”

  “Good enough.” He threw his pack in the boat and climbed in. There was a wool blanket in the bottom of the boat, and he was able to lie down and look up at the dark sky. As soon as he was settled, the hunting party started rolling again.

  Druckenmiller called out, “Did you remember to bring a gun this time, Kamp?” There was no reply. “Kamp?”

  Nothing. He was already fast asleep.

  BY THE TIME HE ROUSED, the sun blazed, and the party was close to their destination. Kamp sat up in the punt and saw a red cabin and heard the barking of hunting dogs. In addition to Druckenmiller and the Judge, Kamp realized that at least a half a dozen men were assembling at the front steps of the cabin. Kamp only recognized one of them, the Reverend A.R. Eberstark, who appeared to have left his vestments at home. The men were unloading the carriage and unpacking crates of supplies, mostly liquor bottles and bullets. Kamp joined in by grabbing two canvas bags, one filled with ammunition and the other with food. He dropped the bags inside the front room of the cabin, a spare, sturdy A-frame. The downstairs of the cabin was unfurnished except for a few twin beds and a gun rack on the floor that held several Sharps rifles and a few 12-gauge shotguns. Everything looked new. When he went back outside, the Judge waved Kamp over to where he stood with a few of the men.

  The Judge said, “Kamp, I want you to meet these gentlemen. This is Walker Gray.” The man extended his hand.

  Walker Gray said, “Pleased to meet you” and shook Kamp’s hand.

  “Likewise.”

  Kamp studied the man’s features for a moment. Gray had an angular face, red cheeks and a cold stare.

  The Judge said, “And this is Joseph Moore.” Moore was at least six inches taller than Gray with black hair, a polite smile and a thick scar across his chin. He took Kamp’s hand and gave it a good shake.

  Moore said, “Good day, sir.” He wore a tweed shooting jacket and high leather boots. Moore held a shotgun in one hand, action open, with the barrel resting on his shoulder. Two large dogs, both black in color, sat at either side of him. Kamp recognized them as Barbets, water dogs.

  Kamp guessed that both men were forty years old and that both had worked hard to reach whatever station in life they now occupied. And both appeared to Kamp to be hungry for more.

  The Judge said, “Gentlemen, this is Wendell Kamp.”

  Moore said, “The Judge tells me you have an interest in the natural world.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I do as well.”

  The Judge said, “In addition to being a captain of industry, Mr. Moore is a world class scientist.”

  A shot rang out close by. The men swung around to see the Reverend A.R. Eberstark with a pistol in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He pointed the gun in the air and shot it again.

  Eberstark screamed, “It’s now or never!”

  A whoop went up from the men.

  Druckenmiller yelled, “Ach, we better get him out in the field before the women get here!”

  Walker Gray said, “What will we be hunting for?”

  The Judge said, “Christ, anything that tries to get away.”

  KAMP AND DRUCKENMILLER STEPPED across a meadow of knee-high grass. Kamp hefted a Sharps rifle in both hands, and Druckenmiller nipped whiskey from a silver flask and cradled his rifle in his other arm. Druckenmiller offered the flask to Kamp, who refused. It had been years since he carried a gun and even longer than that since he’d gone hunting. He’d accepted the invitation to go on the trip without thinking it through. It was something he’d wondered about and wished to do as a boy. He’d watched his father and the other men embark on their quest, their wagon train laden with all they’d need. And he’d await their victorious return, wait to catch the first glimpse of his father dirty and tired but triumphant, bringing home the trophies from the hunt. As a boy, Kamp could only imagine the glory.

  Now, he wondered why he’d accepted the invitation to go along, and why they’d invited him at all. Kamp surmised that the hunting trip, the ritual of the going there and the shooting and raising hell and all the rest of it, was one of Kamp’s last connections to the world he’d inhabited before. To sever this tie would be to abandon a united fraternity. But for him the dreams of glory, the triumph and the trophies—the magic—was gone.

  Kamp wondered what power kept it going for the rest of the men, who hit it all with gusto. Kamp heard crack after crack of rifles, an occasional shotgun blast and the delirious barking of hunting dogs.

  Druckenmiller picked up on Kamp’s mood. “Ach, what did you come for if you was just going to mope around?”

  Kamp surveyed the small, clear lake a hundred yards or so ahead and beyond that a low mountain outfitted richly in every autumn color. He breathed a deep sigh. “Who were those men with the Judge? Gray and Moore. Who are they?”

  Druckenmiller took another pull on the flask and laughed. “Friends of his, looks like.”

  “Right, but who are they?”

  “Big shots. Money.”

  They heard a commotion near the edge of the pond, behind a duck blind. A few men carried the punt to the water’s edge.

  Kamp said, “Where are they from?”

  “Oh, one of ’em is from the Iron, and I believe the other is from the railroad. High ups. Way up.”

  “What about the other men with them?”

  The commotion by the lake grew louder. The punt was in the water, and another two men were carrying an extraordinarily large gun toward the boat.

  “Druck, who are the guys with them? Do you know them?”

  “No, never saw ’em before. Assholes who work for ’em, most likely.”

  Kamp and Druckenmiller made their way to the edge of the water where the gun had now been mounted on the punt. All the men, including the Judge, Walker Gray and Joseph Moore stood in a semi-circle and marveled at the weapon. The barrel of the massive shotgun measured at least eight feet, the bore more than two inches in diameter. Like a gleaming, sturdy cock, massive and new, Kamp thought.

  The Judge said, “It’s a vulgar thing, isn’t it?” There was a reverent murmur of assent. “It’s loaded and ready to go. Who wants the first shot?”

  Apart from cannons used in the war, none of the men had ever seen an instrument with this kind of killing strength. To handle it first would be a thrill, to shoot it first an honor. The Big Judge Tate Cain surveyed the faces of the men slowly.

  “Let me do it!” the Reverend A.R. Eberstark shouted. His eyes had gone wild from drink, and he surged forward toward the punt before Druckenmiller restrained him. A laugh went up among the men.

  A pause followed, and then Joseph Moore said soberly, “I’ll have the first shot.”

  The Judge said, “Hear, hear.”

  Joseph Moore climbed into the punt, and the Judge shoved the boat from the shore with his boot. Moore took up an oar and began to paddle calmly onto the lake. He headed for a part of the shoreline thick with reeds, while the rest of the men hunkered down behind the blind. Druckenmiller pulled a duck call from his pocket and started working it. Moore flattened himself in the punt and stopped moving. The men behind the blinds sat motionless as the minutes passed. The first duck wheeled across the sky and sailed in, gliding down to a graceful stop on the water. Then two more cruised in, then a half dozen. Soon, there were hundreds. Mallards, redheads, canvasbacks, ring-necked ducks carpeted the surface of the lake.
Though the punt floated only a few feet away, the birds ignored it.

  The men behind the blind could hardly contain their excitement.

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark blurted, “Praise God!” before the man next to him put his hand roughly over the reverend’s mouth.

  Joseph Moore raised his head so that he could sight the shot, the motion imperceptible to the ducks. If the punt were to drift to an unfavorable angle, Moore would not have been able to put himself back in position without scaring them off. But with the water so calm and the air so still, the boat sat in its place with the barrel pointed squarely at the mass of birds. Moore’s finger curled around the trigger. Kamp thought he saw the man tense in anticipation of the recoil an instant before an extraordinary “Boom!”

  All the uninjured ducks took flight in an enormous, cacophonous cloud, and a huge cheer went up from the men. The Barbets hit the water and retrieved the first of the slaughtered birds as the Reverend A.R. Eberstark passed the whiskey bottle to celebrate. Joseph Moore grabbed as many dead ducks as he could, then paddled back to shore where he was greeted as a hero. In all, thirty-three ducks were recovered, and everyone agreed that many, many more were obliterated in the blast or were so full of bird shot they sank to the bottom. The men gazed at the pile of dead birds on the shore.

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark said, “We really should bring back the ones we don’t eat and give them to the poor” and then immediately forgot he said it.

  The next man up, Walker Gray, took his place in the punt while the gun was reloaded, then headed out onto the water where the process repeated itself. For the remainder of the afternoon, the pile of dead birds grew on the shore of the lake as the men squealed with delight. Except for Kamp. The first blast of the punt gun had triggered a series of associations in his mind, each more unpleasant than the previous one. He left the group and found the creek that fed the pond. He followed a trail next to the pond for several miles, far enough so that he couldn’t hear the sound of the gun. When darkness fell, Kamp turned around and followed the creek back to the lake and then back to the camp. Probably too late to get home, he thought.

  KAMP HEARD LOUD LAUGHTER and shouting as he stepped onto the porch of the cabin. When he opened the door, he saw men and women in various states of undress. Cigar smoke filled the room, and the whiskey flowed. Druckenmiller sat in a chair in a far corner with a woman on his lap. Both were naked from the waist up.

  “Kamp! Where the hell you been? We were worried!” Druckenmiller chased the woman off his lap, stood up and staggered across the room to Kamp. No one else paid attention.

  “Kamp…Kamp.” Druckenmiller threw his arm around Kamp’s shoulders to steady himself.

  “Judge tells me you an’ me are gonna work together. Says you’re gon’ be a detective. We’ll catch them malefactors an’ scalawags. We’ll catch ’em together. Jeezis Christ, I’m proud of you.”

  “The Judge got it wrong.”

  “Less have a drink an’ celebrate.”

  Kamp said, “Where’s the Judge?”

  “Who?”

  “You seen him? The Judge?”

  “Oh, the Judge! Yeah, I saw ’im right over here.” Druckenmiller led Kamp to a door off the main room of the cabin. He knocked gently, then put his ear to the door. Druckenmiller waited a moment, then turned the knob and slowly turned the knob and opened the door.

  The only furniture in the room was a wooden chair and a four-post bed. The Reverend A. R. Eberstark was vigorously thrusting into a young woman bent over with her hands on the bed. The Reverend had a handful of the woman’s hair in his left hand and a firm grip on her ass with his right. Both were moaning.

  Druckenmiller said, “Pillar of the community,” then closed the door. Kamp scanned the downstairs of the cabin and saw another room, the kitchen. Walking closer, he saw the Judge and two other men, Joseph Moore and Walker Gray sitting at a small table, talking. The conversation ended, and the three men stood up and shook hands. Then Moore and Walker left by the back door as Kamp walked into the kitchen.

  Kamp said, “How was your meeting?”

  The Judge eyed Kamp for a moment. “Excellent. Excellent. Not a meeting, though, as such.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Oh, many things. We talked about the history and geography of the region, the flora and fauna. The origin of classifications. Taxonomies. Latin.”

  “All that, huh?”

  “In addition to being a crack shot, Moore is a first-rate scientist. He knows a great many things as well, primarily regarding geology, ores, metallurgy. That sort of thing. They’re both Quakers, too.”

  “Quakers.”

  The Judge said, “Was there something you wanted to speak with me about?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  “Have a seat, Wendell.”

  Kamp sat down across the table from the Judge, who untied a tobacco pouch and slowly packed the bowl of his pipe. The Judge pulled a wooden match from his pocket and struck it on the rough surface of the table. He held the match to the bowl as he took a few pulls on the pipe, the flame leaping in rhythm with his breath.

  The Judge motioned to the tobacco pouch. “Do you know where I got that? Never seen it before? I got this from your father, Wendell. He gave it to me as a gift.”

  “Do you expect me to care?”

  “Not necessarily. A tobacco pouch isn’t very interesting. But what’s more interesting than the thing itself is how your father came into possession of it. Now, that is a story.”

  “Wyles told me you came to the house. Don’t come to the house.”

  “Well, Wendell, it is my house.”

  “She also said you wanted a decision from me. The answer is no, Judge. I’m not interested.”

  “Wendell, Wendell, Wendell. It’s really not a matter of interest.” The Judge puffed the pipe and watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “It’s simply a matter of accepting a gift. I’m giving you an important opportunity at precisely the right time. A gift freely given.”

  “Freely given.”

  “Exactly, just like the gift you gave that man Knecht. Daniel Knecht. He didn’t ask you to buy that medicine for his brother, and yet you did it immediately, of your own volition. You wanted nothing in return. You simply wanted to give a gift. It wasn’t your fault he was lying.”

  “Not doing it.”

  The Judge said, “By the way, I talked to your man Knecht at the courthouse after I learned you’d taken an interest in him. Difficult life. Lost his parents and brother, must take care of his sisters. All he really wants is to have a life for himself, just like you or me. He’s been called a fiend. He’s not a fiend. He’s a human being. I believe every man deserves at least one chance in this world.”

  “Why was Knecht with you when you came to the house?”

  “I wanted to help him.”

  “Help him how?”

  “I find it so tiresome that when I’m on the bench, no one has the opportunity to ask me any questions. And so I can’t provide any answers. I must simply listen to people blather on and on. But you, Wendell, you have so many questions. It’s wonderful.”

  “What were you trying to do to help him?”

  The Judge sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly. “You know, the philosopher Heraclitus had only two questions. What is the world like? And how can we understand it? Simple questions, enormous implications. Did you study him at the university? Heraclitus?”

  “How were you trying to help Knecht?”

  “Why, I wanted to give him a chance in life, starting with a place to live. He expressed a desire to leave his current conditions, to escape that hovel in Easton and get out on his own.”

  “Who’ll take care of his sisters?”

  “He will. Knecht will mine coal for a living, and he will support his sisters financially. They also have an aunt in Easton who will look in on them.”

  “How do you know those men, Moore and Gray? What were you
meeting with them about?”

  The Judge shifted in his chair, leaning forward. He sharpened his focus on Kamp.

  “Terrible crimes have been committed, Wendell. Those men help to run the ironworks and the railroad. A criminal element has moved in. They were telling me about the wrongdoing that’s been occurring. Theft, lawlessness. Violence. A scourge.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It’s awful, and they want it to stop. I want it to stop, too, but there’s no one to investigate and bring these scoundrels to justice. You’re the right man, Wendell, the perfect man. You’re tenacious. You’ll find the truth.”

  “Since when is the truth a concern of yours, Judge?”

  “Oh, Wendell, you’re too hard on people. And on yourself. You need to think about your family. Think about Shaw. Think about your child. What kind of world do you want for that child?”

  Kamp stared down at the table.

  The Judge went on, “Be practical. Raising a family costs money. Where will the money come from? It’s different now. It’s not just you. You need to provide for them for as long as you can. You need steady work, security, especially if you were to have another episode.”

  “Go to hell, Judge.”

  “Try it. Do it for one year. Give it everything you have. During that time, you’ll be paid a good salary, and you’ll do the detective work entirely as you see fit. You won’t have to carry a badge or wear a uniform or any of that nonsense.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Perform the duties of the job for one year, and the house is yours. The farm is yours. I’ll hand you the deed. You’ll own it all. One year.”