The Spirit is Willing (An Ophelia Wylde Paranormal Mystery)

by Max McCoy

  “Hank,” I said sternly.

  “The next night the little boy dreamed that the neighbor’s dog was run over by a team of horses and, lo and behold, that exact thing happened. The family was astonished.”

  “Lord, spare me.”

  “Then, on the third night, the boy had a dream that his father dropped dead. The family was naturally distraught, so every precaution was taken to keep the father safe from harm. He stayed in bed all day, not even rising to wash or shave himself, and he ate nothing for fear of choking. The other family members stood watch at his door, and allowed no one inside to guard against evil intent. And then . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Are you listening?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Finish it, quickly.”

  “And then a drummer came to the house, and fell dead on the steps.”

  5

  I was fully awake now, so I walked over to look out the window at the street below. It was still full dark out, and hot, with no hint of dawn, but it must have been early morning because North Front Street was just about shut down. The only lights were from the windows of the scattered restaurants that had opened to feed drunken cowboys and prepare for the regular breakfast crowd.

  Afraid to go back to sleep, I pulled on my clothes as quietly as I could, but Eddie still fussed. Downstairs, the Dodge House was quiet as a church, and even the desk clerk was asleep at his post. I went out into the hot night air and walked down the hard-packed dirt street to Beatty and Kelly’s Restaurant, where I took a table near the kitchen and asked for a cup of coffee.

  “So, you’ve had enough whiskey for one night.”

  The waiter was a young man with dark, slicked-back hair and a towel thrown over his shoulder. He seemed annoyingly alert for so early in the morning, and the way he looked at me made me feel small.

  “I don’t drink,” I said.

  “Of course not, sweetheart,” the waiter said. “I’ve quit a thousand times myself. You want breakfast? We have eggs, but no biscuits yet. And steak. We always have steak, any way you like it. Porterhouse, sirloin, flank. Medium, well done, or raw.”

  “This is a cattle town,” I said.

  “Let me order you up a steak,” he said. “You look a tad anemic. And if you don’t mind me saying so, the men’s clothing is not showing your figure to best advantage. There are some girls who carry it well, but they are generally more ample. I do like your red hair, though.”

  “Excuse me, but do I know you?” I asked. “Have we met and I just don’t remember? Your remarks are unwelcome, and I can assure you that I do not dress to a calculated advantage.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I usually get along well with the girls. No, we’ve not met before. All business, I understand. My name is Bernard, by the way. So, coffee only?”

  “Yes, coffee,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Coming up on four, I think.”

  Another hour to dawn.

  Somebody had left Saturday’s edition of the Dodge City Times on the table. Bored, I glanced at the front page. There was a story about the thousand Cheyenne Indians being transferred from the Red Cloud Agency in the Dakotas to Indian Territory by the U.S. Army, and who were expected to arrive near Dodge in a few days; an item about the war between the Turks and the Russians; and a perfectly awful poem entitled, “The Last of Summer.”

  There was a paid notice at the bottom left of the front page, in the “Professional Cards” section, which carried notices for stray cattle, itinerant photographers, law and collections, and the like. The ad that caught my eye was headed, “THE GREATEST POSSIBLE PROTECTION FROM THE DEADLY WHEEL,” in bold type, and claimed the policies offered by the Western Mutual Life Assurance Company of Leavenworth pay for the loss of a thumb, or a forefinger, a hand, a foot, or the loss of sight in one or both eyes. A representative of the company would be in town for one week only, and that those interested in obtaining ultimate security could call at the Dodge House. “BUY THE BEST. BUILD THE WEST.”

  The advertisement caused me to make a small sound of disgust in my throat, and I quickly flipped the page. Insurance salesmen struck me as a sinister brotherhood dedicated to accosting innocents on the street and interrupting one’s dinner hour to shill for a lottery that you only won if you lost.

  Inside, there was a long story taken from one of the New York papers about the faith and practices of the Mohammedans; an item about a $17 million contract Turkey had taken out with the Providence Tool Company, for hundreds of thousands of Martini-Henry rifles, the biggest contract ever made in this country by a foreign government; and a paragraph in the personal news column about a former lawman returning to town.

  Wyatt Earp, who was on our city police force last summer, is in town again. We hope he will accept a position on the force once more. He had a quiet way of taking the most desperate characters into custody.... It wasn’t considered polite to draw a gun on Wyatt unless you got the drop and meant to burn powder without any preliminary talk.

  I drank the coffee my wide-awake waiter, Bernard, had brought, and flipped through the rest of the eight-page paper. There was a letter reprinted from a Robert Creuzbaur of Brooklyn to The New York Sun defending the practice of dowsing.

  “I wish to draw attention to the useful purposes the rod can serve,” Creuzbaur wrote, “and particularly to the points which science might take hold of to solve other questions in the mysterious field of electricity, to which I ascribe the rod’s action.”

  Creuzbaur, who claimed to have long used a divining rod to locate water for digging wells, said that a recent article in a scientific journal had maligned dowsing by ascribing it to the realm of superstition. Electricity, he said, must be the key by which the rod works, because placing a pane of glass or a silk handkerchief beneath the tip of the rod prevents the desired action.

  “The ban of superstition being once removed from this subject,” Creuzbaur wrote, “when leading minds in the science of electricity shall have recognized it as worthy of their attention, an important advance in the knowledge of that invisible and all-powerful factor of Creation is not unlikely to be arrived at.”

  There was another story, on the page opposite the dowsing story, about the upcoming trial of a “spirit photographer” in Denver. The photographer, Eureka Smith, was accused of defrauding several prominent clients—including the wife of gubernatorial candidate Andrew Jackson Miles—by using fakery to produce photographic portraits that purported to show dead relatives hovering behind the living.

  “Noted Daguerreotypist and spirit skeptic Abraham Bogardus, of Philadelphia, has been retained by the prosecution to demonstrate the methods by which these so-called ‘spirit photographs’ can be produced at will,” the newspaper reported. “Attorney General Sampson has claimed in his indictment that defendant Smith has bilked hundreds of dollars from grieving families desperate for proof of the survival of their lost loved ones. In at least one instance, the attorney general charged, Smith had also produced humbuggery aimed at extorting money from a prominent city politician.”

  I knew Bogardus by reputation, considering my past vocation. Bogardus had testified at the 1869 trial of William H. Mumler, whose most famous spirit photograph was of Mary Todd Lincoln with the ghost of Abraham Lincoln behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Mumler was accused by P. T. Barnum (who apparently wanted to keep hucksterism all to himself) and others of fraud, and Bogardus demonstrated the ease with which spirit photographs could be faked. A journalist by the name of Moses Dow, however, testified that he had investigated Mumler’s technique and could find no trace of trickery. Although acquitted of fraud, Mumler’s reputation was ruined, and he was driven to the poor house.

  “Can’t recall seeing you out and about this early before.”

  Jack Calder sat down at the table.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I said, dropping the paper. “Nightmare.”

  “To be expected, in your line of work.”

  “It’s our line of work,” I said.
“We’re partners, remember?”

  “Sure, but you handle the spook end of it,” he said. “And I handle the bill-paying end.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “If it wasn’t for me writing bail bonds, serving papers, and bringing back jumpers, we’d have gone out of business in April.”

  I felt guilty. Just a year before, I had settled a considerable debt from my previous career, and had two hundred dollars left with which to help establish the agency. But everything had been more expensive than I had expected, from the lettering of the sign on the door to the oil for the lanterns.

  “I’m sure things will pick up soon,” I said. “Business runs in cycles, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “We have business,” Calder said. “You’re going to have to start charging, Ophelia.”

  I looked at the table.

  “It’s difficult for me,” I said. “It’s not as easy as when I was, you know.”

  “A confidence woman.”

  “Yes, Jack. It’s much harder than that.”

  “What was the nightmare about?” he asked.

  “Something about a train.”

  He looked at me as if he expected more, but I wasn’t inclined to indulge him.

  “Are you always up this early?” I asked.

  “Most days,” he said. “Got to get things done while it’s still cool enough to work.”

  Calder was wearing the blue shirt and vest, and slung around his waist was his cartridge belt with the pistol that looked as big as a blacksmith’s hammer. It was illegal to carry guns north of the deadline in Dodge City, but Calder was exempt because he was a bounty hunter, and was considered an extension of the court.

  “Hello, Jack,” Bernard said, suddenly appearing at the table. He placed a cup of coffee and a sugar bowl and spoon on the table.

  “Good morning, Bernard,” Calder said, spooning sugar into his coffee. He put three heaping spoonfuls into the coffee, then stirred with vigor, the bowl of the spoon clicking and scraping irritatingly against the sides of the cup.

  “Be careful sitting with this one,” Bernard said, inclining his head toward me. “She’s in a not very good mood.”

  “Good advice,” Calder said, then smiled at me. “Thanks.”

  “The usual this morning?”

  “Sounds about right,” Calder said. He placed a calloused forefinger through the ceramic handle and brought the mug to his lips. I thought the coffee must taste about like molasses, considering the amount of sugar he used.

  After Bernard had walked away, Calder leaned back in his chair and gave me a knowing grin.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Bernie thinks you’re a Cyprian.”

  “Whatever gave him that idea?”

  “They don’t get a lot of business here from unaccompanied women at four o’clock in the morning who aren’t prostitutes,” Calder said. “Bernie is friends with all of them.”

  “Merde.”

  “Cuss in English, will you?”

  “I most certainly will not,” I said. “I think in English and cuss in French and Creole.”

  “At least tell me what it means.”

  I wasn’t going to give Calder the satisfaction of knowing it was the most basic of scatological expressions.

  “What do you know about a couple named Charles and Mary Howart?” I asked.

  Calder shrugged.

  “There’s not much to know,” he said. “Charlie keeps to himself, is a bookkeeper for the Collar freight company, I think. Drinks little and gambles less. Molly is a quiet woman who attends Union Church. They live on Chestnut and have no children. They’re the kind of people anybody would want for neighbors—reliable, quiet, and a little dull.”

  “Things apparently have gotten more interesting for the Howarts,” I said. “A haunted book is giving them trouble, every Monday night for the last few weeks. At least, that’s what Molly described when she hired me. She asked me to come see for myself.”

  “What manner of haunted book?”

  “A book bound in red Moroccan leather, written by a man named Gresham,” I said. “Molly hasn’t been allowed to read it and doesn’t know the title. Charlie has had the book for several years, but of late the book has been manifesting a ghastly hanged man in their front room. Can you think of any reason this would be happening now?”

  Calder shook his head.

  “Perhaps I’ll learn something Monday night,” I said. “At least, I hope to get my hands on that book.”

  Bernard the waiter brought Calder a platter of sirloin steak and scrambled eggs, and refilled both coffees. Calder asked if I wanted something, and I told him it was too early to even think about food.

  “You’re eating with a purpose,” I said. “In a hurry?”

  “I have paper on a couple of whiskey traders over on the Medicine Lodge River in Kiowa County,” he said. “I aim to serve them before noon.”

  “Paper?” I asked. “Arrest warrants?”

  “They’re bail jumpers,” Calder said. “They’ve already been arrested once. I’m going to bring their sorry hides back here to stand trial or know the reason why.”

  “Be careful, Jack,” I said.

  “These boys have no stomach for trouble,” Calder said. “One of them is a Texan named Harker, and he’s been on the drift for months. He used to be a cowhand but got tangled up here in Dodge with this other fellow, Smilin’ Solomon Stone. They’ve been up to general disorder ever since. Some time in jail might be corrective. And a good beating.”

  “Jack,” I said. “Are you still a member of the Vigilance Committee?”

  He took a sip of his coffee, then cleared his throat.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I had a dream,” I said. “It came up.”

  “The committee hasn’t met regular in a long while,” he said.

  “It might as well meet every Sunday, considering the reputation it still has in this town,” I said. “Children aren’t afraid of the bogeyman in Dodge City if they’re bad, they’re afraid of the Committee of Vigilance.”

  “Then I guess they’d better be good.”

  “Jack, I’m serious. What haven’t you told me?”

  “Ophelia,” Calder said, then wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin. “I had a wife. She died. I don’t need another.”

  Calder tossed the cloth on the table.

  My cheeks blazed and I blinked back tears. I felt both ashamed and outraged, with more than a dash of betrayal thrown in. Why was he treating me this way?

  “That was mean, Jack.”

  Calder pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and tossed a dollar note on the table.

  “I thought we were partners.”

  He stood.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to talk about this?”

  “If I can find Harker and Stone, I should be back by dark,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “But if I have to scare them up out of the brush, it may take a day or two. Longer, if they decide to run for Texas.”

  6

  After Calder left, I sat at the table and drank more coffee and pondered what I had done to make him so cold to me. The prouder the man, the harder it is to get him to talk about his feelings. It was infuriating. We were supposed to be partners, and all I did was ask an honest question out of concern, and he treated me like I had killed his dog.

  Then the front door banged open so hard I thought it was going to break the glass, and into the restaurant stumbled a local prostitute by the name of Frankie Bell. Everybody in Dodge City knew Frankie, or knew of her, because she did things that inspired gossip. For one, she was a whore and unashamed of it. This was undis-turbing to the night denizens, but unacceptable to those who had daytime jobs, attended city council meetings, and went to church on Sundays. For another, she was a big girl—taller than most men, in fact, in her bare feet—and she had muscles under those curves, and she wasn’t afraid to use them when she believed her honor had been challenged. Last week, she had pummeled
a shoe salesman from Wichita who had suggested Frankie could turn a better profit as a circus curiosity.

  “The usual, doll?” Bernard asked.

  “Yep,” Frankie said.

  She was wearing a red kimono, her wild blond hair spilled over her shoulders, and a badly rolled cigarette dangled from her lower lip. Her brown eyes were bright with whiskey and she navigated the restaurant by gripping the backs of chairs like they were the rail on a storm-tossed ship. She found a table she liked by the kitchen door and sprawled in a chair.

  Bernard brought a short glass and an armload of ingredients. In something resembling a ritual, he placed the glass in front of her, then cracked a raw egg on the rim, and plopped the unbroken yolk in. He poured about a shot from a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, added five shakes of Tabasco, and sprinkled it all with salt and pepper.

  “It is ready,” Bernard said.

  Frankie nodded, snubbed the cigarette out on the tabletop, and snatched up the concoction in her right hand. She held the glass high and offered a toast in a surprisingly firm voice.

  “Let those who did not get us cry,” she said. “And let those who did not want us . . . muck off and die.”

  She threw the contents down her throat, wiped her mouth with her forearm, and slammed the glass upside down on the table. The restaurant applauded, and Frankie nodded in appreciation.

  “What was that?” I asked Bernard as he walked by with the empty glass.

  “Prairie oyster,” he said. “Want to try one?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Say, you’re that Wylde gal who talks to ghosts,” Frankie said, casting her wild eyes upon me. “What in hell did you do to old Hickory Lane?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “She’s got it in for you something fierce.”

  “Oh?”

  “She went on a drunk last night and said you were full of it.”

  “Did she, now?”

  “Swore she was going to take you down a peg or two.”

  “I don’t know why Hickory would feel that way about me, but I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding,” I said.