Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Well, I…”

  “Don’t.” Crawfish waved his hand. “Tell Ms. Bacon. I don’t care for nursery rhymes. Or cowards who let others keep them safe.”

  Mattie frowned and took her father’s arm. “Come on, Father. Please. Good day to you, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Sure, miss.”

  “Mr. Crawford, may I bother you a moment, sir?” Pastor Tiemann announced as he lumbered up the far aisle with Dr. Milens behind him.

  Crawfish turned. “Ah, what?” Behind him, the Bacons continued up the aisle with Albert Bacon speaking loudly and Mattie attempting to quiet him.

  Without waiting for further comment from Pastor Tiemann, Dr. Milens strode past him and held out his hand. “Mr. Crawford, it is a plea sure to meet you, sir. Heard a great deal about you. Quite the businessman I understand.”

  Frowning, Crawfish took his hand and shook it. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Milens.” He decided there was no hurry in pursuing Sean and was thrilled to meet the noted mesmerist. “I enjoyed your sermon, Dr. Milens. Especially liked your use of Shakespeare. King Richard II, I believe.”

  Smiling uncomfortably and nodding, Dr. Milens acknowledged the correctness of his assumption. “Very good, sir. A savvy businessman—and a learned one. A rare combination, I would say.”

  Crawfish felt the redness crawling up from his collar. “I have read about your, ah, seances. Fascinating experiences, it would seem.”

  “You must come to night, Mr. Crawford,” Dr. Milens said. “I’m having Mr. McCormick and his wife…and Earnest Wilcox and his fair lady. Six would be a perfect number. Are you married?”

  “No sir. Was. She passed. Some time ago.”

  Dr. Milens tilted his head slightly to the left. “Perhaps, we can find her to night. Perhaps, you can talk with her again.” He paused for effect. “What about your…business friend, ah, Vin Lockhart. Would you like to bring him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s say, eight o’ clock. At my place. I’m staying in the home that was once that of the Swansons. Mayor McCormick owns it now. His rental fee was most generous.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It didn’t take long for Crawfish to find the upset boy. Dr. Wright told the red-haired businessman that Sean had been there and had been advised the second Irishman’s body had been picked up and taken to the undertaker’s.

  Crawfish knocked on the door of Joseph “Hammer” Hawkens’s office. The adjacent sign read: CABINETMAKER/UNDERTAKER. On the second floor was an occulist, Jacob Mosely, who had just moved in. He had fitted Crawfish with new eyeglasses two weeks ago.

  Finally, Hawkens came to the door and opened it a few inches.

  “I’m closed on Sunday, Mr. Crawford. This is the Lord’s day. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Hawkens, but I’m looking for a boy. Thought he might be here.”

  “Irish kid?”

  “Yes.”

  With a sigh, Hawkens opened the door wider. “Sure. Anything to get him out of here. He doesn’t want to understand nothing’s going to happen to either of those dead Micks today. Not tomorrow either. Not until I’m sure who’s paying.”

  “The city…ah, the marshal’s office. Of course, man.” Crawfish studied the slimly built man with the slightly drooped shoulders and protruding belly standing before him.

  The enterprising undertaker—cabinet and coffin maker— was mostly bald. What hair he had surrounded large ears like wispy worms. His clothes showed the signs of his multiple professions with stains of various kinds and reasons decorating a worn frock coat, an old brown vest, shabby morning coat, soiled collar and baggy-kneed pants. None of three main garments matched. Hawkens’s red and puffy nose was a constant source of snorts and sneezing.

  Crawfish figured it was due to exposure to turpentine, varnish, burial fluids and sawdust on a regular basis.

  While not the most talented carpenter in town, he was certainly the most enterprising. Few coffin makers were actually undertakers, preferring to concentrate on wood instead of death. His close relationship with both the mayor and the marshal had secured the city’s funeral business.

  Shaking his head, Hawkens walked past the empty funeral parlor with its heavy draperies and two matching overstuffed chairs. In the center of the room, a long table waited the presentation of a casket. With his bowler in his hand, Crawfish wanted to ask how long a body could go uncared for, but decided he didn’t really want to know. He hurried to catch up.

  Hawkens paused beside a table containing a small stack of religious pamphlets, an ashtray filled with old cigars, and a lamp with a glass chimney lined with gray, greasy soot. He lit the lamp and the oil burned with a dull, filmy light, but it did help brighten the overall darkness of the area. Carrying it with him, Hawkens stepped through a smaller door and into a good-sized room. It served a dual purpose as his carpentry shop and his burial preparation area.

  Two bodies laid on twin long tables; neither had apparently been touched since being delivered. The earlier body was covered with a sheet that had once been white, now a dull ivory. The second body of Lightning Murphy had only been delivered an hour ago. The man’s blood-soaked shirt was torn open and lay against the table; his stomach was wrapped with a bandage that had given up trying to hold back the bleeding before death.

  The hard smells of burial fluids and turpentine slithered about the gray enclosure, mixed with the scent of fresh pine. A varnished, hand-rubbed, wood casket rested on two saw horses in the corner; its beveled lid was propped open. Surplus boards, a hammer, several chisels, a saw and T square, plus clumps of sawdust, surrounded the finished work. A large can of varnish sat nearby with fingers of dried liquid stringing down its sides.

  Crawfish’s eyes adjusted to the dim light and saw Sean standing ten feet beyond the tables. His arms were crossed and he was staring at the wall. In his folded right hand was a silver watch with a chain dangling through his fingers. It looked to Crawfish like he was holding something in the other hand as well.

  Crawfish glanced at Hawkens, realized he was about to say something harsh to the boy and spoke first, motioning toward Sean with the hat in his hand. “Sean…there is nothing here for you. I’m sorry, but we have to leave. We can come back tomorrow, if you want.”

  At first, it didn’t appear Sean heard him. Then he looked up, his eyes, glazed.

  “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “Nothing until I—”

  “They will be properly buried. Pastor Tiemann will do the service.” Crawfish interrupted the annoyed undertaker, then turned to him. “I guarantee you will be paid.”

  Rubbing his cheek with his free hand, Hawkens said, “I will hold you to that.”

  “Of course you will,” Crawfish responded.

  Hawkens nodded.

  “So, what is involved with a burial?” Crawfish asked, partly out of good business sense, but mostly out of curiosity.

  In between nasal interruptions, Hawkens explained that the family usually cleaned the body with aromatic soap. A long watch followed to make certain the person had truly passed. He assured Crawfish and Sean that both thugs were, indeed, dead; his assessment came with a cocky relish and was followed by a blowing of his nose. He said the cleaning, using a strong and sweet-smelling soap would be done for a half-dollar each.

  It would take two days for the coffins to be made; hand rubbing the varnish was extra. He pointed at the handsome coffin on the saw horses and indicated it had been constructed for Charlie Izard who had just passed. His body was at the family home.

  “Two days? Holy wishwash, what about the…ah, odor?” Crawfish asked without thinking about what it suggested to Sean.

  “Well, I sprinkle sprigs of lavender all over the bodies. Keep them on hand. All the time. And the soap I mentioned, that helps. And cooling boards,” Hawkens said, motioning toward a long board with holes in it, standing upright in the corner. “I lay one of them on a big block of ice, then put the body on it. Works pretty go
od.” He wiped his nose with his handkerchief. “Except on real hot summer days. Ah, all that is another dollar. Each.”

  “What about embalming? I read where they put some kind of solution into an artery? Replaces the blood. Been experimenting with it, the whole idea, since the War between the States,” Crawfish asked, pursed his lips and added, “Isn’t it zinc chloride mixed with mercury chloride? All kinds of chemicals as I recall. Bichloride of mercury is another. Even an arsenic solution. Lead, too. Yes, just read about it. In a British medical journal. Yeah, I think that was it. Or was it from Ohio?”

  Hawkens nodded. “Oh yeah, since the war, some folks been trying all kinds of chemicals and the like. All seems kinda unnatural to me.” He dabbed his nose again.

  “Hmmm, well, it seems to be gaining ground.” Crawfish was talking fast now. He usually did when a subject interested him and he knew something about it.

  “Wouldn’t know.” Hawkens was eager to change the subject.

  “There’s an organization of embalmers now. Around the country. Been reading about Professor Rhodes’ Electro Bal Embalming Fluid. You might want to look into that.” He whistled through the gap in his two front teeth and pushed back the spectacles on his nose.

  “One of these days. Not right now.”

  Crawfish blinked and realized this wasn’t the time or place to pursue the subject further. He glanced at Sean, but the boy was lost in his own thoughts.

  “Sure. Sure,” Crawfish said. “We’re going to need headstones, too. Granite.”

  “Well, the marshal isn’t going to pay for that.” Hawkens raised the lamp to bring the yellow light closer to Crawfish’s face. “You know that. A wood cross. Paint on the name, if it’s known.” He rubbed his nose with the handkerchief in his other hand.

  “I will pay for the granite headstones.”

  “They come all the way from Cheyenne. Takes six weeks.”

  “That’s just fine.” Crawfish turned back to the grieving boy. “Sean, do you know…their names? To put on the headstones?”

  Sean looked at Crawfish terrified, opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. He swallowed and muttered, “Lightnin’ Murphy…an’ Big Mike be all me be knowin’.”

  Hawkens stared at him as Crawfish took a few steps toward Sean. “Come on, Sean. We need to go—and see the pastor.”

  “Why be ye doin’ this kind thing?” Sean asked, his eyes searching Crawfish’s bespectacled face. “Nothin’ but Irish thugs they be. Tryin’ to kill your best friend, they did. They be scum nobody wants around. Good riddance.”

  “Because you are my friend—and they were important to you.” Crawfish pushed the glasses back on his nose and waved his hand holding the hat toward the boy.

  Sean squinted, holding back the anguish that wanted out. He swallowed and finally blurted, “I-I d-did not get to talk w-with…Lightnin’…again.”

  “I’m sorry. I…”

  “A-A promise me did give him. To kill Vin L-Lockhart it was.”

  Crawfish glanced at the stunned undertaker, then walked over to the sobbing boy. Gently, he took the boy and held him.

  His cheeks covered with wetness, Sean said, “I-I be goin’ to tell…Lightin’ that…that me canna…”

  Crawfish patted the boy on the back. “I know you couldn’t.”

  Sean stepped away; his mouth was a thin line of purpose. “W-What…what should…me word I gave. ’Tis me word.”

  Rubbing his chin, Crawfish was uncharacteristically quiet. Should he remind the boy of the character of these men? Why did he think Sean himself was worth this time and money? What should he tell him? He heard himself saying, “Sean, what you said…to Lightning…was not a promise. Not really. It was…saying good-bye.”

  “Nay,’ twas me promise.”

  Crawfish studied the shaken boy. “These two men were important to you. Right?”

  “Ay. They be good to meself. Swate Jaysus, they be.”

  “Do you think they wanted the best for you?”

  “Sayin’ so, they did.”

  Crawfish pointed toward the door. “Good. That means your real promise to them was to become your best. Right?”

  Sean looked at Crawfish. “How does me do that?”

  “Well, let’s go an’ see Pastor Tiemann about the funeral service and we can talk about your future on the way,” Crawfish answered and took a step toward the door.

  “Ye know me canna be readin’ or writin’.”

  “Ah, that’s going to change, lad. That’s going to change.”

  Sean smiled and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “The things in their pockets, me have.” Sean held out both hands to reveal the watch and a few coins. “Mr. Hawkens be sayin’ the constable has their guns.”

  “That sounds right, Sean,” Crawfish said.

  “Sounds right? Of course, it sounds right. Do you think I’d steal from a dead man?” Hawkens waved both hands with the lamp flame struggling to stay lit and the wet handkerchief flopping in rhythm.

  “Ay, ye might. Findin’ out, me be doin’,” Sean said in his most threatening voice.

  Hawkens lowered both the lamp and cloth. “Don’t take that tone with me, you Irish whelp.” He punctuated his statement by blowing his nose and the lamp flame jumped again.

  “You know, a careful man like yourself should be aware that Vin Lockhart thinks highly of the boy.” Crawfish’s voice was firmer than the undertaker’s. Yet softer.

  Raising the lamp again, the cabinetmaker-undertaker studied the red-haired businessman, searching for a sign that he was kidding. Didn’t he just hear the boy say he promised to kill Lockhart? What was that all about? Satisfied Crawfish was telling the truth, Hawkens decided not to press the question about the earlier statement.

  He lowered the light, wiped his nose with his handkerchief and said gently, “There’s not going to be any trial, so the marshal won’t need the guns for evidence.” He paused, sneezed and added, “Are you…related…to these…gentlemen? Ach-ooo!”

  Staring at the watch in his opened palm, Sean closed his hand around it. “Nay. They only be me friends.”

  “Friends?” Hawkens forgot himself for a moment. “You’re friends with these two no-good thugs?”

  “Not every man’s friends turn out the way he wants them to be, you know, Hawkens.” Crawfish popped the bowler back on his head and patted it. “Let’s be going, Sean. We need to see an old lady.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After passing under a lodgepole gateway, Lockhart reined up in front of a low-roofed house with a porch that crept across its front. A well-tended flower bed peeked at him from the east side. He had already seen the other two ranches on his short mental list, as he had several rides before. Now it was time to look over Crawfish’s suggestion. The Broken R.

  Late morning sun lay easy on two smaller buildings and a small, well-built corral to the south of a weathered barn with some missing boards. Next to it was a much larger corral in need of repair in several places. Poking its head above and behind the house was a windmill. On the rolling hillside, a dozen cows and three horses grazed on long grass.

  “Hello, the house! I’m Vin Lockhart of Denver City,” he called loudly from astride his bay. “I would like to talk with you…please.”

  The horse whinnied as if adding its own salutation.

  He waited and was about to yell again when the front door wobbled and swung open. He couldn’t make out whoever stood in the doorway. Only the gray silhouette was definitive. It was a man. An older man.

  “Yes suh, Mr. Lockhart. Believe I’ve heard o’ ya.” The voice reaffirmed it was an older man. “The way I heard it, ya ain’t a fella to cross.”

  Lockhart smiled and held his arms away from his body. “I don’t take well to someone trying to steal what’s mine, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Neithur do I.”

  “May I get down?”

  “Ya kin do whatchever ya wants, I reckon.” The voice had a bit of a smile to it.

 
Lockhart dismounted, but kept his horse between himself and the doorway. There was no reason to be careless.

  “Are you the owner of the Broken R?” he asked, holding the reins so the horse continued to stand in front of him.

  “I sure ’nuff is. Me an’ the missus.” Then the man laughed, realizing the significance of Lockhart’s movement. “I like a fella with sand—an’ savvy.” He chuckled again. “But ya got no reason to fear me.” He stepped through the doorway and onto the porch. “I’m Harry Rhymer. Me an’ my missus own the place. Such as it is. Used to be a place whar a fella could buy hisself a fine hoss. But that were a while back. What kin I do fer ya?” Bright blue eyes flashed with interest. “Ain’t got no hoss as good as the one yur a’ridin’.”

  The older man was quite bowlegged, but there was pride in his movements. His head was covered in snow-white hair that curled around his fresh collar. It appeared he was wearing his Sunday best; a gray, pinstripe vest and pants with a crooked string tie. He wore no coat. When he moved, his bowlegged walk made him look like a toy figure in need of a play horse.

  Tugging on his hat brim and stepping away from his horse, Lockhart explained what he was looking for and why. He asked how much of the surrounding land they actually owned.

  Rhymer listened without comment. Nodding, he motioned toward the house. “We was ’bout to set our noon table. Sunday dinner ’n all. Be ri’t proud to have ya join us.” He chuckled and added, “The missus does a ri’t smart baked chicken. Dumplin’s, too.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your day. I can come back if you’re interested in talking about it.”

  “Naw, nuthin’ could be further from the truth o’ it,” Rhymer said. “Sunday meetin’ this morn left us a’wantin’ more comp’ny, I reckon. Martha, that’s my wife, she was a’sayin’ jes’that when ya rode up.”

  “Well, you don’t have to invite me twice,” Lockhart said and led his horse toward the house and flipped the reins over the hitching rack.