Summer of the Star

by Johnny D. Boggs

  My anger rose. “You said stay out of Nauchville. This ain’t The Bottoms. It’s Ellsworth.”

  “I warned you that the town proper is under Brocky Jack’s rule. And Morco’s. And from what I hear, you’ve already become acquainted with Nauchville.”

  He let go, pointing, so we turned the corner. We covered a few more blocks, but it wasn’t easy with a missing heel. My leg started to ache, but my anger subsided.

  “What about my horse?” I asked.

  “She’ll be all right. We’ll fetch her when we ride out to your camp.”

  “You mean I got to walk back there?. My head shook with contempt.

  “Son,” he said casually, “if you had visited John Mueller, instead of Nauchville in the first place, that heel wouldn’t have come off, your nose wouldn’t be broken, and walking a few blocks wouldn’t sound so painful.”

  “Walking’s always painful,” I fired back at him, “to a Texas cowboy.”

  That caused him to chuckle, but he never broke his stride, and, as we passed a brick building, he relented. “Well, maybe I’ll send someone to fetch your horse after we’re done. Then we’ll ride out together.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” I let him know.

  He stopped. We had reached the county courthouse, a big two-story building on the town square. I’d never seen the square before, hadn’t even known that Ellsworth had a square, just a bunch of shipping pens, Nauchville, and the Star Mercantile. “Fancy,” I said.

  “My office isn’t here. Fool contractors put this new building up not even a year ago, but didn’t have enough room for me and the jail. But there’s someone waiting in Judge Miller’s office that I want you to talk to.”

  I could only stare at him blankly.

  “The farmer from Holyrood,” Sheriff Whitney explained. “I wasn’t lying, Madison, about that murder.”

  chapter

  10

  “Dis is man!”

  We had stepped inside an office on the second floor of the courthouse, Sheriff Whitney and me, when this regular Goliath in duck trousers, Wellingtons, and a muslin shirt practically catapulted out of a chair in front of a fancy desk. The chair tipped over, and the well-dressed fellow, sitting behind the desk, leaped out of his seat, too. His face showed fear. The big man, heading right for me, looked murderous. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another man by a bookcase, dropping the pipe he had been tamping. He said something, but I didn’t hear anything, because, by that time, the big cuss had wrapped his door-sized mitts around my throat and had cut off my windpipe.

  Chauncey Whitney came to my assistance. The other two blokes just stood, watching this monster choke the life out of me. Whitney tried to pry the monster’s hands from my throat—and remember what I said about the sheriff’s grip. Well, he wasn’t having any luck with the attacker.

  Through my mind flashed: Draw your weapon and kill this oaf. My vision blurred. Before he kills you.

  He had lifted me off the floor, pressed me against the wall. I tried to kick, scratch, spit, and blow blood out from my nose into his face.

  Whitney appeared to be yelling at the big man, but I only heard the blood trying to rush to my head.

  “Nein. Nein. Nein!”

  Somehow I could make out those words. Chauncey Whitney was yelling them.

  Suddenly the hands let go, and I dropped to the floor, staggering, tripping over a cuspidor, and crashing onto the rug. My lungs sucked in air that smelled of pipe tobacco. I felt happy to be alive, to be able to breathe again, but had no certainty that this giant wouldn’t try to rip off my head again. I clambered to my feet, knocked the well-dressed fellow onto his desk, staggered some more, and didn’t stop until I was beside an open window. If that big dude came at me, I’d jump out.

  “Let’s calm down here,” said the man, getting off the desk.

  “Dis is man,” Mr. Goliath said again. His accent was harsh. He took a step closer, and I edged nearer that window, my hands going to my throat.

  “He isn’t the man, Mister Ackerman,” Sheriff Whitney said. “He’s just a boy.”

  “Boy?. The man spit onto the cuspidor that was still rolling back and forth on the floor. “Bah. Vroni vas girl just.”

  “Let’s sit down and have a polite discussion.. The guy in the corner had finally gotten his pipe lit.

  I removed my hands from my throat. So far that day, I had gotten my pride battered, my nose busted, my elbows scraped, and had come close to getting my throat crushed and neck broken. “Why don’t somebody tell me what the Sam Hill’s going on here,” I said, adding: “And I ain’t killed nobody!”

  Sheriff Whitney guided the big fellow, who never took his hard eyes off me, to the chair the pipe smoker had just righted. The well-dressed man settled into his chair behind the desk, trying to act dignified, and the pipe smoker grinned at me and pointed to another chair. It seemed way too close to that big farmer, so I shook my head, and, gripping the sill, stayed put.

  “Madison,” Sheriff Whitney said, “this is Harry Pestana. He’s our city attorney.. The pipe smoker nodded ever so slightly at me. “And this is our mayor, Judge Miller.”

  The old man sitting at the desk said: “Call me James, son. Call me James.. I knew he didn’t mean it.

  Whitney positioned himself at the corner of the desk. I think maybe he did that so he could cut off Mr. Goliath in case he had a hankering to finish killing me. “And this is ... I’m sorry, Mister Ackerman, I’ve forgotten your first name.”

  Mr. Goliath glared at me. “I Vroni Ackerman’s fater. All he need know.”

  The sheriff let out a weary sigh. Maybe his day had been as rotten as mine.

  “It’s Hagen,” the lawyer said. “Hagen Ackerman.”

  Mr. Goliath seethed.

  “Gentleman, this is Madison MacRae from Texas.”

  Nobody in the room said it was a pleasure to meet me.

  “Madison,” Sheriff Whitney said, “Mister Ackerman’s daughter was killed.”

  “Ack!. Ackerman’s eyes bore through me.

  “And, she was ... well ... he believes ..... Whitney shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sir, why don’t you tell Madison?”

  The city attorney added. “In your own words, sir.”

  The big farmer glared. “He know.”

  “Please, sir,” the mayor said, and he didn’t sound like he was stumping for a vote, or even, since they called him a judge, instructing him on the letter of the law. “I know this is painful for you, Herr Ackerman, but please. Everyone in this room feels your pain.”

  His pain? I thought. What about mine. That monster almost killed me.

  “Tell us, sir. Once more.”

  That thick German accent of his made it mighty hard for me to savvy, but I managed to get the gist of things. He and his family were Mennonites. I knew about that religion. They weren’t Presbyterians, but a bunch had settled down in South Texas. Kind of like the Amish, Mama had told me, though I didn’t know a whit about the Amish, either. Believed in peace. Didn’t believe in fighting, but I reckon Ackerman had backslid on that bit of faith.

  He was working in the field—dumb old sodbuster—and came home that evening to find his daughter .... That’s when he stopped looking at me, buried his face in his hands, and bawled like an infant. Made me downright uncomfortable.

  The mayor fetched a handkerchief from his suit, passed it to Sheriff Whitney, who handed it to the big farmer when he finally looked up. This time, he didn’t look so tough. More broken-hearted, and I felt shame.

  “I ... Vroni ...,” he stammered.

  “He doesn’t have to go on,” I heard myself saying. “I get the picture.”

  He looked again at me, the hardness returning to his eyes.

  “That ain’t no confession,” I hurriedly tried to explain to the law, and the vengeful pa. “I just ... well ... no s
ense in making him go through that again.”

  Whitney nodded. Ackerman blew his nose, and resumed his story.

  He dug her grave by hand, in the way of the Mennonites. He had no more family. His wife had died of fever two winters earlier. His brother, who had come with him from Germany to America, had died of consumption. His brother’s wife had been buried at sea. His brother’s son had been killed fighting for the Union during the late war. He had no one. God had forsaken him. So he began following the trail of the murderer of his daughter.

  “He that good of a tracker?” I said after he had finished.

  “A trail herd had passed through, Master MacRae,” the city attorney said, and tapped his pipe on a nearby shelf.

  “Bunch of trail herds have passed through,” I countered.

  “That’s a fact.. The mayor’s head bobbed.

  “Mister Ackerman,” the city attorney said, stepping away from the bookcase, fidgeting now with his pipe, and stopping beside Sheriff Whitney. “Did you report the murder of your daughter?”

  The giant glared. “Just now.”

  “Yes, I know, but ..... Harry Pestana had a voice like a raven. “To your minister, bishop, elder, deacon. To a friend. A neighbor?”

  “Church day’s valk from farm.. Anger warmed his face once more. “No time. Must follow.”

  “And you buried your daughter?”

  The man did not see any reason to dignify that question with a reply.

  “I mean,” Pestana said, “no one attended the funeral. It was just you.”

  “And Vroni.”

  “There is a legal matter here, Mister Ackerman,” Judge Miller interrupted. “Are you willing to swear out a complaint.”

  “No oat.. His head shook. “I take no oat.”

  “It’s not an oath,” Judge Miller said, “but in a court of law, a man is innocent until proved guilty.”

  I almost shouted: “That’s right!. That massive Mennonite had forgotten that when he tried to choke me to death.

  “And in the state of Kansas, well, proof of a crime ..... The judge stopped. He wet his lips.

  “Dis boy kill Vroni,” the farmer said angrily.

  “I don’t believe this boy killed anyone, Mister Ackerman,” Sheriff Whitney said. “I brought him here for two reasons. To get him away from Happy Jack Morco, and because he was in the vicinity of Holyrood. But I was riding with them at the time of the murder, sir. Escorting the herd to Ellsworth.. He looked over his shoulder at James Miller. “In case of any trouble about the quarantine line.”

  “I know, Chauncey.”

  “You escort killer of Vroni?. Now Ackerman’s eyes bore into Sheriff Whitney with the kind of hatred he had been directed at me only moments ago.

  “Madison killed no one.. Whitney matched the farmer’s glare.

  “Vill see ’bout dat.. He pushed himself from the chair.

  Whitney straightened. I hadn’t really looked out the window, so I began to wonder if I’d break my neck if I actually jumped.

  The huge Mennonite took two steps, stopped, and pointed a finger the size of the handle of a grubbing hoe at me. “Roll sleeves.”

  If I had had any saliva in my mouth, I would have swallowed.

  “Do it, Madison,” Sheriff Whitney said, and the mayor’s and city attorney’s heads bobbed in encouragement.

  Stifling a cuss, I unbuttoned the right cuff, pushed up the sleeves past my bleeding elbow. Didn’t have to unbutton the left one, since I’d lost those buttons somehow. I got it rolled up, too. The air stung the scrapes.

  Hagen Ackerman quickly strode toward me. This time, I saw Sheriff Whitney gripping the butt of his revolver. The farmer’s right hand gripped my right arm, which he lifted up for inspection. He straightened it, studying the bleeding elbow, but dropped it without another thought, and moved on to my left arm. That examination was just as quick. Next he looked at my nose. Made me feel uncomfortable. He leaned his giant head toward my face, studying my cheeks. Straightening up, he asked me to turn around. I wanted to argue, but decided to tolerate this latest bit of humiliation. Criminy, at least Estrella O’Sullivan wasn’t here to witness my indignity. He tugged at my collar, and I felt his breath on my neck. Next thing I knew his boots were clopping across the rug.

  Slowly I turned around, and Hagen Ackerman had dropped into his chair. His shoulders sagged, and his whole body trembled. As he buried his face into those giant hands, I heard him say: “No. Not dis boy. No.”

  “I told you that, you dumb nester!”

  “Shut up, Madison,” Sheriff Whitney snapped, and I experienced another bout of shame. My head dropped, too, as I tugged down my sleeves. At least my nose had stopped bleeding, but it hurt like the blazes.

  “Your daughter,” Sheriff Whitney said, “she fought her killer.”

  “Ja.. The big head nodded in his big hands, but Ackerman did not look up.

  “Scratched him?”

  He lifted his head. “Blood under ... fingernails. Deep, I tink.”

  “We will find Vroni’s murderer,” Whitney said. “You go back to Holyrood. Back to your farm. Back home.”

  Ackerman rose, only now he didn’t look like Goliath, and I felt pretty small. He wasn’t a bad man, just a broken farmer who had come to America with dreams, big dreams, and now ....

  “Home?. The farmer let out a mirthless sigh, and walked out of the office. The door shook as he closed it, and no one in the mayor’s office spoke until the sound of his footsteps had faded away.

  “Well”—Pestana fired up his pipe again—“you’d have a dickens of a time convicting anyone. Unless you talked that gent into digging up his daughter’s grave.”

  “Fat chance,” Judge Miller said. “What do you think, Chauncey?”

  “I don’t know. Find a guy with deep scratches.”

  “Fat chance,” Judge Miller repeated.

  “He’s just a farmer, and a foreigner to boot,” Harry Pestana said.

  “I’ll nose around,” Whitney said. “And I thank you two gentleman for your time and help in this matter. I know this is a county deal, not Ellsworth city. Madison, I want to thank you, too. Let’s go see Doctor Duck.”

  “Doctor who?. I straightened.

  “Get that nose set. You don’t want it to turn out crooked as a hawk’s beak.”

  I had no intention of letting an Ellsworth pill-roller named Duck put his fingers on my nose, but my head nodded. Stepping away from the window, I stopped, glanced over my shoulder, then looked back at the city men in the mayor’s office.

  “Be all right,” I asked meekly, “if I look out this window?”

  The mayor leaned back in his chair. “Sure,” he said.

  For the first time since leaving the mercantile, I smiled. Eagerly I dropped to my knees, and stared out the window. I could see miles of Ellsworth—the square, the streets, even the stockyards and the K.P. rails. Hot wind whipped my face.

  “Golly!” I cried out like some dumb hayseed.

  “What is it?” Judge Miller asked.

  I didn’t answer for a whole minute. Took my fill.

  “Never been on a second story,” I said sheepishly. “That’s some view you got.”

  chapter

  11

  Sheriff Whitney sent a Chinese boy to fetch Sad Sarah, then took me to Dr. Duck. That name did the sawbones a disservice, for William M. Duck had a gentle touch. He stuffed some cotton balls up my nostrils, and when he set the nose Happy Jack Morco had busted, it didn’t hurt too much. Paying for my doctor bill, the sheriff said he owed me that much, and then he rode with me out of Ellsworth and back toward Mr. Justus’s camp.

  “You really going to try to find that murderer?” I asked after we crossed the Smoky Hill River.

  “It’s my job, Madison.”

  “But Miller and that lawyer are right,” I said. “
You’d have a hard time just proving that farmer’s daughter was killed. Might not even be able to prove that cuss had a daughter.”

  “That’s legal talk, Madison.”

  “Well, you’re a legal man.”

  He shook his head. “I’m a righteous man, and I’m a Christian man. ‘For the Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our king.. That’s the law that motivates me, Madison. I’m thinking ... what would the Lord want me to do. Not a lawyer, or a judge, or the people who voted this star on me.”

  We had to slow down. Another herd was pushing north, trying to find some grass that hadn’t yet been claimed.

  “I’m also a Mason,” he said.

  “My papa was a Mason,” I told him. “So’s Major Canton. They were in the same group.”

  “Lodge,” he corrected.

  “They liked helping people,” I said, remembering.

  “I do, too. I want to help that farmer.”

  We nudged our horses into slow walks. I didn’t really want to reach camp, but by this time I could see Larry McNab and the chuck wagon.

  “Talking to Ackerman, his daughter had to be killed about the time your herd was passing through,” Whitney said.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but there were herds ahead of us and behind us. Could have been anybody. And it could have been Indians.. That had hit me earlier. “Or buffalo runners. Or some tramp just riding through. Maybe an outlaw up from the Nations.”

  “Yep. Any of those could be true, though I doubt Indians.. He reined up. I turned in the saddle, but did not invite him into camp.

  “Madison,” he said, his face serious, “I have to ask you this. Anybody in your crew got scratches on him. Deep scratches?”

  My head shook. “No, Sheriff. Not that I’ve noticed.”

  He grinned. “That’s good to hear. You take care, Madison. And stay clear of Happy Jack Morco.. He turned his horse to ride out, calling back with a snort: “And stay out of Nauchville, too, Mad Carter MacRae!. I could hear his laughter as he loped back toward Ellsworth.