Chapter 1
The woods near Big Cloud, Kansas
September 1858
The fat man had seen his plans unravel like the frayed ends of a makeshift noose. The proof lay at his feet, wrapped in a shroud of canvas.
He sank his shovel into the black soil again. With a grunt and a whisper, he muttered, "Goddamn tree roots." The pain in his back caused him to wince and he paused. His jittery eyes scanned the tops of the trees and the surrounding countryside. Like a vigilant field mouse, he flared his nostrils and sniffed at the air. Just rain. Not a damn thing I can do about it, he thought. Not one goddamn thing. Nothing but the chirping and chattering of woodland creatures met his ears.
He judged the grave too shallow. He wasn't concerned with its concealment knowing the remote location would soon be covered with autumn's inevitable blanket of decay.
The shovel handle left splinters in his palms and the blade screeched against another rock as he resumed his task. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes, but despite some rapid blinking, their salty sting persisted. A wipe from his shirtsleeve soaked up the temporary annoyance.
A wisp of a breeze passed over the bundled body, the fetid odor tainted with avarice; an unwelcome reminder of his guilt, he turned away and retched.
The shadows had grown lanky and long, raking the hills with their spidery fingers. He hurried to finish, knowing the woods were not agreeable after sunset.
He pinched his nose and kicked the corpse into its final resting place. He heaved the last of the dirt on the remains. When he'd finished, brush, leaves and tree branches covered the freshly turned earth.
A desperate plea came to his rational mind, but it was ignored. Tears filled his eyes as he tossed the shovel aside. "I pray all the time, don't I, Lord?" he whispered as he bowed his head. "I pray and pray and--"
His heart froze in mid-beat. A sorrowful sound of uncommon origin caught his attention. It drifted through the hollow with a chilling echo. He didn't recognize the otherworldly wail, but he had an idea.
He jerked on his overcoat and slapped his palm around the saddle horn. His foot fumbled for the stirrup and he mounted his skittish horse. He looked back over his shoulder at his handiwork and hollered, "Git!"
The Great North Wind gathered force and blew an arctic breath through the woods' crowded trees; its robust draft, indifferent and indiscriminate. The dead man's headstone of brush and branches scattered into the gathering twilight.
Chapter 2
New Orleans, Louisiana
August, 1858
The discord sweeping Louisiana had nothing to do with crooked politicians and everything to do with shackled Negroes. The rhetoric of elected windbags vanished on the first hint of a breeze: the clamor of jangling chains would not. The conspicuous uneasiness that had settled over Orleans Parrish seemed to linger longer than a visit from a penniless cousin.
The brass bands and drunken revelers of Mardi Gras had long been silent, the balmy March evenings and back-slapping reverie, forgotten. Memories of past gaiety were now overshadowed by the most sobering of moral dilemmas.
Antoine Poulet stood in his shop at the corner of Dumaine and Rue Bourbon. He surveyed the cracked plaster walls and peeling paint; the decaying backdrop for his crowded collection of powders and potions. Shelves and bookcases displayed glass bottles and jars of multicolored contents that shone iridescent under the morning sunlight. Animal bones, teeth of known and unknown origins and feathers of every hue lay in disarray on the counters. He lit a cake of incense, dropped it in a brass censer and followed the curling plumes of perfumed smoke to the ceiling.
He removed a jar from its shelf and transferred a few healthy pinches of its contents into a crystal vial. He opened another jar, did the same and the same again until a dozen tiny receptacles brimmed with peculiar contents. When he'd finished, the vials lay on a counter next to the bleached bones of a human cranium. Books of a curious nature leaned against the skull, the row of their tattered pages and fractured spines propped up at the other end by a plaster bust of St. Peter.
A closet door at the back of the shop creaked open as he reached in and pulled out three enormous carpetbags and a steamer trunk. He set one bag down between piles of folded clothes gathered on a daybed behind the front counter. He'd pack a shirt and then wrap one of the vials in the folds of the material. Shirts and hosiery alternated with the vials as the traveling bags filled with his belongings.
He patted his shirt pockets, searching for the letter and found it: still secured and stamped. He walked out of the shop and glanced up at the oval sign over the front door:
Antoine Poulet
Healing Arts
The front door lock made a resounding "clank" as he turned the key. He loosened his tie and sauntered down Dumaine. At Decatur, he turned right and found Jackson Square filled with others seeking relief from the heat. The lethargic air off the nearby Mississippi sat leaden and thick with no indication of changing.
Every sort of riverboat, fishing boat and dinghy crammed the slips and docks of the Port of New Orleans. Their fanfares of tooting horns and blowing whistles added a boisterous commotion to the sound of trade. Crews of workers went about their business, taking little time for relaxation.
Half-naked slaves, their obsidian backs glistening with the sweat of involuntary labor, totted bales of cotton. As they rolled bale after bale up the sagging planks of the riverboats, they sang spirituals: the sweet tones tempering the noisy hubbub. The tonnage of cotton they stacked in every corner, on every deck and against every rail, threatened to send the shallow-draft vessels to the bottom of the murky river.
Dock hands shouted orders. Without hesitation, they would lay their whips on any Negro displaying even the slightest inclination to unwillingness.
Poulet detected the aroma of fresh coffee and smoking hot lard. He followed the scent to the Café Du Monde stand and bought a café au lait and beignet. He set his walking cane to the side as he took a seat on a vacant bench under a blossomless magnolia tree. He finished his beignet and then sat leisurely sipping at his coffee.
An irritated shouting came from the dock. He turned to see a man with a whip standing over an older slave. The nameless old slave lay unmoving on the dock's splintered platform. The overseer stood running the length of the whip through his hand, massaging the braids of blood-stiffened leather.
Poulet dropped his coffee cup and rushed over. The strapping overseer paused as Poulet knelt and inspected the slave's lacerations and then his eyes. He looked up at the overseer. "This man is suffering with the yellow fever."
"This darkie ain't got the fever," the man stated. "He's just lazy. What business is it of yours, anyway?"
Poulet stood up. "I'm a physician and I can assure you, this man is near death and needs medical attention."
The overseer spit out a long string of brown tobacco juice and leaned in close to Poulet. "Well, he ain't gettin' it, doc! Owner don’t want him, anyways. I gotta get this cotton loaded. Now get the hell out of my way."
After another plea to tend to the sick and abused man, but rebuffed, Poulet turned and walked away. He heard another crack of the whip and turned around to see the whip coming down on the unflinching old man again. He strode back, reached for the whip and got a hold. The two men struggled, pushing and shoving until the overseer regained his grip, yanked the whip away and balled up his fist. Poulet hit the dock with a thump.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" the overseer bellowed.
Poulet picked himself up and dusted off. His narrowed eyes regarded the man with the whip as he picked up his cane. "The wrong rests not with me, sir, but with those who wield the whip," he said. "I'll venture that the dimensions of your miniscule penis pale in comparison to those of your tiny pea brain."
The overseer wound up his fist.
Poulet looked directly into the man’s eyes. “I am a bokor.”
The overseer hesitated. “So, you think you’re a sorcerer, huh? Big Voodoo priest? Don’t make no never mind to me. Everybody thinks they’re a bokor.”
The man raised his fist again and took a swing, but before he could connect, Poulet gave him a forceful whack across the cheek with his cane. The man staggered back, blood dribbling down his jaw. His company partner lunged at Poulet and dragged him to the ground. A dockworker grabbed the offending cane, bent his knee and cracked it in two over his thigh. He threw the splintered pieces down at Poulet.
Poulet opened his eyes to find five threatening men looming over him, their faces contorted with a savage ugliness. Before their boots could meet his ribs, two New Orleans police officers appeared.
"Break it up!" one of the policemen shouted. "Get back to work."
The crowd of workers dispersed.
"Merci, officers," Poulet said, picking himself up once again.
"You best leave the area, monsieur," one of them said. "Don't look like you're too popular, and with your runty build, it sure don’t look like you're able to fend much for yourself."
Without another word, Poulet turned to leave. As he hobbled away, he glanced back over his shoulder. Two dock hands were slinging their defective slave into the river.
He made his way to Chartes Street and Ursulines Avenue, climbed the stairs of a boardinghouse and found room 202. He pulled the letter from his pocket and slipped it under the door. There. That takes care of that.
* * *
Northeast Kansas
September 1858
His traps weren't always tripped, but Ben Jordan managed to make a good living with what he could snare. He'd earned enough over a few years to build a house of hewn logs and acquire a pack mule.
He'd been leasing two large sections of dense woodland near Big Cloud, Kansas: one that skirted the Missouri River and one bordered by Roy's Branch Creek and the Great Nemaha River.
A slow moving and muddy tributary, Roy's Branch Creek meandered its way north and then east before dumping its waters into the Nemaha. The Nemaha, in turn, emptied into the swift Missouri at the northeastern-most border of Kansas and southeastern border of Nebraska.
A beaver had the unfortunate luck of discovering one of Jordan's traps. The rodent's neck had been snapped in two with the force. The young beaver's pelt would fetch Jordan high dollar. He pried open the trap's heavy iron jaws.
As he pulled the carcass from the trap, the earth shifted and then vibrated beneath his knees. A low humming sort of sound grew louder. The air turned stale, unmoving and scarce. He gasped as the oxygen was sucked from his lungs. His ears picked up the buzzing of flies and the crack of a snapping twig behind him. The labored breathing on the back of his neck smelled of all things dead. He turned around.
The last thing Ben Jordan felt was the cut through his jugular.
Chapter 3
New Orleans
Leonora Beaumont unlocked the door to her Chartres Street boardinghouse room and walked into her cluttered boudoir. An envelope on the floor caught her eye. She scooped it up, flipped over the familiar looking stationary and set it on her vanity. Her dress and petticoats landed on a heap of soiled clothes. Now clad in only underwear, she moved to the windows.
The windows refused to open, their swollen frames fat from the recent rain. She cursed and kicked at the wooden casements until they surrendered to her stubborn coaxing. The stagnant city air stalled at the windowsills, leaving the flaccid curtains to go begging for a flutter.
The letter leaned against the dresser's mirror and sat unopened. She took a seat at the vanity. Her eyes darted to the letter as she fussed with rearranging a pair of dahlias languishing in a dusty patent medicine bottle. A glance at the mirror revealed the deepening lines of her face, but she found them no deeper than the day before.
She picked up her hairbrush. Despite her vigorous tugging, the curls refused cooperation with the bristles. The brush crashed through a window pane on its way to the street below.
A tinkling came from her array of empty perfume bottles, jarred by the relentless tapping of her foot. The vigorous waving of a fan past her face did little to provoke the air. She swat a mosquito, then tossed the fan aside and tore the envelope open.
The scraps of the shredded letter drifted to the floor as she opened a dresser drawer. Beneath layers of undergarments, she found the cold reassurance of the one-shot Derringer. The weapon slipped neatly into her handbag. She dressed and left the boardinghouse.
A torrid Chartres Street greeted her as she marched to Dumaine, then up the street to the shop at the corner of Rue Bourbon. The relentless pumping of her clenched fists soon produced the muscle fatigue she had grown so accustomed to.
She stood on the corner and peered through the windows. They revealed a short man in the back corner folding clothes and packing them in a carpetbag. She made her entrance with a swift kick to the front door. "I read your letter full of lies, Antoine!"
He turned to her. "Lies? I beg to differ."
"I tore it up. None of it's true. I am neither petty and vindictive nor demanding nor any of the other distasteful so-called defects you attribute to my character. You called me everything but a whoring Jezebel!"
"I sincerely apologize for neglecting to mention that."
She snatched the dusty cranium from the counter. Poulet ducked as it whistled through the air and imploded on the wall behind him. Splintered bone fragments rained down on him. He stood up, shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Bone chips fell to the floor. "You're certainly not the same sweet woman I met a year ago." His packing resumed.
Her fists relaxed and her countenance changed. She moved closer and placed her hand on his crotch. In a contrite but lusty tone she whispered, "I'm still sweet and you know how much I enjoy that, um, special gift of yours."
Poulet peeled her hand off. "Leonora, your sweetness, as you call it, has turned bitter. You don't love me," he said. "You only love our lovemaking, which I no longer care to engage in." He shoved another shirt in his bag and busied himself with the chore's distraction.
"But, you can't just leave me like this." She reached in her handbag and her hands fumbled for a handkerchief. "You're not thinking straight. It's this oppressive heat, it's--"
"It is not the heat." He snapped the bag shut.
"Then, there must be something else that's causing this behavior. I don't understand--"
"No, you would not." He stopped packing and turned to her. "You don't understand anything, Leonora, and you never will because you don't care to."
"Whatever do you mean? Understand what?"
"How your reckless disregard for people's feelings hurts them."
"That is not true, Antoine," she said as she dabbed the hankie at the corners of her watery eyes. "I'm one of the most caring people I know of and--"
"Caring?" He let out a facetious chortle. "Keep telling yourself that and maybe you'll eventually believe it."
"Bu . . . but, don't you know how much I . . . luh . . . love you?"
"I loved you once. I wanted to marry you. You've done nothing but defecate on those plans. Your friend Henri can have you because I'm moving my practice west."
"But, Henri was just a brief dalliance," she said through a sniffle. "I know I'm inclined to flirt, but it's just my nature and it's . . . it is innocent. You know how silly and fickle I can be."
"Fickleness, my dear, is the very essence of your character and that will never change. I'm moving to Kansas Territory."
"Kansas? Kansas? Dear Lord, whatever for?"
"It's a Free State and it will be far away from you and this political cesspool."
She abruptly stopped sobbing and threw her chest out. She reached into her purse, retrieved the small but lethal pistol and turned it on Poulet. "Then you, sir, are going to hell." The gun made a click as her trembling thumb cocked the hammer.
Poulet spun around, seized the gun from her grip and heaved it out the open back door.
She spit in his face, raised her hand and struck him across the temple, knocking his glasses to the floor. She regained her composure and looked down her nose. "Mam'zelle Laveau will keep you here - oh yes, she will. Her Voodoo magic is powerful and I'll go see her and have her cast a spell, or give me a charm or--"
"She won't help you," Poulet said as he picked up his spectacles and rubbed his jaw. "You know that she's my mentor. Besides, you cannot charm yourself back into my heart." He picked up a book from the shelf. "Will you please leave now, so I can finish?"
Leonora walked to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker. She stomped over to the shelves that held Poulet's rare herbs, powders and potions and raised the weighty rod above her head. With a loud grunt, she brought it down on the glass containers. Glittering shards of shattered glass flew in all directions and crashed to the floor. The swinging poker became a whirling blur of destruction.
"Stop it, Leonora!" He grasped her arm, yanked the poker from her hand and tossed it aside. "That's quite enough. You need to leave."
Her hands went to her hips with her arms akimbo. "You darkie-loving son of a whore - and you truly are the son of a Parisian whore, are you not? Go off to Kansas, then. I know of no one willing to take a limping little bastard like you, anyway."
"That very well may be, but I believe I can discover that for myself."
Leonora Beaumont turned and stormed out, jerking the door shut with the force of a September hurricane.
* * *
American Fur Trading Company
Kansas City, Missouri
"So, as you can see, sir, I will own the trapping leases on most of Doniphan County within the next few months," the fat man stated.
Gerald Marshall, the elderly regional manager of the American Fur Trading Company, leaned back in his leather chair. Stacks of legal papers covered his desk. He picked up a few, straightened them and then laid them to the side. He removed his glasses and regarded the man who had just arrived from Big Cloud. "We're always searching for ways to expand our business. How many leases will you own?"
"If all goes well, four," the fat man said. “Those leases cover over half the acreage of Doniphan County. I will retain exclusive rights to the land for trapping purposes."
"May I ask how you plan on obtaining these leases?"
"Since it shouldn’t make any difference to you, sir, let’s just say I am more than capable of obtaining them.”
"I see," Marshall said, rubbing his chin. "I am also assuming you'd be willing to sell the leases to the highest bidder."
"I don't need to ask for the highest bid. I’m sure we can reach an amenable agreement. You're a reputable company. You see, I want to keep this as private and confidential as possible. The less people know, the better. I’m sure you understand."
"Well, sir, we'd be most interested in expanding our territory, but as you well know, demand for beaver fur is on the decline. I wouldn't be able to offer what I could even a year ago."
"I understand the market fluctuations and can make adjustments as necessary. I am flexible."
Marshall forced a congenial smile. "I'm sure we can do business. Keep me abreast of any developments and we'll sit down and see what we can do."
"I will wire you as they unfold."
Mr. Marshall handed his business card to the fat man and extended his hand. "I hope we can mutually benefit from the acquisition of these leases."
"I am sure we can do just that, sir."
The fat man shook Marshall's hand and left the office, hopped on a steamboat and made his way north up the Missouri River.
Chapter 4
The Missouri River
The Star of the West steamboat had traveled north from New Orleans on the lazy current of the Mississippi to St. Louis. At St. Louis, the boat then paddled northwest into the turbulent Missouri to Kansas City and then north to St. Joseph.
Every stateroom and steerage was booked and full of people on the move north and west: escapees from the troubled South and East, gamblers, families, tradesmen, whores and criminals. Even those unable to afford the most modest of accommodations would curl up and fall asleep anywhere there was an empty corner. Some ended up sharing a straw bed with the livestock. It didn't matter to them where they slept. When they got to the overworked gold fields of California that would all change. They would be sleeping on feather beds in fine hotels in San Francisco, drinking champagne with beautiful women and winning every game of poker in every saloon in town. Despite their origins and backgrounds, destinations and dreams, they all came to court the American frontier.
Poulet stood on the starboard side at the rear of the upper deck, his new cane of ebony wood and ivory handle firmly in hand. The sternwheeler's paddles slapped the water, bullying the river out of the way and spitting a misty spray into the wind. The structures hugging the lofty hills of St. Joseph, Missouri grew smaller and smaller as the river city disappeared in his wake. He moved port side to get another glimpse of Kansas and could discern no difference from the Missouri side of the wide river. The same thick stands of birch trees lined the same muddy banks.
He looked to the sky and found teeming flocks of birds, their movements an erratic zig-zagging of flight patterns. Trade and fishing vessels of all sizes and shapes skimmed along and bobbed on the water: all wind-flapped sails, stroking oars and belching smokestacks. The steamboat captain would sound the horn at the smaller craft and be greeted with the wave of a friendly hand.
He gripped the polished railing, slick from years of sliding hands running its length. He leaned over the rail and watched the mighty river roll by in copper streaks of reflected sunlight. This river is deep and runs fast, too. I might be pulled down by the powerful current and be caught in a whirlpool. One of those would suck me down to the black and muddy bottom, never to surface again. Sink to the bottom. No air, no life, just fish food...that's all I'd be - fish food.
The boat's whistle blew, announcing the next stop and he moved to the bow. Another dock on the Kansas side crept into view.
As the boat chugged to a crawl, the towering bluffs looming above the dock grew larger, their chalk cliffs sweeping skyward from the river's edge. The bluffs accommodated stately homes scattered among vast stands of cottonwood, sycamore, walnut and oak: roofs of gray slate and red brick chimneys poking up through the lush canopy.
People on the move crowded the busy dock of small town Big Cloud. A cacophony of steamboat horns, cursing and shouting dock hands, bellowing cattle and squawking chickens stirred the air, singing their discordant songs of commerce on the river.
Poulet paced the same sun-drenched dock, hobbling along as he awaited his belongings. He scratched at his manicured beard. The aggressive mosquitoes had found it a convenient place to draw their next meal. He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead and raked his fingers back through his thick black hair.
He watched in apprehension as a steamboat stevedore dragged the mammoth cargo boom over the muddy water and to the dock. The net containing his belongings dropped from the crane and settled with a benignly hollow thud.
As the thirty year-old Poulet surveyed his new home, he turned to see a young street beggar wheeling a cart down the street. The young man parked the pushcart at the lip of the dock.
The boy's despondent eyes found Poulet's. The boy shouted, “I’ll tote your baggage for ten cents, sir!"
Poulet smiled. "Shouldn't you be in school, young man?"
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets, bowed his head and gave a couple of shamed kicks at the dirt. "Ain't got time."
"A young lad as yourself with no time?"
"I gotta make money, sir," the boy stated. "Mom took sick and daddy needs his gamblin' money so we can buy us a farm." He brightened up. "I can git me a horse then, too."
"I see," Poulet said in his subtle French accent. "Well, I’ve got three big bags and you look awfully small to be carrying such a heavy load."
"But, you're small - and you walk funny. You're crippled, too, ain't ya, sir?"
Poulet lost his smile. "Well, I suppose some would say that, but I manage."
“But you need help," the boy insisted. "I got a pushcart. Whatever you got, I’ll tote - and gently, sir!"
Poulet chuckled at the young businessman's enthusiastic ambition. “I will not insult you. But you must remember to be very, very gentle. I assume you to be quite capable, so, ten cents it is."
The beggar maneuvered his dilapidated cart up the rickety cargo plank. He nimbly loaded the belongings to Poulet's satisfaction and guided it back down to the street. “Where should I take your baggage, sir?"
“To the nearest hotel, please."
As he took in his new and unfamiliar surroundings, Poulet inhaled a lungful of virginal air. He found a pastoral and vibrant riverside community.
Antoine Poulet, certain that Big Cloud would be nothing like New Orleans, found the bustling street to his liking. He stepped off the dock and into another world.
Chapter 5
Poulet sensed the vitality of Big Cloud as he followed the beggar boy up the street to the boardinghouse. People of all descents jammed the sidewalks. Horse-drawn wagons lumbered down the dusty street. Elegant buggies and coaches pulled by teams of handsome horses ferried passengers about, all seemingly in a determined hurry. Trappers and farmers in animated conversations filled a park on the main street, their wares of fruits and furs displayed from the back of rattletrap wagons. The scent of peaches and tanned hides hung in the air.
They stopped at the entrance and the boy lifted Poulet's belongings from his cart and carried them into Robidoux's Boardinghouse, setting them down near the stairs. Poulet paid the young man and stepped up to the front desk.
A portly middle-aged man, intently reading his newspaper, peeked over his spectacles. His serious demeanor vanished as he regarded the well-dressed new arrival from New Orleans. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes, sir," Poulet replied. "I'd like a room for a few days until I can find suitable permanent lodging."
"Oh, of course. Please sign the register."
The man behind the desk flipped a page of the register and handed Poulet a quill pen. Poulet signed his name and the man turned the register back around, adjusted his glasses and scrutinized the signature. "Mr. Pull-ette?"
"It's pronounced Poo-LAY."
"I apologize, sir. I should have known that, what with all the French descendants in these parts - myself included."
"An apology is neither expected nor required," Poulet said as tipped his hat. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Robidoux. Amos Robidoux. Just call me Amos," he said. "Gotta room with a river view up on the second floor - oh, uh, that is if it wouldn't --"
"No, sir, it would not. I am quite capable, thank you."
"I'll have your bags brought up straight away. Breakfast’s at seven, supper at six. No lunch. Sorry."
Robidoux reached behind the desk and pulled a sash hanging from the ceiling. A young man appeared. "Take Mr. Poulet's bags to his room, Edward. Room two-eleven.”
A respectful Edward took his time as he led Poulet up to his room, one step at a time. He unlocked the door, deposited the bags and after Poulet tipped him a dime, bounded back down the stairs to the lobby.
Poulet found his room to be neat and clean. He checked his pocket watch. Four o'clock. He closed the door behind him, locked it and took the stairs back down to the lobby.
At the front desk, Robidoux continued to peruse his newspaper as he pulled on a cigar.
"Mr. Robidoux, uh, I mean, Amos," Poulet said. "Where might I purchase a good cigar?"
"'Cross the street at the drugstore - uh, McKenna's Drug Store."
"Thank you." Poulet glanced across the boardinghouse owner's desk. The front page of "The Big Cloud Daily Journal" caught his eye. The headline read: LOCAL TRAPPER MISSING. "Well, I'm off for a good cigar.”
He walked out the front door of Robidoux's Boardinghouse. A crowd was gathering in front of a building with an overhead sign that read: “F. J. Foster, M.D.” He took the three steps down to the street and decided to investigate.
* * *
The old Ioway Indian medicine woman known as Nidawi followed the path up the hill to her humble home on a bluff above the Missouri River. Newly fallen red and orange leaves carpeted the trail, making it nearly indecipherable. She'd lived in the woods surrounding Big Cloud since her birth and was intimately familiar with the trail.
The flimsy wooden door of the remote log house closed behind her as she set her medicine bundle on the pine table. The sound of the restless wind whipping through the door's cracks and the rattling of the rusty latch gave her a chill.
She tossed a few oak logs on the dying embers of her fire. Yellow sparks shot to the ceiling as the seasoned oak caught fire. It crackled and spit with each climbing flame.
She shuffled to her cupboard. Jars of assorted colored contents filled the cupboard's shelves. She carried one to the hearth and set it down. Her arthritic hands managed to open it. The potent aroma of the contents drifted to her nose. She set it back on the hearth, collected a pinch and holding the ochre-colored powder above the fire, methodically sprinkled it over the flames.
A chant came to her lips. "Reveal yourself to the unbelievers," she said in her native Siouan tongue. Her willow chair creaked as she rocked back and forth in sync with the rhythm of her chant.
A low but distinctly mournful cry came from deep in the bowels of the hollow below. She stopped rocking and cocked her ear to the south. What she heard was the sound she'd been praying for. She hung her head and wept.
Chapter 6
Poulet stepped into the street and found a buckboard wagon had just pulled up in front of the physician's office, clouds of dust in its wake. Two men on horseback trailed behind, one tall and white the other of average height and mixed descent. Each wore a silver star. The lawmen dismounted. The tall one stood near the wagon while the other let himself in the doctor's office.
Poulet joined the assembled crowd and stepped closer. An object covered with a canvas tarp rested in the back of the buckboard. Swarms of buzzing flies hovered overhead.
"Everybody stand back!" the tall mustached lawman barked. He bent over the back of the wagon and swatted at the flies.
The town's physician and mortician, Frank J. "Doc" Foster, rushed out of his office and to the back of the wagon.
"What the hell's goin' on here, Sheriff Stiles?"
"Well, doc," the sheriff said, "take a look."
“I can smell it. Let’s take a gander.”
As the crowd looked on, Stiles peeled the tarp back. A woman shrieked. Beneath the cover lay the gruesome sight of a disfigured corpse - a bloody one. Poulet couldn't make out the slightest resemblance of a face on the deceased. What was left of the man's head was a grotesque puddle of mangled hair, bone and blood. His thorax lay open and empty, heart and lungs absent from the hollowed cavity.
Doc Foster put his hands on his hips. "God in heaven! What happened here?"
"We don't know, doc," Sheriff Stiles replied. "Thought maybe you could tell us."
Doc Foster shook his head in wonderment. "I've never seen anything like this before. Haul him into my office."
A man of the local Ioway tribe sidled up to the sheriff. With a shaky voice, he said, "Sheriff Stiles, I know how this man died."
The sheriff replied, "You do, huh? Well, Luke, just exactly how did he die, then?"
The Ioway man whispered, "Spirits of the woods."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Before he uttered an answer, Stiles' deputy grabbed the man, escorted him away from the crowd and whispered, "Hush up, Luke. Go on home."
Stiles turned to his deputy. "What was that all about?"
"Dunno, sheriff. You know he's crazy. Been out in the sun too long."
Stiles turned back to the crowd. "A few of you men, lift him out of there - and be gentle about it."
The four volunteers managed to ease the awkward tarp-covered body out of the wagon and into the doctor's office.
Poulet watched the murmuring crowd disperse. He shook his head wondering what had happened to the poor man. He'd heard the Ioway man mutter something concerning spirits, but heard nothing else.
Next to the street, he noted a frail elderly Ioway woman standing in the shadow of a maple tree. Clad in fringed buckskin, her long gray pigtails displayed ribbons of yellow, blue and green. She turned away.
Poulet crossed the dusty street. A bell above the door of McKenna's Drugstore jingled as he walked in. Rows of white porcelain and canning jars filled with dried plants lined the shelves with labels declaring their contents: slippery elm, elder flower, chamomile, St. John's wort and skullcap. The aromatic mixture of peppermint and cedar infused the store's atmosphere with a kind of cozy informality. Poulet walked over the sawdust-covered floor and approached the counter.
A young man with unruly blonde hair turned from stocking shelves behind the counter. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes," Poulet answered. "I'm in need of a cigar."
The young man hopped down from his stepladder. "We got two for a half-dime or two for a dime. Dime ones are lots better."
"I'll take the two for a dime, then."
As the clerk opened the cigar humidor, Poulet couldn't help but notice a long scar on the man's forearm. A healed seam of stitched tissue ran from his wrist and disappeared under the cloth of his rolled-up sleeve. The clerk caught Poulet staring and jerked his shirt sleeve down. "I'm sorry," Poulet said. "I didn't mean to stare."
The clerk handed Poulet the cigars with a smile. "It's okay, mister. Lots of people do."
"May I ask how it happened?"
The clerk looked down and turned his face away. "I'd rather not say."
"I apologize," Poulet said, thrusting out his hand. "I didn't mean to pry. My name is Antoine Poulet. I just arrived from New Orleans."
"Jeb McKenna, Mr. Poulet," the clerk said as he shook Poulet's hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm the proprietor here."
Poulet gave the store a quick once-over. "And a fine establishment it is, sir." He laid a ten cent piece on the counter, bit off the end of one of his cigar and spat it in the brass spittoon on the floor. He lit the stogie with a flourish.
“How’d you break your leg, Mr. Poulet?”
Poulet let out a chuckle. “Sir, I left the womb in this condition. The blame lies entirely with my mother and father. My right femur is three inches shorter than the left, hence, the limp.”
McKenna leaned in closer. “Must be hard to get around.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice. It’s not so bad. I lean on my cane.”
"You planning on stayin' here a spell?" McKenna asked as he turned back to his shelf stocking.
"I would like to think so. The duration of my stay depends on how a new business is welcomed in your fine burg."
"What kinda business?"
"I'm a doctor of sorts." The ember on Poulet's cigar glowed a bright gold as he took a long draw, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling with a long exhale. "I use medicinal plants in my practice," he stated, waving the cigar in the air with a flourish. "It looks as though you're stocked with an abundant inventory, Mr. McKenna. I hope to be using your establishment for my supply, that is, if your Doctor Foster doesn't object."
McKenna stacked the last tin on his shelf and turned back to Poulet. "Doc Foster could use some competition. We can always use new blood around here."
Poulet tapped his ash over the spittoon as the drugstore's door opened with a rusty metallic yawn. The old Ioway woman who'd stood under the maple tree just minutes before, shuffled in and up to the counter. Poulet detected her distinct scent: an odor of fire smoke and the settled bitterness of old age. He stepped aside as she approached Jeb McKenna.
"What do you need, Nidawi?" McKenna asked the old woman.
She picked up a paper bag of Dittany of Crete root, opened it, scrutinized its color and took a sniff. She set it on the counter. Poulet glanced at her twisted and swollen fingers as they struggled to dig deep into her purse. She pulled out a half-dime piece and set it on the counter. McKenna picked it up and tossed it in the cash drawer. It made a loud "clang" as it hit the metal box.
She turned and searched Poulet's eyes for a few seconds. Her purchase now in her purse, she turned away and padded back out into the street.
McKenna shook his head. "That ol' lady is crazier than a bedbug. She's s'pposed to be a medicine woman or a shaman or something." McKenna leaned into Poulet. "I think she's just an old witch."
"Could be," Poulet said. "But, they're not all evil old hags. Being called a witch doesn't necessarily carry with it a connotation of malicious behavior." He turned his head and watched the old woman cross the street and disappear into the shadows of the woods. What was that glimmer in her ancient eyes? "I first saw her in the park observing the crowd at Doctor Foster's office."
"I saw the commotion. What was it about?"
"The sheriff brought in a..." Poulet pulled his eyes away from the park and turned back around to McKenna. "Uh, they brought in un cadavre trés mort - in the back of a wagon."
McKenna cupped his hand behind his ear and turned his head. "A what?"
"Pardon me. A corpse, monsieur - a very dead one."
"Lord in Heaven," McKenna said. "I hope it's not Ben Jordan. I know he's been missin'."
"The body had been disfigured to a great degree," Poulet added, flicking his ash. "They don't know the identity of the dead man yet. I suppose we won't know for some time." He drew closer to McKenna and whispered, "His head was mangled and his face was beyond recognition. The poor man's heart and lungs were missing."
McKenna moved to his front window. "Wha . . . uh, what, does, uh, Doc Foster think happened?"
"He doesn't know yet," Poulet said, "but I'm sure the whole town will as soon as he sorts it out.”
McKenna stood staring vacantly across the street at Doc Foster's office and said, "You can bet on that."
Poulet tipped his hat. "Thanks for the cigars, Mr. McKenna."
"You're welcome - oh, and call me Jeb."
"As you wish, sir - uh, Jeb."
Poulet stepped out of the store onto the rough wood of the plank sidewalk and viewed the street. The buckboard wagon sat unattended, still sitting in front of Doc Foster's. He glanced over at the dense woodland near the city park. I wonder what that old woman uses that powdered root for. Hope she knows how to use it.
Poulet leaned on his cane and ambled back down the street to Robidoux's for supper.
* * *
Nidawi returned from town with her Dittany of Crete root and set it on her table. She sat back down at the hearth, caught her breath and commenced her incantations again.
She listened and rocked. The guttural cry from the hollow returned and the occasional whimper she heard turned to an urgent howling. The all-engulfing tumult grew louder and closer - then, suddenly, utter silence.
She looked around herself and gripped the arms of her chair with shaking hands. The stacked log walls of her cabin took on life. They appeared to move closer, then farther away: an illusion of in-and-out, like a pair of enormous lungs. The air turned thin and tinged with the aroma of decomposing flesh. The rafters shook and the earth below her rumbled.
Dizziness took hold and her stomach revolted. She clutched her throat and gasped for air, but there was none.
Chapter 7
Poulet awoke the next morning, took the stairs to the lobby and stopped briefly at the front desk.
The new edition of "The Big Cloud Daily Journal" lay opened on Amos Robidoux's desk. Robidoux's glasses teetered on the end of his nose as he squinted through the lenses at the fine print.
Poulet asked, "Is there any news concerning that unfortunate man they brought in yesterday?"
Robidoux pulled his eyes away from his newspaper. "Nothin' yet, but I'll bet you a dollar it was Ben Jordan."
"I guess we'll eventually find out, won't we?" Poulet sauntered into the dining room.
After a breakfast of fried fatback, eggs and grits, Poulet left the boardinghouse for the newspaper office. He'd made the decision to find a permanent home in Big Cloud where he'd be able to set up his practice. In his experience, he'd found the local newspaper always had the latest information and gossip.
He entered the office of "The Big Cloud Daily Journal" and caught the eye of a red-headed man in his fifties.
The man shoved aside a mound of rumpled papers on his massive desk. His eyes met Poulet's. "What can I do for ya?"
"Good day, sir. My name is Antoine Poulet and I'm in need of a home. I recently arrived from New Orleans. Would you perchance know of someone willing to rent a house?"
The newspaperman chomped thoughtfully on his cigar and replied, "I know a lady named Bishop. Maxine Bishop. She owns a few houses that she rents out now and then. Don't know any details. Might wanna talk to her." He pointed a finger to a home near the top of a bluff. "She lives up the hill there in that big red brick house."
Poulet thanked the man, left the office and began his trek up the hill to Maxine Bishop's.
His squat legs and hips ached as he reached the imposing house at the top of the bluff. Need to brew a ginger and hemp tea for these stiff joints.
He paused and caught his breath, pulled out a linen handkerchief, wiped his brow and surveyed the property. He found a well-kept lawn and garden. A scent of honeysuckle and lilac floated by. It lingered a moment and quickly evaporated.
A few saddled horses, hitched to a rail, stood swishing their tails at the persistent biting flies. A buggy sat unattended, its harnessed steed grazing on the late summer grass. The horse turned and glanced indifferently at Poulet as he walked by.
As he approached the ornate iron-gate, the front door of the house flew open. A mustached man hurtled over the three porch steps and landed on the lawn in one giant leap. He waved goodbye to a young lady standing in the doorway."Bye, sugar!" the woman shouted to her enthusiastic friend.
"I'll be back next week," he yelled back. He hopped in the buggy, cracked the whip and hollered "git!" The buggy disappeared in a cloud of dust.
The young woman wore only undergarments: lace frills and appliquéd flowers. She adjusted one of her barely concealed bosoms and watched Poulet climb the steps. "Hi, there!"
"Good morning, miss." Poulet removed his hat. "I'd like to speak to Miss Bishop, that is, if it's not too much of an inconvenience."
"Maxine!" she hollered over her shoulder. "Someone here tuh SEE ya!” She turned back to Poulet. "Come on in, sweetie," she said. "Have a seat."
Paintings of nude women hung on the parlor walls, their bodies reposed on cottony clouds, voluptuous curves attended by flitting cherubs. The sunny room reeked of smoldering cigar smoke and rose perfume. Poulet heard the chiming of wind-tickled crystal. He glanced up and found a chandelier dripping with lead crystal teardrops. The fixture swayed hypnotically in the lazy breeze, splashing the walls with rotating rainbow polka dots.
He'd just taken a seat when an attractive statuesque middle-aged woman descended the stairs and approached him. She extended her hand. "I'm Maxine Bishop. Welcome. You new in town?"
Poulet pulled his five-foot five inch frame up from the seat. "Yes, ma'am, I am," he said as he grasped her hand.
"What can I do for you?"
Poulet offered a slight bow. "I was sent here by the newspaper editor. He mentioned you may have a house for rent."
"Oh, I see." She sucked in her cheeks and commenced a tapping of her fan against her lips. "Let me see," she said as her eyes grazed the ceiling. "I do own a house at the end of Main Street that's up for rent - nothin' fancy, mind you. Care to take a look?"
"Yes. I'd like that, ma'am. Uh, by the by, I should also let you know I have plans for a business office in the front."
"Oh? What kind of business?"
"I'm a doctor of sorts," he replied.
"Good," she said. "Doc Foster needs some competition."
"Yes, ma'am, that's what I hear."
"Excuse me for a moment." Miss Bishop turned and walked away.
The scantily clad young woman returned to the parlor, sat at the out-of-tune piano forte and plunked out a one-handed rendition of "Oh, Susanna."
Miss Bishop quickly returned with a key and handed it to Poulet. "Rent's twenty dollars a month - in advance. Take a look and let me know, but bring the key back today - might get someone else that wants to rent it. Have to keep the cash coming in. I'm sure you know what it's like for us single girls out here on the frontier."
Poulet smiled. "I understand completely."
Her congenial demeanor changed to one of no nonsense business. "And the rent's due promptly on the, uh..." She glanced at the wall calendar. "Today's the fifth. The fifth of next month. And I must warn you, I do not tolerate delayed and overdue rent monies."
"That will not be a problem, ma'am."
"I certainly hope not, Mr. Poulet."
Poulet walked to the front door and gave his hat a jaunty tap. He turned to Miss Bishop and said, "I'll be right back."
* * *
Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Bar
New Orleans
The man with the lazy eye slammed his ale mug on the table. Ensconced in the back corner, he held court over the dimly lit and deserted bar. Another man wearing threadbare clothes that wouldn't look out of place on a scarecrow stood behind him and leered at the woman who’d just walked in. Leonora Beaumont approached the table and took a seat.
As she settled into her chair, the lazy-eyed man curtly asked, "Did you bring the compensation, ma'am'selle?"
She pulled back the hood of her cape and bent forward, shook her head and fluffed her long rust-colored hair. "Of course I did, imbècile," she said as she pulled the hair back from her face. "It's in twenty dollar gold Eagles as you requested."
"Good," the lazy-eyed man said. He rubbed his hands together. "Let's see it."
Both men pressed closer.
Miss Beaumont reached into her carpetbag and pulled out a canvas sack cinched at the top with drawstrings. She dropped the heavy two thousand dollar bag on the ale-soaked table.
The man discretely peered into the bag under the dim candlelight.
"You have my money, monsieur," she said. "I want--"
"Tut-tut, ma'am," he said as he wagged his finger at her. "You've given me only half the fee - as we agreed?"
She reached under the folds of her cape and felt for the sheathed Bowie knife strapped to her thigh. "Yes, yes," she said, "but I want proof upon final payment - as we agreed?"
He gave her a courteous nod. "Of course, ma'am. What kind of proof would you require?"
"I want his ring brought to me. The only one he owns. It was given to him by Marie Laveau. If you fail to deliver the ring, I have no intention of paying anything more for your services." She leaned back in her chair. "The ring is cast in solid gold with engraving on the inside. It's of a lion's head with ruby eyes and--"
"Is this man, uh, friends of Mam'zelle Laveau's?" he asked as he ran the tip of his finger over the rim of his mug.
"Yes, I suppose so." she said, flitting a hand wave at the air. "What care is that of yours? What has it to do with the business at hand?"
The lazy-eyed man searched his partner’s eyes. The partner moved his head in an ever-so slight left to right. The lazy-eyed man turned back to Miss Beaumont. "Well, ma'am," he said as he parted his empty hands and turned his palms up, "I believe I'm really too busy to pursue this agreement any further. I'm acquainted with a few people that may be able --"
Miss Beaumont pounded her fist on the table, sending a spray of fermented mist heavenward. "Do you want this gold or not?" Her gaze locked on the man's one steady eye. "I'll take it back to the bank if you don't!"
The man forced a raspy cough into his fist. "Well, ma'am," he said, "it's not the fee so much as the --"
"The what? The friend of his?" She snatched the canvas bag from the table. "I'm sure I'll be able to find a competent man to take care of my simple request. You sir, are obviously not he." She stood to leave.
"Uh, un moment, s'il vous plait, ma'am." He gave her a toothless smile and a couple of friendly inviting slaps to the table. "Please," he said, “sit back down. I may have a Monsieur Trudeau that can take care of your, uh, problem. He's my associate and a very dependable one. He is an astute businessman, I assure you. He'll find your Poulet."
Miss Beaumont sat back down, planted her elbows on the table, leaned forward and whispered, "As proof," she said as she scanned the bar for eavesdroppers, "I want more than just the ring." She pressed her thumbs together and tapped her fingertips. "I want the finger that wears it."
The corners of the lazy-eyed man's mouth turned slowly upward. "That should not present a problem ma'am," he said.
"Good."
She opened her carpetbag again and pulled out two framed daguerreotypes of Poulet and handed them to the man. After giving him a detailed description, she stood to leave. "He left town on the 'Star of the West' a week ago heading north to, of all places, Kansas Territory. His housekeeper is packing his reference books and according to my sources, they're to be shipped to him on the ‘J. M. Converse’ tomorrow. I suggest your business acquaintance book passage on the boat and follow the books."
"Kansas is a big territory, ma'am."
"Yes, and I'm paying you big dollars to find him. It shouldn't be hard for anyone to find him if they keep their eyes on the books."
"And from your description of the man, no, it probably wouldn't. If all goes well and my associate has no other, uh, pressing engagements, he'll be on the boat tomorrow, ma'am."
She pulled the hood back over her head, picked up her bag and stood. "I expect you to contact me as soon as you find him. Do nothing until you consult me. Is that understood?"
"Completely, ma'am'selle."
Leonora Beaumont gathered her cape and walked out of Jean Lafitte's Bar into the restless streets of New Orleans.
