Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 46

Emily had finished her breakfast and lunch shift at McCauley's. The patrons that day had been feeling especially generous. The weight of the coins in her dress pocket brought her a smile. Maybe I can go to Troy or St. Joe and buy a new hat. She stuffed her apron in the soiled linen sack in the kitchen and slipped on her coat. She had one stop to make before going home to Chestnut Street.

The telegraph office was mausoleum-quiet. Emily asked the clerk if there was anything for her. He reached behind and pulled out an envelope from one of the slots and handed it to her. From the hall of records in Topeka, she opened it.

The telegram, short and to the point read: 

TO: Miss Emily Meriwether 

        Big Cloud, Kansas 

In reference to your inquiry below is listed the name(s) of board of directors for the Big Cloud Trading Company: 

Frank J. Foster M.D.

 

Regards,

Lloyd Smyth

Topeka, Kansas

State of Kansas Hall of Records

*     *    *

"He knows something!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Foster asked.

"That New Orleans transplant - Poulet," the woman replied. 

"How can that crippled little Frenchman possibly know a thing?" He continued with the paperwork on his desk.

"I don't know, but I hear he's been snooping around. I've heard he may know something. You'd better be more careful," she said.

He threw his pen down. "Do you still want to move to London?"

"Well, of course I do. Whatever it takes to get out of here is fine by--"

"Then, kill him."

"What?"

"You heard me. Kill that limping bastard. If he knows something and you really want out of here, then you shouldn't find it a problem to eliminate him. We can't afford loose ends."

"But, I've never in my life done such a horrible thing. I wouldn't know where to start, or--"

"Horrible thing or not, they won't hang a woman, but they will a man. If he discovers our arrangement, it may be goodbye London and hello Leavenworth - if they can prove anything, that is, and there's slim chance of that. What are they going to do? Arrest me as an accessory to murder by ghost?"

"Well, I don't know, but I--"

"I have my hands full. Taxes are due for two more leases soon. You're on your own. Now, prepare yourself and take care of it."

The woman stepped in front of him and unbuttoned her dress top revealing her breasts. She let them fall on his shoulders. He nuzzled his face in her chest.

 

He pulled back. "You have to leave. It's too dangerous in the daytime. Put yourself together and go."

"But, my husband will be gone all day. He's in St. Joseph."

"I'm not concerned with him right now,” Foster said. “I am concerned with anyone that happens to see you here. Now, please leave."

She buttoned up her dress and pulled the hood of her cape tightly around her face. She left through the back door. As she stepped out, she caught a glimpse of Antoine Poulet walking in her direction. She quickly turned and walked away.

Chapter 47

Poulet read the short telegram from Topeka that Emily had just handed him over and over again, as if trying to let it sink in. 

"This doesn't make sense," Poulet said. "Dr. Foster is most certainly not the lone member of this board. There must be a group of silent partners - partners who cover their comings and goings with an elaborate legal cushion. I think--"

 

A startling knock came at the door. Emily jumped. Poulet opened the door and found Sheriff Stiles, hat in hand and three days of beard stubble on his face. His rumpled clothes, dusty and wrinkled, lent him the disheveled appearance of more-than-a-few nights of restlessness. Stiles' concerned demeanor turned to one of weariness as he asked Poulet, "Do you have a few minutes, sir?" 

Poulet folded up the telegram and stuffed it into his pants pocket. "For you sheriff, I'm willing to spare more than a few. Please, come in."

 

Stiles stepped in and gave a quick and polite nod in Emily's general direction. "Good day, Miss Meriwether."

"And to you, sheriff."

"Have a seat, sheriff," Poulet said. "What can I help you with?"

The sheriff eased into a chair and turned to Poulet in puzzlement. "Mr. Poulet," he said, "I've heard that you're doing investigating on your own concerning the two some call 'so-called' murders. I've been doing the same thing and have run up against a wall. The only crack in that wall is some fellow staying at Robidoux's."

"You have only one suspect, sheriff?"

"Don't know if he's a suspect or not. He's been here over a week. Seems to be a card playing gambler, but I think he'll be movin' on soon. He's not real popular around Dorland's. Amos says he stays up in his room most of the time. "

Poulet sensed the sheriff's despondency and ill-at-ease manner. He was aware that Stiles was running out of options. He made the decision to tell the sheriff everything pertaining to his encounter, whether the sheriff believed it or not, ill-at-ease or not.

"Sheriff, do you believe in any of the legends and folklore of the Ioway Indians?"

The sheriff shook his head. "To be honest, sir, I don't know much about that."

"Well, have you ever been in a situation that makes you question reality and your sanity?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Have you ever awakened from a bad dream and it took you a few seconds to realize it was just a dream? Those few seconds between the unreal and the real is what I'm referring to."

"I still don't follow you."

"Have you ever seen things that weren't really there?"

The sheriff chuckled. "On a few drunken occasions, yes."

"And when you're sober?"

The sheriff scratched at his cheek stubble. "Can't say as I have."

Poulet stood and walked over to face his parlor window. "What if I told you the murders weren't committed by man nor beast?"

"Uh, what are you getting at, Mr. Poulet?"

Poulet turned to face the sheriff. "Well sheriff, what if I told you that I believe these men were killed by a demon that haunts the hills around here."

A deep crease formed between the sheriff's eyebrows. "A demon that haunts the hills, huh?"

"He doesn't live in the hills, sheriff," Poulet said. "He's not of this earth, so the laws of nature don't apply. He is, for lack of a better word, conjured."

"Uh, conjured?"

"Yes," Poulet said with a barely concealed wicked smile. 

Emily turned away, folded her arms and stared blankly out the parlor window.

The sheriff shifted in his seat. "You mean he's whipped up from somebody's magic spell?"

"Something like that," Poulet replied.

  

"Well sir," Stiles said, "then forgive me for saying this, but you may have become unhinged."

Poulet chortled. "I appreciate your concern for my mental welfare, sheriff, but Reverend Tutwiler and I made a trip into the hills the other night." Poulet removed his glasses. His voice took on the grave undercurrent of serious concern. His eyes met the sheriff's. "We found something that is so foreign and against the laws of nature, it is nigh impossible to explain."

Poulet recounted the story of the meeting with the spherical light at the remote cabin. He'd hoped to wait until the time was right to tell Emily. He wasn't sure what her reaction was going to be. 

The sheriff listened patiently and then said, "And you say Reverend Tutwiler was with you and had the same experience?"

"Yes, he was, and did, sheriff. You may speak with him if you want, but he may not admit what happened. I don't believe the good reverend fully appreciates what happened to us. He does have a reputation to uphold. Unlike him, I have nothing to lose by telling you this."

"I'll take your observation under consideration, Mr. Poulet. I'm sure you understand my skepticism."

"Certainly, sir." Poulet sat back down. "But that's not all."

"It's not?"

"No," Poulet said, meshing his fingers together into a here-is-the-church-here-is-the-steeple clasp. "I believe, sir," he said as he twiddled his thumbs under the steeple, "that we didn't see the whole entity."

"What do you mean by entity?" the sheriff asked.

"A ghost, sheriff. An apparition, if you will. We were unable to see the whole demon itself, only the early forming of the visage."

Poulet sensed that Sheriff Stiles hadn't believed a single word he'd said, but was just being polite. He wondered what kind of loon the sheriff took him to be, but didn't much care.

Stiles shifted uncomfortably again in his chair. "This cabin where you said you ran into this, uh, demon ghost, what did it look like and where exactly was it?"

After Poulet gave a description, the sheriff said, "Sounds like the cabin of that old medicine woman, Nidawi."

Emily and Poulet immediately turned to each other and then back to the sheriff.

"Sheriff," Poulet said, "Emily and I were out gathering plants a few days ago when we came across an old woman in the hills. She was also gathering plants, but of a different kind - the kind that can kill you."

"That's not surprising. That probably was Nidawi. I'm sure she has all kinds of poisons at her disposal. She'd probably poison you just by looking at you."

"I'm not certain of that, sheriff, but it would seem to me that this demon entity is being conjured or controlled by Nidawi. Why else would it have been circling her cabin?" Poulet stretched his legs out. "It's not a matter of it coming and going as it pleases. More people would have seen it. There is a method here."

"Mr. Poulet, if that is an accurate assumption of fact, then I'm afraid I'm at a loss to know what to do or how to proceed. Never chased a ghost before, or demon, as you say."

Emily interrupted. "Excuse me, sheriff, but I've been doing investigating and research of my own. I've found a little information that might be helpful." She turned to Poulet. "Show him the telegram, Antoine." Poulet reached in his pocket and pulled out the telegram from Topeka.

Sheriff Stiles took out his wire-rimmed spectacles from his front vest pocket. He read it and handed it back. He scratched his head. "Why is this so significant? Lots of people have businesses interests on the side. So, Doc Foster has a company. What has that to do with these killings?"

Emily continued, "I also went to the county attorney's office and found the law governing trapping leases for the county. You should read this." She opened her bag and produced the paper she'd scribbled the county laws on concerning the inheritance of leases. 

The sheriff read the transcription and then removed his glasses. He slowly settled the note down on the table and said, "If this is accurate, there is more going on here than meets the eye." He took a deep breath and slowly let his exasperated breath out through clenched teeth. 

"The only one we know of so far that would gain from the deaths of these men, sheriff, would be Dr. Foster," Poulet said.

"Seems so," Stiles said, hanging his head. He studied his lap and flicked a clump of imaginary lint.

"There may be others involved in this, sheriff," Poulet added. "Dr. Foster may not be the only one behind this."

Stiles shook his head in wonderment. "I don't see how the county could have set up such an inequitable law." He stood up. "I'll investigate. Thanks for your help. Good day, sir. Good day Miss Meriwether."

Poulet showed the sheriff out and closed the door. Turning to Emily, he said, "I don't know if he believes me or not, but I guess it doesn't matter for now, anyway."

"I don't know how to say this, Antoine, but I really don't know if I believe you, either. This conjuring talk makes me nervous. I've never heard anyone discuss such morbid and fantastic things."

"Things such as magic? Voodoo? Witches and ghosts?"

"Never. And I don't care to hear anymore, thank you." Emily stood up and slipped her wrap on. "I will talk to you tomorrow, Antoine."

"Yes, you will," Poulet said, as he walked toward her expecting a kiss.

 

Emily mumbled, "Good night." She walked out and shut the door.

*    *    *

Nidawi walked out to her well, pulled up a bucket of water and poured it into her pottery bowl. The surface of the rippling pool reflected a jittering star-filled sky. She inspected the bottom for rocks that could obscured her view. The old woman was going to look on its surface and "see" about Jake Duncan.

 

She walked back into her cabin and set the bowl gently on the hearth. It sat level on the flat rock next to the fire. She peered into the vessel and found a placid surface, but no image, save for the flames of the fire.

While hunched over and staring into the bowl, a segmented appendage poked out from a crack in the rock hearth. Covered with fine gray hair, it pawed at the rock, making a slight scratching sound as another appendage appeared. Behind the crack, the old woman spied multiple sets of shiny black eyes and a sharp fang-ringed maw. It lifted its other six legs and plump body up onto the rock. The old woman reached to her left and took two live crickets from one of her jars and threw one at the wolf spider. The cricket landed on the rock and before it could muster a hop away, it ended up impaled on the spider's pincers and then chewed thoroughly before the eight-legged creature swallowed it into its hungry stomach. She threw it another and the cricket was instantly gone. The black eyes pleaded for more, but Nidawi was preoccupied. She raised her wrinkled hand and flicked her fingers, motioning the spider away. It turned and scurried along the edge of the hearth to a crack between the log walls and disappeared.

Her eyes closed and her head tilted back as she invoked spirits with a long, droning and soothing chant. She chanted for a few minutes and then scrutinized the surface of the water again. Still nothing.

 

She picked up an armful of sticks from her log pile and fed the dimming fire. It flared into a long flame that licked the top of the hearth.

The water gradually illuminated the depths and she peered in. An image surfaced.

The image was that of a man in fringed buckskin, doubled-up and dead on the ground. A canteen lay by the man's side. In an instant, the image broke up, dissolved into the depths of the water and was gone. Nidawi found the image to be that of Jake Duncan and the surroundings of Blacksnake Creek. It was as clear as the pristine well water it floated upon. 

She stood up and shuffled to her door. The door squeaked open and she threw the water out. She knew she had more work to do. 

Chapter 48

The sheriff came through the back door of the jail and slammed it shut. He tossed his hat on his desk and fell back into his chair with a weary grunt. Arms akimbo, he plunked his elbows on his desk and put his head in his hands.

 

Deputy Barada was sweeping out the empty cell. He swept the pile of dirt onto an old newspaper. "Anything yet on the murders?" 

"Well, deputy," Stiles replied as he lifted his head, "that crazy old Luke may not be as crazy as we thought."

"How's that, Lucien?"

"I just came from Antoine Poulet's house and he told me of an encounter in the woods he and Reverend Tutwiler had with a strange, uh, something." Stiles looked back down at his desktop with his head hanging low. He rolled his eyes up to Barada. "He thinks this something eats men."

Barada lost his grip on the broom and it fell to the floor. "An evil sp . . . spirit? Like, uh, Itopa'hi?"

"Maybe somethin' like that," Stiles said. 

"You don't think he was just pullin' your leg, do ya?" the deputy asked.

"I don't know. He may be the guilty party and is just tryin' to cover his tracks with a big hoax, but I don't think so. It makes complete sense when you consider the condition of the bodies and the lack of a decent suspect. What doesn't make sense is his explanation of how the murders came about. I don't know what else to conclude. If that's the case, it's going to be kinda hard to arrest a ghost for murder."

The deputy picked up the broom and pulled up a chair. "If what Luke told me was true, to catch that evil spirit, you gotta set a trap and wait, but you gotta catch it before it catches you. 'Course, I don't know how to catch one, if that's what you do. I wouldn't even wanna try." 

"It's not a matter of catching it, Dale. It's probably a matter of destroying it."

"Well, I don't care about catchin' it or destroyin' it, but I figure we probably ought to try somethin’. What are we gonna do?"

"We are not going to do anything. Poulet also told me that he may know who's behind the murders. He says it might be that medicine woman Nidawi. He and the reverend saw this thing, or part of it, the other night at her cabin."

  

"Nidawi? Shit. I wouldn't want to run into her. The tribe don't want anything to do with her. You white people call her a witch. I don't know about that, but I know she's got a bunch of people believing it."

"What else did Luke tell you?"

"Uh, that it doesn't have a shadow and it's invisible." Barada heaved a log on the stove's fire. "Lives up in the trees, I guess - oh, and he said if we were gonna try to kill it, it has to be before the first snowfall or he could come back in the spring."

"Sounds kinda like a killer bear, then, don't it?"

Barada took a seat. "I think this ghost is a hell of a lot worse than some damn bear."

Stiles lips tightened and he nodded. "Hmm. May be, deputy."

"I don't know about you, sheriff, but --"

The jailhouse door burst open and Jake Duncan marched in and up to the sheriff's desk. He leaned over the desk and pounded the desktop. "Someone's trying to kill me."

*     *     *

"So, you've taken care of Jake Duncan then? I'd better not see another body being dragged into town. That won't happen, will it?"

"No," Nidawi said. She declined to tell Foster exactly how she'd gotten rid of Duncan. For all he knew, she had brought Itopa'hi forth and the spirit had killed and devoured him completely, the way the other two should have ended up.

 "And there is no evidence of a body anywhere?"

"No body."

"So, he simply disappeared then, as expected - unlike the other two?"

"Yes."

Foster paced the floor, rubbing his hands together. "This week I want another trapper gone and you know who it is, do you not?"

Nidawi let out a sigh. "Yes."

"Then see that it's taken care of - and soon. And no evidence. Is that clear?"

Nidawi dropped her chin to her chest. With a quivering voice, she said, "Yes, sir."

Doc Foster left the cabin assured that his plans were now in place.

Chapter 49

Sheriff Stiles looked up from his desk at Jake Duncan's anxious eyes, knowing the trapper was not one to exaggerate. He frowned and glanced at the deputy and then back to Duncan. He leisurely leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, threw his arms up and behind his head and rested the back of his skull on the makeshift pillow.

 "Where'd you get the idea that someone is trying to kill you, Jake?"

Duncan dragged a chair across the floor and took a seat in front of the sheriff. He went on to tell Stiles of the poisoned water he'd ingested. He didn't inform him of the hallucination he'd had.

"You sure it wasn't just bad water, Jake? You know, some of these wells have contamination--"

"It ain't my well, sheriff!" Duncan declared. "Someone put somethin' in my canteen. If I'd had any more, I'd be resting peacefully up in Olive Branch this very minute."

Stiles' hollow stomach sunk to his feet. He recalled his conversation with Poulet regarding Nidawi and her poisonous plants. His rational mind was wrestling with the irrational, but seemingly credible ramblings of a New Orleans Voodoo priest concerning an old Ioway woman and the town physician. He ran his fingers through his hair and asked Duncan, "Who'd wanna kill you, Jake?"

"I don't know. Someone or something."

"Some thing?"

Duncan took in a long and calming deep breath. "I have to tell you something that happened to me a short time ago. You can believe it or not. I'm tellin' you the truth here, Lucien."

Duncan went on to tell the sheriff and deputy of his terror-filled night in his line cabin. When he'd finished with the story, the sheriff glanced at Deputy Barada's gaping mouth.

Without a word, the sheriff pushed away from his desk with a grunt and stood up. At the front window, he focused through the daylight at Main Street. He watched people moving about, all on their way to someplace known only to them. They all seemed so ordinary to him, yet, he considered any one of them capable of murder. He lost himself in possibilities as he watched a twisting dust devil taking its time blowing up the street and wreaking havoc with ladies' skirts.

He turned to Duncan and the deputy. "Funny how all these people walking by this window have no idea as to the extent of the malfeasance that is occurring all around them," he mused. He turned and again viewed the world through the window glass. "They've settled down a bit since the Stuart DuChamp funeral, but I don't know how long it'll last. There's a killer of sort haunting our hills. I'm inclined to believe that the killer's not human, however far- fetched that sounds."

"May not be as far-fetched as it sounds, sheriff," Duncan said with Barada concurring.

"All the victims were trappers," said the sheriff. "There may be a connection with these murders and a certain Big Cloud Trading Company."

"Big Cloud Trading Company? Who's that?" Duncan asked.

"I'm not entirely sure yet, but, do you know how the trapping leases are transferred upon the demise of the lease holder?"

"Well," Duncan said, "I guess their wife would get it if something happens to them."

"Unfortunately, that is, evidently, not the case, Jake. If something happened to you, The Big Cloud Trading Company would inherit your lease. Your wife would have no say in the matter. She'd be left out in the cold."

"What? You certain 'bout that, sheriff? How can that be?"

"I hear from a reliable source that that's the way the county laws were set up, but I don't believe anyone is aware of it. They would only find out too late."

"So, whoever owns the trading company would inherit the leases?"

"As long as they paid the county tax, yes, it seems that way, Jake."

"Who owns the company?" Duncan asked.

"I don't know yet, but I'm working on it." Stiles inspected the dust on his boots. "These things take time if I want to be sure. I need to be absolutely certain. We're discussing a very delicate matter here and a few reputations may be at stake."

The brim of Duncan's hat dipped as he tilted his head down. The brim spread a wide frown over his shaded eyes. His eyes met the sheriff's. "Who's reputation?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I do. As I have told many, I know nothing else at this time."

Stiles plopped back down in his chair and folded his hands over his desk. An uncomfortable quietude fell over the room. The only sound was that of the wall clock's heavy brass pendulum clicking back and forth in the silence, ticking and tocking out the measure of the passing time.

 

The front door opened.

The three men were greeted with the familiar face of Frank J. Foster, but it was a face of alarmed panic.

"Why, Doc Foster, you look like you've just seen a ghost!" the sheriff said. Stiles noted Foster's bulging eyes preparing for a flight from his skull. 

The doctor stammered, "I, uh, guess it must be the . . . the . . . wuh- weather, Lucien."

Duncan looked at the panic stricken doctor. "Hello, doc."

"Heh-hello, Jake." Foster let out a breathy grunt, clenched his right hand into a fist and pounded his thigh. His right eyelid twitched.

"Looks like you need a stiff one, doc," Duncan said. "I was gonna head over to Dorland's to do some elbow bendin' before I head home. Wanna join me?"

"Thu - thanks, Jake, but, uh, I have other plans, but thanks."

Stiles noticed the doctor's erratic uncharacteristic behavior and said, "Why you so nervous, Frank?"

"Uh, must be my new tonic. Makes me kind of jumpy, I guess." Foster loosened the knot in his tie, reached into his pocket and pulled out a hankie. He sopped up the droplets of sweat gathering on his upper lip.

 

"Might be the wrong kinda medicine, doc," Stiles said. "Maybe you should lay off that stuff."

 

"Muh . . . hay . . . be so, Lucien. Maybe so."

Foster changed the subject and shifted his darting eyes from Duncan back to the sheriff again and said, "Uh, would you mind watching my office while I'm gone? I'm going on a business trip to Kansas City for a few days. I'm leaving in the morning. I should be back on Thursday or Friday."

"I will see to it, Frank," the sheriff replied.

"Thanks, Lucien."

Foster turned to leave. "Good day, gentlemen." He left the jail and closed the front door quietly behind him.

Duncan turned to Stiles. "What the hell's wrong with him, sheriff?"

"I don't know, Jake. Maybe it's his medicine."

Lucien Stiles found himself hashing over things he'd been wanting to avoid: dark things. Avoidance was no longer an option. Something rang true in him concerning the fantastic allegations of Poulet and Miss Meriwether He didn't want to entertain the notion of the town physician being a murderer, or even an opportunist, for that matter. It seemed to him, the puzzle pieces were finally starting to form a hazy sketch. His mind drifted to the woods, to conjured evil spirits and demons, ghosts and devils and all things Lucifer. With no experience in Ioway spirit matters, he'd wished that someone would just walk into the jail one day and confess to the murders, and that would be the end of it.

"Sheriff," Duncan said, as he rose to leave, "I have to go pick up a few things at McKenna's and tip one at Dorland's. Let me know if you need help in finding out what sonuvabitch in this town is trying to kill me."

 

"Oh, yes, yes, we'll find him. Stick to your well water and whiskey and not your canteen."

"The canteen has been thrown out and is deep at the bottom of the Missouri. I'll be in touch, Lucien."

Jake Duncan left the jail and walked across the street to Dorland's.