Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

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Frank Foster walked up the trail to Nidawi's cabin, his churning mental images seething with hate. After seeing Jake Duncan alive, he'd lost all faith in Nidawi's abilities. As he marched along the trail in a rhythmic cadence, his inner voice spoke to him.  She lied to me...hasn't taken care of her part of the bargain. Gave her the benefit of the doubt, but she's just squatted and pissed all over it. Useless goddamn injun witch. She belongs in hell. God will send her there. Oh, yes, He will.

He kicked in the door of her cabin and came close to knocking it from its hinges. He stormed in and found the old woman sitting in front of the dwindling flame of her fire. She continued to rock back and forth on her willow chair and ignored him.

"Do you know what I want, Nidawi?" he shouted.

The medicine woman continued to gaze into her fire without acknowledging his presence.

"I want your miserable life, old woman. Your miserable goddamn life!" Putting his hands on his hips, he leaned forward and shouted in her ear, "Are you deef? Look at me!"

She turned to him reluctantly and whispered, "Kill me, then, and be done with it. I am useless."

"Yes, you are useless," he said. "I'm not going to kill you, though. Not before you feel the pain of what it's going to be like for you in hell."

Foster raised his arm high and backhanded her across the face. The blow had enough force to knock her from her chair. She screamed as her shoulder hit the floor.  

"Oh, and by the way, old woman, Nebraska didn't suit your granddaughter. She's back home now - with me! She's in my cellar this very moment. I'm planning on keeping her there for a long while. I consider it a wonderful arrangement, don't you?"

He loomed over her with a twinkle in his eye and moved his hand to his crotch. He rubbed himself. "Do you want to know my plans for her, Nidawi?"

"No," she groaned. "I do not."

"I'll tell you anyway!" Clasping his hands together behind his back, he paced around her, his soundless footfalls making tracks in the dirt floor. 

He stopped, glanced down at her and said, "She will become my concubine. A pretty young girl like her would attract suitors, but not when I get done with her." He bent down to within an inch of the old woman's tearing eyes as he whispered, "She'll be used goods to any man who's interested in her. She'll be no good to anyone except me. If I'm lucky, I might get her pregnant. Wouldn't you like to have a little half-breed great-grandbaby?"

Nidawi remained mute and turned away from him. She cringed at the pain in her shoulder. Her collarbone had been snapped in two like a shriveled twig.

Foster stood up and shifted into a firm businesslike composure. "You're no longer any good to me. You have lost all credibility. I'll have to take care of the next trappers myself. As you probably well know, if you tell anyone, your life and your granddaughter's will be snuffed out." He slammed the door on his way out.

Nidawi pulled herself up from the floor and crawled into her chair. She broke into a sobbing whimper imagining the harm the doctor was capable of inflicting on her granddaughter. Despite her physical pain, she began making plans.

Chapter 53

Poulet had taken care of two new lovelorn clients when Emily arrived before her shift at McCauley's and took a seat in his parlor. He took a deep breath and said, "Emily, I need to show you something. Come with me."

Emily followed him to his bedroom. Showing her the blood-stained floor, he then told her of the attempt on his life. He told her everything including his recent New Orleans girlfriend that he was convinced had hired the killer. Emily folded her arms and turned a stony silent.

"I don't mean to burden you with my problems, Emily, but you should be informed of the last day's events and --"

She folded her arms. "I know what a bokor is."

"Oh," Poulet said casting his eyes downward. "I was hoping to explain it to you myself."

"You're a witch doctor, plain and simple. Aren't you?"

"Emily, I'm not a witch. I am a doctor. Don't put the two together and call them twins."

"So, what kind of doctor are you, then - honestly?"

"I do use Voodoo and alternative methods of healing, sometimes using spirituality. Yes, I sometimes use magic, but only if it benefits another. I'm not evil. I hope you believe that."

"I don't know what to believe. I just don't know about all this. These murders and leasing shenanigans…demons in the woods and now this - it's all just too depressing. I want no part of this. I cannot stand by and watch you destroy your life or have it destroyed by chasing this devil or whatever you call it. If what you are doing is called magic, I want no part of it." Emily opened the front door, turned and with a tear in her eye said, "Goodbye, Antoine."

Poulet jumped up from his chair, hobbled to the door and said, "But, Emily, I -"

Emily closed the door in his face and started a brisk walk home to Gallagher's. Poulet followed and tried to speak with her, but she remained unresponsive. He turned around, returned home and hung the "Closed" sign on his front door.

He walked back down Main Street to the city jail. As he entered the sheriff's office, he found Sheriff Stiles rubbing his temples and Deputy Barada stoking the wood stove.

A weak but welcoming smile came from Stiles as he stood up and shook Poulet's hand.

Poulet took a seat. Stiles set his pipe down.

"You know sheriff," Poulet said, "when we rid ourselves of this Itopa'hi demon, you probably will not have any more headaches."

Stiles leaned back in his chair. Still not convinced that a malevolent spirit of the wood had murdered two men, he asked Poulet, "Ghost or demon, just how are we supposed to rid Big Cloud of this, uh, spirit?"

"I believe I have a way, sheriff, but it involves an invocation of the spirit itself. In other words, we have see it in order to get rid of it."

"That would make perfect sense."

Barada chimed in. "You know, Mr. Poulet," he said as he adjusted the air flow to the stove's reviving fire, "I talked to one of the tribe members about this spirit - ol' Crazy Luke. Know him?"

"No. What did he say, deputy?"

"He told me about the spirit. Told me that it eats men and lives in the woods. Told me that it kills year round, exceptin' winter. "

"And he disappears at the first snowfall, correct?"

"Well, yes, s'matter of fact," Barada said. "Luke said the spirit was like a hibernating bear in the winter, but how did you --?"

"I've heard the same thing from a reliable source."

"I don't know how reliable Luke is with his information, Mr. Poulet." the sheriff added. "I'd take everything that old man says with a grain of salt."

"Salt is like talk, sheriff - it's cheap and plentiful, but you can't live without it. I'd take the word of this Crazy Luke over anyone else's, that is, unless I can speak with a medicine man."

"You'd be wasting your time, Mr. Poulet," the sheriff said. "They're pretty tight lipped, especially when a white man is speaking to them."

The sheriff changed the subject. "By the way, Mr. Poulet, your would-be assassin's valise contained a piece of paper with a New Orleans address on it. Just a second." The sheriff opened his desk drawer and brought out the paper. He showed it to Poulet. The address written on the note read: 941 Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, Louisiana. No name was listed with the address.

"That address, I believe, sheriff, is Jean Lafitte's Bar."

Stiles cocked his head. "Would he be living in a bar?"

"I doubt it," Poulet replied. "I'm certain no one would make that bar their home. It may be a business address, if you're inclined to call his line of work a business."

"Doesn't matter now. The obituary is in this morning's paper. Since I know nothing else about him, Deputy Barada and I will bury him in Half Breed Cemetery tomorrow morning. I'm gettin' tired of loadin' ice on him."

Despite Poulet's aversion to segregated cemeteries, he ruled that under the circumstances, the final arrangements were appropriate.

"So," Poulet said, "Dr. Foster is away?"

"Yes," the sheriff replied. "He's in Kansas City on a business trip."

"When will he be back?"

"Tomorrow or the next day. I've been keeping an eye on his office and the dead man in the morgue."

"Have you contacted anyone concerning The Big Cloud Trading Company?"

"Yes," the sheriff replied, cracking his knuckles. "I wired Topeka this morning and since I'm the local law, they'll get back to me by tomorrow. Have to make it official, ya know."

Poulet stood up to leave. "Well, sheriff, keep me abreast of developments." He glanced over at the deputy and back to the sheriff. "By the way, when does the first snow usually arrive?"

"Well, usually late November or early December. Sometimes sooner or later, you know how the weather is - um, you gonna take the word of that old Indian?"

"He may not be that crazy, sheriff, and the weather does have a mind of its own, does it not? Good day."

Poulet left the Big Cloud Jail and crossed the street to Moore's Restaurant. Despite his loss of appetite, he'd elected to have one last meal before his three day fast as required by the spell in the Blood of the Dragon.

*    *    *

941 Rue Bourbon

Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Bar

New Orleans

Leonora Beaumont walked out of the pouring New Orleans rain and into the Jean Lafitte bar. She moved to the dimly lit back corner. The man with the lazy eye sat alone at his usual table, nursing a mug of ale. She sat down in front of him, set her bag down and calmly said, "So, where is the lion ring?"

"Oh, well, Miss Leonora...I, uh, I have not yet heard, mam'selle. I wired him to take care of your problem as you instructed only a few days ago. I have not heard back from him."

Miss Beaumont opened her bag and produced a telegram from Troy, Kansas with the very short list of recently recorded deaths. "I received this wire this morning. I checked the obituaries in Doniphan County, Kansas and there was only one death this week, and it was not Antoine Poulet. As you can see, there is only one on the list. The reason you have not heard back from your Mr. Trudeau, sir, is that he is as dead as a doornail."

"Mort? Non, non, mam'selle. This must be a mistake. He should be on his way back at this very minute."

"Do you see the cause of his death listed, or can't you read? He, evidently, was shot."

"Shot? That can't possibly be true."

Miss Beaumont said evenly, "I want...my...money...back."

He took a long draught of ale, set the mug back down on the table and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. "Let's not jump to conclusions here yet, ma'am. There must be an error."

"There is no mistake!" She pounded her fist on the table. "You have failed in our business venture." She leaned back in the chair with her hands in her lap; her burning eyes slits of malicious intent. Through clenched teeth, she said softly, "I want all my money back, and I want it back now."

The man's lazy eye searched the bottom of his ale mug. His sweat dripped from his forehead, the drops plopping into his mug. He mumbled, "There is no money left."

An angered Leonora Beaumont regained her composure and asked him, "Where did it go?"

"Wuh . . . well, it was used for expeh . . . expenses and there is nothing left. It's very costly to hire a man to travel that far away. I'm sure we're capable of working out an arrangement."

Miss Beaumont stood up, stepped over to the man and stood behind him in a seductive stance. She reached down to the sheathed Bowie knife strapped to her thigh. With her breasts resting on the back of the man's head, she drew close to his ear and smiling sweetly whispered, "There is nothing to work out."

The man turned his head to the side and with a lecherous grin, rubbed his temple against her bosom. She rested the hefty knife's razor-sharp tip against his back between his shoulder blades. He opened his mouth to speak but no word was uttered. The knife's tip eased into the flesh between his ribs. She sunk the full length of the blade into his back, its keen edge slicing through his aorta, severing it completely. As she struggled to withdraw the weapon with a wiggle, its blade scraped against the man's vertebrae. She cursed him, knowing she would soon need to have the blade sharpened again. The man slumped forward, knocking over his ale. She wiped the blade on his shirt and set his mug upright on the wet table. After a quick scan of the bar, she found no one but the bartender intently wiping drink glasses.

She grabbed her overnight bag and slipped back out onto the rain-soaked Rue Bourbon. She hailed a cab and the carriage slogged its way through flooded streets. Thunderclaps cracked overhead as she arrived at the passenger steamship dock. The 'Lady Franklin' passengers were boarding. She bought a ticket to Big Cloud, Kansas.

*    *    *

Delmonico House Hotel

Kansas City, Missouri

Frank Foster answered the knock at his door at the Delmonico House in Kansas City. 

The woman stormed into his room. Without so much as a "hello," she plopped down on the bed and removed her coat. As she fussed with straightening her dress, she said, "Frank, I think they know who's behind the killings in Big Cloud. You can't go back. Stiles is suspicious and he'll arrest you on sight."

"Arrest me for what?" he said. "There is no way on God's green earth they'd be able to connect me with any murders. I'm an upstanding citizen. No one would dare believe I had anything to do with it. Besides, I told them their deaths were caused by bear attacks."

"Bear attacks or not, that devil worshiper Poulet's harlot girlfriend, Emily Meriwether, was snooping around in Troy at the assessor's office. She knows about The Big Cloud Trading Company."

"What business is that of hers?"

"It's not, but from what I could gather, she knows you are the only member of the board of directors. Frank, that does not look good."

"What else?" the doctor asked.

"By now, Sheriff Stiles probably knows that you're the only member of The Big Cloud Trading Company. With you as the only beneficiary of trapping leases, that's a motive for murder, Frank! I'm sure they'll become aware of the lease laws you worked so hard at changing."

"If you consider the bribe to the county attorney, work. He's done his job. If you had just done yours, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"You know my concerns in taking another's life," she said. "I absolutely refuse to..."

"Oh, now I see. Your husband has you tethered to the short leash of his dogma, doesn't he?"

"We have to have a moral compass, if you weren't aware of that..."

"Shut up! You can gab the lobes off any ear within shouting distance with your endless jabbering. Now, on to more important business. I've just sold Jordan and DuChamp's leases to The American Fur Trading Company. We'll be on our way to London in no time."

"Not soon enough for me," she said. "The noose may tickle your trachea before we get there."

Foster walked over to her. "Not to worry. There will be no necktie party around the bend for me. Besides, I didn't physically kill them, you know."

"And how are you going to prove you didn't and a ghost did?"

"Forget about it." He pushed her back onto the bed and unbuttoned the pearl buttons of her dress. Button after button popped open and he pulled the top of the dress aside and grasped both of her breasts. He dropped his pants and fell on her. She pulled her dress up and spread her legs. Foster entered her and rode her until he was spent. He fell back, trying to catch his breath. After a few moments, he said, "You'd better leave now. Leave on a steamer today. I'll be back in Big Cloud tomorrow or the next day. We can't be seen stepping off the same boat."

"You'd better not let anyone see you come back into town," she said. "Please be careful, Frank."

"I'm not worried," Foster said as he dressed himself. "To hell with 'em."

"Then I will see you again in Big Cloud?" she asked, straightening her dress and slipping her coat on.

"Yes, yes, of course. Leave, now. Goodbye."

Victoria Tutwiler gave Foster a kiss on the cheek, left the hotel and took a cab to Westport Landing.

Chapter 54

The chubby rat in the dim corner of Doc Foster's cellar sat up on his haunches and sniffed at the musty air. A sliver of light from a small window fell on his black eyes. His nose and whiskers twitched back and forth as Nidawi's granddaughter watched the rodent with the black fur and long tail. He blinked at her. She tried to shoo him away with a muffled shout, but the rat only stared back at her. 

The scarf that gagged her was effective at keeping her screams from being heard by anyone, including a rat. She tried again desperately to wiggle her wrists loose from the confines of Foster's knotted rope. The rat advanced a few feet and sat up again, cautiously sniffing the air for threats.

Takchawee didn't care much for rats. Despite her repulsive dislike for the visiting creature, it seemed to like her. It scurried up to her bare feet and brushed its cold and wet nose against her toes. She shrieked through her gag, consumed with fear. In a panic, she managed to find the strength to move her feet. She attempted to kick it away, but her feet and ankles were bound as tightly to the chair as her wrists. She managed to only wiggle her toes in protest. 

The rat's whiskers brushed against her toes and she screamed through the scarf again. His nose moved away from her toes and to the braided hemp rope binding her ankles. A gentle tugging motion came to the taut rope as the rat began to nibble. His gnawing turned furious; his keen teeth clicking together as he chomped through the binding.

She glanced up. Another identical rodent lurked in the corner. It blinked its blank unemotional eyes. A dozen sets of eyes peered through the shadows. They scurried out of the dark and gathered at her feet. She stiffened up as more of them began gnawing on her ankle bindings. A few others stood on their haunches behind her and nibbled at her wrist ties. They made a percussive symphony of industrious incisors as they chewed through the fibers.

Within minutes, Takchawee's wrist binding loosened and dropped to the floor. At the same time, the rats at her feet severed the binding around her ankles. She tore off the scarf that had muffled her cries. She took in a deep breath as she stood up. The pack of rats scampered away and back to their hiding places in the corners of the earthen cellar.

The girl's first thoughts after she freed herself, was that of her grandmother. She was aware that her grandmother's magic was formidable and assumed Nidawi was behind her release. She attributed her newly found freedom to charmed rodents. 

Foster had set a pitcher of water on an old whiskey barrel next to her, but he hadn't come to pour her a glass for two days. She guzzled the pitcher down. She picked up her moccasins and slipped them on.

She listened for any activity on the floor above. No sound of heavy footsteps or squeaking floorboards came to her. 

She mounted one of the cellar steps, raised her arms and after brushing cobwebs aside, pushed on the heavy bulkhead hovering above her. She raised it a few inches. Peering through the crack into the blinding daylight, her narrow perspective revealed a quiet and vacant alley. She pushed against the door with more force, raising it all the way up and open. As gravity caught hold, it fell off to the side with a loud thump. It took a concerted effort and help from the breeze, but she lifted it back up and closed it over the entrance.

She crossed the alley to a little used footpath and commenced her trek to Nidawi's. The first stop on Foster's search would be her grandmother's, but knowing that and that Nidawi would protect her, she hurried up the path.

When she arrived, she opened the door and found her grandmother at her table, sorting dried plants. Her arm was folded to her breast in a cowhide sling. Nidawi smiled and motioned for her to sit down.

Barely above a whisper, the old woman said, "You have found me." Her eyes twinkled as she asked, "Did you meet my helpers?"

"If you mean the rats," Takchawee replied, "yes, grandmother, I did meet them." She sat down next to Nidawi.

"They are messengers and helpers - a gift from the Great Spirit, Takchawee. They have never failed me." Her smile faded and she muttered, "There are spirits that do fail me." She continued to sort the leaves and bark with her one hand.

"What happened to your arm?" Takchawee asked. "Did the doctor do this?"

Nidawi concentrated on her sorting. "No. I fell. It will heal."

"I'm afraid, grandmother," Takchawee said, her shoulders shaking. "I can't go back home."

"You will be safe with the white men's whores in the red brick house at the top of the bluff."

"Maxine Bishop's?"

"Go there and knock on her door. Tell her of Dr. Foster and she will protect you. Please go. He mustn't find you here."

Takchawee found there was nothing else to do for her grandmother, so she walked back into town. She hiked up the hill to Maxine Bishop's and knocked on the door.