Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 11

Poulet procured essential supplies from Orton's dry goods store and busied himself with cleaning and arranging furniture in his new rental home. His gaze would fall time after time on his barren bookcases, their desolate shelves giving him a dreaded case of ignorance. He hoped the ‘J.R. Converse' steamboat would make good speed upriver from New Orleans. The answers to his frequent dilemmas were usually held within the pages of their rare leather-bound volumes.

He'd already set his collection of crystal containers on the desk. Finicky when it came to their care, he wasn't so much concerned with the containers, but more concerned with what they held.

He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Six-thirty. 

He found a clean white linen shirt and bow tie in his baggage. As he dusted off his evening jacket, he caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass. Need a haircut. He checked his watch again. Six-thirty four.

The rusty kitchen hand pump screeched as he pumped cold spring water into the porcelain sink. He unwrapped a bar of lye soap, gave himself a quick scrub and dried off. He splashed on some rose water and dressed.

He checked his watch again. Six-fifty-two.

His hand ran down the length of his woolen jacket coat sleeve as he was about to slip it on. Something crusty and hardened brushed against his fingertips.  Knew I shouldn't have hung it next to the kitchen...sloppy chefs at McCauley's. C'est trés inconsidéré. He scratched off the flake of dried gravy, locked the door and started for Chestnut Street.

Flickering candlelight lit the houses he passed along the way. He took notice of the opened drapes in the living rooms; an unlikely position for New Orleans curtains after sunset. 

He passed house after house of manicured front lawns and gardens. The houses of grand design and proportions stood solid and enduring. Their imposing walls of chiseled limestone and granite, red brick and marble presented an aura of arrogant immunity to the elements and the passing years. Blooming wisteria intertwined in endless displays of flower-choked trellises. The overwhelming fragrances on the evening air reminded him of the Garden District in New Orleans. 

A few dogs barked in the near distance as he approached the Gallagher House. He knocked on the front door. An older woman cracked open the door. 

"Yes?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"Yes, ma'am." Poulet gave her a quick bow. "I am here to escort Miss Emily."

She opened the door with an icy glare. "Come in, then." She motioned to a chair. "Wait here."

The woman started up the stairs as Poulet took a seat on a straight-back chair. The knobby supporting dowels dug into his back muscles. He leaned forward and waited. A few minutes later, Emily descended the stairs.

Poulet stood up and his heart stopped. 

Draped in a green velvet dress and wearing white evening gloves, Emily's handsome face and alluring eyes were framed by her hair that swept up at the sides. A simple cameo hung from her slender neck on a gold chain.

Emily extended her hand and Poulet lifted it to his lips. He lightly kissed it, bedazzled to distraction by her beauty. 

"Enchantè, Miss Emily," Poulet said, "You are a refreshing vision to this man's tired eyes."

"Oh, merci beaucoup," she said.

"Shall we?" 

Poulet lent his arm for her hand. They stepped out into the evening air and took a leisurely walk to the Mt. Zion social.

*       *       *

Jackson Square

New Orleans

The man with the lazy eye found Jackson Square especially busy. He sat down on a bench, pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

He'd been to Jackson Square many times in the past. He found it a congenial place for confidential meetings. The meetings required discretion, but from experience, he knew that in such a popular public area, discretion was easy to come by.

A tall and lanky well-dressed man approached him. The man sat down next to him. "Lovely morning, is it not, sir?" he said.

Without acknowledging the man's presence, the lazy-eyed man said, "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, Trudeau, and get down to business."

A rib-splitting coughing fit interrupted Trudeau's speech. "Excuse me, sir.” He coughed into a handkerchief. “Oh, yes, yes. I quite agree."

The man with the lazy-eye reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a leather pouch. He handed it to his morning visitor. Inside, Trudeau found the fifty gold Eagles he'd requested as a down payment for his services.

The lazy-eyed man handed Trudeau a piece of paper. "Go to this address tomorrow morning at Rue Bourbon and Dumaine. Make sure Antoine Poulet's books are being taken to the ‘J. M. Converse’ for departure tomorrow - and whatever you do, be discrete. When you see them being loaded on the vessel, book passage to Kansas."

Trudeau nodded and stuffed the paper into his front shirt pocket. "Where in Kansas?"

"I don't know. You'll need to find out and that shouldn't be a problem for you."

Trudeau nodded his head.

"Remember, wire me when you find him and await my instructions."

"Certainly, sir."

The lazy-eyed man handed Trudeau the framed daguerreotypes of Poulet and gave him a physical description. He finished his coffee. "He wears a gold ring - one of a lion. It must be returned as proof of his unfortunate passing. The ring is to be left on the deceased's finger and the finger brought to me."

Trudeau arched an eyebrow, but didn't consider it an unusual request. He'd delivered body parts before. "So, he's short, limps and --"

"Just follow the books, Trudeau.”

Chapter 12

Big Cloud, Kansas had but one church - The Mt. Zion Christian and the hub of the Christian community's social world. The simple white-trimmed red brick structure rested on the crest of a hill at the west end of town. Its tidy grounds presented a well-tended sliver of civilization among the unruly tangles of the frontier woodlands.

The shepherd of the Mt. Zion flock, the Reverend Charles O. Tutwiler, presented many a hellfire and brimstone sermon. Members of his congregation found his delivery an entertaining highlight of their week. He would bark, shout and spit out scripture and damnation with the impact of a Christian Cicero. His booming voice could spew forth sparks of Biblical insight and platitudes that kept his captive audience enthralled. By the time Reverend Tutwiler had concluded his Sunday sermon, the spirit-filled congregation left the church with a plentiful dose of inspiration to carry them through the week.

The strains of a waltz drifted out onto the lawn as Poulet and Emily approached the church. Crepe streamers fluttering in the breeze and Chinese lanterns festooned the grounds. Young children screamed, ran, skipped and played with each other, sometimes tussling on the ground, much to their mothers' chagrin.

Staid businessmen, farmers and clerks accompanied their wives to the gathering. The respectable families of Big Cloud made an appearance in their Sunday-best. As far as community socials were concerned, the remainder of the male population held their own down the street at Dorland's Saloon. According to them, theirs were decidedly much more interesting, if a bit more rambunctious.

The six-piece orchestra struck up another waltz as Poulet and Emily approached the dance floor. The first time Poulet had danced in years, he hoped he hadn't forgotten his waltz steps. His first dance lessons at boarding school in Switzerland had been filled with anxiety: his limp becoming more pronounced on the dance floor. He'd always considered himself clumsy.

The couple bowed to each other as he took her hand and led her onto the floor. Despite his anxiety and sweating palms, Poulet took her hand and lifted her arm, placed his other hand behind her dainty back and pulled her closer. An inch shorter than Emily's already diminutive size, in his own mind, his stature exceeded that of any man there.

Like a precision balance wheel in a Swiss watch, the two danced in perfect time. Poulet hadn't forgotten his steps and his limp didn't slow him down. He whirled her around, up and down and back and forth on the dance floor in a blur of syncopated motion.

Emily laughed as the orchestra came to a stop. "Oh, please, stop, Antoine. I'm so lightheaded."

"We'll sit the next one out," he said, "but I must warn you, I can dance until dawn, or until the fiddlers fall asleep, whichever comes first."  Damn, my hips hurt. "These legs may appear short and stubby, but they can carry a waltz for an eternity, especially with a lady such as you."

Emily fumbled with her evening bag. She pulled out her oriental fan and hid her blush from his eyes as she ruffled the air.  

The couple made their way to the punchbowl. An attractive spread had been set out by the women of the church: cucumber and roast beef sandwiches, asparagus with mayonnaise, pickled vegetables and assorted pies and cakes. Poulet detected a scent of apples rising from the punchbowl. He picked up a cup and before he had the chance to fill it, a smiling young woman dipped into the bowl with a silver ladle and filled it for him.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," Poulet said, as he handed the cup to Emily and picked one up for himself. The serving woman smiled and then filled his.

Emily turned to Poulet. "Forgive my manners, Antoine. This is Jessica DuChamp. Jessica, this is Antoine Poulet. Jessica's husband, Stuart, is quite the trapper in these parts."

"He is that, Emily," Mrs. DuChamp confirmed. "He's quite gifted in that regard."

"How is Mr. DuChamp these days?" Emily asked.

"As far as I know, he's fine. Thank you for asking."

"As far as you know?" 

"Well, he didn't return home last night as planned, so I assume he's busy with setting more traps. I'm sure he'll be back when he's finished."

"I hope he makes it home soon, Madam DuChamp," Poulet said. "If I were he, I wouldn't want to stay away long from a wife as agreeable as you."

"I'm sure he'll return, Mr. Poulet. Thank you so much for your concern."

Poulet and Emily picked up plates and placed a few sandwiches on each. They found a bench under a spreading sycamore tree and sat down. 

A heavyset woman dressed in silk and satin approach. Her ample bosom bounced as she walked with authority, the swishing sounds of her dress material chafing the air as she approached. The woman's brown tresses, pulled back in a severe coiffure, highlighted her chandelier earrings. In the torchlight, the earrings sparkled with emeralds and diamonds: discrete, but expensive gems, nonetheless. She seemed out of breath. With a smile, she extended her hand to Emily and said, "So nice to see you again, Miss Meriwether."

"And you as well, Mrs. Tutwiler," Emily replied as Poulet stood up.

Emily turned to Poulet, made introductions and said, "Mrs. Tutwiler is the pastor's wife, Antoine."

"I see," he said, as he nodded his head and added, "You have a very nice church, Mrs. Tutwiler."

"Oh, thank you. Can't attract new members without a nice church, now, can we?" Her welcoming smile relaxed. "Uh, you are Christian, are you not, Mr. Poulet?"

Poulet recognized the fact that the question Mrs. Tutwiler had just posed would eventually come up in his travels. The question had the effect of bitter bile rising to his tongue. His only exposure to Christian theology consisted of classes at Catholic boarding school at the age of ten. He'd seen too many sadistic priests and nuns and promised himself at that young age that he would never set foot in a Catholic church again and he'd kept his promise. Aware of his crucial need of acceptance in the community, but against his better judgment, he replied, "Oui, madam. I certainly am."

"That is just wonderful, Mr. Poulet!" Mrs. Tutwiler's newly-found enthusiastic demeanor vanished. "Uh, I suppose Catholic, with you being of the French persuasion?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Poulet said behind a shallow facade of a smile.

"Well, sir, the nearest Catholic Church is down the river in St. Joseph. I’m afraid you’ll have to take the last steamer on Saturday evening to make it for, oh, what do you call it? Sunday Mass?"

"Yes, ma'am," Poulet replied. "That's what it is called."

Her enthusiasm returned as she said, "I do hope you can find the time to attend one of our Sunday morning services. My husband writes many a heartfelt and impressive sermon." She drew her hands to her chest, pressed her palms together with fingers heavenward and closed her eyes. "When you attend one of his services, your soul will be refreshed for weeks."

"I will certainly find the time to do just that, ma'am," Poulet said.

Poulet had no intention of attending any Sunday church service. But, despite his aversion to Christianity, he came to the decision that if Emily really wanted to attend services, then he'd be willing to suffer through the reverend's sermons.

"Mrs. Tutwiler," Emily asked, "those are such beautiful earrings. May I ask where you acquired them?"

"Oh, thank you. They're just baubles, really," she said as she flicked one with her finger. "My loving husband purchased them for me when he traveled to Kansas City in July. He saved his pennies for years. He wanted to get me something that matched my eyes. The stones don't really match my eyes that well, but they are a beautiful deep green, aren't they?"

"Yes, yes they are," Emily replied. "And the diamonds, well, I'd love to see them in the daylight."

"Well, maybe someday you shall. But for now, please excuse me," Mrs. Tutwiler said. "I must greet the rest of our guests. It's been so nice speaking with you Emily, and you also, Mr. Poulet." She gathered her dress and marched away, swishing all the way to the punchbowl.

Poulet sat back down. Emily leaned into him and whispered, "I heard she nagged the reverend to buy those earrings for her. Baubles indeed."

“They certainly do appear to be trés cher, as they say."

"You'll find she always has to be more fashionable than anyone around her," Emily added.

"I can see that," Poulet said. "She is quite fashionable."  She's all gussied-up like a well-kept grave.

The orchestra returned and the musicians sat plucking, bowing and humming as they tuned up. Poulet's eyes locked on Emily's and without speaking, set their plates down. They stood up and made their way to the dance floor. 

They danced and the band played on.

Chapter 13

“Hurry up, Charles!” Victoria Tutwiler barked. “We have a Sunday congregation to tend to.”

“Yes, yes, I know," the reverend said as he fussed with his tie. "You needn't remind me. I’m quite capable of telling the time."

“We can’t afford to lose even one of our flock, Charles. Did you review this week’s ledger?”

“Yes, my dear. I have."

“There’s not enough in the till to pay the church debt for this month. Your sermon today had better be good. How do you expect us to pay the bills? Can’t just keep writing IOUs. You know as well as I that everyone in town will be talking when they catch wind of it."

She tied the ribbon of her simple black bonnet with a terse flourish. She pinched her cheeks and put on her best smile as she headed for the parsonage door. She turned back to her husband. “You’re just not good with money. Not good at all."

“If you would just rein-in your spending, Victoria," the reverend said, "we might be better off."

“We’ll never be better off, because you can’t or won’t find a way to suppsunt our meager income. I never wanted for anything as a young girl. Daddy gave me whatever I wanted, as should you. I, for the life of me, can‘t understand--”

“We’re wasting time, Victoria. The congregation is waiting.”

The ring on Mrs. Tutwiler’s wedding finger caught the light. The reverend took notice. “Take off that diamond, Victoria, and put on your wedding band.”

“Oh, it’s just an insignificant little diamond," she replied. "No one will notice.”

“Isn’t that why you’re wearing it? So people will notice?" The reverend gave a loud slap to the top of the vanity with the palm of his hand. "We cannot have people seeing their money being squandered. Now, put it back in your jewelry box - that is, if there’s room. You own enough jewelry to make Queen Victoria herself jealous. Perhaps I should start addressing you as 'Your Majesty'."

Mrs. Tutwiler yanked the diamond from her finger and hurled it at her husband. He ducked and managed to dodge the expensive projectile. 

"My finger look better now, Charles?" she asked.

“Infinitely so, my dear. Shall we go?"

The Tutwilers stepped out their door and walked to the rear entrance of the Mt. Zion Christian Church.

The reverend's sermon consisted of references to human’s weakness for sin and especially, the sin of lust. The glass of water on his lectern rippled with wave after wave as he drove his points home with a firm pound of his fist. He used his fist to great effect and found it an effective wake-up call for those few nodding off from an over-indulgent Saturday night.

At the end of the sermon, the reverend mentioned the interment of Ben Jordan at eleven the next morning at the Olive Branch Cemetery. He encouraged the congregation to attend.

As the final notes of “What a Mighty Fortress is Our God,” hung in the air, the congregation moved out of the pews and toward the doors. 

The Tutwilers left that day’s offering box in the trusted hands of the church organist. They exited the rear and walked to the front entrance to greet the departing worshipers.

The reverend clasped the firm hand of Antoine Poulet. “I don’t believe I know you, sir."

“This is one of our new arrivals, Charles,” Mrs. Tutwiler interjected. “This is Antoine Poulet. He’s French - from New Orleans, is that not correct Mr. Poulet?"

“Yes, yes, it is, ma’am.”

“Nice meeting you, sir,” the reverend said, releasing his handshake. “I hope to see your face in the congregation again. Oh, and you also Miss Meriwether.”

Poulet, with Emily on his arm, stepped down the steps and onto the lawn.

Emily snuggled up closer. “That was such an inspiring sermon, was it not, Antoine?”

“Yes, I suppose so. The sin of lust can be very inspiring.”

“Oh, Antoine," she said with a teasing scold, "you know what I meant."

“What I mean to say, Emily, is that sin is quite a universal topic."

“If it weren’t for sin, we’d be perfect then, wouldn’t we?"

“You, Emily, are perfect,” Poulet said. “Sinner or no sinner, let me take you to breakfast.”

Poulet and Emily strolled down the street to Moore’s Restaurant, the only open café in Big Cloud on Sunday mornings and closing at twelve noon sharp. They found a table and sat down. The waiter brought coffee. The clamor of clacking plates and the savory aroma of frying bacon wafted through the dining area.

Poulet snapped his napkin open and laid it on his lap. "So, Miss Emily, what brought you to Big Cloud?"

“Well, a combination of things, I guess. I was at school in Kansas City and needed adventure and excitement. I came up on the 'Far West' steamboat. I brought two bags with me as I really had nothing else but a few stitches of clothes. As far as I know, my father is still in Kansas City, but I don’t go there. I like the slower pace of Big Cloud. I had enough of my father and the big city.”

"So, you don't see your father or--"

"No, not at all. As I said, I had enough of him."

"I see," Poulet said, reserving more questions for later. "And your mother?”

“She died when I was three," she said as she removed her gloves. "I don’t remember much of her. Daddy's sister, Dora, came to live with us. She took care of me when I was growing up. Daddy was mostly too busy with his dry goods stores to pay much attention to me.”

The waiter brought the menu and handed it to Poulet. He ordered scrambled eggs and pork sausage for both he and Emily.

Emily sipped her coffee. “You seem an enigma to me, Mr. Poulet. You seem so distant and quiet, but somehow, that seems to be only the surface. The only thing I know is that you arrived here a few days ago from New Orleans.” 

“Well, there is more to the story," he said. "I came here to escape the chaotic atmosphere of New Orleans."

Emily spooned a dollop of cream into her cup and stirred. "Chaotic?"

"Yes, this slavery issue that is dividing us. It's on everyone's lips. I abhor slavery with a passion I reserve for murderers and rapists. In my opinion, the blame rests squarely on the immoral shoulders of the slave owners and those elected eunuchs in the United States Congress - and the Roman Catholic hierarchy is no better."

"Oh, surely, you don't believe a Christian church condones slavery."

"By their works and words, ye shall know them. The Church, Emily, if you haven't taken notice, has remained mute. The moral answer to this embarrassing predicament is the proverbial elephant in the parlor. The answer is staring everyone in the face, but they refuse to recognize it." 

Poulet tapped his finger on the table as his eyes shifted away from Emily. He inhaled deeply, then asked, "Uh, you are repulsed by the enslavement of the black man, are you not?"

"Oh, certainly. We are all God's children, but some don't see it that way, I'm afraid, even in Kansas. You know, Antoine, this is a free territory, but like everywhere else, they fight to the death here."

"Yes, I know I'm now living in Bloody Kansas, as they say." Poulet released a breath of weary resignation. "But at least I am living in a free territory."

Emily cocked a brow. "So far, it's free. Some here and in Missouri would have it otherwise."

"I'm aware of their political meddling, but one consolation is the fact that Missouri’s on the other side of the river."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Antoine, but it's only a twenty minute crossing.”

"I'm well aware of that," Poulet said, as he played with his soup spoon. "Let's pray this problem can be solved in a civil manner and not a civil war, but then, there is nothing civil about a war, is there? Now, enough of this unpleasant chat."

"I agree," Emily said. "So, why Big Cloud?"

"It's warm and friendly. The beauty of the river and the surrounding hills takes my breath away." Poulet dropped his gaze to his lap and smoothed the wrinkles of his napkin. "I closed my business on Rue Dumaine, sold the shop and most of my belongings and booked passage on the next steamboat heading north.” 

“What kind of business did you operate in New Orleans?”

“The same as I’ll have here - a shop and service for healing the sick with medicinal plants. Everyday plants and herbs, and even weeds that grow along the side of the road can be powerful substances. They can make you well or ill. I intend to make all my clients well.”

“I wonder what Doc Foster would say to all this,” Emily said.

“He has his clientele, and I’ll have mine," he said, viewing the street through the window. "I see no conflict whatsoever.”

“Why would people come to you instead of Doc Foster?”

Poulet blew the steam from his cup. “I'm certain Dr. Foster doesn't brew special teas and elixirs for the lovelorn and spiteful.”

“Lovelorn? Spiteful? Whatever do you mean?"

"I use, shall we say, a form of, um, enchantment." Poulet stretched the magical word out with a mysterious and exotic lilt. "Nothing dark or vicious, though."

Emily leaned her head to the side in an inquisitive tilt. "Enchantment?"

"Yes, I suppose you could also call it, uh, magic."

"Magic? I'm not quite sure I understand. You're a sort of wizard or witch doctor and you--"

Poulet reared his head back and peppered the air with a hearty laugh. A few people turned and stared. 

"Is it really that funny, Antoine? You said magic, so I assumed--" 

"No, no. Please excuse me, but I wouldn't call myself either of those. Let's just say I possess a gift of insight. I'm aware of what makes people tick and the origin of their maladies." He peered over his glasses and leaned closer to Emily. "I seem to be able to see into their hearts and help them find their true desires. Sometimes, those desires can be manifested and sometimes not. I can cure their physical afflictions, but other times, I cannot. Besides medicines, I also use prayers and, uh, a few other tools."

"Oh, good. Prayers are so needed in this world." Emily fidgeted with her necklace, zipping the cameo back and forth on its gold chain. "So, you treat physical maladies?"

"I treat whatever ails the patient, whether it be illness of the body or illness of the soul." Poulet's eyes took on a passionate sparkle. "I am a healer."

Before Emily responded, the waiter returned with their order and gently settled the plates on the table. The steam from the eggs and sausage rose up to Poulet’s glasses, fogging them. He removed and then wiped them with his napkin.

As they picked up their forks, Emily said, “You know, I never noticed how deep green your eyes were until now. Your spectacles seem to have them hidden."

“I had nothing to do with it, ma’am," Poulet said. "My father and mother had everything to do with it.”

“Yes, I know, Antoine, but they are quite fetching.”

Poulet set his spectacles back on the bridge of his nose and wrapped the wire bows behind his ears. “And just what do you think they will fetch?"

“Besides my attention?" Emily said. "Probably no more than a few cents."

They grinned at each other and started breakfast.

Chapter 8

Poulet found Maxine Bishop's humble rental house at 415 Main Street. He turned the key and let himself in. Dust flew in all directions, cavorting in the shafts of light peeking through the narrow crack between the curtains.

Furniture coated with layers of dust populated the room. A well-used maple desk butted up against the floral-papered wall. Walnut bookshelves lined one side of the room. Two bedrooms, one with a bed and dresser, took up the rest of the space. Behind the house stood a well-kept and clean outhouse. This place is a bargain. A little dirty, but... He locked the front door and walked back up the hill, leaning heavily on his cane.

The young lady he'd met before, now fully clothed, greeted him at the door and ushered him in. 

Miss Bishop entered the parlor. "Well, did you find the house to your liking?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, most certainly," Poulet replied. "I'd like to rent it." He pulled out his wallet and handed her a twenty dollar gold piece. She immediately slipped it down the bodice of her dress.

"I think you'll like it here, Mr. Poulet."

"I'm sure I will," he said with a tip of his hat. "Good day, ma'am."

At the boardinghouse, he found Amos Robidoux scrutinizing his register. "Excuse me, Amos, but I'll be checking out this evening. I just acquired permanent lodging."

"Wouldn't be Maxine Bishop's place at the end of the street, would it?" 

"That is the place," Poulet replied.

"Can't give you a refund on your deposit." Robidoux turned back to tracing the fine lines of his register with his finger. "Against policy."

"That's perfectly fine, sir. I'll be out sometime today. I just need to move my belongings to my new home and visit the dry goods store this afternoon for supplies."

"By the way, Mr. Poulet, I just got word." Robidoux removed his reading glasses. "It was Ben Jordan they brought in yesterday."

"Oh? How did they find it to be Mr. Jordan?"

"His size, build, and his custom made knife with the elk horn handle - that and a birthmark on his thigh. Don't think many knew about the birthmark 'cept his skinny dippin' buddies and his girlfriends, I'm sure." 

"I see," Poulet said. "Do they know how he died such a gruesome death?"

Robidoux shrugged. "Don't know. You might wanna talk to Doc Foster."

"I may do that." Poulet began the climb to his room. He looked back over his shoulder. "I'll carry my baggage out later this afternoon, Amos, after I finish shopping for supplies."

Robidoux gave a weak bob of his head and returned to his ledger.

Poulet unlocked the door of his room, tossed his hat on a chair, opened a window and stuck his head out. The view of a busy dock and the wide and swift Missouri brought a smile to his face. A paddle-wheeler tooting its horn had just docked, its cargo moving from the hold by hurried dock hands. The breeze off the river ruffled the lace window curtains as he watched the mighty tributary flow by.

He lay back on the bed and relaxed as the breeze caressed his face. The air seemed a refreshing change from the oppressive and sometimes malodorous scents of New Orleans.

He struggled to keep his eyes open, but he surrendered to sleep. His peaceful rest soon turned into turbulent nightmares. He dreamed of unidentified shadowy landscapes and unnerving sounds: sights and sounds of an unfamiliar and threatening origin.

*     *     *

Her eyelids parted and she blinked. Nidawi found herself on the floor of the cabin. The fire had died back into a glowing pile of smoldering embers. Her open front door thrashed against the wall rhythmically, banging with the blustery night wind.  

She glanced at the hearth and all around her. Her jars were accounted for. The willow chair she always sat on in front of the fire lay on its side. She brushed away the cobwebs of her recent memory and last recalled her chant and nothing else.

Her gaze focused on the front door. Deep gouges covered the outside in erratic patterns, some deeper than others. An uncommon chill raced through her limbs as she pulled herself up from the floor and crawled to the door. She ran her gnarled rheumatic fingers over the deep cuts in the wood.

The bolt made a resounding "crack" as she banged it into the rusty latch.

Chapter 9

Poulet woke from his nap, jumped from his bed and rushed to the water pitcher and basin. With shaking hands, he splashed the lukewarm water on his face. They're just dreams. Just dreams.  

He picked up one of his bags, gently placed it on the bed and rummaged through it. The vial of red powder appeared between folds of a shirt. He set a coin-sized leather pouch next to the container. The cork twisted off the rock crystal vial easily and he shook out a trifling pinch into the pouch and cinched the drawstrings. He slipped the small purse in his front pant pocket. He donned his hat and coat, locked Room 211's door behind him and walked out of the boardinghouse. 

A three block walk placed him at the doorstep of the office of "The Big Cloud Journal." He stepped in and approached the man behind the desk. "Uh, excuse me, sir. I'd like to place an ad in your newspaper."

The red-haired man behind the desk turned to him. "What kind of ad mister…"

"Poulet."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Poulet." He pushed himself away from his cluttered desk and adjusted his suspenders. "You talk to Maxine Bishop?"

"Yes, I did. I've rented her house at the end of the street where I'll be residing and operating my business from the front."

"Oh? What kind of business Mr. Poulet?"

"I'm a doctor of the healing arts, monsieur..."

"Gaudin. Theodore Gaudin. I'm the editor and publisher."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Gaudin."

Gaudin continued, "Quarter-page ads are ten cents a day. Half-page ads, fifteen cents. Full-page, twenty-five cents a day. Cheaper if you buy a month's worth. 'Course, there's a typesettin' fee of one dollar for any size ad."

"I'll consider that. The copy will be on your desk by Monday morning. Thank you and good day, sir."

Poulet felt his stomach growl as he left the newspaper office. The strong scent of roasting meat and gooseberry pie filled his nostrils with a hungry teasing. He followed the fragrance to McCauley's Café.

"May I take your order, sir?" the pert waitress asked.

Poulet's eyes shifted from the menu to her. "Uh, oh, yes." She is certainly pretty enough to frame. I wish... "I'll, uh, have the venison stew and biscuits with coffee, please."

She scribbled his order down. "You new in town?"

"Yes," he replied. "My name is Poulet. Antoine Poulet, ma'am."

"And I am Emily Meriwether. Your order will be here presently." The waitress turned and stepped back into the kitchen.

Poulet scanned the crowded lunchroom of McCauley's. A mixture of local citizens sat at white linen-draped café tables. He found trappers in buckskin sitting among businessmen in wool suits, farmers and fishermen, steamboat captains and dock workers. Ladies with feather-bedecked chapeaus and white gloves chatted and giggled amongst themselves. Thick tobacco smoke cast a blue haze over the room.

His dinner napkin unfurled with a crisp snap. He checked the silverware, picked up the fork and adjusted his glasses. The sunlight exposed a biscuit crumb clinging to one of the tines. He plucked the napkin from his lap and shooed the crumb away with a couple of quick wipes.

The waitress soon returned with his lunch. She placed the stew on the table and poured hot coffee from her steaming pot. 

The steam rose to his nose, reminding him of the chicory coffee he'd gotten so used to in New Orleans. He thanked Emily the waitress, laid the linen napkin back on his lap and picked up the acceptably clean fork.

He chewed on his first bite as he heard the name of Ben Jordan mentioned at an adjacent table. The lunchroom fell into silence and then a flurry of whispers. He couldn't make out all they were saying, but the hushed banter had an air of reverence. He shook his head. Ben Jordan must have been highly regarded, the poor bastard. The subdued chitchat in the cafe soon again turned loud.

Poulet finished his lunch. The waitress stopped by his table. "Was it to your liking, sir?" 

"Oui, mademoiselle," Poulet replied. "Trés bon." He picked up his napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you, Mr. Poulet." She set the coffee pot down, stood behind the table's vacant chair opposite him and laid out fresh silverware. The arrangement of the silverware did not meet with her approval and she busied herself with adjusting their placement. "Are you in Big Cloud for a time?" 

Poulet took a sip of coffee. "I hope so ma'am. I find the town congenial. I believe I may settle here for a while."

"That would be wonderful, Mr. Pou--"

"Please," he interrupted, "since I've chosen to make this my new home, please call me Antione."

"Antoine, then," she replied with a smile. She moved the spoon closer to the knife and then realigned the knife for the third time. "Did you notice the postings for the dance social?" she asked, her eyes still fixed on the silverware. 

"No," I don't believe so."

She paused in her chore. "You might make a few new friends and get to know our little town better." She shook her head. "The socials are so much nicer than the saloons, I'm sure."

"That, I am certain of, ma'am," Poulet said. "I just might make an appearance."

"Please, do," she said, brushing back a wisp of auburn hair from her eye. "It's being held on the Mt Zion Christian Church grounds. They usually hire an orchestra and serve punch and finger food."

A twinge of edginess struck Poulet when the waitress mentioned the venue of the social. He peered over the rim of his cup at her. He cleared his throat. "Were you, um, planning on attending?"

"Oh," she said, rolling her hazel eyes to the ceiling. "I lack an escort, so I'm afraid not."

Poulet settled his cup in the saucer. "You have an escort now," he said, "that is, if you would care to accompany a man of such short stature and with my, uh, affliction."

Emily the waitress glanced over Poulet's half-empty cup and then met his eyes. "Well, I wouldn't normally," she said as she folded her arms. "We've only just met, but since you're new to town, I'd be delighted - despite your stature. I always enjoy making an acquaintance of new citizens of our town. And besides," she said, picking up the coffeepot, "I can't resist a man with a French accent."

Poulet felt his heart race as the waitress stood up. I haven't escorted such a beautiful woman in...um, it's been....years. "Where and when should I call on you, Miss Emily?"

"I live at the west end of Chestnut Street in the white clapboard house with the cupola. I rent a room from Mrs. Gallagher." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Care to come by around seven?"

"Seven it is, ma'am," he said as he stood up from the table. "I look forward to spending the evening with you."

"As do I," she said. 

Emily the young waitress turned and disappeared behind the kitchen door. 

A smiling Poulet left a silver dollar on a twenty-five cent check and left McCauley's.

Chapter 10

Sheriff Lucien Stiles leaned back in his tufted leather chair and stared at the ceiling. The pressed tin wasn't fancy, but it had intricate embossed patterns, enough to get lost in for a few minutes. He pushed his breakfast tray from McCauley's aside, lifted his legs and dropped his heavy boot heels on his desk with a thud, setting the china dishes to chattering.

The usual state of the Big Cloud jail consisted of a calm quietude. No prisoner had bunked in the jail for months. An occasional rowdy drunk or petty thief heard the clang of the cell door closing behind them, but no one recently. 

Ben Jordan's mangled condition had Stiles befuddled. Doc Foster still hadn't gotten back to him with the official cause of death. Stiles figured it would be a hard thing for anyone to decipher.

He twisted and twirled the ends of his mustache. His other fingers tapped out absentminded drum rolls on the desktop. Couldn't have been a man that killed Ben Jordan. What kinda man would be able to mutilate a person like that, and why? Maybe a bear. Nah...don’t think so. Haven't seen a bear in these parts in years. Mad coyote or badger? Ain't likely. 

The front door swung open and the sheriff's deputy, Dale Barada, walked in. He dusted off his vest, grabbed a low-backed chair and pulled it up in front of the sheriff's desk. "What'd ya hear from Doc Foster about Ben?" 

"Not a damn thing - yet, but I intend to find out directly. Seems to me he's been dilly-dallying far too long. Since the county is lacking a coroner, he'll have to do. We gotta wrap this thing up and get this man buried." He pulled himself up out of his chair. "Keep an eye on the office, would ya, Dale? I'll be back shortly."

Stiles walked down the street and into Doc Foster's crowded waiting room. Shabbily dressed children populated the room, most of them barefooted and dirty. A nun sat holding a squawking baby. Another nun in a black and white habit stood with folded arms, keeping her eye trained on the surrounding sea of fidgety children: a few hacking with congested coughs. He found Doc Foster in the back of his office suturing a cut on a squirming boy's forehead.

"Looks like the boat just docked and let off every orphan in the county," Stiles said.

"Well, I don't know about that, Lucien," Foster said, "but I have to see quite a few today." 

"Good thing you're takin' care of 'em, Doc. They'd have to go quite a ways to see another doctor."

"Well, someone's got to take care of 'em. Might as well be me." Foster turned back to the task at hand. "What can I do for you, Lucien?" 

"Well, you know I got paperwork to do, doc, and you know how much I need to close the book on Ben Jordan's death. Uh, you got an official cause of death, yet?"

"Yes, I do, sheriff." Foster continued to concentrate on his work. "He was mauled by a black bear - officially."

"A bear?” Stiles said. “How come ya think so?" 

"Just the way his wounds looked. Musta been a mama bear protecting her young. They can get pretty vicious that way." Foster tied off his young patient's sutures. "Yes, officially, Ben Jordan ran into a bear - or a bear ran into him, simple as that."

The sheriff rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Uh, s'cuse me, Doc, but I haven't seen a bear in these parts in years. Bears don't selectively rip out hearts and lungs, gnaw on a man's head a while and leave the rest, for crissakes. Are you sure it was --?"

"I'll talk to you about it later, Lucien." Foster frowned at Stiles and made a slight nod to the boy. 

"Oh, uh, I see. Well, you're the boss. I'll be by later to pick up the certificate."

"State in your records that it was an unfortunate encounter with a bear. I'll sign the death certificate and bring it by later."

Sheriff Stiles said good day to the busy Doc Foster. 

Stiles stepped back out into the street. He scratched his head at Foster's explanation. Bear, huh? Don't look like an official bear attack to me, but whatever the doc says... He quickened his pace and in a minute stepped back into the jailhouse.

Deputy Barada hadn't moved. His tongue stuck intently out of the side of his mouth while he concentrated on rolling a cigarette. The cigarette fell apart and ended up on the floor. "Damn it! Cheap rolling papers." 

"Got nothin' to do with the papers and all to do with your lack of coordination. Thought you Indians knew how to do that the second you flew out the chute."

"I'm only half Ioway, you know."

"Then roll half a cigarette." Stiles suppressed a grin as Barada pulled out another paper.

Barada ignored the sheriff's remark. "What'd Doc Foster say?"

Stiles hung his hat and sat down at his desk. "Says it was a bear - a black bear."

"A bear?" the deputy scoffed. "Christ, there ain't no bears around here anymore. You white people scared 'em all off. Maybe some other kinda critter."

"No other kind of animal, in these parts anyhow, could come close to that kind of damage."

"Maybe it wasn't an animal, sheriff." The deputy licked the edge of the rolling paper. "Maybe it was a man wantin' it to look like an animal did it."

"Could be. If it was, they didn't know much about bears." Stiles leaned back in his chair. "Nah. Don't think so. Everyone in these parts liked Ben Jordan. He didn't have enemies --none that I'm aware of, anyway. You?"

"Me neither. He was pretty respected around here."

"Well," the sheriff said, "we ain't gonna find out now, I guess."

Stiles opened a desk drawer and found letterhead stationery. He dipped his pen in the ink well and started a note he'd have wired to Ben Jordan's brother in Omaha.

            *      *       *

"I told you not to come here during the day. What if someone sees you?" 

"I couldn't stay away," she said. "I need your attention. I need you deep inside me."

Against his better judgment, but unable to resist her charms, the fat man took her to his bedroom. She lay back on the bed. He unbuttoned her bodice and ripped it aside revealing her bare breasts. His sweat-covered chest rubbed against hers. Her hardened nipples met his as he rode her. She opened her mouth and he pressed his mouth against her lips. Their tongues met, intertwined and wrestled. He continued to ride her until he spilled his seed and then fell back, gulping for air.

"You need to…leave now," the fat man huffed.

"And what about -- "

"Soon. I... promise."

The woman got up from the bed, dressed herself and disappeared.

The fat man stared at the ceiling and made plans. 

Chapter 14

Poulet arrived at his new home after escorting Emily to her room at Gallagher's. 

He found it in decent condition, but not close to approaching his fastidious requirements for cleanliness. He spent most of the afternoon dusting, washing down the walls with vinegar, sweeping and arranging furniture. 

He stepped into the spare bedroom. Near the window, an altar he'd constructed with scraps from the Emerson Sawmill rested on legs of smooth river driftwood. He'd lashed the legs together with strips of birch bark and leather shoelaces while praying to Baron La Croix, a powerful and influential Voodoo spirit or loa of the dead. A marble mortar and pestle sat prominently on the altar along with two human skulls and an array of candles.

Vital to his practice of prayers, spells, incantations and invocations of the dead, an orderly display of miniature paintings lined the back of the altar. The artists' renderings were of Catholic saints and loas and of varied quality, but all subjects were endowed with vibrant and hypnotic eyes that glinted with a compelling magnetic attraction. 

Three shelves he'd mounted on the wall supported jars and vials of a rare and special nature. Their contents of ground bones, horns and hooves, feathers, potions and medicines made up his supply of ingredients for physical and spiritual healing. 

He took a step back and admired his handiwork. He noticed a window drape askew, walked over, reached up and adjusted it on its rod. His peripheral vision caught something out of the ordinary as he started to turn away. A quick glance to the thick stand of trees behind his house revealed an extraordinary view. The trees had taken on a clarity he'd never witnessed. A rippling sort of light-bending framed the lowest bough of a walnut tree. Void of form, it resembled a shimmering veil, like looking through crystalline water to the bottom of a stream; a twisted but sharply focused and transparent trick of the light. He blinked his eyes and the vision was gone. The trees and bough of the walnut again appeared normal. 

*     *     *

Dumaine at Rue Bourbon

New Orleans

Trudeau found Poulet's abandoned residence and office. He peered inside through the dusty front window and found a Creole woman packing wooden crates with books. The crates bore lettering that read, 'A. Poulet.' He put on an elaborate facade of an exaggerated smile, doffed his hat and rapped on the door with his walking cane.

The woman cracked the door open. "What do ya want?" she asked.

"Yes," Trudeau answered through crooked yellowed teeth. His puffy bloodshot eyes bore down on her. "Uh, I'm looking for Antoine Poulet."

"He's gone," she said. "He no longer lives here. Good day."

"Uh, ma'am," he said with a charming soft and slippery lilt of his voice, "excuse me. Do you happen to know the location of his present whereabouts?"

"I do not know, sir." The woman inched back from the door, dragging the doorknob with her in a slow retreat. "Now will you--"

"Ma'am?" Trudeau asked. "I am an old acquaintance of his from Paris, uh, William is the name." He smoothed his limp hair back from his pallid forehead. "I was hoping to surprise him. We haven't seen each other in five or six--"

"He moved up to Kansas and he ain't comin' back." The woman tugged the door toward her, its opening now reduced to a slim crack. Trudeau wedged his boot in the narrowed entrance. 

"That is unfortunate, ma'am," he said as he gazed past her and at the piles of stacked crates. "It looks as if he hasn't completely moved out yet."

"I have to ship all this to the man today," she said. "Now, could you please leave? I have to have these ready within the next hour."

"Oh, certainly. I understand," he said, his salacious smile widening. Dim-witted darkie. "I so regret taking your precious time. Uh, by the by, ma'am, may I inquire as to the cognomen of that city in Kansas?"

"As if it makes any difference to you, it's called Big Cloud - and if you don't leave now, I will call for the police."

"I see," Trudeau said while scratching the beard stubble on his pockmarked neck. "You needn't call for the police." He removed his foot and donned his hat. "Merci. Au revoir."

The Creole woman closed the door, locked it and pulled the curtains over the windows. 

Trudeau crossed the street and down the block to Aleix's Coffee House. He sat at an outside table facing Poulet’s old residence, ordered absinthe and waited. 

Chapter 15

“Lucien, I want to know where my husband is,” Jessica DuChamp demanded of Sheriff Stiles, "and I want you to find out right now!”

Stiles’ peaceful Sunday afternoon at the Big Cloud Jail had suddenly turned tumultuous.

 

She told the sheriff he’d left Tuesday morning and hadn't returned. Her strident urgency shook Stiles and Barada out of their still-measurable Saturday night stupors.

“Well, Mrs. DuChamp, don’t you think maybe he just had a lot of traps to set?” Sheriff Stiles asked politely, concealing his annoyance at her intrusion.

“Not that many, sheriff. It’s just not like him to be away so long." She leaned into Stiles and said with an air of authority, "I want you to form a search party and find him. He’s up in those hills somewhere!”

Stiles pulled his six foot frame up from behind his desk. “We’ll get on it right away, ma’am. We’ll round up a few boys and take a look-see. Where’s he do most of his trapping?”

“Up in the hills around the mouth of the Nemaha somewhere." Mrs. DuChamp's flitting hand made a dramatic sweeping gesture to an undefined area in an unidentified direction. "Out there, sheriff - oh, you know, this side - the south side.”

Stiles nodded. “We’ll see what we can find, ma’am.”

Mrs. DuChamp stood up straight and rigid. “With the exorbitant tariff we pay on pelts, I expect the very least you do, sheriff, is to spend a few honest hours searching for him.”

“That we will, ma’am," Stiles said. "I promise you.”

Mrs. DuChamp let out a loud snort, turned and stormed out of the office. 

"Sheee-it," Stiles muttered. "What the hell's goin' on around here, anyway?"

"Maybe Stuart went down to St. Joe to one of those fancy sportin' houses," Barada chimed in. "Maybe he's been too drunk or his johnson’s too sore to come home yet. I hear some of them girls can keep a man occupied for quite a spell - if he had enough money, that is."

"That's not likely, Dale. Stuart walks the straight and narrow when it comes to his marriage. He'd have too much to lose." Stiles shook his head. "No, that can't be it."

Stiles resigned himself to the fact that his Sunday afternoon recovery from his Saturday night would be cut short. He turned to his deputy. “Go round up a few men at Dorland’s, if they all ain’t drunk already.”

“That might be a tall order, sheriff, this bein’ Sunday afternoon and you know how--”

“Just go, goddamn it. I don't give a rat's ass what kinda shape they're in.” 

Sheriff Stiles found no comfort in the fact that Jessica DuChamp's father, Abraham Emerson, owned the saw mill and was president of the Springer and Emerson Bank, the only bank in town. With his economic and political pull, Abe Emerson was a force to be reckoned with. Even though Stiles had heard the banker didn't care much for his daughter's choice in husbands, he also knew that it was only a matter of time before Emerson butted in with his two cent's worth.

Deputy Barada returned from Dorland's Saloon with four men on horseback ready to comb the hills for any sign of the missing man. As one of them trotted up, Stiles noted the reins of the man's mount dragging on the ground. The man had both hands in a death grip on the saddle horn, anchoring himself as he reeled in a spin. He wore a perplexed frown, as if he wasn't sure whether the earth was spinning or he was. Another, bent forward over his saddle with his face buried in his Appaloosa's thick mane, held on with his arms wrapped around its neck. His dangling boots kicked half-heartedly at the air, searching for a toehold in a stirrup. His loud singing rang with a slurring and off-key rendition of "Buffalo Gals." Stiles shook his head. Shit. Ain't got much to work with here.

The search party set out for the hills north of town. Their destination had remained a remote area of untamed woodland for years. A search on horseback would be a challenge, as no roads, trails, or even foot paths crossed the area.  

The volunteers followed the few miles north on the dirt road that hugged the edge of the river. At the mouth of the Nemaha, Stiles split up the men into pairs. They mounted the hills, their horses kicking up mud in the steep climb.

They searched the woods for hours and turned up nothing until four-thirty. Stiles reared his horse around when he heard a man holler, "Sheriff! Better get over here. You might wanna see this."

Stiles guided his horse in the diminishing daylight to the area where he'd heard the voice. One of the volunteers, Jake Duncan, stood near a shovel lying on turned earth. As Stiles dismounted, Duncan said, "What's this, sheriff?"

Stiles shrugged, picked up the shovel and stared at the freshly turned soil. He and Duncan kicked the soil around with their muddy boots. 

Duncan got on his knees and pushed soil aside as Stiles dug with the shovel. The other men gathered around and watched. Like prairie dogs digging a burrow, the dirt flew in all directions.

 

The shovel's blade made a muted ping as it hit something unyielding. Duncan bent down and brushed the damp soil aside, revealing a beaded belt buckle. Below the buckle, they found a pair of buckskin-clad legs covered with dried crusty blood and crawling maggots. Above the buckle, an empty thorax stuffed with dirt and leaves stared back at them. Above the virtually severed neck, a crushed skull hung on by a few threads of rotting tendon.

 

Stiles stood at the foot of the grave and leaned on the shovel. "Looks like somebody's been takin' a dirt bath."

Deputy Barada turned away and threw up his lunch.