Wayne Patrick

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Chapter 20

​"What do you mean, you don't know?" Stiles asked as he lit his pipe and puffed vigorously.

"Shit, Frank, you know as well as I do that's not gonna be good enough for my records. Can't you even guess at something?" The sheriff clenched the pipe's stem firmly between his teeth as he spoke. "And don't tell me he ran across a mother bear."

"Well, I'll have to guess murder, Lucien, but I have no idea as to the method. There are no telltale signs like bullet or knife wounds. What was left of the skull was close to completely detached from the torso. A very sharp knife blade or axe may have been used. I didn't detect any rope burns, so it wasn't strangulation."

Stiles hiked his boots up, dropped them on his desk and leaned back. "Since there wasn't much of a neck left, that would make perfect sense."

The doctor continued. "Yes. Ahem. And his face, well, hard to say what did that."

"And his chest?”

"I don't know, Lucien. From the looks of it, well . . . it looked like someone just scooped it out in one swift motion. The chest muscles had been torn away from the ribcage, but in an uneven pattern, unlike a sharp knife. It's as if his thorax was just pulled apart. I don't know of any one man capable of doing something like that - two or three maybe, but not one. I still think it could have been an animal."

Stiles closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just like Ben Jordan, then?"

"Seems so, sheriff," Foster said as he sat down.

"Well, doc," the sheriff said, moving the pipe to the other side of his mouth, "just exactly who buried him, then?"

“Don’t know.” Doc Foster stuck his hands in his armpits. “Let's not go through this again. Maybe someone found him and decided the Christian thing to do was to bury him. That is a possibility, isn't it?"

"Maybe," the sheriff said, "but I don't think there's many Christians living up in those remote hills." He took another puff on his pipe. "Are you certain of the identity of the body?"

"Ninety-nine percent certain that it's Stuart DuChamp. He came into my office once complaining of pain on urination. I had to take a look at his penis."

"Yes, and . . ."

"He only had one testicle. I suppose I could ask his wife."

"Let me take care of that. That's a very delicate matter."

Foster nodded agreement. "I understand."

"So, you're pretty certain that it is indeed the body of Stuart DuChamp?" Stiles asked.

"Certain as a man can be under the circumstances."

"Thanks. I'll notify his wife of the unfortunate findings after I confirm the lone testicle. I 'm sure you're well aware of her concern. I'll call on her this morning."

Foster stood to leave. "Please convey my condolences, Lucien." 

"I certainly will. Oh, and doc, could you bring me the belt buckle to take to her?"

"Of course. I'll be right back."

Foster left for the morgue, and a burning sensation traveled from Stiles' stomach to the back of his throat. He pulled out a gray ledger and dipped his pen in the inkwell. Foster is full of shit. I just can't believe . . . Despite Foster's waffling, he entered the official cause of death of Stuart DuChamp as "death by the hand of man." Now that a second trapper was found dead, he was aware that at least one investigation was called for. He'd never had to do much of any kind of investigation, other than the year before when he had to find out who'd been stealing Emma Polk's chickens.

Foster returned with the blood-stained beaded belt buckle, handed it to Stiles and returned to his office. The sheriff stood up and took a deep breath. He wrapped the belt buckle in cloth, left the jail and walked up the hill to visit Jessica DuChamp. 

After confirming the identity of the body with Mrs. DuChamp, Stiles walked back down Main Street to the jail and found trouble.

*       *       *

He stood in front of the hearth, gazing into the fire. Grasping both seams of his long unbuttoned black leather overcoat, the fat man pulled it open and stretched his arms up and out in a blasphemous caricature of a crucified Christ. Much as a bat ready for the night's flight, he continued to face the blazing fire. His shifting shadow brushed cold against Nidawi's face.

"I told you there was to be no evidence of a body," he said. "They should just disappear. How hard can that be?" He turned to her with a smile. "What is the problem with your methods? After someone finding Ben Jordan and then I finding DuChamp’s body by chance on his and soon-to-be my territory, I wonder if your conjuring is doing me any good at all. I had to bury DuChamp, you know, and then someone came along and dug him back up. After your mistake with Jordan, I didn't trust you completely taking care of DuChamp - and I was right. The whole town will be aware of another killing in a matter of hours and this must not happen again. Your sorcery is not working to our advantage."

"Sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't." 

"That's not good enough!" he snapped. His malicious eyes burned into hers. "Make sure it works this time." He drew closer. "I grow increasingly wearisome of cleaning up after you. My patience wears thin. My trust in you has eroded to the point of skepticism." He stood up straight and turned back to the fire. "Evidently, you're not very well liked on the reservation, isn't that correct?"

Nidawi didn't respond.

"You know, I have more than one set of eyes around here, don't you?" He turned back to her. The firelight lit his expressionless face with a yellowish pallor. "And don't even think about trying any of your hocus pocus on me. If anything happens to me, your granddaughter will be sold to the highest bidder and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Duncan is next. It must be done within the next week. There is to be no trace left of him. I want no excuse. Is that clear?" 

Without waiting for a reply, he walked to the door and turned. "Just remember your granddaughter." He stepped out, shut the door and followed the trail back to town.

Chapter 21

The normally quiet jail reverberated with concerned chattering. Everyone in town knew of Ben Jordan's interment that morning and now, for some reason, some had become aware of Stuart DuChamp's killing.

The crowd in the Big Cloud jail wanted to know who was going to protect them when they were trapping, hunting and fishing in the woods. They also wanted to know how the two men had been killed. Sheriff Stiles kept a buttoned-lip and managed to placate them.

With much grumbling, the group left the Big Cloud Jail. Stiles fell back in his leather chair. The blow to the upholstered back spawned a cloud of dust. He tossed his hat on his desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Roll me up a smoke, Barada, You need the practice."

The Deputy pulled out his papers and commenced to rolling.

"Well, we're stuck now," Stiles said. "Lettin' the cat out of the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin' it back in. How the hell did people find out about DuChamp?"

"I don't know for sure," Barada said. He licked the edge of the paper and sealed the cigarette. He tossed it to the sheriff. "I bet it was Victoria Tutwiler. You know what a big gossip she is."

Stiles lit his smoke. "Well, tell me, how did she find out?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sheriff. Might have been one of the other men, though. Three of 'em went back to Dorland's after we dropped the body off last night. You know how they start yakin' and braggin' when they get a few whiskeys under their belts."

The sheriff blew out a thick cloud and twirled the ends of his mustache. Son of a bitch. What the hell am I gonna do? "Guess it doesn't matter now. We gotta find out what's going on here. I just hope they don't go back out there trigger happy and end up shootin' each other. Some of these men haven't got a lick of sense and always end up squattin' on their spurs.”

"How did Mrs. DuChamp take the news?"

"How do you think she took it? She confirmed his one testicle, so we now know for sure that it was him."

"Poor woman," Barada said. "You get to see the inside of the house? I heard it's pretty nice."

"Nice ain't the word. Opulent is more like it." Stiles tapped the ash on his cigarette. "Yes, it's pretty fancy. Marble floors, Persian carpets. French furniture."

"Bet Abe Emerson had a lot to do with it."

"Yep, I think daddy had a hand in the decorating. Stuart never made that kind of money."

"So, what now, Lucien?"

"You and me will both be lookin' for new jobs if we don't come up with something - and very soon."

Chapter 22

Jake Duncan strapped the beaver traps on his pack mule and cinched the leather ties. The Newhouse traps weren't cheap and he couldn't afford to lose even one. 

Jake's wife, Ida, opened the back door of their modest but comfortable home on the outskirts of town. The Duncans’ log house sat on top of a steep bluff commanding a panoramic view of the Missouri River valley below. She regarded her husband as she dried a plate with her dishtowel. "You be careful out there, Jake. We don't need another widow around here."

"I will, honey."

She stopped rubbing the plate. "Will you be back tomorrow or . . ."

"Depends on how far back I gotta go. Hope to be back day after tomorrow." 

Duncan continued to tie down his trapping gear as his wife approached him and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Please come back to me, Jake," Ida said. "I don't know what I'd do if--"

"My dear," he said, "not to worry. Got my Colt revolver, Kentucky musket and my Bowie knife. Don't think anyone will wanna tangle with me. I know these woods pretty damn well."

Ida gave her husband a hug. She walked back into the house as he slipped his boot in the stirrup. He pulled his long frame up onto the saddle. The Tennessee stud got a gentle nudge to the flank and he started down the steep trail to the river road.

The damp early morning air along the river gave Duncan a chill. He pulled his beaver coat collar up tightly around his neck and watched his breath turn into icy clouds of transient mist. A billowy fog drifted off the river and spilled out onto the road, its cloak of silence hushing the hoof beats. The sun struggled to sear through the haze, but it had yet to rise high enough to be of any affect.

The road had a familiar feel. His horse and mule ambled along at a leisurely pace. He rounded a bend and found a well-worn trail into the surrounding hills. He followed the trail for a few miles, then turned south to Blacksnake Creek and far from any living soul.

Sun rays eventually burned through the mist, chasing away its dampened gloom. The lifting of fog revealed the hills' colorful displays of a comfortably settled-in autumn.

Blacksnake Creek's twists and turns meandered through the remote area. He followed them for a few miles and soon came across a scattering of gnawed tree trunks. He came to a stop amongst a thick copse of cottonwood. Two beaver lodges sat in the water near the creek banks: one not far from the other. He didn't notice any activity, but had learned after years of trapping that this situation was just a given.

He dismounted, untied the four traps from the pack mule and quietly carried them to the bank. With a handheld rock's muffled pounding, he drove wooden stakes into the ground at the bases of four birch trees growing near the water. The traps' lead chains were secured to the stakes. He camouflaged the traps with leaves and rubbed castoreum oil on the overhanging tree branches. A beaver fresh out of the water would be attracted to the powerful musky scent of the oil. With any luck, it would step on the center trip plate and the trap's keen serrated jaws would slam shut on its leg. It would plunge back into the water with its crushed leg in an attempt to escape the deadly grip. After a protracted effort to swim away, the exhausted water rodent would give up and drown.

Duncan led his horse and mule away from the bank, downwind and far back among a stand of trees. He lay on his stomach with his dented brass spyglass and surveyed the area. Within a few minutes, he heard a tinkling and then a splashing. He trained the crude telescope on the creek at the first lodge. Three beaver heads popped to the surface. Duncan watched their water ballet of family revelry as they frolicked in the water. They paddled to the creek bank and climbed up the embankment. The two beaver from the first lodge and then one from the second, stood on hindquarters and sniffed at the scented tree branches. Their steps to the side tripped the traps and sealed their fates, all within a second of each other. The three beaver dove back into the creek. The water churned with distressed turmoil. The agitated waves gave way to ripples. The creek's placid surface returned within twenty minutes.

Thirty minutes had passed when he pulled the carcasses from the water and skinned them on the bank. He threw rock salt on the pelts, rolled them up and tied them on the mule. He rode back down a trail through thick undergrowth and tethered both the horse and mule to a maple tree next to a one room line cabin.

The summer before, Duncan had built a simple cabin of logs deep in the woods. With a fireplace and room for two, it was cozy and warm enough for a night or two. A willow bed frame covered with buffalo hide rested on the earthen floor. A crockery jar sat in the corner and held a few provisions he'd stashed for his infrequent stays. The cabin stood far back in a stand of mature sycamore trees and blended in with the surroundings. 

A pink and gold sunset faded into the western sky. The wind died to a whimper. He cocked his ear to the southern bluffs as he heard a pack of coyotes howl. He could pick out the yipping and yapping of pups amongst their elders' evening cries.

He carried a few scraps of wood into the cabin. When he stepped back outside, the silence of the woods overwhelmed him. The coyotes no longer howled and yipped. It was if he'd suddenly become deaf. The silence stung his ears. A breeze blew up and then died away. An uneasiness settled in the pit of his belly. He crawled back into the cabin and closed the walnut plank door behind him. He secured it with an iron bolt and sat on the willow bed.

He hugged his arms around himself and rubbed his triceps. His arm and shoulder muscles burned, a remnant of the afternoon's vigorous skinning chores. Three beaver pelts in one day. Visions of gold darted in and out of his daydreams. 

A squat pottery jug sat near the bed and he picked it up. The cork made a hollow thunk as he popped it open. Need to keep warm. He tipped the jug of whiskey to his lips and took a long draught. 

He tossed twigs and wood shavings in the fireplace, pulled out the flint and steel and sparked a fire to life. A flap of leather covered an overhead opening. As in a teepee, the opening served as an exit for the fire’s smoke. He loosened the flap, let it drop and the smoke rose.

He rubbed his hands together over the growing warmth, then threw on a log and lay back on the soft buffalo hide bed. A Hudson Bay blanket covered him up to his nose as his eyes locked on the hypnotic ever-shifting flames. 

The hard work of the day sank in. The heaviness of sleep bore down on his eyelids and they closed, even without his permission. He drifted off to sleep. All remained quiet.

The sound of his horse snorting awakened him. The pack mule brayed, letting go a few fervid honks. He parted his eyelids and shook his head, unsure of the validity of his newly awakened state. He glanced up from his bed to the ceiling. Leaves drifted down from the opening and landed on his face. Must be a fierce wind blowing up. A lonely flame flickered in the dying embers of the fire. A loud thump shook the walls of the cabin. More leaf fragments fell. What the hell? He reached for the Colt revolver. The cabin vibrated with a low but distinct hum. The tin cup near his bed skittered on the hard-packed dirt floor. What the...?

.....................THUMP

The odd and intense resonance jangled his teeth and blurred his vision. It shook the cabin as more leaves fell. He dropped the gun and put his hands over his ears, but the low hum persisted. Then, a sudden stop. Must be having a nightmare . . . that's it - a nightmare. I'll wake up. 

He pulled his hands from his ears. He checked his revolver and cocked the hammer.

A high-pitched kind of scream - a whining howl, like a coyote caught in a trap, broke the silence. The forlorn sound of agony drilled his eardrums. The sound had a human quality, but he'd never heard man or woman utter such a soul-shuddering sound. It engulfed the cabin and echoed off the walls, sounding much like someone's futile screams from the bottom of a deep well. Duncan dropped the gun, put his hands over his ears again, but it remained just as loud with his ears covered. Nope, this ain't a dream and that sure as hell ain't no bear out there.

........................THUMP

The sound had grown louder. More leaves tumbled from the roof. He picked up the Colt, tightened his grip and watched the barrel twitch back and forth as his hand shook uncontrollably. 

He threw a few sticks on the fire for light. The flame flared, but he found nothing to see. He kept his eyes on the door with the Colt's bead as close to dead center as his shaking hand would allow. 

Silence again....... no sound of wind. 

He waited for another scream or howl, but it didn't come. He wasn't even sure if he'd actually heard it or if his imagination had been flooded with an anxious state of expectation. He continued to stare at the bolted door. I hope this ain't a Jeb McKenna . . . I gotta hit it with a round dead-on.

The twigs in the fire snapped and crackled. A frigid draft of air cascaded over him from the opening in the roof. A dark silence saturated the cabin. 

...........................THUMP

The wheezing and labored breathing came initially as just a hint. With each passing second, its excitement of the air gained in intensity. Even though he couldn't see much, the walls of the cabin took on a contraction and expansion with each perceived respiration. The walls seemed to become pulsating living tissue. The cabin's stacked logs elongated and stretched far out and away from him. The roof rose soundlessly skyward until he could see nothing but a dome of blackness above him. The coziness of the cabin had transformed into a cavernous structure of cathedral-like proportions. The reverberating echoes of breathing turned to a subsonic earth-pounding rumble. Duncan dropped the Colt and covered his ears again. His whole body shook. Leaves fell in profusion and covered his head. The vociferous roar grew deafening. He bent over and vomited. He felt himself losing his balance and vision. Just before he thought he would pass out, he reared his head back and screamed.

The breathing stopped. Then, again, an uneasy silence.

His hand still trembled as he picked up the revolver. His ears could only pick out a high-pitched buzzing, like a hive of irate bees. Convinced of his impending death, it seemed to the confused Duncan that his dream world had collided with his waking world. He questioned his own ability to discern the two. 

He'd heard spirit lore from the Ioway Indians and Jeb McKenna's story. He wasn't sure of the validity of either. The ghost stories he'd heard as a child from his grandfather had always scared him, but knew that they weren't true. Now, he wasn't so sure. 

He couldn't help but feel that an unnatural force was bearing down on him. He wasn't certain of its origin, whether a heavenly force or one from hell, but judged it to be unfriendly. Jake Duncan didn't consider himself a superstitious or spiritual man, but it was becoming more apparent to him that he would need to re-evaluate his beliefs. A sniff at the air gave him pause. A sharp repugnant odor assaulted his sense of smell. The odor reeked of rancid meat.

He craned his head up and focused on the void above. A light as brilliant as the noon day sun appeared. The blinding radiance filled the voluminous space. He covered his burning eyes. The brightness grew dimmer and he opened his eyes. He found himself sitting in the middle of darkness, but the cabin's distant walls pulsed with illumination. Encircling him and projected on the surrounding walls from an unknown source, stood three-dimensional panels of light, rippling and waving in the manner of windblown sheets. Countless spidery veins erupted on their surfaces, spreading tiny fissures throughout in all directions like the fractures of a cracked mirror. The panels exploded into multitudes of tiny dazzling suns. Glittering like the sparks of comet tails, they streaked around the expanse of the cabin in a dizzying display. They came to an abrupt halt and froze, their specks of sparking brilliance suspended as if in a constellation of distant stars. His jaw slackened as he witnessed the floating specks rotate around him and hover in a lazy orbit.

The specks imploded a few feet above his head. A phosphorescent sphere of green luminance the size of an apple materialized, bouncing and bobbing, seemingly suspended in mid-air. Its perceptible humming captured Duncan's attention. In stunned fascination, he watched it spin and wobble, unsure of its axis. With some hesitation, he reached up to touch it. It quickly crumbled and disappeared.

Dead silence and darkness returned.

He threw a handful of twigs on the embers and revived the fire. A loud creaking broke the silence as he watched the distant log walls move back toward him and return to their original positions. The cabin had again attained its intimate dimensions. He rubbed his eyes and then took a pull on the whiskey jug and paused.

Virtually imperceptible at first, a staccato ticky-tacky kind of scratching sound came from the cabin's door. Jesus Christ!  It became more frequent and desperate, as if someone were dragging brittle tree branches across the rough grain of the walnut. The scratching soon ceased.

Nothing now but the still air.

He gripped the smooth handle of the Colt and glanced to the door again. A horrifying sight met his gaze. The door bowed in toward him with a disagreeable groan. As if the flexing planks had turned to rubber, the bulbous door strained at the hinges, threatening to burst in. It quickly snapped back into its frame: flat and rigid again.

Silence made a brief return.  

A thunderous pounding came from the door. The demanding appeal for entrance had Duncan covering his ears again. The clamorous hammering persisted. It grew louder and louder still, but the door did not stir. 

Someone wanted in.

Chapter 23

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Poulet, but I need something to, uh, ward off, well . . . bad things.”

Jeb McKenna was the third person that afternoon to knock on Poulet’s door and request a consultation. The ad in The Big Cloud Daily Journal had run only once. He’d already been visited by two of Big Cloud’s citizens. 

“Bad things?” Poulet asked McKenna. 

“Yes, well, the evil spirits," McKenna said, his head hanging. He lowered his voice. "Spirits that live in the woods,” he whispered.

“Ah, so it’s spirits, then?” 

McKenna snapped his head back up. “Yes. However hard that is to believe."

"It's not hard, Jeb. I'm not shocked by this. I've seen much suffering in my time as a Voodoo practitioner and this is not an unusual request. The evil I am used to contains all manner of the Great Beast’s minions and demons, but I'm not familiar with something called a wood spirit." Poulet settled back in his chair. "And it is evil?"

“Yes. Evil as in Satan, sir. Evil as in Lucifer. It lives in the woods. It can take a man’s life in the bat of an eye. They are demons - residents of Hades, as far as I’m concerned. I believe they’ve been reawakened somehow.”

Poulet leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Reawakened?”

“They must be. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be seeing only remnants of men. Maybe the woodland spirits are uneasy and displeased. Ben Jordan and Stuart DuChamp, found that out. I'm sure of it.”

“So, you're not of the opinion that a bear or a man killed these two men.”

McKenna turned his head side-to-side in a slow and deliberate manner. “No, I am not.”

“You're certain that the two trappers that died were killed by a spirit of the woods?"

“I’m convinced of just that, Mr. Poulet. There is just too much coincidence to think otherwise." McKenna loosened the knot in his necktie. "Since you’re new to the area, let me ask you, sir. Are you familiar with any of the Ioway Indian tribe's legends?”

“Non, monsieur," Poulet replied. "I am not, as of yet.”

“According to them, there’s an evil spirit that uh, consumes, well, you may not believe this, but uh . . . human flesh.”

“I am a firm believer in the unbelievable, Jeb. I take seriously anything my client’s may say. I retain no preconceived notions concerning anything involving the supernatural.” He scratched at his beard. “May I ask why, if these spirits have been dormant, are they all of a sudden so active?"

“I don't know. I guess maybe they need more, uh, flesh to survive. But I know one thing, I know firsthand about this spirit," McKenna said, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve, "and I know the extent of its bloodlust.” He rolled up his sleeve and revealed the long scar. “Is this enough proof?”

Poulet took off his glasses and inspected. “I heard from someone here in town, and I won't reveal my source, about something regarding this. Something to the effect that you'd had an encounter with this evil spirit."

"Jake told ya, didn't he? It was Jake Duncan, wasn't it? 'Cause he and I've shared a few stories over a few tips of the jug."

"I'd rather not say, Jeb." 

"I understand, but, Mr. Poulet, this ain't no story."

Poulet lit a cigar. "The scar was caused by this spirit?” So maybe this is what Mr. Duncan was referring to.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid to say.”

McKenna lowered his voice and looked around the room. “Please don’t tell anyone or they’ll take me for a loon. That’s why I try to keep it covered up, so as not to invite questions. I’ll trust you will keep this quiet.”

“Of course, Jeb. I understand. How did it happen?”

“Well, I don’t know if you found this out, but I used to fish a lot 'fore I opened the drug store. This happened a few years back.”

“Yes?”

“I was fishing on the Missouri one late afternoon, just north of town. I’d just put my lines out again and was waiting on the bank, just smoking and thinking. I figured I'd been out too long, but wanted to catch a few more catfish before I headed home. I don’t know how to explain it, but as I sat there it got real quiet all of a sudden. The breeze off the river stopped, like there was no air movement at all. All I could hear was the flow of the river splashing against the rocks. Mosquitoes that usually swarmed around my face just disappeared. It seemed real queer that it could be that quiet.”

Poulet, now intrigued with his story, said, “Go on, Jeb.”

“Well, as I sat there, the earth beneath me sort of started to, I guess you’d call it, vibrate or shift. It was kinda like what you feel if you’re standing near the tracks when a train goes by, like an earthquake, maybe. There was this hum or buzzing of sorts. It got real loud and I dropped my pipe and put my hands over my ears, but it wouldn’t go away. I felt a kind of wheezy breathing on the back of my neck and it smelled, well, like dead animals. I stood up and as I turned halfway around, I felt something cutting into my arm, like a sharp knife, almost too sharp, like I couldn't really feel it. I looked down and saw the blood gushing and then the pain started. I fell forward and slipped on a rock and fell in the river. I floated downstream on a piece of deadwood and managed to grab a hold of a willow branch along the bank and pulled myself out. I guess I had enough sense to tie my arm up with my shirt to stop the bleeding. I walked back to town - it wasn’t far, and went to Doc Foster’s and he sewed me up.”

“Did you see who cut you?”

McKenna mumbled, “It was more of a ‘what’ than a ‘who.’”

Poulet lifted an attentive brow. “I see. What, then, do you think it was?”

McKenna took in a deep breath and took his time letting it out with a weak but perceptible whistle. “The only way I can describe it is, well, it wasn’t a form, like a person. You gotta remember it was near sundown and the sun was in my eyes, but anyway . . . it was like summer heat you see rising off a far stretch of road, like a mirage. It was blurry, that’s why I say it wasn’t a person. I only saw it for a split second before I fell into the river, so I really didn’t see much, but what I did see was not human. I could see clean through it.”

“What do you mean, 'see through it' ?” 

“Just like I said. It was like one of those fun house mirrors you see on the boardwalk. It was kind of a twisted image, but it was what do ya call, transparent? I saw the trees through it."

Poulet's shoulders trembled as a flood of adrenaline surged through his veins. He heard his heart pounding in his ears. My backyard tree.

"But there's more, Mr. Poulet. It seemed to have two faces."

Poulet's hearing was still filled with excited blood flow. He leaned forward. "Did you say 'two faces’? ”

“Yes, well, if you could call them faces," McKenna said, spitting out the word ‘faces’ in a disgusted tone. "It’s like one looked one way and the other looked the other way.”

The spirit world of Ioway Indians was alien to Poulet. Humans possessed by spirits was more his experience, not so much the spirits themselves. “What did these faces resemble?" Poulet asked.

McKenna finally answered, his gaze lost in tracing the drifting motes of dust in the sun. He pulled his eyes away and refocused on Poulet. "Please forgive me. Uh, I don't know, but it had wings, too, only you could see right through 'em."

Poulet removed his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “So, Jeb, you believe this thing was a woodland spirit?”

McKenna gave a slight nod. “Yes, Antoine," he said, leaning in closer to Poulet, "an evil and sinister demon.”

“Did it have arms or legs?”

“Um . . . no, just a blurry see-through figure that seemed to kinda . . . wave, I guess."