Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 31

The reverend had been presented with more questions than answers after Poulet’s visit. He noticed a slight trembling of his hands as he began to prepare his sermon. He found it impossible to concentrate and set the Bible aside. The notion of something other than man or animal being involved in the two men's deaths seemed ludicrous. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and tried again to focus on scripture, but could not. His mind drifted to the not-so-distant past and his missionary days with the Ioway.

He recalled a death in the tribe that was officially attributed to an accident. One of the Ioway's young men had been out trapping and hadn't returned. After a search party found him, they brought him to Chief Mew-hu-she-kaw's lodge. The reverend didn't see the body, but a rumor began to circulate that it had been a spirit that had taken the young brave's life. The official cause was accidental. Everyone in the tribe suspected otherwise. The reverend did not.

The tribe had blamed the shaman Nidawi for his death. Nidawi’s daughter's first husband was a member of the tribe. They'd been married for two years and had failed to produce an offspring. Nidawi had blamed him for the failure. Most of the tribe was aware of her displeasure, but didn't speak to her. Her powerful medicine kept them at a distance. 

The chief asked Nidawi to move away from the reservation and she had, despite much protest and a hearing with the council. The people of the Ioway Tribe rested easier knowing the medicine woman was away from them and free from her influence.

Chapter 32

The residents of Big Cloud had never seen a funeral as impressive as Stuart DuChamp's. Sweet-smelling flowers shipped upriver from St. Joseph filled the church with their overpowering fragrance. Black silk bows adorned the pews. Every candlestick the church owned was stuffed with white tapers. The body of the deceased rested in a closed mahogany casket covered with a spray of baby roses.

Attendees filled every pew. The organist pumped out solemn hymns for the mourners as they waited for Reverend Tutwiler.

The whispering among the assembled came to a stop when Maxine Bishop walked in and took one of the last seats in the back next to Poulet and Emily Meriwether. Madam Bishop was dressed modestly in black. With the renewed whisperings, she smiled and kept her head erect.

Jessica DuChamp sat in the front pew next to her father. She turned back to Miss Bishop and smiled. The smile was returned. Jessica wondered if Miss Bishop had been more than friends with her husband, but decided it didn't matter anymore.

The organist commenced another hymn as the church choir made their entrance. Clad in blue and white robes, the choir of twelve sang like angelic songbirds. As the song came to a close, the reverend stood up from his chair on the side of the altar and walked to the pulpit. The organist held the last note for a few seconds, released it and it faded into the church rafters with a trailing echo. The silver-tongued Reverend Tutwiler opened his Bible and read verses that were a profound comfort to most there. DuChamp's friends, one after the other, took turns in relating stories of their friendships with him and singing his praises. 

The service ended and the gathered left the church for the cemetery, back to work or home. Poulet and Emily had elected not to attend the interment at The Olive Branch Cemetery. Instead, they had plans for a picnic lunch by the river.

As Poulet and Emily walked out of the church, Maxine Bishop grabbed Poulet's arm and pulled him aside. "Oh, Mr. Poulet," she said. "I need to talk to you concerning a private matter."

"Yes?"

"I need to be discrete," she whispered. "I don't want anyone to overhear our conversation."

"Well, Emily and I were planning a picnic, but if it's important . . ."

"I believe it is." She glanced around making sure no one was within hearing distance. "It concerns the fear that's gripping this town."

Poulet turned to Emily. "May we postpone the picnic for a few minutes, Emily?"

"Of course, Antoine," she replied.

"Miss Bishop," Poulet said, "whatever you tell me, you can tell Emily. We will both hold it in the strictest confidence."

Miss Bishop nodded. "I appreciate that."

They walked back to Poulet's house. He unlocked the door and ushered them in.

"Can I offer you anything to drink, Miss Bishop?" Poulet asked, as he removed his hat and coat.

"No, thank you," she said. "Oh, and even though I am your landlady, please call me Maxine."

"I will do that, Maxine."

Maxine cleared her throat. "I have confidential information that may be of value. I don't want to speak with Sheriff Stiles or anyone else - yet. Rumor has it that you're doing some unconventional investigations of your own concerning the trapper deaths around here."

"Word travels fast, does it not?"

"In this small town? Yes."

Poulet crossed his legs and focused his attention on Miss Bishop. "What is it that you want to say, ma'am?"

"I normally don't take much that is said in my house to heart, but what one of my girls told me was quite upsetting."

"Yes?"

"One of my clients, who shall remain nameless, told one of my girls that he knew how Ben Jordan and Stuart DuChamp died. This client was very drunk when he showed up at my door, so maybe it's just the words of a foolish drunkard and not ones to be taken seriously, but I made the decision to tell you anyway. You're about the only one I can trust, even though I don't know you well. A few of my clients have been to visit you and they all seem to consider you an honorable man and capable of confidentiality.” 

"I thank you for that, Maxine," Poulet said. "As far as my clients are concerned, it's my obligation to remain quiet, ma'am. My consultations are all confidential. Did this client say anything else?"

"Well, according to my girl, the man told her that within a few months, there wouldn't be many trappers left. According to him, a few people were going to be very rich when the trapping permits and land leases were awarded to them. I guess he didn't say how or why, or even who. Most of my girls don't repeat their client's drunken ramblings, but considering the local mood these days, well, my opinion is that we must take steps to remain vigilant."

"I won't ask the man's identity," Poulet said, "but you realize that the murderous occurrences of late are a grievous criminal matter. These are not instances of horse thievery."

"I understand." Miss Bishop smoothed the folds in her skirt. "This man comes around once a week or so in the late evening so as not to be seen entering my home. He's a prominent citizen, so as far as I'm concerned, at this point, my clients deserve anonymity."

"I agree whole-heartedly, Maxine," Poulet said. "It is a bit disturbing to hear this, though. I wonder what this man knows." His finger tapped at his cheek. "It sounds as if he may know more than the rest of us."

"Maybe he does or maybe he doesn't. It may just have been drunken talk, but you may find value in it."

"I'm not a constable or solicitor, Maxine, just a man that is concerned with the strange happenings of late." 

"Well, sir," the madam said as she stood up to leave. "I'll be on my way."

"The door is always open for you, ma'am."

Maxine Bishop left Poulet's and started her long walk up the hill.

Emily turned to Poulet. "What do you make of that, Antoine?"

"I'm not sure," he said as he plopped down on the sofa next to her. "It is strange and perturbing. I wonder who it was that visited Maxine's."

"Do you think it's of importance?"

"I certainly do, but most men that profess to know a lot usually know very little, but those who actually do, stay mostly quiet. Let's hope it's a case of the former and not the latter."

"What was she saying regarding leases and permits ?" 

"I'd like to find out. Do you know where I may find that information?"

"Mmm . . . maybe the county assessor's office in Troy," Emily said.

"Care to travel to Troy tomorrow?"

Emily nodded. "For you? Yes, I can do that."

"That sounds splendid. Now," he said as he stood up, "our picnic? It's seems to be past due."

Poulet moved to the kitchen and picked up the wicker basket he'd stocked with smoked ham, cheese, bread, and a bottle of vintage Bordeaux. They locked the house and walked down Main Street hand-in-hand. They reached the dock and then turned north and walked up the river road searching for a secluded spot for lunch.

*    *    *

The J. M. Converse Steamboat

The Dock at Big Cloud, Kansas

Trudeau doffed his tall beaver hat and held it up to the sun to shade his eyes. Where the hell am I? Jesus Christ, why would anyone want to live in this sewer? This is some shit provincial backwater. He found it drab and uninteresting. The only thing that didn't look drab and uninteresting was the front door of Dorland's Saloon.

The boat had made good time from Kansas City, but not enough time to recoup his losses. Card cheating bastards. He'd found the gamblers on the boat to be better at cheating than he.

He reached into his coat pocket and produced a hip flask. He uncorked it, took a swallow and licked his lips as he surveyed the dock from the upper tier of the boat. The steamboat captain blew a departing whistle. He picked up his bag, turned and walked down the steps and out onto the dock to wait for Poulet's books.

He found a river piling, sat down and watched the cargo from the boat being brought out from the hold. The cork plugging his flask made another 'pop'. He took another long pull of the nerve-soothing tonic. He followed the crane as it deposited Poulet's crates on the dock. A few deckhands moved the containers to a corner of the dock to make room for more cargo.

A short man, walking with a limp and cane, approached one of the deckhands and handed him a slip of paper. The man waved to a nearby wagon driver who backed his transport up to the dock. Two men jumped from the back and picked up the crates. After the last box was loaded, the short man sat on the tailgate and the wagon started up Main Street. 

Trudeau had studied the daguerreotypes of Poulet. That is the man . . . and he is indeed crippled, too. This is going to be easy. He picked up his bag, followed the wagon and watched it climb the steep street. It stopped in front of a nondescript house. He found a vacant bench in the city park and took a seat. He twirled his walking cane and took furtive glances to the top of the hill. The men soon emptied the wagon and left the house. 

He looked up and found a threatening sky, reminding him of the need to find lodging for however long he was to be in Big Cloud. As soon as he found a hotel, it would be time to smoke a pipe bowl of da yen, making for another relaxing evening of perfectly blissful ethereal numbness. 

At the bottom of the street near the river, a sign on a large white clapboard building got his attention. He picked up his bag, walked into Robidoux's and rented a room. 

After settling into room 215, he opened his bag with shaking hands and took out the jar of opium and the pipe. He removed the lid from the jar, took a bit of the opium, rolled it into a ball and dropped it in the pipe. Taking a lit taper, he moved the flame to the black glob of the hypnotic Chinese narcotic. As the flame drew closer, the black ball bubbled and hissed, releasing a distinctive aromatic cloud of smoke. The mesmerizing wisps of the pungent gray smoke drifted to the ceiling. As he inhaled, the drug caressed his lungs in soothing waves of anesthetizing euphoria.

He dug farther into his bag and pulled out a black leather box. The box held a piece of piano wire with handles on either-end and a pair of gloves. He pulled them out and smiling to himself, ran his fingers back and forth over the wire: smooth, cold and slick. The custom made handles on either end of the garrote were of intricately carved narwhal ivory, each in the form of angels. He thought that to be an ironic motif. 

Trudeau was a master at the art of garroting. He disliked blood. For him, it would be too easy to use a gun or a knife, but guns were loud and knives were invariably messy. Strangulation was neat, clean and tidy. He was well-practiced in the art. The strong Trudeau easily twisted the life from any victim. He was happiest when they were dangling from his wire. Kick and scream all you want. You're nothing but a puppet on my death string. Beg for your life. Won't do you any good. He wasn’t looking forward to the severing of Poulet’s ring finger, though. He had a sharp knife for the job, but found this required task distasteful in spite of the money.

He replaced the garrote, lay down on the bed and made plans.

A chunk of the poppy resin bubbled and spit as he lit it. The effects of his habit settled deeply in his bones. He had no pain, cares or worries. He floated off to a land of unearthly pleasure; a place where he was safe and loved and cocooned in the warmth of well-being. Falling into a dope-induced slumber, he found himself in a utopian world that existed only in his own mind. The dreamland would always dissolve when he awoke and faced cold hard reality.

PART II

*    *    *

Babylon, Assyrian Empire

598 B.C.

Ubar's wide eyes watched the ribbon of molten gold trickle from the white-hot crucible and into the sand casting. Sweat gathered on his forehead, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. Too late to wipe his brow, the salty drops fell on hot bricks, hissing as they skittered across the blistering surface. His hands shook as his responsibilities came to mind in casting the gold ring. King Nebuchadnezzar's sorcerer, escorted by a compliment of soldiers, had delivered the gold to Ubar, the royal jeweler, along with the design for the ring. The design was to be of a snarling lion's head whose ferocious eyes would host two perfectly matched tear-shaped rubies.

The precious yellow metal was not ordinary gold. The ring's material came from a cuff bracelet, an amulet worn at one time by King Solomon. The enchanted bracelet had been plundered from the temple when the Babylonians invaded Jerusalem the year before. Solomon's amulets were said to possess unheard-of powers that would shield the wearer from evil and harm. Along with hostile armies, they were said to raise or banish spirits and demons.

Endless processions of enemies at the city gates of Ishtar tested Nebuchadnezzar's resolve. He had to rely on more than just his lineage and reputation to keep his feeble grip on the throne. 

After Ubar put the finishing touches on the royal creation, he slipped it on his finger and held it up to the cloudless desert sky. The gold glittered as if robbing the sun of its shine. The pigeon blood rubies glinted with crimson resolve. Ubar found it to be worthy of a king.

He walked to the palace and presented the ring to the ruler who, pleased with the execution of his design, immediately slipped it on. Nebuchadnezzar walked out to his balcony and marveled at its blinding reflection. He smiled as he gazed upon the intricate patterns and details of the lion's face and mane and the flash of the rubies. "The lion is brave and ferocious," Nebuchadnezzar said, "much like me, is he not, jeweler?”

"Yes, he is, your highness," Ubar replied.

"It is a worthy of a king. You have done well."

The ruler of Babylon paid and then dismissed the royal jeweler. He found himself sitting by the bubbling waters of his palace oasis, listening to the subtle splashing. His lush hanging gardens were his only distraction as he fixed his gaze on the gold ring. He wore it for many years, never removing it.

Nebuchadnezzar would eventually go mad and turn into worthless mortal dust, no different than any of his enslaved servants: just another mote tossed about in the eternally shifting wind.

The ring had been lost to the ages until one day it made an appearance on the hand of Marie Laveau of New Orleans.

Chapter 33

The mantle of a Kansas autumn cloaked the bluffs and hills surrounding Big Cloud. Early October had brought frost, fog, and with it, more chill to the air. The now virtually naked tree branches seemed to reach up and scratch at the tombstone granite sky. The dismal clouds had been threatening storms for days, but in the end, spat out only rain showers.

Rain began to fall on the second of the month and continued unabated for three days. It dropped from the heavens in torrents. The swollen Missouri River had risen a few more inches, but not to a threatening level. It was just the way the river was: ebbing and flowing with the lack or abundance of precipitation.

Big Cloud's dirt streets had been transformed into rivers of thick black mud. Slogging wagons through the muck of the town's streets became a challenge and dangerous. Women weren't seen in town for a few days; the mud-covered wood plank sidewalks threatening to graze the hems of their long skirts.

Farmers in the vicinity gave up working the harvest fields and congregated at Dorland's Saloon. They sat and watched the rain, drank and gambled. There wasn't much else to do except talk, and the talk eventually always turned to questions involving the slain trappers. The bizarre stories seemed to gain in credibility as the level in the whiskey bottles fell and the gloomy days passed. Any number of stories circulated. The most popular concerned an escapee from the insane asylum in St. Joseph, a certain Mr. Hurst.

John Hurst had married the woman of his dreams, but being a heavy drinker, their home was the site of constant arguments and conflict. Sheriff Stiles had arrested Hurst on charges of spousal abuse. When he was released from the Big Cloud Jail, he attempted to reconcile with his wife to no avail. Hurst finally had the sheriff accompany him to his home. Under the sheriff's watchful eye, he hugged his wife in a loving embrace. In the throes of the embrace, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a straight razor and brought it to her throat. He severed her carotid arteries.

Mr. Hurst was sent to Topeka for trial, condemned to hang, escaped, was rearrested and then escaped again. He ended up in the St. Joseph insane asylum. 

According to the patrons of Dorland's, he'd escaped the asylum, hopped on a paddle-wheeler and landed back in Big Cloud. He lived like an animal somewhere in the hills and killed and mutilated trappers for the sheer thrill of it. The patrons of Dorland's had never seen the insane killer or even knew of his whereabouts, but they were convinced that it was a valid explanation. The more speculation, the more implausible the stories became.

The overcast and rain of three days finally dissipated and a clear sky arrived on the fifth of October.

Chapter 34

Stiles shifted in his chair and leaned back as he considered suspects. A whisker out of his twenties, the small town sheriff was one of the more educated law men around. Raised in the area, he was familiar with every creek, river, hill and valley of northeast Kansas and was acquainted with most of the families: names of kids, grandkids, cousins and spouses. Most were all law-abiding citizens, but a few had strayed, like John Hurst.

"What about the obvious, sheriff?" Barada asked, jolting Stiles out of his thoughts. "Any Ioway has a good excuse to get rid of a few trappers, don't they? Why don't you have a talk with Chief Nanchaninga?"

"Nanchaninga wouldn't give me the time of day. Why would any of 'em cooperate with us? They'd just as soon see all of us out of the way."

Barada poured a cup of coffee. "You know old Luke, the one that lives near Iowa Point?" 

"The one that whispered in my ear the other day?"

"That's the one. I'm figurin' maybe we should have a sit- down with him next time he shows up in town."

Stiles shook his head. "Won't get very far with him. He's crazier than a shithouse rat, but then, maybe it's worth a try. You'll have to be the one to do it."

The sheriff stood up from his desk and stretched. He grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and turned to Deputy Barada. "I better go have that talk with Emerson. If I don't, he'll be back over here raisin' more hell. I don't need that."

The sheriff closed the jail door behind him and crossed the street to the Springer & Emerson Bank. 

Deputy Barada watched through the front window as the sheriff entered the bank. No one took notice of him leaving the rear entrance of the jail. He mounted his horse and trotted off in a westerly direction.

Chapter 35

Deputy Barada had made up his mind to have a talk with Ol' Luke. He took a main road out of town and crossed the reservation border in a matter of minutes. He brought his horse to a halt in front of the trading post and found a gathering of Ioway and trappers.

"Any of you seen Luke?" he asked. 

The crowd gave him disdainful looks and remained mute. They wandered off displaying faces of serious apathy, as if he'd just asked if any had seen the Messiah lately.

He caught sight of Luke walking away from the post, hopped on his mount and followed Luke to a trail head. 

Luke turned back to Barada. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Me and the sheriff just need information," Barada said as he dismounted and walked over to Luke. "You know all about these trapper murders, Luke. You got any idea of who did it?"

"Humph. It was not a person, deputy, as I tried to tell the sheriff before you threw me into the street."

"Sorry, Luke, but you was just stirrin' up more trouble and we didn't need that. But I remember you sayin' somethin' about spirits. What kinda spirits you talkin' about?"

As if searching for something unknown, Luke turned away and shaded his eyes. He scanned the tree line of the bordering woods. "You wouldn't understand. You never listened when we spoke of our native faith and heritage. You went to white man school and you have white man ears. Your eyes are closed. Why should I tell you anything?"

The deputy put his hands on his hips and shifted his stance. "Look, Luke, I'm tryin' to do my duty here and help the community, and that includes you. I'll listen to anything you have to say."

Luke motioned the deputy over and they sat down on a boulder. A gust of wind blew up, ruffling the eagle feather braided in the old man's wispy gray hair. "You need to know what can harm you," he said, his fingers raking back the long strands of hair from his eyes. "There is more to perceiving death as only an arrow to the heart or a bullet to the head. You believe if you cannot see it and feel it, it is not real and therefore, harmless. You are wrong. You walk through your world blindly, ignorant of the unseen things going on all around you - deadly things." 

A long breath blew out of Barada in exasperation. "How's that?"

The old Ioway inspected the open meadow and cupped his ear. He sat silent for a moment. He turned back to Barada. "There is a dark spirit of the woods that is conjured by a shaman and--"

"Conjured?"

"Yes, deputy," Luke nodded. "Conjured." He raised his leather-fringed arm and pointed to the dense thickness of the woods around them. 

"The spirit moves silently with the wind through the boughs of these trees. He wraps himself in the shadows of their branches. You see, he has no shadow of his own. He waits and he is patient. He is Itopa'hi. If he has been released, there will be no end to your suffering.”

"I've heard of this spirit," Barada said. He reached back into a childhood memory. "I think it was my mother that . . ." He gave a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts. "So, has he been released?"

"You saw the trapper's body, deputy," Luke said as he turned away. "Did you suppose it the work of man?"

Barada flicked a piece of dirt off his boot. "I don't know and neither does anybody else," he said. He found himself again questioning the old man's sanity, but was nevertheless intrigued. "How would we find Itopa'hi?" 

Luke's eyes narrowed into foreboding slits as he whispered, "You do not find Itopa'hi, deputy. Itopa'hi finds you."

Inclined to give a laugh, Barada changed his mind as a slow shuddering ripped through his spine and shot up his back. His hair follicles prickled with the neurotic jolt.

Luke turned away a moment and refocused on the edges of the woodland beyond the trees. "He is evil," he said. "If he is out there, you may never know it. He has a liking for brains and hearts - the heart and soul of a man." He turned back to the deputy. "Were the dead men not missing their brains and hearts?"

Barada's brown eyes widened. "Yes, they were, but why should we believe it's a, uh, ghost and not a man?"

Luke's chin lowered to his chest as he mumbled, "You can believe what you want."

"If I were to believe you, how would I try to catch Itopa'hi?"

With a crooked grin, Luke cocked his head and said, "Catch? Just like any other animal. Set a trap and wait."

Barada suddenly gathered the ponderous gravity of their conversation. Despite his irreverent attitude, he stared blankly past Luke to the woods. He blinked and blinked again, struggling to gauge the depth of the darkness. He found nothing but the wind bending the limber tree limbs. The darkness revealed none of its secrets. He turned back to Luke. "How do I set this trap, Luke?"

"Talk to a white trapper," Luke said.

"Shit, Luke," Barada whined, "trappers don't know 'bout this Itopa'hi."

"Not until it is too late, deputy." Luke scrutinized the treetops brushing against the pewter sky. He turned back to the deputy. In a slow and solemn tone, he said, "Your time grows short."

"My time?" The deputy's heart pounded at his ribs. "What do you mean my time? Am I gonna die soon?"

Luke's steel-gray eyes met Barada's. "Look at the sky. Taste and smell the air. Touch the leaves hanging from the trees. Is winter not coming?"

"It always does, doesn't it?" Barada said. "Long as I been around, anyway." 

"Itopa'hi is like the bear. When the snow falls, he sleeps. He awakens when the dogwood buds. If you are to find him, it must be before the first snowfall."

"What if I can't?"

"Then you must wait until spring."

The old Ioway man stood up and walked away leaving Barada with an unfamiliar hollow feeling.

The deputy mounted his horse and wandered back to town. As far as a discussion with Sheriff Stiles pertaining to his encounter with Luke, he discounted the idea - it might be an invite to unemployment or a long stint at the insane asylum in St. Joseph. He took the community's welfare under consideration and his responsibility for keeping the peace and changed his mind. He arrived behind the jailhouse and hitched his horse. The opened door revealed the sheriff at his desk with a pencil in his hand, doodling on a piece of paper.