Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 36

"Where the hell you been, chief?" Stiles said. The sheriff's doodled renderings of spirals, curlicues and wobbly lines covered a full page of scrap paper. 

"Been up to the reservation, talkin' with Luke," Barada said, closing the door.

Stiles' pencil continued to wander aimlessly over the geometric sketches, adding another layer of leaded worry. He stopped and looked up at the deputy. "That crazy old man?" Stiles asked. "About what?”

"What else, Lucien - the murders."

Stiles put his pencil down, rubbed his eyes and let out a longwinded groan. "What'd he say?"

"You won't believe it. I ain't sure I do, either." Barada swiveled his head side-to-side, accessing the number of curious ears. He whispered, "He scared the shit out of me."

The sheriff took in a long seething breath, leaned back in his chair and stuck a toothpick in the side of his mouth. "How's that?"

Barada pulled up a chair and pulled out his cigarette papers. "He says there's an evil spirit that killed them - a ghost. Can you believe that?"

"No, but, at this point, I'd believe almost anything else."

"There's a spirit that is called, Itopa'hi. I kinda remember my mother talkin' about it when I was little, but I didn't remember the name. It's out in the woods. It, um . . . eats men."

"Eats men? Humph. Ol' Luke is as crazy as they come." 

Barada shook his head as he rolled up the cigarette. "I ain't so sure now, sheriff."

The sheriff let out a loud phfft through flapping lips. "Whatever he told you is just a ton of horseshit in a ten pound sack."

The deputy lit his smoke. "Maybe it is and maybe it ain't."

"You don't actually believe him, do you?"

Barada blew out a cloud. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Well," Stiles said, settling back into his chair, "truth be told, me neither. Right now, I'm up a stump. Maybe whoever committed these crimes is in South Dakota by now."

"I wouldn't count on it, Lucien." The deputy rolled his burning cigarette back and forth between his fingers, studying the idle smoke that curled around his fingers and to the ceiling. 

The sheriff sat motionless as his tired eyes tracked the erratic flight of a buzzing fly. He watched it land on the front window. Its persistent butting against the glass amounted to a futile attempt at a jailbreak. The fly's monotonous buzz soon faded into the background of the silent office. 

"Old Luke says this spirit is conjured by a shaman," Barada added, cutting the dead air. "The only shamans I know of are Ta-hay-yo and that old lady, Nidawi."

"I don't know. Maybe I should go have a talk with her. Ta-hay-yo wouldn't talk to me."

"Good luck, sheriff. She's as slippery as a river eel. By the way, what'd you tell Emerson?"

The sheriff stopped chewing on his toothpick, took it from his mouth and inspected the worthless chewed and splintered ends. "Told him the same thing I did a few days ago - that we had no suspects but were still working on it." He stuck the shredded toothpick back in his mouth.

"What'd he say?"

"Oh, he was pretty calm when he mentioned that you and me'd be lookin' for new jobs soon."

"Hmmm," Barada said, "hasn't simmered down any?"

"Not a damn bit. At least we were in his office, so he had to keep some kind of civility."

Barada stood up and tossed his cigarette butt into the stove's firebox. "Good thing you went to see him, 'stead of the other way around."

The sheriff spat out the toothpick. "I guess." He stood up and gave a slap to his desktop. "I'm off for a good cup of Arbuckle's, deputy. Hold the fort down."

Stiles walked into McCauley's, tossed his hat on the rack and found a table. A smiling Emily came by and poured him a coffee. The brooding sheriff sat and got lost in the wisps of steam rising from his cup.

*    *    *

"You realize I can take your granddaughter anytime I want. You know what men like to do with young girls. You want to continue to see her, don't you?"

Nidawi ignored the fat man. With her arms crossed and head down, she rocked back and forth on her willow chair. She studied the floor of her cabin. Melancholy over her granddaughter's safety, she was also concerned with her diminishing talent for conjuring.

The man glowered at the old woman and tapped his black-booted foot. "Well, Nidawi?"

"It will be what it is to be," she replied.

In a patient voice, he said, "Take care of Jake Duncan and do it now. His taxes are due next week. He survived the last encounter, but he won't this time, will he?"

"No. No, sir," she mumbled. "Just leave my granddaughter alone, please, Mr. Frank."

"Mr. Frank? I told you to address me with respect! I am Doctor Foster, not Mr. Frank. Is that understood?"

Nidawi continued staring at the floor and rocking back and forth. "Yes."

Foster turned away from her and left.

Nidawi pulled herself up from the chair and stepped over to her cabinet. Like so many times before, she gathered a few jars of mysterious powder. Moving ever slower with each passing day, she shuffled to her hearth and pulled up the chair. She laid kindling on the embers and the fire flared up seconds. She puckered her lips and wheezed out a puff of air on the palm of her hand. A cloud of pulverized bone fragments shot over the flame, arrested, and then floated above; suspended by unseen hands. The grains of osseous matter popped and flashed as they suddenly fell to the embers. The chanting of Ioway conjuring rites began with her earnest whispers, deep from within her. The whispered turned to a purring hum as the chants proceeded. She closed her eyes. Her body pitched forward and back.

She stopped her chanting, picked up a wicker basket next to her bed and placed it near the hearth. The faint rattling sound from inside began slow and then increased in speed as she removed the basket's lid. She thrust her hand in deep and pulled out a young timber rattler. She grasped it firmly behind its triangular-shaped head. Its wide mouth opened. The tips of its needle-like fangs glistened with venom and its wildly roaming forked tongue whipped the air for scents. Its body protested with violent squirming and thrashing, threatening release from the old woman's weakened grip. With its fangs resting over the rim of a glass, she milked the poison glands on either side of its head and watched as the venom dribbled down the sides. When she'd finished, the snake found its home back in the basket. Sprinkles of Deadly Nightshade floated on the surface of the toxin like a blanket of insurance. She stirred the mixture thoroughly, added a pinch of a red powder, poured it into a vial and plugged it with a cork. She placed the vial in her buffalo hide purse and heard a distant rumbling of thunder. 

If Itopa'hi couldn't help her, she decided that she'd have to take matters into her own hands.

Chapter 37

Emily Meriwether stood at the Overland Stage stop on Main Street. The eight o'clock morning chill nipped at her fingertips. She opened her handbag and pulled out her white cotton gloves. She glanced up and found a smiling Antoine Poulet walking down the street toward her. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. "Good morning, Antoine."

"Bonjour to you also, mon cher. I hate to have you go on an errand for me on your day of leisure, Emily."

"It's not an inconvenience," she said enthusiastically. "I'd like to find out about these trapping leases myself. Besides, it gives me a good excuse to get out of town and do some shopping."

The pounding of hooves brought their attention. Their gaze turned to the top of Main Street and found the Kansas Overland Stagecoach navigating the ruts of the street's still-drying mud. With a loud "Whoa!" from the driver, the stagecoach came to a halt at the stage office.

Emily turned to Poulet, "Wish me luck, Antoine."

The stage driver called for all to board for the two hour journey to Troy. Emily stepped up with the help of the driver and found a seat next to the window. She turned her gaze to Poulet and said, "Until this evening, Antoine."

The driver climbed up and with a loud snap of the leather reins, the four horses snorted and the coach left for Troy. Emily waved goodbye to Poulet and craned her neck out the window beside her. She watched his figure grow smaller and smaller in the increasing distance.

The stage made the trip in a little over two hours. As it came to a stop at the station, Emily looked out the window. She'd been to Troy only once a few years before after she'd first moved to Big Cloud. The same familiar scenery greeted her. A long row of well-kept storefronts lined the tidy red brick-paved main street, making the muddy streets of the backwater Big Cloud seem primitive. She picked up her valise and with the driver's help, stepped out of the coach. She asked the station master for directions to the County Recorder's office and was on her way up the street.

She sauntered along, passing storefronts with elaborate window dressings. The displays of shiny new things behind the glass called to her, their pleas for a new home falling on deaf ears. The recorder's office was just ahead and on the other side of the street. A few wagons clattered by and she crossed the street to the office.

A middle aged red headed clerk with fading freckles and a bow tie greeted her from behind a marble-topped counter. He forced a smile. "May I help you, ma'am?"

"Yes," Emily replied. "I'd like to get information regarding trapping leases for the county."

The clerk closed the cover of a weighty official-appearing book and shoved it aside. He leaned forward and said, "What did you need to know, ma'am?"

"I need to see a list of who owns the trapping leases for Doniphan County."

"No offense intended, ma'am," the clerk said as he scouted the room, "but why would an attractive young lady as yourself need to know?" He gave Emily the once-over with a leery grin, his teeth growing longer and sharper by the second with the promise of drooling soon to follow.

"That's a private matter, sir," Emily stated. "Why should it make any difference whether I am a young lady or an old lady or a man seeking the same information?"

The clerk lifted his shoulders and let them drop. "Oh, uh, I guess it don't. Just that we don't get many ladies as attractive as you in here. Most women don't want to be bothered with the technicalities of land leases. It just confuses and burdens their delicate minds, so you ma'am, are an exception."

Emily threw her chest out. "I do want to be bothered and I am an exception and I am not 'most women,' sir. And by the way, my mind is not delicate and certainly not easily confused." She slammed her bag on the top of the counter, overlapped her arms and wrinkled her determined brow. "Now," she said, "where is the information concerning this?"

"Uh, yes, just a second, miss." The clerk turned away and rolled his eyes.

He walked to a bookshelf stuffed with legal books and documents. He reached up and brought down a heavy ledger. The gold imprint on the cover read, "Doniphan County" and below smaller letters, "Trapping Leases." "Here you are ma'am. You can take it over there," he said, gesturing to a library table with a few scattered chairs.

Emily picked up the volume, carried it to the desk and dropped it. It made a loud slap as it hit the table top. She set her valise down, sat down in a chair and tugged her gloves off. 

On the front page, she found a map of the county. The map was divided into rectangles and squares with numbers on each. She thumbed through the contents and in the back, found the list of current lease owners. Ben Jordan's name was listed as lessee of two large numbered sections on the map. A line was scratched through his name. In a box to the right, it read, 'Current lease owned by 'The Big Cloud Trading Company’, Topeka, Kansas.'  

She scanned more of the entries and came across one for Stuart DuChamp. It also had a line through his name, and in the box to the right was scrawled, 'The Big Cloud Trading Company'.

Emily stood up, walked over to the bow-tied clerk and asked, "Where can I find information concerning companies doing business in the county?"

The clerk gave her a smirk and assessed his collection of pencils on the counter. "Well, just exactly, what did you need to know, ma'am?" 

"I need to know who or what 'The Big Cloud Trading Company' is."

"Only thing I know is that they paid the lease fees and taxes instead of whoever was listed before."

"The due dates for the payments to the county are within a week of each other."

"Yes," the clerk said, "what's so unusual about that?"

"Oh, nothing I guess," Emily asked. "Do you have copies of county laws and such?"

"Laws? What kinda laws? If you mean legal information concerning city charters and county, well, I--"

"I need to know why names were struck from the lease records and replaced with The Big Cloud Trading Company as the new lessee." Emily tapped her foot with a rising impatience of the lackadaisical manner of the snippy clerk. 

"We update the files when we get information from the county attorney's office," he stated flatly. "You're best off goin' there."

"Where's his office?" Emily asked. She picked up her things and moved to the door.

"Block down the street next to the drug store."

"Thanks so much for your help," she said. 

He gave her a polite but insincere nod. "Yep. Good day."

*   *   *

Big Cloud Telegraph Office

Trudeau picked up a pencil and paper and wrote a wire to the man with the lazy eye in New Orleans. It simply read:

     ‘Man with books found. Request instruction.’

He handed it to the office clerk and watched him tap out the message in Morse code. It would take a day to hear back from New Orleans. He crossed the street to Dorland's Saloon.

The saloon was crowded. He counted three poker games in progress as he bellied-up to the bar and ordered absinthe. 

He scanned the patrons and found a game that was just folding. He eased over. Three willing partners took him on for a friendly game.

Trudeau cleaned the three out and found the friendly game quickly becoming unfriendly. He collected his winnings and stood by the bar tapping his foot as the bartender filled his flask with absinthe. 

His coughing had gotten worse. He'd found red streaks from his mucous on his handkerchief. It seemed no matter how much opium he smoked, it was never enough to alleviate his consumption symptoms. 

He crossed the street to Robidoux's and went to his room, put a pinch of opium in his pipe and was carried off to a temporary dreamland.

Chapter 38

The county attorney's office door opened with a sucking swoosh as Emily walked in. A scent of aged leather and musty paper drifted by as she drank in the sight of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Row upon row of black books lined the three cramped walls, their gold-trimmed bindings an indication of the serious nature of their official pages.

An older woman sat behind a cluttered desk, intently pouring over papers and separating them into neat piles A wisp of her curled hair hung over her right eye. She blew a puff of air in its direction. The unruly strand flew up and tumbled back down, returning to the same rebellious position. With her eyes still locked on her task, she said, "I'm Mrs. Warren, the secretary. What can I help you with?"

"Yes, uh, Mrs. Warren," Emily replied, setting her valise at her feet. "I need information regarding trapping leases for the county. Would you be able to help me?"

"Depends. What ya need to know?" she asked, continuing her job at hand.

"Well, I need to find information pertaining to a certain Big Cloud Trading Company. I just left the county recorder’s office and didn't find much information."

Mrs. Warren adjusted her spectacles, but the dangling curl remained an obstruction. "You gotta go to Topeka, honey," she stated.

"I'd like to avoid that if possible, ma'am." Emily exhaled through frustrated lips. "I was hoping I might find some information here."

A weak lopsided smile crossed the secretary's face, as if she had better things to do, but heeded the call of duty. 

"What's the name of the company again?"

"The Big Cloud Trading Company."

"Oh, yes," she said. She leaned back in her chair and tapped her finger on her lips. With an enlightened smile, she said, "I do recall sending a few updates to the assessor's office."

"I found the names of a few deceased lessees had been scratched out and replaced with The Big Cloud Trading Company,” Emily said. “May I ask why a company would take over a private trapping lease?"

"I'm not sure, young lady. I'm not a lawyer or a politician, but it probably has something to do with arrangements made with the county by parties of interest." Mrs. Warren motioned for Emily to take a seat near her desk.

Emily picked up the valise from the floor, stepped over to a tapestry upholstered chair and sat down. She pulled at the fingers of her gloves as she asked, "Would you happen to have any information concerning these parties of interest or county trapping leases?" 

The secretary made a sweeping gesture to the overstuffed bookcases, let out a long breath of air and said, "It's probably all in one of those books, dear."

With bewildered exasperation, Emily said, "Do you happen to know which one? I'd greatly appreciate any help you might offer." 

The legs of Mrs. Warren's chair skittered back on the bare floor as she pushed herself away from her desk. She gathered her dress and stepped over to a bookcase. She adjusted her reading glasses and ran her fingertips over the spines of the books and ledgers, back and forth, row after row. Her finger stopped on a law book and she pulled it out. On the spine it read, ‘Doniphan County Land and Trapping Lease Directives.’ "Might find something in here," she said, handing the book to Emily. "Mr. Goddchaux, the county attorney, lets me know if I need to send an update to the assessor's office so they can adjust their records. I know nothing else other than what's entered in this book."

"May I take a few minutes to glance through this?"

"Of course, hon," she answered. "There's a table over there you can use."

Emily picked up the heavy volume, carried it to the table and sat down. She leafed through the pages of county laws and found an endless list of detailed information, mostly written in proper and confusing legalese. Since she found no index, she took one page at a time.

The section titled "Abandonment and Default of Taxes" caught her eye. She read through the numbered and annotated paragraphs until something at the bottom jumped out. A short paragraph in finer print read: 

"Upon default of yearly lease fees and county tax payment by specifically named lessee, the lease shall be awarded exclusively to The Big Cloud Trading Company in perpetuity so long as the yearly tax payment is made to the county by above mentioned company." 

Emily noticed an addendum below in fine print stating default occurred within twenty-four hours of the tax due date. It also mentioned the payment would be accepted by named lessee only, effectively excluding the legal spouse, guardian or next of kin. No other information on the trading company in question was mentioned.

She copied the paragraph on her paper and stuffed it in her bag. She closed the book and carried it back to the secretary. 

As she handed the book back, she asked, "Do you know where I can find more information on companies doing business in the State of Kansas?"

"Ya gotta go to Topeka. Hall of Records. They'd have current information."

"So, it's a matter of public record, then?" Emily asked as she slipped her gloves on.

Mrs. Warren gave Emily another polite smile. "Anyone can request the information. You can wire or write them. Don't expect an answer for awhile. There's only one man taking care of all of that, so it does take patience."

"You've been very helpful. Thank you."

Emily left the county attorney's office and walked back down the street. Three hours before the stage. What am I going to do for three hours? She walked across the street to a women's dress shop.

She opened the door of the cheery establishment and smelled crisp white linen and straw. Racks of silky dresses, fur, felt, feather and straw hats and bolts of material took up most of the cozy space of the sunny store. The rustling tissue paper and a pleasant muffled chatting came from the front counter as a young woman wrapped a pair of gloves for a customer. 

She stepped in, turned her head to the right and glimpsed a familiar figure at the full-length mirror modeling an expensive gown. "Mrs. Tutwiler?"

The familiar figure turned to her. "Why, yuh . . . yes? Oh, Miss Meriwether! What a surprise. What are you doing in Troy?"

Emily stepped over to the mirror. "Research and shopping."

"You too, then? So nice to see you. I just love shopping, don't you?" Without waiting for Emily's reply, she added, "What was it you said - research?"

"Shopping and research," Emily replied.

Distracted as she scrutinized the dress material, she vacantly said, "Oh, yes, yes. Research." She feigned interest in Emily's trip and continued, "Well, I'm not aware of your situation, but I need a new dress for next month's social. I came down on the stage yesterday. What do you think?"

Mrs. Tutwiler swished and swayed, twirled and sashayed in front of the mirror, watching the reaction of the material to her every movement.

"It's very handsome, you might even say fetching, Mrs. Tutwiler," Emily said.

"Yes, it does look rather good on me, does it not?" She pulled her eyes away from the mirror and added, "Oh, call me Victoria, please." She shifted her gaze back to the mirror, paused a second and caught Emily's mirror-reflected eye. "You don't consider it too fancy for a church social?"

Emily, thinking precisely that, took the diplomatic approach. "Not at all, ma'am. It's very stunning in its modesty."

Her eyes fixated on the mirror, Mrs. Tutwiler said, "Oh, splendid. I always want to wear something fashionable but modest - but stunningly modest, of course."

Mrs. Tutwiler stepped into a dressing room with the clerk and drew the curtains closed. In a few minutes, they came out with the garment folded across the clerk's arm. "Box it up. I'll take it," Mrs. Tutwiler said.

"Do you still want the other two dresses and the hats, ma'am?" the clerk asked.

"Well of course I do, silly goose," Mrs. Tutwiler answered in a condescending tone. "I laid them on the counter, did I not?"

Emily noted diamond earrings dangling from Mrs. Tutwiler's ears. Where on earth does she get the money for those expensive trinkets?  They sparkled whenever her head swiveled in the bright sunlit shop, dazzling any eye that fell in their reflective path.

Emily perused the hats. Wish I could afford one. She overheard bits and pieces of the clerk and Mrs. Tutwiler's conversation. She peeked over the top of a rack of dresses and caught a glimpse of the transaction as she browsed.

"Please send the bill to the Mt. Zion Church in Big Cloud," Emily heard Mrs. Tutwiler say. 

Emily noticed the polite smile left the shop girl's face. "Will you excuse me for a moment, ma'am?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Mrs. Tutwiler said, beguiled with the feel of the expensive material.

Emily's eyes followed the clerk to the rear of the shop. The young woman disappeared behind a curtain. Within a few seconds, she returned to Mrs. Tutwiler.

In a whisper, but intelligible to Emily, the clerk said, "I'm sorry, ma'am. We won't be able to charge these to your account. Your charges for the last three months are in arrears, ma'am. I'm sure you understand our position."

"Oh, dear child," Mrs. Tutwiler boomed, "you must be mistaken! There must be some kind of misunderstanding. I've had a charge account here for over two years and we have always--"

"I'm sorry ma'am." The clerk wagged her head and placed her hands on the counter. "If you'd like to pay in cash, though, that would be perfectly--"

"Never mind," Mrs. Tutwiler said, her nose rising to a higher elevation. "I shall take this up with my husband. He is the pastor of Mt. Zion Christian Church in Big Cloud. We may have to take our business elsewhere." She picked up her handbag and jerked it from the counter. The disgruntled Victoria Tutwiler slammed the door on her way out and pounded down the sidewalk.

Emily stepped to the window and watched Mrs. Tutwiler's bouncing silhouette cross the street to the cafe. Oooo . . . she's madder than a wet hen and that poor reverend - he'll get an ear full when she gets home, I'll bet. She is so....

"May I help you, ma'am?" the shop girl asked Emily.

Emily settled a new hat on her swept up coiffure, checked the mirror and then considered the price on the tag. She set the hat back on the rack. "I'm just looking, but thank you."

"We have all the latest styles in season - from Paris," she added.

"I see that. It's all very nice. Maybe next time. Thank you."

Emily closed the door behind her and stepped into the street. I guess since I have nothing better to do... She crossed the street and walked to a sidewalk café. 

Victoria Tutwiler sat at a table with the corners of her mouth drooping, elbow anchored to the table with her chin propped up on her fist. Her crossed leg swung up and down. She brightened up as Emily approached. "Miss Meriwether! How rude of me to leave and not say goodbye. I had a misunderstanding with that shop clerk."

"I see," Emily said. "May I join you?"

"Of course, dear. Please forgive my manners." Mrs. Tutwiler patted the chair next to her. "Have a seat."

Emily sat down and asked, "Are you leaving for Big Cloud today?"

"Yes," she replied. "I'm on the three o'clock coach. It better be on time, that's all I have to say. I've had enough of this town's rudeness."

"I'm also leaving at three," Emily said. "It'll be nice to have such a familiar travel companion, even for the short duration of the trip."

Mrs. Tutwiler focused on fluffing the ruffles of her blouse. "Yes, yes, it will."

They ordered tea and sat in the cool outside air, waiting for the stagecoach. An uncomfortable lull settled after pleasantries had been exchanged.

Mrs. Tutwiler shifted endlessly in her chair. A tapping came as she fidgeted with her teaspoon, nervously rapping it against her china saucer. 

She regarded Emily and asked, "What did you say you were doing here?" she said. 

"Oh," Emily said, "just reading up on county laws and such."

Mrs. Tutwiler slurped a sip of hot tea over her tongue and set her cup down. "Laws?"

"Well," Emily answered as she swirled the tea leaves around in the bottom of her cup. "I thought it would be interesting to know."

"Interesting?" Mrs. Tutwiler said. "Sounds very dry and unexciting to me."

Emily tilted her head wistfully. "I may want to become a lawyer someday."

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Mrs. Tutwiler said, "Oh, forgive me." She gave Emily's hand a couple of gentle pats. "You don't want to bother that pretty little head of yours with things that men are better suited to take care of. You'll find a nice man to marry and, I suppose that man may be Mr. Poulet, is that not correct?"

"Perhaps." What a presumptuous inquiry. "I'm not ready to settle down just yet, though, thank you."

"Well, I was just asking."

Emily changed the subject. "The dress shop is very nice, isn't it?"  I hope that stage arrives soon.

Mrs. Tutwiler appeared bristled at the idea of discussing her dress shop ordeal any further and steered the conversation away. 

They chatted a few minutes longer and as they finished their tea, the stagecoach rounded the corner and clacked down the brick street. The coach's handbrake screeched as it came to a halt. The driver hitched up fresh horses and helped them board the vacant coach. They sat opposite one another and with the driver's snap of the reins, began the bumpy two hour return trip to Big Cloud.