Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 39

The stage from Troy came to a stop at 5:14. Emily opened the door, took Poulet's hand and stepped out. Poulet helped Mrs. Tutwiler and after exchanging brief small talk, she began her walk to the parsonage.

Emily grasped Poulet's arm and they started up Main Street. A cool October breeze kicked up, ruffling Emily's long dress as they strolled up the street.

"How was your trip?" Poulet finally asked as he pulled her a little closer.

"It was, well, eye-opening."

"Oh? In what way?"

"I have some interesting information," Emily said. "I don't have it all yet, but I should within a few days or so."

They reached Poulet’s house and he unlocked the door.

"Have a seat and let's hear more," Poulet said, as he proceeded to the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux.

Emily tossed her hat on an overstuffed chair and fell back in the couch. "I found out what happens to the leases, but not much else, yet."

Poulet peered around the corner. "What happens to them?"

"Just a second," Emily said as she opened her valise. "I have it written down." She pulled out the piece of paper scribbled with a copy of the entry in the bylaws ledger at the county attorney's office.

Poulet waltzed out of the kitchen with the wine and took two glasses from the shelf. He set them down on the table and then sat down beside her on the sofa. "Who is this Big Cloud Trading Company?" he asked after he read what she'd copied.

"I don't know. Shouldn't we investigate? There was no listing of names of any of the members of the board of directors."

"The county attorney's office doesn't have that listed anywhere?"

"No. I was told I needed to write to the Hall of Records in Topeka for that specific information."

Poulet poured the wine. "We'll do just that, then. Anything else?"

"Well, as you obviously noted, Mrs. Tutwiler rode back from Troy with me."

"Yes," Poulet said. "What was she doing in Troy?"

"Shopping for clothes, but she came back empty handed. I ran into her in a dress shop."

Poulet handed Emily a glass of wine. He raised his glass to his eye and swirled the red liquid around and after sniffing, took a taste. "A votre santè," he said, as they clinked glasses together. 

 Poulet took a healthy gulp. "I'm surprised the reverend's wife didn't find anything to buy."

"Oh, she did, Antoine," Emily said. "She, evidently, couldn't afford to pay for the three dresses and two hats she had picked out. As I was trying on hats, I overheard her speak with the sales clerk."

"And?"

Emily took a sip of wine. "It sounded as if the shop wasn't going to extend her credit. I heard the clerk say her account was three months in arrears. She left the shop without a stitch."

"Interesting." He tipped his wineglass again. "You'd think if anyone had an understanding of budgeting money, it would be a preacher's wife."

"You would think so." Emily swirled the wine in her glass. "I had no idea the Tutwilers were in such bad financial straits."

"Judging from the expensive jewelry the reverend's wife wears, I can understand."

"When I ran into her in the shop, she had on a pair of diamond earrings. She took them off just before we arrived back in town. Said they were irritating her earlobes."

Poulet rolled his eyes. "And her husband’s congregation, as well."

Emily took a few swallows of wine and said, "You don't believe the Tutwilers have anything to do with The Big Cloud Trading Company, do you?"

As he poured another glass, Poulet said, "I hope not. I don't know them well, but I refuse to believe they would risk their reputation in the community to gain monetary reward."

"You're probably right." 

Poulet stood up and paced the floor, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "Whatever this company is and whomever owns it is something we need to find out. The inheriting of leases could be a motive for these killings. If the leases are not passed to spouse or next of kin, this company would certainly have an interest in gaining as many as possible."

"I'm going to stop at the telegraph office tomorrow and send a telegram to Topeka," Emily said. "Maybe we'll find something of interest."

"I hope so, Emily. Otherwise, it's a dead end."

Poulet stretched, sat back down next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. 

They sipped their wine in silence. Poulet's eyes locked on Emily. "Penny for your thoughts."

Emily shifted in her seat. "I don't know about all this, Antoine. I feel like a snoop intruding upon other people's business."

"And that you are, ma'am! The more intruding the better," he said with a devilish grin. "We're dealing with horrendous crimes here, not idle gossip. Gossip may get us nowhere, but better to listen than not. There may be a few kernels of truth sprouting amongst the pile of cow chips."

Poulet set his glass down and placed his hand on her thigh. He moved his hand over the soft material of her dress and up to her breast. He closed his eyes as he began to fondle and leaned against her with his open mouth, expecting a kiss. She pushed him away. 

"I don't appreciate your roving hands," she said as she set her wineglass down. "I'm exhausted. I need to go home."

"But, Emily," Poulet said, "don't you know how special you are? I don't grow fond of just any woman I meet, you know."

"Isn't that what they all say?" She stood up.

Poulet stood up and clenched his fists. Another prudish bitch with a cold heart. Was hoping she was different. His lips trembled. "Are you so church-going pious that you don't appreciate someone's innocent longing for you?"

"I don't care much for your so called innocent manner in which you express it, that's all."

"What's wrong with my manners and what's so wrong with my form of expression? Do you consider me a defective reprobate, a common piece of excrement or raised in a barn or in the streets? Do you consider me that improper? What sort of man do you think I am?"

"I'm not entirely certain, Antoine." 

Poulet's eyelids inched closer together as the creases of his forehead deepened. His breathing changed to wheezing gasps of hyperventilation. He reached for his wineglass and picked it up. The wine sloshed in the glass as he raised his shaking arm and hurled it at the wall. It crashed and shattered and the splinters flew. A splatter of crimson washed across the wall, its dribbles creeping toward the floor.

Emily's tightened lips lent her the stern appearance of a maternal disciplinarian. "Are you quite finished with your boyish tantrum now?" she asked.

Poulet relaxed his fists. His breathing returned to normal. He sat down and sank back into the sofa. He stared blankly at the ceiling. "I shall respect your boundaries, ma'am."  

"Thank you," she said as she gathered her dress. "I've had enough. Good day." 

"But--"

A knock at the front door interrupted their discussion.

*     *     *

Big Cloud City Park

Trudeau sat on a city park bench killing time. His attention focused on Poulet's comings and goings. He'd made the decision to avoid Dorland's Saloon for a few days. He'd won as much money at poker as he was able to get away with, without getting a new suit of hot tar and feathers.

He twirled his cane absentmindedly and whistled a Stephen Foster tune. He wished he was back in the Crescent City. His daydreams were of Louisiana sunshine and China roses, winning poker hands and every kind of woman that would be willing to climb into his bed.

The locals went about their business. He regarded them as dismal and uncouth thorns in his side and was convinced they were all dull-witted amateur card cheats.

He closed his eyes and poured over his plans. He envisioned the struggling little man, flailing and begging for his life; slick steel wire twisting the last exhausted breath out of the unfortunate Antoine Poulet.

For Trudeau, the scent of death was an intoxicating aphrodisiac and emitted its own distinctive aroma. Exhilarating and refreshing, it always made his loins throb. As far as he was concerned, it signaled the end of someone's suffering and the fattening of his pocketbook. 

He considered himself an executioner of the "been done wrong" school of excuses. His clients had their woeful stories and their price. He was obliged to fulfill his agreements, and although he consistently cheated at cards, his business agreements were always consummated.

The well-heeled of New Orleans society were Trudeau's clients: plantation owners, politicians, bankers, gamblers, criminals, cheating husbands and wives. As long as the compensation was generous and timely, he had no hesitation in taking care of whatever business the client required.

He glanced to the end of Main Street and found no one. 

Impatience and disdain had settled in him with an unwelcome permanence. He hoped for a swift consummation of his agreement with the lazy-eyed man. He'd been in Big Cloud for over a week and he was ready to leave. He found the town backward and provincial. 

He'd gone over the garroting in his mind a hundred times. Poulet's short and crippled. I won't get much resistance from him.

Chapter 40

Poulet answered his door and was greeted with the Reverend Tutwiler. "Well, good evening, reverend. I'm surprised to see you here. Come in. Have a seat."

"Maybe I should come back later," the reverend said, noticing Emily and glass shards on the floor.

"Nonsense," Emily said, as she made for the door. "I was just leaving. Good evening, gentlemen."

Emily left them and walked home to Chestnut Street.

The reverend stepped in and doffed his hat. He settled back in a chair and crossed his legs. "I'll be direct, Monsieur Poulet. Our last conversation has caused me such extreme agitation that it's interfering with any sort of rest I hope to achieve. I've gone over our words again and again. Although I am a man of the cloth and hold the Bible as my ultimate and only reference, it seems there are exceptions to what I can and cannot explain with scripture. These killings weigh heavily on me, as I'm sure they do on the rest of the populace of our town." He took in a deep breath. "I can't help but seriously consider that what you have said concerning Itopa'hi is, well, perhaps the truth - and I emphasize the word perhaps. I'm hoping I'm wrong with this assessment, but the way our community is now, maybe someone should explore other possibilities, as you, sir, seem to be pursuing with diligence."

Poulet removed his wire rimmed glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. He seemed to be letting the reverend's statements sink in. A palpable silence hung in the air between them as he lit a cigar. "Do you know any more details concerning this woodland spirit that you haven't told me?"

"I was told by a medicine man of the Ioway, and this was a few years ago, that the spirits of the wood were unsettled and restless. As you know, the Ioway make their living from the land, mostly from trapping. We white people have invaded their lands and left the tribe destitute and reliant on the government's meager largesse. It is a shame this has happened, but we do need to 'tame the West,' as it were. But, I can't help but feel that maybe God is swinging the sword of retribution against us or the Devil may indeed have a hand in all this."

"The devil has his hands in most everything, reverend, and God in whatever's left, I suppose."

Poulet got up from his chair, withdrew to the kitchen and brought out two glasses of cold spring water. He set them down on the table between them. "Do you know of an old medicine woman named Nidawi?"

"I remember that name." Reverend Tutwiler gulped his water down in three swallows.

Poulet looked over his glasses. "She's a shaman, is that correct?"

"From what I hear, yes. She, evidently, has powers that can threaten someone's well-being. My well-being, sir, is certainly not dependent on an old Indian woman."

"Nor is mine, reverend." Poulet stood up, moseyed back to the kitchen and refilled the reverend's empty cup. He set it back down on the table. The reverend again drained it in one tip. 

"The fact of the matter," Poulet said, "is that something is killing these trappers and it's not a some one but a some thing."

The reverend studied the threads of his trousers. "I still find it hard to believe that this superstitious Ioway lore has something to do with these killings. I suppose anything is possible, though. Lazarus rose from the dead. Perhaps there is something out there that is unexplainable. Maybe it's beyond our scope of understanding."

"All of mankind fears two things, reverend, and only one is the fear of death itself." 

With an arch of the brow, the reverend gave a nod. "Go on, Mr. Poulet. I'm listening."

Poulet stood and moved to his parlor's window. He looked east to the river. "It is also the circumstance which precedes the event." He squinted through the blue haze of his smoldering cigar as he gazed down the steep hill of Main Street to the river landing. "It's not so much the idea of meeting the Grim Reaper that is worrisome, but the context in which the meeting takes place."  

"I concur," the reverend said. "One cannot choose conditions for departure from this world. That is up to God Himself."

"Well, whether that is up to God or not, I think you'd agree the outcome is always the same and perfectly inescapable." He turned back to the reverend. "Dying in one's sleep is most fortunate. Not all are destined to greet the numbness of oblivion in such a luxurious manner. Some are destined to confront the forces of evil when death is but an arm's length away. The trick is having a strong arm.” He took a puff on his cigar. “In my experience, sir, spitting at the devil doesn't take a lot of practice - just a lot of patience."

The incredulous reverend looked away. "I have no experience with the devil, sir."

"I beg to differ," Poulet retorted. "When you wake up in the morning, you deal with the devil in one form or another and it lasts until you lay your head down at night and sometimes beyond. There is no escaping the influence of evil. I believe you do have experience."

The reverend tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair and crossed his left leg over his right. The left leg commenced a vigorous swing. His eyes roamed around the room, never resting on anything particular.

"Care to take a walk in the hills tonight?" Poulet asked as he sat back down. "Perhaps a stroll?"

The reverend's bouncing leg came to a standstill and his eyes locked on Poulet's. "It wouldn't be just a stroll, Mr. Poulet," he scoffed. "It would be considered more of a trek. May I ask, just what do you intend to discover?"

"Perhaps a few answers to our questions - or not." Poulet flicked his cigar ash over the ashtray and grinned. "Perhaps we should invite Satan along to be our guide. I'm sure he'd probably know where to find his minion."

"Mr. Poulet, you don't know what you are suggesting. Stalking Satan is a dangerous pastime. He just may end up stalking you."

"I am more than aware of that. I'm willing to take my chances with a walk through an uncharted darkness. With so much at stake, I ask you again, reverend, would you care to accompany me on a walk through the hills tonight?"

The preacher studied the floor a second and then snapped his head up. "Very well, then. A foray into the forest may be a good idea. If nothing else, perhaps we can disprove your unbelievable hypothesis. When?"

"Twilight. Tonight. We'll ride into the hills and see what happens. I may be lacking in common sense concerning this, but there is certainly no common in what we are dealing with."

The reverend stood up, donned his hat and at the door, turned to Poulet. "I'll bring my musket and Derringer."

"Reverend, there are problems a gun can't solve, but bring them if you wish. Come by tonight at eight, and would you mind bringing a spare mount?"

"I'll have one for each of us," the reverend said. "Won't get very far very fast without one."

Poulet closed the front door and sat back down in his chair. He'd been convinced the reverend would never help him. Enlisting the help of a preacher had always been anathema to him. After the events that were affecting his new hometown, he figured he could live with that.

In his altar room, he fell on his knees and prayed on his decision to stalk the woods that evening. Apprehensive, but confident, he gauged his magic as strong. He pulled his mojo from his vest pocket, laid it on the altar and then carefully opened it. After tucking a few objects inside, he placed it back in his pocket. There, I hope my magic is strong enough for whatever awaits me.

*    *    *

Big Cloud Telegraph Office

Trudeau walked into the telegraph office to check for messages. The clerk handed him a sealed envelope. He opened it and read:

  'Proceed with fulfillment of agreement. Wire when terminated. Finger ring.'

It was not signed. 

Trudeau folded up the paper, stuffed it in his pocket and walked to his solitary room at Robidoux's.

Chapter 41

Victoria Tutwiler had fixed her husband a supper of chicken noodle soup and biscuits. 

As he sat down to eat, the reverend told his wife, "I'm going out into the woods tonight, Victoria. I may not be back until tomorrow morning."

"Ugh!" she said, as she set the honey jar down on the table. "Whatever for, Charles?"

He noticed a bead of honey had dribbled down the side of the jar. He ran his fingertip over the trail of golden liquid and licked it off his finger. "Maybe insight into the murders of late.”

"Oh, they'll find that killer sooner or later without your help," she said, setting the soup bowls down. "You shouldn't worry about such things."

The reverend glanced up at his wife to study her reaction. "I'm going with Antoine Poulet."

She stopped ladling the soup. "That crippled little man? That Satan-worshiping foreigner?"

An exasperated breath left the reverend's lips. "Yes, Victoria." 

She took the plate of biscuits from the stove and set it on the table. "When will you be back? I don't like the idea of you out in the woods this late and especially with that…that man." 

The reverend's shoulders rose and fell. "I'm not certain. It depends on what we do or do not find out - if anything."

She sat down and grasped her husband's hand as he invoked a prayer of thanks. A few cooling blows to a spoonful of her soup and she brought it to her mouth. A loud slurping came as she sucked a hot noodle off the spoon. The noodle wiggled through her puckered lips and slid down her gullet. She took another spoonful. "Schtay two days, if you witch," she added, her mouth jammed with noodles. "I'm jush as innerstood in what's going on ash you are, dear."

The reverend finished his dinner and changed his clothes, walked back into the kitchen and picked up the last biscuit. He clamped it firmly between his teeth, pulled on his coat and bid his wife farewell. 

The redwood barn of the parsonage stood thirty feet from the back door. He saddled the two horses and mounted one, then grabbed the reins of the other and led it behind him into town and to Poulet's.

*    *     *

Nidawi picked up her buffalo hide purse, reached in and felt for the vial of snake venom and Deadly Nightshade. She found a basket behind her cupboard and took out a jar. The jar was filled with what looked like brown dust, but in fact was powdered peyote cactus and dried "Devil's Trumpet" flowers from a rare species of the Datura plant.

A spoonful of the bitter powder traveled to her empty stomach and she gagged. She sat in her chair at the hearth and chanted until her stomach revolted. She walked out of her cabin, vomited and closed the door.

A new chanting came to her lips as her lucid dreaming turned to her reality. Her eyes closed and she soon found herself hovering over the woods and river and moving in the direction of Jake Duncan's cabin. Suspended in midair, just below the clouds and moving with the wind, she flew over the treetops of bluff, cove and hollow. In her mind's eye, Duncan's cabin came into focus and when she opened her eyes, she was standing at the back gate of Duncan's barn. 

Her back cracked as she hunched over, slipped through a gate and found Duncan's canteen draped over a saddle. The horses snorted and acted skittish. They turned away from her. She slipped the canteen from the saddle horn and popped the cork of the vial. She hesitated but thought better of what she had been forced to do. Tears came to her eyes when she thought of her granddaughter and went ahead and poured in the poisonous contents and replaced the cork in the canteen. When she'd finished, the canteen rested exactly where she'd found it. The innocent and undisturbed-looking container of life-giving liquid had been transformed into a vessel of life-taking misery. 

She sneaked back out and closed the gate behind her. She closed her eyes, disappeared into the darkening ether of the heavens and was soon back at her cabin's door.

Chapter 42

The clock struck six as Poulet opened the door and found Reverend Tutwiler. Dressed in buckskin and boots, the reverend came prepared for the thickets and tangles of the hills. His musket was strapped to his shoulder and he held a lantern. "I'm not so sure about all of this, Mr. Poulet," the reverend said, "but, I am here."

"Yes, you are, and I'm pleased. I didn't relish the idea of walking in the dark without a companion."

Poulet, also dressed in leather and boots, pulled on his coat and picked up his bag. He and the reverend walked out of the little house on Main Street. Poulet strapped the bag to the back of his saddle and they mounted their horses.

"Aren't you bringing your cane?" the reverend said.

Poulet shook his head. "Won't do me much good on damp soil, now would it? I'll be fine."

A sliver of a moon cast its silvery light from the east. The stars sparkled like frost on a pumpkin in early morning sunlight.

"Where should we start, reverend?" Poulet asked.

"Well, I hear there's a trapper by the name of Osgood that used to trap just northwest of here near Roy's Branch Creek."

Poulet nodded. "Lead on."

The two made their way on horseback up an abandoned trail that lead deeper into the hollows and hills. The trail had been popular at one time, but was now overgrown with unruly undergrowth. The scrawny brush clawed at their legs and boots, slowing their progress. After a two mile ride, they turned into a switchback. Despite the dim tree-filtered light, Poulet found rows of moss-covered headstones jutting up from the ground. Ancient and neglected, the lifeless plots boasted an overgrowth of scrub brush and shriveled summer weeds. A wrought iron fence crowned with spikes ringed the perimeter. The front gate stood askew on one of its corners, detached from its top hinge and open, as if to be beckoning one in for a romp through long forgotten marble memories. A few scattered dead maple and elm trees stood guard as decrepit sentinels, their branches bare and trunks gnarled. The emaciated limbs stretched their skeletal fingers to Heaven as if pleading for the interred souls.

They dismounted and craned their necks up to see a rusted tin sign hanging from the top of the gate. It squeaked as it swung in the breeze on a rusty hinge. In faded script lettering it read: Half Breed Cemetery.

"What ever is this place, reverend?" Poulet asked.

"This is where half-Indian and half-white people are laid to rest," the reverend stated. "A lot of the French trappers that settled this area married Ioway women. We call them half-breeds. The Indians don't want them and neither do we. This is their graveyard. It's been this way for years."

"I don't understand," Poulet said, scratching at the beard stubble on his neck. His head tilted to the side. "Do you presume God is concerned with the location of your interment?"

"God may not, sir, but the citizens of Big Cloud certainly do," he snorted. "They care very much. Half-breeds belong here."

Poulet tried to forget the reverend's comment.

They mounted their horses and rode just a few hundred yards down the trail from the cemetery gate. They came upon a clearing with a fire pit ringed with limestone. A beard of black soot covered the rough stone.

Poulet turned up a corner of his mouth. "Appears to be a lovely picnic spot, does it not, reverend?"

The reverend retorted, "I wouldn't want to picnic here, even in the middle of the day."

Poulet locked his thumbs, pointed and splayed his fingers at the reverend. He rolled his fingers in a wavy motion. "Maybe we'll catch a guh-ho-ho-st or two."

The reverend made no comment. 

A sliver of a moon appeared and the stars began to sparkle like frost on a pumpkin in early morning sunlight.

They tethered their horses and the reverend lit the lantern. The lantern light cast a golden glow on their surroundings, but stopped two trees deep into the woods; beyond that was only the unknown.

The reverend gathered a few twigs and branches and built a fire in the stone pit. The damp wood sputtered until the fire finally sparked into a healthy flame. Poulet retrieved his saddlebag and set it near the fire. He pulled out his blue enamel coffee pot and a bag of ground coffee. He filled the pot with canteen water, dumped in coffee and set it on a rock near the fire. They sat down on a couple of rotting logs.

Woodland sounds filled the clearing: hoot owls, packs of howling coyotes and the crackle of brittle leaves tossed around by the wind. The reverend walked back a few yards into the dark with the lantern and found more kindling. He laid the wood near the fire to dry. They sat in silence as they watched the flames lick the side of the coffee pot.

"I surely could use coffee, Mr. Poulet," the reverend said. "The chill out here can sink into a man's bones very quickly. Thank you for bringing some."

"Hot coffee on a cold night always seems to render things a bit more comfortable even when they really aren't."

Reverend Tutwiler arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Just that simple pleasures can make the difference when one is in a, shall we say, challenging position."

The reverend turned away and gazed into the fire. "I see no challenges, sir." 

"Nor I, reverend - yet."

Moody clouds rolled in from the southwest. The gathering starlight struggled to punch through the darkness without success. The slice of a moon hung high in the eastern sky, escaping the mantle of the dense clouds. Poulet sniffed at the air and smelled rain.

The reverend took his pipe from his coat and packed it. Pulling a flaming twig from the fire, he set it to the bowl and drew hard. The thick smoke drifted up and off and then disappeared into the wind.

They sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the woods and a distant thunder. The coffee pot rattled on the rock as it started to boil. Poulet produced two tin cups from his saddlebag and set them on the warming limestone hearth. He filled both and handed one of the cups to the reverend.

The reverend said, "I have no idea as to why I am out here in the wilderness on this bleak and depressing evening. What exactly are we looking for, Mr. Poulet?"

Poulet let out a loud snort. "We are chasing the Devil, reverend."

"If that is the case, sir, I'd rather lose my legs.”

A gust of wintry wind blew up and extinguished the flames of the fire, leaving only a piddling pile of golden embers. Poulet shrugged his shoulders and said, "Just as well. The fire was wreaking havoc with my night vision."

"Well, I suppose if we're out here, we might as well be able to see something."

Despite the clouds adding to the gloom, Poulet scanned the woods and detected the faint hint of light through the dense trees. He turned to the reverend. "What is that?"

Reverend Tutwiler stood up, walked over and then squatted on his haunches next to Poulet. He squinted through the darkness, searching for the light.

"See it, reverend?" Poulet whispered.

"Yes. Yes, I do.”

"We need to get a closer view."

They waded through fifty yards of thick and scrubby underbrush. Near another clearing, they stopped and got on their knees, pulled thicket branches aside and peered through. The light came from a window in a log cabin. Wisps of blue-gray smoke rose from its chimney. The thatched roof appeared to be missing clumps of its reeds and in need of repair. Scattered animal pelts hugged the walls. A few crows perched on the crest of the roof preened themselves.

"I wonder who lives here," the reverend whispered. "This place seems to be far off the trail. We must be at least two miles from town."

Poulet turned to the reverend. "I don't see anyone in the window or any motion, do you?"

"No, nothing. Maybe we should go back to the horses. Maybe it's time we--"

The absolute silence struck with the force of a mule kick to the gut, as if every vibration of air ceased. No sound of owls or crickets, no coyotes, no wind. The air turned unbearably burdensome and thick. Their breathing became short and labored. The air escaped under protest, sucked from their lungs by an unknown force. A respiratory vacuum had enveloped the two like a suffocating cocoon. As their breathing stopped, they turned to each other and tried to speak, but couldn't.

Their weakening heartbeats were the only sounds reaching their ears.