Crying Blood - An Alafair Tucker Mystery Page 9
“He ruined Osage Dancer’s feet,” Peter said. “The horse had to be put down and Doolan was barred from competition for five years. The five years are almost over. I expect that’s why he’s come around again. He’s looking to breed another champion, and I’ve got the best stud in the state. It was me who turned him in, so Doolan thinks I owe him.” Now that the tale, so long dammed, had been broached, it flooded out. “If it was up to me he’d be barred from ever owning another horse for the rest of his life. I thought he loved the beasts as dearly as do I. Until that moment in the barn I thought him a gentle man, the one man I would turn to for a kindness. He denied it without a blush, Shaw, but I saw him do it plain as day. It was more important to him to win the ribbons and the cups. Champions warrant higher prices, don’t you know.”
The distress in his stepfather’s voice told Shaw how hurt and betrayed Peter was. How would you feel to know that you had so badly misjudged a man’s character for forty years? Naive? Foolish?
Peter continued. “Ever since that day I’ll not sell an animal to anyone who won’t sign a paper swearing he’s never sored a horse and never will. And if I find out otherwise, I’ll take the beast back.”
“Come on, Shaw!” Alafair had been standing with Sally next to the buggy at the gate for several minutes, now, and was eager to be on her way. “Lots to do yet before the day is over.”
Shaw lifted an arm by way of acknowledgment but didn’t move. His sigh fogged in the chilly air. Sometimes he despaired of human nature. “I’m sorry I asked, Papa.”
“It’s a misery to lose a friend in such a way, son.”
Chapter Twenty-three
After Shaw and Alafair got home they joined the family in cleaning the tools and tubs and sluicing down the slaughter area. Then everyone dispersed to do his or her regular daily chores. John Lee went home to tend to his own farm and family while Shaw spent the remainder of the day with the horses and mules in the paddocks, stables, and fields, parceling out chores to Charlie and Kurt.
It felt good to be clean. Shaw had scrubbed himself from tip to toe after everything was done and then built a fire in the yard and boiled the ragged, bloody clothes of everyone who had been involved.
The light was nearly gone when he finally took the time to fetch his butchering knives for sharpening on the grindstone in the barn. He was bone weary, but to neglect one’s tools would be the height of irresponsibility. He trudged across the yard with his box of knives in his hand and his revolver on his hip, determined put the half-hour before supper to good use. In the crisp evening air he could smell the inviting aroma of stew burbling away on the kitchen stove.
The temperature was sinking rapidly with the sun by the time he lit a kerosene lantern and hung it on a post in one corner of the large, dim space of the barn. He opened a drawer in his worktable and retrieved an Eveready flashlight, a birthday gift from Gee Dub. Shaw wasn’t overly impressed with the new-fangled device, since a lantern cast a much brighter light and lasted infinitely longer than the battery-powered flashlight. But he did find the directed light to be useful for inspecting close work in a dark environment. He put the Eveready on the table next to the dull knives and sat down at the grindstone with a cleaver in his hand. Charlie Dog had followed him into the barn, which was unusual. The yellow shepherd was getting old and didn’t take cold weather as cheerfully as he did when he was a pup. Besides, when Alafair and the girls were in the midst of making supper, Charlie Dog never missed an opportunity to gobble a scrap of food that may have fallen on the floor, accidentally or not.
Shaw was amused and maybe a bit gratified that the dog wanted his company. “What’s on your mind, old fella? You don’t mean to say that none of the children are in the mood to sneak a treat for you?”
Charlie Dog panted at him by way of a comment before lying down so close to Shaw’s right leg that he could feel the dog’s heat through his trouser leg. It felt good. Man and dog kept a companionable silence as Shaw honed his instruments amidst showers of sparks and the grating whine of the spinning stone.
Shaw had just placed the sharpened cleaver on a side table and reached for a long boning knife when a flurry of barking, followed by a long howl, pierced the silence. Buttercup, still imprisoned in the tool shed, had scented something. Crook’s answering bay arose from some distance away. Charlie Dog’s head came up, his ears pricked. Shaw straightened and looked toward the open door of the barn, following the dog’s intent gaze. Charlie Dog’s hackles rose and his lip curled.
“What is it, boy?” Shaw asked the question in a wary whisper. Charlie Dog was generally friendly, yet he was protective of his extensive family and had an eerie ability to sense ill intent in man or animal.
The dog growled just as a long shadow fell outside the open barn door. Shaw stood up with the boning knife still in his hand.
Sudden and quiet, a dark shape appeared in the doorway. The last gray light of day was behind the figure, rendering his features invisible to the startled man inside. From the tunic-like shirt, the dark fall of long hair, the knee-high hide moccasins, Shaw could tell at once that the apparition was an Indian.
Charlie Dog went crazy. He leaped at the figure, his jaws snapping, but Shaw grabbed his collar before he could do any damage. The Indian didn’t move. The rifle in the crook of his arm was decorated with three red stripes painted on the stock and a turkey feather suspended from the lever. All Shaw could think was that the children would be inconsolable if the dog was shot. He spoke sharply to the animal who reluctantly backed off, rumbling his unhappiness in his throat.
The Indian said nothing. Neither did Shaw, for a long moment. He stood with his hand on Charlie Dog’s collar, his heart at a standstill, hardly able to credit his own eyes. Shaw knew plenty of Indians and nobody dressed like this any more unless it was a special occasion, not even Shaw’s own traditionalist Cherokee uncles deep in the woods of the Ozarks. If it hadn’t been for the dog’s reaction, Shaw would have wondered if he was hallucinating.
Shaw spoke Cherokee moderately well since his uncles refused to speak anything else, but the few Creek words he had picked up over the years had fled. He resorted to English. “Name yourself.”
The Indian didn’t respond, though he cocked his head when spoken to. Shaw thought he was going to have to wrack his brain for some Creek phrases but tried again in English. “What do you want?”
When the creature finally spoke his voice was low and resonant. “You unburied them bones.”
***
Alafair was sitting in a chair in the corner of the kitchen playing with Grace and feeling excessively happy. Alice was home for supper tonight. She was the family’s great pie-maker and had brought three of sweet-potato which were now sitting on the window sill. Her supper duties done to her satisfaction, Alice was in the parlor with the younger girls, doodling on the piano and singing for the amusement of the boys. While Mary stirred the stew and Ruth made cornbread, Martha was chipping ice off the block in the top of the icebox in order to top off the ice bucket. It may have been close to freezing outside but that was no excuse not to have sweet iced tea with supper. John Lee, Phoebe, and Zeltha had gone home, but Kurt was there, and he fit into the family like he was born into it. That almost made up for the fact that Gee Dub was far away at college and wouldn’t be home again until the Thanksgiving break at the end of the month.
Alafair was startled out of her reverie by the sound of the dogs barking outside. The hunting dogs were always howling at something, but Charlie Dog was usually unflappable. The children were too much occupied to take note of the noise. However Alafair immediately thought of Shaw, alone in the barn. She stood and shooed Grace into the parlor to join the singing before walking out onto the back porch and peering across the yard toward the hulking shape of the barn silhouetted against the gray sky.
Chapter Twenty-four
He was gone like smoke.
Shaw barely got a glimpse of a dark shadow, low and close to the ground, as it shot across the open
barn door and into the night, emitting a hair-raising howl. Crook was after the stranger. Shaw’s heart leaped and began to thud in his chest. Which was a relief, considering that he thought he was having a seizure an instant before.
Anger flooded him. He had finally come face to face with his haint. It was a man and not a ghost. Shaw could deal with a man. And by God, he was going to.
Charlie Dog was twisting like an eel, snarling and trying to escape his master’s clutch on his collar. Every hair on the dog’s body was standing on end, making him seem twice his normal size.
“Sit!” Shaw’s command came out louder than he intended. Charlie Dog deflated and sunk down to the floor. Shaw drew his .44 and checked the ammunition before grabbing his flashlight off the work table, all the while instructing the dog in a terse undertone.
“You go back to the house and stay with Mama and the children. I aim to track that hellion. I’d like to lop off his nose just for scaring the wadding out of me. But I’ll just bring him back to the stables and chain him to the wall in an empty stall until we can get Scott out here to arrest him in the morning.”
Shaw and Charlie Dog trotted out into the night, the man turning toward the woods and the dog toward the house. Shaw didn’t cast him a second glance. He had no doubt the animal would do exactly as he was told. Shaw was vaguely aware of a woman’s figure standing by the back door, outlined by the dim light coming from the kitchen. Alafair had come outside to see what the racket was. He pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the task at hand.
***
In the faded light Alafair could barely discern the shape of a man moving so fast that he was practically skimming the ground, chased by a snarling apparition that she did not at once recognize as Shaw’s mellow coon dog. Her hair stood on end and she started toward the barn, where Shaw was supposed to be sharpening knives. She had only taken a couple of steps when he appeared around the back corner of the barn, following the fleeing figures at a smooth lope.
Alafair drew up short and released a huge breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. The gap between the strange man and the dog was narrowing by the time the two disappeared into the woods behind the house, followed closely by Shaw. She could see that he had objects in both hands. Some kind of cylinder in the left, and by its shape, a gun in his right. A nose nuzzled her leg and she looked down at Charlie Dog.
“I reckon that was our sneak thief, boy.” Her inflection made it more of a question than a statement. She didn’t want to be scared but a knot of fear rose up in her throat just the same. She put her hand on the top of Charlie Dog’s head.
Shaw had to be furious indeed in order to follow an armed fugitive into the woods in the dark. Not-thinking-straight furious. She hurried up the porch steps and into the house to apprise Kurt of the situation.
Chapter Twenty-five
Shaw was more than familiar with the copse of woods behind his house, but when he entered the trees it was so completely black that he couldn’t have found his way ten feet without the aid of the flashlight.
He could hear Crook in the distance, his barking lengthening into a periodic bay. Crook was made for this kind of hunt. Raccoon hunts always happened at night. Crook would follow the scent until he neared his quarry, then go after it like Beelzebub himself. The only way a coon—or a man—would be able to escape being torn to shreds would be to go up a tree. And if he did, the dog would keep him up that tree until Shaw arrived, or Doomsday, whichever came first. Shaw followed the dog through the woods until he couldn’t hear the sound of the chase any more. He slowed down, picking his way through the trees. It was eerily quiet. Even his own footfall didn’t make noise since the thick carpet of fallen leaves was damp and spongy.
It was fully night, now, and fog began to rise from the forest floor. As he tracked his ghost through the mist, just as he had at the hunting camp, he was struck by a sense of déjà vu. As cold as it was, a sheen of sweat arose on his forehead. He shone his light low, at his feet, his revolver clutched in the other hand.
Somewhere ahead of him, Crook began to bell—that peculiar, resonant howl that said he was on his quarry. Shaw had to stop himself from running toward the sound. He moved as quickly as possible but trod carefully. With the pistol in his hand, a fall could be disastrous.
The dog was baying and barking hysterically and Shaw heard a growl and snap of jaws. Suddenly he wasn’t worried about being seen. He shone the light straight into the woods before him and started to trot, desperate to get there before the dog ripped the man’s throat out.
Just ahead Shaw heard Crook yip, then squeal in pain. He stopped in his tracks and held his breath. Silence.
All caution abandoned, Shaw crashed through the woods, his legs swallowed by floating shreds of mist, knee-deep. He found Crook at the base of tree, whimpering, writhing and trying without success to stand. A spreading dark patch on his right foreleg turned a lurid red in the light of Shaw’s Eveready.
Oh, Lord.
He holstered his pistol before kneeling down and carefully running his hand over the dog’s body, checking for other injuries. Crook yelped when Shaw examined the leg, then licked his master’s hand to apologize for being such a bother. The leg had been cleanly snapped, the bone protruding through the skin. The Indian had given the dog a vicious kick or clubbing. Shaw put his flashlight down in the leaves. He was leaning forward to lift Crook in his arms when he felt the press of cold steel on the back of his neck.
“Stand up.” The voice was low, male, young. “Leave that shooter be.”
Shaw didn’t argue with him. He stood slowly.
“Throw up your hands.”
Shaw made no attempt to look at the man behind him. But he took note that even if his captor was dressed like a Creek, he didn’t sound like it. Crook growled and Shaw laid a gentle boot on the dog’s flank to keep him down before speaking to the Indian. “What do you want? I don’t have your bones any more. What do you want from me? What are you looking for?”
“The white-haired man.”
Shaw said nothing to this.
“Where is the white-haired man?”
The rifle barrel was still pressed against his neck. It’s a mistake to touch me, Shaw thought, and let me know your position. “I know a passel of white-haired men, partner. Which one in particular do you seek?” He’d keep him talking until he felt the man relax his attention, then drop and take him down at the knees.
“The one who made the bones. I’ve been looking for him a long time. Where is the white-haired man?”
“Not at my house. I don’t know who you are or whose bones we found, or how they got in the ground. Nor who the white-haired man is who put them there. Leave my family alone.”
The young voice sounded adamant. “You lie. You know where he is.”
“You’re wrong, fella.” Shaw fell into the low, sing-song tone he used with skittish mules. “You’re on a wild goose chase. You’d better get yourself back to wherever you come from lest you miss this white-haired man when he shows up. Who are you, anyway?”
The half moon broke through the overcast and sent fingers of stark moonlight piercing through the bare branches of the trees. The fog had covered the figure of the wounded dog at Shaw’s feet.
“I am Crying Blood.”
***
The sharp ping of a rifle bullet grazing a tree trunk interrupted the conversation. Shaw didn’t take the time to be startled. He whirled around and knocked the rifle away with his left hand then gave the haint a right uppercut to the jaw that knocked him off his feet. Crying Blood hit the ground like a dead weight. Shaw was so blind with rage that he straddled the body and pounded him a few more times before he realized that his effort was wasted. The Indian was out cold.
The clouds closed over the light.
“Shaw!”
The sound of that familiar voice shocked him. “Alafair, is that you?”
A dark figure in a coat, skirt, and a cowboy hat appeared, holding a rifle.
He grabbed her shoulders. “Dang, woman, you could have blowed my head off! What are you doing here? I told you…”
She dismissed his outburst for what it was, adrenalin and relief. “There’s no need to swear, Shaw. And I wouldn’t have fired except for that shaft of moonlight. I seen him plain as day. I guess you aren’t dreaming things nor are you being haunted, either. What did he say to you? What does he want?”
“Pick up that flashlight for me, honey, and give me some light.” Shaw bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as Alafair shone the light into the unconscious man’s face. He took his first good look at the person who had been making his life miserable for the past week.
“He’s just a kid,” Alafair exclaimed. “Why, he’s no older than Gee Dub, if that.” His hair was blue-black in the artificial light and long, black lashes curled out from smooth lids. He looked deceptively innocent even though half his face was painted with red ochre. He had declared war on somebody.
Kurt’s tall, thin, shape appeared through the trees, a darker shape in the darkness of the woods. “I heard a shot! Are you all right, Miz Tucker?”
“Shaw got the pork thief, Kurt. He’s a boy!”
The fugitive’s youth did nothing to make Shaw feel charitable. When he stirred and opened his eyes, Shaw grabbed his collar and heaved him none too gently to his feet. Crying Blood made a feeble effort to fend him off, but Shaw slapped him across the face so hard that he nearly fell again.