New Madrid

by Robert Tomaino

  The meal consisted of corn, beans, and squash. The Quapaw had gathered some leaves from nearby trees to use as plates, and ate the food with spoons carved from buffalo horns. The warriors sat crossed-legged on the ground. Jack and Chata joined them.

  “Where you go?” the warrior asked.

  “New Madrid,” Jack replied. The Quapaw were a peaceful tribe and, for years, had traded with the town and the local traders and trappers. He knew they had once allied with the French and fought against the Chickasaw. However, in recent years as more and more settlers pushed west, those lines of trade had been less frequent.

  “Where you go?” Jack asked in turn.

  “Home.” The warrior spoke no other words.

  Jack raised an eyebrow toward Chata, who spoke to warrior in his own tongue for a few moments. Chata turned to Jack. “They are returning from the great gathering to hear Tecumseh speak.”

  “The Shawnee chief? The one trying to unite all the tribes?” Jack studied the warriors. Strong and confident, they looked like formidable fighters. “Will they join this confederacy?” Jack asked.

  Chata spoke a bit more to the warrior. “No,” he told Jack. “They wanted to see the great warrior speak. Some were receptive, but the great chief, Big Warrior, was not.”

  “He is Creek?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, chief of the Tuckabatchee.” Chata spooned a glop of the squash mix into his mouth.

  “And what will happen now if the southern tribes have rejected Tecumseh?” Jack asked.

  Chata spoke to the warrior, who shook his head, his face sullen with dismay. He spoke rapidly in his native tongue and stood dancing with heavy feet.

  Chata drew in a deep breath. “Tecumseh has said that if the tribes fail to unite, he will stomp his feet and bring all the buildings down.” Chata’s usually stoic face showed slight lines of worry.

  Jack laughed. “C’mon, you don’t believe that.”

  “Tecumseh’s brother is known as ‘The Prophet,’ ” Chata said. “He foretold the day that the Great Spirit would take the sun and hide it from us.”

  “The solar eclipse?” Jack smiled. “Scientists can predict that.”

  “Hmmm,” Chata grumbled with satisfaction. “And can your scientists make the ground shake and the buildings fall?”

  Jack pursed his lips. “Of course not. And I’d reckon Tecumseh can’t, either.”

  “We should have stayed at the farmhouse or with the Quapaw.” Chata sat in front of the fire, his bedroll spread out behind him. Jack sat opposite him, lost in thought.

  Chata sighed. He took out a small, jeweled knife and chipped away at a piece of pine. Wood shavings collected on the ground. Sparks from the fire landed nearby, but Chata ignored them. The silence between the two men was broken only by the crackling and popping of the fire.

  “I thought we settled things the other day, but sometimes I feel like you have more to say to me.” Jack gazed at the fire. “Enough. Out with it.”

  Chata sheathed his knife and stood. He walked around the fire. “You know what this is about.”

  “That’s settled.” Jack rose. He faced Chata. “I cannot change the past. I would if I could. I’d give my life to change what happened.”

  Chata frowned and shook his head. The frustration sounded in his voice. “You murdered children!” He balled his fists.

  “No, I didn’t,” Jack roared. He stood angrily and stepped toward Chata. “You weren’t there.”

  Chata stepped backward, surprised by Jack’s ferocity. He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a scrap of paper. He handed the sheriff a faded newspaper clipping. The yellowed paper was folded several times over and tore slightly when Jack gently pulled the page apart.

  He didn’t read the news story; he already knew what it said. The front page of the Baltimore American screamed “Massacre!” The story described the brutal events of that day. The story claimed that the Sewapois were a violent tribe that had initiated hostilities. Two of the three officers, Colonel Henry Buford and First Lieutenant Thomas Meade, were awarded. Second Lieutenant Jackson Ellard was also pictured, but the story only discussed the gory details. Jack stared at his name, the ink impossibly dark on the faded page.

  “I guess you didn’t kill enough to earn a medal?” Chata spat the words out, but his usual venom had faded.

  “I didn’t kill anyone that day.” The words came from Jack’s mouth as if he was just remembering what happened.

  “Why were you kicked out of the army, then?”

  Jack looked up from the paper. “I was kicked out because I didn’t kill anyone. I tried to stop them.” Jack paused. Chata stared at him in confusion. Jack spat onto the ground. “They kicked me out for insubordination.”

  Chata stared at Jack, his mouth agape. He tried to speak, but couldn’t find words. He shook his head. “That’s, that’s not possible.”

  “Why do you care so much about that day?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Jack face contorted into a grimace. “Who the hell are you to tell me I’m wrong?”

  “I was there,” Chata shouted. His feet stumbled forward. “You lie! I was there.”

  Jack stood, his lips quivering as he looked upon Chata with new eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t know that there was a survivor. I was there. I saw everything.”

  Jack entire body stiffened, but his eyes were aflame. “Take off your shirt.”

  “What?” Chata stepped back reflexively.

  “Take off your shirt!” Jack barked. His hand slid to his gun. Chata’s hand followed suit. Jack took a deep breath and held his hands up. “I swear it, Chata, take your shirt off.”

  Chata pulled his shirt over his head as quickly as he could. He stood, unflinching, as Jack assessed him.

  “You weren’t there,” Jack said, the words each carrying an extra weight. His face trembled as he fought to control himself. “You’re a liar.”

  “How do you know?” Chat asked. He shifted uneasily, the balled-up shirt in his hands.

  “Because there was a survivor. A young boy. Would be around your age now.” Jack’s eye’s narrowed as he took in Chata anew. Jack walked a few feet away from the campfire and stared into the darkness. He no longer addressed his companion. “He was shot in the right shoulder. Bad.”

  “What happened?” Chata walked around the fire until he was in the periphery of Jack’s sight. He put his shirt back on. “What happened that day?”

  Jack didn’t turn around. “I carried him out. I took care of that boy till he got better. Then, I had him enrolled in a school in Baltimore.” He turned and regarded Chata. “You said you went to school in Baltimore.”

  The two men stood in the shadows at the edge of the firelight. The crackling of the burning logs had intensified, and popped and frizzled like small cap guns. The wind picked up, scattering embers around the campsite.

  “He was my friend.” Chata stood facing Jack, but the defiance was gone. He sagged a bit and looked exhausted. “The boy you saved was my friend. He would never talk about what happened.” He looked at Jack. “He remembered. Would wake up screaming in the night.”

  “What happened to him?

  “He drank. A lot. Moved to New York City.” Chata sighed. “He left his past, his identity behind him.”

  “He died?”

  “No, the man lives, but the brave died. The Sewapois man is gone. He became a lawyer. He took a white man’s name.”

  Jack avoided Chata’s eyes but found no solace in the darkness. The flames licked greedily at the sticks casting shadows that danced between the two men.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said simply.

  “He learned the white man’s ways. He fights them with their weapons. But he uses them to help the tribes. He fights your government to honor its treaties. To respect our people. He’s helped a lot of people.”

  The silence hung in the air between them. Jack coughed. “I tried to stop them. I really did.”
<
br />   “I’ve seen the scar on his shoulder,” Chata said. “Whenever I asked him about it, he wouldn’t answer. He claimed he didn’t know who paid for his schooling.” A piece of wood popped, sending embers through the air. The flames highlighted Chata’s face, and his eyes sparkled in the firelight. “You saved his life.”

  “I barely did anything,” Jack said.

  “That is not, apparently, true,” Chata said. “When you speak like that, people will believe you. And you’re wrong. You saved one life, and that life has saved many more. I believe he will continue to do so.”

  Jack felt at ease. He stared into the darkness, which stretched out endlessly from the little campfire. For the first time, he saw it as open and free rather than oppressive. “Does this mean you will stop attacking me?”

  Chata laughed for the first time that Jack could remember. “I traveled far for vengeance. For my friend, for my parents.” He added more softly, “For myself.” Chata picked up a stick and jabbed it into the fire.

  “Why didn’t you go through with it?”

  Chata held the stick that glowed at the end. He shrugged. “You’re a good man, Jack Ellard.”

  “Life is more complex than a man being good or evil, I think,” Jack said.

  “I agree.”

  Jack sighed. “Get some sleep.” He motioned toward Chata’s bedroll. “I’ll stay up. Doubt I’ll sleep much tonight anyway.”

  Chata returned to his bedroll and hunkered down for the night. He stared at the fire as the flames continued to flicker.

  Jack moved to the edge of the firelight. He stared into the sky. The comet still blazed a path through the heavens, brighter now than at any point Jack could remember. Although it passed close to Earth, the comet would never touch the ground. Its place was not here on the planet and, rather than the dark omen many feared, the comet’s brilliant light could be a beacon to lead people forward.

  CHAPTER 10

  An incessant hammering greeted them as they arrived back in New Madrid. Shouts and cries emanated from the center of town as men yelled back and forth. A throng of people awaited them at the edge of town and pressed forth as the riders returned.

  Jack and Chata pulled up as they reached the crowd. The assembled townsfolk tried to talk all at once, their words coming out in a babbling rush.

  “Jack.” “You’ve got to stop them,” “Where’s the girl?” Did you shoot that thieving peddler?”

  “Enough.” Jack failed to quiet the crowd. “Enough!” The unexpected outburst from their sheriff reduced the tumultuous babbling to a soft murmur. Some people looked to the ground and others shifted uneasily. After a moment, Jack said, “One person talk. One! George, what the hell is going on?”

  “Jack,” he gasped as he eased his way through the crowd. “You didn’t find her?”

  “We couldn’t catch up to Bozeman,” Jack said. “But we know where he went.”

  “Where is she?” George asked.

  Someone cried out before Jack could answer. “They’ll kill her, Jack. You’ve got to do something.”

  The crowd started shouting again, their words lost among the torrent of cries.

  “Dang it,” Jack yelled. “We’re trying to find her. Will you people listen?!”

  The crowd quieted down again, and people exchanged worried glances. Finally, Ethel Jones stepped forward. “They are not talking about the Duncan girl.” She sniffed dramatically. “They’re talking about widow Emma.” Her words held a sharp edge.

  Jack’s brow furrowed. The sounds of hammers striking wood returned to his ears. He looked at George, who glanced away rather than acknowledge the unspoken question.

  “What’s wrong with the widow Emma?” Jack edged his horse forward.

  No one spoke. An uneasy quiet settled on the town. The hammering grew louder in the silence.

  “Well?” Jack asked again.

  “The preacher has accused her of witchcraft,” Ethel said, hints of excitement in her voice.

  “What?” The word escaped Jack’s mouth in a whisper. He searched the crowd for a friendly face. No one would make eye contact. “Where is she?”

  “Doc Waters’,” George said meekly. “Sarah is with her.”

  “Why is she at Doc’s?” Jack snapped.

  “When the preacher confronted her, she fainted,” Ethel said. She sniffed. “She knew she was found out and just collapsed.”

  Jack sighed. “How bad?”

  Ethel shrugged her shoulders, as if to show she knew little of the situation. “She hit her head when she fainted. She hasn’t woken up.”

  “She’s unconscious?” Jack asked.

  For just a moment, Ethel looked contrite, but her face hardened again. “She’s a witch.” Jack’s eyes bore into the older woman. Ethel fidgeted. “Doc Waters says she should be fine.”

  “And Doc Waters knows this for sure?” Jack sat rigidly in his saddle. His horse fidgeted in front of the crowd. Jack turned to Chata. “What will Prescott do?”

  Chata frowned, but shook his head. “He’s told me stories, but I’ve never been with him for a trial. He’s a ruthless man once he’s made up his mind.”

  Jack sat in the saddle with a mass of townsfolk huddled in front of him.

  “Jack?” Chata. “The Mason gang. We can’t wait.”

  Jack sighed. “Where’s Prescott?”

  “What about my daughter?” George asked.

  “We have to see about the preacher,” Jack said. “Then we’ll go after your daughter. I think Bozeman took her to the Masons.”

  George’s face paled, and a horrified murmur spread through the people. “You’ve gotta head out now,” George pleaded.

  Jack didn’t respond. He glanced from Chata to George, and then the assembled townsfolk. The hammering droned on, rhythmic and steady. Everyone looked to him for an answer. He looked toward the town center and tried to avoid eye contact with George.

  “Where’s Prescott?” he said after a moment.

  “He’s overseeing the construction of the gallows,” George said and flinched under Jack’s withering gaze.

  “Is that what that sound is?” Jack turned toward the center of town. “He’s gonna hang an unconscious woman?”

  George stared at Jack and shrugged.

  “He won’t hang her if she’s unconscious.” Chata’s words broke the silence. Somehow, the simple words drowned out the hammering, although only for a brief moment. Chata continued when everyone looked at him, “Until she’s better, he won’t do anything.”

  “What do you know about a preacher’s business?” sniffed Ethel.

  “I’ve traveled with him since Baltimore.” He looked at Jack and shrugged. “Out of necessity. Nothing more. But I don’t think he’d do that.” He addressed Ethel, “And your title of preacher means nothing to me.”

  Ethel gasped. Some of the townsfolk grumbled.

  “Can you talk him out of it?” Jack asked.

  “I could try,” Chata scoffed. “But he won’t listen. Elijah Prescott answers to a higher power. Just ask him.” Chata nodded at Jack. “You should talk to him.”

  “Me?” Jack asked. “Clergy don’t listen to old lawmen, either.”

  “Maybe,” Chata said. “But you’ve challenged him before. He’s not used to that. He’s wary of you.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yep.”

  George interjected, “Jack, go! Do what you gotta do and get my girl.” He shot an annoyed glance at Chata.

  Jack pressed his lips together. “Fine. Chata can you help here?”

  “I would prefer to go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business. And you need the help.”

  Jack didn’t answer right away. The two men stood a few paces apart. Jack did not understand how he could feel such kinship with a man who had tried to kill him a couple of days ago.

  “I’ll stay,” Remington said, breaking the silence. “We won’t let Prescott do anything till you get back.”

&
nbsp; “Fine. Where the hell’s August and the rest of the militia?” Jack asked.

  No one answered. A few people looked away. A couple others shuffled their feet. George coughed.

  “Well?” Jack said.

  “They’re building the gallows,” George said after a moment.

  “Mother of God,” Jack muttered in disbelief. His entire body shook with surprise and anger.

  No one spoke. He spurred his horse forward, toward the sound of construction, not caring if anyone followed. His dismounted as he neared the town center and walked his horse forward.

  The hammering grew louder. The discordant knocks and bangs were interspersed with cries from the working men. Most of the base of the gallows had been erected, with a small staircase on the left side. Men were hammering in a railing on the platform. Off to the side, other men were working on posts and a crossbeam for the gallows themselves.

  The simple wooden structure dominated the square. Jack stopped his horse and cleared his throat. The gallows loomed among the buildings despite its lack of height, a forlorn and foreboding structure.

  “Prescott,” Jack shouted at the man who stood near the door to the saloon.

  Prescott watched the construction without much emotion. He stood, arms folded, his head shifting back and forth at the scurrying workmen. He made no acknowledgement of Jack.

  Jack strode toward the preacher. “Prescott!” He raised his voice. The preacher turned and blinked, as if he’d never met Jack before. “What the hell is going on?” Jack snapped when he reached him.

  Prescott wore a soft smile on his face. “We are constructing a device to expunge this town of unwholesome elements.” Prescott gestured at the half-constructed gallows. “You’re welcome.”

  “You are NOT hanging an elderly woman.” Jack stepped directly in front of the man and forced him to meet his eyes.

  “You do not hold authority over me,” Prescott snapped. “I answer to a higher power.”

  “In this town, you answer to me,” Jack said.

  An ironic smile twisted Prescott’s face. “I would suggest that I don’t, Jack.” He spat the name out. “And you’ve never formally accepted the position of marshal. Am I correct in that deduction?