"Okay."
"Good." He thought for a moment. "I could put you to work in one of two places for the next two days—I could send you back to help Joe on No. 88, or have Joe show you how to work on these tracks. Wake McKenna said you could stay with him at his cabin. You got a preference?"
Josh wasted no time. "Let me stay here and work for a few days. Get the tracks in shape so Wake won’t have to worry about that. Then I’ll go back and help Joe on No. 88."
Ed looked at him for a long time. He shifted his position, and Josh heard his knee cartilage pop. It reminded Josh of warm-ups before football practice, that sound of popcorn going off all around you. Finally, he said, "Okay, Josh, you stay here. But these are the rules: One, you do exactly what Joe Buck tells you to do when he shows up tomorrow. If Joe’s not satisfied, he’s going to bring you back with him. Two, you follow Wake McKenna’s directions on everything while you’re up here. And three...stay the hell out of these woods. Got it?”
“Got it."
Ed nodded. "Okay, then. If you work hard and do as you’re told, I’ll leave you here till Saturday night. I’ll pick you up then and bring you back home. We’ll go to church together Sunday. You can invite Amy. How’s that sound?"
"It sounds great to me."
Ed slapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Then let’s go back and get those cuts bandaged. You look like you been thrown in the briar patch with Br’er Rabbit. You’re even talking funny."
As they walked up the bank, Josh looked back over his shoulder. For a second, he wondered if he had imagined the whole thing with Tom Sixkiller. Then he saw the boy’s footprints in the creek bank, and the indentation from his rifle butt. Those were real enough. He could only hope Tom would reappear just as he had today. For Josh wanted to meet Isaac Sixkiller.
* * *
Thursday afternoon at three, Josh paused, leaned on his shovel, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun bore down from a cloudless sky. The ballast he was shoveling beneath the rails soaked up the heat and made it seem even hotter than the one hundred degree temperature. Earlier, Joe Buck had showed how to repack the ballast into weak spots beneath the ties, providing more stability to the rails. He left a supply of new spikes to replace old ones that had worked loose. Each new spike had to be hammered in with a sledge. It was back-breaking work.
Down at the east end of the track, a work crew from the Choctaw Railroad was cleaning and painting the old depot so it would be ready for the excursion tour. Josh stayed alert; he kept staring at the trees. He wished Tom Sixkiller would show up and give him a signal. He cursed his luck yesterday—another minute and he would have been able to set up a meeting. Josh had thought about it before drifting off to sleep in Wake McKenna’s cabin.
After supper, Wake had tried to draw him out about what happened in the woods, but Josh had changed the subject and gone to bed early. Josh scanned the trees once more and then dug into the ballast with his shovel. He felt guilty about not being back at the shop, helping Joe work on No. 88. Joe had mentioned something interesting—Amy was helping with the repairs. She had pointed out the dove and her family had left the nest on the drawbar, so Joe let her help him install it.
He was halfway through the second wheelbarrow of ballast when he heard the sound. It came from the trees, sounding like the call of a quail. Then a small rock hit nearby. He shielded his eyes and looked into the trees. Then he saw Tom Sixkiller motioning to him from behind a big oak in the middle of the pines. Casually, Josh walked across the expanse of grass. When he entered the trees, Tom motioned him to follow. Tom carried his rifle; it seemed part of him, like the medallion. Josh wondered what chance a man would have if Tom sighted in on him.
Tom looked at him. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Do I scare you?"
Josh shook his head. "I told you yesterday that you don’t scare me." He pointed at the 30-30. "That scares me."
Tom looked down at the weapon, then back at Josh. "I was just kidding yesterday when I said I might shoot you. I was mad you flushed that deer."
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"How could you have shot that deer that close to the park and get away with it? Wake McKenna would have been in there fast."
Tom smiled, showing the beautiful white teeth. "I told you. Wake McKenna, on his best day, would never see me if I was dragging a deer.
Josh shook his head. “How do you do that?”
"I was born to it. And what I didn’t know, Isaac taught me. A Cherokee can learn to move like an animal in the woods. It takes instincts and a good teacher."
"Could he teach me?"
"No. You’re too white. You would flush every animal in a quarter mile. Feet too heavy."
Josh knew the clock was ticking; how long could he stay out here and not be missed? "I’m willing to learn other things that Isaac might tell me."
Tom gave him a shrewd look. "Ah. That." Tom squatted on his haunches, resting the rifle across his thighs.
Josh waited.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. "I will tell you a little about Isaac. Then you can decide if you want to meet him."
"Tell me."
“Isaac is what we Cherokees call a ‘curer of them.’"
"You mean, like a medicine man?"
"Yes. Except he will deny knowledge of magic."
"But does he know magic?"
"I will tell you this, because you could learn it anyway, at a library. Medicine men get ‘medicine manuscripts.’"
"‘Medicine manuscripts?’ What are they?"
"They are sayings and rituals. Used for many things: treating a toothache, separating a married couple, or say...protecting someone from a nightwalker."
“A nightwalker?"
“A witch.”
Josh swallowed. "Oh.”
"Know this: Isaac is a Christian, like most Cherokees. But Cherokees know that a healthy Christian is worth more to the Kingdom of God than a sick one."
"How do the Cherokee feel about medical doctors?"
Tom shrugged. "They might take a—what do you call it?—"jaundiced" view of white man’s medicine. So the Cherokee may use a healing technique."
Josh sat and thought about this. What did it mean for him? He studied Tom’s face, trying to read the answer in his eyes. The answer was not there, just brown blank pools, staring at him. "Yesterday, you mentioned something about a ceremony. About others attending..."
Tom nodded.
"What kind of ceremony?"
A pause. "A peyote ceremony."
"Peyote? Like when you get high?"
“Peyote is more than getting high. The peyote has religious value for many of the old Indians."
Josh nodded, thinking about it. He studied the young Cherokee. They were alike. Something gnawed at Tom Sixkiller; Josh could see it in his eyes. Tom had some kind of goal too. What was it? Josh wondered. He felt he could be friends with Tom, that the friendship would be worth the risks he would take now. He said, "Will you be there, Tom?"
"Yes.”
"And Isaac?
“Isaac, too.”
"And the others? You mentioned others...."
"Post Oak Bill. And One Eye."
"One Eye?"
Tom made a face. "One Eye Kanatobi."
"Post Oak and One Eye. Who are they?"
"Believers in the peyote. We believe it cleanses the spirit."
"Why did you make a face when you said one Eye’s name?"
Tom’s eyes showed new respect. He said, "Some spirits need cleansing more than others."
"I see." Josh felt it was time to quit sparring. "Take me with you."
Tom looked at him for a long time. His brown eyes seemed to X-ray through Josh to his soul. Deep in the woods, a squirrel chattered. A gentle breeze, the first of the day, whispered through the pines. Tom stroked the medallion. "Why should I?"
"Because I need your friendship. I want it. I want to talk to Isaac about Trace Gottschalk."
"They might not like it."
"Ask Isaac. Tell him why. He sounds like the leader."
"He is the leader."
"Then if he is the leader, his word holds. If he says I can go, the other two will eat peyote and shut up."
Tom nodded and smiled. "That is so." The Indian shifted his weight, considering the request. “You would be quiet?”
“Yes.”
“They might test you. Offer you peyote.”
Josh thought about that. “It can’t be worse than two or three Coors.”
“Different than beer. You’ll see.”
“Where and when do I meet you?”
Tom stood up. His brown shirt was soaked with sweat. “Over there by the big oak at the tree line.”
Josh thought about it. “That should work. Wake likes to talk, but I heard he starts fading about nine-thirty or ten. I’ll be here at eleven. What time will I get back?”
“Who knows?”
With that, Tom turned and trotted into the woods.
Josh watched him. In a few seconds, he blended into the pines and brush. Josh wished he’d asked more questions about tonight. Were they friends or foes? He knew the Indians resented that this land no longer belonged to them. The Choctaws had settled in Oklahoma after the Trail of Tears from Mississippi. Oklahoma was named after the Red Man. We are the newcomers, Josh thought. If the roles were reversed, we would resent them. He turned to go back to work. Later, he would look back and remember thinking this would be a scary night.
After finishing the ballast work at five-thirty, Josh showered. Wake McKenna turned on the window air conditioner and then took venison steaks out of the freezer, chopped fresh okra, dropped it in a paper sack with flour and corn meal, and shook it. Then he fried the okra in a cast iron skillet. He had venison steaks going in another one. Along with corn bread and green onions, he sliced fresh tomatoes from his garden. Wake poured iced tea into Mason jars, and they feasted. Josh collapsed onto the sofa and watched Wake light up a pipe, the sweet smoke curling up to the ceiling of the A-frame cabin. The sun was almost set, and through the window Josh could see the fading glow behind the pines. He felt tense, wondering what would happen later.
Wake said, "Worried about your father, Josh?"
Josh brought his mind back to the present. "I guess I am.”
Wake nodded. "I’ve known him all his life, and his father, Frank, before that."
"What was my grandfather like back in the...back when you knew him?"
Wake smiled. "Back in the ‘old days?’ Frank was a character. Joe Buck tells the story about how Frank would spike his coffee with Old Crow and warm it next to the hot water lines in the cab of his steam engine during his runs. You hear about that?"
"I think Joe may have mentioned it."
"Did he mention how everybody loved Frank? I’ll tell you another story. Frank took Joe Buck to one of those bars south of town. You know, Josh, back in the late thirties and early forties, there was segregation in Senoca County. The south part of town was all black. White folks pretty much stayed away. Well, Frank took Joe in there, and the owner gave Frank some ribs and beer on the house. Everybody came up and had something to say to him. Joe kept his mouth shut and ate ribs. He couldn’t believe they would accept a white and an Indian in there like one of their own. Frank Wade was good will."
"Dad said times were really tough back then."
Wake nodded and puffed his pipe. The air conditioner hummed and rattled as the compressor cut in. "That made it more difficult when Frank had to retire."
"His eyes went bad, didn’t they."
“Yes. Joe Buck would be in the back of a line of cars in the yard and Frank would be up front in a switch engine. Frank made Joe wear white gloves. At first Joe didn’t understand, then he realized it was so Frank could see his hand signals. That went on for about a year, but then one day Frank missed a signal. They almost had an accident. Wasn’t long after, Frank turned in his retirement request." He puffed and exhaled a stream of smoke. "We all have to ask for the white gloves someday."
Josh nodded. "Well, first I have things to do. We have a family fight on our hands now." Immediately, Josh knew that was a bad choice of words.
"A family fight, eh? Who are you fighting, Josh? The Gottschalks? Is that why you said what you did yesterday? About Sheriff Gottschalk at the funeral home?"
Josh crossed his feet and sipped his tea. "Well, the Gottschalk’s do own most of this land outside the park. Maybe they have reasons for not wanting more people in the area." He looked Wake McKenna in the eye. "What do you think, Mr. McKenna?"
Wake tamped his pipe. "I hear rumors."
"What rumors?"
"The same rumors everybody else hears—that those woods are haunted, or bad luck. Or that something’s going on out there that’s best left alone." He looked at Josh.
"Fear intimidates. People fear what they don’t understand, so they let well enough alone. And then there’s Trace. . .”
"Tell me about Trace."
Wake gave three long puffs. By now, Josh had it figured. The more puffs, the tougher the answer. Trace Gottschalk was a three-puff answer. "Well," Wake said, "you have to know Trace’s background."
"I’m listening."
"The way Trace is today goes back to what Billy Ray did to him when he was a pup."
"What did he do to him?"
"Billy Ray abused him.”
“Gosh.”
"Yeah. And people said Billy Ray and Naomi never spent any time with him. They were too busy making money, getting set in Senoca. So Trace didn’t develop right; there were bad signs early on."
"What bad signs."
"Like the time he broke a teammate’s jaw in football practice. Most vicious forearm ever thrown on that field, everybody said. And it happened after the play. He never showed any sympathy or regret. In fact, he developed a reputation for liking the sight of blood. But that was just the beginning...."
To Josh, the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.
Wake McKenna had a distant look in his eyes. He was looking back in time, Josh guessed, at a murky, unpleasant picture.
"Yes, that was only the beginning. Trace went to college, majored in chemistry, married, had a son. Billy Ray was Sheriff by then, and he put Trace in charge of the family’s businesses. There was plenty to manage: land, cattle, rental properties, the creosote plant, the ranch out there." He waved toward the window.
Josh nodded. "So then what happened?"
"Everything was fine for a few years. Then it started going bad again.”
"What happened then?"
"He started beating his boy and his wife, so Mary Ann divorced him and moved away."
Josh thought about it all: abused child, neglected, violent, smart, knowledge of chemistry, wife and child abuser, son of local law. And that conversation Josh had overheard in the funeral home. Somewhere back in time Trace must have intimidated Dr. Brewer’s competition, run another doctor out of town. Josh sipped his tea. The ice had melted. Sweat beaded on Josh’s forehead, even though the room was cooling down.
Wake said, "Then there was the drowning."
"What drowning?"
"Trace’s younger brother, Shane."
"Nobody told me Trace had a brother."
Wake puffed his pipe and nodded. "Retarded."
"What happened?"
"Nobody knows for sure. They didn’t talk about it much."
"Well, what was in the papers? I mean, somebody died."
"Billy Ray said they were on a family outing on the Glover River. Trace and Shane were walking near the edge. Shane slipped, fell in." Wake puffed on his pipe. "The Glover is a mean river in the spring. They never found the body. Hunted down river for days, but it must have hung up in brush."
Josh felt a chill. "Was anybody else there when it happened? Anybody but family?"
Wake shook his head. No. Just the Gottschalks. And Billy Ray and Naomi didn’t see it happen."
Josh thought he w
ouldn’t want to walk beside a fast-moving river with Trace Gottschalk. But why would he kill his brother? The more he thought about Trace, the more questions he wanted to ask. And Josh hadn’t even gotten around to the Indians yet. He watched Wake McKenna’s eyes droop. He was starting to nod off. "How do the local Indians see the Gottschalk’s, Mr. McKenna? After all, the Indians used to own all this land."
"Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I hear some of them live around here, up on the Gottschalk land. It just seems they would be resentful of something... the Gottschalk’s, the park, the railroad.”
"I guess you could say they aren’t happy; like you say, they don’t own the land anymore. Some of them live on it and work it for the Gottschalk’s. The Sixkiller crew. They keep pretty much to themselves." There was another pause, longer. "There’s been some occasional trouble...."
"Trouble?"
"A little vandalism to the park. Nothing we could ever prove...."
"Anything worse?"
Wake’s voice was weary and wary now, and his eyes carried a warning. "The Indians around this park are not your concern, Josh. They’re my concern, and your dad’s. You don’t want to get involved with Indian goings on. Resentments run deep, over many years. It’s bigger than individuals."
Josh sipped his tea and realized his supper was not agreeing with him.
Wake rose to his feet and stretched. Joints and cartilage popped and creaked.
"I’m bushed, Josh. Sorry there’s no television, but you can read if you want." He pointed toward the stack of magazines and books on the fireplace mantle. "There’s some good mysteries; those kind are safe to solve." He smiled at Josh and went off to bed.
Josh listened to the creaks and night sounds of the cabin. A wood cabin like this had a life of its own, Josh thought, as he lay in bed. To Josh, Wake and the cabin seemed like one—all the rough edges had been worn off.
Josh got out of bed and put on his jeans, sweatshirt, and Nikes. He wished he had brought his snake boots. He moved silently through the door and paused in the hallway across from Wake McKenna’s room. The ranger was breathing steadily, but he was not snoring. Would he get up in the night and check on Josh? It was possible, Josh thought. Still, he had to go out and meet Tom Sixkiller.
The Witchery Way Page 6
