He went directly to the stable to unsaddle his sorrel and was surprised to find the pony still hitched to the wagon. Uncharacteristically, Leah and Mullins must have forgotten him — but why would they have used the wagon anyway? He quickly unharnessed the pony and forked his rack high with hay. Then, after doing the same for Judas, he stepped towards the house.
The door stood open, displaying the lighted room within. He saw the inside furnishings in disarray — a chair on its side, smashed dishes on the floor. With a quickening heartbeat, he leapt up onto the porch, calling out: ‘Leah!’
There was no response.
His nostrils were assailed by the smell of pepper.
Sure enough, the room looked as if it had been the scene of a struggle. He called her name desperately, going to the foot of the ladder which led to the loft bedroom. Leah would never have slept through his shouting, nor the baby — yet no answer came, no welcoming call, and panic took hold of him. Ed Mullins should have been bedded down upon the sofa, but there was no sign of him.
And then Angus heard the groan and, drawn by the sound, he pulled aside the sofa and found Leah lying on the floor. Leah, nigh naked, with her dress ripped away, blood and bruising darkening her pale skin, and unmistakable bite marks etched into her neck.
Oh God!
Angus sank to his knees, crying out with rage. He gathered her in his arms, lifted her against him, fearing that she was dead, but suddenly aware of her heart beating and the warmth that her body exuded. His lips pleaded with her, begging her to realize that she was safe now, that the nightmare was over.
‘Leah, Leah … my sweet Leah!’
And as if in answer to his pleading, her eyelids flickered up and he found himself gazing into blue eyes that were so familiar to him yet now showed nothing but terror.
‘No!’ she screamed, so loudly that it made him shudder.
Shocked, he pleaded with her. ‘Leah, I’m here. It’s Angus. You’re safe, my love!’
Her expression hardened into a look of pure hatred. ‘Go away … go away … go away!’ and then she screamed with high-pitched desperation, the sound burning his ears.
She struggled as he raised her up, carried her around the sofa and rested her gently down. He attempted to soothe her with words that seemed useless. Only when she was totally exhausted, totally drained from her screaming did she go quiet – quiet until she spoke words that haunted him for the rest of his life.
‘Anna’s gone! He’s taken Anna!’
‘Who … who’s taken her?’ he stammered.
For a moment she breathed heavily, her brow furrowed with the intensity of thought, then she gave her head a despairing shake.
He answered for her. ‘It was Kypp,’ he got out, ‘Johnny Kypp?’ He was trembling with emotion, with hatred.
Her head dropped back. She had no strength. She writhed for a moment, a deep cry of distress in her throat, then her eyes closed. He watched, stunned, wretched with horror.
Johnny Kypp. The name tortured his brain like a white-hot branding-iron.
He hugged the limp body of his wife against him and sobbed. His heart felt crushed within his chest. Questions pounded at him. Why hadn’t he quit this place at the first sign of trouble? Why had he left Leah so unprotected? Where was Ed Mullins? And where was his sweet little lass, Anna?
He gritted his teeth with anger. Somebody would have to pay for what had happened.
Angus Troon sat out the remainder of the night with Leah cradled in his arms. She was restless and tortured, throwing her eyes around, totally incoherent with her rambling. Come dawn, he washed her as best he could, cursing as he saw how her body had been abused. Finally, he wrapped her in a blanket and carried her to the stable. He rested her down in the bed of the wagon, noting how the floorboards were bloodstained. Why? And where was Mullins?
He harnessed the pony and within five minutes he was heading for town, not realizing that less than twenty-four hours earlier, Leah had made the same journey.
He glanced back at her. She was lying perfectly still, but he saw the movement of her eyes.
Little Anna was constantly on his mind. He remembered Sunday morning when he’d painted a funny face on an egg, and how she had smiled. His cheeks were moist with tears.
What had they done to her? Had their cruel hands smothered her to death? Or beaten her? Or discarded her small body to the ravages of the wild? He shuddered. Maybe he should have gone searching for her, trying to strike up a trail, but he knew that he had to get Leah to the doctor. She had been both physically and mentally tortured to distraction.
CHAPTER TEN
What followed was a nightmare for Angus. The Clayton family did everything they could to ease his pain. The thin doctor naturally told him of the events preceding the discovery of Leah in her distressed state; he bitterly reproached himself for not accompanying her into the house the previous night. And Angus’s misery was increased as he learned about Ed Mullins’s death.
The Claytons offered Angus and Leah accommodation during this traumatic period. The truth was that Leah could not be left alone and needed frequent sedation. In addition to the doctor’s care, Jasmine and young Elizabeth were kindness personified.
But Angus did not have much time to show his appreciation. He prevailed upon Town Marshal Terrill, for once in a sober state, to assist him on the very next day in his efforts to track down his enemy – and, more important, Anna. But he was alarmingly aware that a man as uncouth, callous and merciless as the rapist and killer would have little patience with a young child and would soon grow tired of her, whatever his motives.
Angus and the marshal rode out to the now deserted ferry house, examining the stable and surrounding ground for any evidence – any horse-tracks, footprints or empty shell-cases. He went to the house, pausing on the threshold, needing to accustom himself to its stillness, its smell, its absences. In a state of numbness, he searched inside for any clue, but apart from the general disorder in the living-room and a larder that had been denuded, he found nothing of use.
He was convinced that whoever had committed the crime would have been unable to cross the river. He and Terrill scrutinized the trees and hills north of the ferry house, periodically meeting up to see if either had discovered anything. And at each meeting Angus could see the marshal’s interest flagging. No doubt he was more concerned about his next drink in the saloon than tracing a lost child. Eventually Angus dismissed him, saying he wished to search further afield. Terrill departed without hesitation.
Angus continued his efforts into the late afternoon, his eyes combing the ground along the river bank and further afield, but in him was the sinking feeling that the man he sought and Anna were long gone. Come nightfall, he lingered at the house to make a sign, nailing it to a post which he drove into the ground: Regret Ferry Service Suspended until Further Notice – Due to Illness.
He made everything as secure as he could, though little seemed to matter any more. He opened up the hog-pen and chicken-run, released Leah’s beloved goat Mary, letting the creatures out to forage for themselves in the wild. Then, he roped the draught-horses and the pony together, riding Judas himself, and, with a heavy heart, he led the small cavalcade back to Pawnee Bend. On arrival, he left his animals at the livery, ensuring they were given a double bait of oats.
Over the next days he rode to adjacent settlements and ranches, asking if there had been any sightings of Johnny Kypp or of the child – but everywhere his questions were met with blank expressions and shaking heads. It seemed that man and child had disappeared from the face of the earth. He had handbills run off at the printer’s in town, appealing for information, and pinned them up everywhere he went.
On the fourth day he rode into high country beyond the Peigan. This was wild, lonely territory, not for the timid. Climbing through forests of fir, spruce and aspen, he reached the edge of a high precipitous cliff. Above, he spotted a bald eagle drifting on the thermals. Leaving Judas tethered well back, he went down on his h
ands and knees, crawling to the very edge. He shuddered. He was no coward, but dizzy heights had always scared him. Now, he gazed into the grey, rocky vastness, hoping that he might sight something, anything, that would help him in his search, but all that caught his eye was the swirl of birds about their cliff-face nests and a whitewater stream far beneath, surging through the canyon like a tormented serpent.
As he withdrew from the crest he noticed something glinting in the grass. He discovered an empty bean-can. And then he saw something else. Back in the trees a large slab of rock provided a sort of natural lean-to, the rudest hooden. Sticks, long rotted, had been heaped as walls at the side to keep out the wind. The whole place merged almost indistinguishably into its mottled background. Within it the earth had been blackened by fire. Somebody had camped here, but not recently. Could it be the enemy he hunted?
He searched around and presently found an ingeniously made wooden crate. Its sides bore skilfully carved designs of wolves, coyotes and spiders. Ritual and dream figures with the power of poha of Indian mythology. He realized that this was a contraption used by the Osage tribe, so called ‘people of the middle waters’, to store the game they had killed until they returned for it. It was like a meat-safe. They would dangle it over the edge of the cliff on a rope, and thus prevent wild bear or any other creature from stealing it. But it had clearly been many years since this particular box had been used.
Angus examined it, seeing how it would be just large enough to take a human body. Beyond that, it divulged nothing in any way useful to him. It was just a relic of bygone days. This campsite itself had probably been used by Indians, and he had no quarrel with them, though the sooner they were all shipped off to the Indian Territories the safer the country would be.
On the fifth day, back at Pawnee Bends, he went to Ed Mullins’s funeral. The poor man had always been a loner with no family and, apart from himself and the kind-hearted Claytons, the attendance was minimal. Leah was far too ill to attend; Elizabeth remained at home to look after her.
After that Leah’s condition seemed to deteriorate; the blankness remained in her once lively eyes, which showed not a glimpse of recognition when Angus returned from his fruitless searches. She no longer spoke or communicated or went outside; she sat all the time in the same chair, her blonde head slumped, her face chalk-white. She had to be supported to the outhouse and washed. She had no appetite for food and had to be coaxed by hand, morsel by morsel.
Edmund Clayton comforted Angus by saying that he had known patients, where intense trauma had affected the brain, return to normality after a period of time. Clinging to that slight hope Angus afforded her every kindness he could, talking to her, assuring her that one day he would find Anna and they would resume the life they had once known.
But Leah showed no interest. The pupils of her eyes remained dilated. He could have been a stranger.
A week later he was away, continuing his searching. In the morning, Jasmine was in town shopping, the doctor attending a difficult childbirth and Elizabeth had slipped out to deliver some medicine to an elderly patient. Leah occupied her usual position in the chair, whimpering occasionally, for once alone.
Realizing that the house was quiet, she rose to her feet and unsteadily made her way through a door and along a corridor to the doctor’s pharmacy. Its door was locked, but on a side-hideaway she found the key. Inside the pharmacy she discovered shelves filled with drugs, liniments, ointments, painkillers, pills – and then her gaze drifted to the jars on the top shelf. In bright red lettering, they bore the word POISON.
She fetched the small step-ladder, climbed it and reached for the jar marked ARSENIC, her trembling hands nearly dropping it as she lifted it down. She was panting, her eyes rolling. She pulled off the jar’s top. Inside, it was filled to the brim with white powder. She did not hesitate. She plunged her fingers into the jar and scooped the powder into her mouth – once, twice, three times. She coughed and choked but she swallowed it down, after which she dropped the jar. It smashed on the stone floor, scattering powder right across it.
When the family returned she had vomited. She was slumped in her chair, jerking her head from side to side, trying to close her mouth all the while, as if she had a heavy weight on her jaw.
With his thin, gentle hand, Doctor Clayton felt her stomach, but she shrieked with pain. Sweat was glistening on her forehead and her teeth chattered. Only when he later entered his pharmacy did he, with horror, realize what had happened. By then it was too late.
Leah died that night, despite the doctor’s efforts to save her. Angus, back from his searching, was with her in the final tortuorus moments of her life, pressing her crucifix into her hands. He watched her face in the flickering lamplight, watched as she eventually grew calm and her breathing shallowed through silence-haunted moments to nothing.
The Claytons withdrew, leaving Angus to cradle her head on his lap, his fingers smoothing away the tumbled yellow hair, his jaw clamped in a tight knot.
From the time of his wife’s death Angus became a changed man. His whole being dissolved into despair. His face remained brushed with the shadow of grief, the lines around his eyes creating the impression that he was viewing life from a defensive redoubt. A week or so ago he and Leah had had everything they’d wanted. Perhaps it was minimal, but it was enough to make them happy. Now black rivers of hatred flowed through him. Always serious by nature, his moods plunged to the depths, robbing him of the ability to smile. He was like a deeply wounded animal, moving within a bleak dream-world, cursed by remorse for his lack of foresight. On a cold, stormy day, that October of 1888, Leah was buried close to Ed Mullins in the town’s cemetery, where some of the wooden crosses had been tipped sideways by the scouring wind. Angus stood with his head bowed, the smell of newly turned earth in his nostrils. He twisted his hat in his hands, scarcely aware of the minister’s words – scarcely aware of young Elizabeth, whose thick brown hair was caught in a graceful pony tail, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She stayed close to him, her eyes fixed on him like a dutiful daughter, trying to soften his grief.
The following week Henry Sullivan, the county sheriff, arrived in town. He was a sixty-year-old whose face was lined by the rigours of illness. He questioned Angus at length about events. He recommended to the mayor that a permanent deputy be appointed to assist the town marshal. But Angus, in his gloom, held out little hope that this measure would bring justice. The killer-cum-rapist could be far away by now, maybe he had even left the country, inflicting his cruelty elsewhere.
Meanwhile Angus went through the motions of drawing his life together. He knew that he could not impose upon the goodwill of the Clayton family for any longer. Nor did he feel he could reopen the ferry. It held too many memories and dreams that were now dead. There could be no life for him there. Instead, he rented lodgings in town. He was not a wealthy man. He needed to create some source of income. He put the ferry house and business up for sale, advertising it in the Pawnee Bend Gazette and through the real estate agency in town and further afield. It would prove a good business for anybody willing to work hard, but whoever took it on would have to move quickly to re-establish it before some alternative means of river crossing was established.
Angus struck up a friendship with Will Staveley, editor of the Pawnee Bend Gazette, who showed a great interest in the grim events that had occurred at the ferry. It was he who suggested that Angus should apply for the job of deputy town marshal. After a day or two of pondering, Angus concluded that such employment would serve two purposes: to provide a steady income and, more important, to enable him to keep ever vigilant for his enemies.
Accordingly, he went to the town marshal’s office early one morning, and there found Fred Terrill reading the newspaper. He condescended to lower the newspaper, but made no effort to straighten up. ‘I understand there’s a vacancy for deputy marshal,’ Angus said.
Terrill shook his head. ‘Not now there ain’t.’
‘How’s that?’
Angus persisted. ‘Who got the job?’
Terrill remained hidden behind the newspaper. He clicked his teeth.
‘Johnny Kypp,’ he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Three days later, The Pawnee Bend Gazette carried the story:
After reviewing several applications for the appointment, Town Marshal Frederick Terrill selected former outlaw John H. Kypp for the job of his deputy. Kypp, an experienced gunslinger, is now a reformed character, having served his time in jail, and Terrill has convinced the town council that he will provide the necessary toughness and dedication that the post demands. Kypp is currently recovering from an injury received in a family altercation, but should be fit to assume his duties within a fortnight.
Angus was astounded. But gradually he realized that there was no legal reason why Kypp should not be appointed. Only in Angus’s mind was he guilty. As he adjusted to the idea he saw that at last he would have the opportunity to confront Kypp. This he welcomed. Here was the enemy he had been hunting, the man who had shot Ed Mullins and raped his wife – or so he had persuaded himself to believe. Now that hunt might well be over.
He kept a careful watch on the marshal’s office over the next two weeks, his eyes aching for sight of Kypp. Meanwhile, Edmund Clayton offered him a job as assistant in his pharmacy.
‘But I don’t know the first thing about medicines,’ Angus argued.
Clayton gave him his thin smile. ‘You don’t need to. All you’ll have to do is package them up and deliver them around town. Anyway, Elizabeth will give you a hand.’
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