Crying Blood - An Alafair Tucker Mystery

by Donis Casey

  By mid-morning the hounds had led the men completely out of the trees and into a brushy, uncleared field on the Eichelberger property.

  As soon as the dogs crossed onto his property, Eichelberger himself had been invited to join the hunting party, which brought their number up to an even ten: Shaw, his brothers James Tucker and Howard McBride, his brother-in-law Jack Cecil, and Kurt had all volunteered immediately. John Lee had started out with them at dawn, but Shaw had sent him back to look after things when it became apparent how far from home the hunt would lead them. Charlie had come along, much against his mother’s will. But the boy was a well-grown fourteen and apt to get it into his head to go off half-cocked and do something foolish. Shaw thought it better to have him at his elbow where he could keep an eye on him. Sheriff Scott Tucker had brought his deputy, young Trenton Calder, and of course Mr. Skimmingmoon was out in front with his bloodhounds. Odell Skimmingmoon not only owned the best man-trackers in the county, he was full-blood Muscogee Creek, which Scott reckoned could come in handy on this particular hunt.

  The morning was crisp and dry and was shaping up to be sunny and warmer as the day progressed. Shaw was relieved that there had been no mist at dawn.

  The hounds were intent as they moved directly across the brushy meadow and into a fallow corn field. The yellowed stalks had long been pulled up, bundled, tied, and stood like an empty village of miniature tepees that ran from the edge of the lea all the way to the road into town. The dogs didn’t hesitate when they reached the boundary fence. They crossed the road and moved straight onto the Naylor place.

  Naylor joined them as they moved across his farm, then dropped off when they regained the road on the other side of this section. The hounds never paused. They sniffed a few yards up and down the bar ditch then headed due north. The posse was moving fast now, trotting to keep up with the bloodhounds.

  There were eating up ground, sticking close beside the graded, graveled highway leading to Lee, Ridge, and Haskell. They passed the Francis Brickworks north of Boynton. One mile. Two. It occurred to Scott that they were now out of his jurisdiction. But as long as the dogs stayed close to the road he continued on, too intrigued to stop now.

  At about two miles and a half, the dogs finally veered off and entered the tiny cemetery next to the African Methodist Episcopal Church a few yards off the highway. They had outstripped the posse, all but Skimmingmoon who followed close behind them.

  Scott hefted himself over the fence and called out to Skimmingmoon, breathless. “Call ’em off, Odell.”

  Skimmingmoon didn’t look back. He gave a brief, piercing whistle and the dogs turned in their tracks. One by one, the hunters climbed over the fence and gathered around the sheriff in the middle of the cemetery.

  Scott pushed his hat back with his thumb, still winded.

  Time was I could run for a mile and never break a sweat, he thought, rueful. I’m going to have to cut back on the biscuits and gravy.

  He eyed his posse members standing in a group around him and assessed each man’s condition. Charlie and Trent were still fresh and impatient to get on with it. Stamina. One of the benefits of youth. Kurt, James, and Howard stood quiet and curious to hear what Scott had on his mind. Scott was perversely pleased to see that Jack Cecil looked as ragged out as he was. Eichelberger was older than any of them by two decades, but he was too mean to feel tired, Scott reckoned. Who could tell about Skimmingmoon? He had folded his arms and was awaiting instructions, impassive.

  Shaw looked dangerous.

  Scott cocked his head and regarded his cousin before he spoke. “Looks to me like he’s going toward Haskell.”

  “We’re hot on his heels, Cousin Scott…” Charlie interjected.

  Scott responded before the boy could finish the thought. “I’m just a town sheriff, Charlie. I’ve got no authority out here. I already wired Barger about this mess this morning. It’ll be up to him to continue this manhunt.”

  Trent Calder wasn’t willing to wait for permission to carry on. “But the killer’s afoot, same as we. Surely we can corner him and hold him ’til the sheriff can get here.”

  Scott eyed his red-haired deputy. “You’ll notice we ain’t exactly found him yet, Trent. We could be on his trail until Christmas.”

  “You think he’s headed home, Scott?”

  “Wherever that is, Mr. Eichelberger. He ain’t headed in the direction of the Goingback place. Not unless his route goes right ’round the world.”

  Skimmingmoon surprised Scott by offering a comment. “Maybe he ain’t the same fellow the boy was hunting out by Oktaha.”

  “Oh, he’s the same one, all right.” Shaw’s voice held no uncertainty.

  Scott turned to look at him. “Shaw, I’m going to leave it up to you. You want to keep after him or shall I leave it to Barger?” They regarded one another squarely for a moment before Scott added, “We don’t have much of an idea what’s really going on here, Shaw. Could be he’s leading us on a wild goose chase, trying to draw us away from home. Could even be there’s more than one of them. I’d just as soon y’all not leave your farms unguarded until we sort this out.”

  Shaw bit his lip, torn between emotion and sense. He flicked a glance toward Charlie. “Let’s go back, Scott,” he said. “For right now, anyway. Can we see which way he went at least?”

  Scott nodded at Skimmingmoon, who signaled the two flop-eared hounds sitting quietly at his feet. The dogs leaped up and pressed their noses to the ground. Back and forth they sniffed, up and down the cemetery, round and round. One examined a weathered tombstone with interest. One concentrated for a moment on the steps of the little white church.

  After fifteen minutes both animals returned to their places beside Skimmingmoon. Sorry, their droopy expressions said.

  “Lost the scent!” Charlie was shocked.

  “Look around, boys,” Scott said. “Check inside the church. Then we’d best be getting back so I can let Barger know what happened.”

  James fell in beside Shaw as he moved off to inspect behind the grave markers. “Funny the trail ends in this old cemetery, Shaw.” His tone was casual. “Maybe we are chasing a haint after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Grace, scoop some dinner into Crook’s pan and then let’s go see how Buttercup is doing.”

  It was getting toward afternoon, and even if a vile murder had been committed the chores still had to be done. John Lee, Phoebe, and Zeltha had come over before dawn to stay with the family. Alafair had sent a poke full of clothing along with Ruth, Blanche, and Sophronia when they went to school that morning so they could stay in town at Alice’s house until it was safe to come home. Alafair couldn’t make the elder girls move into town. Mary refused to leave Kurt and Martha refused, period. Mutiny. Her payback for raising women with their own minds.

  When the older girls left for work in the buckboard, carrying the younger girls and their kit in the back, Mary rode shotgun, a loaded twelve-gauge across her knees. Alafair felt all right about that. All of her children learned their way around a firearm as soon as they were old enough.

  Alafair had done the children’s outdoor chores herself, egg gathering, milking, slopping the pigs, feeding the animals in the barn. John Lee took care of the mules and horses in the stable and fields, leaving Phoebe to the cooking and childcare.

  Phoebe and the tots kept under cover in the house. But a three-year-old girl who is used to roaming free doesn’t do well after spending hours cooped up inside. By the time the shadows were growing long, Phoebe was ready to throttle her stir-crazy baby sister Grace, and Alafair thought a brief outing might be in order.

  Alafair held the skipping little girl by one hand and a rifle in the other as they walked across the yard with Charlie Dog at their side. They went through the fallow garden and through the barn. Crying Blood’s body had been removed and now lay in repose at Mr. Moore’s mortuary in town. The bloody straw and blankets had been burned. Alafair had placed raw eggs in the corners of the stal
l where the boy had breathed his last to absorb the lingering taint of evil from the atmosphere.

  Buttercup was ecstatic to see them. She was on a lead made from a piece of rope tied to a hook on the back wall, long enough to give her free run of the tool shed, but secure enough to keep her from running out the door when anyone came in. Buttercup was an energetic youngster and chaffed at her imprisonment. Sometimes during the day they could hear her frustrated barking from the house. Alafair felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to let her loose. She had no desire to be dealing with puppies right now. She ordered Charlie Dog to stay outside, far from the Jezebel within. He meant to obey, but when she opened the door Buttercup’s come-hither scent overwhelmed him and he attempted to nose past her. Alafair blocked him with a foot and pushed him out, exasperated, but amused, too. Charlie Dog may have been aged, but there was life in the old boy yet.

  Buttercup’s greeting was so enthusiastic that she almost knocked them over. Alafair grabbed at the dog’s collar before she could send Grace sprawling.

  “Down, doggie,” Grace scolded, “or you won’t get no dinner!”

  “Sugar, looks like Buttercup is feeling boisterous today. You put the pail down and stand back over there. I’ll feed her.”

  Always amenable, Grace ran to Shaw’s tool table where she had spotted a toy wagon with three wheels that was awaiting repair, while Alafair poured the rest of the scraps into the dented pie pan that served as Buttercup’s dinnerware. The dog rolled around on the dirt floor and batted her eyes and Alafair laughed. “It won’t do you any good to flirt with me, you hussy. Don’t worry, little gal. You’ll only have to be in here ’til you lose interest in the fellows. Another couple of days, looks like.”

  Buttercup’s interest was captured by her supper, for her nose was in the pan before Alafair had finished filling it.

  Charlie Dog was waiting for them patiently, apparently no longer troubled by amorous feelings, and fell into step as they made their way down the path. It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and so warm that a sweater was all that was needed. The scent of smoldering hickory wood rising from the smokehouse chimney perfumed the air. The weather was wonderful, but the dry air and clear sky foretold a very cold night. Alafair and Grace walked back to the barn, enjoying the sunshine, in no hurry to get back to making scrapple.

  Shaw and the posse had been gone since dawn. If they had run their quarry to ground, Shaw would have sent Charlie back to let her know. If the dogs had not been able to pick up any trail at all they would have been home by now. She both feared and hoped that lack of word meant that they had not been able to catch up with the killer and he would never be seen again.

  Charlie Dog took the lead as they walked back toward the house. They hadn’t gone ten yards when Alafair saw movement on the front porch. Three men. She seized the back of Grace’s coat collar and stopped, wary.

  She was just about to sweep Grace up when the little girl cried, “Daddy!”

  One of the figures walked down the front steps. She recognized Shaw’s stride and felt the tension drop out of her shoulders.

  They met at the front gate. Before he spoke, Shaw lifted Grace up over the white picket fence that surrounded the yard. “Alafair, James and Howard and the rest of them went on home, but I asked Scott and Odell Skimmingmoon to stop a spell. Charlie Boy is inside locking up the guns, and Phoebe is whipping us up a bite to eat.”

  She glanced at the two men sitting side by side on the porch swing, watching them. Scott gave her a jaunty tip of the hat and she waved.

  “Did y’all find him?”

  “Afraid not.” Shaw shook his head, exasperated. “Odell’s dogs tracked him all the way to the A.M.E. church north of the brick plant, then lost the scent. He give us the slip somehow.”

  “North!”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t seem to be headed back to Oktaha.”

  “Do y’all think he’s gotten away?”

  “Who knows? That’s why I asked Scott and Odell to stop, so I might could pick their brains and find out what happens next.”

  Scott and Skimmingmoon rose when she walked up the porch steps ahead of Shaw. They stood aside to allow her to go into the house first.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  She picked up granddaughter Zeltha, who had pulled herself up and was standing with her nose pressed up against the screen door, avidly watching her elders on the porch, and carried her into the kitchen where Phoebe was already throwing together ham sandwiches and brewing coffee. Before arranging themselves around the table the men removed their hats and coats and hung them on the coat tree. Except for Skimmingmoon, who kept his hat firmly on his head. Alafair set Grace and Zeltha in the middle of the parlor, easily visible from the kitchen, to play with the doll house Shaw had created for the girls out of an old crate. It didn’t bother her that anyone who went from kitchen to parlor would have to step over the children. There wasn’t anyone present who hadn’t had a lifetime of dealing with children underfoot.

  Charlie came in and sat himself down next to his father, confidently counting himself among the men, since he had done a man’s job by hunting with the posse. Shaw glanced at him but didn’t send him away. Alafair noted that he sat up a little straighter then, but kept quiet rather than take the risk of drawing attention to himself. She poured another mug of coffee and put it down in front of her youngest son. He shot her a grateful look and doctored the bitter stuff with plenty of cream and sugar before he took a slug.

  Alafair and Phoebe went about their business, ears stretched, as the men talked.

  “Barger will have issued a bulletin by now,” Scott was saying, “so I expect most of the law around these parts already have an eye out for any stealthy or suspicious stranger who comes through. I’d like it if I had any kind of description of the culprit to pass on.”

  “He has white hair,” Shaw said.

  Scott cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe. I’ll report that the victim thought he was being chased by a white-haired man, though we can’t know for sure.”

  “An old fellow, then,” Skimmingmoon offered. “Going north.”

  “Or somebody who had a bad scare, or the fever,” Alafair put in.

  Charlie leaned forward. “Or a Swede!”

  Scott laughed. “Or an albino. What we need to do is start with our mysterious victim before we can figure out anything about our mysterious killer. I have to find out who this boy was and what his story is. Shaw, tell me everything you can remember about him—what he told you about himself, how he talked, any notions you got about him even if you don’t see how it can reckon in.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Alafair, you too.”

  Alafair turned away from the cabinet to face them and flung her dishtowel over her shoulder. “Well, he didn’t say much when I was there, Scott, though not for lack of me trying to pry it out of him. He did mention that he once had a brother name of Ira who had fell off a mule and broke his neck.”

  Scott’s blue eyes widened. He dug through his coat pockets for a moment before drawing out a small notebook and a stubby pencil. “Well, now, that’s a useful piece of information!” He licked the pencil lead and wrote Ira on a blank page.

  Alafair continued. “He said everybody thought it was an accident that Ira got killed, but he saw a white-haired man spook the mule and then wrench Ira’s neck after he fell off. That was why he was after him, for murdering his brother.”

  Scott didn’t look up from his scribbling. “Did he ken why this fellow killed Ira?”

  “He didn’t rightly know,” she said. “He told us that a couple of years ago Ira took him out to look at Mr. McBride’s hunk of property and told him they had a right to it since they were Creeks.” She glanced at Shaw, expecting him to take over the conversation. He was staring at Scott with his lips firmly closed, allowing her to do the talking.

  Scott looked up at her. “Anything else?”

  She pondered before finishing. “He said the mule’s name was Billy.”

  For a moment, t
he only sound in the kitchen was the scratch of Scott’s pencil. He raised his head and fastened his gaze on Shaw. His expression was speculative. Shaw’s silence had not escaped his notice. “How do you figure the boy ended up here?”

  “I don’t know,” Shaw said.

  “He must have followed you home from Uncle Peter’s place.”

  “Seems likely.”

  “Why you, I wonder, and not James?”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated. “He did mention that he seen me dig up them bones.” Scott drew a breath to question him further, but Shaw headed him off. “When him and me were out there in the barn, alone, in the middle of the night, he let slip that he had talked to an owalu down by Eufaula and that somebody by the name of Reverend Edmond had tried to make a Christian out of him.”

  Scott’s head bobbed up and down as his pencil flew over the page.

  Skimmingmoon perked up. “An owalu, you say?”

  Shaw nodded. “Maybe he thought he needed a medicine man tell him how to put his brother’s spirit to rest. I figure that’s why he was dressed like he was.”

  “He may have dressed like an old-time Creek,” Alafair interjected, “but he didn’t have an Indian way of talking, Scott. He sounded White.”

  They were interrupted by a shrill protest from Zeltha over Grace’s bossy ways. Phoebe slipped quietly into the parlor and the shrieking stopped abruptly.

  Skimmingmoon picked up the conversation. “There’s a Creek boarding school over to Eufaula. If he lived there for a spell they would have knocked the Creek out of him.” He didn’t sound bitter. He was simply stating a fact.

  “Crying Blood looked to me be at least half White,” Shaw observed.

  Skimmingmoon gave him a sharp look. “What did you call him, Shaw?”

  “When he talked to me last night, he called himself Crying Blood, Odell. He said, ‘I am Crying Blood.’”