The Peacemaker’s Vengeance

by Gary D. Svee

  “I have been having a terrible dream lately. I am trapped inside a place so dark that I cannot see, in air so thick I can barely breathe. I want to run, to you, to have you rescue me, but I don’t know which direction will take me closer to you, and which will take me farther apart. It is a terrible dream, and it ends my night’s sleep. I toss and turn, unable even to find comfort in the book of poems you sent me.”

  Mac stopped reading and ran his finger over the wrinkled edge of the page. “She cried here,” he whispered. “You can see where her tears fell on the page.”

  He handed the letter to the sheriff. “See, there where that one word is blurred.”

  Sheriff Drinkwalter stared at the page as though his thoughts could wring her tears from the paper. Then he handed the letter back to Mac without raising his eyes from his desk.

  “Please read on, Mac.”

  “The rose garden is doing wonderfully well. I work there, amazed at its beauty, pleased that God allows us the privilege of polishing one facet of his creation. The roses are such a relief after spending a week at the bank, spring locked out and me locked in. Beauty fills the corners of the soul, and I feel so privileged to share in it.”

  “I’m sorry that I ramble so.”

  “I bought you a hat. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I was walking past the haberdashery and happened to look into the window. It is a soft brown, which depicts the ease and comfort I always feel when I think of you. The brim is relatively wide to shield your face from the Montana sun and to hide it in shadow from the women I always fear will be gazing at you from the corners of their eyes.”

  “Mac, I charge you with keeping an eye on Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter. Guard him for me from the many lovely ladies who must inhabit Eagles Nest. In the last letter you told me little about yourself. Please help fill the gaps in my imagination.”

  “I must go, now, to await your next missive as roses await the rising sun. I love you Frank Drinkwalter, and I miss you terribly.”

  “She signed the letter ‘Catherine,’” Mac said, handing the letter to Drinkwalter.

  He stared at the sheets of paper, seeking her hand in the swirls of blue ink, stopping to stare at the page wrinkled with her tears.

  “Mac, could you please get me a cup of coffee,” Drinkwalter said, handing the boy his cup. “No need to hurry. I need a little time to gather my thoughts.”

  Mac nodded and stepped out of the office toward the coffeepot, taking care not to awaken Deputy Bert Edgar, who was gently snoring in his chair.

  When he returned to the office, Drinkwalter looked up and smiled, but the smile was too weak to cover the emotions he was feeling.

  Drinkwalter took a sip of the coffee, grimacing. “About this time of day, coffee’s strong enough to etch glass.”

  Another weak smile crossed his face. “Is Bert sleeping?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Good, he was up late last night. Some drunk was out howling at the moon.”

  The sheriff leaned over his desk, cupping his chin in his hands. “You ready to take a letter, Mac?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Well, let’s get started.”

  “Dear beloved?” Mac asked.

  “Yes,” Drinkwalter said. “Let’s start it with ‘Dear beloved.’”

  13

  The wind scoured Eagles Nest streets, carrying off dust and ashes to some hiding place. Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter was swept along with the wind, too, shoved toward a woman-killer’s hiding place.

  Gandy dancers were at work on the railroad crossing, doing something with the steel track that must be done, but something too subtle for passersbys’ eyes to define. One of the men looked up as the sheriff passed, nodding to Drinkwalter. He tapped the shoulder of his companion. He looked up and waved.

  Hard work, the sheriff thought as he passed. Hard work whether in August, when the tracks buckled with heat, or in January, when the hard steel of the track turned brittle with cold. The men made games of their work, betting who could drive spikes into oaken ties with the fewest swings of their special hammers, watching as one man carried the weight assigned to two. They tested their young muscles against the heat and cold and each other, and the winner bought the beer after work.

  Smoke was rising from the blacksmith’s shop, seen more in the distortion the heat painted on distant trees along the river. Jack Galt was an experienced blacksmith. He kept his fires burning hot, hot enough to bend metal to his will, hot enough to distort distant trees with the heat rising from the chimney.

  The smithy was built of rock cut straight and square from the quarry. The building seemed nothing so much as a rock itself, squat and brown beside the road, the windows and door on the west side dark with shadow. But inside the forge burned red, and the sheriff wondered if he were looking at the door to hell.

  He crossed the road leading south toward the Beartooth Mountains, pausing for a moment before stepping through the door. The building was dark, enlightened only by a shaft of sunlight to dance with the heat and the smoke of the forge. The eye goes naturally to light, leaving the remainder of the room dark as the bottom of a well on a cloudy night.

  It was several moments before the sheriff saw movement, a shadow darker even than the darkness of the smithy. Jack Galt stepped then into the shaft of the light, his arm pumping air into the fire on the forge, each pump of the bellows followed by a roar of the fire and the glow of the coals.

  But Galt’s eyes were not on the forge. At least Sheriff Drinkwalter thought they were not. In the dim light, he could see Galt’s face only in light and shadow, and the blacksmith’s eyes were nothing more than a glitter in the deep shadow beneath the man’s brow. The effect was skeletal, as though the sheriff were staring at a skull, and the skull were staring back at him.

  The sheriff stepped up to Galt, his eyes squinting to see this killer of women.

  “Sheriff Drinkwalter,” the sheriff said.

  The only reply was the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the bellows.

  “Want to talk to you for a minute.”

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  “Sheriff James Thompson was down this weekend. Your name came up.”

  Jack Galt’s arm hesitated for a moment and then continued. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Drinkwalter leaned into the shaft of light, his face only inches away from Galt’s.

  “How about you stopping that? Give me a minute of your time.”

  “Got work to do.” Galt’s words came out flat, their passing marked not at all on his skeletal face.

  “I’ve got work to do, too,” Drinkwalter said.

  “No matter to me. I didn’t invite you down here. Don’t much give a damn what you’ve got to say.”

  “Sheriff Thompson said I should shoot you, haul you out into the country, and dump a clay bank on you. I see what he meant.”

  Galt turned to peer into the darkness over the sheriff’s shoulder. “Hear that, Leaks? Sheriff is threatening to kill me and hide my body.”

  “Yeah, I heard him.”

  Drinkwalter turned, staring into the darkness. “Donnan?”

  “Yeah.”

  Drinkwalter knew Donnan well. He was always on the top of the usual suspects list when a drunk was rolled, or a house burglarized. Always he worked as he was working this day, from the darkness behind a man’s back.

  “You want him in on this,” Drinkwalter said, pointing his thumb toward the darkness.

  “My experience is that you need a witness to keep the law on the straight and narrow.”

  Drinkwalter nodded. “Thompson told me about the woman. Told me how you cut her up.”

  “Damn lie. Didn’t touch her.”

  “What about the woman in Glendive?”

  “Don’t know anything about that.”

  “Glendive sheriff said you did. He passed the word to Thompson, just like Thompson passed word to me.”

  “What are you doing, Galt, working your way west one woman at a time?”

&nbs
p; Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Galt stopped, took his arm off the bellows, and stepped into the light from the door. “I knew you’d be here, sheriff. I knew you’d be coming to see me. That’s the way it always is.”

  Galt shook his head. “I’ve never been charged with a crime, not pilfering or assault or drunkenness. I sure as hell am not guilty of murder.”

  “The Glendive sheriff thought I killed a woman down there. He didn’t have one bit of evidence that I had, but he figured I did it. So he gets two of his deputies and they beat the hell out of me and tell me to get out of town.”

  “So I pack up my gear and sell my shop for half of what it cost me.”

  Galt stopped to look Drinkwalter in the eye. “You know who bought my shop, Sheriff? The Glendive sheriff’s brother bought it for next to nothing. So the sheriff’s suspicions turned into a nice profit for his family. Did Thompson tell you about that?”

  Drinkwalter shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. The Glendive sheriff wouldn’t want Big Jim Thompson to know what a slick deal he pulled. But he wanted Thompson to think that I had killed that woman in Glendive, so he passes his evidence on to Thompson.”

  “Then Sally gets killed. Doesn’t make any difference that I was butchering a calf that night. Doesn’t make any difference that whores get killed every day. All that matters is that Thompson has evidence from the Glendive sheriff that I kill women.”

  “I suspect Thompson didn’t tell you this, but he took me back to a cell in the Yellowstone County Jail. That man beat me until I thought I would die, until I hoped I would. I pissed blood for two weeks after he beat me. There’s no law in this country, nothing but law dogs and their suspicions. That’s the way it’s been, Sheriff, and now you’re here to tell me that’s the way it will be.”

  Drinkwalter whispered, “Sally had a job in an office. She wanted to go back home to her parents, but then you dragged her out on the street.”

  Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

  “God makes whores, not me.”

  “How many of these ‘whores’ have there been, Galt?”

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  “Well, I came to tell you that it stops here, Galt. This is the end of it.”

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Galt looked up. “I sure as hell hope this is the end of it. I sure as hell hope that there is some justice in this county that doesn’t come from law dogs’ fists.”

  “I’ll tell you, Sheriff, I’m tired of being harassed by the law. It’s got to stop. I’ll take you to court, and when the people of Eagles Nest find out what kind of a man you are, maybe they’ll beat you and send you up the road.”

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Galt turned to stare into the darkness. “Remember, Leaks, the … good sheriff threatened to kill me. Remember that so you can testify at the trial.”

  “I’ll remember, Jack. Won’t forget that.”

  “You want something to remember,” Drinkwalter said. “Remember that it stops here.”

  Galt turned to grab a pair of heavy iron tongs behind him. He reached into the coals and pulled a long piece of steel free from the heat. He held it up then, between his face and Drinkwalter’s, and in the dull red light of nearly molten steel, Drinkwalter could see that the skull was smiling, teeth red.

  Galt shoved the steel into the coals. Sparks fleeing the force of his thrust, rising to be carried out the chimney like the prayers of the damned.

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Drinkwalter stepped toward the door of the building in a heat that rivaled any August sun. But the sheriff felt a chill cold as a winter wind cross his back, and a shudder swept through him as he stepped through the door.

  He walked toward his office then, followed up the road by the sound of the bellows.

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  It was warm in the little cabin, almost cheerful. The McPhersons had eaten a wonderful dinner, chicken and noodles. Mary McPherson had bought and butchered the chicken that afternoon. The thought of fried chicken had made her almost giddy, but this was a retired laying hen, too tough to fry. If Mac kept his job at the sheriff’s office and nothing disastrous happened, perhaps they could have fried chicken that summer when the pullets matured.

  The two were washing dishes, Mac scrubbing the plates clean and Mary rinsing and drying them. Life was good in the McPherson home, better than it had been for years. Mac’s money made the difference between going hungry each week and being able to step beyond staples for their evening meals.

  Mac was a good boy: Pride swept across Mary’s face. He didn’t complain about putting all of his money into the coffee can on the shelf above the stove. He didn’t know that Mary was taking half of that and putting it into an envelope she hid in a torn corner of her mattress. The money wouldn’t be enough to allow Mac to go to college, but if everything went well, he would have a bonus to take with him to school.

  Mac was drying his hands on his pants, and Mary shook her head. Deputy or not, he was still a boy.

  Mac looked up at his mother. “Ma, do you suppose that we could play some cribbage?”

  “Do you have your homework done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I would like to play some cards.”

  The two pulled up their chairs to the table, Mary putting a worn, dog-eared deck of cards in the center. Mac cut the deck, drawing a seven of diamonds. Mary drew a nine of spades.

  “Your crib, Mac.”

  The boy nodded, rubbing his hands over the rough top of the table as his mother shuffled the cards. Something was bothering the boy, but Mary supposed that he would talk to her when he was ready to.

  They played out the hand, and Mac miscounted his points. Mary reached across the table, putting the back of her hand against Mac’s forehead. Mac absentmindedly brushed her hand away, before realizing what he was doing.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mac?”

  Mac’s face twisted into a question mark. “What? No … I mean, yes, I’m feeling fine.”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  “What?”

  Mac looked up at his mother, cocking his head to one side as he did when he was perplexed by something. “No, it’s nothing. I was just…” Mac reached up and scratched his face. “Ma, what was it like when you met Pa?”

  It was Mary’s turn to cock her head, wondering at the question. Then she smiled as she thought about that time that seemed so long ago.

  “It was summer, early summer,” she said. “That time when the air is warm and the moisture from winter keeps the grass green and the dust settled. He was sitting on a bench in front of Mawyer’s lumberyard reading a book. He was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, except for you, right after you were born.”

  “Guess it’s downhill for me ever since, huh, Ma?”

  Mary smiled. “You’re just looking for a compliment, Mac. The fact is that you look a lot like your father. You have his eyes, his build, and his nose. The rest of you is mine.”

  It was Mac’s turn to smile. “So every time I blow my nose, I should think of Pa?”

  “Every time.”

  “He was sitting on the bench bent over a book, his chin perched on one hand like that statue, The Thinker. You’ve seen that, haven’t you?”

  Mac nodded.

  “Well, that’s the way it was with your father. He was sitting there, reading his book. I was wondering what enthralled him so. He looked up as though he could read my mind, and then he read me the words:”

  “Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

  “That was the first thing he said to me, not ‘Hello’ or ‘Isn’t it a nice day?’ Sometimes those words come to me at the oddest of times, and then I think of him, wonder what he is doing.”

  “I found myself going out of my way to walk past the lumberyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Each time I saw him, he would look up and smile at me.”


  “And one day, when I stepped up to the bench, he took my hand. At that moment I knew I would marry him.”

  “My father was opposed to it. He didn’t think that Alexander had much of a future, but I couldn’t … I just didn’t care. I knew we had to be together.”

  “He worked at the lumberyard for a year after we were married, and then he blew out of town the same way he blew into it. But then he was carrying me, and I was carrying you.”

  “He gave me freedom, the kind of freedom that Christ talked about when he spoke of the birds of the air. He said they didn’t plant seeds, till fields, or harvest crops, but God provided for them. If he cares so much for birds, Christ said, can we not trust him to care for us, also?”

  Mary tipped her head and stared at her son. “Do you remember all the moving we did?”

  Mac nodded.

  “But no matter where we went, there was always work for us. We never had anything extra, but I always had everything I wanted—you and Alexander. And then I woke up one day, and he was gone. The pain was so fierce.”

  Mary dropped her face to stare at her hands.

  “Is he ever going to come back?”

  She thought about all the afternoons she had spent, taking time from hanging clothing on the lines outside to look toward the setting sun. She knew he would move west, tracking the sun to its resting place.

  Mary shook the image from her eyes, focusing on the cards before her. “No, Mac, I don’t think we’ll ever see him again.”

  Mac stared at the floor for a long moment. His words were little more than the rustling sound the wind makes as it ripples through long grass.

  “Did he leave because of me, Ma?”

  Mary stepped around the table and pulled Mac into a hug. “You must never think that. He didn’t leave you, and he didn’t leave me. He just moved on. I don’t think he will ever find out where he is going.”

  “You know something, Mac?” Mary could feel the boy shaking his head against her breast. “I don’t regret anything. He gave you to me, Mac. What mother could ask for anything more?”