Bushwhacked

by C. Courtney Joyner

  His last remark made Ophelia Wylde leave her book with annoyance, not moving her head. Her expression remained locked, even as she wondered about Farrow’s complete lack of hair, which made him seem eerily faceless, except for his black eyes fixed on her.

  The car jostled again, the tracks groaning under the train’s weight. Farrow ran his forefinger across his upper lip as if a waxed mustache were growing. “If I were him, I’d think I’d rather be flying.”

  “Sir, are you accusing me of being cruel? I could open the cage door, and Eddie would remain inside. I don’t impose myself on him.”

  “Not at all. I just know birds a little bit. I had a parrot for a time.”

  “Hardly the same thing.”

  “Parrots can be mean. Mine was. The raven’s more docile, isn’t he?”

  Ophelia finally looked up. “Eddie can be provoked.”

  Farrow said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading, ma’am. My apologies.”

  Ophelia put her book aside. “I’m slightly irritated because you did mean to interrupt. You’re curious about something, so go ahead and ask. Then I can return to my book.”

  Farrow gave himself a moment. “I heard you ask the conductor about our arrival in Paradise.”

  “And why is that your business?”

  “That’s my stop, too. I guarantee there aren’t two more passengers on the next five trains with Paradise as their destination.”

  “I ask my question again.”

  Farrow shifted just enough to reveal the shoulder holster under his jacket, and the .38 revolver tucked in it. “It’s just that there’s very little in Paradise, nothing in fact. But I can’t imagine we’re both going there for the same reason.”

  “I would seriously doubt it.”

  “Or the same person.”

  Ophelia picked up her book. “You’re being intrusive, sir.”

  “My name’s Frank Farrow, ma’am. I work for the Chisum Cattle Company, and I’m familiar with you, Miss Wylde. Very. That raven’s your calling card. You’ve achieved some fame for your abilities.”

  “And whatever you’ve achieved, is it infamous? I see the condition of your hat.”

  Farrow picked up the felt hat and put the tip of his finger through the bullet hole in the crown, before giving Ophelia a nod of surrender. “That was a close thing. I’ve worked both sides of the law, yes.”

  “And what side are you working now?” Before Farrow could respond, Ophelia continued. “Don’t bother. I can—perceive—who you are, sir. I assure you that our reasons for visiting Paradise are entirely different.”

  “I’ve never met anyone before who’d ever summoned a ghost.”

  Ophelia’s words were separated by moments. “That’s . . . not . . . what . . . I . . . do.”

  Farrow let the train’s voice take over—cars banging into each other, steel groaning, then settling as the track smoothed—then he said, “It would be a real humdinger of a coincidence if you were going to Paradise to see Dr. John Bishop. He’s become notorious in his own right, hasn’t he?”

  Ophelia turned a page before finishing it, refusing to meet Farrow’s look. She went to her purse for another robin’s egg and held it in front of the cage. “Sauvez-moi des idiots.”

  The egg was snatched.

  “My French is poor, but certain words I do recognize. My apologies. I’m just a businessman with a curious nature.”

  Ophelia said, “No, you’re not. I won’t be manipulated by conversational cues and games, Mr. Farrow. Believe me, I know them all.”

  “Understood.”

  During the conversation, Farrow’s hand rested on the suitcase next to him, palm down, making sure it was there. He shifted his attention out the window as the car swayed, passing the twisted remains of a derailment.

  Soot smeared the glass like a fine, dry cloud, blurring his vision as if he were seeing tintypes of the ruins, specters of the train wreckage. Huge sections of the mail- and boxcars were blasted apart, partial roofs and doors scattered along the hillside, all scarred with bullet holes. Steel wheels, axles, and corroded iron lay by the tracks, rusting in giant heaps for scavengers to pick over and the weather to eat.

  The train slowed into the curve before the Paradise depot, passing the gigantic, burned corpse of the locomotive lying on its side where it had jumped the tracks, its steam belly torn in half.

  Dead and useless.

  “God a-mighty, who could have survived that?” Farrow glanced at Ophelia for her response to the deliberate question he left hanging.

  She gave away nothing. Head barely turned, she stole a look out her part of the window, but her eyes were fixed on the wreck as if she were sighting it down a long barrel. Then she turned back to her book, refusing the distraction.

  The awful whistle got them out of their seats.

  The train rolled into Paradise, almost overshooting the small station, wheels skidding across poorly repaired tracks. The engineer peered from the cab, swearing like hell as Farrow and Ophelia Wylde stepped from the only passenger car.

  He helped her onto the platform, she holding the raven’s cage high with one hand and a large carpetbag in the other. A burst of brake steam caught them both as the engine chugged, not waiting another minute before moving on to a better town.

  Farrow said, “So, this is Paradise.”

  “Your irony is not biting.”

  Farrow did his best to block Ophelia from any more of the train’s grime. She nodded and stepped around him, walking deliberately to the edge of the platform and the planking that crisscrossed Paradise’s muddy streets. He stayed beside her, carrying his briefcase and offering his free hand, which she would not take.

  Ophelia kept moving. “You must know, Mr. Farrow, that your manner is off-putting to me.”

  “Oh, I’m very aware. I bid you good afternoon.” Farrow stepped back, made a grand gesture with his felt hat, and allowed Ophelia a considerable lead.

  She maneuvered the planks toward the jail, the raven’s cage leading the way. As she paused to take in the place, her back stiffened even more. Silently, she agreed with Farrow that Paradise was ill named.

  The town was rotting from the streets up.

  The scatter of buildings had been washed dirty brown by the swamping spring floods, the high waters soaking everything through before leaving behind piles of silt and filthy debris that fed the termites. The needed repairs were stacks of green lumber splitting apart, windows without glass, unfinished stairs, and never-shoveled walls of mud.

  The livery was empty save for a buggy missing a wheel, but the small corral beside the depot had two played-out horses and one tall bay that kept head and tail high while walking the fence.

  At the end of the main street, an old two-story was trying for resurrection as a couple of grunt-backs struggled to hang a double front door with a Chinese symbol for love in its center. The rest of the house was in dire need, but the symbol was fine stained glass. Paradise’s only touch of opulence.

  Ophelia glanced over her shoulder as one of the men swore at a hammer-busted finger. She recognized the stained-glass symbol, watched Farrow quickstep from the planking to the front porch of the place. A heavy girl in bodice and nightgown was on the balcony, sipping a cup of tea.

  Marge leaned over the railing, spilling the tea. “Are you Mr. Farrow? They’re waiting for you in the parlor.”

  Ophelia muttered, “So obvious,” and added a phrase in French before continuing along the planking to the squat stone building that was the Paradise jail.

  The raven squawked, “Nevermore!”

  Farrow heard it and laughed as he went inside.

  Wearing a velvet suit with a lace collared blouse, Soiled Dove led Farrow into the House of Pleasures parlor. He thought it less desperate than the rest of Paradise. Sheets shrouded moldy furniture and water-stained walls waited for paint, but a new pool table still in its crate took up the center of the room and several carpets were rolled into a corner. All that offered a bit of h
ope.

  He was impressed with Dove, the way she moved in her clothes. Her valentine-shaped face with the knowing smile, tight strawberry curls, and barely five feet of height, made her nymph-like. A knowing innocent.

  An explosion of a voice turned Farrow around.

  In his thirties with a broad chest and smile, Mayor O’Brien roared into the room. Sleeves rolled up, he held out a big hand for the shaking. “Mr. Farrow, this is a fine thing to meet you!”

  Farrow held back. O’Brien’s hand was streaked with blood from a badly cut thumb.

  O’Brien jammed the thumb into his mouth. “Stings worse than a Sunday hangover. I’m not much of a carpenter.”

  “You’re putting up the doors?”

  O’Brien gestured for Farrow to sit in one of two satin chairs. “Well, somebody has to. And the girls are always busy.” O’Brien guffawed as he took a seat.

  Soiled Dove wrapped his bloody thumb with a handkerchief. “He’s the nicest mayor I’ve ever known.”

  Farrow nodded. “I’m sure.”

  O’Brien said, “Honey, see about my private sour mash.”

  “Actually, a glass of port would go down better, if you have it.”

  Dove smiled. “I’ll bring the whiskey and see what we can do about the wine.” She gave the two men a little bob before pulling the parlor doors shut. They didn’t hang straight, but she finally got them closed.

  O’Brien said, “I have to work on those, too.”

  Farrow let his smirk play. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Sometimes a man has to roll up his sleeves.” O’Brien opened a box of cigars. “So, working for Mr. John Chisum? Folks claim a lot of things, so I don’t know if you have responsibility or you’re mucking stalls. Either is fine with me.” He offered a cigar.

  Farrow declined with a wave of his hand, bringing a silver cigar case from his jacket, popping it open. “Wouldn’t you enjoy something of a little more quality?”

  “I’m satisfied with my own kind, thanks.”

  “You might want to improve your lot.” Farrow set his suitcase on the covered couch and opened it with a small key on a chain. He stood back, his own cigar clenched in a Cheshire smile, revealing stacks of neatly bound bank notes, numbering thousands.

  O’Brien said, “I’ll hear your proposition.”

  * * *

  Ophelia Wylde had stepped off the planking before reaching the jail, hiked up her dress, and walked around the low-slung building to a small patch of weeds in the back.

  It was a place forgotten behind the jail, bordered on one side by a falling-down fence where the unclaimed murdered of Paradise found some kind of rest. A smattering of slapped-together crosses stood as markers. Numbers had been scrawled on them, but no names or dates.

  Sheriff Tucker had that information in a little book, listing all the numbers and who they were. Also, who’d killed them or who they’d killed. It was simpler than keeping track of names or making new markers. If family wanted to claim number forty-six, all they had to do was dig him up.

  Ophelia dropped her carpetbag, hung the cage on a bent nail sticking from a fence post, and lingered by a grave that had been freshly turned. She closed her eyes for a moment, shoulders lowering, the rigidity leaving her posture.

  It was silent—no sound around her. Nothing.

  The raven cried, snapping her eyes open, a wave of feeling bringing her body instantly to attention.

  Watching the whole time from the small window in his cell, Harvey hacked as she took a pad of foolscap from the carpetbag and quickly drew on it with a piece of charcoal, her hand moving furiously.

  Ophelia took the cage and stepped deliberately, passing Harvey’s window. He spit, catching the hem of her dress. She took no notice and continued to the front door of the sheriff’s office, each step a punch.

  * * *

  “You’re drooling. It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to buy your mother,” Farrow said as he dropped the lid on the suitcase, then struck a match, relighting his Havana Robusto. He took a seat opposite O’Brien, drew deep to make a showing, ready for the mayor’s immediate grovel. That’s what he was used to.

  O’Brien leaned forward on his large arms. “Don’t be fooled by the sweat on my neck. You want results from me, present yourself and your business like a gentleman.”

  Soiled Dove entered with a glass of ink-dark red wine and a whiskey decanter. She silently poured.

  Farrow said, “Sometimes you have to push to know who you’re sitting with. My apologies.”

  O’Brien said, “Maybe.”

  Dove’s eyes were on the case, even as she set out the drinks. “We didn’t have any port, but this is a decent red from Williamsburg that I think should go down nicely.”

  Farrow couldn’t hide his surprise.

  Dove gave the men a smile and a little curtsey before leaving.

  Farrow tasted the wine, approved.

  O’Brien said, “If the cards cut right, she’s going to do very well.”

  “I imagine some of the town ladies aren’t welcoming that, but every business is important.”

  “Especially when you’re trying to come back from the dead. That why you throw open that suitcase like you’re dangling a carrot in front of a mule?”

  “I meant no offense. I understand now.” Farrow raised his glass. “To the mayor of Paradise! A man who knows how to do business.”

  Mayor O’Brien tipped some sour-mash into his glass. “You never know, do you?”

  * * *

  Ophelia was before Tucker, her body and manner thrust forward, the raven’s cage on his desk. Harvey sprawled in an empty jail cell, running the whip through his hands, snickering.

  She said, “You were given proper notice of my arrival. That prisoner has a right to visitors.”

  “I ain’t saying you can’t see him. Just tell me what it’s all about.”

  “Private family matters.”

  Tucker held his bifocals like a monocle, squinting through the one unbroken lens. “But you ain’t family. You’re just some crone come buttin’ in here, shrieking orders.”

  “If I violate the law, do you think the two of you could handle me?”

  This last made Harvey bray, “You gonna try us?”

  Ophelia said, “Dr. Bishop has a right to see me in his cell. You can inspect anything I give to him, monitor our visit.”

  “I don’t think you’re here to bust him out, but we’ll check you out. Harvey’ll be on guard. I got business, and you got fifteen minutes.”

  The raven made his voice heard.

  Ophelia moved to stand by the cell door. “Dr. Bishop, I am Miss Ophelia Wylde, and I’ve travelled to see you. Would you object if we visit?”

  Bishop stood, the handcuff slapping the iron railing. His hair was combed, and his bloodstained shirt was buttoned to his neck. Trying not to grin because it pained too damn much, he grinned anyway, his whip-swollen face turning in on itself. “Just watching you these last five minutes has been a great pleasure, ma’am. I’d be honored to make your acquaintance.”

  Ophelia looked at Tucker. “Open it, then you can go to the bordello. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  Tucker swallowed his words. “No ma’am, it ain’t.” He made a show of rattling the keys before unlocking the door.

  Ophelia stepped in as Harvey peered through the bars of the adjoining cell.

  Harvey said, “Stinks in here, don’t it?”

  Bishop did his best to stand. “I’m sorry about these conditions.”

  “I’ve been in jails before.” Ophelia turned to the sheriff. “A disabled man, compromised, and you have him chained like a wild animal?”

  Tucker said, “Yep, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay. Fifteen minutes, Harvey!”

  Eddie disagreed. “Nevermore!”

  Ophelia took a few steps closer, smearing the fresh spots of blood on the cell floor with the toe of her shoe.

  Harvey pressed his face against the bars, his tongue wagging. “
That bird got a name?”

  Ophelia stood quietly for a moment. “Eddie.”

  “Funny.”

  Bishop said, “Then why don’t you two have a laugh?”

  Harvey sauntered from the open cell, giving the bullwhip a loud crack. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do, and that ain’t much.”

  Ophelia looked at Bishop. “Another warning? You have these men on edge, Doctor.”

  Bishop said, “Harvey’ll lean by the window, listening to every word. Then he’ll repeat them wrong.”

  “That doesn’t bother me a whit.” Ophelia took another step, stopped. She felt something. Her arms stayed close to her side, but she allowed her fingers to part an invisible curtain, a small gesture she tried to obscure. Her voice broke just above a whisper. “Vóhkêhésoa told me there was black surrounding you, your aura.”

  “White Fox.” Bishop mulled the name, was lost in it for a moment, then said, “She would know,” before reaching out his right half-arm as if to shake hands. “Miss Wylde, you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “I’ve never felt anything like this. Violent death is all around you.”

  Bishop pulled on the cuff. “It’s why I’m here. What do you mean, you feel?”

  Ophelia said, “I’m here to offer you some relief.” She took a letter from her purse. “This should serve.”

  * * *

  Farrow emptied his glass, nodded toward the still-crated pool table in the middle of the parlor floor. “What’s your game, Sheriff? Elimination? I prefer three-cushion, myself.”

  Tucker stood behind the mayor, waiting for the offer of his private stock. “Oh, I just hit a rack straight. Maybe wager a drink.”

  Farrow said, “I’d guess you win free drinks all night. Pool table, the ladies—this will be the place to be, provided the mayor gets all his work done.”

  O’Brien just smiled. “It’s not easy. Take a drink, Tuck. Find a seat.”

  Farrow handed Tucker a cut Havana. “Not next to the suitcase.”

  The sheriff poured himself a shot and held the cigar as if it were solid gold.

  Farrow said, “Those are Mr. Chisum’s special imports.”

  O’Brien said, “Bring out Chisum’s cigars or silver coins dropped from his hind end, you’re not getting anything up on us.”