Deadman's Lament (The Deadman Series Book 1)

by Linell Jeppsen

  Little Maude was the only one who turned around to look at the homestead as they drove down the dirt road toward town. Mattie stared straight ahead, eyes glazed with tears, his cheeks burning with humiliation. Sarah pulled her shawl up over her head, closed her eyes and went to sleep. Their new life had begun.

  The only house available they could afford was a ramshackle hut at the far edge of Pinkington, close to the railroad track and a whorehouse. There were actually three brothels in town. Two snugged up next to the fort and were filled with healthy young girls, high quality liquor, and the services of the town’s best doctor. The whores next to Mattie’s new home, though, were not so fortunate. Many of them were well past their prime and in ill health. Their cheap perfumes could not compete with the smell of the livery and the slaughterhouses on that end of town. Yet the women were kind enough and, on occasion, offered help and comfort.

  Mattie went over every morning to sweep, bring in firewood, and haul in hot water for the women’s weekly baths. At first, they teased him over his fine manners and educated tongue. Later—realizing that Mattie actually knew his alphabet—the whores asked him to read passages from the Bible or decipher the occasional newspaper article or letter that came their way. There were only a pitiful few of those, however.

  Mattie glanced toward the back corner of the room where his mother lay sleeping, facing the wall, and he could hear her soft snores. He saw the bottle of laudanum by the bed and shook his head in dismay. It was over half empty already and the doctor had been by just yesterday. What little money they had left was quickly lining the sawbones’s pocket and Mattie needed a dollar for the headmistress or Maude could not continue her education at school.

  He decided to run over to the livery later and see if old man, Stokes could use a hand with bucking bales or rubbing down the animals. If nothing else, he might get to pet Addie a little and give her the broken carrot he had found in the rubbish pile.

  Addie and Joe, his father’s gelding, had gone to the livery to be sold for food, medicine and rent. The family still owned Pete but, as Stokes was fond of saying, “Hay don’t come cheap,” any proceeds from the sale of the horses would go against the cost of feeding the mule.

  Mattie was putting on his coat when there was a light scratch at the door. He turned around in surprise; no one ever came to call. It was as though the proper folks in town thought that misfortune was catching, like the flu. For all that Mattie knew, maybe it was.

  He walked to the door and opened it to find Joseph Two-Toes and his little granddaughter, Tawnee, standing on the stoop. The old man looked near frozen to death and his shabby old blanket was speckled with ice. Little Tawnee stared up at Mattie with haunted eyes.

  “Joseph…Sir, please come in,” Mattie stuttered, stepping away from the door.

  The tiny cook-stove was blazing hot but the house was so flimsy all the heat escaped out the roof or through the crooked seams in the exterior walls. Judging by the way his guests looked though, Matthew did not think that it was likely they would complain much over the shabby hospitality.

  “Can I get you some coffee, sir?” Mattie asked anxiously.

  For a moment, it looked as though Joseph was going to fall right over and his granddaughter looked almost as bad. The last time Mattie had seen the little girl she was laughing and chasing Maude around with a dandelion, intent on rubbing butter on her opponent’s face. Now Mattie could see that her olive complexion was gray and her huge brown eyes were hollow with fatigue.

  Joseph held up a hand and asked, “You got work, Matew? I must earn money to buy food and medicine for my daughter’s daughter.”

  Mattie shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s not a lot of work around here…not at this time of year, anyway. My ma and I can give you some food, though. We would be happy to do that.”

  Joseph stared at Mattie with hooded eyes while snow melted from the blanket on his shoulders, speckling the floor underneath his chair like tear tracks. He shook his head.

  “No…no gifts. Joseph Two-Toes will work for food.”

  Mattie sighed. There was no work to be had. If there were, he would be doing it instead of worrying over how to pay the bills. He smiled at the old Indian and said, “Okay, sir. I will find you some work. In the meanwhile, why don’t we get you something to eat?”

  Matthew grabbed the cook-pot, filled it with water and some oats for porridge. He cut a wrinkled apple into slices and asked Joseph for news while he added the fruit to the mixture.

  Joseph chewed his upper lip as he thought about what to say to the boy. Matthew Wilcox was a good child but Joseph’s news might not be what he wanted, or needed, to hear. Still, now that Robert was dead, maybe the boy needed to hear the truth whether he liked it or not. He was chief in his family now and needed to know the weather, for good or ill.

  “My people still fight. They fight against the black cloaks and the white settlers. They fight one another.” The old man sighed. “They are very angry, I think.”

  “Also, I hear that the fort is going to shut down.” Joseph shrugged at the expression in the boy’s eyes. “But I could be wrong.”

  Mattie set a plate of bread and some peach preserves on the table in front of the little girl but she made no move to eat. Instead, she closed her eyes as though the very sight of food caused her pain.

  “Come on, Tawnee. Have something to eat,” Mattie coaxed, frowning in consternation when she turned away. In the fitful firelight, her face suddenly took on the aspect of a human skull like the one Doc Abrams had in his little office by the hotel.

  “You’re tired, I reckon,” he said, adding, “Let’s get you bedded down here where it’s warm.”

  Mattie grabbed a quilt off a shelf and made a pallet on the floor by the wood stove. Joseph stood up slowly and laid the girl on the quilt; she turned over and put her thumb in her mouth.

  “She’s tired, isn’t she, sir?” Mattie looked toward the older man and saw that Joseph had taken a long step backward and now leaned up against the wall. His skin was the color of milk gone bad and his eyes rolled back in his head like a loco horse.

  Mattie felt a thrill of fear, realizing suddenly that Joseph and his granddaughter were not just tired, but ill. Terribly ill, judging the way the old man stood wheezing and trembling.

  “What have you done?” Sarah’s harsh whisper filled the room.

  Mattie whirled around and stared at his mother. She stood in the doorway, glaring at him through drug-crazed eyes. Mattie remembered, too late, that his ma held a deep-seated fear and hatred of Indians. She had seen the tail end of too many unfortunate incidents on her overland journey. Now that Robert was gone, she was not afraid to say how much she despised the red men.

  “Those Injuns have the pox, Matthew, and you brought them inside! Now we’re all going to die!” Sarah abruptly broke into a fit of giggles and did a little jig.

  Mattie stared in horror as his mother danced in the doorway and Joseph Two-Toes did his best to stay upright. His heart was tapping against his rib cage like a trapped bird. Ma was right, of course, but there was no call to be mean.

  Suddenly angry, he barked, “Ma! You go back to bed now! I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Sarah Wilcox swayed in place, her momentary clarity of purpose gone as soon as it had come, like a will o’ the wisp in a turbulent wind. She stepped into the other room, lay back down in her bed and turned her face away.

  Matthew gazed at Joseph and, for a moment, wanted to shoot him dead. Why did that damn old Indian have to come here anyway? Didn’t his family have enough trouble already? He hesitated for a moment and then ran to help Joseph slide down onto the floor.

  ~

  Two days later, Mattie and Doc Abrams were the only ones left alive in the house. Maude had been taken away (for her own safety) to an orphanage in Spokane. Joseph Two-Toes had died that morning; Sarah Wilcox and the little girl named Tawnee had passed the day before.

  Mattie’s eyes were hot and red from fatigue and
unshed tears. He expected to fall ill any second. In fact, the doctor kept checking his eyes, throat and brow for signs of smallpox. Finally, the doctor set his cold coffee down with a sigh.

  “I don’t think you got it,” he said. “But, in truth, it don’t matter much. The people here ain’t gonna let you stick around anyway.” He rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes.

  “People get spooked when it comes to the pox…superstitious. I could holler out on the street corner that Matthew Wilcox ain’t infected but still they would take off a runnin’, see?”

  Mattie sat in his chair and stared at the old doctor. He had almost hated the man for giving his ma the medicine that rendered her useless to the family who needed her. He did not like the way the doctor smelled, like dirty laundry and hooch. Moreover, he didn’t like the way Abrams looked, with his one wandering eye and his yellow, gap-toothed grin.

  Mattie knew, though, that he had gained a sort of wisdom about people in the last couple of days… and who they were on the inside. Doc Abrams had worked valiantly to save Joseph Two-Toes and his granddaughter despite the fact they were Indians. He had eased his mother’s passing with as much kindness and dignity as was possible and had given freely of his medicine without ever mentioning how dear it was. He was a good man.

  Chapter 3

  A New Beginning

  It was late March. Crows cackled from the birch trees and buttercups cast the sun’s reflection off the water’s lazy swell. Mattie was hunched up against a pile of moldy ropes, gnawing on a piece of jerked venison. He was basking in the early morning sunlight, marveling at the fact that he was finally content. It felt as if he had survived a terrible storm; a dense, foggy miasma of sorrow, fear and doubt. But now, the spring thaw was melting the frozen dam his heart had become.

  He stared across the sun-spangled water and heard the Indians who fished on the far shore laughing, exchanging raunchy jokes and issuing challenges to one another. Their strange pointed nets glistened with salmon and trout and their fires were banked low for the drying racks.

  Occasionally, Mattie was allowed to help. For some reason, the Indians found his company appealing. Maybe it was the solemn wisdom in his green eyes, or the respect they sensed in his demeanor that permitted a white boy into their sacred conclave.

  No matter, there would be no fishing today. Agents from the Northwest Trading Company were expected sometime later in the afternoon. Mattie didn’t like the company agents. They acted as if every pelt in the Northwest Territories belonged to them exclusively, as though granted to them by God above.

  Every time one of them visited the outpost, Jacques Dupre’ would sulk for days afterward. Whether a suited money agent or a stinking trapper, they ended up insulting Jacques, Mattie, or a member of Dupre’s family either by a word, a whispered insult, or a lewd glance.

  When Doc Abrams first dropped Mattie off at the outpost four months earlier, the boy feared the worst. Many trading posts were little more than flea-infested, ramshackle huts. He was pleasantly surprised, however, to find a clean and neatly patched canvas tent snugged up next to a tiny, two-story frame house. The tent held hides and hanging slabs of beef, elk, venison and pork. Tidy barrels contained salt, pickles, meal and tallow. Every implement needed for farming, trapping or building hung from the walls and ceiling. It was clean as a Catholic virgin-as Jacques was fond of saying.

  There was a small stable with four stalls, a smithy and a round pen; now the only occupant in the stable was Pete. Surprisingly, Abrams had shown up a couple of weeks before with the mule hitched to the back of his wagon.

  “That dang old miser, Stokes has got enough straw outta you, I reckon,” Abrams grumbled when he handed the lead rope to Mattie along with a small sack of coins.

  “That bit of cash is for your pa’s horses,” he added. “Shoulda got more for ‘em than I did, but he plum tuckered me out with his bartering.”

  Smiling, Abrams put a hand on Mattie’s shoulder. “There’s about eighteen dollars there, son. Put that by and save what you earn. Won’t be long and you can go fetch your sister… maybe take a train back to your people in Virginny.”

  Overwhelmed, Mattie threw his arms around the old doctor in a spontaneous hug. Suddenly, they were interrupted.

  “Matthew! Damn, Minette, where is that boy?”

  When Mattie first arrived at the trading post, he was terrified of the little Frenchman. Jacque was short but wide with wild black hair that seemed to sprout from every orifice like porcupine quills. His eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead and wiggled like an agitated caterpillar. Jacques never spoke when he could holler and his heavy French accent was so slurred and vowel-laden, Mattie could barely understand a word he said.

  It only took a couple of days, though, to understand that Mr. Dupre’ was a kind and generous employer who adored his wife, Minette, and their only child, Marie. For all his bluster, the Frenchman seemed in awe of his diminutive spouse who ran the house with military zeal. Her floors were scrubbed on a daily basis and her one glass window gleamed fiercely.

  When Doc Abrams and Mattie first entered the Dupre’ home, Minette took one look at the frightened, hollow-cheeked boy and wrapped him in her arms. “Ah, Jacques,” she cried. “Thees boy ees starved and so sad, no?” The tiny woman sat him in one of the kitchen chairs.

  “You sit here now and eat…yes?” she continued as she scooped stew into a bowl, placing bread and fresh cream butter on the table. Minette scurried around the kitchen scolding, laughing and cleaning while Mattie ate and the men talked quietly in the front parlor.

  Although he could only understand one word in three the little woman uttered, it didn’t matter. Mattie knew he had found safe harbor in the Dupre’ family’s outpost. In addition, he couldn’t take his eyes off the young girl who sat sewing in the far corner by the stove.

  Back before the trouble began with his father’s death and the family’s unfortunate change of situation, there were—on occasion—visitors to the farm. Sarah had never forgotten how to entertain and once every few months she would invite the finest families in town for a soiree.

  In that time, Mattie met many a fine miss. Some were haughty beyond belief, and some were sweet. Many were bored and naughty with it. None of them though—with their fancy clothes and starchy curls—could compare to the beautiful girl who sat and gazed at him from under her eyelashes.

  She had her mother’s fine, pale complexion and petite size, but her hair was like her father’s, black as night and aloft with curls. She had her father’s bright blue eyes as well. Those eyes stared at him and left him tongue-tied and hot under the collar.

  Over the next few months, Mattie and Marie became the best of friends. They did most of their many chores together. When they had time to spare, the children sometimes fished on the river’s banks or helped the Indians haul in their nets. The native children laughingly called them skunk children because the girl was so dark and the boy so bright with his golden hair and light green eyes.

  Mattie was too young yet to feel much in the way of sexual tension but, occasionally after a long day of chores, he would lie awake at night thinking of Marie. He loved the way she spoke and her tinkling laughter; he admired her strength, both mental and physical, and the tender way she dealt with animals. He loved her soft hair…her sweet breath. He loved her, period.

  He finally decided to ask for her hand in marriage when he was old enough. He figured that day would come when he turned sixteen. Meanwhile, he needed to earn his stripes with Papa Jacques, which wasn’t too difficult. He only needed to work hard and keep a cheery, respectful tongue in his mouth.

  Jumping up, Mattie wiped greasy hands on his pants and walked into the barn. He scrambled up the ladder to the loft and started tossing hay down to Pete and into the other three stalls. Chances were the agents would stay the night and that meant housing their livestock as well. Suddenly, he heard a great thunder of hooves in the distance, approaching fast.

  Stepping outside, he peered up th
e trailhead. The Pinckney road was some fifty yards or so from the outpost and it was prudent, if not simply polite, to go slowly on the steep, winding path that led to the buildings and the beach beyond. Mattie was shocked when the sound of shots rang out and he heard Mr. Dupre’ shout for his wife and daughter to run and hide.

  For a split second, Mattie wondered if he should hide as well. Then he decided to go help Minette and Marie. That moment of hesitation saved his life. Running toward the front stoop, Mattie saw a horse careen around the corner of the building. He took one look at the horse’s rider and dove under the porch. The man wore malevolence on his brow like a dark hat and the smile that split his face spoke volumes about his intentions.

  Mattie watched as five more horses and a couple of mules crowded in behind the leader. He knew, instinctively, that this was trouble on the hoof. The men on horseback were filthy and leering as they studied the tent and house beside it. The leader wore black oilskin and his teeth were very white against his unkempt, salt-and-pepper beard. He spurred his foaming mare so she reared up, screaming.

  “Hello, the house!” he called. His voice was girlish, in sharp contrast to his size and demeanor. He was grinning and the riders who accompanied him cheered and hooted in excitement.

  There was no response from within and the man’s grin faded. “Y’all need to come out now. Come on out or we will fire you out! You hear me, Frenchie?”

  Mattie winced. Somehow these bad men knew about the Dupre’ outpost and that, on occasion, Jacques held the army payroll and heavy bags of silver the Northwest Trading Company paid for the pelts brought in from the high mountain trappers.

  This was not one of those times though or, at least, not yet. The pelts were bundled up and ready to go but the agents hadn’t arrived to pick them up. These bandits have poor timing, Mattie thought. Not that it would matter to rogues like these; they wouldn’t believe Dupre’ even if they bothered to ask.