The Jupiter Knife

by D. J. Butler

  It was a start.

  Hiram held his hat in his hands, worrying the brim. He knew about the seven deadly sins, not because he was Catholic, but Grandma Hettie’s knowledge had come from a wide variety of sources. Pride, envy, sloth, gluttony, greed, wrath, and lust.

  Pride led the list because it could parade around as being a good thing, and Grandma Hettie had warned of it time and again. The Book of Mormon took a stern position against pride, too. If Hiram used his powers to force his own will onto the world, he might think he was the source of the greatness. A man always had to keep a tight hold on his humility, and a man who used charms…maybe more so. God had created him, the world, everything, and all good things came from God.

  Hiram liked to think he had managed to avoid pride. And he’d worked through other sins, sidestepping them by keeping his mind on his service work. Envy gnawed at Hiram, though, when he saw a man with a simple life, a happy family, and the love of his community. Hiram wasn’t a greedy man, nor prone to anger, and he liked to work. As for gluttony, Hiram kept that at bay by fasting.

  So, he’d managed to do well with six out of the seven. He was left with lust. The lusts of the flesh, as Nephi called them in the Book of Mormon. He’d wanted Elmina with a fire that lit up his entire frame, but she was gone, and at his age, he’d thought those giddy, passion-fueled days were behind him.

  But Diana Artemis had his heart thumping and his mind in a whirl. She had some kind of artificial leg, but it didn’t bother him. She was beautiful, smart, and full of smiles. And she was a cunning woman, of sorts. She had mystery about her, she had secrets, like Hiram did. She’d understand him. She hadn’t come out and said it, but she was an outcast like him, a widow who worked hexes in a sleepy little backwater Utah town. That couldn’t be easy.

  Hiram’s best friend, Mahonri Young, was a librarian at Brigham Young High School. Mahonri insisted Hiram wasn’t an outcast but a successful beet farmer in Lehi, a solid figure in the community, but was he respected? Not by his neighbors, and not by his church. People looked away from his Navajo son and were very careful not to say words like “witch” and “wizard” in Hiram’s presence.

  Hiram wasn’t exactly an outcast. He didn’t know a word to describe what he was…was there such a thing as an incast? A member of the group who was still not quite right? That was what Hiram Woolley was.

  Bamboozled. Could the widow have bamboozled Hiram? He carried a bloodstone in his pocket, that prevented him from being deceived. But the stone could fail, if overcome by a more powerful charm.

  Or if Hiram failed to keep a chaste and sober mind.

  Hiram had stuck the silver cross in the bib pocket of his overalls. He liked that it was a cross, and though he didn’t know much about Uranus—since it wasn’t one of the planets you could see with your naked eye—a planet controlling electricity made sense to him. More than anything, he liked that Diana had touched it and given it directly to him. Her spirit would be in it, and he liked the idea, probably too much.

  He sighed.

  Michael frowned.

  It was acceptable to like the widow Artemis. It would not even be wrong, Hiram thought, to fall in love with her, should that happen. What he couldn’t do was dwell on her—

  he forced his mind away from the track it had jumped to take on its own, filling with the image of her comely face, and the fair skin he had seen when she had leaned forward—

  Hiram bit his own lip. A chaste and sober mind.

  Chaste and sober.

  Grandma Hettie had told Hiram stories about the saints, when he was young. Not Mormon “saints,” which just meant church members, but Catholic saints. Bernard of Clairvaux had been one of her favorites; he was a man who had so valued his chastity that he had plunged himself into ice water on one occasion to defend it, and on another occasion had physically run away from a naked woman.

  Hiram focused on the packed dirt street, imagining himself running away.

  “Lunch,” he said quietly. “We’ll feel better with some lunch. Those biscuits were a long time ago.”

  “We have Bobette’s sandwiches.”

  “Let’s save those. It’s good to have food on the road.”

  Michael turned onto Center Street and parked in front of a brick building, three stories high, with a wide porch out front. “Let’s see if the hotel has some grub.”

  “But not too much.” Hiram didn’t want to run away from lust by indulging gluttony. Maybe Nephi would say that gluttony was a lust of the flesh, too.

  “It’s not a fast day for you,” Michael protested. “Let’s eat our fill. Or did you give all of our money to the widow Artemis?”

  “Fifteen bucks.” Hiram left the truck. “Thanks to Lloyd Preece, we can afford it.”

  Michael joined him. Together they loped into the lobby of the Maxwell House Hotel. Polished wood floors and ceiling fans reflected the low glow from brass lamps, making the whole place seem to shine, if only dimly. A few of the tables were crowded with men, chatting in loud voices. Across the far wall of the lobby ran the front desk; a staircase disappeared up to the right.

  Hiram and Michael took an empty table by the window. The fans did a tolerable job keeping the place cool, though the full afternoon heat would laugh at the effort. He and his son would be out of there by then. Had something driven the Udalls from their home? And if so, did it have to do with the disappearance of their son? And was their son Jimmy, indeed, the ghost of the Schoolmarm’s Bloomers?

  Was their absence at all connected to the empty campsite lying on the same road?

  A giant came over to their table, carrying two menus and holding a dog under one arm. No, not a dog—two dogs, because the sand-tinted head of a chihuahua protruded from the mouth of a border collie with a black back and a white chest. Stuffed, obviously. The man was at least seven feet tall and four hundred pounds if he was an ounce. Thinning blonde hair receded from a wide, grinning face, his nose a bit red, his eyes Scandinavian blue.

  Hiram expected an accent, but the giant spoke American English perfectly. “Hello, gentlemen. No need to introduce yourselves. Hiram Woolley and his son Michael. I’m Leon Björnsson, and I run the Maxwell House. Me and my son, Arnie. He’ll be cooking up whatever you want to eat. I’d recommend the chicken-fried steak, but order it quick, because we’re about to turn off the fryer. In this heat, it might kill the cook!”

  “Sir…” Michael furrowed his brow at the dogs. “I’ll have the chicken-fried steak.”

  “Make that two.” Hiram tried not to stare at the dogs. Some of the fur on the border collie’s back had been worn down from petting, and the chihuahua only had one glass eye.

  “Excellent choice! And I’ll only charge for one.” The giant took both the menus.

  “Oh? Is there a special?” Hiram asked.

  “There is for you. You didn’t charge Rex Whittle to find the well.” Björnsson headed back to the hotel desk.

  “Hey,” Michael said, “I’m beginning to see how the cunning man thing can work out. We don’t charge people, but they know that, so they give us gifts. Sandwiches and soda, and now steak? We don’t have to make a lot of money if room and board are provided.”

  Hiram grunted. At the words room and board, he had to fight not to think of the widow’s bungalow.

  Several of the men at another table left their empty plates and approached. At their head was a short man in an old-fashioned black suit, including spats, and a shoestring tie. Dandruff covered the shoulders of his suit. He had iron-gray hair, a full head, but angry red skin inched down from his hairline. Gray scabs marked his scalp above his ears, caused by a bad case of psoriasis.

  “Hiram Woolley,” the man with scalp condition said. “I’m Erasmus Green, and I run the First National Bank of Moab across the street. Welcome to our little town.” Green motioned to the two men behind him. Both were older, with lined faces, one aged and the other marked by the sun. Both wore nice suits, far newer than Green’s. “This is Banjo Johansson. He owns the
mercantile just around the corner on Main Street,” Erasmus said.

  The old man had a wrinkled ear, like a plum withered into a prune, but otherwise a pleasant face. Age had given him a gut, a big bow of belly extended over his belt, though his arms and legs were thin. He raised a hand.

  “And this is Howard Balsley. He’s a prospector, but also helps out with the Monument and does a little bit of everything around these parts. Whatsit they call you, Howard?”

  The sun-leathered man nodded. “A park ranger. It sounds fancier than it is. And it’s not where I get my money from.” His eyes were tiny compared to his face, as if his time outdoors had shriveled two grapes into raisins, giving him a permanent squint. He also raised a hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you all.” Hiram recalled hearing Balsley’s name. Something about mailing rocks to Europe. “Have a seat.”

  The three men pulled up chairs.

  “How do you know who we are?” Michael asked.

  Hiram could answer that. For one, it was a small town, and word got around fast—strangers in town was news in and of itself. For two, Hiram’s bloodstone was beginning to bring him unwanted fame.

  He managed not to sigh at the thought.

  “Lloyd Preece.” Green didn’t bother to glance at Michael. None of the men did. It wasn’t unexpected. Most people were enslaved by their prejudices. And if these men had been among the first settlers in the town, they might have fought Indians. There would be bad blood there. For his part, Hiram still couldn’t hear the German language without getting a knot in his belly. He was just grateful that Lloyd Preece had taken a liking to Michael. It made things easier.

  “Lloyd’s a good man,” Johansson said. “Me and him go way back. Why, I opened my store when he only had a dozen head of cattle. Me and Clem, we’ve been here a good long time.”

  “And yet you look so young and dashing,” Michael said. Hiram had to admire his son’s courage. How much should he try to curb the boy’s tongue?

  “Tell that to my wife!” Green said.

  “Tell it to any goddamn woman who’ll listen!” Johansson snapped.

  The three men laughed. Green wiped at his eye. “Good thing we can dance. You’ve seen the two halls we have. We do have a good time there.”

  Michael settled into the conversation. He’d gotten them laughing, which was good. Michael did best when people were laughing with him. “I have to ask about Mr. Björnsson’s…dogs.”

  “Petey,” Green said. “Petey’s the big one. Ask Björnsson himself. Leon is friendly enough, and he loved that dog. What’s the name of the little one again, Howard?”

  “I believe the little one was named Petey the Second,” Balsley said. “Didn’t last as long as the original Petey.”

  Michael blinked. “And he sewed them together…for convenient carrying?”

  “Like he said. Ask Leon.” Johansson sat with his arms clasped over his kettle of a belly. “You a farmer, Hiram?”

  “Was it the overalls that gave me away?” Hiram asked. “Or the truck? I have a farm up in Lehi.”

  “How you getting along?” Balsley asked. “Depression and all, I mean. I heard it’s been real bad on the farmers.”

  “It’s been bad on a lot of people,” Hiram said. “I still have my farm, so that’s better than lots of folks.”

  “But you can find water,” Johansson said. “You have that old timey magic going for you. Powerful, Lloyd Preece said. They heard what you did up in Helper, and someone suggested we should have the widow Artemis find us a well with her stars and bangles, and he said no, get that cunning man down here. Good ol’ Lloyd. He’s keeping the Moab Co-Op afloat, giving them money, which is bad for my business, but I can’t really fault him any. He has good Christian charity. Lost his wife a while back. Lloyd has a daughter. Her poor husband got kicked in the head by a horse and hasn’t been right since. What’s Lloyd’s daughter’s name? It escapes me.” The old-timer knocked his head.

  “Addy Preece Tunstall,” Green offered. “Married to Guy Tunstall.”

  “Guy Tunstall.” Hiram nodded. “I heard the name.”

  “Guy Tunstall is a hard-luck story,” Balsley said. “Lucky enough to marry rich, and then he goes and gets his brains kicked out, so he can’t even enjoy it.”

  “What kind of miner are you, Mr. Balsley?” Michael asked. “Coal, like they have up around Helper?”

  “Uranium,” Balsley answered, addressing Hiram. “And I wouldn’t say ‘miner’ so much as ‘prospector.’ You wouldn’t know it, but this region’s rich with the stuff. Someday, we’ll find better uses for it, but for now, it’s mostly put into in ceramics. You ever hear of Madame Curie?”

  Michael laughed. “Of course. She’s been researching the properties of radium, polonium, and other minerals for decades. She helped develop the x-ray machine.”

  Balsley had a laugh of his own, finally looking Michael squarely in the face. “Well, now, I didn’t expect an Indian to know so much about science. She died last year, but there’s still a market for uranium. I send some of it all the way to Paris.”

  Michael seemed not to take offense. “To Paris. She started a school there before she died. There and in Warsaw. Impressive. You must know the uranium miner with the camp up in the Monument, near the Udalls.”

  The question startled Hiram. How did Michael know it was a uranium prospector’s camp they’d passed? He must be guessing, and trying to get confirmation of his guesses.

  “Davison Rock?” Balsley said. “Sure I do. He’s a man you should talk to. He knows as much as I do, if not more, and he’s hungry for conversation. Nothing but him and the hoodoos out there in the desert, and if they start talking back to you, it’s a bad sign. Davison Rock can be…difficult, though.”

  “All that time up in the hills has touched him,” Johansson tsked and shook his head. “It’s the goddamn heat.”

  “Difficult how?” Hiram asked.

  Balsley made a face. “Oh, you get used to the heat. You live like a lizard, active in the mornings and the evenings, find a bit of shade and sleep the afternoon away.”

  Was that why the camp had been empty? If it belonged to Rock, the man might have been out working. “But a strange schedule doesn’t make a man difficult. What did you really mean?” Hiram asked.

  “I guess I mean that the line between lonely and nuts is sometimes hard to spot,” Balsley said. “But Davison Rock isn’t difficult at all compared to Earl Bill Clay. That man is a shyster, I tell you, a hobo who knows just enough Bible to get people to fill his collection plate. He acts crazy, but it’s pure show business.”

  “I won’t let him in my shop,” Johansson decreed. “For one, I don’t need anyone quoting the Bible at me.”

  Balsley looked at Johansson slyly. “You’d prefer it if he was quoting the Book of Mormon, Banjo.”

  Johansson shrugged. “Maybe if he knew a little Book of Mormon, I could find it tolerable. No. He’s a menace all right. That crazy is no act, it’s bone-deep and permanent.”

  Green frowned. “He’s certainly a problem. Jack could get him on vagrancy laws if he was in town. As it is, he spends all his time out in the desert.”

  “Jack Del Rose is our sheriff,” Johansson explained. “He’s a good lawman.”

  “He’s certainly kept my bank safe since he got the job,” Green added. “Others failed. You know about the big robbery of 1923?”

  “We heard about it,” Hiram said.

  “Well, the worst of the outlaws are gone, but we’ve had our fair share run through here.” Green scratched at his head, then swept the dandruff off his shoulders. “Robber’s Roost to the southwest is miles of badland that Butch Cassidy once used to keep hidden from the law.”

  “They talk about Butch Cassidy up at Helper, too,” Michael said. “He robbed a big payroll up there and made all the mines switch to random paydays.”

  “We’ve had other bank robbers too, and a colorful history, but those are the old days.” Green smiled. “The bad old days
for us bankers. At least now, we all might not have much money, but we don’t have many outlaws, either.”

  “You’re lucky to be open,” Michael said. “A lot of banks have failed.”

  Hiram didn’t think these men were struggling. Their clothes were nice, they were clean, and they were all having a long, leisurely lunch on a Friday afternoon, before they went back to their work.

  Hiram touched his bloodstone. It lay still in his pocket.

  “Do you know anything about the ghost?” he asked.

  Green slapped Balsley on the back. “That would be your area of expertise. You’re the one up at the Monument the most, looking for your rocks, and taking food to the Turnbows.”

  “Wolfe Ranch,” Michael murmured.

  His son felt the coincidence. Wolfe Ranch seemed like an echo to the tales of Three Toe.

  But was there such a thing as coincidence? Grandma Hattie had always been skeptical of the idea.

  Leon appeared carrying a single plate and his dogs. He set the plate down in front of Hiram, and then went back for Michael’s lunch.

  “Show ’em Petey!” Johansson called to the big man.

  “I will. Just sit tight.” The giant ambled back into the kitchen.

  “Ghosts?” Balsley grinned. “Do you mean like the election dreams of the Republican Party? Yeah, I hear weeping up there all the time. And it warms my heart.”

  “We are not talking politics,” Green said. “And we aren’t discussing religion. You’re a religious man, aren’t you, Hiram?”

  Michael answered for him. “My father has a direct line to God. How do you think he found the well for Lloyd Preece?”

  That made the men laugh more.

  Leon returned with the other plate for Michael. “There you go. You listening to these three old men gossip? Why, they’re just hens. Hell, my dad used to have to sweep them out of the hotel with his broom to get them back to work.”

  “That’s a load of cow biscuits,” Johansson countered. “Bjorn would have joined us. He could talk longer than any of us and tell the bluest stories.”

  “Bjorn Björnsson? And we have Gudmund Gudmundson. Did you run out of names?” Michael asked.