Ride the Panther (17 page)

“Why don’t you rest a spell, Gip?” Raven said, struggling to come to terms with the news Whitfield had brought. She was profoundly grateful that her eldest grandson had survived the war, thus far. But she dreaded his return and the way it coincided with Pacer’s arrival home from the Lawrence debacle.

“No, thank you, ma’am. I’m anxious to be on my way. Libby hates to be by herself.” He waved a hand in her direction. “I owe ya’ll more’n I can ever repay. I figured you’d want the news about Jesse.” He waved to Pacer. “Be seeing you.” He wheeled his horse away from the porch and, holding the animal to a trot, rode alongside the fieldstone walk and out of the yard.

He was still in sight, a plume of dust trailing in the wake of his horse, when Pacer cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm and headed for the barn without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Pacer,” Lorelei called out. “Come sit by me and rest a spell.” She patted a bench alongside her chair. Her voice was sultry and inviting, but its magic was lost on the tall, rawboned young man.

“Where’s he going?” Lorelei asked.

Raven wanted to go after Pacer but he was like Kit, his grandfather, just like that wonderful—impossible man. All the arguing in the world wouldn’t change Pacer’s mind.

“He’s going to town.”

“This late in the day? It’ll be dark by the time he crosses Chahta Creek.”

“No matter,” Raven said. The plume of dust was fainter now in the amber distance along the valley road. Soon there’d be another. “He has business that cannot wait.”

J
ESSE HAD A ROUGH
decision to make. He was fixing to ask for second helpings and couldn’t decide between Mary Lou Gude’s sweet potato pie or the fried rabbit with cream gravy. At last the proprietress and cook of Gude’s Good Eats made the decision for him and placed a wedge of pie on one plate and an open biscuit, a rabbit quarter, and a big stirring-spoon-full of gravy onto his dinner plate.

“You spoil me, Miss Gude,” Jesse said. “Linc Graywater better watch out or I’m liable to propose before he gets up the nerve to.”

“You’re too late, Yankee,” a deep voice boomed from the kitchen. He stepped into Mary Lou’s dining room. There were only a few customers tonight and he instantly recognized Jesse. Graywater was the best blacksmith in Chahta Creek. He looked big as a barn and solid as the hills. His features were thick and his hands were wide and powerful looking. He walked slightly stooped forward in an attempt to ease the ever-present pain in the small of his back. He was forty-one years old and for the last six of those years had been courting Mary Lou. Evidently during Jesse’s absence, the blacksmith had finally found the nerve to ask the proper question. Now it was Mary Lou’s turn to string him along and allow him to dangle like a puppet for just a little while. After all, Linc had certainly taken his time. Mary Lou lived alone; she was part German and part Choctaw, the product of an unusual union between a Choctaw maiden and a Prussian mercenary who had served under General Jackson during the war with the Creeks. Both parents were gone now, asleep beneath the prairie sod in a graveyard off Choctaw Street.

Mary Lou, at thirty-nine, was past the prime marrying age for most of the eligible men in the area. Her parents had been ailing for much of her early years, and like a devoted daughter, she had given them the best years of her life, caring for them until the death of her father, nine years ago, and, more recently, the demise of her Choctaw mother. Mary Lou had a strong, kind-looking face. She was soft of voice, but her resolve was as solid as iron, and when she made up her mind, she could be irresistible. It was to Linc Graywater’s credit that he had worn Mary Lou down. She was preparing to accept his proposal and allow the blacksmith to escort her down the aisle at the Congregationalist church.

“I retract my proposal,” Jesse replied. “However, you may hold it in reserve in case this big ox gets cold feet and changes his mind.” Jesse pretended to be oblivious to Linc’s frowning stare. “Of course, you need only hand him a wedge of sweet potato pie and I’ll warrant he’ll dance right up to the parson and say his ‘I do’s’ before Booth can crack a Bible.”

“Listen to him. Some Yank general boots Jesse a rank or two and then hands him a badge and he thinks he’s cock o’ the roost,” Linc countered. The other patrons of Gude’s Good Eats were a quiet, if suspicious, bunch who made every attempt to appear nonchalant and pointedly oblivious to the interchange between the two men. If it came to blows, no one wanted to be in harm’s way. However, the tension in the place eased when Mary Lou Gude stepped between Jesse and the blacksmith and ordered one back to the kitchen and the other to finish his dinner.

“You should be more careful, Jesse,” Mary Lou chided. “Linc has a short temper these days. It galls him to sit helplessly by while the Knights of the Golden Circle terrorize the countryside.”

“I thought he’d be Jeff Davis’s man,” Jesse said.

Mary Lou sighed and nodded. “He is. But war is one thing and neighbors another. Hack Warner was a friend. Some of the others, too, that have been burned out and driven off their land. Linc Graywater knows the difference between right and wrong no matter where his loyalties lie.” The woman patted the bun of brown hair she kept pinned at the nape of her neck. She blushed, becoming self-conscious. “How I prattle on.”

She ambled off to check the other tables and see that everyone was taken care of. It was a simple enough task. Mary Lou’s place held a dozen tables, four of which ran the length of one wall. Jesse was seated at one of the four, a table furthest from the front door. He wanted to watch the people come and go and he was loath to have his back to the front window. The room’s interior was ablaze with the amber light of several oil lamps hung from wall brackets and a wooden circular chandelier sporting half a dozen lamps, all lit. The walls were festooned with chromolithographs depicting scenes from the Bible, including Joseph and his coat of many colors, Cain slaying Abel, Solomon on his throne, and David holding the severed head of Goliath, which was a special favorite of the children. An infant Moses being rescued from the reeds and rushes along the banks of the Nile was special to the ladies for its depiction of a cherublike child, while the men found the scantily clad Egyptian slave girls of more than passing interest. The bill of fare, like the hand-lettered sign on the false front outside, was simple and to the point and rarely changed. It was posted by the kitchen door for all to see. Beef, greens, potatoes, pork, and available fresh game depending on the luck of local hunters.

The front door opened and Carmichael Ross entered the restaurant. She had changed her ink-smudged brown garb for a light blue dress trimmed with lace at the throat and wrists. Carmichael greeted Mary Lou with the casual familiarity born of a long and friendly relationship. With the amenities completed, the editor of the
Chahta Creek Courier
made her way across the room to Jesse’s table. McQueen stood as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him. Her long sandy-colored hair looked shiny and soft, as if she had brushed it for an hour. There was a hint of daring in her emerald eyes and Jesse had the distinct impression he ought to be wary of this woman. What was she up to? The more he tried to understand women the more confused he became. Maybe it was better to proceed blindly and trust to blind fortune.
My God, Jesse, slow down. You haven’t even been here a full day yet.

“Are you eating?” Jesse asked the woman.

“I just came for the coffee. And you.”

Jesse nearly choked on a wedge of pie crust. Carmichael laughed at his reaction.

“Word travels quickly. The hotel is filled with guests that no one can see.” Carmichael shook her head in disgust. A woman of strong convictions, she had no patience with cowards. “Henri Medicine Fox is no more a supporter of the Confederacy than General Grant or Abe Lincoln.”

“I don’t think his loyalty is in question. Parson Booth tried to warn me, and now I guess I know what he was talking about.” Jesse took a sip of coffee. “Some folks will be glad to see me, others will only see the blue uniform I’m not wearing. Henri Medicine Fox is a good man, but he’s worried as to what I have in mind. He has a family to think of.”

“You are far more tolerant than I,” Carmichael remarked.

“And twice as curious,” Jesse said. “You came for the coffee and me?”

Carmichael continued to find him amusing. The fact that Jesse was a good ten years younger than she did not bother her for a minute. “I have a room over the newspaper office. It has a table and washbasin and a comfortable enough bed. Elmo Washburn, my typesetter, used to live there.”

“What happened to him?” Jesse asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“The Knights cornered him down by the creekbank and held a mock hanging, with him as the guest of honor. If he didn’t quit me they promised to return for him and string him up for real.” Carmichael shrugged. “Elmo believed them. And took off for Kansas.”

“I cannot say as I blame him.”

“You would not have left.”

“How can you be so certain?”

Carmichael reached across the table and placed her hand upon the front of his shirt and the “medal” he wore. She pressed the English coin against his chest. He understood what she meant. The talisman of the McQueens would not allow him to flee from the night riders. His was a legacy of courage. Generations of McQueens had defied injustice and tyranny and the forces of fear. Carmichael had been a frequent visitor to the valley of the Buffalo. She had heard the stories from Raven, and there were still some pure-bloods back in the hills who remembered the exploits of Kit McQueen.

“Do you want the room?” Carmichael asked.

“Sold,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. “I’ll straighten things up.

“I left my saddlebags back at the jail,” Jesse said. “I reckon the parson will let me in.”

“I saw him just a few minutes ago. He was standing out front and peering in the window. He looked like a man trying to decide whether or not to come inside.” The editor finished her coffee. “Booth is a funny bird. When he saw me, he seemed to make up his mind right then and there to move along on his rounds. It isn’t like him to pass up Mary Lou’s. He favors her pies.”

“My being here doesn’t sit well with him. He’s been the law for a good many years in Chahta Creek. Now I’ve returned with papers of authority and a badge. I’m as welcome as the grippe.” Jesse swallowed the last morsel of pie and stared at his empty plate. He wished all his problems could be arranged upon the earthenware surface and handled in turn, neatly and at his own discretion.

“You need him, Jesse. If for no other reason than to watch your back.”

“I’m not worried,” Jesse lied. He looked up and flashed his most winning smile. Carmichael Ross wasn’t fooled for a second.

It was said the ancestors of the Choctaw issued from a cave underneath the sacred mound, Nanih Waya, in the southern hills of the place called Mississippi. Jesse had learned the creation story from his grandmother who taught him the legends along with his Christian upbringing. As the story went, these early Choctaw climbed out from beneath the mound and arranged themselves in a circle about the mound and lay down to finish drying. Afterward, they dispersed to occupy the surrounding countryside, but always Nanih Waya remained, like the hub of a wheel, the ceremonial center of the Choctaw Nation. The cross streets of town, from First to Sixth, were supposed to point the way to the sacred mound, the source of all beginning. Though his own bloodline was pretty well diluted, Jesse still felt a sense of belonging here. The ancient roots went deep but did not govern his actions as they did Pacer Wolf’s, Jesse thought as he made his way through the moonlit streets of Chahta Creek. Main Street was for the most part deserted. But Cherokee Street evidently had some traffic, and a glow emanated from the northeast corner of town where the Medicine Wagon Saloon was enjoying a thriving business. There were a couple of other saloons along Cherokee, but they were poor cousins to Cap’s place. Jesse stood at the center of Fourth and Main and considered paying Featherstone a visit and seeing first-hand the interior of the saloon. But it had been a long day and Jesse wanted to retrieve his saddlebags from Booth’s office. He resisted temptation and resumed his earlier course. The black mass of Turtle Mountain loomed ahead of him. The heavily wooded slope was a place of stygian shadows in which an army of devils could easily hide. A breeze had sprung up and, overhead, clouds like wedding veils, tattered and decayed, drifted past the face of the moon. The office and jail were dark. Booth was no doubt still making his rounds and had forgotten to light a lamp for the prisoners.

Jesse quickened his pace, growing uneasy, alone in the street. He covered the remaining two blocks at a trot. The marshal’s office and jail had blended in and become one with the menacing darkness of the mountain against which it nestled.

Jesse had just started up the steps when he sensed movement to his left. He froze and reached for the Colt holstered at his side. The Dragoon filled his hand with a reassuring weight. He changed his course and headed for the corner of the building and eased around only to find an empty patch of ground, a worn path leading to the narrow corral and shed where Booth kept his horses, and Jesse’s own gray gelding whinnied and pawed the dust. Something was spooking the horses. No telling what had crept out of the ancient hills. Now there was an unsettling notion. But the fact remained, the Kiamichis were home to panthers and brown bears, razorback hogs and red wolves.

Jesse walked the length of the building and paused again at the rear of the jail. The sound of two snoring men drifted through a barrel window. The Tellicos were sleeping off the effects of their home brew. Jesse started toward the corral, his eyes searching the darkness for whatever had alerted the horses. He hurried across the open ground behind the jail and didn’t relax until he reached the split rail fencing that surrounded the horse shed. He crouched low and allowed his vision to adjust to his surroundings. That’s when he saw the hat. Someone was crouched low behind the flatbed wagon Booth used for ferrying fresh-cut timber from the mountains to the church he was slowly renovating. The wagon was just outside the corral, between the fence and the outhouse. Jesse sank to his knees and waited. Was it possible the intruder hadn’t seen him? Jesse crept along the fencing and began to work his way around the corral in order to come up behind the wagon.