A Dark and Lonely Place (21 page)

By high noon, a blazing sun reflected fire on the water and Tiger and Ashley had not returned. The puzzled Indians waited, then eventually returned home, expecting Tiger to follow or be there waiting when they arrived.

They never saw him alive again.

That night John Ashley arrived, unexpected, at the home of his brother Bill. Lucy invited him inside, but he left abruptly when she said Bill wasn’t there.

John next surfaced in Miami. He sold a number of otter hides to Girtman Brothers for twelve hundred dollars, picked up his package at the trading post, and went home for Christmas, unaware that the world as he knew it was about to change forever.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
bloated, discolored body, the lips, eyes, and ears eaten away by marine life, was fished from the water twenty-five miles west of Fort Lauderdale, four days after Christmas.

The hardworking men on the dredging crew made the grisly discovery in the canal that would one day link Lake Okeechobee to the sea, part of a huge state project to claim hundreds of thousands of flooded acres as farmland.

The men had eagerly anticipated the New Year’s Eve holiday, but what they saw on Tuesday, December 29, 1911, dampened their spirits. The dredge captain reported the find to Sheriff George B. Baker, who’d been appointed by the governor when Palm Beach County was created in 1909. The sheriff quickly identified the body as that of missing trapper DeSoto Tiger, a young husband, new father, and the son of a respected Cow Creek Seminole chief.

He’d been shot through the head.

Fellow trappers told Sheriff Baker that Tiger had vanished four days earlier and that they’d last seen him with John Ashley, a well-known marksman also known for his ability to wander in and out of the wilderness like a ghost.

Captain Fowey told the sheriff that Tiger and Ashley had never reached him, though he did see a canoe that morning. Off in the distance, among the marsh grasses, it was too far away to identify the occupant but Fowey was certain about one thing. It was a lone rider. The sheriff sent a posse to find John Ashley, now accused of murder.

The suspect didn’t appear to be in hiding. On December 28, the night before the body was found, a Palm Beach deputy had cited John Ashley for reckless use of a firearm.

John had shared drinks that evening with strangers curious about
his marksmanship, a popular topic of conversation in local saloons, pool halls, and barbershops. Men who hunted with him swore that Ashley was the finest marksman in Florida and probably the entire South. They’d seen him decapitate a small bird fifty feet away with a single shot from a handgun fired from a fast-moving wagon on a rutted dirt road. He could shoot the heads off rattlesnakes from a distance. And everyone talked about his flashy stunts with whiskey bottles, shooting out the bottoms without damaging the small openings through which the bullet passed. The skeptical strangers wanted proof that he was that good.

Bets were made. The bar emptied into the street to watch John try to shoot out the bottom of a bourbon bottle. He did. The stunned strangers bet he couldn’t do it again.

So he did.

Twice.

The shouts, applause, and sporadic gunfire attracted a sheriff’s deputy. Unimpressed by the show of marksmanship, the deputy charged John with illegally discharging a firearm inside city limits. He paid a twenty-five-dollar fine and left peacefully.

Two days later, Sheriff Baker informed the press and the shocked Ashley family that John was wanted for murder.

Then Baker heard a rumor: the fugitive was hiding out at a Hobe Sound encampment. The sheriff dispatched his two best men to make the arrest. Deputies Bob Hannon and James Barfield trudged down Dixie Highway carrying rifles as they searched the roadsides for a path through the palmettos to Ashley’s campsite.

Suddenly their names were shouted out from behind them. They turned and stared down the barrels of handguns pointed at them by John Ashley and his younger brother Bobby.

“Drop ’em,” John said.

The deputies put their guns on the ground.

“You boys looking for something?” John asked.

“Sheriff Baker sent us out to find you, John,” Hannon said.

“You two couldn’t find your way out of a rain barrel. You know as much about tracking as a dog knows about his father,” John said. “If I hadn’t called your names, you’d still be wandering on down the road.
Look at ’em, Bobby. No telling what kinds of varmints you run across in these here woods.”

Bobby grinned.

“Now, John,” Hannon said, his face sweaty. “We don’t want no trouble. The sheriff just wants you to come in peacefully.”

“Then why’d he have to go and tell my poor mother, who’s all upset now, and the damn newspapers that I’m wanted for murder without even asking for my side of the story?” John’s jaw clenched. “Nobody in my family ever had trouble with the law. We’re good neighbors and law-abiding citizens. You both know that.”

“John . . . ,” Barfield said.

“Shut up,” John said. “I’m provoked. Bobby, take their guns and badges and bring ’em to me. I’ll cover you. Don’t see why they give these boys guns anyhow. They ain’t never shot nothing with ’em. Couldn’t hit a barn if they tried. Either one makes a move, I’ll shoot ’em both.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hannon pleaded. “You know we got nothing personal against you, John. We’re just doing our jobs.”

Bobby picked up their weapons, then asked for their badges. Reluctantly, they turned them over.

“These tenderfoots act more like little girls than deputies,” John said. “Wonder how far they’d get with no boots? Let’s see. Take ’em off, boys.”

“No. John! There’s rattlesnakes out here,” Barfield complained.

“And it’s all muddy back the way we came,” Hannon said.

“Quit whining and take ’em off.”

They muttered as they hopped about and removed their boots. Bobby gleefully retrieved them.

“This ain’t gonna help your situation, John,” Hannon said. “Sheriff Baker ain’t gonna like this.”

“Then give him a message from me,” Ashley said angrily. “Tell Sheriff Baker that if he sends any more chicken-hearted men with rifles out here, they’re gonna get hurt. Now git.”

“You got to give us our boots back, John,” Barfield whimpered. “There’s all kindsa snakes and stuff out here. We’d never make it back without getting snake-bit and blistered. We never done nothing to you.”

“Oh, all right.” John sighed. “Give ’em their boots back, Bobby.”

Bobby looked disappointed. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Let ’em have ’em,” John said, disgusted.

“Our badges too?” Barfield asked.

“Hell, no. I’m keeping them.” John studied their pleading, sweat-stained faces for a long moment. “Hell, all right. Okay, I’ll get ’em back to you, I promise. Just make sure you deliver my message. Now git the hell outta here. Now!”

The red-faced lawmen trotted back up the road the way they came, with over-the-shoulder glances, as though they feared being shot in the back. They weren’t. But they heard the Ashley brothers’ laughter ring out behind them.

As promised, the deputies’ guns and badges were delivered by messenger to Sheriff Baker, a day later, along with a matchbox. Baker slid the small box open. There was a bullet inside with the name
BAKER
scratched on it.

John and Bobby thought it was funny.

Baker didn’t. The threat, his inept deputies, and being humiliated by John Ashley infuriated him.

“I’ll get that son of a bitch,” he swore to a newspaper reporter. “I’ll see him hang.”

Surprised that the sheriff couldn’t take a good-natured joke, John insisted he was innocent and accused Baker of harassment.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he stranger was clearly down on his luck. His teeth were yellowed and tobacco-stained, his complexion pockmarked, and the soles of his battered, oversized shoes flapped as he scuffed along the dusty road. He didn’t appear much older than thirty.

At first he saw no one at the Ashley place.

Joe and the boys had left hours ago to chop wood for the railroad. John was away, building a fishing camp in the Everglades, and Laura had gone to pick wild blackberries for pie. The quiet house gave Leugenia the chance to tidy up the kitchen after breakfast, start a soup stock for supper, and tackle some laundry. She sang hymns to herself as she worked.

The man rapped at the back door as she was about to carry the washboard and wringer out to the wash pot. She’d heat the water over a fire, soak the laundry, scrub it on the washboard, then boil, rinse, blue, starch, and wring it out. Then she’d hang it on the clothesline strung between two trees. When the laundry was dry, she’d carry it inside, sprinkle each piece with water, heat the iron on the stove, and iron them all.

Her hair, mostly gray now, was caught up in a bun and she wore an apron.

“Howdy, ma’am.” He held a battered fedora in both hands and stared at his shoes when she opened the door.

“I was hoping you could spare a body a bite to eat. I’m hungry. Ain’t had nothing for days, and somebody I met on the road said that good-hearted people lived here.”

The mother of boys nearly his age, Leugenia’s heart went out to him. Wandering tramps were nothing new nowadays, she thought sadly, and wondered what the world was coming to.

“I can always put together a little somethin’. Come on in.” She opened the door wide. “Been on the road long?”

He nodded glumly. “Too long. Came in on a boxcar yesterday, looking for work. Still picking the cinders outta my eyes.”

He inhaled deeply. The room still smelled of biscuits and breakfast bacon. His eyes and mouth both watered.

“I’ll fix you a plate,” she said. “The pump’s right out there if you want to wash up.”

She threw a couple of fresh eggs on the griddle, fried up some bacon, reheated the grits, and warmed several biscuits.

He wolfed most of them down before she could even get the sweet butter to the table. She kept up a motherly, running conversation and suggested that her husband might be able to help him find work with the railroad or on a friend’s farm.

Focused on the food, he answered in monosyllables.

He cleaned the egg yolk off his plate with the last of the biscuits, drank the coffee she poured, then looked up expectantly.

He’d eaten so fast, she assumed he was still hungry.

“I can fix a few more eggs if you like.”

“Please, ma’am.” He gazed at her with grateful eyes. “Haven’t had home cooking like this for more than two years.”

She fixed and served the eggs. It did her heart good to see how he dug into them.

His belly full, his eyes began to roam the room and the rest of the house. He still looked hungry. The only sounds were the birds outside and Leugenia’s soft humming as she worked. “You said your husband might know ’bout a job for me. Is he here?”

“He and my boys won’t be back till dark,” she said. “They’re chopping wood for the railroad today.” She was at the sink, her back to him.

“So you’re all alone here, ma’am.” It was more statement than question. He picked up his empty cup and plate and carried them to the sink.

“You don’t have to do that.” She looked up at him kindly. He stood a full foot taller than she did. “I’ll clean up the table.”

“So nobody else is here,” he repeated. Something in his voice had changed.

The tone triggered something inside her when she heard it. For the first time, she felt fear. “Some of my kin might come by at any time,” she said. His eyes make her voice shake. She looked away and picked up a dish towel. “Can I fix you anythin’ else?”

“There is something else I ain’t had for a long time.” He touched the bib of her apron, licked his lips, then yanked it off over her head. “You can fix that.”

She shrank back, but he roughly pulled her to him.

“Stop that,” she said. “I have a husband and nine children, sons your age.” Her words sounded resolute as though she were in control, but the terror in her eyes gave her away.

“That don’t bother me none,” he said, his voice husky. “They ain’t here now, and a woman’s a woman.” He held her in an iron grip, fumbling with the buttons on her dress.

“No,” she cried.

“Then take it off!” His eyes changed, glinted like steel, as she began to weep.

Impatient, he threw her to the floor and lifted her skirt. She tried to roll away, but he caught her by the hair, tore it from the bun with one hand, and hit her hard in the face with the other.

“Lord, have mercy,” she cried. “Help me, Jesus.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. He unzipped his trousers and she started to scream.

That excited him more. He took a knife from the drainboard, cut away her dress, and bit her breasts and neck with his yellowed teeth.

The more hysterical she was, the more violent he became. When she fought, he reached up for the plate he’d eaten from and smashed it across her face.

Laura, three-quarters of a mile away, picking blackberries, stood up straight and cocked her head. What was that? A cry? Impossible from that distance, but some sudden inner voice demanded she go back to the house. It was as though she’d heard an ominous crash of thunder, though the day was breezy and beautiful beneath a blue, cloud-scudded sky.

She picked up the basket of berries and walked briskly toward home. Soon she broke into a trot then, filled with deadly certainty, she dropped the basket and ran.

How foolish, she thought, panting as she dashed across an open field filled with wildflowers. How would she explain to Leugenia why she’d returned so soon without the berries? She hoped her future mother-in-law would not think her stupid, silly, or superstitious.

No sign of Leugenia out by the wash pot where she’d planned to
scrub the boys’ work shirts and britches. Laura scrambled up the front steps, breathing hard, then pushed open the door, which stood ajar.

“Lu? Leugenia?” The hair on the back of her neck tingled and chills prickled her arms despite the heat of the day. The familiar kitchen, a place of warmth, good food, and fellowship, smelled of sex, blood, and fear.

Laura found her in the hallway just beyond the kitchen, seated on the floor, her back to the wall, trembling and barely conscious, stark naked except for one shoe and a torn stocking. Her clothing and corset cover had been cut into bloody shreds around her.