Crazy Woman Creek (18 page)

“Do you see Ulysses?”

“No, Mrs. Rose,” replied Reverend Thomas, raising his voice and turning his head slightly toward the rear of the wagon. He yelled over his shoulder. “He’s probably distracted with some critter more interesting than a couple of old folk on a buckboard.”

“He barks to raise the dead when a visitor approaches,” said Lenora, raising her voice also. “He can’t leave the property. He’s chained. You sure you don’t see him? He usually runs toward the road when he hears a wagon.”

“Perhaps he escaped from his chain,” said Betsy, couching her musings as a question. “Probably he saw a playmate to romp with and jerked himself free. He’ll be back soon,” she added cheerfully. 

“I don’t see him anywhere,” said Reverend Thomas. “We’re almost there. I’ll search the property once I get you settled in the house”

“Thank you, Reverend Thomas.”

Lenora could tell from the slackened pace of the buckboard wheels that they were approaching her house. Ulysses should have been dancing all around the front yard, barking his fool head off, begging for his evening meal of kitchen scraps. But there was no sound except the occasional mooing from the barn. It was a contented mooing, not a distress call, which told Lenora that Ben had already milked her cow. The sun was low in the sky, another clue to Lenora that Ben had come and gone. It was late. Ulysses should be hungry. Why couldn’t she hear her lovable, slobbering dog calling to be fed?

The wagon cleared the corner of the house. Reverend Thomas halted Beauty and Beast, set the brake and secured the reins, settling the wagon about fifty feet from the covered porch.

“There’s Ulysses, at your front door. Some guard dog he is, sleeping on his watch,” said Reverend Thomas, jumping down from the wagon to the ground.

Lenora’s heart caught in her throat. Ulysses never slept through a visit by a horse or wagon, especially at suppertime. “Are you sure, Reverend Thomas?” she called from the floor of the wagon box. Instinctively she went rigid, breathing shallowly to better hear any little sound of her dog.
But all she heard was the sound of Reverend Thomas’ feet hitting the ground as he jumped from the wagon.

Then the crunch of the Reverend’s boots on dry earth as he approached the house. Lenora waited tensely. Two bats flew over the wagon, their jerky wing movements clearly identifiable against the backdrop of the dusky blue and purple sky.

“What is it, Thaddeus?” called Betsy from the wagon. Her tone, too, was taut with tension.

Lenora recognized the breath of alarm in Betsy’s voice. And when Reverend Thomas didn’t answer his wife, Lenora’s heart beat faster. She didn’t move and hardly breathed, trying to discern with anxious ears what was happening at her front door. Finally she heard the Reverend’s footfall as he returned to the women. His grim face appeared at the side of the wagon box.

“He’s not asleep, Mrs. Rose. He’s dead. Someone…” The Reverend swallowed and, grimacing, reached for his wife’s hand, “someone cut off his head.”

Plans changed. Reverend Thomas was so shaken by the grisly carnage and the evil message it conveyed, he wouldn’t think of leaving the women alone overnight.

Ulysses’ head was missing. His body lay, lifeless and grotesque, in a lurid splotch of tacky, partially dried blood. Hideous fingers of red-brown liquid ran down the sides of the porch, dripping into Lenora’s flower garden in a gruesome montage of the pure and the vile. Bluebottle flies flit about the carcass, their glistening metallic abdomens and brilliant red eyes creating an unearthly contrast to the drying brownish blood and matted hair of the victim, laying their eggs in utter oblivion of the ghastly events that preceded their call to dine.

An angry thwack of an axe—the bloody murder weapon had been flung into the garden—had killed the animal. This single brutal act should
have been adequate to satisfy the most insatiable bloodlust. But who could explain the scorching hatred evidenced in the macabre detail that Reverend Thomas refused to speak of?

Ulysses’ paws had been hacked off as well.

#

No one slept deeply that night. Betsy shared the one bed with Lenora. Reverend Thomas made what sleeping arrangements he could, tossing and turning uncomfortably on old quilts spread on the floor of
the front room. Before he turned in he carried Lenora into the house, cleaned up the front porch with rags and water, dug a shallow grave for the remains, and told himself he would search for the missing body parts in the morning, lest Mrs. Rose find them by chance as she walked about her property after she convalesced. Likely scavengers would finish them off before she stumbled on them, but the Reverend was taking no chances. Mrs. Rose had been traumatized enough in the last few months.

Next morning, like a malevolent specter that refuses to vacate its haunt, a sense of the killer’s presence clung to the rooms of the ranch house, greeting Lenora with her first conscious thought of the new day. Someone had snuck onto her property while she was in town. Someone had performed a bloody, evil act upon her innocent pet.

Why? Was it an act of vindication against her? Against James? Certainly not against Ulysses. He was chained most days. What possible harm could he have caused another rancher’s herd or flock? And why kill him in such a gruesome way? What kind of person would do such a despicable thing? What did it mean? Hatred? Anger? Resentment? Jealousy? Someone, Lenora thought with horror, had actually been pleased to inflict a violent, bloody death upon a guileless animal, knowing that Lenora would return home to find the aftermath. It was all so intentional, so calculated, so designed to shock and upset.

If that is what the killer had intended, he had been eminently successful. The weight of the bloody, evil deed pressed heavy on her chest, her mind absorbed with the significance of it. She wondered as she lay there—growing uncomfortably warm under the heavy cotton quilt while hazy streams of light shone through her bedroom window indicating it was past morning chore time—if she would ever feel peaceful and safe again while alone on her ranch.

“Lenora,” said Betsy, opening the bedroom door tentatively to see if the invalid was still sleeping, “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” said Lenora brightly. It was way past her usual rising time. She was wide awake.

“I thought you’d be coming around by now. Your breakfast is ready,” she said, her head peering around the edge of the door.

“Come in, Betsy,” said Lenora, pushing aside disturbing images of her decapitated dog and the evil thwacks that had severed his head so violently.

“We thought it best to let you sleep in,” said Betsy. She walked toward the bed with a plate of biscuits and jelly in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. A plain linen napkin lay across her arm. Steam rose deliciously from the heavy cream-colored mug. “It seemed the best plan under the circumstances.”

Lenora knew intuitively that her pastor’s wife wasn’t speaking about her delicate condition, but rather the bloody scene that had shocked them all when they arrived at the ranch early yesterday evening. Betsy’s face was somber, her normally jovial aspect subdued by the gravity of the find. She too must feel the presence of the specter. She spoke in hushed tones, as if she were afraid the unseen visitor was still around and might hear.

“Thank you,” said Lenora, pushing herself into a sitting position. She smoothed her hair. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen by anyone first thing in the morning, other than James, without first performing an elaborate toilette.

“Here,” said Betsy, leaning over to put the biscuits and coffee down, “I’ll leave these on the nightstand. I’ve already put some warm water in the pitcher,” she motioned toward the wash stand at the far end of the room, “for you to clean up.”

“Thank you.”

“And remember what Dr. Biggerstaff said about staying off your feet,” she said, pointing to the bordeloue next to Lenora’s bed, “no privy.” She moved toward the door. “I’ll leave you for a few minutes so you can freshen up, then I’ll come back and we can chat while you eat your breakfast.”

“Good idea,” said Lenora, pulling back the too-warm bedclothes and swinging her bare feet over to the edge of the bed. “Just give me five minutes.”

Lenora took care of her necess
ities, enjoying the freshness the wash water rendered to her face. But she was distressed at the thought that she was too frail to walk to the privy behind the house. Even that small privilege had been stripped from her. Well the antidote to that was easy enough. She must get back on her feet as soon as possible. But Dr. Biggerstaff had said she must stay in bed at least a week. She sighed as she climbed back into bed, wondering where she would find the strength to make herself stay there seven days or longer. There was so much to do and so much happening. Besides, other than being tired more than usual, she felt fine, despite the physical evidence to the contrary. The good doctor might as well have sentenced her to seven years.

A soft knock at the door.

“Come in, Betsy.”

Betsy sat down gently on the side of the bed.

“Where’s your plate?” said Lenora, reaching for hers.

“The Reverend and I already ate.” Betsy folded her hands on the lap of her gray dress, the same frock she had worn from town the day before. She sat silent and stiff, observing Lenora as if she had something heavy on her mind.

“My chokecherry jelly must have not set well on your stomach,” Lenora said, wryly. “Tastes pretty good to me, though.” She smeared a red blob of jelly onto the remaining half of one biscuit.

“Your jelly is delicious. Better than mine.”

“Etta Nolan taught me to how to make it. But you didn’t come in here to talk about my jelly,” said Lenora, noting Betsy’s somber demeanor. “Is something wrong?” Her mind flitted to James’ Brahman steers and the other stock in the barn.
Oh no!
Surely not
—

“No, nothing,” said Betsy, somewhat hastily. “All your Brahmans are just fine. Chickens too.”

Lenora sighed gustily.

“Everything on your property is just fine. Reverend Thomas made a thorough inspection before breakfast.”

Betsy kept silent, however, about what he had found that wasn’t fine as he walked abroad the ranch. Two of Ulysses’ paws had been flung willy-nilly into high grass behind the barn. The other two paws and the animal’s head remained missing. Likely they would be found, he had said, after the vultures started circling.

Lenora’s heart dropped back into its place in her chest. For now, all was well. All she had to deal
with was the murder of her dog, which, compared to the potential loss of James’ beloved herd and all the farm stock, seemed comparatively manageable, though acutely painful. Truly, each day had enough trouble of its own.

“You’re obviously disturbed, Betsy. What is it then?” Lenora placed her empty plate onto the nightstand, picked up her coffee cup, and took a sip, waiting.

“Reverend Thomas and I have been talking. We think you should move into town.”

Lenora pursed her lips into a thin line. She had an idea this was coming. She set her coffee cup down on the nightstand and intertwined her fingers over the quilt.

“I appreciate your concern, Betsy, but I won’t abandon my ranch. I owe it to James to keep on keeping on until he comes home or until ...” Until when? She didn’t know. She wouldn’t allow herself to think that far into the future. It seemed unfaithful on her part to plan a future without him.

“You wouldn’t be abandoning the ranch, Lenora. It would just be for a season.”

“I’m going to have a baby, Betsy. I have to preserve this ranch for him. For her.”

“All the more reason to move to town. It’s safer there. For you and the baby.” Betsy’s tone was turning to pleading.

Lenora reached out her hand and placed it over her friend’s. “The ranch is perfectly safe, Betsy. I have James’ rifle. Ben Slocomb comes every afternoon. Soon Sam Wright will come in the mornings. It’s not like I’m alone. And,” Lenora took a breath to steady herself, “I’ll get another dog.” Her chin quavered. She never would have thought she would grieve so over Ulysses. Stinging tears formed her eyes. She wiped them with the sleeve of her nightgown.

“Something’s not right,” said Betsy, trembling. “I feel it,” she tapped on her chest over her heart. “This is not the end of it,” she said, shaking her head.

“It?” Lenora knew what “it” meant. But she wondered why the pastor’s wife seemed so very upset, so convinced of impending doom. Tears ran unchecked down the dear woman’s face. “Please don’t cry,” said Lenora, “I’ll be fine out here.”

“Oh Lenora,” said Betsy. She grasped Lenora’s hand in both of hers, squeezed her eyes shut tight, and took a large, noisy breath. “You know so little, out here by yourself all the time. You don’t hear.”

“Hear what?” Lenora was truly confused.

“Talk.”

“Oh, that,” said Lenora, off-handedly. “I’m not worried about that.”

Suddenly Betsy grabbed both of Lenora’s wrists and held them, almost vice like, against the bed covers. Lenora had never seen such a serious look on her face.

“Lenora, listen to me,” said Betsy. “I don’t cotton to gossip mongering, and I do everything I can to not be the vessel that pours it out all over town. But you need to know what’s happening, because mark my words, it will affect you—your baby too—and not for any good, either.”