The Truth of All Things (9 page)

Lean glanced about, getting his bearings and assessing his options. “They’ve swallowed their fill of liquid courage. There’ll be no reasoning with that lot.”

“So how do you intend to handle them?”

“Same as a wild dog. Smack ’em hard in the snout—set ’em running before they know what to make of you.” Lean drew his pistol.

“W
hat’s all this, then?” The show boss, a portly white man in a top hat, chomping away at a cigar, appeared next to Chief White Eagle. A look of alarm passed over his face as he took stock of the mob.

Lean identified himself, pistol in hand.

“That won’t be necessary, Deputy. I know how to handle these people.”

Grey approached. “Which of your products has the highest portion of alcohol?”

“What, now? As the sign says, my good man, all of our products are strictly wholesome vegetable products. Not a drop of alcohol in the lot.”

“Your show and your people are about to be in serious trouble. I need something flammable.”

The boss smiled and shook his head. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Your concern is appreciated, but I have customers to attend to.” The boss grabbed an empty crate and overturned it to use as a speaking platform.

Grey turned away to inspect the various bottles. Chief White Eagle reached into a box and drew out two bottles of the Sagamo Elixir. “This’ll burn plenty.”

Grey thanked the old man, then held out a hand toward Lean. “Lend me your matches. Hold them off for a couple of minutes—I’ll send up an alarm.”

Lean handed over his matches, and Grey hurried from the scene. The mob had paused its forward motion to watch the show boss. From an inside pocket, the man drew a short white baton, which he waved about as he prepared to address the crowd.

Voices called out from the mob: “Go back where you came from!” “Take your bloody savages with you!” “They ain’t welcome here!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” the boss cried. “How good of you to come. You’re just in time. Tonight is the—”

A beer bottle flew from the crowd, striking the show boss in the chest. The man went down in a heap. Lean fired one shot into the air, which brought a sudden silence to the rumble of the mob.

“Deputy Marshal Lean of the Portland police. I order you to disperse immediately!”

“One of these Indians killed that girl, and he’s going to swing for it!” yelled one man.

“Turn him over and no one else will get hurt!” shouted another.

“No one’s turning anyone over. Now, I’m warning you—this is a criminal assembly. Anyone failing to disperse will be arrested.”

A man who seemed to be a leader of the mob stepped up to Lean and announced, “This ain’t Portland. You’re out of your territory.”

Lean extended his arm, pressing the pistol against the man’s forehead. He waited a moment, the entire mob and dozens of onlookers all staring at him. Then he released the hammer on his pistol and drew it back slowly from the man’s forehead.

A nervous smile appeared on the man’s face. “Now, step aside and let us do what’s right.”

A sudden rage welled in Lean’s gut and rushed up past his chest. His hand flashed forward and rammed the butt of the pistol into the man’s forehead, splitting open a thin, bloody seam. The man buckled and went down. Two other fellows came forth with violence still on their faces, but they only moved to help their comrade off the ground. Lean sensed the steam going out of the mob. Once again he ordered them to disperse and then made the mistake of holstering his pistol.

With a rumbling growl, a young man from the mob came hurtling forward, arms wheeling. A well-timed left to the man’s face dropped him at Lean’s feet. Two more men rushed him, and Lean tried to square his feet, but the young man on the ground had clasped on to his leg. Lean threw an off-balance punch as the first reached him, then went down as the second assailant tackled him.

Grey had dashed away, circling around the developing mob scene. He rushed along the sand dunes, his steel-handled walking stick in one hand while his other rested on the bottles in his coat pocket. Grey moved toward the three long wagons where the mob had congregated earlier. He set his walking stick against the shortest wagon in order to free the draft horses and tether them to a nearby tree. In the back were several empty wood casks that the men had used as seats. Grey smashed one of these into kindling on the ground, then doused it with Sagamo Elixir. He broke off a match, struck it, and dropped it onto the wood. Once it lit, he snatched up a thin burning board and turned toward the wagon. He splashed the wooden frame with just enough to cause alarm to the owners, without actually damaging the structure. The point was to startle the mob, not actually cut off their escape. He lit the wagon, and a thin streak of blue-tinged flames spread along the edge.

“What the hell you think you’re doing?”

A hand gripped Grey by the shoulder and spun him around. A thickset ogre of a man, well over six feet, with raging, whiskey-soaked eyes, took a wild swing. Grey ducked out of the way as he dropped the fiery brand and the bottle. He seized his walking stick and delivered an over-the-head strike. The man blocked it with a treelike forearm, snapping the stick in half.

The man shook off the blow and threw a roundhouse that connected with Grey’s ribs, wobbling him. Before Grey could react, the man grabbed him and slammed him to the ground next to the burning wagon. Grey caught sight of the Sagamo Elixir. He crawled under the wagon, snatching the bottle as he went. The man grasped Grey’s left ankle and pulled. Grey tipped the bottle and filled his mouth with what tasted like turpentine spiked with sugar. As the man dragged him from under the wagon, Grey reached for the burning board he had used to light the wagon.

The man hauled Grey to his feet, then drew back a massive fist to finish him off. Grey, still holding the noxious liquid in his mouth, stuck the burning brand directly between their faces and sprayed the Sagamo Elixir. The man fell to the ground, screaming as he slapped at burning
bits of hair. Grey seized another small cask from the wagon and smashed it down on the man’s crown.

He hauled the unconscious body a safe distance from the wagons, then tossed the cask onto the fire and watched the smoke drift skyward. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Fire! Fire! The wagons are on fire!” He repeated this twice more, collected his broken walking stick, and disappeared into the trees.

A
n hour after the confrontation with the mob, Lean sat in a midsize tent with his ankle wrapped in a cool compress. Grey’s fire had startled the mob into thinking their means of escape had been sabotaged. The spirit of the attack had been broken, and the men had fled into the night. The whole affair ended quickly, keeping major injuries to a minimum on both sides. Lean suffered a twisted ankle in the melee and also came away with bruised knuckles. Now he and Grey were inside a makeshift museum of Indian artifacts that served as a bunkhouse for the performers after the shows. Chief White Eagle was present, as well as several Abenaki men of various ages who were around a table, smoking and playing cards. The kind-faced fortune-teller, Sister Neptune, was tending to Lean after taking care of some other cuts and bruises. Also present was the attractive Indian sharpshooter, who, Lean observed, was taking a keen interest in Grey’s minor scrapes.

The fortune-teller handed Lean a clay mug. “Drink this. It will help keep the swelling down.”

“Thank you, Sister Nep—”

“Agnes. Just call me Agnes. Least I can do for your help out there. That could have been a load of trouble.”

Lean took a sip and nearly spit it out. “My God! Tastes like cat piss.”

“Well, when you move about the way we have to, you learn to make
do with what’s at hand.” Agnes smiled at Lean’s incredulous look. “Don’t worry, it’s a simple herb-and-bark tea.”

Lean forced down a second sip, then handed the mug back. He stood up and limped over to Grey. “We should be going.”

Grey glanced at his pocketwatch. “I doubt the train will be coming back after all this. And the road to Old Orchard won’t be safe for us to walk tonight. Besides, you’re in no condition to be moving about on that ankle.”

“I told my wife I’d be home,” Lean said.

“Listen to your friend,” said Agnes. “After all, a husband who’s late is better than one with a cracked skull.”

“We’ll bunk here on spare cots. Your wife will understand,” Grey said.

One of the card players passed a bottle to Lean. “If you’re staying, you might as well have something real to take care of the pain.”

Lean took a swig and felt the harsh warmth rush down into his chest. He handed the bottle to Grey, who passed it along without drinking.

Chief White Eagle spoke in a quiet voice. “I don’t know any called Grey. What was your father’s name?”

“He went by Poulin. Joseph Poulin.”

The chief nodded in recognition. Lean was not surprised by the name, being familiar with the practice of Indians in Maine to assume names showing a French-Canadian influence.

“I knew him,” said one of the other men at the card table. He paused and peered at Grey. “I remember you now too. Wouldn’t have known you if you hadn’t said the name, but now I see it plain enough. Scrawny kid, you were.” The man stubbed out his cigarette. “I was there the day they found your father. When they pulled him out of the water below the falls. He was a good man, though I suppose you know that well enough.”

“Thank you. I don’t actually recall. Awfully long time ago.”

Lean stared at Grey, astonished to hear that his father had drowned when Grey was just a boy. Even more surprising was that Grey hadn’t
so much as blinked at the mention of such a tragic event from his childhood.

“Let us not dwell on the troubles of yesterday.” The chief moved toward the smoking circle around the card table. He motioned Grey and Lean to join them.

“Yeah. Not when there’s today’s troubles to worry about,” said the man who had spoken of Grey’s father.

Lean shook his head. “I expected a few minor incidents after news spread of the killing in Portland. But nothing so big, not such a mob over a prostitute’s death.”

“She was still white, and we’re still not,” said one of the Abenaki men.

“Men’s passions are like a massive boulder perched on a mountainside,” said Chief White Eagle. “In a civilized society, they seem held in place, solid among the rocks. But things have a natural inclination to return to the lowest point. A man’s basest instincts are no exception. Often only the smallest push can set them in motion. And old hatreds are as steep as any slope I have ever seen.”

“Welcome to the reservation, Deputy,” said the other man as he raised his glass and let out a sorry laugh. “Sorry to tell you, but it sits square at the bottom of a great, wide mountain.”

More drinks were poured, and a long-stemmed pipe was passed around. It took Lean a moment to get a proper handle on the bowl. He wasn’t used to pipes in general and had never smoked one of this length and shape. Lean’s new friends all had a good chuckle over his struggle. When it came to Grey, he examined the pipe in his own grip, took a small puff, then passed it on.