Read Online Haxan by Kenneth Mark Hoover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Mark Hoover
Ads: Link
them when you have time?”
“Deputy? You have been busy, Marshal.”
“Man goes by the name of Jake Strop. He’s not a genius, but he’s honest.”
“That would be a most welcome trait in Haxan. All right, but I’ve been up all night, no thanks to you. Tell your deputy put the bodies in the dead house. I’ll cut them up when I can.”
“Fair enough.”
I took Magra’s hand and led her aside. “How are you feeling? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m sorry,” she began in a fluster, “I didn’t want them to harm that boy, so I surrendered Papa’s shotgun. I know I shouldn’t have. I heard shots and there was a lot of pushing and shoving and then Piebald threw that rock. When I had the chance I kicked where Mother told me to kick a man before they could bundle me into that wagon.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“They wore bandanas.”
I slapped my hat against my leg in frustration. “That figures.” It would help if I could pin Connie Rand’s description to the bunch that tried to kidnap her. That would be enough to get a dodger out on Rand.
“Did you ride out to Papa’s shack?” she asked.
“They burned it all down, Magra. I’m sorry. Killed the hog and trampled the crop. There’s nothing left but ashes.” Her face was stricken. “You can always rebuild.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”
“Neither do I.” This whole mystery made very little sense to me as well. People didn’t go around causing this kind of death and destruction because they believed a man and his daughter were witches. This was the nineteenth century. Haxan was nothing more than a cattle town in the Territory of New Mexico. It wasn’t Salem, Massachusetts, and it wasn’t 1692.
There was a deeper hate at work here. A calculating male-volence.
There was nothing supernatural at the core of this problem, that much I knew. Whoever was behind this was all too human. That made him even more dangerous.
The worst kinds of monsters are
always
human.
“John, I want to see Papa’s grave before I return to the reservation.”
“Not by yourself, you’re not.”
“Then you will have to come with me. But I am going.”
She was a stubborn woman. “Let’s check on Piebald and have breakfast first. We’ll rent you a horse down at Patch Wallet’s stable.”
“I can’t afford any horse.”
“I’ll loan you the money.”
“No, John.” She put her hand on my arm. “You’ve done enough. Anyway, you need sleep. You’re dead on your feet. You can hardly keep your eyes open. We’ll ride out together on your horse. I like him. Does he have a name?”
People in the west didn’t always name their animals, especially their horses. That was the stuff of dime novels.
“I’ll tell you about it someday,” I said. “Come on, I’m too tired to argue.”
At breakfast Magra ordered buckwheat cakes and sorghum. After filling myself with side meat, peppers fried in oil, corn tortillas, and black coffee, I collapsed in bed for five solid hours. When I awoke I felt most human, except for a headache stabbing like a white-hot poker behind my right eye.
I sought out Magra and we rode for the hackberry tree. She rested her chin on my shoulder. At one point she asked me to stop so she could pick purple sage and Indian paintbrushes for her father’s grave.
The blistering sun was high overhead by the time we reached the tree. Magra slipped off my saddle and knelt beside her father’s grave. She laid the flowers down while I stood with my hat in my hands. She lifted her palms and sang something in Navajo. It was a soul-shattering wail that filled the desert and open sky.
When she finished the death song she put her ear to the ground. When she stood she brushed herself off and turned around so I couldn’t read her troubled face.
I watched her slender back, not saying a word. I figured she needed time alone. She didn’t make a sound as she wrestled with her grief. She stared
“Deputy? You have been busy, Marshal.”
“Man goes by the name of Jake Strop. He’s not a genius, but he’s honest.”
“That would be a most welcome trait in Haxan. All right, but I’ve been up all night, no thanks to you. Tell your deputy put the bodies in the dead house. I’ll cut them up when I can.”
“Fair enough.”
I took Magra’s hand and led her aside. “How are you feeling? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m sorry,” she began in a fluster, “I didn’t want them to harm that boy, so I surrendered Papa’s shotgun. I know I shouldn’t have. I heard shots and there was a lot of pushing and shoving and then Piebald threw that rock. When I had the chance I kicked where Mother told me to kick a man before they could bundle me into that wagon.”
“Did you see their faces?”
“They wore bandanas.”
I slapped my hat against my leg in frustration. “That figures.” It would help if I could pin Connie Rand’s description to the bunch that tried to kidnap her. That would be enough to get a dodger out on Rand.
“Did you ride out to Papa’s shack?” she asked.
“They burned it all down, Magra. I’m sorry. Killed the hog and trampled the crop. There’s nothing left but ashes.” Her face was stricken. “You can always rebuild.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t understand why this is happening.”
“Neither do I.” This whole mystery made very little sense to me as well. People didn’t go around causing this kind of death and destruction because they believed a man and his daughter were witches. This was the nineteenth century. Haxan was nothing more than a cattle town in the Territory of New Mexico. It wasn’t Salem, Massachusetts, and it wasn’t 1692.
There was a deeper hate at work here. A calculating male-volence.
There was nothing supernatural at the core of this problem, that much I knew. Whoever was behind this was all too human. That made him even more dangerous.
The worst kinds of monsters are
always
human.
“John, I want to see Papa’s grave before I return to the reservation.”
“Not by yourself, you’re not.”
“Then you will have to come with me. But I am going.”
She was a stubborn woman. “Let’s check on Piebald and have breakfast first. We’ll rent you a horse down at Patch Wallet’s stable.”
“I can’t afford any horse.”
“I’ll loan you the money.”
“No, John.” She put her hand on my arm. “You’ve done enough. Anyway, you need sleep. You’re dead on your feet. You can hardly keep your eyes open. We’ll ride out together on your horse. I like him. Does he have a name?”
People in the west didn’t always name their animals, especially their horses. That was the stuff of dime novels.
“I’ll tell you about it someday,” I said. “Come on, I’m too tired to argue.”
At breakfast Magra ordered buckwheat cakes and sorghum. After filling myself with side meat, peppers fried in oil, corn tortillas, and black coffee, I collapsed in bed for five solid hours. When I awoke I felt most human, except for a headache stabbing like a white-hot poker behind my right eye.
I sought out Magra and we rode for the hackberry tree. She rested her chin on my shoulder. At one point she asked me to stop so she could pick purple sage and Indian paintbrushes for her father’s grave.
The blistering sun was high overhead by the time we reached the tree. Magra slipped off my saddle and knelt beside her father’s grave. She laid the flowers down while I stood with my hat in my hands. She lifted her palms and sang something in Navajo. It was a soul-shattering wail that filled the desert and open sky.
When she finished the death song she put her ear to the ground. When she stood she brushed herself off and turned around so I couldn’t read her troubled face.
I watched her slender back, not saying a word. I figured she needed time alone. She didn’t make a sound as she wrestled with her grief. She stared
Similar Books
