Winding Stair (9781101559239) (9 page)

“I never heard about it.”

“It wasn't so bad, according to Mother. There was a lot of noise, and some bullets hit the house. But after the armies had gone, then the bad times started.”

“What kind of bad times, Eben?”

“Partisan bands started raiding through that hill country. They claimed to be fighting for one side or the other, but actually they were out for loot and plunder.”

“Plunder?”

“Anything they could lay hands on. Livestock especially. Mother said they were always after food. They'd even scrape the salt from the smokehouse floors where it had dripped off the meat.”

“And your folks were alone through all that?”

“Actually, not quite. For almost a year after the battle they were nursing a wounded Union soldier they'd found on Pea Ridge. When he left, he took my mother with him. That was my father.” And I recounted how the wounded Union soldier had eventually married the young girl who had helped nurse him back to health. They had gone off to Missouri, where a few years later I was born to them and given my father's name, Eben Pay.

“I like that story, Eben,” Jennie said. “And now your mama's people are still in the Ozarks.”

“Yes. A few, I suppose. The war broke up the family. But there are some here. Father took us back only once, when I was very young. All I can recall of it is an old lady who kept wanting to kiss me because she said I looked like some relative in Georgia. She had white whiskers on her chin that scratched me.”

Jennie laughed. She suddenly took one of my hands and placed it against her cheek.

“See, Eben, I've got white whiskers, too.”

Her skin was warm under my fingers, with a hint of dampness from the heat. At that moment Zelda Mores called down the slope that it was time to go, and, laughing, Jennie jumped up and ran back toward the courthouse compound. As Jennie went past her, the old mustached bitch fell in behind her like an escort of cavalry.

Even so, it had been a good day. Sometimes Jennie's mood would change abruptly, suddenly and darkly, and she would stop laughing and talking. I had no idea why. Only once in that time did she mention anything remotely to do with the murders at the Thrasher farm. We were walking across the courthouse compound, she close against my side, when she spoke.

“Eben, you know my papa always said things look worse than they really are. Maybe that's how this all is, too.”

I recalled in one of my literature courses at Illinois, someone had said—a great philosopher he was—that there was no crime he could think of that he was not himself capable of committing. That thought and what Jennie said troubled me very much.

By the end of the two weeks, the Winding Stair case had faded. My father had always said that if a criminal is not caught within a few hours of the commission of the crime, he likely will never be caught at all. I had begun to think the murders and rape in the Choctaw Nation would simply slip into the archives of the court as an unsolved atrocity. But then Oscar Schiller returned, and once more the excitement came and the eager anticipation of being back on the trail, as though I really were one of Parker's men.

H
enryetta's Frisco Hotel and Billiard Parlor was almost deserted that Wednesday afternoon, June 25, 1890. I sat in the big downstairs barroom reading the Fort Smith newspapers, waiting for Oscar Schiller. Not having heard from him since he rode off into the rain from the Thrasher farm, I had received a note to join him in the infamous railyard brothel. It had to do with the Winding Stair Massacre, as all the newspapers were calling it.

For some time, the story of the Thrasher-John murders had been circulated in print. Bloody details were abundant, provided undoubtedly by some Choctaw policeman willing to talk with an enterprising reporter. But nothing had been written about Milk Eye Rufus Deer. The crimes were variously attributed to badmen and gangs who had been known to operate in The Nations.

I had obtained warrants from the United States commissioner in Fort Smith for the arrests of Deer and four John Does for the unidentified killers. The commissioner was a mousy little man named Mitchell, who held sway in a small office near the courthouse. Although he was not impressive in his person, his position was important. He was in fact a federal magistrate who tried misdemeanors, issued subpoenas and warrants, and held hearings on accused felons to determine if they should be held over for the grand jury. Without him, the volume of work in Parker's court would have been unbearable.

Oscar Schiller had never called for the warrants nor sent anyone for them. I had begun to wonder about this apparent lack of interest when I got his note, left on my desk in Evans's office by some unknown emissary.

“Mr. Pay,”
Schiller wrote.
“Meet me the afternoon of 25th instant at Henryetta's to interview informant on Thrasher-John. Schiller.”

Evans had studied the pencil scrawl and complained that he expected me to finish some of his case notes that day, but in the end allowed that I should meet the marshal.

“Schiller sometimes thinks he runs this goddamned court,” he said.

After my lunch with Jennie that day, I returned to my hotel room and got into my field gear because one never knew with Schiller where one might end up. I had bought the things Winding Stair had shown me to be useful. A slicker, cotton jacket and pants, a wide-brimmed hat to keep off sun and rain, and heeled boots. I found the boots difficult for a time and had been wearing them around the room at night, learning how to walk.

Evans had given me a letter identifying me as an investigator out of the prosecutor's office, and with this badge I finally decided to arm myself. I bought a small Smith & Wesson breakdown revolver chambered for .38 shots. One of the older deputy marshals who acted as court bailiff and was always around the courthouse suggested I drill holes in the ends of the slugs because, as he said, “Hollow points were very persuasive.” I ignored the advice and, in fact, hoped I would never have to use the nasty-looking thing.

Walking along Garrison with the pistol in a shoulder holster under my jacket, I had felt as conspicuous as a bald woman and was sure each passing pedestrian was aware that I carried a concealed weapon and would soon put the local police on me.

Henryetta's bar-parlor was like any upper-middle-class living room of that age. There was an abundance of overstuffed chairs covered in red velvet, highly polished cuspidors placed strategically about the room, peacock feathers sprouting from white enamel urns in each corner, and a number of bad oil paintings. Most of these showed naked women running about, pursued by hairy satyrs. The place smelled of perfume and talcum powder and on busy days of cigar smoke and tobacco juice, I supposed. But on this Wednesday afternoon, I was the only person in the place except Henryetta, her upstairs girls, and Big Rachael.

Henryetta was a large, overdressed woman with red paint smeared somewhat crookedly across her mouth. She had more gold teeth than the Frisco baggagemaster and her fingers were almost immobile with glassy rings. As I sat reading my paper, she watched me. When I looked toward her, she smiled, showing her dazzling but crooked teeth.

Big Rachael was cook and bouncer. He was larger even than Joe Mountain, with a small head attached to an enormous body with no visible neck. His arms were longer than those I had seen on apes in the Saint Louis Zoo. He was obviously a gentle soul, but his reputation for brute strength and loyalty to Henryetta was legend in Fort Smith, as was his German potato salad and fried pork steak.

Although I was of limited experience in such matters, it seemed to me that Henryetta's was a refined and well-operated whorehouse. I asked for lemonade laced with an ounce of gin and explained to Big Rachael and the madam that I was there to meet someone. I was left alone and none of the girls from upstairs came down to market their wares. After a second lemonade, Big Rachael acted as though I had always been there, and although even with the gin I did not feel exactly like a regular customer, the place was comfortable.