The Salem Witch Society (8 page)

On closer inspection Lean noticed that a superb juggler in full warrior regalia, handling four razor-sharp tomahawks, turned out to be a white man. The fact did little to dampen his appreciation of the man’s skill. He moved on, passing booths where vendors hawked Indian oils, ointments, and syrups. The big seller was the Sagamo Indian Elixir. As Lean approached a raised platform near the entrance to the grounds, he recognized the old Indian he’d seen on the flyer earlier. The man, announced as Chief White Eagle, praised the elixir as a great pain reliever that remedied everything from cold stomach to jaundice, dropsy, and stranguary.

As Lean approached, he
caught sight of Grey staring straight back at him. Grey, dressed in a charcoal frock coat with dark striped pants and holding a fancy steel-gripped walking stick, wandered over as the Indian began his pitch.

“Finally, Lean. Why on earth didn’t you just take the earlier train?”

“Enjoying yourself, then?”

“Not at all. A horribly disappointing display. Half the performers are not even Indians. And I can promise you that if any Mohegan Indians were still alive and here today, they wouldn’t be dressed in these costumes, which have no business anywhere east of the Mississippi.” Grey waved in the direction of a passing performer wearing a full headdress with strands of feathers at the back running all the way to his knees. “It’s a complete fraud and mockery of actual Algonquian Indian culture.”

“It’s just a show, Grey.”

“So was throwing Christians to the lions.” Grey gestured toward the nearby medicine display. “It’s not wholly a loss. Old Chief White Eagle is, despite his name, an authentic and very knowledgeable individual.”

“Knowledgeable about what? Why are you here, Grey?”

“The same reason as you, I suspect.”

“I’m investigating you.”

“I stand corrected.” He gave Lean a bemused look. “I’m attempting to solve Maggie Keene’s murder.”

“I need to know what you’re hiding from me. Why come all the way here? You could have visited any tobacconist in Portland to learn about the cigarettes you pocketed. It’s Indian tobacco. Grows wild.”

“The scientific name is lobelia. I brought a sample. Unfortunately, the chief could tell me nothing specific about the blend our killer used.”

“What, then? Do you suspect that someone from the show is the killer?”

Grey shook his
head. “It was a slim possibility. But all the performers and workers arrived here from New Hampshire only two days ago. Our killer spent a week studying the Portland Company and the watchman. Everyone here was in Portsmouth each night last week, Concord the week before that.”

Lean regarded him for a long moment. “You’ve never thought the killer’s an Indian at all, have you? Convince me of the same. Otherwise … well, the mayor wants you off this investigation.”

“I see. I have Indian blood, and you’re convinced the killer is an Indian. I can’t be trusted.”

Lean shrugged. “Who else would leave an Indian message? Why can’t you admit the obvious?”

“The evidence hasn’t yet proved the race of the killer,” Grey said.

“It’s good enough for me.”

“It appears you’re not alone.”

There was an angry shout behind Lean, followed by a murmur of panicked excitement that boiled up into a frenzy in mere seconds. When he turned, Lean recognized the group of two dozen men he’d seen near the train depot approaching in a mob, several carrying clubs. One of the men swung his stick as he passed a booth, toppling the wooden support and sending the overhead sign crashing down. A middle-aged man stepped forward from the crowd of peaceful patrons. “Enough of that now! This is a family event. There are women and children about!”

His objection earned the man a violent shove, and he went sprawling down into the dirt. Other visitors began scurrying out of the way, and parents herded their children off in the direction of the train.

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 fortuneteller, 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.”