Zeke and Ned (40 page)

“I'm going home,” Linnie informed her brother and sister.

“Why, are you a sissy?” Minnie asked.

“No, but I didn't tell you to kill this bullfrog,” Linnie said.

Linnie was the fastidious triplet. She did not like offal or blood. She liked to invent stories about the Little People. It was said that Little People looked just like Cherokees—they even spoke Cherokee— except that they stood only one or two feet tall, roaming the woods and sometimes snatching children who wandered off where they did not belong. Minnie and Willie were afraid of the Little People, but Linnie was intrigued by them. Her father had told the triplets how they ought to keep an eye out for one another when they were off playing, because the Little People were known to take children who were not watchful, or who strayed too far from home. When her father was around, the two of them would carry a saucer of milk out every night and leave it near a toadstool, for the Little People to drink.

“Is a saucer enough?” Linnie asked Zeke once, as they were putting a saucer near a toadstool.

“It's enough,” her father assured her. “They're little people, Linnie. Why, some of 'em ain't no bigger than baby rabbits.”

Now, every time Linnie saw a baby cottontail, she thought of the Little People. She wished her father would come home, so they could put the milk out for them again. Her mother did not like her putting out the milk; she thought it was wasteful.

“The Lord will take care of the Little People, like he takes care of all of us,” her mother told her.

Linnie did not see what it hurt to put out a little milk, just in case the Lord got too busy and forgot about the Little People. But she did not argue with her mother. Her father would come home soon, she was certain, and they could put the milk out again, together. It was more fun to do when her father was home, because they could talk about the Little People, and how they lived. Her father said there used to be one in the barn—he claimed he could see it, now and then. Linnie looked and looked, but she never saw the one in the barn. In their talks, her father had often told her that the Little People were very shy. She was sure the one in the barn was just too shy to show itself to her. Sometimes, sitting in the barn, trying to be very quiet, Linnie would imagine that the one who lived there was nearby, just out of sight behind a pile of hay, peeking at her under a heap of harness.

Since her father had been gone, the fact that there was one of the Little People in the barn was a comfort to Linnie—knowing it was
there made her feel a little less lonesome. She did not know exactly what they ate, but she thought they might like watermelon. When the melons in the field began to be ripe, Linnie would sometimes sneak down to the barn and leave out little pieces of ripe red melon. The melon would always be gone the next day, or at least bits of it would have been nibbled away, which made Linnie all the more certain that one of the Little People lived in her barn.

The frog Minnie had killed was a shiny green. Minnie was jiggling it up and down, trying to make more guts come out of the frog's mouth. Willie was jealous that Minnie had killed the bullfrog. He ran back to the pond with his stick, hoping to find another frog to whack.

“Let's make a fire and cook this frog,” Minnie suggested. “Let's eat his toes.”

“No, his guts are coming out, I don't want to eat him,” Linnie said. “You should have let him be.”

Minnie, suddenly changing her mind, whirled the frog around her head and threw it out in the pond as far as she could throw it.

“I guess an old turtle will eat it,” she said, watching the dead frog float on top of the brown water. Patches of yellow pollen swirled around the frog, having fallen from the willow trees that hung over the edges of the pond. Several dragonflies were hovering over the pollen—to Linnie, the dragonflies looked a little like how she imagined fairies would look. She wondered if fairies could turn into dragonflies; it was one of the many questions she meant to ask her father as soon as he returned home.

It was while Linnie and Minnie were looking for plums, over by a little seeping spring where wild plum bushes grew, that Minnie spotted the dead skunk. She saw something black, over by a clump of rocks. At first, she thought it might just be a shadow. But when she looked again, she saw it was the remains of an animal with black fur.

“Look, Linnie. What's that?” Minnie inquired, moving close to her sister. Minnie had been bold when she smashed the bullfrog with the rock, but the sight of the black fur caused her to lose some of her boldness.

“I think it's something dead,” she said to Linnie.

“Maybe it's a skunk,” Linnie suggested. “Skunks are mostly black.”

When they crept closer, they saw that Linnie was right: it was a dead skunk. Its eyes were open, but it was dead. Green bottleflies swarmed all over a big hole where its belly had been. Something had
bitten off one of the skunk's legs, which lay a little distance from his body.

“What if a bear got him?” Minnie said. “Let's run!”

She was seized with such a fright that she could barely breathe, though she began to run as fast as she could toward their house. When Willie saw her running, he began to run, too, though he did not know why his sister was in such a hurry. From the look on her face, he thought she might have seen the bogeyman, a giant with hair all over him who lived in a cave and ate little children, if he could catch them. Sully Eagle had told them about the bogeyman. Willie himself did not want an old, hairy giant to catch him and eat him, so he ran as fast as he could. Neither he nor Minnie slowed down until they were at their house.

When they felt safe enough to stop, they looked back for their sister Linnie, and saw that she was still standing by the seeping spring.

“What if the bogeyman gets Linnie?” Willie wondered. “He'll take her to his cave, and eat her!”

It occurred to Minnie that if the bogeyman
did
eat Linnie, her ma would probably let her keep all of Linnie's things, including a rag doll that was better than Minnie's own rag doll.

“Go back and get her, Willie,” she suggested. “Hurry and get her before the bogeyman gets her.”

“I ain't going, he might get
me,
” Willie protested.

Privately, he thought that if Linnie was not smart enough to run, it would serve her right to be taken to a cave and eaten by the bogeyman.

“No, he won't, he only eats little girls—Sully said so,” Minnie lied. The fact was, Willie had a slingshot and a stick horse she wanted—if the bogeyman ate Linnie and Willie, she might get the stick horse
and
the slingshot
and
the rag doll.

“You go,” Willie ordered.

Minnie just ignored him. She crawled under the porch to a secret hideout she had made for herself. From her hideout, she could watch everything that was happening in the meadow and by the barn.

Willie ran inside the house. The more he thought about the big, hairy bogeyman, the closer he wanted to be to his ma.

From her hideout, Minnie watched, hoping to see the giant bogeyman run out and grab Linnie, who was poking at the skunk's remains with a stick.

Minnie could not figure out why her sister would want to take a stick and poke at a dead skunk with it, particularly a dead skunk that was covered with green blowflies.

Then, to her disappointment, she saw Linnie walking slowly back toward the house. Minnie waited breathlessly, hoping at any moment to see the big, hairy bogeyman run up and grab her sister. But alas, no bogeyman appeared.

When Linnie was nearly to the barn, Minnie suddenly scrambled out of her hideout and raced into the house. She meant to get Linnie's good rag doll and hide it in the smoke-house. That way, even if the bogeyman did not get her sister, Minnie could keep the rag doll hidden for a few days and play with it herself.

J
UDGE
I
SAAC
P
ARKER DISLIKED VARYING HIS HABITS
. V
ARIATION WAS
unwelcome at any time of day, but particularly unwelcome in the morning, when his pleasure was to take a leisurely stroll by the river on his way to work. In sunlight or cloud, the river was always interesting. He had been born and raised on the Ohio, and since childhood had never liked to live far from moving water.

Once in his office, the Judge invariably took a small tumbler of whiskey, to limber his brain. Then he read a few lines of Milton, from a small volume of poetry he kept in a drawer with his six-shooter.

After his brain was thoroughly limbered, he would prop his feet up and look out the window for twenty minutes or so, surveying the broad street to see if there were any miscreants in sight that needed arresting.

The morning after the Judge returned to Fort Smith with Wilma Maples, he had scarcely got to his chambers, downed his whiskey, browsed through his Milton, and propped his feet, when disruption struck. The first thing he saw when he looked out the window was Emil, the telegraph operator, hurrying up the street at a speed he would have been hard put to match if a bear had been chasing him. In his hand was a telegram, and he was headed straight for the courthouse.

Old Emil had delivered many telegrams to the courthouse, but always at his own pace—a pace which meant that he was apt to take anywhere between two hours and a half day to make the delivery.

Now he was jerking along at a gait that resembled a trot, or else a man afflicted with St. Vitus's Dance.

“Uh-oh,” the Judge said to Chilly who had stepped in for a moment, to return a law book he had borrowed overnight.

“Why, it's Emil, what's his hurry?” Chilly asked.

“It's that business in Tahlequah,” the Judge said. “I expect the big court's heard about it . . . or maybe the President.”

“What big court?” Chilly asked. He had heard about Washington, D.C., but had only a vague notion of what went on there. He knew the President lived there, but could not recall the Judge ever mentioning a big court.

“The Supreme Court, Chilly!” the Judge said, impatient. “It's the highest court in the land.”

Though usually brisk in spirit, the Judge felt a sag hit him. It was depressing, in the first instance, to have a bailiff so inattentive that he had never heard of the Supreme Court. Second, it was even more depressing to see old Emil jigging along with a telegram clutched in his fist. A telegram so important that old Emil felt he had to deliver it at a trot was not likely to contain news that was peaceful. Judge Parker had endured much conflict in his life—the long agony of the Civil War, for one thing—and he was more and more appreciative of the peaceful life, a life that would allow him time to walk the shady banks of the Arkansas River, or even permit him a few minutes now and then to tip back his chair and sample the great poet Milton.

The telegram that was on its way to him would more than likely confirm that which he already knew: substantial force would have to be used against the man or men who killed Marshal Dan Maples. The federal government did not ignore the wanton killing of its marshals, nor should it. And if it was proven likely that the killer of Dan Maples was a Cherokee, then nation would be pitted against nation—the small nation of the Cherokee Indians versus the large nation whose judicial representative was Judge Isaac Parker.

“Reach out that window and have him hand you the telegram,” the Judge directed. “Emil don't need to climb them courthouse steps.”

Chilly complied, though to effect the transfer Emil had to strain to hand the telegram up high enough so that Chilly could reach it. Chilly immediately handed the telegram to the Judge, who saw that it was from none other than Ulysses S. Grant, the President of the United States.

“You ought to have looked at that telegram before you handed it over,” the Judge said.

“Why?” Chilly asked. “I figured you'd be in a hurry to read it, Judge.”

“It's from the President of the United States,” the Judge informed him. “It ain't every day you stick your hand out a window and come up with a telegram from the President of the United States.”

“My Lord,” Chilly blurted—for a moment, he felt so faint that he thought he might need to ask the Judge if he could sit down. He knew enough of politics to understand that General Grant had become President Grant, and as such was the highest officer in the land. That he had himself touched a piece of paper that contained the words of the President made him weak in the knees with awe.

“What does it say, Judge?” Chilly inquired.

The Judge looked at the telegram, which was succinct:

THE HONOURABLE ISAAC PARKER
FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
FORT SMITH, ARKANSAS

I HAVE REPORTS OF VIOLENCE IN THE CHEROKEE NATION. A COURT PROCEEDING WAS INTERRUPTED AND A FEDERAL MARSHAL MURDERED. THIS CANNOT BE TOLERATED. I INSTRUCT YOU TO SEND AN ADEQUATE FORCE INTO THE GOING SNAKE DISTRICT IMMEDIATELY TO ARREST ALL PARTICIPANTS IN THESE DASTARDLY DEEDS. I RECOMMEND TEN MARSHALS, WELL ARMED. SEE THAT THERE IS NO SHORTAGE OF HANG ROPES MADE AVAILABLE. THIS RASCALITY MUST BE DEALT WITH SHARPLY, ELSE IT WILL SPREAD. THE TREASURY WILL SEE ABOUT YOUR EXPENSES. YOURS,

ULYSSES S. GRANT, PRESIDENT
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The Judge reflected on the telegram before formulating an answer to his young bailiff. Though President Grant was known for his directness, he had not been overly direct about the aspect of the matter that
concerned Judge Parker the most: that is, his expenses. Ten marshals would cost the court a handsome sum, and a sum not immediately available. It was all very well for the President to say that the Treasury would “see” about his expenses—but when would they see, and how much would they allocate?

“I expect I'll have to deputize Tailcoat Jones,” the Judge said.

“Tailcoat Jones?” Chilly responded, in surprise. He had heard that Tailcoat Jones, a tall, grizzled fellow who had once ridden with Quantrill's marauders up in Kansas, had done a little marshaling. But Judge Parker had refrained from employing him, at least during Chilly's time with the court.