The Witchery Way Read online

  Josh sat in the diesel cab and stared out into the night. He smelled the pines, and as he felt the thumps of the tracks, he knew why his grandfather had fallen in love with the railroad. They were getting deeper into the foothills of the Kiamichi Mountains, and the diesel hummed with a throaty roar. They were in Pushmataha County now, nearing the Hickory Creek Junction.

  Josh wanted to control this train. He felt connected, like it was a link to his grandfather. "Mr. Buck?"

  "Call me Joe."

  Josh smiled. A small victory. "Joe?"

  "Yes?”

  "Can I take the controls, see what it feels like?"

  "We’ll see."

  Josh looked out into the night and thought about Trace Gottschalk. How could a man like that be the son of the Senoca County Sheriff? Josh remembered how the elder Gottschalk had fought his dad taking over the railroad. He had ranted at the town meeting, his potbelly hanging over his silver belt buckle, his carefully groomed snowy white hair gleaming.

  "Joe?”

  "Yeah?"

  "Tell me about the Gottschalks."

  Joe adjusted the throttle. He checked the dials, and their dim glow outlined his face. He leaned his elbow in the window, worked the wad of tobacco in his mouth, and squirted a stream of juice into the darkness. "Not much to say about the old man. Rich as sin. Owns a couple thousand acres of land, including all this." He waved out toward the darkness. "All the way north of Senoca over to the south tip of Hickory Creek Lake and back to Senoca Lake. People call it the Little Dixie Triangle."

  "The Little Dixie Triangle?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why do they call it that?"

  "‘Cause it’s kind of like that Bermuda Triangle."

  "How?”

  Joe was quiet for a few seconds. "People go into it ....and sometimes they don’t come out."

  "What people?"

  "Hunters. Hikers."

  "What happened to them?"

  "Nobody knows. They just disappeared. Five of them, over the last four years. Billy Ray always sent deputies in on horseback looking for them. The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation came down, too. Nobody found anything."

  Josh thought about that. He looked up at the quarter moon and white gauze clouds. The pine smell was stronger.

  "Joe, how come Billy Ray Gottschalk is rich as sin?"

  Joe shrugged. "Like I said, he owns all this land. Plus he owns property all over southeast Oklahoma: rent houses, farms, cattle, a creosote plant. He’s got part-interest in the Senoca State Bank. His wife, Naomi, is the Superintendent of Schools. Naomi’s a full-blood Cherokee. They own stuff all over Senoca.”

  Josh began to form a picture in his mind, but it was only half a picture. "What about Trace?"

  Joe took out his pouch of Red Man and pinched off a fresh chew, stuffing it in his mouth and doing his ritual. Then he spat another stream.

  Josh now knew the source of the brown streak outside the window of the cab. He waited.

  Joe said, "Trace runs Billy Ray’s businesses for him. He collects the rent, runs their ranch out there"—another gesture into the dark. "He manages the finances. There’s a lot of Gottschalk money in the Senoca State Bank. But there’s rumors they stashed more out of state—maybe even out of the country. People say Trace has been traveling overseas to Switzerland."

  They started up an incline, and Joe gave the diesel more throttle. The hills were steeper now as they got closer to the Kiamichi Mountains. "Trace took after Naomi. She’s white; he’s a half-breed, but Cherokee in his soul."

  Josh began to see the picture clearer; it formed in his gut as well as his mind. He said, "There’s something about Trace. His eyes have a...look."

  Joe was silent for a long time. His face took on a red hue in the glow from the dials. "Like an animal?"

  "Yes," Josh said. "Like an animal—a wolf. He’s got the eyes of a wolf."

  Joe said nothing. He pulled out his round watch and held it next to one of the dials, checking the time. Then he put the watch away, adjusted the throttle and tapped the dials. Outside, the night got darker as the moon slid behind clouds. The diesel rounded a curve. Joe turned and spoke. "You still want to take the controls?"

  "Yes.”

  "Come over here."

  Josh moved across the cab and sat in the engineer’s seat, warm from Joe’s body.

  Joe said, "This is the throttle. Push it forward a hair."

  Josh heard the difference in the engine’s sound, and he felt a slight jolt.

  "This is the brake. Don’t touch it. Just keep your eyes on the road." He sat in the left chair and watched Josh.

  Josh relished the feel of the train under his hands. He was in control at last, and he didn’t care that Joe watched every move. Josh could feel the ghost of his grandfather standing next to him. There was no firebox door to open to load coal, no boiler to stoke, but this was still a locomotive, and Josh was running it.

  Josh saw a deer stand frozen in the glare, its eyes red, before it broke away and disappeared into the trees. These woods were alive with wild things, he knew.

  They entered a curve, and he backed off throttle.

  He wondered why Joe had not answered about Trace having the eyes of a wolf. He started to ask, but something stopped him.

  Josh shouted, "There’s something up ahead!"

  "Hit the brake!"

  Josh pulled the lever and heard the screech of wheels against rails, felt and heard the cars slamming together behind them, like cannons. He pitched forward, butting his head against the side of the window. He watched as the engine bore down on a man lying on the tracks. The freight cars kept slamming forward into couplings, jolting him again and again. He saw a flash of red cloth, the gleam of a belt buckle; then the body disappeared under the front of the engine.

  Joe pulled him from the chair and took control of the brakes. The trailing cars continued to jolt the cab, and the grinding screech seemed to last an eternity. At last the train stopped with a cannonade of final jolts from the freight cars. Then they were surrounded by silence, broken only by the drone of the diesel.

  Joe set the brake, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed down from the cab. Josh followed him down.

  Joe kneeled and shined the light beneath the wheels. Then he shook his head. Josh moved closer, feeling outside himself, looking at a nightmare. Joe said, "Stay back."

  But Josh could not keep from kneeling beside Joe and looking beneath the wheels. He saw bones and blood, the remains of a face, a red kerchief tied around the forehead. Josh turned, fell to his hands and knees, and almost lost his supper.

  Joe patted him on the shoulder. "‘Wasn’t your fault. No way to stop." He paused and looked back into the light. "He may have been dead anyway."

  Josh looked up. "Do you know him?"

  "I saw enough of his face."

  "Who?"

  "An Indian hunting guide—took one drink too many."

  "What’s his name?"

  "Ish Maytubby."

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday morning at ten, Josh walked into the Senoca County Sheriff’s office. Ed Wade and Joe Buck were with him.

  The jail was in the back, and in Josh’s mind he could still smell ammonia, sweat, and cigarette smoke from the times his grandfather Frank had taken him here for "visits" when he had misbehaved as a child. Josh and Sammy Jack Pricer had been fighting on the roof of Frank Wade’s chicken coop. At the jail, Frank and the deputy had escorted Josh down the aisles between the cells. Behind those bars were the scariest men Josh had ever seen. Frank had threatened to have the jailer toss Josh in with them. After Josh had been scared into behaving, Frank had taken him around the corner to Mabel’s Bar. There, Frank had downed a long-necked beer while Josh ate a dill pickle from a half-gallon jar. Josh wished it could be that easy this time. Frank, the bar, and the pickles were all gone now. All that remained was the jail, and that would be there forever, Josh thought.

  Now he had to get through this meeting with Billy Ray Gottschalk;
then he could get on with his goal.

  Sheriff Gottschalk’s office was filled with clutter: maps, posters, football schedules of the Senoca Buffaloes; white Stetson hat on the window air conditioner; paper-strewn desk. The place smelled of leather, coffee, and gun oil. In one corner of the wall, Josh saw bullet holes, and the plaster was a different shade. Billy Ray was cleaning his .44 Magnum revolver.

  His hair was white, in contrast to dark skin. He had a white mustache that twitched when he was angry, and his hands were smooth. Here was a man who let others do the dirty work, Josh thought. Billy Ray wore a white, Western-cut shirt with silver wedges at the collar points. The wedges matched the silver of his badge and the chrome plating on his pistol. Josh wondered how a man so careful about his appearance could work in such clutter.

  Billy Ray took a long time with the weapon, polishing the barrel, spinning the cylinder, and then slamming it shut with a click. He placed the pistol in front of him on the desk. "I like things clean," he said. "That’s why I asked the three of you here this morning. To clean up a few questions I got in my mind. Understand me, Mr. Wade?"

  "I understand, Sheriff," Ed said.

  "Good. Now...." He turned and looked at Josh. "Young man, why were you at the controls when the diesel struck the body?”

  "I wanted to see what it was like."

  "See what it was like? To do what?"

  "Control all that power."

  “You like to control power?"

  Josh shook his head and held up his hands. "I’m not sure I know what you—"

  Joe Buck interrupted. "He was at the controls because I let him, Sheriff."

  "Why let a seventeen-year-old boy take the controls at night on his first run?"

  Joe stuck out his foot and drug over a waste can within range. He shot a brown stream of Red Man that hit with a splat. "That decision was mine to make. I made it. Wouldn’t have made any difference, anyway. We were traveling slow and rounding a curve. Even if I had been at the controls, the same thing would’ve happened. No train could have stopped, the way that body was laid, right after that curve."

  The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. "You saying that somebodylaid Ish Maytubby’s body on the track?"

  "Sheriff, it just seems a big coincidence that he was right there where we couldn’t see him. With all those miles of straight track around the Hickory Creek Junction, he’s there onthat curve."

  The Sheriff turned to Ed Wade. "You let kids take the controls on their first run?"

  Josh watched his father’s face harden. "I think you’re missing the point, Sheriff. Joe said the train would have struck the body no matter who was at the controls. I think there is a more important question."

  "What’s that?"

  "Why was the body there?"

  “That’s easy. Ish got drunk and passed out on the tracks."

  "Have you seen the Medical Examiner’s report from Dr. Brewer to confirm that?"

  The Sheriff nodded. "Sure. Alcohol content was well above normal. Ol’ Ish just picked the wrong spot to pass out."

  Ed paused. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the hum of the air conditioner in the window. Finally, Ed said, "The body was only discovered Saturday night. This is Monday morning. I’ve never known Doc Brewer to work that fast."

  The Sheriff shrugged. "I asked him to work yesterday...considering the circumstances of the case."

  Ed Wade said, "Let’s get to the point, Sheriff. I support Joe’s decision to let Josh take the controls for training. Josh comes from a long line of railroaders. I’m glad that he had the courage to try. Also, Ish would have been struck by the train no matter who was at the controls." He focused his eyes on the Sheriff. "Maybe there’s one other possibility you haven’t considered."

  "What possibility?"

  "Maybe someonekilled Ish and put his body on the tracks."

  The Sheriff’s mustache twitched. "We got no proof of that from the report."

  Josh raised his hand. "Can I say something."

  All eyes turned to him. Silence. He filled it with a question to the Sheriff. "As bad as the body was messed up, wouldn’t it be difficult to tell if someone had killed Ish?"

  Another mustache twitch. "Dr. Brewer has been Medical Examiner in Senoca County for 15 years. I reckon he can tell how someone died. Ish died because you ran over him."

  Ed Wade sat up straight in his seat. "I don’t like the way that sounded, Sheriff. That’s an opinion, and opinions don’t stand up in a court of law."

  The Sheriff looked at Josh through hooded eyes. "Sorry. Poor choice of words." He turned back to Ed Wade. "Here’s another thought, Mr. Wade. That route up to Wilburton isn’t well- traveled. Hasn’t been for years until you bought the line. That country is too sparse for a line. I own a ranch up there. In that neck of the woods, there just aren’t enough people around for a line. Less security, and all. Accidents are more likely to happen."

  "I’ve sure had enough of them happen to me."

  Josh felt the tension in the room.

  Sheriff Gottschalk said, "Just out of curiosity, you still planning that excursion over to Hickory Creek Park?"

  "Yes, Sheriff," Ed said.

  "Why would anyone want to pay money just to ride a train over to Hickory Creek?"

  Josh decided to speak up. "Lots of people have never been on a train, Sheriff. That’s beautiful country, as you know. You own plenty of it. People will drive down from Oklahoma City and Tulsa and up from Dallas to..." Josh paused, watching the sheriff pick up his pistol, which he had been loading with cartidges. "...to ride a train through that country. The Park Ranger up there, Wake McKenna, thinks it will really open up the park. Maybe lead to some new businesses in the area. God knows we need it. Might lead to some new jobs. Maybe even help to—"

  The pistol shot sounded like a cannon in the closed room. Josh felt plaster falling in his hair. His heart was racing. Ed and Joe stared with their mouths open, too stunned to move.

  Josh smelled the stench of cordite, and he turned and looked at another bullet hole in the wall.

  The door burst open, and a deputy jumped in, pistol raised.

  The sheriff waved him off. "Calm down, Zeke. Just getting their attention, that’s all. Run along."

  The deputy looked at each of them, his eyes wide, then the holstered his pistol and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  The sheriff’s eyes bore into Josh. "I don’t like a whelp answering questions meant for an adult. I meant to get your attention. Do I have it now?"

  Josh seethed, but he refused to be intimidated by this maniac. "You have my attention. But you do not have my respect, sir, and you won’t earn that by shooting holes in the wall."

  Gottschalk stared at him, but there was something new in his eyes—a grudging respect.

  The room felt charged, a powder keg waiting for an even bigger explosion. Josh saw Ed and Joe tense, ready for action.

  The Sheriff tilted back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his belly. His face looked placid, like nothing had happened. He hooded his eyes so low it looked like he was going to sleep.

  His mustache twitched. "That park ranger, McKenna. He’s one of them eternal optimists.”

  "And the world needs more of ‘em, Sheriff." Ed Wade seemed to be working on keeping his voice calm. "I’m going up there tomorrow to close the deal."

  "I’ll say it again, Wade. Don’t run that tour up there."

  Ed Wade stood up. "If there’s no more official business, Sheriff, we’ll be leaving.” He looked at Josh and Joe, and they stood up.

  The sheriff waited until they were almost out the door. "That area is prone to accidents.”

  Ed Wade seemed not to hear.

  * * *

  Josh dipped his brush into the can of gray primer, and started painting No. 88’s boiler. Joe was working on the other side of the locomotive.

  "Damn superheater!" Joe shouted. "There’s more scales on this than a gar fish from Muddy Boggy."

  It was thre
e-twenty that afternoon, and Josh was dripping sweat. The steel walls of the repair shop trapped the heat.

  "Joe, you think we’ll be ready to make steam in two weeks?"

  "How do I know?" He banged the wrench against metal. "Can I descale these superheaters? Can we true the crankpins? Will the dove chicks nesting in that drawbar move out so we can work on it?" Another loud clank. "Just keep painting and don’t bother me."

  Josh moved farther down the boiler. It was a cylinder about ten-feet long, mounted on two metal saw horses. Josh pictured the water building to steam, which would drive the side rods, which would turn the wheels. He imagined the whistle piercing the air, the fire roaring in the box, the smoke and cinders billowing out of the stack as they opened throttle and gained speed. They had much work ahead to get No. 88 ready to make steam. But he had a more immediate problem, and the solution had been working in his mind since he’d left the Sheriff’s office. He looked forward to five o’clock, when he could figure out a way to put his plan in action.

  He saw Amy’s shadow and turned to look up at her. She stood in the doorway, her hair backlit by the sun, and she was holding two Cokes. "I thought you and Joe might want these."

  "Thanks." He took a long drink. "Joe, Amy brought a Coke for you."

  "Ed out of Coors?"

  "I think he wants you to wait till quitting time."

  “Never be a quitting time on this thing! Just set the can down."

  Josh took advantage of the time alone with Amy. He said, "I’ve been thinking about my talk with the sheriff this morning."

  "What about it?"

  “Something didn’t fit.”

  "What?"

  "I’ll tell you in a second." He led her out of the shop to the shady east side of the building. A kid on a bicycle pitched the Senoca Daily News. Everything seemed so peaceful. "It was something about the Medical Examiner’s report on Ish Maytubby’s body."

  “The report Dr. Brewer prepared?"

  "Yeah. Something’s wrong."

  "What could be wrong?"

  "I don’t think he could have done the report that fast. You know old Doc Brewer."

  "Hmmm." She pursed her lips. "And Sheriff Gottschalk said he already had the report?"