Trail of the Avenger (Preview)

Chapter One

1853, Missouri

There were demons in the fire, little imps with pitchforks and pointed tails. There were angels, too. Great battles were being fought amid the glowing coals, in the abstraction of the red and yellow flames among the charred black hollows. Or at least that was what Joshua’s imagination conjured as he watched the fire in the stone fireplace. 

A beautiful fireplace, it had been built by his father from smooth river stones. As had the house around him and even the town he called home, Providence, which had been founded by his father. His father was a big man with a booming voice, and Joshua could hear the thunderstorm of his father’s speech from the next room over. 

Joshua used the poker and tore down a cathedral made of glowing embers. Sparks lifted into the chimney, dancing stars falling upward. Joshua frowned. It had been a cross sort of day. His mother would say the day had been all sixes and sevens. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but at twelve years old, he’d been trying to act more like a man. He figured this might impress his father and be proof enough that Joshua didn’t need to go to boarding school.

His father, Phillip Ogden, wanted him to attend a boarding school back East so Joshua could get a “proper” education not available in western Missouri. They were, as his father pointed out, at the edge of civilization. Any farther west and you’d be entering an unnamed territory populated with wild animals and Indians. 

No one doubted that it would be tamed, but for now, it was a land of mystery and danger. Of course, people traveled across this stretch of land all the time. There were maps of it. 

Not only that, but Joshua had crossed into the territory with his father on a few occasions. There was trade to be had with the Indians who had settled in the area, after being marched from their homes in Georgia, Florida, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, and other places. These Indians—Creek, Cherokee, Chickasaw, and so on—lived on small farms, but would trade well for certain items like gunpowder, pots, and mirrors. 

“You need to go to school to learn how to take over my business someday, make it better,” his father had said. 

“I don’t want to leave!” Joshua had cried.

It was not, he knew, a good way to show his father that he was a man, but Phillip had smiled and patted him on the back.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “We’ll talk about it more later. We’ve got to get home to your mother.”

Joshua stirred the coals in the fire again. His father’s voice rumbled in the next room. 

“You are becoming feral, Joshua,” his father had told him over supper. “You need to be refined and know your numbers so you can put the Ogden name in the history books.”

“I can’t,” Joshua replied stubbornly. 

“Why?”

“I can’t leave Momma.”

Phillip had looked down at his plate. He’d gone and made the fire, which was when there was a knock at the door. It was Mr. Dennehy, a co-founder of Providence and the other pillar of the community. They’d begun talking civilly in the living room, but then Phillip had taken Dennehy into the parlor, shutting the door. This was when the arguing had begun. 

It was the same argument the men had been having off and on for almost five years. A railroad company was interested in running a line through town, providing a train station in the process and connecting Providence with the larger world. 

It wasn’t that Joshua’s father was opposed to the expansion of the railroad. He saw that it would be a great boon to the community. The issue was with the land that was supposed to be used for a portion of the line. 

It was a large swath of land that ran from the Elk River to a high promontory overlooking the town. The problem with Phillip and Mr. Dennehy selling it to the railroad company was that they didn’t technically own the land. In fact, nobody really owned the land, but it was set aside due to a treaty signed in 1832. The true owners of the land were… unaccounted for. 

Joshua knew all this because his father had made his case concerning the land so many times that it was like a beloved nursery rhyme or common prayer that popped into Joshua’s head unannounced at random times. Phillip Ogden believed in following the letter of the law, and just because a landowner was not present, it did not mean the town had the right to sell the property for their own benefit. Mr. Dennehy didn’t agree. He argued that the owners would never come to claim their property, and so it was best that it be used to help the town. So the argument went.

It was a blustery winter night. The wind picked up the snow, churned it in the air, and then deposited it somewhere else as it repeated the process in a thousand other places at the same time. Joshua felt bad for Mr. Dennehy’s horse, still saddled, waiting in the stable, knowing it would have to go back out in this weather to get the man home. It was a thankless task since Mr. Dennehy never treated his animals properly. Still, Joshua’s father often claimed that Jordan Dennehy was a good man. 

Joshua couldn’t see it. 

“I won’t do it, Jordan!” Phillip grumbled through the wall. 

Tired of the argument and feeling depressed for having argued with his father earlier in the day, Joshua ran up the stairs and into his parents’ room. It was not a joyous scene that welcomed him. His mother lay motionless in her bed, he eyes closed. The single candle that lit the room wavered and, for a moment, distorted the room into bizarre proportions. 

“Momma?” Joshua asked timidly.

“Hello, Joshua,” his mother said softly. 

She had once been the most beautiful woman in western Missouri, but illness had stolen her looks, without taking away her sharp mind and kind heart. Her blonde hair was spread out from her head, shimmering like gold. Her eyes opened slowly. 

“I hear your father arguing downstairs,” she said. “Here, help me sit up.”

Joshua rushed to his mother’s side and helped her into a sitting position with a pillow propped up at her back. This precipitated a coughing fit that lasted almost a full minute. Joshua offered her water, which she sipped. 

It was consumption, the doctors said. They prescribed rest and laudanum. They also said the whole family should move somewhere warmer and drier, but Phillip Ogden had put everything into building Providence, and his wife, Mary, refused to leave just for that reason. 

The artifacts of Mary’s life were her quilted blankets, discolored nightgowns, a laudanum dropper and bottle, a candle with a glass chimney, handkerchiefs stained with blood, and a small bookshelf filled with tattered books. Besides her husband and son, she loved the books most of all, and Joshua knew this. His father also knew this, which was why he was planning to surprise his wife with a new, bigger bookshelf. He would, he had told his son, endeavour to fill the bookshelf as quickly as possible.   

 “I take it Mr. Dennehy is here,” Joshua’s mother said. 

“Yes,” Joshua replied. “Pa and him are arguing again.”

“They used to be good friends, you know,” Mary said wistfully.

“Yes,” Joshua replied.

He’d heard the story hundreds of times. His father and Jordan Dennehy had struck out into the unclaimed land along the Elk River until they found a spot they thought would be perfect for their town. It was a shared dream, and they called the place Providence because they believed they had been destined to come there.

Missouri was a slave state, and though two men didn’t want it to be generally known, they were abolitionists. They were morally opposed to slavery, and one of their primary motivations in coming to Missouri was to try to help the cause of bringing slaves to freedom. So far, they had largely been unsuccessful since the secrecy they needed to stay in Missouri also kept them from letting word get out that their town might be a haven. Still, Phillip Ogden had designs on running for a seat in the state senate and voting according to his beliefs.

“Jordan is a good man,” Mary said. “You shouldn’t think badly of him. He simply wants what is best for the town. He and your father simply disagree on what that is. You understand, Joshua?”

“Of course, Mama,” Jordan lied. 

Jordan sided with his father in the argument. The land in question wasn’t theirs to sell. It would be wrong to presume ownership just because the real owners hadn’t come to claim their land and might never do so. It needed to be handled properly. However, Joshua’s mother was a kind soul and didn’t want her son to think ill of anyone. 

He pulled a chair over and sat next to her bed. 

“Hard to believe that it was fourteen years ago,” Mary continued. “Back then, your father and Jordan were of like mind. They found this spot on the river and claimed it. Then came back to Illinois and got us. Abigail and I arrived, and it was electric, Joshua. So much to do. But then Abigail…”

Jordan Dennehy’s wife, Abigail, had died of milk sickness one year into building the town. According to Joshua’s mother, Dennehy had worked that much harder to not only build the town but to populate it with people. Advertisements went in northern papers, but the people were industrious and quiet. 

People from neighboring towns had commented that it was strange that so many had come from the North, but there were others, strictly unwanted, who had come into town from other parts of Missouri. Joshua’s father believed that it was possible to appeal to the basic humanity of pro-slavery people and eventually win them over to his way of thinking, but it had been slow going. 

“Jordan saw the potential to make money.” Mary sighed. “It blinded him.”

“I know, Mama,” Joshua said. 

Then she began coughing again, and Joshua sat with his hands in his lap, eyes downcast. Her cough had a dry rattling sound that reminded Joshua of the stories he’d read about Egyptian mummies coming to life and terrorizing people. She was his mummy, he thought. It was a morbid joke, but the illness had been with them for so long that it took on the feeling of a thick, heavy robe that weighed him down. He could either make little jokes in his head or completely collapse from the sadness. 

Finally, his mother stopped coughing. 

“Read to me, Joshua,” she said and closed her eyes. “From the top shelf. I can’t keep my eyes open to read myself.”

In the schoolhouse, Joshua read primers about the importance of morals and behaving properly. His mother’s books were entirely more interesting. There were thick novels like The Count of Monte Cristo and Oliver Twist. There were books of poetry and ancient histories. His mother had never left the United States, but her bookshelf was a world traveler. There was Poe, Brontë, and Stendhal, as well as Julius Caesar and Augustine. Hidden in a plain cover was Narrative of the Life of Douglass, an American Slave. 

It was an extraordinary bookshelf, Joshua was certain it was the great private library west of the Mississippi River, but his father didn’t agree. Phillip Ogden was a man of practical knowledge and strong conviction, but he wasn’t a great reader. Joshua loved stories of any kind. The history books were usually too dry, and the poetry was too abstract, but the novels enticed him. It was a rare day when he didn’t go to his mother’s room to read for a bit in between school and chores. His mother never minded. 

One history that Joshua did like was The History of Alexander by Quintus Curtius Rufus, which he took off the top shelf now. He sat back in his chair and opened the pages to Book Three, which was the first surviving book of Curtius Rufus’ work. 

“‘Cleander had been sent with money to hire soldiers,’” Joshua read. “‘Alexander, meanwhile, settled matters in Lycia and Pamphylia before moving on to the city of Celaenae’.”

“You do love Alexander,” Joshua’s mother said. “But I do too. A dashing figure, certainly. It sounds like your father and Jordan have finished fighting.”

Joshua heard the heavy steps of Phillip walking up the stairs. The door opened slowly.

“I’m sorry if I am intruding,” Phillip said. “What are you reading there, my boy?”

“History of Alexander,” Joshua replied.

“You know what Alexander’s father’s name was?” his father asked.

“Phillip!” Joshua answered with a smile. 

“Well, perhaps you’re destined to spread my empire, like Alexander.” His father patted him softly on the back of the neck. 

Phillip then leaned over and kissed Mary.

“Was Jordan here?” Mary asked.

“He was,” Phillip said. “The damned fool.”

“Phillip!” his wife said.

“Pardon my language,” Phillip continued. “He just can’t seem to see reason. The land belongs to a clan of Osage Indians… we can’t sell it out from under them.”

“Even though the clan has likely died out?” Mary interjected.

“Don’t take his side, my love,” Phillip shot back. “We just need to petition the governor, but Jordan won’t do it. I’m not going to do it because I’m not sure the railroad is a good idea to bring to town. So there we are, and we just keep circling the same arguments over and over again. It’s foolish.”

“I know it is difficult, my dear,” Mary said. “But try to remember that you two were once friends.”

“Yes, yes,” Phillip said and turned to leave. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Whether he was talking to Mary or Joshua was unclear; perhaps both. He walked out the door and closed it slowly behind him.

“Now back to the book,” Mary said and closed her eyes once again. 

“‘A river ran through the walls of this city, having been made famous by Greek poets. The river originated in the mountains and came tumbling down at a furious rate,’” Joshua continued to read.  

His reading was interspersed with long yawns, and eventually he gave up.

“We’ll read more tomorrow,” he told his mother. 

“Of course, dear,” she said as she slowly slid back down into her covers. “Can you blow out the candle before you leave?”

“Yes, Mama,” Joshua said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Joshua.”

He blew out the candle, and the room went dark. His room was next to his mother’s. His father slept on a cot downstairs. Joshua slid under the covers and was fast asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Chapter Two

In his dream, Joshua was jumping over a fire in their fireplace. He was either very small or the fireplace was impossibly big, but he leaped frantically from one side to the other, not for the thrill but because he felt as though he were being forced. 

His mother watched him, coughing into a handkerchief. His father sat in his chair, looming large with dark crystalline eyes. The fire danced, and Joshua jumped. The smoke was suffocating as it closed in around him. He began coughing, and his own coughing was what woke him up. 

His room was filled with smoke. At first, it made no sense, his dream still hung too him cloyingly, but as he became more aware, he realized the smoke in his dream had been real. He coughed heavily, choking on the lack of fresh air. His room was dark, but he could see enough to see the haze hanging around him. He dropped off his bed onto the hardwood floor and then began crawling toward his door. 

The house had to be on fire. The amount of smoke made it the only possible answer. However, he saw no flames and felt no heat, so the fire must be downstairs. This was both good and bad. It was bad because it meant he and his mother might be trapped on the second floor. It was good because it meant the fire would wake his father up and make the chances of putting the fire out or of rescue that much more likely. However, the fact that he had heard nothing from his father was concerning.

He tried to yell, but the air was too thick, and it only made him cough harder. He got over the threshold and into the hall. He crawled on his belly into his mother’s room and felt a chill run down his back. There was no sound, no coughing, no movement. 

“Mama?” he cried out. 

No response. 

He got to the chair and pulled himself up. He was choking on the smoke, his eyes stung, but he could see his mother lying there, a peaceful look on her face. His eyes watered from the smoke and from the truth of what he was seeing. He reached out and touched her; her arm was cold. He sobbed, but then controlled himself. He felt under her nose; there was no breath. He put his hand on her chest and felt no heartbeat. 

His mother was dead. There was a smear of blood next to her mouth. She had likely died from the smoke in combination with her illness. It was a heavy blow, but Joshua was determined to bear it like a man.

He grabbed The History of Alexander from the nightstand, then leaned forward and removed his mother’s necklace, which he put on himself, then dropped back to the floor. The smoke was getting thicker, and he knew his mother wouldn’t want him to die. So he crawled faster, back out into the hall, then down the hall and to the top of the stairs. 

He looked down the stairs and saw the flickering light of the fire, probably burning in the kitchen. He felt the heat of the fire, which was making quick work of the plaster and wood. 

There was a large mass lying on the floor. It pulled itself up, drunkenly, and Joshua realized it was his father. Through the haze, Joshua could see that the elder Ogden was bloodied on the nose and mouth, and he looked to have been shot in the chest. This made no sense.

“Damn you!” Phillip Ogden yelled to someone Joshua could not see. “You won’t get away with this!”

Phillip clutched his chest and looked around wildly, perhaps for a weapon. 

Joshua heard an unfamiliar chuckle, and a deep voice said, “There’s no use, Mayor Ogden. You must have known this was comin’, you can’t stop us!”

Phillip then saw Joshua. His eyes lit up.

“Joshua!” Phillip called out. “Take your mother and run to safety! Get outta here… tell everyone…”

But he didn’t complete his sentence. A bullwhip shot out from behind him and pulled him down hard onto the floor. It was then that the unknown speaker stepped into view. A tall, thin man, dressed in a dusty black suit with black boots and a black hat. In his right hand, he held the handle of the whip, and in his other hand, he held a pistol. 

“You never should have crossed us,” the man said as he took a few steps toward Joshua’s father and raised his pistol.

Joshua quickly looked away. The pistol shot rang out sharply, the crackle of the fire growing behind it. Joshua looked back in horror. His father’s lifeless body lay in the bright glow of the fire. The tall man looked up at Joshua, their eyes momentarily locked. 

Another man appeared beside the tall man, another stranger. He also carried a pistol, and when he saw Joshua, he leveled the gun at the boy, but the tall man raised his hand and pushed the barrel aside. 

“No,” the tall man said firmly. “We need him alive.”

With that, the tall man started to walk up the stairs.

“Boy!” he yelled. “You’ve got no choice, you’ve got to come with us.”

Tears streamed down Joshua’s face. He wanted to stay and… fight the men, kill them both, but he was too small, and they were armed. That didn’t mean that he had to go quietly with them. He jumped up, covering his face with his nightshirt, and ran back into his own room. 

“Don’t be stupid!” the tall man yelled.

Joshua could hear his heavy footsteps pounding up the steps. There was no time to think, only to act. He ran to his window, threw it open, and jumped out onto the roof of the porch. He bounded down the roof and then jumped off it onto the grass below. 

He rolled and was running just as he came up, straight into a thicket. He was sure he had lost the tall man. It would have taken him a moment to get through the window, and by the time he would be able to stand, Joshua would have been lost in the trees. Or at least, that was what he assumed, because Joshua didn’t look back to find out.

He ran as fast as he could, ignoring the branches that whipped against his face, the snow that froze his bare feet. He ran in a wide arch until he was behind the family’s stable. It was a simple structure with a dirt floor, slanted roof, and three walls. He knelt in the loam of the forest, stifling his coughing, tears, and the sudden need to scream. 

Through his watering eyes, his house was an orange undulating mass, like a maple tree in fall, caught in a storm. The fire now claimed the entire side of the house. He knew it was in the process of claiming his parents’ bodies as he watched, helpless to do anything for them. 

He hated himself. He’d failed to save anyone except himself. The logical side of his brain, normally more dominant, had faded to a whisper. You’re only twelve, it pleaded. There’s nothing you could have done. But the other side, the emotional side, argued in a body-shattered scream that there were things he could have done. 

He could have stayed in his mother’s room. He could have been more alert to the danger. He could have run at the tall man, taken him by surprise, grabbed his pistol, and shot him and the other stranger. He could have done something, anything. Instead, he had been only a witness to the destruction of his family, as useful as a piece of furniture. 

Yet, the logical side contended. You are a witness; you can hold the men accountable. You can hand it over to the sheriff, and he’ll see justice is served.

An image of the tall man, dangling from the end of a noose, passed through Joshua’s mind, and he felt happy and sad at the same time. Nothing would bring his father and mother back. Still, justice might serve where happiness was absent. It might. 

Joshua heard the approach of men. He looked around the stable and saw that two strange horses were tied to the hitching post. The tall man and his companion approached the horses, untied them, and then mounted. They kicked them into a gallop as they sped away from the house. Joshua watched them go, wishing for a rifle or cannon. He rose and stumbled out of the woods. His house was completely engulfed in flame. He watched it burn, mute.

He had heard people say that childhood trauma could turn a boy into a man overnight. He knew now that this was true. The emotions inside of him fought an invisible war that made him feel sick. There was hate, anger, and fear, which was perhaps strongest. The strength of his fear made him feel ashamed. 

What will happen to me? he asked himself desperately.

It was inappropriate to be concerned about himself at such a time. 

Where will I live? Who will take care of me?

He wanted to be sick. No one would take care of him, and he didn’t want them to. There could be no replacement for the parents he’d been given. He wouldn’t want one if it existed. Perhaps if he were a small child, then he, an orphan, could be passed into the arms of others, but he was a man now. He would take care of himself. He would help the authorities hunt down the tall man and his companion. Joshua would see justice served. Then… then… he’d figure it out. 

He turned and went into the stable and grabbed his favorite pony, Blackjack. He put a halter and bit on him and mounted him bareback. He rode hesitantly down the road. The houses were dark at first, but the galloping men must have woken some light sleepers. Lights began to appear in some of the windows. Men, still pulling on their jackets, walked onto their porches. They saw Joshua, riding in his nightshirt, and then they saw his house aflame. 

“Fire!” someone yelled, and the call was echoed throughout Providence. 

Some men ran toward the house, but a group of three men, whom Joshua recognized but couldn’t name, came to him. One of them held his reins. 

“Where’s the mayor, son? Where’s your father?” one of the men asked.

“He’s dead,” Joshua said. His voice sounded like it was a mile away.

“Dead? Dear Lord! What happened to him?”

“Murdered,” Joshua replied. 

The faces of the men were swimming before him. The light from the fire created strange and unnatural shadows.

“Who would kill Phil Ogden?” one of the men asked, though who he was asking wasn’t exactly clear. 

“Tall man,” Joshua said, choking on the words. “A tall man with a whip, black man.”

“An escaped slave?” one of the men asked.

“No.” Joshua shook his head. “He was white, but he wore a black hat, black suit, and black boots.”

“I think I saw that fella yesterday,” another man chimed in. “Where’d he go, Joshua?”

“Him and another man rode off, out of town,” Joshua explained.

“Which direction?” 

“I don’t know,” Joshua admitted. 

“What about your mother?”

“She died in the fire, the smoke… she couldn’t breathe.”

“The house is gone,” another man said. “There’s nothing to save.”

“Should we take him to Dennehy?” one of the men asked.

Joshua shook his head.

“No,” he said. He could tell he was fading fast. “The doctor.”

“You heard him,” a man said. “Take the boy to the doctor.”

Joshua was lifted off his horse and put on some kind of makeshift stretcher. Two men carried him down the main road and then off a side path to the doctor’s office. Joshua tried to stay awake, but it was a losing battle. He lost consciousness as he bobbed in the stretcher, wondering what would become of him and the tall man in black. 

Chapter Three

Golden sunlight cascaded through the thin blinds of the small doctor’s office. There was only one doctor in Providence, and he acted as physician, dentist, veterinarian, and mortician for the population. Luckily, he kept his living patients separate from his dead ones, but the infirm weren’t separated based on species. This explained why Joshua was awakened early the next morning by a goat bleating next to his head. He partially rose from a small bed, startled, before wincing in pain. 

The events of the night before fell upon him, one by one, with great mental weight. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the pillow. The goat nibbled on his earlobe. Joshua didn’t even try to push the goat away. His legs, arms, lungs, eyes, and head all radiated extreme pain. His right ankle was particularly sensitive. He must have twisted it when he jumped off the roof. 

“Joshua!” Dr. Listman said as he hurried into the room. “Excuse Penelope, she won’t hurt you; she’s just partial to earlobes. Aren’t you, Penelope? She’s a nibbler, not a biter.”

Dr. Listman was a fleshy man, congenial, quick to smile. His smiles were wide, and when they occurred, his mouth became so big that the rest of his features seemed to be swallowed. Joshua hesitantly opened his eyes. The light hurt.

“Here,” the doctor sat in a chair next to Joshua’s bed. He held a small dropper in one hand. “Open up. There we go.”

He put a few drops of liquid on Joshua’s tongue.

“That’s just a small amount of laudanum. It will help with the pain,” the doctor continued. “I told the sheriff I wouldn’t give you too much. He wants to talk to you, the sheriff does, about last night, obviously. It’s such a shame, Joshua. I’m so sorry. I knew your parents well, I did. Well, I helped bring you into this world, if you can believe it. Your mother was so kind, always so kind. And your father… well… founded the town, didn’t he? The mayor of the town, he was. He and Mr. Dennehy are the columns of our foundation, as it were. If we had the money, I do believe we’d make a statue of your dear father. Only fitting. Penelope!”

The goat had now propped its front legs on the bed and was nibbling at Joshua’s hair.

“So sorry, my boy,” Dr. Listman said and stood up, pulling Penelope along by a rope collar. “Come along, goat. I’ve got your hay over here. 

The laudanum was having an effect, and Joshua felt some of the pain slide off his body. He let out a breath.

“Ah,” the doctor returned to his chair, “the laudanum is helping, yes? That’s so very good. I’ve got some water for you to drink. Here you go.”

Joshua sat up, took the glass, and drank slowly.

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Quite all right,” Dr. Listman said. “I’m sorry to tell you that we weren’t able to find most of your parents’ bodies. Due to the fire, you see. We found some remains, but everything was so burnt, you understand. I’m so sorry, Joshua, but there will be something to bury.”

“I don’t care,” Joshua said off-handedly.

Dr. Listman gasped.