GEPETTO’S ORPHANS
by Kenneth Mark Hoover
Copyright 2011 by Kenneth Mark Hoover
Published by Argo Navis Publishing at Smashwords
Jake Strop entered my office, stomping gypsum sand from his worn boots. His face was lined with worry.
“There’s another wooden statue in the plaza, Marshal,” he said. “This one is outside the Texas Star Canteen.”
“That makes three in as many days.” I opened the wooden shutters so the air could circulate.
Jake poured a cup of coffee from the boiling pot. “I asked Jonah Hake, the proprietor of the Texas Star, about it. He came to open up this morning and found it standing outside his door. We tried to move it but it’s too heavy, like the others. Eight foot tall and rooted to the spot. Like it doesn’t want to be moved.”
“That’s hardly likely, Jake.” Jake Strop was a fine deputy and one of the few men I trusted. He had faced a killer with me last month and almost died for his loyalty. But this new business had him jumpy.
“It’s certain someone is setting them out late at night while everyone is asleep,” I said. “Maybe he wants to make a name for himself, to drum up business.”
Jake sugared his coffee. “Downright spooky is what it is.” He took a sip and started. “Miss Magra been in today?”
“Not yet.”
He stared at the coffee cup. “Thought so,” he mumbled.
“How’s that, Jake?”
“Miss Magra makes a memorable pot of coffee is all I’m saying.”
“You don’t have to drink it, Jake.”
“Well, seeing as you don’t mind....” He put the cup down.
“From now on we’ll let Magra make the morning coffee.” I pulled my Sharps rifle from the gun rack. My side was stiff from the gunshot wound I received last month and it slowed my draw. “Let’s make the morning rounds and look at this new statue. Maybe we can find Magra and have breakfast together.”
“You always have the best ideas, Mr. Marwood.”
“I just can’t make a good cup of coffee.”
He held the door open. “Now, Mr. Marwood, don’t go on so. It might be good for stripping paint, or sheep dip, or something like that ”
We walked together along the boardwalk. The wind was in early morning lull and the desert air crisp and clear. We crossed the plaza. There were a few Mexican women and their children fetching water from the stone well. It was early; few people were about.
“There it is, Mr. Marwood,” Jake pointed to an orange and black column outside the Texas Star.
“It’s big enough, all right,” I said.
“Eight feet if it’s an inch,” Jake said. “it’s an Apache War Chief like the others. He looks mean enough to skin a mountain lion barehanded.”
I looked it over. “Wearing war paint and armed like the others, too.”
Jake pulled his chin whiskers as if he hadn’t considered this. “That’s true. Carrying a skinning knife and a coup stick. And I recollect the other two have bows and spears and whatnot.”
We stood before the statue. It was a normal-sized man standing on a two-foot high base. His rugged features were highlighted by the morning sun, casting deep, cryptic shadows in the reddish-orange wood lined with black crevasses. His long hair covered his ears. The grain of the wood looked like pine.
“My stars,” Jake said, “he gives me the crawlies the way he stares you down. I never saw such detail. This isn’t your usual cigar store Indian, sir. Not one mark or nick from the carving blade. You can see his muscles under his buckskin all tight like springs.”
“Don’t get fretted up, Jake. I doubt he’ll start moving.”
“You want to try and rock him off that base?”
“If you and Jonah Hake couldn’t budge him I’m not going to crack my back trying.” My ribs were almost healed and I didn’t want to tear muscle. “Come on, let’s find Magra.”
We headed in the opposite direction, walking into the sun. “I know I’m being green about this,” Jake said, “but I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck.”
“I admit it’s an odd business, Jake. All sorts of people come through Haxan aside from the Texas trail herds. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone is carving these and putting them out to advertise his skill.”
“If that’s true he’s got considerable talent to spare.”
We made our rounds and walked down Front Street. We came upon the other two statues, one outside the Haxan Hotel and another guarding the entrance to the livery stable. I stopped.
“Something wrong?” Jake asked.
“I just now noticed how each statue is standing on a road that leads out of Haxan.”
“By golly, you’re right, Marshal. What do you suppose that means?”
“I don’t know it means anything, Jake. Let’s go inside the Haxan Hotel. I want to talk to Hew Clay.”
We entered the lobby and found Hew’s wife, Alma Jean, working behind the counter. She had brittle red hair and a mean, pinched face. “Good morning, Marshal. Mr. Strop. What can I do for you gentlemen today?”
“Is Hew around, Alma?”
“He rode to Las Cruces to buy new furniture for the lobby. Supposed to freight it back tomorrow. Can I help you with anything?”