Chapter 8: 1872: Fort Davis, Texas

Early October saw a noticeable, though not profound, break in the lingering summer heat, where sweltering was reduced to merely hot, and muggy eased to sticky. Even so, sunsets gave way to a noticeable cooling-off.

Twin Smith and I were at Fort Stockton, in the second day of a three-day scout training and evaluation visit. As far as training, I often learned as much or more than I taught, as various scouts and their cadre faced new and challenging missions and incidents. And then there were the necessary detailed debriefings following actions in which we had lost men, dead or seriously wounded. Unfortunate though such incidents were, we all made certain to learn from our comrades’ sacrifice.

However, on that first Tuesday of October, a private found us on the shooting range where he presented me with a written orders form. “Just received these on the wire, First Sergeant.”

At a glance, I saw it was from Major Lange. I told the messenger, “Thank you, Private. I can see to this. You can head back.”

“As you say, First Sergeant,” he responded before he turned and headed back toward the fort.

Smith, who was on the firing line helping one of the Indian scouts improve his seated shooting position, looked at me with curiosity in his expression. I shrugged as I held up the orders sheet. He went back to showing the scout how best to brace his elbows against his knees. It was an awkward firing position, and I’d had few reasons to use it. I suspected it was unknown among Indian tribes. But it was one of the Army’s official shooting positions, so we practiced it on the firing range.

Reading the orders from the Major, I learned that Twin and I were to finish our review here, then proceed directly south to Camp Smith where we were to meet up with Major Lange and Jordie. We would then proceed to Fort Duncan, on the Rio Grande near Eagle Pass, to investigate a series of murders of colored soldiers.

Incidents of racial harassment and attacks had increased in number since the eighteen sixty-nine Army reorganization. For the regiment, this was mostly at the border posts along the river, where the size of the garrisons had been reduced, with some posts manned only by platoon-strength detachments of infantry and squad-strength detachments of cavalry, as border incursions had become a secondary concern to the depredations of the Comanche, Apache, and Kiowa in west and central Texas. In any case, Fort Duncan had a full company of infantry and a platoon of the Ninth Cavalry, as well as housing regional office of the Freedman’s Bureau.

From Fort Stockton was about eighty miles almost due north of Camp Smith, where we were to meet Jordie and Major Lange, was about eighty miles, just a bit east of due south. Fort Duncan was another hundred thirty miles southeast of Smith. Jordie and Lange had to travel a hundred twenty miles to Camp Smith. Assuming they left tomorrow, and Twin and I left the day after, we should all arrive at Camp Smith about the same time, give or take a day.

Twin and I were on horseback, as we always were for our inspection tours. In fact, it was not uncommon for scouts to be mounted for some missions requiring rapid movement over longer distances. This fact had led us to include some mounted skills within our scout training reviews.

For the most part, those skills centered around the use and care of a hotd for the purpose of gaining a mount’s maximum sustained effort, emphasizing the notion of sustained. It further involved the scout’s role in encouraging those practices among other infantrymen who might find themselves assigned to the unaccustomed mounted mission. Finally, we covered some methods for reducing the disagreeable effects for the infrequent rider.

In any event, we were mounted on horses which could sustain five thirty-five-mile days in sequence, with good fodder and water, followed by a full day of rest with, or else followed with a further sequence of four twenty-mile days and three full days of rest. That pattern could be repeated twice before requiring a recuperation period of at least two weeks with plentiful feed and water. The better the quality of fodder, the faster the recovery

With the further tactic of trading for fresh mounts at each regimental outpost, the four of us found ourselves at Fort Duncan by mid-afternoon the following Wednesday, October ninth. We were met by Major David McColgin, F Company, commanding Fort Duncan. He was a red-faced man with blond hair, in his late-thirties, if I were to guess. We had all met before in the course of normal operations.

“Major, I reckon you pushed yourselves to get here this quickly,” McColgin said, to Lange, Major Lange being senior in service. “Would you want to get into this right away or would you want to rest up until tomorrow?”

Lange glanced around at the three of us and received shrugs in response. I said, “It’s up to you, sir, but I reckon we’re not so weary for talking about this.”

Turning to the Major, he said, “All we had for lunch was hardtack and water. If you could scare us up something to eat and some coffee, I think you could brief us while we ate. Then maybe we can get cleaned up and decide what to do.

Ten minutes later we were chowing down on spicy pinto beans and rice while McColgin filled us in.

“Three men dead in the past month, their bodies all found on the Mexican side a’ the rio, but with their clothes still wet, as if they swam or their bodies were dragged across the river. The sheriff won’t look into it ‘cause he says it happened in Mexico. The Rurales say it happened on our side of the Rio. Truth be told, that makes the better sense because none of the men were known to have cause to cross the river. But the Sheriff won’t accept that. He said, “You never can tell what nigras’re gonna get up to. And there it stands.”

McColgin sighed, then went on. “On top of that, there was another dead colored man turned up the same way, on the shore across the river, in wet clothes, a man who worked for the Freedmen’s Bureau.”

Major Lange nodded, then glanced over at me. “First Sergeant, have you any questions for the Major?”

In fact, I had several. “I do, sir.”

“Please go ahead, Seneca.”

Major McColgin looked toward me with weary resignation clouding his visage. Nonetheless, he gave me a brief chin bob. “What can I tell you, Top?”

“Major, do you know exactly where these bodies were recovered?”

He nodded as he began, “All of them were found directly across the Rio from a popular fishing spot on our side, a place of deep but slow eddies. The current flows closer to the Mexican shore there and sees fewer fishermen. For that matter, it has been speculated that each of the men may have been fishing when they were attacked. One of the victims had announced his intent to go fishing after evening chow, none of the others were regular fisherman. But it was a cool shaded plot near the water, so men sometimes just go there to take a nap or play cards.”

“Do you have the dates of the men’s disappearance, sir?”

“In my office. Shall I have someone fetch it?”

Let me ask something else first, Major. Do you know what days of the week each body was found, sir?”

“The first and second were found on Sunday mornings. The Freedmen’s Bureau man was found on Saturday morning. Our last man was found on a Friday morning, a week past. He was the one who said he was goin’ fishing.”

“Thank you, Major. Sir, were all the men killed in the same manner?”

“Perhaps. As best as our corpsman, Sergeant Carruthers, could determine, the first three men had been castrated and severely beaten, then drowned, determined by the water in their lungs. The most recent victim was struck on the back of the head but ‘Doc’ Carruthers reckoned the blow killed him before he could be drowned or tortured.”

“So the last victim was not castrated or otherwise beaten, Major?”

“No, Top.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Major Lange yawn. We had been on what amounted to a fast march, pressing the horses because we were able to replace them at each outpost. Hat morning we had been in the saddle well before the sun made a showing.

I said, “Thank you, Major. Shall I come to you if I have further questions, or is there someone better informed, sir?”

“Lieutenant Ames, Lemuel Ames, probably knows more details about the men,, who were all in his platoon. He’s at the border crossing with the squad from Second Platoon until midnight. You can probably catch up with him in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir. We’ll do that.”

Later, after finishing chow, Jordie, Twin, and I were talking in a four-bunk visiting non-coms’ bunk room.

“That last one was different,” Jordie observed.

Twin asked, “You mean because he was not tortured or drowned? The first blow killed him. Why torture a dead man?”

I tilted my head, shook it slightly, and made a grimace. “They would at least have castrated him, I think. That was to make an example a, ahh...” Then I found the word I was looking for. “Castrating them was symbolic; it was meant to take away their manhood. Castrating was a message the killers wanted other colored men -- colored soldiers -- to see. But not this last man. He wasn’t killed the same way or for the same reason. I think he was killed by someone else, someone not connected with the other killers. And he was killed on a different night, a Thursday, not on a wek-end.”

Jordie nodded, but Twin looked puzzled. “Thursday? Why would that matter?”

I kicked off my brogans, brought my feet up on the bunk, and leaned back against the wall.

“Because most men do stupid shit after they’ve been out drinking. Saturday night is the night more men are out at the saloon or at another man’s house, swilling beer or whatever. The second most popular night is a Friday, especially if you don’t have to work Saturday, or will have an easy day of it. Sunday is also favored, especially by men who don’t attend church.”

I added, “Now, that’s not to say that men don’t get drunk on any night of the week, but those first three killings strike me more as something men would get liquored-up to do, and week-end nights are the most likely. Be that as it may, this latest murder seems more deliberate, or maybe of a different purpose. And I think the killer may very well be another soldier, a fellow who heard him announce he was going fishing and who had some reason to want him dead.”

My companions were silent and appeared to be thinking that over. Finally, Twin grunted, then adding, “Aye, I could see that, but what do you reckon of the others?”

Jordie said, “Sounds like the Klan’s work.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, “but they usually make more of a display with their burning crosses or the bodies hanging from trees. I’ll admit, the torture and castration is their style, but carrying the bodies across the river to be found in Mexico seems out of character.”

After a moment, Jordie said, “I see what you mean. The Klan usually has friends with the local law, so they don’t fear being arrested. These yokels seem like they’re trying to muddy the water instead.”

Twin, who’d been packing a pipe with tobacco, asked, “Who, then?”

With a shrug, I put my hands behind my head and leaned back against the wall. “I’m not sure. Seems likely it’s more than one man, but maybe not. Could even be Mexicans, though that doesn’t really wash.”

Jordie was examining the brogans on his feet. He looked up at me and asked, “Did you bring any boot black?” He knew I usually packed a tin and a small buffing brush.

I sighed heavily. “At the bottom of my pack. You can set my gear in the locker.” There were two wooden chests under each double bunk.

“You pack it at the bottom on purpose, to get me to unpack your things,” he complained.

I said, “I ain’t that smart.”

“Didn’t mean smart. Smart wouldn’t be in the army. More like conniving.”

“Give you a nickle to shine mine,” I replied, grinning.

Jordie glared at me from under his brow. “For a penny, I’ll shove ‘em up your ass,” he growled.

“I got a penny,” Twin gibed.

At breakfast, which followed close on assembly and roll call, I said, “Let’s talk to that medic, Sergeant Carruthers.”

They both grunted in affirmation, not bothering to pause shoveling oatmeal gruel down their gullets. I went back to doing the same.

A couple minutes later, Twin asked, “Why?”

I tipped up the bowl to extract the last of the gruel before answering. “Hopefully, he examined the bodies before writing his opinion about their death,”

Jordie said, “He examined them enough to know they’d been beaten, gelded, and drowned. What else is there to know?”

“Maybe nothin’, maybe somethin’. That’s what I want to find out.”

Jordie said, “D’you notice us and Major Lange were ‘bout the only ones with polished boots?”

“That did not get us eggs for breakfast,” Twin observed.

“No,” Jordie allowed, “but I saw Major McColgin polishing his brogans on the back of his trousers when he thought nobody’s lookin’.”

“You boys finished?” I urged.

“How ‘bout a second cup a’ coffee?” Jordie groused.

We eventually found Carruthers out in the kitchen, boiling long strips of cotton bandage material in a pot on the stove, stirring them with a stick.

He looked up and said, “Can I help you, First Sergeant?”

I introduced us and told him why the Colonel sent us down. Then I asked, “Of the first three men, was there anything notable besides the obvious fact of their torture and death?”

He paused in his stirring for a moment, then went back to it. “Biggest thing was that fourth man. I don’t think the same fellas did him. Wasn’t tortured, wasn’t drowned. Killed right off. Different right from the git-go.”

I nodded.”We were thinking along the same lines.”

“Had ‘a be some other reason.”

“Did you know him?”

He shrugged. “Not really. He only got here a few weeks ago. Went fishin’ a lot, but there’s them think he was meetin’ a woman out in the willows.”

“Any particular woman?” Jordie asked.

Carruthers shrugged again. “Only heard talk after he was killed, from some in his platoon. You might talk to his sergeant, Nat Hewson.”

“Good idea,” I agreed companionably. “We’ll have do that.”

Jordie, catching on to my purpose in encouraging him, said, “Sergeant’s right, Seneca. We ought to look Hewson up next.”

Carruthers looked at me, apparently startled. “You’re that scout? Seneca, I mean. From the Colored Forty-fourth what fought in Georgia?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I was with the Forty-fourth Colored Infantry Regiment. Were you in Georgia?”

“I was with the Forty-fourth at Dalton when Hood came up and threatened to slaughter us all. Hell, we was ready to fight, but the Colonel showed the white flag. Me an’ five or six hundred other coloreds got frog-marched out a’ there, buck naked, by those Johnny Rebs. I was in the last group brought out. The ruckus you scouts caused made them Rebs strip away most a’ our guards to head back to chase you. That let a dozen of us get away. Saved me some mean times.”

I nodded. “That was some shitty deal, Sarge. Were you a medic back then?”

“Nope, just a corpsman’s aide. When I left Dalton that day I was a buck naked buck private.” He laughed at his own joke, but it did make me chuckle, too.

I brought the conversation back on topic. In a serious tone, I asked, “What about these other three men who were killed? Anything notable, beyond the obvious?”

He looked at me for a moment, then his eyes drifted toward the ground as he pondered my question. After a few seconds, he said, “Don’t know if this is what you mean, Top, but either two men did the cutting on them boys’ dicks an’ nuts, or the one man found better ways.

“First one, he was cut so the whole package was sawed off in one piece. Messy job of it, boy mos’ likely kickin’ an’ squirmin’ the whole time. Got ‘a hack through a lot a’ flesh to do it that way.

“Next two, the dick an’ nut sack was cut off each by itself, couple-three quick swipes of a sharp knife. Either some peckerwood learned to do an easier job, or a different peckerwood do it.”

“Which would you think?”

After a thoughtful pause, he said, “I reckon two men, maybe three, ‘cause even them other cuts were different. Second man had his cut off near the base a’ the dick an’ the nut sack, third one cut further up, away from the body.”

“It must a’ hurt like hell. Why didn’t anyone hear them boys screamin’?” Jordie asked.

Carruthers shrugged “Likely had something stuffed in their mouth, a rag or such. Maybe was all they could do to breathe without gagging on it. Then they was dragged into the Rio, their hands tied behind their backs, smashed-up feet tied together. I found water and fabric shreds in their lungs.”

Twin asked, “Any other coloreds getting’ killed lately, besides soldiers an’ the Freedmen’s Bureau man?”

Looking toward Twin, Carruthers said, “One town boy was strung up last year. Twas said he touched a white woman. Ain’t heard a’ no other since.”

We asked a few more questions but nothing else noteworthy was discovered. We thanked Carruthers and went in search of Lieutenant Ames and Sergeant Hewson.

We found both men, along with Second Platoon, practicing maneuvers for advancing under fire on a corner of the parade ground. We stood off to the side, watching attentively, though not trying to draw attention.

At one point, the lieutenant, whom we assumed was Ames, ordered the men to form up, saying, “That was better. Let’s reform our line back at the staring point and try it again, Sergeant.”

While the sergeant, likely Sergeant Hewson, chivied the men back to their step-off line, the lieutenant glanced our way. We came to attention and saluted .3He returned the salute and said, “At ease. Help you boys?”

I explained who we were and our purpose. “Lieutenant, I can see you’re busy with drills. When would it be convenient to speak with you, sir?”

He looked over his shoulder at the men forming a picket line, then he turned back to us. “Give me about twenty minutes to run this drill a couple more times and both Sergeant Hewson and I would have some time. Why not wait over there on the veranda that fronts the barracks, but not too close to that water barrel. It’ll be crowded there once I dismiss the platoon.”

“Very kind of you, sir. We’ll wait over there.”

We watched the platoon practice their advance again. Twin said, “Those boys do a fair job of it.”

Jordie agreed. “They’re keepin’ their intervals and watchin’ the whole field. (f they can do that under fire, that’s what works, if anything does.”

I said, All of the dead soldiers were from this platoon. I wonder if that means somethin’?”

Jordie, still watching the drill, said, “I was ponderin’ about that, too. I can’t think of anything in general, other than bad luck, leastwise nothin’ that makes sense.”

Twin changed the topic. “Meant to say, I heard from one of the scouts at Stockton that the Kiowa are calling the colored troops ‘buffalo soldiers’.”

Jordie head swung around toward him. “Buffalo soldiers? What’s that s’posed to be aboUt?”

Twin shrugged. “Dark skin, woolly fur, I reckon.”

Jordie, who’d begun balding, said, “That ain’t me, then.”

“Buffalo soldiers,” I said. “Now I’m jealous.”

“Fuck jealous, Judah, you’re the great scout Seneca.”

“Lucky they didn’t see you,” I retorted, “else the colored troops would be called buzzard soldiers.”

“Bald eagle soldiers, maybe,” Jordie said, throwing out his chesy and striking a noble pose.

“The Lieutensnt is comin’g,” Twin hissed.

Indeed, Lieutenant Ames was walking toward us, mopping his brow with a kerchief before tucking it back into his blouse and returning the forage cap to his head. I stood to attention and my companions did the same. Ames waved us down, calling, “As you were. Just wait there until I get a drink.”

Meanwhile, Sergeant Hewson was giving the platoon one last harangue before dismissing them. As the men walked away, he called, “And double-check that guard roster.”

A couple of the men gave weary waves over their shoulders with a few calling an unenthusiastic, “Yes, Sergeant,” or similar responses.

All of them were headed for the same water barrel from which Lieutenant Ames was now dipping and drinking ... Sergeant Hewson, however, headed straight for us. Though I outranked him, and Jordie and Twin were of equal rank, we all stood up out of courtesy. When he reached us, there were handshakes and introductions all around.

“Glad to see regiment’s lookin’ into this,” he said. “Somethin’s for sure goin’ on and I reckon it ain’t over yet.”

I was startled by the thought and immediately felt foolish for my unthinking assumption that the murder spree was a thing of the past.

Jordie asked, “What makes you think so, Sarge?”

“‘Cause it has,” Hewson insisted. “After that second time, I wouldn’t let the men off post without least two of ‘em bein’ together. Then that darn Abner goes wanderin’ off on his own and gets hisself killed.”

Jordie said, “Abner? The man who went fishing? He left post without permission?”

“He had permission, him and that Jamie Finley. But then Finley fell asleep on the river bank, an’ that dumb ass Abner Jones wanders away lookin’ for a better fishin’ hole an’ them pecker-woods got ‘im.”

Jordie glanced at me and I shrugged. He asked Hewson, “How do you know that’s what happened?”

“Can’t know for sure, but when Jamie wakes up, Abner be gone.” He shook his head with a regretful grimace. “End up across d’ river, dead as a door. Dumb coon.”

“So you’re sayin’ this Abner wanted to go fishin’, an’ another private, Jamie, uh...?”

“Finley.”

“This Finley volunteered to go along?”

Hewson nodded to Jordie’s question. “Yup.”

“Jones and Finley good friends?”

“No. not partic’ally, Finley bein’ pretty new, only came up out from Baton Rouge a coupl’a months ago.”

Lieutenant Ames rejoined us. “So what what’s the conversation?”

I said, “Lieutenant, Sergeant Hewson was telling us about your efforts to keep the men safe by insisting they don’t leave the post without another soldier.”

He nodded, but it turned into a rueful frowned. “Yeah, I thought that might work out, but it only works as much as the men keep to it. I’ve told the Sergeant that no one can leave the fort until we’re certain everyone can keep to the rules. Then I’ll decide.”

I asked, “Was there anything notable about any of these men, something that might set them apart or make them more likely to be attacked?”

The Lieutenant looked at Hewson for a moment, then turned his eyes back to m. He shrugged, and said, “Well that first man was a painter -- water colors. That’s what he was doing when he was snatched.”

Jordie asked, “Was he any good, sir?”

Ames replied, “What I know about art wouldn’t choke a flea. But I liked some of what he painted, the scenes along the Rio. More detail than I thought water color could do.” Then, with raised eyebrows and a tilt to his head, he added, “I wasn’t so keen on his portraits.”

“Dory didn’t like doin’ them portraits,” Hewson explained, “but it was what d’ men would buy, so they could send ‘em home.”

“Dory?” I asked.

“Private Dory MacScot,” Hewson supplied.

“Did he sell any in town or to anybody off the fort?”

Ames shrugged but Hewson said, “Don’t think so. He pretty much kept t; hisself. Like I said, it was the portraits that sold, but he di’n’t care for doin’ ‘em. Dem other boys’d just chivvy him into it. Plus ‘e need d’ coin for his colors an’ paper”

“What about the second man, uh...”

“Oscar Harrison,” Twin said.

“Thanks, Sarge. What about Harrison? What was he like?”

“Good man, corporal material, eh, Sarge?” Ames said.

“Yes, sir, he was. Got’s along well with d’ other men, not afraid a’ work. Another fisherman, though.”

“So all these men were taken along the river?” I asked.

“Seems so,” Ames said.

“Do you know the Freedman’s Bureau man?”

Ames looked at Hewson. “Sarge?”

Hewson said, “Met him, di’n’t really know ‘im. He’d come over an’ play cards with d’ boys.”

“Did he play fair?”

“Never heard none complain.”

Ames asked, “Are you going to check with the people over at the Bureau?”

“We plan to, sir.”

Jordie said, “We’d also like to talk to the other men in the platoon, if that’s all right, Lieutenant.” Jordie glanced at me and I nodded for him to handle it. He turned back to Ames. “Would just after noon chow suit you, sir?”

Ames looked toward Hewson. “Does that interfere with anything, Sergeant?”

“Coupl’a d’ men will be on guard duty, but I can corral d’ rest.”

Jordie said, “Thanks, Lieutenant, Sergeant. We’ll see you at chow, Sarge.”

The Freedmen’s Bureau staff were cooperative, but the only thing we learned was that Mark Renfroe, the Freedman’s Bureau counselor who was killed, was studying to be a lawyer, working nder an attorney in Cincinnati, back in Ohio, where he planned to return after earning some money to live on. He also dressed more in keeping with northern business styles and was a bit fastidious in his appearance. But, otherwise, he was friendly and effective in his work.

Talking to the men of the Second Platoon was equally less helpful.

We heard a number of theories about what was going on and why the murders had all been members of their platoon. Speculations ranged from Mexican smugglers to a witch’s curse, but no helpful insights into the particular men. The one thing we did learn was that no one had seen anything of Dory MacScot’s easel and painting supplies that he’d usually taken along on his artistic excursions.

As the meeting was breaking up, I heard Jordie ask one of the men where he got his blouse. I looked over to find him talking to a private with what appeared to be a tailored uniform blouse, highly unusual for a colored infantry private, or for any infantry private, when it came down to that.

“Reg’lar blouse, Sergeant, but Oscar sew it up for me. He charged me four bits.” Fifty cents was more than a full day’s pay.

Jordie said, “Oscar? Oscar Harrison, the man who was killed?”

“Yeah, Sarge, Oscar be a snappy dresser. He say the ladies like a snappy dresser. I was savin’ up for him to do my trousers, but then...” The private shook his head solemnly.

“Did he do that kind of work for other soldiers?”

“Oh, sure. Even for some town folk.”

Jordie looked toward me and I raised my eyebrows.

“You know any of those town folk?”

“No, Sarge, I stay away from the whites. Only whites I know are the officers.”

“Thanks, Private, and the blouse does look sharp.” The man beamed as he walked off.

Outside, Twin asked me, “That sewing skill; you make anything of that?”

I shook my head. “Not directly, but who knows? Except for the last man, Jones, the others might chance have been chosen by chance and for bein’ alone. What do you think, Jordie?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’ jumps out at me. What’s next?”

Twin said, “How ‘bout we go out and see if we can find if the painter’s stuff is still out there.”

We’d been told that MacScot favored an area just this side of a sharp bend in the river, where he had a view directly west up a long expanse of the river. We stopped in the headquarters office to leave word of our destination and expected return, then set out on foot.

Major McColgin had shown us one of MacScot’s paintings, a sunset, the sunlight reflected in a long stretch of the river an framed by cottonwoods and willows. Once at the river bend, it only took us about fifteen minutes to find that spot, and even a stump that MacScot likely sat on while painting that or other river scenes. It was on slightly higher ground about thirty feet from the river itself.

“Yeah,” Twin said. “I see faint colors splashed here and there. Looks like most have been rained on.”

“Likely shakin’ off his brushes,” Jordie said.

“You becomin’ a painter?” I jibed.

“One a’ the women Janie knows does that,” he said, not looking up as he searched through the grass.

“And Janie happened to tell you that?” I said, while I searched a bit further away from the stump.

“Naw, I was watchin’.”

“Oh?” I said, archly.

Jordie looked over at me, grimacing. “She’s sixty-three and a gramma, you blockhead.”

“Maybe we should introduce her to Major Lange,” Twin said, from where he was searching, closer to the river.

“Major Lange is thirty-three, Twin.” I said.

“Thirty-three? Really? I can never tell how old you whites-- Hey, here’s a paint brush.” Twin vent to move some willow shoots. Jordie and I headed toward him.

Twin said, “Some broken willow stems there and there,” he pointed. “Somebody thrashed around in here.”

Jordie stopped and bent down to pick up some slender pieces of broken varnished lumber. “Looks like this may be part of his easel and maybe they used it to beat him. This looks like blood.” Jordie examined another piece, and sniffed it. “And maybe shoved this stick up his ass.”