By Robert Tomaino
Later that afternoon, August burst into the sheriff’s office. His face was a faded red from exertion, and he gasped as he tried to speak.
“You’d … you’d better get to the docks.” He smiled broadly despite his tiredness.
Jack grimaced. “This town never slows down.” He pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed his hat and his holster and followed August out of the door.
“What is it?” Jack asked as he caught up to August.
“The dockworkers.”
“Damn it.” Jack couldn’t hide the exasperation from his voice. “If those drunks want to fight, I’d just as soon let them.” He paused and looked at August. “Are they bothering townsfolk?”
“No,” August said, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just someone got them riled up.”
“Prescott?”
“Nope,” August said, smiling again. “It’s Sarah.”
“What?” Jack said. “What is she doing down by the docks?”
August shrugged. Jack increased his pace.
Angry shouts and jeers reached Jack’s ears before he arrived at the docks. A group of mostly men had formed a circle near one of the piers. The stood yelling back and forth, though most of the men were obscured by the barrels and crates that lined the dock. As he came closer, Jack realized that Sarah, hands on her hips and glowering at everyone, stood near the middle of the crowd.
Jack’s heart quickened when he saw Sarah. The motley assortment of men parted like a river rushing against an island. As he approached, one of the dockworkers took a swing at another man. The second man, whom Jack recognized as a keelboat captain, ducked and danced backward. A tremendous roar arose from the men as they surrounded the combatants.
Jack hesitated, debating whether to allow the fight or intervene. He was reluctant to get involved. These men had their own code, but most were already drunk, and the docks were a simmering powder keg, always on the verge of exploding into violence.
The dockhand in the fight, Harrison Tucker, was usually the lead instigator of these men. Jack had had several run-ins with him, usually due to the man’s alcoholism and unrepentant belligerence. The other combatant’s name was Cavanaugh. The Irishman most likely had arrived in town with a load of whiskey from Kentucky in his keelboat.
Harrison feinted in one direction and unleashed a powerful punch. Cavanaugh knocked the fist aside with a grunt. He swung at the dockworker, missing wildly.
Harrison pressed his attack. Cavanaugh attempted to dance away. Harrison jabbed several times and threw a couple of uppercuts. The Irishman deflected the blows with his arms as best he could. He threw a couple of counterpunches at Harrison, but the dockworker pressed him backward. Harrison jabbed a couple of times. Then he unloaded a savage cross that caught the other man on the right cheek.
A staggered Cavanaugh flailed a couple of times. He moved disjointedly inside the circle of men after taking the powerful blow. Harrison adroitly stepped aside, and Cavanaugh stumbled forward a couple of steps. Harrison unleashed an uppercut. He twisted his fist on the follow-through, catching Cavanaugh on the left side of his jaw. The captain crumpled to the ground.
Jack stepped between the two men. “Enough!” He held out his hands in either direction.
Cavanaugh moaned as he pushed himself off the ground. Harrison’s eyes narrowed as he stood straighter. His hands remained balled into fists. “This is none of yer business, Sheriff.”
Jack regarded the captain’s struggle to rise. Sarah rushed over and helped the man stand. “It appears this business is settled.”
“Says you.” Harrison eyed Jack warily.
“It’s over,” Jack said with more emphasis. “Why don’t you get to Kendall’s? Someone will buy you a drink.” He glanced down at Cavanaugh.
Harrison laughed. He looked around at the other dockworkers. “Yeah. One of you yellowbellies gonna buy me a whiskey?”
“The only yellowbelly here is you,” Sarah said, spitting the words out with contempt. Her eye blazed in challenge. “You’re twice his size.”
“You gotta a tongue on you, missy,” Harrison said. He leered at her in way that she was used to. Jack, however, was not.
“You want to go another round?” Jack asked. His words lost their anger, carrying a softer, yet somehow sharper tone. “With me?”
Harrison licked his lips. “You serious, Jack? I’ll never raise a gun against you. No way.” He shook his head with deliberation and held up his fists. “But I will drop you like a sack o’ barley.”
“No more fighting,” Sarah said. “I’m trying to find my daughter.” She looked to Jack. “I was talking to Captain Cavanaugh. Hoping he’d heard or seen something, when this thing interrupted.” She gestured with disgust at Harrison.
“Harrison, get out of here. All of you. Get a drink at Kendall’s.” The men started to shuffle off, except for Harrison. Jack stood his ground. “Unless you want to help us look for her daughter?”
Harrison’s eyes flicked to Sarah. He licked his lips. “Whiskey be good right now, I think. This town got some big problems in it.”
“What does that mean?” Jack asked.
“Preacher Prescott says we’re cursed,” Harrison said. “The river is rising, the crops are bad this year. All of it. He’s gonna fix it.” He sneered at Cavanaugh. “Plus, too many of these foreign folks coming ’round, too.”
Several of the dockworkers muttered in agreement. And Jack was sure he caught the word “witch” from one of them.
“Get yer whiskey, and I’ll let it go,” Jack said finally.
Harrison smiled and sauntered after the other dockworkers.
“What the hell happened?” Jack asked Sarah as he helped her move Cavanaugh to a crate. “August, go fetch Doc Waters.”
Sarah ignored Jack, checking on the blood and bruising marking the captain’s face.
Cavanaugh held up his hands. “Okay. I’m okay.” His words were faint, but clear. “I’m the one who needs that whiskey.” He laughed, grimacing at the effort.
“Sarah?” Jack asked.
“I was hoping the Captain may know something about Abbie.” Her face crumpled into a mishmash of furrows and wrinkles. “I don’t know what to do.”
“They started harassing her,” Cavanaugh said. “I tried to help.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” Sarah said, but she couldn’t bring anger to her tone. “Thank you for trying.”
“They seemed fired up about something,” Jack said. He looked in the direction that the dockworkers had left.
“It’s that preacher,” Cavanaugh said. “He got them fired up good. Says he’s gonna clean this town up.”
Jack didn’t speak for a moment. “I guess the preacher’s been busier than I thought. Are you all right?” he asked Sarah.
She nodded.
“I will find your daughter, but I gotta keep a better eye on Prescott as well.”
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Robert Tomaino is a writer and author born and raised in Connecticut. For more than 20 years, Robert has worked as in the rare disease community as a patient advocacy consultant and medical writer, taking complex medical concepts and converting it into understandable, lay language. Robert is an Internet minister who has performed three weddings, still has the stories he wrote in elementary school, believes everyone has a story to tell, and doesn’t make his bed in the morning. Robert’s first book, New Madrid, will be published by Woodhall Press in October of 2021. While Robert’s medical writing is primarily technical, his fiction writing covers a much broader range, from the obvious charms of the fantastical to the hidden depths of the mundane.
