The stormy night, the loss of life, these weighed heavy on Dixon as he carried the Blacks’ son into their home. The cheerful kitchen faded in the light of the horrific events. Events, if he were not mistaken, that pointed to something or someone beyond his realm of understanding.
He shrugged the boy off his shoulder and Joab helped him lay Rupert on a cot near the fireplace.
Dixon glimpsed back at Mrs. Black. From the distant look in her eyes and the blank look on her face, she had withdrawn from the situation. He rubbed the back of his neck and surveyed the room. “Looks like you need some kindling. Where’s your axe, Joab? I’ll split some wood.”
His friend pointed to a red-handled axe in the corner of the firebox. Dixon grabbed it and rushed outside. The Blacks needed to be alone.
Across the northern sky danced the many colors of the Aurora Borealis—the northern lights. He stopped to watch the awesome sight. How unusual to see them this far south so early in the year. One might think tonight was the war of the gods.
He glanced back at the house and frowned. Joab once told him there was only one true God, but if one god, why not many?
On the path to the back of the barn lay the dead body of Joab’s prize-winning Hereford bull. A bull Joab had brought on the train from Ontario. He’d used it to service some of the Kirkland’s cows in exchange for some heifer calves he’d get after weaning. Add that to the loss of their milk cow and the chickens—how many animals were killed in total? If Joab’s God existed, he must be a fierce God.
Rounding the back corner of the barn, Dixon found some driftwood and a stack of poplar logs. Probably brought up from the river. He lifted a large piece and set it on a stump by the stack.
“God holds no place in my life.” He swung the axe and let its head fall on the end of the log. The wood split with a loud crack. His mother had been Catholic, but religion hadn’t helped her survive Riel’s revolt. That’s when Dixon had given up on God.
He pulled a splinter off the side of the log and set it on the ground under the barn’s eave.
He’d seen enough in life to know that there was good and evil in the world— forces beyond his control. But no caring God existed. The Blacks didn’t deserve this devastation.
He swung the axe against the log, driving it through the wood with more power than he meant to employ. He thrust the axe down on another piece and continued attacking the wood as though it were the enemy. When he had a large mound of kindling, he wiped his brow with his coat sleeve and gathered the wood in his arms then bent low to grab a stick that rolled away.
A piece of brilliant white cloth waved from a nail on the bottom corner of the barn.
He set the wood down and leaned forward to examine the torn cloth. It shone in the moonlight. Could there be other evidence of an intruder? None of the Blacks’ clothes that he’d ever seen white like this—and certainly they wouldn’t wear such white clothing around the barn.
A quick survey revealed nothing more, not even a footprint; but that would have been washed away in the storm.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. Then, taking care not to damage the piece, he removed it from the nail. The cloth was wet. Obviously, it had been there before the storm.
Stepping away from the barn, Dixon tipped the material in the moonlight. There was no dirt on it, and the way it glistened reminded him of something he’d seen recently, but he wasn’t sure what. He dropped the cloth into his leather pouch. This was an important find. Perhaps the person whose clothing was torn let the animals out of the barn. But why would anyone do that?
Dixon gathered up the wood and hurried to the house. He needed to get this evidence to his office for a closer examination, though he’d have to wait until morning light to thoroughly examine the barn.
Blood pumped hard through his veins. He figured someone had it in for the Blacks, and he was determined to find out who it was.