Ingrid Baxter
Father was
hungry.
He never
was a good person but when he was hungry he was worse, much worse. Mother
suffered the brunt of it. Perhaps she was protecting her children or perhaps
she accepted it as her lot in life. She could never be described as loving but
she was Ingrid’s mother. It was all Ingrid had ever known.
They needed
to satisfy Father's hunger. Ingrid had to find a lone traveller. Someone no one
would miss. Someone on whom Father could
feed. They never lasted. Father was crueller with his food than he was with his
family. Their captives always died too soon leading to Father preying on his
family again.
They had
migrated to this part of America because it was still not fully tamed. People
went missing. The Baxters merely added a few more. With the right victims, no one
noticed.
Father’s
hunger was foremost in Ingrid’s mind. Mother was weak. She needed time to rest
and recuperate. If Father kept taking from her as he did, she would not be much
longer for this world. The downside of living here was the relative scarcity of
suitable victims.
Even when
no one passed by, Ingrid enjoyed sitting down here at the border of their land.
She was free from the privations of a violent father and her lustful brother.
It was
getting late. Ingrid had to think about her need for food and of making
tonight’s family meal. She was about to return to the house when she saw a lone
rider cresting the hill. She climbed up and sat on the gate. She watched him
approach. He was riding from the East, which meant he was coming from a long
way away. He was ripe for the picking.
He
increased his speed to a trot. Thankfully, he was alone. Father would eat well
tonight.
“Good
evening, stranger,” she said. “What do they call you?”
The man
stopped by the gate. He looked tired but he was young and healthy. He did not
answer straight away. “Bartram, ma’am,” he tugged on the brim of his bowler,
“they call me Bartram, ma’am.”
“Bartram is
it?” she said, feeling mischievous. “You are not sounding so sure.”
“Caught me
unawares is all,” he replied, “don’t expect to see no comely lass out here.”
She
laughed. This one was going to be too easy. “You look road-weary, Bartram. We
take in strangers who need a hot meal and a warm bed.” She lifted her hat
slightly to give Bartram a better view of her face.
“I could
certainly use a hot meal and a warm bed. Sleeping on the ground ain’t no fun
for nobody.”
“Well, you
had better come in then.” She jumped down from the gate and opened it for him.
“Follow me, our house is this way.”
Bartram
said, “Say, ma’am. Mighty rude of me. Didn’t ask you your name.” He did not
dismount.
She looked
back at him, “Ingrid.”
“Ingrid,”
he echoed.
“I’ll
stable your horse round the back. Go in the front door. When you see my
brother, Jasper, tell him I sent you.”
After they
had got to the front of the Bartram dismounted and passed the reigns to Ingrid.
She watched him go into the house before leading the horse around the back to
the stable.
The horse
went straight for the water trough. While it drank, Ingrid brushed it down. It
was a fine animal. She saw signs of fatigue but nothing to worry about. It
would fetch a handsome price. Ingrid thought about what she might buy with the
money. She could use some new clothes.
When she
was done assessing the horse, Ingrid went to her bed-bound Mother. “We have a
customer,” she said in her native German.
“Is good,”
whimpered Mother, managing a weak smile.
Ingrid
leant over and kissed her mother’s forehead. “Stew tonight. I shall bring some
later. Rest now.”
# # #
A care-worn
curtain separated the kitchen from the public area of the Baxters’ home, Cherryvale Inn. Ingrid could hear Jasper
Jnr talking to Bartram as she stirred the simmering stew. She popped her head
around the curtain to check on the boys. “Who is hungry?”
“Oh yes,”
they said in unison.
Ingrid
returned to the kitchen and served up three bowls. She made sure to save some
in the pot for Mother. With practised ease, she carried them through the
curtain into the public area. “There is no good beer here...” she said as she
lay the plates down.
“The beer
in the saloon is terrible,” interrupted Jasper to her annoyance.
“…but we do
have some sarsaparilla.” She had not quite mastered the word’s pronunciation.
“We have a real drink after we have eaten.” She smiled at Bartram making eye to
eye contact with him.
Bartram
rubbed his hands together. “Sounds good to me!”
“Jasper,”
said Ingrid, as she sat at the table, “you wanna get the drink?”
“What?”
said Jasper. Had he forgotten the routine? Ingrid distracts the customer... “Oh
yes. I know where it is.” He got up and disappeared behind the curtain.
Bartram
said, “Jasper says you will be making up a bed for me?”
“Yes, we
can put you up in here, or you can take one of our beds. I can sleep in the
barn.” The hook was baited.
“In the
barn?” Said Bartram. “It is not right a fine looking woman such as yourself
should end up in a barn.”
“Oh, I am
used to it,” she replied. Time to reel him in. “This is only a small house and
we must make do.” She leaned closer. “It is not all bad. Father cannot hear
what goes on in there.” She winked. Ingrid had Bartram’s full attention.
Jasper
returned with a chipped jug of sarsaparilla. He passed out a tin mug each to
Bartram, Ingrid and finally himself. Ingrid served the drink. Jasper raised his
and toasted, “Your good health!”
Bartram’s
attention was fixed on Ingrid. She curled a strand of blonde hair with her left
hand. She stared back at him as she put a spoonful of stew into her mouth. Got
you! “You finish up your stew, Bartram,” she said, “here have some bread to mop
it up. I bake it fresh.”
“I will go
for the kirschwasser,” said Jasper, “you will like.”
Bartram
took up a piece of bread to mop up the last of his stew. He rubbed his belly.
"That hit the spot. You know, Ingrid, you should get a sign. More
customers."
Ingrid glanced
at Jasper Jnr as he stood and disappeared behind the curtain. She sat back.
This was her favourite part.
There was
no warning. Jasper hit Bartram over the back of the head from behind the
curtain. He never saw it coming. Bartram tried to grasp the table but he fell
to the floor. He reached up to his bleeding head.
Jasper
re-appeared through the curtain, hammer in hand ready to deliver another blow,
but there was no need. Bartram fell, out cold. Jasper put the hammer onto the
table and grabbed Bartram under his arms. Ingrid followed as Jasper dragged his
victim out of the front door and round the back to a small building they called
“Father’s larder”. Ingrid shackled Bartram’s wrists. She always felt better
once they were secured.
“You have
done it again, sister,” said Jasper. He grabbed hold of Ingrid and pushed her
up against the wall. She knew what was coming. It was better not to resist. He
held her tight. He forced his tongue into her mouth. The first time he did this
to her she felt sick. Now, she just felt numb.
When she
could speak, she said, “I need to feed Mother.”
“My needs
first,” replied Jasper, unfastening his belt.
# # #
Mother
sat up and nibbled at her stew. Ingrid sat at the opposite end of the bed.
Silently, she watched her mother eat. She had memories of Mother as a strong
and vibrant woman who gave as good as she got. Those days were long gone. Years
of abuse at the hands of Father had reduced her to a shadow of her former self.
The
old woman picked out bits of meat or vegetable and popped them into her mouth.
Ingrid watched this slow process with a heavy heart. Is this my fate, too? She wondered. The thought should have
been depressing. There was nothing, just deeply-ingrained numbness. Had Mother
and Father ever been happy? She had no memory of joy.
Ingrid
thought about Bartram shackled in Father’s larder. She had seen the lust in his
eyes. She recognised the look: she had seen it on Jasper often enough. Cherryvale Inn’s guests never made it to
the barn. Jasper was the only man she had ever known.
Mother
was looking better after her meal but she had made a mess. The stew had
dribbled down her nightgown, creating more stains. Ingrid continued to watch
the dried-up, old hag of a woman. If Father turned Jasper Jnr, then this was
what her brother would have in store for her. Thoughts of escape surfaced, as
they often did. She could not run and abandon Mother. She could not do it.
Ingrid asked herself if this was what love was. She had no way of knowing.
“Have
you finished?” Ingrid asked in German. Mother could not speak English.
“Och,
nearly,” barked Mother, “is good, yes?”
“Yes,
Mother.”
Mother
drank the last of the stew from the bowl, spilling more.
"Here,"
said Ingrid, passing Mother a rag. “Get some rest. Father will not need you
tonight.”
“That
is good,” barked Mother. There was never a gentle word from her; she always
sounded harsh.
Ingrid
took away the empty bowl and left her Mother alone.
# # #
Jasper
was in the dining room looking through Bartram’s things.
“You
idiot, swine!” He spat, in German.
“What?”
It was getting late and Ingrid could really do without Jasper's bad temper.
“Do
you know what you have done?” Jasper had a short fuse but never got angry over
nothing.
“No.
What have I done?” she asked, also in German, as she sat down putting the
dining table between her and her brother.
“What
have you done? What have you done?” Jasper screamed the words at her.
“I
do not know,” said Ingrid, bracing herself for whatever punishment Jasper was
about to inflict.
“I’ll
tell you what you have done, Ingrid. That young man in the larder is called
Bartholomew Carlisle.”
“Carlisle?”
Ingrid felt her stomach drop. “Shit.”
“Shit?
Is that all you have to say after your
mistake?”
“My
mistake? You hit him. You.”
“You
failed to inform me he is a Carlisle.”
“I
did not know. Perhaps, he is not one of those Carlisles?” It was a desperate
hope that his name was a coincidence and not related to the powerful landowners
in the area.
“You
think that is likely?”
Ingrid
knew better not to answer.
Jasper
got up and paced back and forth. He had so far not shown any sign of violence.
“He
must die.”
“No,”
said Ingrid, thinking of Mother, “Brimstone is a day’s ride away. He won’t be
missed for at least a day. It will be another day before anyone comes looking.”
“And
what if he is already late?”
“He
is not. He was not rushing. He was relaxed about staying here and never said
anything about being late.”
“He
never mentioned he is a Carlisle, either.” Jasper slammed his fists onto the
table. "No doubt thinking about getting into your cunt, whore."
“Like
you brother, I don’t think he was expecting to pay for my cunt.”
Jasper
moved fast. There was a blur of movement and then Ingrid was sprawled on the
floor. She had not had time to react and was unsure where the punch had
connected.
“Show
some respect!”
Whore,
her rapist had called her a whore. It was almost funny. It was not as if he
paid her. As she lay there wanting to sob but finding no tears, she thought
about the women at Delilah’s. Ten dollars a night they earned. They did not
have to suffer at the hands of men either. She had heard stories about one of
the women, Bonnie. She could knock a man out with one punch. No one ever caused
trouble at Delilah’s, at least not twice. Life upstairs in a saloon did not
seem so bad.
He
picked her up and sat in her a chair. “Look what you made me do.” He gently
caressed her cheek. It could almost be loving. “Why do you do these things to
make me angry? You know it hurts me as much as you.”
Scratching
his eyes out would have been her preferred answer. Instead, she just stared at
him. She lacked the strength to be angry.
“Look,”
he said, “we can talk to the Carlisle swine. Make him tell us.”
“Good
idea,” replied Ingrid. Perhaps Jasper would vent his anger on Bartholomew and she
could get on with trying to cry herself to sleep.
# # #
Ingrid
unlocked the door to Father’s larder. She waited outside while Jasper stormed
in to confront Bartram.
“Why
didn’t you tell us you are a Carlisle, you stupid ass?” He kicked Bartram.
“What?”
Whimpered Bartram, his voice breaking.
“Bartholomew
goddamned Carlisle!” Jasper shot the words out like bullets.
“Never
asked.” croaked Bartram.
Jasper
kicked him again. “Who knows you are coming? Who is expecting you?”
“Water.”
Bartram’s
plea earned him another kick. Ingrid saw him reach out to her. “Help.”
Ingrid
said to Jasper in German, “I’ll get some water.”
“He
does not deserve water,” replied Jasper in the same language through gritted
teeth.
“Yes,
but he can hardly speak. You want him to talk, no? I’ll get some from the horse
trough.”
Jasper
grunted his approval.
She
fetched the water and tipped some into Bartram’s mouth. He spluttered and
choked spitting water everywhere.
“Better
tell Jasper what he wants to know,” said Ingrid. She tipped a little more water
into his mouth.
“Enough!”
Barked Jasper, knocking Ingrid out of the way spilling water all over the
floor. “Are you expected? Who will come looking for you?”
“Yes,”
said Bartram, “Expected.”
Jasper
kicked him again. “Who will come looking for you?”
“Everyone,”
said Bartram, trying to sound defiant. “Carlisles look after their own.”
Jasper
threw some more German words at him. “Swine! Stupid idiot! Shit! Swine!”
“If
you let me go and leave now. Go to Canada. You could get away.” The feeble
attempt at defiance had made way for desperation.
Jasper
kicked him again. “We… could… get… away?” He followed it up with another kick.
Ingrid
picked herself up. She said to Jasper, in German, “Leaving might be a good
idea.”
“And
go where?” Replied Jasper. “We have a good thing going here. Do you want to
start again? You know how much Father hates to travel.”
“Bury
him deep,” said Ingrid, “very deep.”
“Oh
I will,” said Jasper, “and you can help dig it. This is your fault.”
“Please,
don’t kill me. Kill me, Carlisles never stop hunting you.”
“Quiet,”
ordered Jasper.
“Father
has fed today,” said Ingrid, still in German, “we keep him alive until tomorrow
night.”
“For
once, you are right,” replied Jasper. “We can dig his grave tomorrow and Father
can feed tomorrow night. Problem solved.”
“You
will have to burn his possessions.”
Ingrid
crouched down in front of Bartram and looked him straight in the eye. “You not
tell us your full name. We might have given you lodgings, is all. All this is
your fault. You could have avoided this. Father will feed again. You will die.
Jasper is burning everything that could identify you. We sell your horse. We
leave no trace. You were never here.”
In
a burst of anger, Bartholomew Carlisle tried to lunge at Ingrid but the
restraints held fast.
Ingrid
got to her feet and left. Jasper had already gone. She shut the door and locked
it behind her.
# # #
Ingrid
tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her. She sat up and rubbed her face. Her
thoughts were a conflicted mess. She thought about Mother, sleeping soundly,
oblivious to Father murdering another innocent soul. She even thought about
taking Bartram to the barn. Having a man inside of her was always something
forced upon her, it had never been her choice.
She grabbed
a gown and wandered into the kitchen. The kirschwasser was in its usual place
and she took a long gulp straight from the bottle. The heat of the liquor was
soothing. She took another swig and thought about Bartram. Had Father killed
him yet? It was not in Father's nature to make the kill quick and merciless. It
would be long and drawn out so that he could extract every ounce of pleasure
from it.
A wide yawn
meant she was tired, but there was no drowsiness. She pushed her way past the
curtain and sat in the chair where Jasper had attacked Bartram. Ingrid just sat
there, staring into the darkness. There was no emotion. There was only
emptiness.
# # #
“Wake up,
lazy bones!”
Ingrid
rubbed her eyes. Her brother came into focus.
"Father
has finished," said Jasper, "we have a grave to dig."
"What?
Oh yes," said Ingrid, still not fully awake. She felt stiff after sleeping
slumped over on the table. She stretched and yawned.
"Come
on," barked Jasper, "breakfast."
"I
need coffee," said Ingrid, stifling a yawn, "want some while I cook
breakfast?"
Jasper sat
opposite Ingrid as she got up to go into the kitchen. The stove needed cleaning
out, but that would have to wait. She lit the stove. While that was warming up,
she fetched some water from the well.
"We
are running low on coffee," she shouted, "we need to go to Brimstone
soon to stock up."
Jasper
shouted back, "I will sell the horse tomorrow. We can travel to Brimstone
the day after."
Ingrid
looked around for something to cook for breakfast. All of yesterday's stew was
gone. There was still some mutton and bread left. That would have to do.
They ate
their morning meal in silence. Ingrid preferred it this way.
Jasper
pushed away his empty plate and belched before polishing off his coffee.
"Time to get to it," he said. "I’ll get the body. You start
digging a hole. Find a good spot at the back of the orchard."
Ingrid
finished her coffee. She would have to clear away the plates and feed Mother
later.
# # #
The
following morning, Father was well-fed and Mother looked better, though far
from well. The large bruise on the left side of Ingrid’s face would heal. This
counted as a good day for the Baxters.
After
breakfast, Ingrid returned to the gate. She could forget about Bartram now he
was safely buried in the cherry orchard. As usual, no one passed by but Ingrid
did not mind. She even enjoyed the rain shower. It was refreshing.
It
was well into the afternoon when she saw two riders approaching from the West,
the direction of Brimstone. It was ranger Valdez with a deputy, Injun Jane.
She
rushed up the path back to the house. She saw Jasper walking Bartram’s horse.
“Visitors,” she hissed, in German, “we have visitors. Stable the horse.”
“Who
is it?” Asked Jasper.
“The
Mexican Ranger, Valdez and Injun Jane.”
Jasper
led the horse back into the stable and shut the door. “Play it clever, Ingrid,”
he ordered. “I shall wait for them in the house, You go and greet them.”
She
rushed back down to the gate. Stood there, she saw a dismounted Valdez. He was
about to open the gate.
“Good
afternoon, Ranger Valdez,” she said. She acknowledged his companion, “Injun
Jane.”
“Good
afternoon Ingrid,” replied Valdez.
“What
happened to your face?” asked Injun Jane.
“What?
Oh that,” said Ingrid, she had forgotten about the bruise, “I fell and hurt
myself. Can you believe how clumsy I am?” She was not sure that Injun Jane was
convinced but Valdez showed no interest. “Come on in,” she continued, “it is
not often we have visitors.”
They
walked up the path, the other two leading their horses. Ingrid suppressed
panic. She had told Jasper to stable Bartram’s horse. Here she was escorting
two guests with their horses onto her property. Think Ingrid, think! She had no
idea what to do. “What brings you way out here?”
Valdez
said, “Missing person.”
Her
heart skipped a beat. “Missing person, you say?”
“Do
you know Charlotte?” Asked Injun Jane. “One of Delilah’s girls.”
“Charlotte?”
Said Ingrid, hoping she did not sound relieved.
“Yeah,
Charlotte,” said Valdez. “Delilah’s most popular whore. The whole of Brimstone
is out looking for her.” He pronounced the word "whore" like it left
a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Let
me take your horses. I can brush them down and water them while you go in to
see Jasper.”
“Right
you are,” said Valdez. He and Injun Jane handed their reins over to Ingrid.
She
watched the two of them go into the house before leading the two horses round
the back. The horses needed no persuasion to go to the water trough. She found
a brush and got to work on Valdez' horse. She was about to start on Injun
Jane’s horse when Jasper came out of the back of the house followed by their
two guests.
Jasper
said, “A whore is missing, presumed kidnapped. I don’t know who Charlotte is
but we have not seen anyone for days, have we?”
“No,”
replied Ingrid.
“We’ll
get back,” said Valdez.
“I’ll
walk you back to the trail,” said Ingrid. She was worried that Injun Jane might
notice Bartram’s tracks. She hoped the rain had removed all traces of them.
# # #
Two days
later, late in the afternoon, Jasper and Ingrid arrived in Brimstone. Jasper
hated it here but Ingrid always enjoyed their rare trips into the fledgling
town. They had some money from the sale of the horse, or rather Jasper did.
Ingrid's
good looks attracted a lot of male attention. This aroused the disapproval of
Jasper. “Don’t be getting no ideas about the menfolk giving you the eye,” said
Jasper. “I’m going to the saloon. You go to the store and get what we need.
I’ll join you later to pay for it.”
Glad to be
rid of him for a while, she made her way to the store. The sign said “Star and
Bullock” but she could never remember which was which. The one stood behind the
counter greeted her, “Good afternoon, Miss Ingrid. Always a pleasure to see
you.”
“Good
afternoon,” replied Ingrid. “I have a list of provisions I need.” She passed it
to him. “Jasper will be in shortly to pay.”
“Right you
are, Miss.”
She waited
patiently for her order to be put together. The bell above the door rang as
another customer came in. Ingrid recognised he was a Carlisle but did not know
his name.
He raised
his bowler, “Good afternoon, Ingrid.”
“Good
afternoon, Master Carlisle.”
“Jake,” he
said, drinking her in with his eyes, “no need for formality here.”
“Pleased to
meet you, Jake.” She was making polite conversation with a relative of the man
she had not long ago buried. Did he suspect?
“You have
that house about a day’s ride to the East? You ain’t seen a cousin of mine by
any chance have you? Name of Bartholomew. Not as good lookin’ as me.” He
winked.
“Should I
have?”
“Comin’
here from back West. He might ride past your neck of the woods.”
“We’ll be
sure to look out for him and… Bartholomew, you say his name was?”
“Aye.
Comin’ out here to learn the family business. Old Cowhand is wondering what is
keeping him.”
“He is
probably delayed in a brothel.”
Jake
Carlisle laughed. “Man needs to learn ranching not whoring. Still, can’t say I
blame him. If you see him, tell him there are some fine whores right here in
Brimstone if he needs to dip his wick. Overpriced, if you ask me but they get
the job done.”
“Dip his
wick?”
Jake
pointed to his crotch and thrusted a couple of times.
“Oh, I see.
An American expression.” Ingrid laughed.
“I, being a
man of breeding and values, prefer my women unsullied. Perhaps, I can visit?
Maybe on a Sunday after church when I ain’t training?”
He was all
polite and charming but Ingrid could see how fake he was. It was possible he
was not as bad as Jasper and Father but she could see he was cut from the same
cloth. It might have been better if Jake were lying under the orchard rather
than Bartholomew. “As much as I would like that, Jake, Father and my brother
are over protective.”
“Protective
from a... Carlisle?” She saw the
charming mask slip and caught a glimpse of the monster hiding behind it.
“If you
wish to court me,” continued Ingrid, “you will have to seek the permission of
Father.”
“We’ll see
about this.” He stormed out slamming the door behind him.
“Your
order. Miss?”
She had
forgotten about her provisions.
“When will
your brother be here with the money?”
# # #
It was late
when Ingrid and Jasper jnr got back home. They had both ridden back in silence.
Ingrid had spent the time pondering how she would bring up the subject of a
Carlisle wanting to court her.
Jasper took
the provisions inside leaving Ingrid to stable the horses. She fed and watered
them and then brushed them both down. Ordinarily, she would have not bothered
but grooming delayed her having to go into the house.
Once she
was inside, Jasper said, “What took you so long?”
“I was
brushing down the horses.”
“What,
tonight?” Jasper asked with suspicion in his voice.
“I needed
to think.”
“You?
Needed to think?” Jasper laughed.
“It is no
laughing matter,” replied Ingrid, reverting to German.
“Oh?”
“I saw Jake
in the store, Jake Carlisle, Bartram’s cousin, not Irish Jake from the Saloon.”
“What did
you say him?” Jasper asked, also in German.
“Just that
we would keep an eye out for Bartholomew.” She paused while she gathered her
courage. “And that he should speak to Father if he wants to court me.”
Jasper was
not pleased. “You were whoring yourself to a Carlisle?”
“Jake
Carlisle is coming here to visit to see Father. He wants to come round every
Sunday after church. Every Sunday. The Carlisles are coming.”
Other stories set in Brimstone: "Father Nathaniel Blackadder", "Jolene White", "Hubert Alderman", "Bonnie", "Charlotte" and "Bartholomew Carlisle".
