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Phil Truman Biography

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“Penelope decided a crippled-up second lieutenant didn’t have much of a future in the military, as well as no longer fitting her criteria for dashing.  With encouragement from her, Bob Tregonne saw his opportunity and took it. Poor bastard. Last I heard they married and moved to Washington where Bob got a promotion and a new post. My guess, he won’t be the last of the woman’s fools, especially in Washington society. Probably be a long list of husbands and lovers in that bucket.”

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“I thought about what he was saying. “Old Long Walker talked about this Dire Wolf,” I said. “Is that a man or an animal.” “A little of both, I reckon… and neither.” He got quiet again, sipped his coffee, reading the window glass. The wind screamed and howled beyond it, out in the feral night.”

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“I gently urged Clyde toward a big elm tree standing twenty yards from the front of the cabin and reined him to a stop partially behind the wide trunk. Pulled my rifle out of its boot and rested it across the big gelding’s withers. “You Wilbur Redhand?” He kept whittling without looking up. “Who’s askin?” “I’m Deputy Marshal Jubal Smoak. Looking for an outlaw named Crow Redhand. If you’re Wilbur, I was told you’re his kin.” He nodded and kept whittling. Presently, he said, “Crow ain’t here. He come, but he left. Needed doctoring. Someone shot him in the foot.” “Reckon that’d been me,” I said. “Had a shootout down near Fairland. I shot him in the foot. He shot me in the back.” He squinted at me. “Surprised you’re alive. Crow usually aims to kill. Never knew him to miss.”

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“The general’s daughter swept into the room like an angelic visitation. Never seen such a vision of the feminine in my life. It hit me between the eyes like someone pressed a live telegraph wire to the back of my head. She came amongst us boys so coquettish and alight with laughter that we all took on dumbfounded stupidity, not quite knowing what to say or how to act.”

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“Zlata Dromenko was a stout Cossack about my height with a thick single eyebrow giving her a serious, severe look. I found out she’d been a mail-order bride who came over from Ukraine to marry a local farmer, a Russian immigrant. He died, though, and now Mrs. Dromenko worked in the hospital bullying patients like me. I called her “Hun,” because she made me think of Attila. I was curious as to how Mr. Dromenko died but was afraid to ask.”

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“Many generations past, before even the Spaniards came, hundreds of years ago, maybe even thousands.” He shrugged, shook his head. “My ancestors lived along the Mississippi. Back then they were known as the Downstream People. Moundbuilders, it’s said. No one knows why they did this, not now, but most tell that the mounds were spiritual, the dwelling places for spirits, good and bad. The spirit of the Shanka’ Tunka is one kind of spirit that stayed there, an evil one. Legend has it he awakens every hundred years or so, roams the land looking for a likely soul to take, someone who ain’t too far from evil himself.”

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“I’m Caitlin McDonald,” she said, loosening the thick wool scarf from around her neck and down off her face, motioning her chin toward the big male. “You’ve already met Hector and his gang.” When Major Standback said widow I pictured an older woman. Not this one. She was young, no more than thirty. The cold on the skin of her fine features made her face shine. She had the clean, clear beauty of a china doll.”

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“Makade-ma'iingan walked slowly toward him out of the gloom. She circled him, her head low, her cerulean eyes lancing into him like arrows. Her voice spoke in his grandmother’s tongue. “Myeengun, you must rise and finish your work, rip out the throats of the whites who oppress and pursue us. The spirit of your grandmother, the spirits of all your people, demand it. I am Otshee monetoo, and I command it.” She lunged, sinking her yellow teeth deep into his chest where he’d pressed the knife. The flash of pain struck him like a sudden bolt from angry clouds. It reached so much beyond his level to endure, that this time he did cry out. His feral howl screaming out into the cold night, rolling through the valley like a keening from the damned.”

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“The deep bowl of frozen air that lay still across the land promised to make the clear night colder than the day. Through the warm glow of the dining room window, we could see Standback and a woman taking their meal. A servant came in to say something to him, and he looked out the window at our approach in the remaining daylight. Standback met us on the porch as we walked our horses up.”

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Book:Dire Wolf of the Quapaw: a Jubal Smoak Mystery
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“The Dire Wolf killed the Jakes,” he said. “Who’s this Dire Wolf?” I asked. Figured he was talking about someone he knew. He spoke in a whisper, almost reverently. “The Dire Wolf is the curse of the Downstream People, the Arkansa. He is an evil spirit of the Quapaw.” I sighed and shook my head, knowing how these old Indians liked to throw in a bunch of mythical tribal mumbo-jumbo and superstition to deflect blame from someone they knew. “Well, you know where I can find this Dire Wolf fella?” I asked. “He cannot be found,” the old man said. “Really. You have reason to believe he’s taken off to other parts?” He said nothing for a full quarter minute, his black eyes intently on mine, searching. I could see contempt in them and a sadness. Made me nervous. “No,” old Long Walker answered at last. “He has not departed. Now that he has awakened, he will kill again.”

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“Never been around dogs much. My mom had a collie when I was a boy, but she was a gentle animal who stayed around the house, mostly. My father, and the men he knew, all had braces of big surly hunting dogs they used for going after wild hogs. The times he took me with him on those hunts, I was more afraid of those dogs than the feral hogs. Think they could sense it. Always felt like they would’ve taken the least opportunity to sink their teeth into me.”

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