Free Cottonwood by Scott Phillips

was using for the séance. To my right Maggie’s hand tightened its grip on my own.
    “Nigh on to six weeks now I lay unclaimed on the prairie. I come forth to accuse,” the purported spirit said, and despite my absolute disbelief in the present nonsense I felt a cold shudder move upward from the base of my spine like a wave to my scalp, for the voice sounded eerily familiar.
    “Who do you accuse, spirit?” Kate said, and at that moment I believe all three of us had to restrain a simultaneous urge to correct her use of the pronoun.
    “I accuse a man I wronged of wronging me in return,” said the masculine voice, and I was ever more certain that I knew it.
    “How did you wrong this man, spirit?” Kate said.
    “Upon arriving at his farm in his absence I took advantage of his addled wife’s loneliness and allowed her to take me into her bed.” With that confession I finally recognized the flat monotone of the drummer who’d screwed Ninna, and I supposed that this was a confidence he had exchanged with Katie in the process of seducing her, or in its aftermath. “He thereafter took my pistol and he shot out the crown of my hat.” Katie’s imitation of the drummer’s cadences and delivery and of his nasal drone were impeccable, based on my recollection of our sole, brief encounter.
    “Surely, spirit, these are no great wrongs compared to your befouling the man’s marriage bed,” Kate said, the very soul of reason.
    “Ah, would that that were all he had done, Kate,” the ghost lamented.
    Kate shuddered. “Spirit, how is it that you know my name?”
    “Kate, Kate. It’s I, A. J. Harticourt, who spent his last night of life in the hospitable shelter of your family home.”
    “Mr. Harticourt? But word hadn’t reached us that you’d died.”
    “I was followed, Kate, and when I set out the next morning the blackguard snuck behind me and crushed my skull with a hammer. He then robbed my body of what wealth I possessed, and even took my sample pots and pans.”
    Maggie gasped and once again tightened her grip.
    At this point Kate opened her eyes for the first time in several minutes and looked square into mine, resembling nothing so much as a rabid wolfhound, teeth bared in hateful anger. “ You. Saloonkeeper. You slew me for revenge and for gain.” The drummer’s low, dull mumble had metamorphosed into a raucous shriek, and Kate rose slightly from her chair without letting go of my hand or Marc’s.
    Marc’s mouth had drawn itself tighter than usual, his contempt for the proceedings transparent.
    I didn’t mind Katie’s game so much, though I will admit to being mildly unnerved by her performance. Maggie, though, clearly took it seriously, shifting her eyes uneasily between Katie’s altered face and my own resolutely calm expression, and I wanted badly to disabuse her of the notion that I had killed the drummer. “Drummer,” I said to Katie. “Tell me, if you’re really him, what make of pistol I took off of you.”
    She didn’t hesitate. “It was a Derringer, double barrel, given to me by my own brother.”
    “It was a Dragoon. And what was the hat made of ? The one I shot the hell out of ?”
    “The hat was wool felt, and brand-new, too.”
    “It was silk, and if anyone wants proof of that it’s sitting in my booze wagon at this moment.” I looked at Katie as I said it, and her eyes shut again.
    “Are you a deceitful spirit, then?” Katie cried out, and no reply in the other voice followed.
    “I didn’t know such a thing existed as a lie from the other world,” Marc said with a low chuckle, and that earned him a glare from his wife.
    Kate then began moaning once again, and I had the impression we were to be visited by another spirit, presumably one with a story less prone to contradiction. Maggie was quite excited now, leaning forward and peering at Kate’s head, which had recommenced its rhythmic back-and-forth motions.
    With Katie murmuring quietly, Maggie started rubbing my palm