by S. F. Wood
“Mr. Beauregard,” the Preacher waved his fork in front of him, as if in some form of admonishment, but realized there was a piece of bacon on the end of it. He put this in his mouth, chewed it, enjoyed it and swallowed it. Only then did he continue: “I truly have walked in the shadow of the Valley of Death. Only then it was called Sharpsburg. Banks don’t signify.”
Sitting near the entrance to the kitchen they could hear more bacon sizzling on the griddle. Jackson was attacking his food – he hadn’t appreciated just how hungry he was – while the Preacher continued: “You can say a lot against – and a lot for, mind – Musulmen. They are, after all, People of the Book. But what can you say about a belief system that eschews the wondrous bacon? It is one of the true pleasures of this life. We are nearly all condemned to die a miserable death, be it in pain, squalor, debt, even all three. And many, like that poor wretch we saw this morning, will leave God’s Earth ahead of their allotted three score year and ten. So I ask you Mr. Beauregard, do we not suffer enough without having also to forgo the ecstatic joy that bacon can give us?”
“Not just bacon Your Honor,” said Jackson. “The pig is the most wondrous supplier of food for the breakfast table.” He held up his one remaining sausage, fixed to the three prongs of his fork. “The pork sausage! A personal favorite. But do not forget the pork confit, trotters, terrine...”
“And of course, Head Cheese,” interrupted the Preacher, “Although I am not so keen on a pig’s brain when it is pickled in vinegar. But as to a meat jelly! ‘Tis a wonder for the taste buds or I’m a Dutchman!” To which they both raised their mugs of coffee in salutation: “To the Sus Domesticus – the domesticated pig!” proposed the Preacher and the two mugs clinked together.
“And not forgetting his wild cousin, Sus scrofa!” added Jackson. The two touched mugs again, drank a mouthful of coffee each, and continued their breakfast.
“These eggs deserve a toast as well,” said the Preacher.
“Deserve to be on some toast I think,” said Jackson, and this time the Preacher agreed it was an admirable pun.
“Tell me,” said Jackson after he had wiped his plate clean with a hunk of black bread and pushed it to one side, “Do you plan to stay in Abilene long?”
The Preacher had been looking Jackson over during the course of breakfast. Noted his demeanor, his openness and yes, he allowed that the easterner was a personable kind of fellow. He had charm, and was bright with it. Out came the pipe from his left pocket, and his pouch of tobacco from the right. He waved his pipe at Jackson by way of asking whether he minded him smoking. The merest nod from across the plates and he filled the bowl, lit it, and took two or three draws. Jackson took advantage of the pause to roll himself a cigarette. It was unusual for him to have his daily smoke at this hour, preferring to keep it for the evening meal. But it had been such a fine breakfast and the verandah was bathed in the early morning sunshine; pleasant and warming, the best part of the day. He was enjoying the Preacher’s company, so why not prolong the moment. And he was curious as to the Preacher’s intentions.
“Heading south to Ellsworth tomorrow. And you?”
“I guess I’ll be headed to Hays City. My editor wants me to interview Wild Bill Hickok. Last he’d heard, Hickok was in Hays.”
The was another pause before the Preacher said, “I heard he is in Ellsworth.”
“That’s good to know! Where’s Ellsworth?”
“South of here. South and west. Along the Sante Fe Trail. Maybe a day’s travel. On the route to Fort Larned. Wells, Fargo & Co. have a stage line goes there. I’m taking the dawn stage. Ticket office will be open now.” Then, changing the subject, the Preacher said: “I seem to remember you saying yesterday, Mr. Beauregard, that you are a native of Gotham. That is right?”
“Well I work for a New York newspaper, but I was raised in Connecticut. Though my grandfather came from Louisiana. Hence the surname.”
“Don’t tell me – your mother is from Jackson, Mississippi.”
Jackson smiled at the thought his mother. “Now she is a New Yorker, from Dutch stock. Or a ‘New Amsterdammer’, as she likes to put it. Not that she speaks any Dutch. But she does follow the Hollanders’ religious beliefs. It is from my mother that I learnt my scriptures. My father has quite a different view on that. And you sir? From where do you hail?”
The Preacher chose not to hear the question. Or at least, not to answer it. “You have a natural gift for being a newspaper correspondent, Mr. Beauregard. Being from the North, I take it you supported the blue side during the war.”
“I was too young to fight of course. But my elder brother, Samuel, joined the 9th New York Hawkins’ Zouaves.”
“Volunteer?”
“Yessir,” said Jackson. “I was barely 13 when Sumter fell. Sam was sure-fire against the War of Rebellion, so he joined with his class-mates.”
Both men had finished their smokes by now. Finished their coffee too. The Preacher resisted the temptation to ‘come it the elder’ and talk down to the younger man, making his reply of “Some folk called it The War of Northern Aggression,” sound merely a disinterested observation. “Officer?”
The Preacher did not interrupt the silence. Then, “Sam got killed at Antietam. What you referred to earlier as Sharpsburg. You said you were there.”
Now it was the Preacher’s turn to pause for thought. “I was a Major then, in the cavalry.” And a comforter too. “If ever there was a day when God cried, it was then.”
Jackson coughed a delicate cough. “Without wishing to sound disrespectful to your calling, sir, my father said that as far as he was concerned, if any day were to prove God does not exist, it was that day. And I am inclined to agree with him. Not that he ever was a believer.” He then called for and paid the check.
The two stepped out into the morning sunshine. It was now approaching 9am and the streets of Abilene were beginning to fill with people going about their daily business. The Preacher cast a look over his shoulder. He could just about make out the livery stable in the distance, on the other side of the railroad track. Nothing he could see suggested that anything at all had happened there that morning, least of all a public execution. Moving on, they headed west along the thoroughfare looking to go into Cedar Street. “If I were you, Mr. Beauregard, I’d be sure to interview the marshal here, as I said. But now we must take our leave of each other. However, should you decide on Ellsworth, the stage departs at dawn tomorrow.”
But before he could take his leave of Jackson, both men saw Nathan Banks step out from a hotel just up ahead. “This could be interesting,” said the Preacher.
Banks saw them immediately. Now some men in Banks’ position would hide themselves in shame. And an even better man would walk up and offer an apology. Banks did neither. He quickened his pace toward them and his demeanor showed that he still felt he was the aggrieved party. “I knew it! I knew you two were in cahoots! That trick with the Queen of Hearts! Coming it all the innocent!”
The irate salesman was perhaps ten feet from the Preacher and Jackson. Both parties stopped and Jackson made to pacify matters, raising his hands clear of his body to show there was no threat. “Mr. Banks please, I can assure you that this gentleman and I only met at the tables yesterday. And if anyone is aggrieved it ought to be Mortensen and me. But I assure you sir, I ain’t holding a grudge.”
This only served to rile Banks more. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced what looked to be... “My, my,” said the Preacher, somewhat scornfully. “A Philadelphia Derringer. I know a man who swears by those.”
“Now a gun is not the answer Banks, an’ you know it.” This from a by now somewhat concerned, not to say startled, Jackson.
The Preacher continued, “Something else Mr. Banks knows is that his particular pocket pistol is capable of only one shot.” Banks’ attention was turned on the Preacher, who then added, “What sort of gambler are you, sir?”
“You damn fool Preacher! That’s what you said yesterday when
you pulled that stunt on me. Well I’m holding the ace card now see!” Banks waved the pistol threateningly
The Preacher was standing square on and looking down from beneath his hat. His fists were on his hips, keeping his coat tails out of the way, but also making it clear he was unarmed. “All I asked yesterday is whether you were a risk taker. But now I know, you are a risk taker. I’m just wondering whether you appreciate the risk you are undertaking now.”
“Are you still trying to take me for a fool, Preacher Man?” Banks was trying to raise his voice, but in truth he was in a bit of a panic. Folk on the other side of the street had stopped and were watching. Nobody was going to intervene. Jackson took two steps sideways, ceding control to the Preacher.
“I’d say that a man with such a weapon certainly was a fool. I take it you clean that piece regular.”
“Clean it?”
“You do know,” the Preacher continued with his instruction, “that unless they are particular clean, around half of those pistols explode when fired. Explode in the owner’s hand. Takes the fingers off. Thumb should be fine though. Generally.”
“Say I have kept it clean, Preacher Man.” Banks was shaking now, barely controlling his extended arm. Jackson thought the gun could even go off accidentally. “Say I don’t lose my fingers, but you lose your liver. What say you to that, Preacher Man? Eh?” He was shouting now. Jackson thought that if the pistol did go off the folks across the way were in just as much danger as anyone.
The Preacher removed his hat. First time Jackson had seen his bare head. Kept his hat on over breakfast. Even kept it on during the execution. But now... “You can kill two men right now with a single shot Banks. You know that, don’t you?”
“How come, Preacher? You already know this is a single barrel pistol. You playing tricks again? I’m warning you...” And with this Banks steadied his arm and pointed the gun straight at the Preacher’s head. Maybe six feet distance from barrel to brain.
“Because...” the Preacher was speaking slow, deliberate. He wasn’t even sweating. “Because the townsfolk here have taken to hanging folk that kill people. Murderers I mean. So you kill me and… We’ve just come back from seeing a man swing this morning.” Then, slowly tipping his head in Jackson’s direction without taking his eyes off of Banks, “Ain’t that right, Mr. Beauregard?”
The Preacher’s question momentarily made Jackson the center-piece. Banks naturally followed the Preacher’s lead and turned to look at Jackson, awaiting his answer. And that’s when the Preacher hurled his hat straight at Banks’ gun hand. It was a hard hat, firm, stiff. It hit Banks’ outstretched arm knocking the pistol from his grip. A startled Banks turned back towards the Preacher, who had already taken the one, two strides necessary to get within striking distance of the aggrieved salesman’s jaw. One punch and Banks was lying on the ground next to the Preacher’s hat.
All the fight had gone from Banks. Maybe not being a fighter was why he’d become a salesman. The Preacher stooped to pick up his hat and then picked up the Derringer. Regaining his stance, he said, “Morning Marshal. You might want this. I believe it is an offence in this town not to hand in weapons within town limits.”
Banks looked up from his ignominious position, sitting on his backside in the dirt. He rubbed his bruised jaw and stretched for his hat. His dignity however, was clean out of reach. The Marshal, who had been called to the scene by a concerned passer-by, picked Banks up by the scruff of his collar and frog-marched him off to the jail.
The Preacher fixed his hat square on his head then turned to Jackson. “I think that is the last we’ll see of Mr. Nathan Banks.”
Chapter 4
That afternoon found Jackson sitting in the Marshal’s Office, drinking coffee with Thomas Smith. “So tell me Marshal, just how did you get the name ‘Bear River’? The Herald’s readership is keen to know, of that I can assure you. Your exploits sir, are legendary.” Jackson had never heard of Thomas ‘Bear River’ Smith and doubted any of the Herald’s readers had either. But he could change that. Though only a tyro, Jackson knew that flattery was as good a way as any to get someone to talk. Regardless, he was overdue in posting a story back east.
Jackson had already scribbled into his notebook that the marshal had the look of a prizefighter about him: broad shoulders and big fists; a shade under six-foot-tall; looked to have a good reach. He was maybe in his mid-thirties, and he clearly could read and write and likely, do his arithmetic. For Smith was sitting behind a large wooden desk that was covered with enough paperwork to show that, despite Kansas only being a state of the Union for less than a decade, bureaucracy was putting down roots faster than the farmers could plant potatoes. He put down his tin mug and replied, “Bear River City, sir. You familiar with it?” Smith’s New York accent contained traces both of his Irish antecedents and his contemporary life in the western territories and states. “It’s a railroad town, up in Wyoming Territory. Or was.”
Jackson was sitting back in a carver chair, opposite the marshal. He had his left leg crossed over his right, notepad on his thigh. His hat removed, placed atop of the desk. “Worth me visiting?”
“Doubt if there is anything left, my friend. Had a newspaper though, so a man such as yourself could’ve found work once. Had a mix of hunters, miners, and Mormons heading to,” a slight sneer here, “their ‘promised land’. Had its fair share of cat-houses and cribs too. Well, you know the saying: ‘First came the miners, to work in the mine, next came the ladies who lived on the line.’ More coffee?” Smith topped up his own mug and proffered the jug, which Jackson accepted. He was warming to the marshal, although some would say that one of Jackson’s faults was that he warmed to too many people. But on the positive side, people generally also warmed to Jackson. This was his only opportunity to interview Smith as he had a ticket to Ellsworth in his pocket.
“So Marshal, Bear River: something happened. Tell me. Tell the readers of The Herald.” He was already drafting the article’s title: ‘Wild West Adventures of an Abilene Marshal’.
But at that moment the door opened and in walked the barman from The Alamo, McGilligan. Jackson stood and greetings were given and introductions, such as were necessary, were made. McGilligan pulled up an empty chair, looking to make himself at home. He helped himself to the coffee pot, pouring out what was left into a mug he obtained from the top drawer of the desk. “Left the bar in good hands have you, Liam?” asked Smith.
McGilligan took a sip from the mug then replied, “Left it with the Texans,” and both men laughed. McGilligan reached over and took hold of one of Jackson’s notebooks, for all the world like a teacher casually looking over a pupil’s work. He couldn’t read it of course, what with it being Pitman Shorthand. Jackson was happy to engage in small talk if it helped expose a nugget that might lead to a rich seam of stories about the Smith’s exploits in Bear River.
“So you a newspaperman eh? Come to write ‘bout the Marshal here? Modest is how you will find him, friend. Not one to blow his own trumpet is the Marshal,” handing the notebook back to Jackson.
But Smith himself was aware that anything that helped strengthen his reputation would not only help him keep the Peace, it would also useful in gaining further employment should he move on from Abilene. Despite his salary of $220 a month (plus an extra two bucks for each conviction he secured) he felt he was being underpaid. He took up the conversation: “A couple of years back, it was a November, there was a riot in Bear City. It was due to vigilantes from the town a-lynching three railroaders, which it is they reckoned murdered one of their own. Led to hundreds of railroad workers marchin’ on the place, hell bent on vengeance.”
Jackson interrupted, “Were you the marshal there, Marshal?”
“No. There was no law as such. That’s why there was vigilantes.”
“How come you were in Bear River City?”
“I came in on the Union Pacific. ‘Bin working for that railroad pretty much since I left New York.”
“Much bad
feeling between the railroaders and the town?”
Smith leant forward over the desk to get a bit closer to Jackson. “Shopkeepers an’ saloon owners an’ all the rest, wanted the railroaders’ dollars see. But they wanted ‘em out as soon as their dollars was spent.
Den dey tink that they can hang railroaders without a trial! If you be to be writing ‘bout this,” Smith tapped his forefinger three or four times on the desk, “be good an’ sure now that you tell d’ truth ‘bout it!” He paused and Jackson noted how Smith’s Irish brogue came through when he was angry. He thought it prudent to let Smith decide when to end the silence. Which Smith duly did, after the flush had receded from his face back into his hair. “‘Course, that don’t excuse the riot sir. No it don’t. I used to be a policeman. Did you know that? In New York I mean.”
“No, Marshal, I did not. That sure is something Herald readers will warm to.” Jackson mentally changed the headline to: ‘The Wild West Adventures of a New York Policeman’.
“There’s no need to mention that! That’s not why I said it!” Smith had been piqued by something and Jackson let it ride. He felt that there was a limit to the number of times Smith could be irked, and that he wouldn’t need two hands to count to this limit. Smith pushed back his chair, rose and walked over to a window. He looked out onto the main street. Jackson feared the interview was over. Smith though, had decided to keep talking, but that from now on he would remain standing. “I just mentioned it to show,” he started to explain, turning back to face into the room, “that I knows my right from my wrong, if you get my drift. I knows what damage a riot can do. Innocent folk get hurt.” Smith wasn’t going to mention that he’d left the Police Force after accidentally shooting dead a 14-year-old boy; an event that went a long way to explaining his dislike of firearms.