Render Unto God...

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Render Unto God... Page 8

by S. F. Wood


  Jackson turned his chair to continue facing Smith. “Yes I see that, of course. And what happened next?” He licked the end of his pencil deliberately, to signify to Smith that he was ready to take down whatever he wanted to say.

  Smith stood, hands in his pockets, looking clear at Jackson. “That newspaper I mentioned, The Index. Some of the railroad people thought it was behind the lynching. Allers carrying bad stories ‘bout railroad men. They surrounded it and set it a-blaze. That should’ve been enough. But instead of satisfying their lust for vengeance, it just fueled it. The riot started as they marched down the street, a-smashing and a-breaking windows, doors, burning sheds. There was looting.”

  “Terrifying!” Jackson’s jaw dropped open, astonished at what Smith was saying. This ploy encouraged the big man to open up more.

  “Many of the townsfolk had armed themselves with Henry rifles and a shootout began. Riders had set out to Fort Bridger to get the army to come over and install martial law. The aim was to keep the mob at bay until then.”

  “How far away was that? Fort Bridger?” asked Jackson.

  “Some thirty mile. Took maybe a couple of days to get the troopers in.”

  “So what did you do? You particularly, I mean. Was this the moment you got your nickname?”

  “You seem to put great store on my name, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Beauregard. Jackson Beauregard. But call me Jackson.”

  “Sorry Mr. I mean, Jackson. Well, I could see that something had to be done to stop the killing while we waited for the Army, and the best way was to make a truce of sorts. And once we’d done that, once we’d got the firin’ and shootin’ halted, we got some of the more hot-headed men from both sides locked up. And that is key, Mr. Jackson, from both sides d’you hear?” Smith’s passions were rising again. If he was indeed unarmed as Jackson had heard tell, then it would have been a frightening prospect, taking on two sides of armed men. “We got ‘em under lock and key of sorts and took their weapons from ‘em. This helped to stop the worst of it starting up again. And as soon as the cavalry arrived, everyone else just disappeared back from where they came.”

  “Is it true you were unarmed? Like you are now, here in Abilene?”

  “Well my friend, when it was over we counted the corpses and got to 16. That’s enough, ain’t it? Didn’t need me a-shootin’ a pistol, an’ makin’ it worse.”

  “I hear tell that your ‘unarmed approach’ has met with the approval of the folk of Abilene, Marshal. You intending to settle here for good?”

  “Be sure an’ to know mister, that Thomas here ain’t met with the Texans’ approval!” Smith looked over at McGilligan. “Well Thomas, be sure an’ you know that it is but true. So God is my witness, Mr. Jackson, ain’t bin not one but two attempts on his life, now ain’t that so Thomas?” There was more than a note of concern in McGilligan’s voice, showing that he held ‘Thomas’ as much in affection as esteem.

  “When did you say you became marshal here?” Jackson asked Smith, wondering just who it was that did not agree with Smith’s appointment.

  “I didn’t. But it was a couple of months back.”

  “That’s right. Mayor Henry brought him over from Kit Carson. Ol’ Pat weren’t best pleased,” laughed McGilligan. “Pat Desmond was marshal there and Thomas was his deputy. And while the likes of me are grateful to the Marshal...” it was noticeable to Jackson that McGilligan referred to Smith by his title at this point, “fer his ord’nance that folks don’t sport their firearms, there’s plenty a cowpoke that likes nothing better than firing a few rounds in the air after a bellyful of cactus wine. Thomas put a stop to that and some don’t like it much.”

  “And,” continued Jackson, “you disarm them in the manner of a pugilist, I believe.”

  McGilligan interrupted again: “You told this reporter ‘bout that time you gave those cowboys a good hiding?” Turning now to Jackson, “Has Thomas told you about that loudmouth, Hawkins? Causing trouble in the Alamo an’ the Bull’s Head. everyplace. Big Hank, that’s what they called him, both those that liked him an’ those that didn’t. So when Thomas first started as marshal he decreed it so that no one could carry their guns in town. Big Hank took no notice an’ when Thomas stopped in front of him in the street Big Hank, he say ‘Jest try an’ take ‘em’. Laughing at Thomas he was, but Thomas floored him with as sweet a hook as you’d see in any Dublin prizefight!” McGilligan punched the air as if emphasis were needed. “He was out for the count afore he even hit the ground. An’ then his pardner, tried the same thing and got the same treatment. What was he called, Thomas? Remember?”

  “Frank,” said Smith in a matter of fact tone, adding “From Wyoming Territory.”

  “That’s right. Wyoming Frank. Used only his bare fists did Thomas. You see, take away a cowboy’s guns an’ he can’t fight. Ran ‘em both out of town, didn’t yer, Thomas?”

  “So you never carry guns, eh Marshal?” asked Jackson, who felt like he was interviewing McGilligan.

  “Not if I can help it.” Smith’s face, with lips pursed now, arms folded and the way he fixed Jackson with his stare, told the reporter that his time was up. Jackson took the hint and made to reach for his hat and pencils.

  “Well gentlemen, I must be going. I have to write this up before the mail goes.”

  This last point caught the inquisitive McGilligan’s attention. “You going to put this in the newspapers friend? I’d like to see that.”

  “I might even add a piece on the way you dealt with the card shark from yesterday, Mr. McGilligan,” said Jackson. That flattery again. Keep ‘em talking. “I’d wager you have seen some sharp card sharks in the Alamo.”

  This tickled McGilligan. “Wager! Very good sir, wager.” His chuckling stopped and he lowered his voice, warming to this theme. “I’ve seen some card sharks an’ chis’lers! But not the sharp ‘uns. Let me tell you son, if’n they’re good, I mean real good, then no one would see ‘em, now would they?”

  “Well I see...”

  Smith coughed not so diplomatically. “I think it is time Sir...”

  Jackson acknowledged it was, and with a nod of farewell to McGilligan stepped over to Smith and shook his hand, thanking him for his time. As he opened the door Jackson turned and said, “Oh, and finally Marshal. I’m leavin’ Abilene on tomorrow morning’s stage. When can I collect my firearm?”

  “I will give it you when you are seated on the coach and your feet are off the streets of Abilene,” said Smith. “Tomorrow!”

  Shortly after dawn the next day, the Preacher was smoking his pipe outside the stagecoach office, waiting for permission to board. Horses were being hooked up to the stage and mail sacks were being loaded aboard. The coach wasn’t going to be full, only two other passengers by the look of it. But that had nothing to do with the early start: Ellsworth just wasn’t a popular destination, that’s all. And naturally, a half-empty coach was something to which no one but the owners of the stage company would object. It was a Wells, Fargo & Co stagecoach. Well, they pretty much all were, what with Messrs. Wells and Fargo having bought up most of the lines west of the Missouri. The Preacher’s trunk - a Jenny Lind, named, and shaped, after the eponymous singer from Sweden who had toured America some 20 years previously with Phineas Barnum - had already been stowed aboard. And then the Preacher saw Jackson.

  “It is a fine morning Sir, don’t you agree?”

  “That you have luggage with you tells me you are not here merely to bid me bon voyage, Mr. Beauregard. Are you joining me on the journey to Ellsworth?”

  “Well given Hickok is in Ellsworth.” Jackson was irritatingly cheerful. “Is this our stagecoach?”

  As it was clearly the only vehicle in the street, the Preacher didn’t bother to reply.

  “It’s a Concord! Better than a Mud,” said Jackson. He continued to talk as they walked across to where the stage was waiting, but the Preacher was barely paying attention. “...and in the absence of rails, I will take a Concord over a Mud.”<
br />
  The Concord: hand built out of ash and white oak, this particular coach must have looked impressive when it left the workshop in Concord, New Hampshire. Now though, it was dirty and the paint blistered in some places, many places. But Concords were so well made by the Abbot Downing Company that folks said they never broke down, they just wore out.

  “I liked him.”

  “Who?”

  “Marshal Smith. I interviewed him like you suggested. Said he would meet me here this morning, to return my firearm. Unlike you sir, I do not have enough faith in Faith to travel unarmed. Not out here what with Indians and highwaymen.” As Jackson was saying this, he turned and gestured towards the other passengers: a young girl and her ever so attendant beau, standing some distance away. “Looks like we will have company for the journey. Better go introduce ourselves to our companions.”

  Sarah-Jane Taylor gripped the arm of her Duncan even tighter at the sight of the two men approaching. In truth, she had been a-holding on to her young man’s arm pretty much ever since she had stolen from her family home in the middle of the previous night, squeezing it all the while they sat in the waiting room at Junction City station, waiting for the first train, the train that would take them to Abilene and the offices of the stage line. She whispered, “Guns! Duncan, did you hear that? That man will be carrying a gun. Shh! He is a-coming over.”

  Jackson raised his hat in salutation to the couple. “Ma’am, Sir. My name is Beauregard, Jackson Beauregard. I take it you will be travelling with us? My companion and I,” here he gestured to the Preacher, who in turn lightly touched his hat and gave a slight bow, “we will be with the coach up to Ellsworth.”

  Sarah-Jane was charmed somewhat by Jackson’s manner and this caused her to relax just a little. His smile was engaging and he was a well-dressed man, something she always admired in the opposite sex. Still needing to hold tight to her young man’s arm, she nevertheless felt bolder. “Miss Taylor sir, Sarah-Jane Taylor from Junction City. And my companion, Mr. Jones.” She gave a small curtsy and her... companion, gave a small nod of his head. Easy to see who wears the breeches in this relationship thought Jackson. But pretty with it, he thought. Standing little over five feet, her long hair was a mass of pretty black curls. No doubt she spent as many fruitless hours trying to straighten those curls as young ladies with straight hair spent struggling with curling irons. The color of Sarah-Jane’s hair off-set the pale complexion that evidenced hours sitting beneath a parasol. Jackson mused as to whether the gap between her two front teeth was inherited from her mother or her father.

  “Pray sir, Mr. Beauregard I mean, I did not mean to eavesdrop, but am I right in thinking I heard you mention a gun? Do you fear that you might have occasion to require your firearm on this trip? I heard tell Indians were no longer a threat.”

  “Yes Ma’am. But please, do not be perturbed by the mention of my gun. It is a necessary evil in these parts, I do assure you. And pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Taylor.”

  Sarah-Jane was recovering the composure she had feared had deserted her for good. She was no longer the girl she had been when she’d left her family home in Junction City the previous day. She felt that she was now a young woman. “And pleased to make your acquaintances too, I’m sure. Aren’t we Duncan?” There was the slightest hint of emphasis in Sarah-Jane’s voice at this point, which coupled nicely with the squeeze she made on the young man’s arm, just above the elbow.

  “Is that the Marshal? Coming towards us?”

  “Praise be! The boy has a tongue,” thought the Preacher, who turned to follow Duncan’s gaze, as indeed did Jackson and Sarah-Jane.

  “‘Tis a fine morning fer ye,” said Smith and, touching the broad brim of his black hat, he acknowledged the presence of a lady. “Ma’am.” He stopped just in front of the group and placed the canvas bag he was carrying down at the feet of Jackson and the Preacher. “You will be wanting this now my friend,” he said, looking up at Jackson as he stooped to retrieve something from the bag. It was Jackson’s Derringer.

  Jackson received it with thanks. “I guess I know why you don’t allow guns in town, Marshal. But that salesman nearly got away with shooting our heads off.”

  “Well for his trouble he spent last night in Abilene’s cheapest hotel. And I won’t be letting him go ‘til the stage has done left town.” The marshal then added, somewhat disparagingly, “Mind you don’t go a-firing that beast through the window and frightening the horses now. Least, not ‘til you’ve left the limits. Then it’s a matter for the conductor.”

  The remark, playfully said, went over Jackson’s head. Indeed, the correspondent was proud of his weapon - not that he had used it but more than once, and that was when showing off to a cousin back home. The conductor on the other hand, overheard this, as he was supposed to. Atop the stage tying down some mailbags, he called down: “Not that no one will hit no Indian with that piece ‘lest he is a-standing right in front of yer!”

  “Well the gunsmith who sold it me said that this here pistol was responsible for the deaths of at least three men,” said Jackson proudly, looking up at the conductor. Then remembering he was in the presence of a female quickly added, “Begging your pardon Miss Taylor, I do not wish to offend.”

  The Preacher held the door to the coach open while Duncan assisted Sarah-Jane up the steps. When she was safely inside the Preacher turned to Jackson and said, “I would not be surprised to find, Mr. Beauregard, that the three victims were all previous owners of your firearm.”

  Smith enjoyed that remark. He then bent down and produced another weapon from his bag. “Now this is a strange one,” he said. “Don’t know I’ve seen this make before. Not the usual Navy Colt that’s fer sure.”

  “It is a Beaumont Adams. Double action and handmade by craftsmen in England,” said the Preacher, reaching out and accepting the weapon. Jackson looked on, slightly incredulous, and he began silently to question his feelings about his Derringer.

  “And this other ‘un one could stop a buffalo I reckon,” said Smith, producing the third and final weapon from his bag, “An’ it will sure lighten my load on the way back to my office now I’ve given it back.” And with that he handed over, again to the Preacher, a Le Mat. “Heard tell Confederate Cavalrymen were almighty fond of this brute.” And brute it was, with a nine-shot cylinder and, being some 14 inches in length, it weighed close on 4lbs.

  The Preacher offered it to Jackson for closer inspection. “Straight out of New Orleans. That central barrel there,” he pointed to it, although it was obvious to what he was referring, “that’s smooth-bore. Can use it to fire grape-shot.”

  Jackson admired the blued steel weapon, holding it with his right hand clenched around the walnut grip. Now he was in the real West maybe he needed to get himself a real gun.

  “Gentlemen,” this was the marshal speaking now. “May I remind you of the city ord’nance. Load them if you must for the journey, then put them out of my sight!” Jackson thought it best to stay on the right side of the Law, especially a Law that was as big as Bear River Smith. He handed the weapon back to the Preacher.

  As Jackson’s trunk was stowed aboard he shook hands with Smith then climbed aboard to join the Preacher and the young couple.

  There are no comfortable seats in a stagecoach, just some seats that are less uncomfortable than others. Indeed, many prefer the passenger seats a-top, no matter what the weather. But, as ever, the conductor had the best view, sitting next to the driver, cradling his coach gun. This Concord could carry up to nine passengers inside. The seats weren’t seats as such, just benches, two facing forward and the one at the front facing back. Most seasoned travelers would elect to sit on the rearmost bench. The Preacher was such a traveler and he made it his business to sit thus, occupying the position by the right-hand window. Jackson, no novice when it came to stagecoaches either, had the window to the left.

  The middle bench of a Concord is, in the opinion of most passengers, the least comfortable, having just
a leather strap fixed to the width of the coach acting as a back rest. This left the front bench, facing backwards. By the window on the Preacher’s side sat Sarah-Jane Taylor, with her beau, the ever-attendant Duncan next to her. The Preacher was not sure whether Sarah-Jane was still holding on to his arm for dear life, or for fear that he would run away from her, back to his mother. Not a ‘boy’ as such was Duncan, for he had some hair on his chin, and the semblance of sideburns. But the Preacher thought that a sudden gust of wind would soon put paid to them. And all around them, filling any unoccupied space, were mail sacks.

  It was the leather strap braces under the body that gave the Concord coaches a swinging motion when under way, as opposed the bouncing passengers experienced in carriages where springs were used. Jackson would not be the first to note that riding in a Concord was like being rocked in a cradle. And with about as much room as a cradle too, especially when one of these contraptions was full! Pity there wasn’t a railroad line open on this route. It would come though, of that he was sure. If Jackson had faith in anything, it was the faith in the American future.

  Despite the cold dawn it promised to be an unforgivingly hot day. The coach was being pulled by four horses and given that the journey to Ellsworth was relatively flat, the conductor had predicted a fast ride. “Should be there by nighfall folks,” he said as he took their tickets. “And remember gentlemen, as there is a lady present,” he nodded to the young woman, “I remind you to refrain from pipes and cigars. And please do not fire your guns out the window at critters and the like as it could spook the horses. An’ as fer firing ‘em inside, well don’t do that either.” He laughed at what was his regular joke, slammed shut the door and climbed up beside the driver.

  The driver cracked his whip; they were on their way.

  Chapter 5

  The passengers first, as passengers oftentimes do, kept their own company. The eloping couple, for surely they were running away and that was certainly how Jackson and the Preacher saw it, whispered continually to each other. And whatever it was they were whispering about, the Preacher doubted they were mere sweet nothings. “Sheer sweet panic more like,” thought he. Jackson tried to engage the Preacher in small talk.

 

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