Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  “You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Beauregard. Guess that’s to be expected given your profession. No, Williams worked in a pair. But leave that for now.” Removing a couple of boards, he said, “Ah ha! What’s this? There are quite a few parcels down here.” He reached into the cavity and pulled them out, one by one, handing them to Jackson.

  There were eight in all, wrapped in oilskins. Jackson put them on the dresser as he took them from the Preacher. A small fortune or a large one? Depends upon whether the notes were tens or fifties. No time to check. The Preacher stood then picked up his valise. “Quick, replace the boards while I put these bundles in my bag.” That done, he put the bag on the bed and returned to the dresser. He pushed, Jackson pulled, and after a few grunts and oaths, it was back in its proper spot. Emmy-Lou still hadn’t returned; providence certainly was with them.

  “Now what?” demanded Jackson. “We’ve got what we – you – wanted. Now let’s get outa here!”

  The Preacher stepped over to the window and opened it. It overlooked an empty yard. “OK. Out of the window, quick. You first.” And with that Jackson, thankful that this was the ground floor, climbed out. Turning back to the room, the Preacher saw the door open. It was Emmy-Lou. She was talking to someone on the other side and this had temporarily delayed her entrance. But the bag was still on the bed. “I’ll meet you at the hotel!” he hissed to Jackson who, on seeing the door begin to open, had ducked out of view. The Preacher, nonchalantly pulled the window down and turned to greet Emmy-Lou. She entered, bearing a tray of beer and sandwiches.

  “What’s going on? Where’s your pardner? What was that window a-doin’ open?”

  “Don’t worry about him young lady.” The Preacher casually walked over to the bed and moved the bag onto the floor. Jackson, squatting beneath the sill heard him say, “He was sudden took sick. Too much whisky last night I fear. The thought of the food made his stomach churn. My fault for mentioning it.”

  “Well don’t you think of going without having your share,” smiled Emmy-Lou, “‘Deed, there’s enough for two men. And I don’t just mean the food.”

  It was nearly an hour later before the Preacher bid farewell to Emmy-Lou and stepped out into the glaring light of a hot July afternoon. He was determined to resist the urge to open even one of the parcels while on his walk back. Not because he wasn’t curious. No. There were a few Texans around, and some clearly had their own curiosity aroused by seeing a Preacher walk out of Lowe’s whorehouse. The last thing he needed to do was to draw their attention to his valise. Best to head back to Ellsworth. Jibes such as, “Been doing some exorcising eh, Preacher Man?” and “You been doing missionary work eh? Preacher Man?” followed him. But the Preacher walked purposefully on, safe in the knowledge that if the Good Lord was busy elsewhere, then the Le Mat tucked into his belt and hidden by his frock coat would deliver him from evil.

  “Part of me thought you had hightailed it out of town, what with you having the money an’ all and with you being so long with Emmy-Lou,” said Jackson when the Preacher entered their hotel room.

  “Did you think I would forsake you, Mr. Beauregard? I had you down as having a good opinion of human nature.”

  “Well just what exactly were you doing with her for all that time?” There was a leer in Jackson’s voice. “I waited underneath that window for as long as I could.”

  “Well I could hardly walk out on Emmy-Lou could I? Would’ve raised her suspicions.”

  “Emmy-Lou now is it? First name terms?”

  “Mr. Beauregard, please. There were good reasons why I stayed as long as I did. Can you imagine what Lowe would have done to her if her customers walked out so soon? Would not have gone well for her I venture.”

  “Well...”

  “And not only that,” continued the Preacher, sitting down on the bed and pulling his boots off, “I had paid her, hadn’t I? For the beer and sandwiches I mean. And I was in sore need of a drink after the walk from town.”

  “Was that all you had?” Jackson was playfully goading the Preacher. “You paid for more than beer and vittles I seem to remember.”

  “I did spend some time in conversation with the Lady. She had your beer. But I kept back the sandwich for you.” He reached into an inside pocket of his frock coat and withdrew the sandwich, wrapped in a relatively clean cloth. He handed it to Jackson who was extremely hungry. He pulled back the cloth, revealing two slabs of bread with layers of beef between. The bread was relatively fresh, with only a few spots of mold that Jackson quickly plucked away. He was sitting on the only chair in the room and he took a large bite. It was good! He chewed it for a couple of minutes before swallowing with a deal of satisfaction.

  “Well that’s not all you were doing with her. Talking I mean. I could distinctly hear more than conversation coming from that room.”

  The Preacher said nothing.

  “Seems like you were exorcising the poor woman,” said Jackson as he took another bite. It was a good sandwich. “You should’ve made sure the window was properly shut. Why, half the town must have heard her yelling ‘Hallelujah!’ I think she found the light alright.”

  The Preacher ignored him and proceeded to divest himself of his hat and frock coat. Jackson could not help but see the Le Mat. “You were expecting trouble then. From that fellow who had also expressed an interest in the dresser?” Jackson took another bite. Chewed it slowly, inviting the Preacher to say more. He didn’t.

  “Well... Are you going to tell me about him?”

  “I guess I owe you that. And it was because of this fellow that I spent time getting acquainted with Emmy-Lou, winning her trust. I wanted to find out more about him.”

  Jackson poured himself some water from a pitcher on the table to wash down the sandwich. Beer would’ve been preferable though.

  “Williams was in a partnership, that’s all. With a drifter called Pickens.”

  “This fellow with one eye?”

  “The one and the same.”

  “And they both hid the money under the dresser.”

  “Yes.”

  “So now this Pickens has come back for the money. And regardless of whether he knows the fate of his partner, it would appear that neither had any intention of sharing with the other.”

  “No.”

  “Nor sharing with you.”

  “No.”

  “What are you planning to do with it?”

  “I place my trust in the Lord’s providence. The Lord clearly does not want this fortune to be back in the hands of the men who stole it. He has therefore seen it right to place it in my hands. After all, better a good Christian has the money so that it will be spent in a good Christian way. Pickens, I would hazard, would spend it on liquor and women.”

  Jackson resisted the temptation to suggest that this was precisely what the Preacher had done with his own dollars but two hours earlier.

  “And you will...?”

  “Use the money to do good, Mr. Beauregard, to Do Good. And the Good Lord is happy that I take, how shall I put it? expenses, so that I can concentrate on the struggle against evil.”

  The Preacher then told Jackson about the hold-up, the shooting of the young trooper, and how the pair had been caught by US Marshals.

  “Well I did wonder,” said Jackson when the Preacher had concluded the tale. “I thought it mighty strange that Williams hadn’t gone back earlier to retrieve the money. Makes sense now, knowing they were in Leavenworth.”

  “And I gave her an extra dollar not to say anything about us if Pickens does go back.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “Told her best thing would be to let some other wagtail entertain him. We will see.”

  “He won’t be happy when he finds the money’s gone.”

  “I am hoping he blames the Lowes. If so, let them fight it out between themselves.” There was a pause. Both eyed the Preacher’s valise.

  “I think it time to...”

  “I agree Mr. Beauregard.” The Pr
eacher picked up the valise and place it on a small table that stood by a window overlooking South Main. With the room door shut the open window was the only source of fresh air. The Preacher opened the bag and retrieved the oilskin packages, one at a time, and stacked them in two piles. “The Lord Giveth, Mr. Beauregard, The Good Lord Giveth.”

  The Preacher then took a sharp blade and proceeded to cut open the packing of each bundle, one by one, to reveal - as expected - dollar bills.

  Fives, tens, twenties. And quite a few fifties. All sorts. Some notes were as new, some used. If all the packages held similar contents, then maybe it would be as much as ten thousand dollars.

  Jackson let out a gasp of surprise. The surprise turned into a smile, then a broad grin. “Why, Verily I say unto you, your cup does indeedeth runneth over!”

  “Mr. Beauregard, that is not helpful.” The Preacher’s voice was bereft of emotion.

  Jackson began to sing. Slowly at first, but he quickly reached full voice. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Or a version of. He sang one of the verses, his favorite, what with him being Union:

  “We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree.

  We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree.

  We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree.

  As they march a-long!”

  “Mr. Beauregard, please!” Jackson was now marching around the room, like a boy would when imitating a soldier. The Preacher was getting angry with Jackson.

  “Glory, Glory Hallelujah! Glory, Glory Hallelujah!”

  “Mis...ter Beau-re-gard!”

  Jackson heeded the tone in the Preacher’s voice and stopped, both the singing and the marching. He turned to face his companion. “Well sir, your cup would indeed be full, if the Confederacy hadn’t lost the goddam war!”

  For staring up at Jackson and the Preacher, from every single one of the dollar bills, was the President’s face. President Jefferson Davis’s face. President Jefferson Davis of the Confederate States of America.

  “And the Lord hath taken away. Ain’t that what the Book of Job says?”

  “I don’t think that is funny, Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher. “I don’t think that is funny at all.”

  Chapter 8

  That night, lying on the bed looking up at the ceiling boards, hands clasped behind his head, Jackson acknowledged that he could still interview Wild Bill Hickok. Just had to get to Hays, that’s all. And the Preacher was of the mind that it would be a good idea to go to Hays. In fact, with Pickens about, the best place for the both of them would be anywhere but Ellsworth.

  They left on the first train out, the very next day. Which, to Jackson’s satisfaction, was due to call at Hays.

  They sat in the rear car, furthest from the noise and smoke of the locomotive. They were some ten minutes out of Ellsworth when Jackson asked the Preacher to show him some card moves, just to pass the time. For the same reason the Preacher acquiesced. “If you want to play the tables, Mr. Beauregard, then you’d better know the various ruses and sleights that chis’lers use. And mark you this: there will always be at least one at every game you play.”

  “Not everyone is a cheat, surely.”

  “No. Along with the crooks will be the naive and the foolish. Their motive is greed, pure ‘n’ simple. For them all I have no sympathy.”

  “What was I, back in Abilene?” Jackson found it amusing to pose this question.

  “There is an innocence about you Mr. Beauregard, that makes you trust people you have never met. This in turn makes you unwary, lacking in caution and the necessary prudence required in this day and age. That is youth for you. But you are no crook.”

  “Age makes people cynical? Made you a cynic?”

  “It is not age that makes the cynic Mr. Beauregard, but life itself. It just takes time to appreciate that. And I don’t have much sympathy for victims at gaming tables. When you played with Banks, you and the big Swede were not helpless. You both had your wits about you. It’s just that you did not employ them. You could have chosen not to sit at the table. Could have chosen to walk away from Banks, walk out of the Alamo.”

  While he spoke, the Preacher positioned the Jenny Lind between himself and Jackson, turning it into an impromptu table. He produced a deck, and proceeded to search through it until he had removed three specific cards.

  “You are going to show me how to play the Three Card Monte?”

  “I am going to show you why you should not play the Three Card Monte. Now, as you know, Mr. Beauregard, there are two black cards and a sole red queen. The object is for the player to gamble on and pick the queen - the Lady! There will be three knaves....”

  “Three? Only two, surely?”

  “The two black cards will be knaves, and the dealer will be the third. Now it is sure easy to find the Lady - observe.” And the Preacher then laid the two black knaves and the solitary red queen face up on the Jenny Lind in front of Jackson. “Keep your eye on the queen.” The Preacher picked up the cards and held two cupped in his right hand, and one in his left, and showed them to Jackson. The Lady was clearly visible in the pair. Then the Preacher turned his hands over and let each card drop, one by one, in a row, face down on the trunk. It was obvious to Jackson at the outset which was the queen, and it was equally easy for him to follow her as the Preacher proceeded to slide the cards around quickly, smoothly, leftmost card changing place with the one on the right, the center card and the new right-hand card swapping and then swapping back, around again with the left card, pushing its way between the other two. Jackson watched intently and when the Preacher stopped, Jackson was convinced he knew the Lady’s whereabouts.

  “That one,” he said, pointing confidently at the one on his left. The Preacher turned it up and, to Jackson’s mild pleasure, it was indeed the queen.

  “I thought you’d be pulling a trick on me there,” said Jackson.

  “Let’s try it again.” The Preacher picked up the cards and dropped them face down in the same manner. He once again slid the cards around: left card over to the right-hand side, the right to the center, then exchanged that with the left card, over and back again. His hands were a blur, but Jackson felt he could keep track.

  The Preacher stopped. He leant back and gestured to the cards. “Your choice Mr. Beauregard.”

  Jackson was convinced the Lady was now in the center. He picked up the card and... “I shoulda had a dollar on it!” he said, grinning.

  “Well you must allow that you are sitting comfortably facing me and it is just a one-to-one situation. Not quite as easy if you are in a crowded bar and have half a bottle of bug juice inside you. In this situation, you probably do have the advantage. One more time and feel free to back your judgement. You can give half your winnings to a church collection on Sunday.”

  For the third time the Preacher gathered the cards, and for the third time dropped them one by one in a row in front of Jackson. For the third time he mixed them up, sliding and moving, moving and sliding. If anything, the Preacher was moving the cards ever so slightly slower, thought Jackson, although he did accept that maybe his eye was becoming keener now he understood the game.

  The Preacher stopped, leant back, palms open, leaving the way for Jackson, who produced his purse, opened it, and planted a ten-dollar bill square on the center card.

  “Ten?” The Preacher’s voice showed his surprise. “You said one, Mr. Beauregard.”

  “I will give half my winnings to the Lord as you suggested. Can I turn it over?”

  “You are a keen one. Yes, turn it over yourself if you please.”

  Which Jackson duly did. “How...? A knave?”

  “I guess I should say Hallelujah!” said the Preacher laconically. “But that is reserved for miracles. Whereas this,” he gestured to the card in Jackson’s hand, “this was something I fully intended to happen. Consider the experience to be well worth the ten dollars charged, Mr. Beauregard.” With that the Preacher collected the bill, placed it neatly in his money clip, which
in turn he buried deep inside the inner pocket of his frock coat.

  Jackson sat back, shaking his head in disbelief. “A few days back you said that gamblers tended to be either cheats, or fools. Easy to see which I am here,” he said somewhat ruefully.

  “Well I agree with the bit about the fool, Mr. Beauregard. But tell me, where is the cheat? It is not cheating to move cards around. There aren’t any rules that say the cards need to be moved in a given order. And they are the same three cards as started. Hold them. Examine.” The Preacher proffered the trio to Jackson, who did take them and did look and did see.

  “I will allow they appear sound,” said Jackson, having no other choice but to acknowledge the fact.

  “They appear sound because they are sound, I will thank you. But notice how all three are slightly bowed. Concave. That allows me greater control over which one I drop into position first. You thought it was the Lady. But I have the skill to, should I wish, lead with the other card I’m holding in that hand. Which is not what the observer expects. Indeed, for the first two deals I did indeed drop the Lady first. You expected that pattern to continue. But when you laid your last bet, well that time she was the second card that I dropped. And that, Mr. Beauregard, is when the fool is fooled.”

  “Can you tell the difference between a cheat and a fool when you’re at the tables?” Jackson handed back the cards.

  “Well you know what they say? If you can’t spot the sucker at a card table, then be sure it is you.”

  “Ah.”

  The Preacher pocketed the cards inside his coat. “There is a gambler, travels on this very railroad. Canada Bill Jones. If you want to see some big money staked on finding the right lady, look out for him. Used to play with Devol on the riverboats. And there is no place on God’s Earth where there is a greater coming together of cheats and fools than a Mississippi riverboat.”

  This eastern division of the Kansas Pacific Railroad had been up and running for some three years. Already the rolling stock was showing the worse for wear, what with heat of the summer blistering the paint an’ all. Jackson spent the next few minutes gazing out of the window. The Preacher too looked out, but when Jackson looked over at him he noted that the man’s eyes were fixed, as if he were not looking at Kansas speeding by, but was somewhere else, lost in thought. And those thoughts appeared to be dark ones if the man’s countenance was anything to go by.