Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  “Tolerable coffee, don’t you think Ladies?” said Jackson and the ladies all looked up. For not only was Jackson a good head and more taller than most of the passengers, he was, by the very manner of his introduction, immediately perceived by the women as being more polite than most. And from the younger lady’s perspective, more handsome. Indeed, Jackson had caught her eye when he had boarded at Ellsworth, when she, along with her aunts - for yes, Jackson had been correct in his assumption - had been making the most of the opportunity to take the air while the train took on passengers.

  Despite two of the women being at least a generation older than the third, they all dressed in similar attire. Similar hairstyles too, or at least, Jackson assumed the similarity, what with the hair being covered by bonnets of the type common amongst women of the plains. Hair pulled back into a bun with, probably, a center parting thought Jackson. The dresses and jackets were made of calico and were plain in color with the exception being the young lady’s bonnet, which had more of a gingham touch. Their dresses were designed to keep their skin sheltered from the sun as much as from prying male eyes. In common with white women the world over they most certainly did not want their skin to look remotely like the hide of an Indian. The young woman, late teens at the most, was the only one whose hair was not grey. Brown it was. Or at least, the small part visible was brown. Matched her eyebrows. Eyes too. Jackson had heard tell the Indians claimed the eyes were windows into the soul. If that were true, then the soul he could see sure was a beautiful one.

  He had to look away. Had to on account that the young woman wasn’t taking her eyes from him. In fact, Jackson felt that she was looking into his soul. He sure hoped she liked what she saw.

  The ladies were reassured by the manner of Jackson’s address, and indeed by his dress. “Tolerable, yes, you could say that, tolerable, but no more than that sir,” said the one whom Jackson took to be the elder of the group; the one in charge of the journey and of the moral well-being of the young innocent. But to maintain propriety she turned away from Jackson as soon as she had answered his question.

  “Pretty bonnet miss,” said Jackson, and before any of the aunts could intercede he turned to them both and asked where they were headed. The young ‘miss’ smiled her appreciation of this compliment. She also turned ever so slightly pink.

  “Fort Wallace if you must know,” said a second aunt, who quickly glanced over to the senior woman to check that she had not spoken out of turn. The senior aunt took up the story, such that it was.

  “Yes, Fort Wallace. For there is our brother,” she paused, considered, and then added, “who is Katie’s father,” a nod to the young miss. The aunt continued, “He is the commanding officer there is Colonel Gregory. Katie is headstrong for a girl and...”

  “And she still is a girl, Mr.?” interrupted the first aunt.

  “Jackson. It is Jackson...”

  “Well, Mr. Jackson, Katie is still a girl and as such is at the stage of life where she needs a father’s influence and instruction. We will be staying there until next Spring.”

  “No, I’m...”

  “She is, Mr. Jackson, and that is the end of it. Although I have no doubts that her father will be surprised at the change in her since he last saw her.”

  “Did you shoot any buffalo Mr. Jackson? I sure wish I’d had a shotgun about me, ‘deed I do.”

  It was Katie. Jackson turned to look at her. Her smile was as entrancing as her eyes and now her voice. “Well, I...”

  “How many do you think you got? I bet you’re a great shot!”

  “Katie!” admonished her most senior aunt. Turning to Jackson she added, “I should apologize for my niece’s impertinence sir.” Turning to Katie she ordered, “Say you’re sorry, girl!”

  Katie did as her aunt beckoned, and for the second time in as many minutes Jackson enjoyed her blush. It said more than any apology could.

  “Did you board the train at Ellsworth Mr. Jackson? Can I at least ask you that?” Clearly blushing was not something that inhibited Katie.

  For the senior aunt, this had gone on far enough. “I am sure that Mr. Jackson has better things to do than to spend time talking with us.”

  “No, no, not at all. We have to wait for the locomotive to take on water, and I personally cannot think of better people,” and here he acknowledged the aunts first, before smiling at Katie, “...with whom to spend these minutes.”

  “So pray, Mr. Jackson, is Ellsworth your home?” asked the second aunt. “Although how anyone could call such a place ‘home’ is quite frankly beyond me.”

  “No, no. I hail from the East. New York in fact.”

  “I thought as much,” she replied. Jackson was not the sort of person to take offence at the contemptuous tone of voice. Indeed, he graciously considered that it was merely affected for appearances’ sake.

  “Really?” Jackson felt that he was winning the aunts’ trust. “My accent perhaps?”

  “Your shoes, Mr. Jackson, your shoes.” said Aunt number two with some disdain. But she was finding the conversation a pleasant distraction from the tedium of the previous few weeks, travelling west with her sister and niece, constantly chaperoning and protecting the fair cygnet from predators. This young man, however, had a pleasing air.

  “So what were you doing in Ellsworth Mr. Jackson? Something exciting and dangerous I warrant,” asked the vision of loveliness, hoping it was indeed something dangerous and exciting that this nice Mr. Jackson was about to tell her.

  And before either of the aunts could interject, Jackson said, “I am afraid I did nothing more than visit...” he thought it wise not to say he’d visited a whore house, “visit the Marshal.”

  “The Marshal, Mr. Jackson?” asked aunt number two. “Are you a government official?” There seemed to be a note of optimism in her voice, for such a role suggest a man of position, of influence.

  “A newspaper correspondent ma’am. Writing stories about the Wild West for my readers back east.” He answered each aunt’s question in the same manner - addressing the questioner directly, but always ending by turning to Katie. And then, attempting to make himself appear somewhat more daring and dangerous he added, “I was hot on the trail of some stolen money. Twenty thousand dollars. And I found it. For a story for my newspaper.”

  “I’d sure as hell be in’erested in a-reading that partic’lar story. Yes indeed I would.”

  All four turned as one in the direction of the interloper. For this declaration had come from a man standing to one side of the group.

  “An’ d’you know what I think?” The man was looking at Jackson.

  “What do you think, friend?”

  The stranger was a head shorter than Jackson. And he was older, leather skinned, but arguably paler than one would expect of a cowboy or plainsman. He wore a mixture of drover’s pants and a one-time Sunday Best jacket. Buttoned tightly at the waist, it was just too short for the wearer. That could have been deliberate though, as that made the hem of the jacket stop short of his belt, into which was thrust a revolver. “I think...” he paused, looking for something, anything in Jackson’s face, “that this coffee must be made of a mix of rattlesnake and buffalo chips. Only savin’ grace is it’s wet.” And it was then that he added, “Better’n what I found back in Ellsworth mind. You boarded the train there too, I believe I heard you tell.”

  “Yes. Yes I did. Just passing through. On my way to Fort Wallace.”

  “Are you staying in Wallace too, Mr. Jackson? Where pray?” asked Katie, making no attempt to disguise her hopefulness.

  Jackson didn’t want to say anything more about his travel plans with the stranger present. But his tension eased for the stranger turned on his heel and walked away. Seems he didn’t care for polite conversation. As he walked off Jackson noted again the revolver, and observed that the Stetson looked new. But neither of those things had made as big an impression on Jackson as the fact that the stranger had only one eye.

  “Well I am not headed the
re directly miss,” he replied. “Might reach there before the winter.” Jackson had no idea why he’d said that. But, all of a sudden, looking at Katie, it struck him as being a sound idea. “I have to meet the famous Wild Bill Hickok first. Interview him for my newspaper.”

  “My, that does sound interesting! I’d sure like to hear more about that!” Katie ignored the glares from her chaperones.

  The older aunt had an aquiline nose, which was a natural advantage when it came to sticking it into other folks’ business. She looked at Jackson and said, “Is that a proper job?”

  “Aunt Wilma!” It was Katie’s turn to call a point of order, and Jackson was impressed at how she had the confidence to admonish her senior. “You criticized me a moment ago for a perceived impertinence. I declare it is you who owe Mr. Jackson an apology now.”

  Jackson mumbled, “It is Beaure...”

  “Mr. Jackson knows that I do not mean offence,” said the Nose, pointedly. “It is right and proper - and part of your education - that you understand the difference between someone who has a job, like Mr. Jackson here, and someone who has a profession.”

  Jackson saw an opening. “But at least my job,” he smiled at Aunt Wilma, “if you see it as such, shows I can put pen to paper professionally.”

  “Well clearly you must have some literacy skills,” said Aunt Wilma, ever so slightly condescendingly. “But everyone is getting back on board. Quickly now. Goodbye Mr. Jackson. Very pleased to have met you I’m sure.” With that, the fair Katie was caught up in her aunts’ skirts and ushered away, all the while looking over her shoulder at the still admiring Jackson.

  Back on the train, Jackson searched out the Preacher. He took the seat next to him and, keeping his voice low, beckoned him to lend an ear. “I fear we have an unwanted traveling companion.”

  “Unwanted?”

  “He was wearing an eyepatch.”

  “Mr. Beauregard, missing teeth, limbs, eyes, they are all of a commonplace. Especially after a war. Sometimes it seems the able bodied are in a minority. You think it’s Pickens, don’t you.”

  Jackson told of his meeting with Katie and her aunts.

  “Well I hope the young lady was as impressed with you as Pickens evidently is. Let’s just hope you don’t make an equally impressive corpse.”

  “You think it is Pickens, too?”

  “We must assume it is. I was hoping the whore would keep her mouth shut. Maybe she did. My mistake was in assuming you would keep yours shut.”

  “Well I wasn’t thinking. The buffalo shooting an’ all. I wanted to just get that out of my mind and...”

  “And you put something far more interesting into Pickens’ mind. We know he was going to go back to the Chance. Whore said as much. Clearly he wouldn’t have left until he’d moved the dresser. Probably got someone to help him. Drifter maybe. Maybe even one of those braves, wanting a few coins for whisky. Could have paid for the time with a wagtail and then let his accomplice in through the window. It is what I would have done.” Jackson looked at him askance. “Speaking hypothetically, Mr. Beauregard. Speaking hypothetically.”

  “So what do we do? The train’s about to leave.”

  The Preacher leant back into his seat and looked out of the window. The guard was blowing his whistle. “Quick thinking that, Mr. Beauregard, you saying you were going on straight to Fort Wallace. That might stop him getting off at Hays.”

  “Hays, yes. But what if he comes through the train before we get there, looking for us? ‘Specially as now he knows what I look like.”

  “Yes, you do stand out from the ordinary cowboy. Too many passengers on this train for him to do you harm on it though.”

  Jackson moved to sit opposite the Preacher. The older man could see in his face that he had an idea. Jackson leant forward, hat pushed back away from his brow, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, he said, “We should get off. Now. Leave by the rear platform. But we’d better hurry.”

  “I half agree with you on that, Mr. Beauregard.”

  “Which half?”

  “The half of ‘we’ that is ‘you’. It was you he spoke with. Knows nothing about me. But I can help get your luggage off. Better be quick.”

  The Preacher made to rise, but Jackson stopped him. “I was only in that goddam saloon because you wanted me to help you! An’ it was you put me up to going to Ellsworth in the first place! Hickok was in Hays all the while, and you knew that!”

  “As I said before, I only heard that he was in Ellsworth.”

  “Maybe Emmy-Lou described you to Pickens. Have you thought of that? She had plenty of time to get a real long hard look at you. Close look too if I remember right. And you roughed her up a bit as well. What she owe you?” As Jackson said this the conductor was walking alongside the train, ushering on board the remaining passengers.

  “I can handle Pickens. Dealt with much worse. And you do have your Derringer, so you’ll be alright. You are an advocate of that weapon I seem to remember.”

  The locomotive’s bell began to clang and the cars lurched forward briefly before holding the engine back. Within a minute or two the train would be moving too fast for Jackson to get off and make good his escape from Pickens. The Preacher stood up. “Maybe you’ll need more than a Derringer.” He picked up his luggage and hastened down the carriage to the rear door, opened it and stepped out onto the footplate. Jackson followed with his case.

  The Preacher jumped down onto the tracks. “Pass me the bags, quick!” The train began to pull away as Jackson passed the first then threw the second bag down onto the tracks. When he jumped down himself he was already 50 feet away from the Preacher. They stood looking at the back of the train as it pulled away.

  “It is a damned pity that we threw that money away when we did,” said Jackson. “We could’ve given it to Pickens here and now and be done with the matter.”

  “Even if we gave him twenty thousand worthless Confederate dollars, he would not be assured that we hadn’t kept back the same amount in greenbacks for ourselves. No sir. That, Mr. Beauregard, is not the way to deal with a man like Pickens.”

  “Well what do we do now?”

  “Let us move these bags off the track. Then we either stay here waiting for the next train, which could be in a week, or we see about getting a ride to Hays. Maybe someone with a wagon could give us a lift into town for a couple of dollars.”

  “And if Pickens looks out for us getting off at Hays...”

  “Looks out for you, Mr. Beauregard, for you getting off at Hays.”

  “Me. OK, if he looks out for me, an’ I don’t disembark, then he won’t either. Is that your thinking?”

  “Sure is. Kansas is a big state. And the West even bigger. I reckon if we don’t see Pickens when we get to Hays then we won’t ever see him again.” They stopped outside the shack that served as the station halt. That, and three or four abandoned canvas constructions, was all that constituted this nameless hamlet.

  “Now what?”

  The Preacher turned to look at the rear of the train, still in view as the land was flat, but so small now he could lose sight of it by holding his thumb up to it. He pointed down the track they’d traveled along that morning. “Back there, is a buffalo graveyard, along with thousands of Confederate dollar bills floating in what little breeze there is. And Ellsworth. Nothing else. And a few miles up that-a-way,” he turned 180 degrees, “is Hays. Still want to go to Hays? Meet Hickok?”

  “Yes! That is one of the principle reasons why I came out West in the first place! Meeting bad men like Pickens, well... that’s all part of the excitement ain’t it?”

  “Your enthusiasm did not take long to rise again, Mr. Beauregard, and that is to your credit.” And it was indeed infectious. Jackson’s optimism, his love of life and sense of wonder, but he was sure wet behind those ears was this tenderfoot.

  “But just for the moment,” Jackson said, flapping at a fly, pacing up and down while the Preacher sat on his upturned trunk, “what happens
should we, OK should I, see Pickens again? What do you advise as to be the best course of action?”

  “Well you are out West now, Mr. Beauregard, and policemen like Hickok and Bear River Smith are few and far between.” The Preacher moved toward the shade of the hut. “Folk out here need to look out for themselves a lot more than those in Boston or Richmond.”

  “What does that mean though? I ain’t never shied from using my fists. But only if I have to. What if he won’t listen to reason?”

  “You could do what many a Texan would do out here.”

  “Which is?”

  “You could kill him.”

  Chapter 9

  Jackson didn’t have much to say regarding the Preacher’s suggestion. He just took it as a comment on what happens in the West. The Law of the Gun was oftentimes the only law around. That was the fact of it. Jackson was a newspaper man after all, even if he was new to the role. Newspaper men dealt in facts, which was not something he would readily attribute to preachers.

  The Preacher had a similar view of the newspaper profession.

  “What are you thinking now?” asked Jackson.

  “That we find out when the next train is due.”

  “Maybe we should see if we can get some horses here. Gonna be a hot day. I reckon the mercury will be pushing on past 90 before the sun starts going down.”

  “We will need a wagon. The luggage, Mr. Beauregard, the luggage. Another train would be preferable.”

  The station halt was nothing but a single storied shack that had been erected during the construction of the railroad itself. Had been a cookhouse for Chinese laborers.

  A man and wife team seemed to own the place. The woman was sweeping down the verandah, while the man was fixing back the line from the pump now that the locomotive had gone.