Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

“So?”

  “And you’ve said you had been a military man. Cavalry? Being a soldier don’t sit square with being a preacher. What happened?” Just then the waiter arrived with their food. Taking possession, they both fell silent as they tucked into their steak sandwiches, egg yolk dripping onto the plates. But the conversation soon picked up again.

  “I’ve said before that I was at Sharpsburg,” and here the Preacher emphasized the Confederate name of the battle. “That was as good a place to find God as anywhere on earth. Many a soul met the Lord that day, both Gray and Blue.” He paused, and Jackson could tell this was going to be an observation dear to the Preacher’s heart. “I comforted a dying boy in a shell hole and he suffered, I am telling you, he suffered. But though in agony I could see he was not a-feared. No sir. He asked that I read him from his Bible, which he always carried in his kitbag, and the words I read to him quelled him of any terrors and any doubt. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”

  “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” Jackson finished the Psalm for him.

  “Despite our differences a while back, it nevertheless surprises me how much you, a confessed non-believer, know the Good Book.”

  Jackson said nothing so the Preacher tore a piece of bread from a loaf on the table and used it to mop up the yolk. “I am not a soldier anymore, on account that there is no longer an army.” He stuck his fork into a piece of steak and held it poised in front of his mouth. “No Army of Northern Virginia that is. I took what I had, which were the clothes on my back, and left the United States, heading west. More coffee?” The Preacher was helping himself to the pot and offered to replenish Jackson’s mug first.

  Jackson waved his hand signifying he needed no more. He raised his napkin to his chin, wiping away some errant gravy. “Travelled on your own all this time? You and The Lord, I mean.”

  “I can see you like pushing your luck Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher. “Luck don’t take kindly to being pushed, as you will no doubt find out. But I guess that accurately sums up most of my last five years. Yes. And you, Mr. Beauregard? For an atheist, you must have once been a keen reader of the Bible. Your mother’s influence?”

  Jackson pushed away his plate and drank what was left of his coffee. “I’ve not always been against religion. But the more I read of the so-called “good” book, the more I got to realize that this deity of yours doesn’t seem to have any particular interest in the suffering of the Human Race.”

  The Preacher caught the owner’s attention and signaled for the check. This was brought immediately as the place was beginning to fill up and the owner wanted their seats. The two each placed a half-dollar coin onto the table. They waited until the waiter left them alone, then the Preacher said to Jackson, “The Lord God knows all about suffering, Mr. Beauregard. Why, did he not give his only Son up to the most painful of deaths?” He made to rise.

  “My point sir,” said Jackson, gathering his hat and pushing back his chair, “is that a deity that cares would ensure that no one else suffered the loss of a son like he did.” He then stood. “Now if we are to see the Marshal, I think it would be best to do it now. Do you not agree?”

  “For sure. Let us walk together. But do not think I am not offended by your atheism Mr. Beauregard, despite what happened earlier. I think the railroad man was right - it was too hot out in the sun. I prefer to see it as you having been sent by the Good Lord to test my faith.”

  The two men walked toward the door. Jackson held it open and let the Preacher out first. Main Street was still baking in the searing heat of the late afternoon sun. “Well in that case, let me call into question the amount of suffering your god subjected himself to.”

  “He sacrificed his only Son, Mr. Beauregard, as I just said. Surely you cannot say that that is not suffering of the highest order?” The two men were now walking along the sidewalk, taking what shade they could. A few women with parasols, out shopping for who knows what. A flat wagon went by, two mules a-pulling. Across the road a Brave lay in his own dirt clutching a bottle of hooch.

  “Well he brought his son back to life after only two days of grieving,” said Jackson. “When no one was looking he rolled away the stone and - as the story has it - Jesus walked again! So much for sacrifice. Your god didn’t suffer his loss for long. Yet he didn’t spare that mother of the boy you comforted. What have you to say about that?” Jackson kept looking sideways at the Preacher as they walked.

  “I say that over there’s the Marshal’s Office.” The Preacher gestured towards a stone building across the street and down a block or two. The pair continued down the boardwalk. They had the thoroughfare pretty much to themselves. A couple of troopers sat in the shade of the saloon opposite. “You may find that some of the patrons of that establishment,” the Preacher gestured with a nod of his head as they walked past, “have tales to tell you of Marshal Hickok.” Clearly talk of religion was at an end.

  “Drum’s Saloon eh?” observed Jackson, noting the painted sign on the door. “It’ll be a more lively place this evening, I’ll be bound.”

  The door to the Marshal’s Office was open. “Try the saloon mister,” said the policeman sitting outside the office, upon hearing Jackson’s request regarding Hickok. He had removed his pipe to give his answer, and decided to use it to point down the street from where the two had just come. “There’s a-plenty to choose from.”

  “So, Wild Bill Hickok is still marshal of this town,” said a rather relieved Jackson.

  “No sir,” said the officer, getting up from his stool. “I’m the marshal here,” he said and Jackson could see a slight puffing out of the chest. Placing his pipe between his teeth he slid his thumbs through his braces, pulling on them, and looked Jackson straight in the eye. “Lanahan’s the name. Got elected over Hickok back end of last year. Got that young man?” Lanahan took his pipe from his mouth and prodded Jackson in the ribs with the stem, just to make sure he got the point. “The townsfolk preferred me over Hickok. Now, you want to report some trouble son?”

  The Preacher intervened. “Mr. Beauregard here is a newspaper man, Marshal. A reporter, come out west to interview Bill Hickok. Didn’t know he was no longer marshal here.”

  Lanahan promptly resumed his seat and puffed at his pipe, making smoke. “Still an officer of sorts. Sheriff for the county.” He was no longer looking at Jackson and the Preacher. No longer interested in them now that he knew who they were interested in. “But I am the authority here, in Hays City!” he said, glancing up with a stern look, adding: “Thinks he still has the right to cause trouble though.” He gestured down the street again with his pipe, signaling the audience was at an end. He had intended to point in the general direction of the Drum Saloon. But as luck would have it, he ended up pointing out Hickok himself, walking - no, striding - up the street towards them. “Well there you go, gen’lemen,” he said, making no attempt to hide his indifference, “There’s your hero a-coming along now.”

  And when the hero reached the office Jackson introduced himself. “Mr. er... Sheriff Hickok?” Not waiting for a reply, in case one wasn’t forthcoming, “My name is Jackson Beauregard. I’m the er…” he scrambled for a job title, one that would be impressive enough for an impressive US lawman like Hickok, “The official Frontier Correspondent for the New York Herald sir. And this here is...”

  “A preacher! A preacher and a newspaper man? Strange bedfellows indeed.” Hickok’s voice boomed, “And what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok, was happy to talk to Jackson. Well he was once it was made clear that all Jackson wanted was for to hear Hickok talk about his favorite subject. He gestured inside the office and Jackson entered, followed by the Preacher. Lanahan remained where he was. He’d heard it all before.

  Jackson had seen the occasional photograph of James Butler Hickok. He particularly remembered one in Harper’s Monthly that showed the gunfighter - for that surely was Hickok’s principal claim to fame -
standing full length, wearing a three-quarter coat with his western hat askew in a cavalier fashion. Jackson also recalled a full portrait that had the heroic Indian fighter sporting shoulder length curls and a fine, handlebar moustache.

  The flesh and bone version did not disappoint. Hickok was tall, at least six foot, and wore his auburn hair shoulder length as was commonplace amongst Plainsmen. Hickok’s eyes, steel blue. His nose, long and thin above prominent lips, had led him to be known as Duck Bill in his youth. Jackson could easily imagine it being stuck into the affairs of those who were up to no good. Hickok set about providing mugs of coffee for his visitors (but not for Lanahan noted the Preacher). Strange how the lawmen out West seemed to have this liking for coffee, thought Jackson. He rather had them down as hard drinking liquor men, and he jotted an idea into his notepad about this. Hickok motioned to a couple of chairs as he himself took charge of a seat behind the office desk. He rocked his chair back so that it was supported just by its hind legs. The balance was achieved by Hickok having his boots planted firmly atop the table. Although he’d lost the election, Hickok behaved as if he owned the place.

  “So your readers just can’t get enough of mah adventures? Well who can blame ‘em?” Now this could have sounded arrogant. But Hickok’s voice was soft, almost graceful. The man had some manners, noted Jackson. And confidence. Strange how the lawmen here seemed to have themselves nicknames he thought. Bear River, Wild Bill... he jotted an idea into his notepad about that too.

  “Well I am mighty glad to have finally caught up with you, Sheriff. Tracking you down ain’t easy.”

  “There’s many a villain wants to track me down son. But I allers git ‘em first.”

  “And you are no longer sheriff here?” asked Jackson, pencil and notepad poised to take down every word.

  “I got responsibilities for the County, sir. I’m just passin’ through, so you are lucky to meet me.” Then slightly under his breath, with an evil glance to the door, outside of which sat Lanahan, “Was sheriff here one time though.”

  “I read somewheres,” said Jackson, referring to an interview that Hickok had given to the Herald’s own Henry Stanley some years back, “that you have killed - and I quote - ‘hundreds of men’. There’s some that take this to be an exaggeration. What do you say to them, Sheriff? Have you really killed hundreds?”

  “Well now,” said Hickok, “I know Indians don’t normally count in such matters, but if you did count ‘em, then I allow that it would be more’n’ a hundred. But if you was only counting white men...” But Hickok did not give a figure. The truth had no chance of overhauling a legend that was already rampant, and Hickok didn’t object to that one bit. “You need to count the rebellion too, you understand. Did more n’ my fair share of killin’ back then.”

  “And with those guns sir?” said Jackson, pointing to Hickok’s gun belt. Jackson’s ploy of appealing to Hickok’s vanity was working. He promptly rose to his feet and moved clear of the desk, proudly displayed his side arms.

  “I wish you had the foresight to bring along one of those photograph men with you. Could’ve taken a portrait of me in action.”

  Jackson was imagining the scoop he could claim if he witnessed the famous Wild Bill Hickok, lawman, plainsman, gunfighter, shooting someone dead in a real live gunfight! Hickok moved to the center of the room where he turned and stood facing Jackson. His pistols - “I allers wear a brace of Navy Colts” - were ivory handled and worn in reverse. Jackson pointed at them and opened his mouth to ask a question, but Hickok interrupted him. “I knows what you are about to say, young man. Most people ask it so why not you. You’re a-wondering why I have my pistols reversed so. Well it is the Plainsman’s way you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” said Jackson, who did. “Is it quicker? Does that give you the advantage in a shootout?”

  “Let me show you. First: the cross-draw. Count to three someone.” Hickok stood in an exaggerated pose, knees slightly bent, feet wide apart, hands poised inches above those ivory handles, not flinching a muscle. Jackson counted out loud, slowly, deliberately.

  Upon Jackson saying “Three!” Hickok straightened and relaxed.

  “Wanna see that again?” he asked. Then he put his hands on his hips and threw his head back and roared with laughter. Jackson sportingly took the joke and laughed too. The Preacher was amused to hear Lanahan, out on the terrace, score a hit in the spittoon.

  “OK young man. For real this time. Count to three.”

  “One, T…”

  Hickok’s hands flew into action. His right hand moved across his body to the pistol on his left side, grasping the butt, while simultaneously his left hand shot across to grab the gun sitting in his right holster. Both were withdrawn simultaneously, flashing into view and levelled at an imaginary foe in front while Hickok crouched, keeping his torso and head upright. He held the pose for three or four seconds, then straightened while spinning the revolvers around his middle fingers, before dropping the pair back into their holsters.

  Some say, looking back on the history of the West, that John Wesley Hardin was the fastest gun. Others, Billy the Kid. For Jackson, it was Wild Bill Hickok.

  “But I didn’t get to three,” said Jackson.

  “Didn’t even get to two did you! I said you count to three. Didn’t say I would draw on three, did I? And that, young fellah, is how best to stay alive. Being fastest on the draw ain’t gonna save your life if you can’t get your shot off first. Now watch this.” Here Hickok drew the pistols underhand, that is he reached for the pistol grips with his palms facing out from his body, then having drawn the weapons clear of the holsters, spun them around in a blink of an eye as he crouched and twisted his body, so that the guns were levelled at an imaginary protagonist to his left. Holding his position, he said, “And that, gentlemen, that is the Cavalry Draw.”

  “And which works best?” asked Jackson, busy writing in his notebook.

  “The one that kills your opponent. That my friend,” said Hickok, straightening himself before replacing his pistols and moving back around the desk to resume his seat, “is all that counts. When you draw your guns on a man you have to be intent on shooting. That is exactly what I expect the man in front of me to do, so I makes sure I git him first. And that is why I am still alive and maybe - well it was you said a hundred - dead men are up in Boot Hill.” Jackson continued to write, the Preacher yawned, and Hickok kept on talking.

  Chapter 10

  That evening, the direct heat from the sun was no more, but its effect could still be felt, and that drove many a trooper to the saloons of Hays. Tommy Drum’s was as busy as any. The troopers there were all from a company of the 7th Cavalry, Custer’s men. The Preacher was there too, chiefly for something to eat and to quench his thirst with sarsaparilla. That said, this particular brew had more of the liquorish than was the Preacher’s preference. Jackson had remained back at the hotel, writing up his interview. And both men had thought it prudent Jackson stay away from saloons just in case Pickens was in Hays.

  The Preacher had decided it was again time to catch a sinner or two and teach them that the ways of Satan lead to desolation. Better their pockets be ruined now than their souls later. Coincidentally, it would also help with the Preacher’s finances. For truth be told, his pecuniary position was not as healthy as he would have liked. So, with these thoughts in mind, once he had finished his meal he was to be found sitting alone at small round table some ways from the bar. The table had three vacant chairs, which were just begging to be taken. The Preacher, despite the closeness of the evening, still wore his frock coat, his shirt collar buttoned, and his hat, as always, pulled down shielding his eyes. A bottle stood to his left, a glass to his right. Spread out in front of him was a game of solitaire. And a casual observer would have casually observed that this card player wasn’t very good at playing cards.

  Having lost yet again, the Preacher gathered up the deck and began to shuffle. Keeping the two halves of the pack face down on the tab
le with a hand on each, the Preacher pushed down on the backs with his forefinger and pulled the edges up with his thumbs, letting the two halves merge in a riffle. He did this quite successfully, twice. But he overreached himself when trying the riffle with the cards an inch clear of the table.

  A couple of sinners had noticed this. The Preacher, aware he had an audience, made to shuffle once more. This time he held the deck face down in the palm of his left hand, between his fingers and his thumb. He pulled a wedge of cards from the middle of the deck with this right hand and held them above the rest of the pack. Fingers from his left hand then stretched up from beneath to pull some cards from above, just a few at a time. But he dropped some of the cards on the table. As he gathered them in with the aim of making another attempt, the two observers decided there was nothing more they needed to see.

  “Hey friend, you wanting to play a friendly game? Nothin’ much happening in here tonight. Might help pass the time. Share a beer or two.” This the older of the pair, a sergeant. Bald, with a tan that spread from his face over his head and down to his bull neck. Gray moustache. Had his cap in his hand. Without waiting for any acknowledgement, he addressed the corporal: “Will you be a sport and join us? Make it a three-some?”

  “Don’t mind if I do sergeant. Nice of you to ask me,” said the corporal, a younger man, unshaven with unkempt hair protruding from beneath his cap. He stepped over and took one of the seats. Introduced himself, though the Preacher didn’t catch his name.

  “Wasn’t my intention to play other than Napoleon. I’m only good at that on account that I am my own opponent,” said the Preacher. “But happy to pass the time, as you say.” He smiled. “Maybe get some glasses and share from my bottle,” nodding in the direction of the sarsaparilla.

  The sergeant placed his cap on the table and lifted the bottle with an air of bemusement. Then to the Preacher, “I can tell from your voice that you are a gentleman, and a southern one to boot. It is beholden on me, as a representative of the Federal Government - and a visitor to your table - to buy you a ‘frontier’ drink. You won’t offend me by...”