Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

Lonergan and Kile were surrounded by their messmates yelling: “Go get a doctor!”, “Get the sheriff!”, “Get the colonel!” and loudest of all, “Go get that sonofabitch Hickok!” Outside now, the Preacher could hear shooting from down the alley. No sign of his card playing companions, and he was mighty glad of that. He turned and walked quickly, but unobtrusively, away from Tommy Drum’s. Quickly and some four hundred dollars richer. Praise be to The Lord.

  Chapter 11

  “So all the while I was sitting here writing up my interview with Hickok, hiding from a man who, in all probability, isn’t even in Hays...” complained Jackson the next morning in the hotel room he was sharing with the Preacher. “All the while, Hickok was in a gunfight and I missed it. Missed it!”

  It was clear that Jackson was just as stewed as he was the previous night when the Preacher had told him about the shoot-out at Tommy Drum’s. The Preacher sat himself down on the bed and removed his hat. He ran his fingers through his still thick, but heavily graying, hair. Jackson was sitting at a table by an open window, looking down onto Main Street, catching what breeze he could. It was approaching Noon. Both men had been out all morning, but on separate tasks: Jackson tracking down reliable eyewitnesses; the Preacher tracking down a reliable breakfast.

  “One of them died you know,” said Jackson.

  “I think I can guess which one.”

  “Kile. K-I-L-E. Odd way of spelling it, but there you are. That’s what he’ll have on his tombstone. Such as it is. And what he’ll be called in my article for the Herald.”

  “Find Hickok?” The Preacher loosened his bootlace tie. It was oppressive hot.

  “No. Seems he’s left Hayes and from the mood in the town, it’s the only way he’ll stay alive. From what folk tell me, after Kile and Lonergan were shot, Hickok went and killed one, two, maybe three other men. Quite a fight.” Jackson’s disappointment was manifest. “How am I going to explain to my editor that I was in town and yet missed out on a gunfight involving the famous Wild Bill Hickok?”

  “Well it was only two shot in the saloon, and only one dead.” The Preacher took off his boots, left first, as was his habit.

  “Two, one, five... What is the truth of it, eh? I should have had a great story here, yet what is the truth of it? I’m going to have to find out for sure how many Hickok shot, because that’s what the readers back East will want to know.” He paused. “But from all the different versions folk have already told me, I reckon the truth, the real truth of it, is as dead as Kile. Or as lost as Hickok.”

  “Whatever you put in your article will become the truth, Mr. Beauregard. For that is the way of the world. Better, for you, to put something down than nothing down. And your readers will want a good story.” The Preacher, now minus his boots and hat, lay back on the bed. He had removed his frock coat too. He laced his fingers behind his head and appeared to be contemplating the ceiling.

  “Strange that, coming from a preacher: encouraging falsehoods.”

  “Just because I know the ways of men it does not mean I endorse them,” the Preacher replied without removing his gaze from the ceiling. He started to rotate his left foot, stretching his calf muscle. He’d done a fair bit of walking that morning. “But facts are facts, and the fact is, folk believe what they want to believe. When I was getting me some breakfast I heard tell Hickok may have headed out Topeka way.”

  “That a fact.”

  “Maybe not. So you going to send the story through? Send what you have and move on. Remember Pickens? Once you leave here your trail is cold.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Now how long has it taken for you to realize that fact?”

  Jackson returned to his writing. The Preacher ceased his stretching and listened to the silence. He’d taught those two chiselers a lesson at the card table, and Hickok had done the same to the would-be assassins. Not that Hickok was an unblemished paragon. And on that point, the Preacher knew his own conscience was hardly a clear one. But whose was? Resisting sin was one way of seeking salvation, but actively fighting it must surely be better. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. But for some sinners the sooner they got to purgatory so that The Lord could wreak that vengeance, the better.

  A redeemed sinner was the best kind of sinner. But failing redemption, a dead sinner would have to do. Not so much ‘cos they couldn’t sin against God any more - He could take it - but so that they couldn’t sin against Man.

  And what is Redemption anyway? What if Dexter had begged for forgiveness, if he’d confessed the errors of his ways and truly repented? Would that have made everything better? Would that have brought Louisa, Lorna and James back to life?

  Maybe Jesus could forgive Williams his sin. Maybe even the wagtail he killed forgave him from wherever she was now. But it’s not for the Law to forgive and let go. For some crimes, redemption can only begin when the sinner is lying in his grave. Forfeiting his life was not the end of it for Williams: it was the beginning. Death was Williams’ first, glorious step on the road to Redemption. And that applied to Dexter.

  But the Preacher wasn’t going to be able to assist Bascourt-Beauregard and Franklin on their roads to redemption. Not now. Not after all this time. Maybe they were dead already. Maybe they’d moved on to the Pacific. That would be rich, given he was stuck in Kansas. It was only luck that two years previous had led him to Dexter. And Dexter had paid the price. Leave it at that? How old does a man have to be before it’s too late for him to start again?

  “The Mississippi.”

  “What’s that you say, Mr. Beauregard?” The Preacher’s chain of thought snagged. He twisted his neck so as to look at Jackson, but he didn’t bother to raise himself from the bed.

  Jackson turned from the table, and leant forward on his chair with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He looked the Preacher straight in the eye. “I will go to the Mississippi.”

  “Why?”

  “When I was young I was fascinated about the tales of Mississippi river men: the gamblers, the runaway slaves. I remember you talking back in Abilene about one Mr. George Devol. And if I want to improve my skills at the tables, then where better to learn the trade, so to speak?”

  “Your fortunes are better served with your pen, not your pennies, Mr. Beauregard.”

  “Well… even if that were true, I should not limit my interviews to Lawmen. Seems the only people I meet are Lawmen. I shall interview gamblers.”

  “You can afford this?”

  “My editor should pay handsomely for my eyewitness account of the slayings in the Drum last night.”

  “Your...? How many are you saying Hickok killed?”

  “Five. That was what the last two witnesses I met said.”

  “Are you planning to stick around and count the funerals, Mr. Beauregard? In the interests of journalistic accuracy?”

  “No, in the interests of personal safety. Pickens, remember? And anyways, if I wait until the funerals then the news will be old. Old news ain’t news.”

  “You are fast learning your trade. Does your editor pay by the body count?”

  “He pays by the story. And I’ll be sure to get some stories on the riverboats. And I aim to supplement my income at the tables. Certain of it.”

  The Preacher raised himself up on an elbow and looked over at the younger man. “Mr. Beauregard. If you think that you are going to get both stories and money, you may well find yourself completing an unholy trinity by getting a boat hook too. Only that will be over your head.”

  “How so?”

  “Those gamblers and River Men do not gamble in the way you and your New England families might play Whist, Quinze and Quadrille. They cheat, Mr. Beauregard. And they cheat for high stakes.”

  “I understand that there are bad players around, of course I do.”

  “There is a difference between a bad player and a bad man. You, Mr. Beauregard, are a shining example of the former.”

  “Well I spotted what Banks was a-doing.”

 
The Preacher now sat up properly. He held up a hand signaling that Jackson must stop. “I, Mr. Beauregard, I spotted. You suspected. Which is a start. But suspect the wrong person and you’re likely to get yourself shot. And before you start coming all high-handed about this, consider why gamblers like working on riverboats.”

  Silence.

  “Gambling sure does take place on the boats. But it is not necessarily carried out with the knowledge - and protection - of the skipper. Many of the games are beyond the Law. And these players are on the river because it keeps them a-moving, keeps them one step ahead of the Law, one step ahead of their creditors, and you will find they will be one step ahead of you, Mr. Beauregard. Which, I hope you will allow, is a deal safer than being one step behind you.”

  The Preacher rose and walked over to the window. But Jackson was adamant. “I can take care of myself. I do know how to Box. And I will be away from Hays, which, as you yourself have said, is a place where Pickens might come looking for me. I have made up my mind. And I can cover many more miles and visit many more places by travelling on a riverboat than I can by stagecoach or horseback.”

  The Preacher was looking down on main street now, watching his fellow man - and his fellow man’s wife and children in some cases - going about their daily business. The daily business of eking out a living, trying to make a buck and then make something of themselves. An open cart with two duns attached, outside a general store, was being loaded by a farmer and his son. A large hessian sack. Seed? A roll of wire mesh for fencing. Two boys playing with a hoop and stick. A young woman with a parasol, walking quickly on while suffering unwanted attention from two drunken cowboys.

  The Preacher turned to face Jackson. “I’d better come with you.”

  “Why? Do not think I need the company. And I certainly do not need...” The Preacher held up his hands, but now in an apologetic manner, as if to fend off the very idea that Jackson needed protecting.

  “Do you know what Devol looks like?”

  “Well I can just ask after him. If he is as famous as you say.”

  “Being as infamous as he is, he is not likely to be introducing himself as George Devol. Assuming he is even on the boats you will be on.”

  “Then I will meet other, how shall I put it, infamous fellows.”

  “Even if, Mr. Beauregard, you do not get your brains blown out, the money your editor will pay for your stories will most certainly not cover your losses at the tables.” The Preacher moved away from the window. “You are going to need a Guardian Angel to watch over you and spot the chis’lers.”

  He lifted his valise onto the bed and opened it. “I had better oil my pistols.”

  Later the two sat drinking coffee in the hotel’s snug foyer. Jackson had been to the US Mail Office and dispatched his story. And the pair had pretty much come to the same conclusion about Pickens: he wasn’t in Hays.

  “The Kansas and St Louis Packet Line. That’s the sort of thing you should be looking for,” said the Preacher, closing his broadsheet then folding it in half and half again, before leaning forward from his armchair and proffering it to Jackson, tapping the toppermost page. “Take a look at that advertisement. There are others too.”

  Jackson took the newspaper, leant back in his chair and read about riverboat sailings.

  While Jackson read, the Preacher eased into the comfort of his chair, extracted his pipe from his left-hand pocket and proceeded to fill it with tobacco. He then rested his left foot on his right knee the better to strike a match on his boot heel. Then Jackson said, “I declare, riverboat lines do seem plentiful enough. And all trying to outdo the others in matters of speed and comfort. When do we start?”

  “My suggestion would not be for the Mississippi as you suggested. Sure would be a fair distance to travel. I consider the Missouri to be the better bet.”

  “The Missouri. Has the advantage of being nearer. Where do you suggest we head?”

  “The City of Kansas. Which is in the State of Missouri, not Kansas, and do not ask me why. We can pick up a steamboat and head north. Or maybe south. It’s some 350 miles to St Louis.”

  “Well let’s go there and see what the options are. Time to pack?”

  “Time to pack.”

  It took four days, travelling by stagecoach and railroad, to get to the City of Kansas. When they left central station, Jackson was struck by the sheer number of people. “This truly is a city! Reminds me of New York in many ways. I wonder how many folk live here.”

  “Thousands. Twenty thousand, maybe more. People keep a-coming out west and many get this far and decide to quit and settle. We just need to settle for the night.”

  They pushed their way through the crowded streets to the first hotel they saw and checked in. On the foyer walls were posters advertising the wonders of the city: theaters, variety, music hall. And riverboats. Jackson noted one for the Kansas City Packet Line, which promoted regular twice-weekly sailings both north and east. Unsurprisingly, it claimed to have the newest, biggest boats on the Missouri. “And it says they charge two cents a mile.”

  “There’ll be a lot of miles on a river with as many bends as the Missouri, Mr. Beauregard. But I don’t suggest steaming the whole length. Nor even staying on the same boat for long. Change boats, and change often. Sail up river for a few days, then disembark and head down river. You’ll meet plenty more river-folk - and gamblers - that way.”

  “This advertisement states that there’s a brand-new boat out of the city first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The Kansas Star was the name of the brand-new boat. But the only thing that was brand new on the vessel was the paint. The boat was on the small side compared with some that were plying their trade on the Missouri. The Star was about 150-foot long. Maybe longer, but not much.

  “She looks mightily weighed down,” said Jackson. “And there’s a deal of cargo yet to take aboard if them barrels and bales are anything to go by.”

  “It’s a skimmer Mr. Beauregard, a skimmer. Barely touches the water. Reckon it’ll have no more than a dozen inches’ draught. These boats can navigate on spilt milk. And even that is no guarantee we will not run aground on a sandbank.”

  “Ain’t the Missouri deep?”

  “In places. But it does meander so.”

  The Star had a flat deck that certainly did seem to be floating on the water, with two smoke stacks near the bow that rose from the boiler room on the main deck, up through the boiler deck - “That’s where we will find our staterooms, Mr. Beauregard” - emerging through the Texas deck behind the pilot house. There it belched black into the sky, a sign that it was nearly ready to depart. The boiler room itself was for’ard amidships, with the engines that turned the big sternwheeler further back. Cargo, and timber for fuel, was being taken aboard by the black laborers - the roustabouts - and stowed all along the main deck.

  The Preacher stepped onto the gangway and walked aboard. Jackson followed, as did two black porters carrying the men’s cases on their backs. Now on the deck the Preacher, without giving the courtesy of eye contact, said to the first porter, “Rooms nine and eleven.”

  The man grunted and the Preacher and Jackson followed him up a flight of steps. They walked along the outer promenade deck onto which the staterooms opened. Bringing up the rear, and bringing up Jackson’s trunk, was the second porter. After giving the men the necessary two cents, the Preacher opened the door to what would be Jackson’s cabin and stepped aside to allow him to enter. The Preacher followed him in. “Is this big enough for you?”

  “Is there any choice?” Jackson knew that there wasn’t, not for the money he was paying. The staterooms were on both sides of the vessel and, for reasons lost in time, were normally to be found on what was called the Boiler Deck.

  “Better than some hotels I’ve slept in though. You got a bunk and a chair. And a mirror as well! And all to yourself Mr. Beauregard.”

  Jackson merely looked around and took it all in. Not that this took any significant amount of time
.

  At the opposite end of the room was another door. Jackson opened it and stepped through. “Well this certainly is grand!” All the staterooms had a door to the Cabin, which ran the length of the boat. The walls and ceiling were painted white and there was gilt trim as far at the eye could see. “Even has a carpet. Over there.” He pointed to the rear of the cabin.

  The carpet was something upon which the new owners had indeed spent good money. It was a single piece, some 50 feet in length, so maybe half the cabin area. And was as wide as the cabin allowed. “I hope they’ve got enough spittoons,” said the Preacher. A rich Royal Wilton it was, deep blue, but flecked, so as not to show stains caused by the passengers when smoking and drinking, and when an expectoration missed its target. The furniture was not quite as new. But the material on the sofas and chairs was plush, the edgings of the bar and entrances, ornate. Looking up, Jackson could see that just below the roof ran a row of skylights, either side of the cabin. The roof itself, which was basically the floor of the upper deck, the Texas Deck, was supported by intricately carved wooden columns. These also served to separate the dining area from the social sections.

  “Those rooms over there,” the Preacher pointed to the for’ard section, “they’ll be the boat’s offices. Maybe even a barbershop too. Can’t imagine a boat this size not having a barber shop.”

  “I might treat me to a shave with my first winnings.”

  “Well there may be young ladies aboard Mr. Beauregard, so you might as well look your best for them,” said the Preacher, dead-pan.

  “I always look my best sir!” said Jackson, bowing affectedly.

  “You may well be visiting the barbershop more often than you think Mr. Beauregard. But not necessarily to spruce yourself up. For should the skipper be opposed to gambling, then the barbershop will be where you will most likely find a game.”

  They walked back through Jackson’s stateroom and out onto the promenade. To get themselves a better view of the vessel they climbed the ladder up to the Texas Deck. The Texas was divided into three. “That will be the Captain’s Stateroom,” said the Preacher, pointing forward. In the middle were the officers’ rooms. “And that there at the back is the coon pen. Shall we go on up to the top?” He began to climb without waiting for Jackson’s response.