Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  The hustlers held their collective breath. Here was a serious player. Or a fool. He was dressed like a serious player. They were with him. No one likes to see the House win.

  Jackson laid his money straight onto the card on the dealer’s left. He did not hesitate, did not change his mind. His confidence was made up of two factors not known to the hustlers. The first was that the money he had laid was Lovéd’s. And the second was that Lovéd had told him all three cards would be the Queen of Hearts.

  “You are sure, sir,” said Lovéd, “that you do not want to change your mind?” Even as Jackson was shaking his head, Lovéd added, “You can change your mind sir, you know.”

  Jackson held firm, as Lovéd had instructed. The Hustlers’ eyes switching between each other, before settling on Lovéd. They sensed Lady Luck was about to smile on Jackson, given the look of concern on Lovéd’s face.

  “Last chance to change your mind...”

  “Get on with it!” said Weasel.

  “He’s made his choice! He ain’t for shifting, are you friend?” This Cadaver.

  The third hustler, a man with a nose that showed he was too fond of bourbon, added, “He’s got you beat ain’t he!” It was said with relish.

  Lovéd smiled. It was a forced smile. All could tell it was the smile of a man who hates to lose, but who knows that losing ought to be done with good grace. “Indeed he has sir, indeed he has.” And with that he turned the card against which Jackson had placed his bet. “The Lady is with you, sir! Congratulations.” Cheers all round, slaps on the back for Jackson. Hustlers liked to be associated with winners. They think winner’s luck always rubs off.

  Lovéd picked up the cards and then pulled a roll of banknotes from deep inside his jacket and peeled off a fistful of fifty dollar bills. These he counted out slowly, making sure the hustlers heard every word, every painful syllable. “Fifty doll-ars, one hundred doll-ars, one hundred and fifty doll-ars...”

  And when he had finished paying out Jackson’s winnings, Lovéd made good and sure the Hustlers could clearly see that the bankroll disappearing back into his pocket contained many, many more pictures of Henry Clay.

  Two or three players left their poker games and gathered around Jackson. Someone at the back stood on a stool, the better to see the action. Lovéd presented the cards again for all to see: knave, knave, queen. “Who wants to give me the chance of winning some of that money back?”

  “Henry!” It was the Barber. He had been keeping watch at the door all the while. Everyone noted the alarm in his voice and looked up. “The Watch is nearby. They will look in for certain. We have to get out!”

  Lovéd excused himself momentarily and went to look out of the door with the Barber.

  And while Lovéd was doing that Jackson, quite literally, was marking his cards. Well one of them at least. He produced a pencil from his pocket and, with a wink to his new friends marked, with the faintest of dots, the back of the Queen of Hearts. No one would know it was there. Unless of course, like the three hustlers and everyone watching, they had seen the mark being made. By the time Lovéd returned to the game, the pencil was safely hidden.

  Lovéd picked up the cards and pointed to the door. “Gentlemen, the Watch will be upon us any minute. This will have to be the last game, then we must get out. Everybody. Otherwise we will find ourselves marooned by the skipper on a sandbank in the middle of the Missouri.” This brought appreciative laughter from the eager audience, which had continued to grow. Lovéd rolled his sleeves up and held the cards out for all to see. Then he let them drop, one at a time, face down on the table. Lovéd was now controlling the audience as he controlled the cards. He began to play: left to center, center to right, right to left, left, left, right, center, left...

  He stopped. “Who will back his undoubted skill and judgement and take home the Last Lady of the Night?” Lovéd’s hands were clear of the table now. He was looking at the hustlers, and at the hangers on, and at the door. Everyone else was looking at the faintest of dots on the back of a card.

  “What’s the limit!” demanded Weasel.

  “I can cover any bet. My reserves are as deep as the Missouri is long.”

  Jackson made to put his money against the card. Made to. But Lovéd stopped him. “Sir!” Everyone held their breath. Trouble? “I normally make it a maxim of mine not to play against someone who has just beaten me as soundly as you.” Lovéd waved away protests, which chiefly emanated from Jackson’s new friends who saw him as a talisman. “Please gentlemen, please. I am not impugning your companion’s integrity. Far from it. He is clearly an honest fellow. My contention is that he is - at this moment - a lucky one too! I have learned to my cost that it is best not to play against a man who has Lady Luck on his shoulder.”

  Jackson made to acknowledge the dealer’s decision, but his new friends were vigorous in their protests. Lovéd held his hands up and conceded he was - once again - beat. “As you gentlemen are insistent I acquiesce to your protests. But only because we do not have any time to argue. So if any or all of you gentlemen wish to play again, then I would advise you to do so now! You heard how the Officer of the Watch is due at any moment. In fact...” Lovéd did not complete the sentence, preferring instead to follow the maxim about words not being as powerful as actions. He gathered his hat, his gloves, his bag, and made ready for a quick exit. The three cards lay there on the table. But the Hustlers had their eyes on just the one.

  “I will wager on that one!” said Cadaver, pointing at the card on the left of the row as he was looking at it. “But rather than one hundred, I lay...” he fumbled deep inside his undertaker’s coat, and pulled out three wads of bills from three pockets. He counted out his dollars. “$950! On that card!” He looked up at Lovéd and was pleased to see a look of horror on the dealer’s face. “Well as you yourself said, this is the last wager of the night.”

  “Stop!” This came from a short, fat man who had the look of the Greek about him, his skin being more olive in hue. Immaculate nails, noted Jackson. Not a man who makes a living with his hands. “If this is the last game then I want to wager too!” he whined. And with that he reached inside his jacket and tugged at the lining. It came away at the top where the stitching was weak. From within the ripped material he produced what amounted to one thousand dollars. This he placed down against the same card as Cadaver. The card with the miniscule pencil mark in one of the corners.

  “I should point out that other cards are available,” said Lovéd in a clear attempt to deflect the punters away from the Lady.

  Weasel was not to be outdone. “Here is my stake. Count it, count it!” he demanded of Lovéd.

  And Lovéd counted. And Lovéd said, “One thousand and twenty dollars Sir. We could have played for higher stakes earlier had you but mentioned it. Though better late than never as the philosopher said.”

  Then he looked over at Jackson. “I feel it would be impolite to refuse you the opportunity to double your stake, given that your companions have wagered on what...” and here he looked at all three of the hustlers, “On what is definitely the last hand.”

  “Henry!” Another word of warning from the barber at the door. “Finish now or we are all done for!”

  Jackson fumbled in his pocket and quickly placed his stake, which was of course, Lovéd’s money, against the card. “It is the wisest thing to do,” Lovéd had said when he had been coaching Jackson earlier that day. “Stake it all, every dollar. Then when you are seen to lose, no suspicion will fall on you.” That said, Lovéd hadn’t warned him about being arrested by The Watch! Jackson was now more worried about being thrown off the vessel than staking someone else’s money on a rigged card game! But the punters around the table were more frightened of missing out on a windfall than of being cast ashore. There was a flurry of dollar bills being slapped down against the one card everyone was looking at.

  The Barber forced his way into the middle of the gathering. “They’re outside! Quickly! You must hide the cards! Get out! E
verybody Out! Now!”

  Lovéd turned over the target card and said, “Gentlemen, may I introduce: The Knave of Spades!” And with that he scooped the money, and the cards, into his open bag.

  “Knave indeed!” yelled Weasel. But at that precise moment the door burst open and in rushed five or six crewmen, one of whom was shouting that he was The Officer of the Watch. They waved boat hooks, yelled obscenities and grabbed hold of anyone and everyone they could. And that included the three hustlers and Jackson too. The four were dragged out of the barbershop and into the gangway. In the commotion Lovéd grabbed his hat, grabbed his bag, and grabbed the opportunity to make good his escape out of another door, and out of Jackson’s sight for ever.

  Chapter 14

  A boy led the way to a hotel, pushing the Preacher’s luggage on his barrow. He waited at the threshold of The Washington while the Preacher signed in. The manager proffered the room key and called over to the boy without looking at him. “Twelve.” Clearly the boy had ferried luggage to this hotel many a time, for he knew exactly what was expected of him, and he led the way. At the entrance to the room the Preacher silently paid the agreed five cents and went inside. The room was sparsely furnished of course. A chest of drawers some four feet high stood behind the door, with a bowl and a porcelain pitcher atop. The water it contained seemed no more than a day old. The window looked out onto Main Street. A wooden chair and a bed with a straw mattress completed the furnishings. The Preacher chose the bed.

  Lying down, arms folded behind his head, hat on his chest, staring at the ceiling, light fading all the while, the Preacher thought on his next move. Could be his last of course. Maybe that would be a blessing. A chase involving a coyote and a jackrabbit, ends with one tiring before the other. Which lives depends upon which one don’t fade first. If the hare succumbs, the coyote has its meal. But if the coyote should spend too long on the chase, expend too much energy pursuing its prey... Well the coyote will go hungry and will be slower still next time around.

  The Preacher had started the chase five years back. True, he’d caught Dexter. But that was, how long ago? The hate still burned deep within. But the hope was all but gone. And Franklin and Bascourt might already be dead.

  Getting old. And tired. Sick and tired. This was sure to be another false trail. Should stop this. Stop it right now, in this hotel room. Leave it and walk away. Even if Franklin were alive, and was in Sioux City, what good would it do? Killing Franklin won’t bring them back, Louisa, Lorna, James. Would they have wanted this? Move on Daddy; Let go Husband. Take that steamboat outa here. Go north. Go as far north as you can.

  Then West.

  How far can riverboats go on the Missouri? Fort Benton. Stay there for the winter. Heel those wounds. Then head West come Spring.

  But that’d mean letting Franklin be. Letting him escape paying his due. Would mean leaving Louisa lying in her grave, unavenged. Lying next to her daughter - his daughter, their daughter - in the family plot behind the home razed to the ground, surrounded by burnt-out cotton fields. Franklin still eating breakfast, Franklin still drinking whisky, still watching the sunset, still smelling the dawn, still walking this Earth.

  The Preacher woke, soaked in sweat, heart beating fast, needing to breath. It was early evening, already dark. It was cold, for autumn had taken a strong hold. By the end of the month temperatures in Sioux City were bound to plummet. Would need his army great cloak when he went out.

  He fumbled in his pocket for a flint and lit the lamp. He warmed his fingers above the glass. He was glad that he had eaten a good breakfast, for he had no appetite now. He filled the bowl with water from the pitcher and splashed his face. The water made his fingers cold again. His hands lingered on his jawbone, prominent. He needed a shave, needed a haircut too, and a clean shirt. The looking glass showed a man who had not had a home for far too long. What would it take to settle down? A woman? Family? On his own maybe, with some land and some livestock?

  The Preacher dried his face and lifted the Jenny Lind onto the bed. Opening it he removed the Le Mat. His next fifteen minutes were spent cleaning it, oiling it, weighing it. He caressed it, first in one hand, then the other. Then he loaded it.

  Stepping out of the hotel he surveyed Main Street. Saloons a-plenty. Start at the nearest bar, directly opposite. The Four Stars. He crossed the street, entered through the swing doors, and pushed on through into the main bar area. A piano was playing, not that anyone was listening. Two Texans were helping a drunk leave. It didn’t look like they had his best interests at heart.

  The Preacher took a table. It could be a long night. And he didn’t know how many long nights he would be spending in Sioux City. But he was a patient man, the years had proved that. He ordered a beer, took a table, and was soon approached by one of the saloon girls. She sat down uninvited. Leaning back in the chair she crossed her leg over her knee. Her petticoats rode up to display her thigh. She toyed with her garter. “Want dance, Mister?” She rested an elbow on the table and leant slightly across to the Preacher. “Or company with beer?” She was heavily made-up. Her voice sounded young and the Preacher thought that she would look good even without the rouge and powder. Better in fact. Save the cosmetic for when she needed it. That would be soon enough.

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Then better be for drink I join you.” She laughed at nothing funny and turned to face the Preacher full on, playing casually with an earring while looking him straight in the eye. But she was a welcome distraction, for a stranger sitting on his own would attract attention more troublesome. She had an accent the Preacher hadn’t heard before. “What is name, Handsome?”

  “What is yours?” The Preacher didn’t want to sound too eager, because he wasn’t. But he did want to talk to the girls. They would know the men who lived in Sioux City. Her drink appeared. She hadn’t ordered it, but the barman knew. The Preacher, he would pay for it, that the Preacher knew.

  “What name you like best, mister?”

  That game eh? “Rosemary.”

  “Co-incidence!”

  “Ain’t it just.”

  Rosemary raised her glass containing the Preacher knew not what. Be expensive though. “Salut!”

  He touched her glass with his. “Salut! to you too, Rosemary.” She had a nice smile, the Preacher granted her that. Worse ways to spend an evening. But not this evening. He took a sip from his beer and placed his tankard on the table. Reaching into his pocket the Preacher produced the old newspaper he’d been carrying. Still folded neatly. And he unfolded it neatly too. He pointed at one of the pictures. “You know him?”

  She glanced at it. “Got scar. On his face.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Not sure Mister. Maybe I don’t.” And then, coquettishly, “But maybe I do.”

  “There’s a quarter eagle for you if you do know him. You can buy yourself drink all night long with that.”

  Rosemary smiled, took the paper and now studied the picture. Then she threw her pretty lil’ head back and laughed. Big teeth. “Sure, I know him. He come here, but not tonight. Can I have my reward?” She held out her hand.

  The Preacher took her hand in his. And squeezed it. Hard. The girl tried to pull it away, but the Preacher had it held fast. “Now Rosemary,” he said, adding “my dear. You know I want to believe that you wouldn’t lie to me. But how do I know you are not... mistaken?” He let go of her hand and she quickly withdrew it, shoving it under her armpit, trying to protect it, wanting the pain to subside.

  “What you want?”

  “I want to believe you, Rosemary. But you haven’t told me his name. If you do know his name, then tell me. That way I will believe you.”

  “And I get my eagle?”

  “No. You get my eagle. And it’s a quarter. I’d want a lot more for the full ten dollars. But I don’t want that tonight.” The Preacher reached across to Rosemary and put his hand to the side of her head. As the girl flinched he produced, with all the expertise of a magi
cian, or for that matter a card shark, a quarter eagle coin from behind her ear. “And see? You had it all the time.” He smiled at her, not out of affection, but out of calculation, betting that the trick might make her feel a little bit more at ease. “Now, his name. And where I can find him.” The Preacher’s tone was softer, much. And encouraging. Rosemary even smiled. She forgot about her squeezed hand. Their noses were almost touching now and to a casual observer the Preacher was engaged in buying something other than information.

  She whispered, “Franklin. His name is Franklin. Now, do I get my - I mean your - coin?” She held out her palm, elbow on the table, and smiled that smile again. It was almost a winning smile. The Preacher placed the coin in her upturned hand, closed her fingers around it, but didn’t let go. She was a fast learner: she knew she could never force open his grip, so she didn’t try.

  “And just so we part as friends, where do I find him?”

  “That’ll cost you another dollar. Mister.” She was smiling, but the look in her eyes were of steel.

  “Shall we hold hands a bit tighter?” The Preacher applied just a little bit more pressure.

  Still the look. No longer the smile. “The Two Aces Saloon. Most evenings. Or sometime The Lucky Diamond. Only comes here on show night. No show tonight.”

  The Preacher released his grip. Rosemary snapped her hand away, clutching the coin. “And if you not buying me no more drink, I have to go back to work.” She rose. The smile, back now, was condescending. As she walked off, provocatively swinging her hips, she was replaced by the barman with the check.

  On the Preacher’s fourth night in Sioux City he found his man. It was like the whore said, Franklin was in the Two Aces Saloon.

  The Two Aces, a noisy, smoke-filled place, had no redeeming features. As on the previous nights the Preacher looked around, taking in his surroundings, as a man does when new to a town, bar, bedroom. Over to his right was the ubiquitous piano. The lid was up, and there was a drink on the top, which suggested, maybe, that there was a piano man and that he was only temporarily absent. The floor space swept from the piano, across the Preacher’s field of view, disappearing to his left around the corner of the bar. Also to his left was a staircase. The steps led up to a balcony, which in turn ran back high above the bar and came to a dead end pretty much above the piano. Looking up, the Preacher could see women going in and coming out of the doors on the landing. Two or three of the girls were accompanied by men. One young fellow was playfully being led up the steps by a rather attractive, but older, woman. The youth was wearing a suit that suggested he was one of the many salesmen that plied their trade up and down the Missouri. The woman was pulling him by his necktie, he was putting up mock resistance. A group of similarly attired young men were roaring their approval. They were enjoying his embarrassment, while at the same time being deeply envious.