Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  A small handful of people stood at the bar. One was alone. Not as tall as the Preacher, he seemed rounded at the shoulder, as if burdened. He had an old blue greatcoat beside him on the bar and it was needed too - it had been raining hard all evening. He wore a wool suit, which bore patches of repair. The suit was dark, and of indeterminate color, but that was due to the lighting in the place. His hat, broad-brimmed, was atop the overcoat, allowing the Preacher to observe better the man’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Possibly approaching 50, he had a high forehead, courtesy of a receding hairline. His hair was gray, whitening over the ears. His beard was maybe a week old. This was a thickset man, who clearly didn’t want for food. Possibly a trader or a storekeeper. The Preacher didn’t need to take the old newspaper from his pocket. A saloon girl had seen the Preacher standing at the entrance and, prompted by the bar owner to do something to ensure the new arrival didn’t leave with his money still in his pocket, moseyed up and said, “You look like you could do with some company Mister.” She made to take his arm and lead the Preacher further inside the saloon. He shrugged her off.

  “No thanks, sister.” He looked briefly at her, down at her, noticed how thick and freshly applied her lipstick was. A black dress, bare at the shoulders, with purple petticoats protruding below the hem and stopping just above the knee. A neat pair of black leather boots rose from high heels. Plunging neckline, of course. Get behind me Satan. “I don’t want for company.” He stepped away from the girl, but into the saloon, which was enough to satisfy the owner. The Preacher stopped next to Franklin. He took off his gray cloak and placed it on the bar, to his right and away from Franklin. He ordered a half bottle of rye and two glasses. Franklin didn’t acknowledge him.

  The mirror behind the bar was large and ostentatiously framed. From the entrance it made the saloon look twice as big, but not twice as inviting. Now at the bar the Preacher could see all behind him. But all he wanted to look at was the reflection of the face to his left; a face bearing a faded scar. He spoke to it: “You know Patrice Beauregard.” It was said as a statement of fact.

  The reflection didn’t turn its head. “Name don’t mean nothin’ to me.”

  “You knew Dexter too.” The men held each other’s gaze through the medium of the mirror.

  “What’s it to you, friend? An’ why you bin askin’ round after me?”

  “Don’t remember introducing myself as a friend,” said the Preacher, who then poured some of the rye from the reflected bottle into the reflection of the glass in front of him. He left the second glass conspicuously empty. “Where is Bascourt?”

  “Dunno where he is. Dunno where Dexter is neither, so before you ask, save yer breath.” Franklin watched the Preacher’s reflection knock back a slug of rye then replenish the glass.

  The Preacher said, “I know where Dexter is.” Curiosity momentarily visited Franklin’s image. It paled visibly when he added, “Watched him die.”

  Franklin had his bottle in front of him. He poured himself a full measure, hand beginning to shake. He raised the glass to his mouth and drained it dry. “What d’you want?” There was an edge in Franklin’s voice now. The piano man had evidently finished what he had been a-doing because just then the music started up. It sounded like Camptown Races, but wasn’t. Someone had joined in on the fiddle and a woman was singing:

  “Black my boots and make ‘em shine, Goodbye Liza Jane.”

  Without turning his head the Preacher could see some men dancing with saloon girls. “You are one of three men sentenced to hang for an atrocity,” he said watching the reflection, “although the word don’t do justice to the deed.”

  “What’s it to you?” Franklin was nervous. Whatever he had been doing these five years since the war ended, it had made him flabby. Flabby of figure but worse, flabby in spirit. He refilled his glass and emptied it again. The Preacher suspected Franklin wasn’t carrying a pistol. Not that it mattered.

  The singer finished the song. A smattering of applause and a reasonable number of wolf whistles. She took that as encouragement to sing another. This one the Preacher didn’t recognize at all. Franklin did not like the silence between them, despite being fearful of what might yet be said. He cracked. “You a bounty man?”

  The Preacher looked straight ahead. “No.”

  Franklin continued to defend the indefensible. “Sentence wuz passed by a rebel court. Rebels don’t have no jurisdiction in this country.”

  Then: “We wuz in uniform when they took us.”

  And: “We wuz prisoners of war. Shouldn’t have been in no civilian courtroom at all.”

  Finally: “Town fell day after they sentenced us. Union troops set us free. That’s an end to it.” He downed yet another tumbler. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  It chilled Franklin to find out how much the Preacher knew. “You were found by a Confederate cavalry troop. You were drunk on a plantation called Oaklands, where you were arrested and charged with murder. Charged with murdering a woman, her daughter, and her son-in-law. There were rules of war that were not obeyed by Bascourt, not obeyed by Dexter...” The Preacher placed the second, still empty, glass in front of Franklin. Still looking at the mirror he slowly filled it with rye. When the rye reached the rim of the glass the Preacher didn’t stop. He continued to pour. Rye spilled over the lip of the glass and onto the bar, spreading everywhere, spreading inexorably towards Franklin. Reaching the edge of the bar it cascaded over and down the front of Franklin’s pants. The Preacher continued to pour.

  Franklin couldn’t move. He couldn’t even move to stop his pants from getting soaked. “And the rules were not obeyed by you, Franklin.” The man’s boots were now standing in a pool of rye, and not just rye. The Preacher continued to pour, the rye continued to soak Franklin’s pants, and Franklin continued to stand stock solid still. When the bottle was empty, the Preacher placed it back on the bar. He pushed himself away and pulled his hat down firmly over his head. “Not obeyed by you.”

  And with that, he took hold of his cloak, turned on his heel and walked out of the Two Aces Saloon. A man was singing Lucy Long accompanied by a woman with a banjo. The woman was playing the role of Lucy and, following the lyrics of the song, was having a torrid time of it at the hands of her man.

  “If she makes a scolding wife,

  As sure as she was born,

  I’ll tote her down to Georgia,

  And trade her off for corn!”

  The audience was having a rare old time at Lucy’s expense. No one paid no heed to the Preacher and Franklin.

  The Preacher walked across to a nameless bar on the other side of the street. He sat near a window with a glass of sarsaparilla. He ignored the approaches of the saloon girls. No, he didn’t want something stronger to drink. No, he didn’t want a dance. No, he didn’t want to go out back. Just leave him alone. Leave him watching the entrance of the Two Aces. Leave him to watch for Franklin to leave.

  It was half an hour, maybe longer. Franklin had drunk a deal more rye. That the Preacher could see by the way he staggered out of the saloon. Not rolling, but drunk nevertheless.

  As the Preacher made to leave a pretty young thing, too young for this place he thought, asked if he wanted a little something before he left. He gave her a dollar; didn’t know why. Maybe he felt he needed to perform some act of kindness that night, no matter how small. He barely looked at her as he left. Keeping an eye on Franklin, seeing which way he went. Franklin was holding a lantern, which swung as he staggered to wherever it was he lived. It was raining now, hard. The Preacher walked fast, boots squelching in the muddied street. If Franklin extinguished the lamp he would disappear.

  The light turned down a street then a side street, an alley then a side alley. Standing at the last turning, rain pouring off the brim of his hat, the Preacher watched the lamp go down on the ground. Seemed like Franklin had stopped and was struggling to open a door. The Preacher pulled his cloak away from his belt and drew his revolver. Striding down
the alley, confident the darkness and the sound of the incessant rain would mask his movements, he stopped a few steps behind Franklin, watching him succeed in opening the door. “So this is where you hide from your sins.”

  Franklin was startled that’s for sure. Had he really not expected to see the stranger again? Well maybe not so soon. Fatal mistake.

  He turned to face the Preacher. “What d’you want? Get outa here or I’ll...” It was then that he noticed the gun. Or rather, felt it. The Preacher shoved it into Franklin’s midriff.

  “Inside!” God how he hated this man. This wretch. Franklin backed away. The Preacher picked up the lantern and followed him into the building. Seemed to be a side entrance to a store.

  Being confronted by a man with a pistol is a very efficacious way to sober up. Not to be recommended of course. But it works.

  And it worked on Franklin. He put his hands up, to show he wouldn’t cause trouble. “Look Mister, I don’t know what you want, but I ain’t armed see? Look, I ain’t got a pistol.”

  “You wouldn’t have one on the gallows.”

  The fear that Franklin had felt when the Preacher had accosted him in at the bar was nothing to the fear he felt now. “Why do you keep going on about that?”

  “I knew the family.”

  Franklin realized he should’ve stayed in the bar. The enormity of not doing so hit him like a kick in the balls. Made him feel sick, deeply sick. And so a-feared. Silently he wet himself. Again. “I knew you was a bounty man. Look, whatever they paid you...” his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, tried to moisten them, the better to get his words out, “I’ll double it. They, they don’t need to know. How can they? Take their money, take mine. Th... Think about it mister.”

  “I didn’t say I worked for the family.” He paused, not for effect, but to catch his own breath. Fear was beginning to grip the Preacher too. But it was a different kind of fear. Not fear for himself, but fear for his family. He was feeling the fear they would have felt. The fear they would have known when they saw this man standing in their home, in their kitchen. Feeling their fear, the fear that he could have - would have - done something about had he been there. I’ll look after you. Daddy will look after you. Daddy will save you from the bad men. Daddy will kill the bad men.

  Daddy will kill this bad man.

  The Preacher squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Franklin in the leg, shattering his thigh. Franklin crashed to the floor, screaming.

  “That was for James, my son in law!” The Preacher took aim and another ball smashed into Franklin, almost blowing his shoulder off. “That was for Lorna, his wife, and my daughter! And this...” The Preacher looked right at Franklin’s face, the terror so marked in the wounded man’s eyes, the hatred so stark in the Preacher’s, “This is for Louisa. My wife!” And with that the third ball blew a hole the size of a man’s fist in Franklin’s breast bone.

  Back outside in the alley the Preacher leant against a wall and vomited. It was still raining. Thunder too. He remembered how, when he was a child, his mother would say that thunder was just God moving the furniture around in heaven. Maybe God was moving furniture right then, making room for another sinner to stand before Him and receive His Judgment. God must have been on the Preacher’s side because the storm was keeping folk inside the bars and whorehouses long enough for him to make his way back to his hotel unnoticed. The concierge wasn’t around. God’s will again. But even if he had been, he would not have paid much attention to a wet, distressed guest who appeared to have had too much of a good night in Sioux City.

  The Preacher collapsed on his bed, still in his soaking clothes. He had been so proud walking Lorna down the aisle; so proud to have her take a husband like James. Louisa and he had only the one child. James was the son he’d never had. James should one day have taken over Oaklands. The Preacher did not want to forgive and he could never, ever, forget. It was the only thing keeping him alive. Sentence had been duly carried out. Franklin’s soul was now rendered unto God.

  The Preacher buried his face into the pillow. And wept.

  Chapter 15

  Nearly a month later - it was a fine November morning - the Preacher stood on the quayside at Atchison, on the west bank of the Missouri, admiring the Ohio Princess. She was less than a year old, stacked three decks high and bursting with pride. The pilot had brought her in only an hour before and already the quay was teeming with humanity. The roustabouts were busy stoking the boiler, loading the wood, carrying the luggage, stowing supplies. The white mates were shouting orders and working the blacks hard and who said slavery had been abolished? The usual impromptu market had set itself up, selling all manner of goods and vittles to the passengers. Ah, the passengers! Fine ladies and well-to-do gentlemen moved freely between boat and quay, mingling with hustlers and prairie doves all looking to turn a sucker. And many were turned. Amongst them were the adventurers and trappers, men who hadn’t seen a white face for months, heading south now after a season’s hunting and exploring. And of course, the salesmen, always salesmen. America might have not been able to settle its differences north and south without resorting to war, but north, south, east and west, America was about commerce: turning a buck, making a fortune. And as often as not, losing it to someone else out to make their fortune.

  The Preacher and Jackson had identified Atchison as a possible place to meet up again, having agreed that heading south for the winter was a good idea. The Preacher had arrived a week earlier and had seen dozens of boats of all sizes dock and depart. He’d begun to wonder whether something had befallen Jackson, for there had been neither word nor wire at the post or telegraph offices. There was a nagging doubt as to Jackson’s ability to fund a riverboat ticket, especially if he had failed to heed the Preacher’s counsel and taken on Devol at cards.

  But two days previously the Preacher had received news. There was a speculative cable at the telegraph office from Jackson saying that he was about to board the Ohio Princess bound for Atchison and all points south.

  And there he was. Up on the promenade of the boiler deck, surrounded by a veritable bevy of young ladies. However, they were quickly dismissed when Jackson saw the Preacher making his way through the crowds towards the gangway. He ran down the staircase and the two greeted each other, shaking hands and slapping shoulders heartily. It was clear each was as pleased as the other to meet up again. “A new frock coat, Mr. Beauregard! Don’t tell me that you have been lucky at the tables! And your boots look new too!” The Preacher was pleased, not to say relieved, that Jackson did not appear to be as destitute as he had feared.

  As the riverboat was not due to depart until later in the day, the Preacher offered to stand Jackson lunch. “I’ve managed to reserve you a room quite close to mine,” said Jackson as he handed over the ticket.

  So it was that the two were soon sitting in a chop house in the port area, each enjoying an excellent meal, washed down with what was claimed to be the finest French claret.

  “Be warned, it’s a noisy boat. Seems like my room is right above the boiler. Barely any sleep these past two nights. As you’ll find out.” Jackson placed his hands over his ears to signify that his room was, indeed, noisy.

  The chop house was noisy too, testament to its popularity. All the tables were taken, the cutlery was clean and the floor well swept. Service was good too, as indeed was the food.

  Jackson thought it best not to ask about Sioux City - plenty of time for that another day. He cut his knife through his chop and took a mouthful. “Cooked to perfection!” he said, admiring the portion of the end of his fork.

  “Do tell me, are you an expert at the tables now, Mr. Beauregard? You look every inch the successful riverboat gambler.” He paused while Jackson caught the eye of the waitress. The two had already finished one bottle of claret. Time for another.

  “I have had my successes. I won’t pretend modesty.” Jackson grinned, raising a replenished glass. “But I concede that it is not that I am so much a successful gambler, as th
at I sailed with - on the whole - boatloads of unsuccessful ones.”

  “It stands to reason,” the Preacher said, dabbing at his chin with his napkin, for the chops were accompanied by a fine gravy, “that there must be more losers than winners. I salute a winner!” He too, raised his glass, acknowledging a victor. Then they both took a hearty mouthful of wine.

  “And while we are saluting, I salute Mr. George Devol! For he is indeed a winner!” Jackson took another drink.

  “Mr. George Devol! The Mississippi Magician!” said the Preacher, following suit, clinking glasses again before taking a good mouthful of the claret.

  “Mr. George Devol! The Keno King!” More wine.

  “Mr. Devol, the Master of the Monte! Oh, let me top up your glass first, Mr. Beauregard, for these toasts are taking their toll of this vintage. There!” Then he repeated the toast: “The Master of the Monte!”

  “Mr. George Devol! The Faro Pharaoh!” Clink!

  The Preacher laughed and laughed loudly. “The Faro Pharaoh Mr. Beauregard? That’s a good one indeed.” Clink. “I raise that with... with a toast to Mr. George Devol! Hoyle’s Heroic... heroic...”