Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  “Hustler!” cried Jackson, raising his glass in triumph.

  “Hustler has it!” declared the Preacher, ignoring the fact that Edmund Hoyle, the author of a number of treatises on card games, was synonymous with conformity to the rules. “For if there ever was a hustler, it is surely Mr. George Devol. More wine I think, Mr. Beauregard?” But it was not a question, for the Preacher was looking across again at a waitress while he said that, pointing at the nearly empty bottle. “And as you have yet to tell me what happened when you met Devol, well this is an appropriate a time as any. May I take it you did not play against him? For if you had, you would be penniless and clearly, that you are not!”

  Jackson told how Devol had pretended to be a man called Lovéd. “I only knew him the one afternoon and evening. I acted as his ‘capper’.”

  “Did you indeed!”

  “Yes I did indeed.” A smile now to the waitress as she placed yet another bottle on the table. Jackson then related the adventure in the barbershop, and of how the Watch had burst into the room just as Devol relieved three men of their money. “They locked us in a storeroom. Yet Devol somehow made his escape. We were released next morning, but by then the boat had made at least one stop. Luck was sure on Devol’s side. Who knows what would have happened had the Watch not burst in at that precise moment.”

  The Preacher shook his head, not so much at Devol’s lack of scruples, but at Jackson’s naivety. “That’s his modus operandi. Money has it that he’d bribed some crewmen to make to be the Watch. Theirs was a deliberate arrival, not a fortunate one. Devol has no need of luck.”

  “Then he really is a master of the dark arts.”

  “But where do your sympathies lie, Mr. Beauregard? With Devol or with his victims?”

  “Devol said it was his duty to relieve dishonest men of their money. Said that people would cheat on him if they could. And he was right! When I marked the card as instructed, not one person stopped me, nor warned the dealer. Not one! They all just saw an opportunity to fleece Lovéd - Devol - whoever.” Jackson’s speech, like his thoughts, was beginning to slur.

  “Fleecers fleeced, Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher, raising his glass again.

  “Fleecers fleeced!” said Jackson, reciprocating in the toast. “And in more ways than one.” Jackson was grinning.

  “Out with it, Mr. Beauregard. What is so amusing?”

  “Well Devol had privately given me $500 to lay my first stake. Which he returned to me along with another five hundred when I turned up the Lady.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was then to place the one thousand dollars down when the hustlers laid their big bets. Devol said that was to show that I was not part of the plot.”

  “But in truth,” the Preacher leant forward, “it was to ensure that he got his money back from you. For Devol had no intention of clapping eyes on you again, had he. So what happened?”

  “In truth, God’s honest truth - albeit from the mouth of an unbeliever - the drama of the impending visit from the Officer of the Watch was such that I just bid what was in my hand. And at that moment I had the bulk of the money - his money - deep in my pocket. It was unintentional, but I only put down about $300. Everyone assumed I had staked all. And Devol wasn’t counting because he knew he was about to win who knows how many thousands.”

  “Which means of course...”

  “Which means of course, that I was $700 to the good!”

  The Preacher leant back in his chair. “And that explains your rather smart attire. Which no doubt you have used to impress young ladies on the rest of your trip. Oh Mr. Beauregard, do not underestimate yourself. I have never, ever, met a fellow who has made money out of Mr. George Devol! I raise a glass to you sir!”

  Jackson grinned like the proverbial cat.

  “And I could afford me a real gun too! Navy Colt.”

  “You’ll be fine with that. So long as you keep it locked away.”

  The Preacher, good to his word, was the one who settled the bill. Which was just as well because of the two only he could count out the coin and notes without too much risk of error. He helped Jackson to his feet and the pair made their haphazard way back to the Ohio Princess. Most of the passengers who were due to board had duly boarded, and the paddle steamer was underway within the hour.

  The Preacher had sobered somewhat on the walk back and he supplemented this with a stroll around the deck followed by a sound afternoon nap. The same, however, could not be said of Jackson. That evening, when the Preacher knocked on the door of Jackson’s stateroom he found him not at his best. “I have such a head! I think maybe I have the beginnings of a fever. My legs don’t feel like they can hold me up for long. Might try for some air later then get me an early night.”

  The Preacher, who’d sobered up completely, had little by way of sympathy. “You need some Jackrabbit tea, Mr. Beauregard. If it’s good enough to cure a Texan it’ll be more than good enough to sort out your er, disposition.”

  Jackson didn’t raise an eyebrow at this advice for that would take more effort than he could spare right then.

  The Preacher made to move. “I reckon you’ll be better staying put and sleeping it off. You go walking on deck and you’re likely to end up in the Missouri.”

  “I’ll try rest a while. Might join you later.” The Preacher doubted that. He stepped out into the promenade, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Later in the evening he took a seat in the Cabin. He wasn’t looking for a game, but if the opportunity arose, well he had a hundred dollars in a clip sitting nicely in his inside pocket. Settling himself in a wicker backed chair, he picked up a newspaper and ordered a drink. It soon arrived and the waiter put a lace doily onto a table and placed the glass of sarsaparilla on it. The Preacher put some coins onto the waiter’s empty tray and continued reading, occasionally looking up to observe the other passengers.

  He was reading about a fire in New Orleans when some men seated themselves at the table behind. Clearly a game was about to commence. The Preacher didn’t turn to look. Rather he folded his paper and retrieved his pipe from the left side pocket of his frock coat. From the right, he produced his tobacco pouch and flint. He crossed his left leg over his right knee and eased back into his chair - the better to hear the conversation behind - and proceeded to fill his pipe. His interest was being stoked. Maybe listen in for a while, see if he could work out the sharps and suckers. Later he might get up and look the table over.

  He began to amuse himself by building a picture of the players in his head. The Preacher wanted to detect whether there was a pair in cahoots. The man directly behind him had a gruff voice, but didn’t say much. Was barely acknowledging his opponents.

  The player on that man’s left had an English accent. Or was it Scotch? Hard to tell the difference. But he was wanting to make friends, and that would never do at the tables. Said his name was Mac something or other. Then to his left was a Virginian. Now that was an accent the Preacher was very familiar with.

  Continuing around, and making up the table, was a nondescript, nervous little man. The Preacher imagined him to be short, fat, bald, bespectacled. Probably a Jew, he thought. That made him, in the Preacher’s view, the one to watch. Or rather, listen to.

  The game had been in play for maybe ten minutes when the Britisher said, “It’s your deal friend...” This to the gruff fellow directly behind the Preacher. “Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name earlier, Mister...”

  “That’s because I ain’t never said it.” A piano had started up at the other side of the bar and the place was beginning to fill. All the tables were taken and waiters were busying themselves trying to keep up with the demands of the clientele, carrying trays of drink head high through the crowd. “And I can see it is my deal. Mister!”

  Has a mean disposition does this man, thought the Preacher. Be interesting to see how he handles a losing run.

  “An’ just because,” the gruff voice continued, “just because I have only one
eye, don’t mean I can’t see as well as anyone here! And if you want a name, just call me Pickens. That should be enough. Now, all in who’s in.”

  They were all ‘in’ and the Preacher decided that it was time he was out. He finished his drink, rose from his chair, picked up his newspaper and made his way, slowly, to an exit, one that was out of Pickens’ line of sight. He was busy playing the dealer anyway, so no risk.

  The Preacher went to a door that led to the starboard deck. From there he could stroll around the boat and then back along the port side, and on to Jackson’s stateroom. He turned around and surveyed the scene. It was a natural thing to do anyway, and best act natural. He could see that the salon was thriving, and the seat he had just vacated was already taken. Pickens was still at his table, back to the Preacher. And there, just entering the saloon from the opposite deck, was Jackson.

  Why Jackson was there and not asleep the Preacher never did find out. However, Jackson was clearly looking for him, so he was quick to spot the older man gesturing through the thick fug of tobacco smoke. Jackson couldn’t know why the Preacher was gesticulating so ferociously to get the heck out of the bar, but he made the reasonable assumption that the Preacher wanted to meet back in his room. Jackson turned to leave in accordance with the semaphored instructions, only to collide with a waiter carrying a silver tray of empty bottles and glasses, which duly went up in the air before crashing to the deck. A cheer went up as is common in such circumstances, which only caused more people to look to see what it was that was causing such commotion.

  And Pickens was no different from everyone else in this respect.

  It was the waiter who was apologizing to Jackson, despite it clearly being the latter’s fault. The Preacher was pleased to see that Jackson’s embarrassment served to make him leave the salon as quickly as possible. He was less pleased to see Pickens throw in his hand, leave the table, push his way through the crowd, and follow Jackson out of the room.

  The Preacher darted out onto the starboard promenade and ran. He cut across to the port side at the first opportunity and looked along that deck. Despite it being a moonless night he could make out Pickens approaching the door to Jackson’s stateroom. When he reached it he stopped and knocked. Jackson opened it of course, expecting the Preacher. But as soon as the door began to open Pickens threw himself against it, hurtling Jackson back into the room.

  Once inside Pickens knocked a startled Jackson to the floor with a right hook. Jackson was then grabbed by the lapels, pulled to his feet, spun around and slammed against the wall of his room, spread-eagled, arms outstretched, a punch to the kidneys. Pickens then jammed his pistol into Jackson’s ribcage. The Preacher was by now standing at the door. Yet owing to the stateroom being close to the engine room he couldn’t hear a thing of what was being said. It was clear though that what was being said was far from pleasant. And it was Pickens who was doing most of the talking.

  Jackson could hear Pickens clearly enough though. In fact, Jackson was giving his visitor his fullest attention. “Never thought our paths would cross again,” Pickens said right into Jackson’s ear, “But I never forget a face. ‘Specially one that has cheated me outa my money!”

  “Listen, Pickens, there’s something you should know...” Jackson’s voice was shaking, as well it would. Legs were shaking too. It was outright fear that gripped him, not fever. Gripped him as tight as Pickens was gripping his left arm, having now forced it up between his shoulder blades. And of course, he was aware that what he had to tell Pickens was not going to improve the situation.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve spent it. Not if you want to live! And you do want to live, don’t you. Don’t you! I thought I had you when I saw you on the train, back outside Ellsworth. You was clever to get off somewheres without me seeing you - kept a good lookout for you, but obviously not good enough.” Pickens forced Jackson’s arm up higher. “Nearly worked too. Had jest about given up on the money. But I ain’t never given up about teaching you a lesson!” And with that Pickens released Jackson’s arm, stepped back, and at arm’s length, held the gun against the back of Jackson’s head. “Now, where is it?”

  Jackson didn’t move. His left cheek was flat against the bulkhead, meaning he could only see Pickens’ dim outline through the corner of his right eye. “If I tell you I haven’t got it...”

  “If that’s true then you’re a dead man, you realize that? Because all that would be left for me would be the pleasure of putting a bullet in your head! Sweated five years in Leavenworth I did, and the only thing got me through it was knowing I was gonna be rich when I got out. But if you give me the money, then maybe you’ll find me a forgiving soul.”

  “If I told you the money was useless...” Jackson stopped. He could feel Pickens’ anger at this transmitting itself through the barrel of the revolver. Jackson’s legs were shaking uncontrollably now.

  “What d’ya mean, useless? How can all those greenbacks be useless?”

  Jackson’s breath was hard to catch, his heart almost bursting with trying to pump oxygen to his legs, trying to give them strength to keep standing. “They... they weren’t greenbacks, but... graybacks.”

  “What the Hell you tryin’ to say to me?” The menace now was such that Pickens’ finger could quite easily have squeezed the trigger unintentionally. “You tryin’ to play me for a sucker? Well!” He spun Jackson around so he could look into his eyes. Jackson’s back was now against the wall, hands up, Pickens’ left hand gripping him by the throat, revolver pushed against his forehead.

  “Jefferson Davis!” was Jackson’s strangulated response. “That’s what I mean. Confederate money!” he gasped. “That’s what you stole! That was what was wrapped in them oilskins under the dresser in Williams’ sister’s room!” God! thought Jackson, how did he get mixed up in that escapade? Why did he follow that Preacher? If he were to die there and then, he didn’t want to die with someone thinking he was a thief. If he couldn’t save his life, he wanted to save his reputation.

  “Are you telling me...” Pickens was livid. Worse, he was panicking. Panicking at the thought that, having finally found the man who’d stolen his money, the money he himself had stolen was stupid, God Damned useless Johnny Reb banknotes with Jefferson God Damned Davis’s stupid God Damned useless face on it! Five long years in Leavenworth? For that?

  The gun burst into life. Pickens released his grip and Jackson promptly slid down the wall, his legs drained of life. Blood all over his face, his body now a heap on the floor.

  Damned fool had fainted.

  Pickens too fell in a heap to the floor. But that was because the ball from the Preacher’s gun had smashed into his temple, taking with it splinters of bone and strands of hair deep into Pickens’ brain. The extreme force of the impact and the devastation it wreaked on Pickens’ head caused his right eye to pop out of its socket awash with blood, before being arrested by the optic nerve, holding onto the eyeball as if it wanted to make sure it couldn’t roll over and look back at the now lifeless body of its owner.

  The Preacher stepped quickly into the cabin, and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 16

  The Preacher helped Jackson to his feet. His face was ashen white, or at least some of it was, for most of it was covered in Pickens’ blood.

  “Recovered your senses have you?”

  “What happened? How did he get here?” said Jackson, looking at Pickens’ lifeless body.

  “You passed out. Fainted.”

  “No I didn’t. As soon as I heard the gunshot, I dropped to the floor and...”

  “Fainted.”

  “Ducked!” said Jackson, who promptly pushed passed the Preacher and out onto the deck where he vomited over the side rail. The bitterly cold air that was keeping the gangway clear helped do the same to Jackson’s head. His stomach didn’t need assistance.

  Fortunately, there was nobody around, so the Preacher acted quickly and dragged Pickens’ body from the stateroom and heaved it over the rail. Pickens w
ould be just another passenger who got off a steamer before he reached his intended destination. The Preacher then did his best to clean up the room, and it was fortunate that most of Pickens’ blood had ended up on Jackson. So much for his nice new clothes.

  They both knew they had to get off the riverboat at the first opportunity. For Jackson, this was so that he could begin to put the whole, quite frankly terrifying, episode behind him. For the Preacher, it was in case Pickens had companions aboard who would soon start to look for him. Their luck was in as there was a scheduled stop at first light. Once ashore they hitched a ride back to Atchison and late in the afternoon they checked into a hotel. The first thing Jackson did was sleep. As for Pickens, well his body would wash up somewhere eventually. The further away, the better.

  While Jackson slept, the Preacher settled in an armchair by the window. The early winter light was fading, but it was still good enough for him to look down on Main Street. He wasn’t expecting a posse to turn up and arrest him for the killing of Pickens. But as with Franklin in Sioux City, the Preacher felt the better for having put some miles between himself and the scene of the... Well neither killings were wrong. On that his conscience was clear. Crystal clear. Eventually he too, fell asleep.

  Early the following morning, with daylight flooding the room, the Preacher awoke to find Jackson sitting on the edge of the bed. “Feeling better?”

  “I am acutely aware that I should be feeling dead. I can’t thank you enough...”

  “Then don’t try.” The Preacher rose from the chair. It hadn’t been the most comfortable of nights.

  “I had no idea that Pickens was aboard. When I heard the knock my door I just assumed it was you. When I saw who it was I...I...”

  “Do you not remember saying all this on the way here, Mr. Beauregard? All the way here? Enough! Please!”

  “But how does it square with your conscience? Taking the life of another? I mean, you being a religious fellow an’ all. How do you...” The look on the Preacher’s face made Jackson stop.