Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  “An eye for an eye, Mr. Beauregard. Had Pickens killed you - as was his intention and of that I have no doubt - had he killed you, then his life would clearly have been forfeit. A Judge would have sent him to the gallows without hesitation. All I did was to pluck his eye before he plucked yours. Do you think my conscience would be at ease if I had let him blow your brains out first? Such as you have? As I say, enough.”

  The Preacher was adamant and Jackson did not wish to pick a quarrel with the man who had saved his life. Instead he asked, “When did you go get your gun? You don’t normally carry those heavy revolvers.”

  “I’ve always found the Philadelphia Derringer an ideal weapon to carry concealed.” Jackson couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

  Then: “Maybe I should hire me a horse and ride out to an Indian Reserve.” Jackson, thinking aloud, interrupted the Preacher, thinking quiet.

  “Where do your ideas come from? And do you have any idea how to find one? They don’t allow them anywhere near civilization you know.”

  Jackson hadn’t thought of that.

  “Do your readers really want to know about the Redman?”

  Jackson rose from the bed, went over to the window and looked out on the street below. He could barely remember arriving in Atchison the previous day. But the incident with Pickens had not dampened his enthusiasm. He’d never come so close to death - his own death that is. And neither had he been so terrified. But now, having come through unscathed, he felt exhilarated. Being alive seemed better than ever. He was even thinking about how he could turn the events of the previous night into a story for the newspaper. He turned back to face the Preacher. “Of course they are interested! I know the rebellion dominated the news for a long time. But before that there were massacres and war tribes... There was the Dakota War! And Red Cloud! What would it take to interview Red Cloud?”

  “Do you really want to travel up to Wyoming? Winter is settling in and by the time you get there some of the tribes will be cut off by the snows.” The Preacher had taken Jackson’s place on the bed and was stretching out, thinking of maybe how a couple more hours’ sleep might do wonders.

  Jackson’s imagination raced ahead, the words falling out of his mouth struggling to catch up. “Why, I would hire me a horse. From the livery stables, and head in the direction of... Well I’d ask at the Sheriff’s Office. Or the Indian Agent. There’ll be an Indian Agent somewheres in town.”

  “So you’d ride out into the wilderness, ride on up to the Big Chief’s Tepee, smoke his peace pipe - assuming of course that the tribe was not on a war footing - conduct a face to face interview - in English - with the Medicine Man, then ride on out, calm as you like, friends with everybody.” The Preacher opened one eye and looked across a Jackson. “Well, no one could call you unambitious.” He closed the eye.

  “But maybe you’re right about the winter.”

  “I’ve told you before about that.”

  “What? Winter?”

  “No.”

  “I guess I would need to find out whether the tribe was friendly. What do you think the best way of doing that is?” Jackson was now standing square at the foot of the bed, hands placed firmly on the iron bedstead.

  “Well I guess that if they stick their hands in the air and say ‘How!’ Then they’ll be friendly.” The Preacher placed his hands behind his head and looked down the bed at Jackson. “But...”

  “But?”

  “Well if they greet you with a tomahawk then I reckon you’ll lose both your interview and your scalp.”

  Jackson spent the rest of that day reviewing reports he had written on the last voyage down the Missouri and mailing them to his newspaper. In truth, some of these were more story and less reporting. The Preacher stayed out of his way, reading his Bible mostly, which was of course, more reporting and less story.

  The following morning, they were having breakfast in an eating house in Main Street, not far from the railhead and the offices of the Atchison and Topeka Railroad. It was a mild day for November; blue sky, no wind to speak of. That didn’t stop the Preacher wanting his coffee piping hot. And Jackson was still keen on visiting an Indian reservation in the spring.

  “I’ve wired my editor back in New York about the idea and he sees some merit in it.” Jackson took a mouthful of ham and waited for the Preacher’s predictable criticism.

  “Don’t tell me, Mr. Beauregard. You want to visit the reservations that are near Fort Benton. Or should I say, near Fort Benton where the delightful Madeleine lives with her father the Colonel. Ain’t it the truth?”

  “You know, there are times when I wish I hadn’t mentioned Madeleine. It was just because I had a glass of wine too many in that chop house. I think you took advantage of my openness.” Jackson wasn’t critical though as he rather enjoyed hearing Madeleine’s name being mentioned. And maybe the Preacher’s suggestion wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “So if it’s not to a reservation, where will you be heading next?”

  “In truth, I was thinking of returning East. Visit my folks. Then come back here in the spring. Dunno yet.”

  “I recommend you introduce yourself to the government representative at the Indian Agency. You will need his involvement because he will know enough of the Pawnee tongue - or Kaza or Kiowa - to help out. Although in my opinion all Indians do is kill buffalo and we’ve done that ourselves.” The Preacher tore a piece of bread from a loaf placed between the two and used it to soak up some egg. “For I suspect that if they’re not on the warpath a-scalping and a-raiding, there won’t be much of interest to write about.”

  “Well I think I know enough of my trade always to get an interesting story out of the most mundane of tales. There ain’t a story that don’t stand improving by some judicious writing.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  The Preacher sat back while the waitress topped up his coffee. Jackson declined a re-fill. The older man continued, “Some folks say that the early white settlers taught the Indian how to scalp. Some reckon that they did not know of such a thing until King George set a bounty on native scalps. And that my friend, included the scalps of children.”

  “Children! The Europeans brought scalping with them and used it on youngsters? I find that hard to believe, ‘deed I do. I never heard of that before.”

  “God shall wound the head of his enemies, and the hairy scalp of such as one as goeth on still in his trespasses. So sayeth the Psalmist. But what sayeth thou, Mr. Beauregard? Who is the savage and who the civilized man?”

  Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe there is as much civilization on a reservation as in a place like Abilene for instance. Who is to say?”

  “Ah, the Noble Savage? I am not surprised to hear that you subscribe to such a view, why I...” but the Preacher was interrupted by a man sitting at an adjacent table. He hadn’t been sitting there long, and looked to be a clerk from the railroad, dressed as he was in an official uniform with a hat that bore the words Atchison and Topeka.

  “Abilene, mister? You hail from Abilene?”

  “We were there once, back in the summer,” said Jackson. “Do you know it?”

  “And I for one have no intention of going back there,” added the Preacher, for Jackson’s benefit.

  “Guess you heard the news?”

  “News? From Abilene?” Jackson’s ears pricked up at the suggestion of news.

  “My impetuous young friend sir, is a newspaper correspondent. And as you undoubtedly know, those fellows positively thrive on tittle-tattle and gossip.”

  Jackson dismissed the Preacher’s sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “What news?”

  “It’s the marshal.”

  “Bear River Smith? What’s he gone and done?”

  “Bear River Smith has gone done an’ been murdered,” said the railroad official. “That’s what he’s gone and done.”

  Chapter 17

  There was a train to Abilene that day. That mo
rning in fact. Within the hour. Jackson Beauregard and the Preacher were on that train.

  “Bet you thought we’d seen the last of Abilene.”

  The Preacher didn’t respond. He was thinking about the things he had done, not the things they had done.

  “A lot has happened since that poker game in the Alamo. Indeed, I think I have learnt more these past five or six months than all my preceding years combined. Sure has been an education!”

  The Preacher was sitting opposite Jackson, going backwards to Abilene, his face a mask. Jackson gave up. He could see the Preacher was more intent on looking out of the car window, looking at the encroaching emptiness of winter, than having a meaningful conversation.

  So Jackson looked out the window too. He compared the bleakness of the prairie to how it looked back in the summer. The difference was remarkable. Still flat of course. Had anyone ever seen a land so flat? What was it that farmer had said to him when he was on the train to Abilene back in July? “My dog ran away once. Three days later, we could still see him, still a-running away.” Back then the ground was covered in prairie grass. And sunflowers. Huge fields of green, yellow and black as far as far can go, reaching up to the deep blue sky, from where a white fluffy cloud hovered as if unable to choose which small patch of ground would receive a short, but welcome, shower. Now the landscape was bare. And the sky? If cold had a color that must be it. Everything was getting ready for snow. And here he was, after his escapade with Pickens, glad to be alive to see it.

  For the Preacher, the window reflected his image, and the landscape did the same to his thoughts. It was all too familiar. Though lately he had sometimes felt different, felt as if there were something in his gut coming out of hibernation. And yes, gut was the right word. Not soul. It wasn’t a spiritual thing, nor a cerebral thing. It was a feeling that the way the young man seated opposite embraced this life touched on something long forgotten by the Preacher. More than forgotten; missing. Stolen. Ripped out.

  Not for Jackson the belief that our three score years and ten were but preparation for some glorious Afterlife kneeling forever in worship of a Deity that was consumed with... What had Jackson said once, back on the river? “Your god is not the god of love; it is the god of envy.”

  The Preacher mulled over some words from Exodus: “For thou shalt worship no other god: for The Lord, whose name is JEALOUS, is a jealous God.” For Jackson, every second of this life was something to be seized. A jealous god would not like that. A jealous god would want his servants to kneel in prayer three times a day. Make that six times. A jealous god would seek vengeance and retribution on a free-thinking man like Jackson. But on his children? And his children’s children? Where did it stop?

  Whereas Jackson was always wanting to go forward, for the Preacher, life was like a switchback on the railroad, not moving on, not moving anywhere, just back and forth. He’d gotten as far as Abilene three, maybe four times since leaving The South. But whenever he’d tried to move on, head out on to California, on each and every occasion he’d been dragged back by his past to some god-forsaken hell hole in Kansas or Nebraska or somewhere. All because of some half-baked rumor. And what had been the outcome? Well the rumor tended to be false. Yes, the last was different. Had that made him feel any better?

  Was this why he put up with Jackson? Irritating Jackson? Young Jackson? The Preacher had done many things. But he’d never seen himself as being adventurous. No, he’d been brought up to embrace Duty, Leadership, the responsibilities of Inheritance.

  With these came the trappings of authority: land, a wife, family, a uniform, of being a church elder. Yes, and slaves too. All these had been symbols of his position, his place in the world. Without them he had no position, no place. And no place to go.

  Jackson couldn’t keep quiet for long. “And I’ve learned to play a better hand at poker. I hope this doesn’t sound smug, but there are more losers than winners at poker, and if I’m not one of the big winners, I sure ain’t one of the big losers!”

  “Mr. Beauregard...” The Preacher couldn’t help being drawn into conversation. “You couldn’t sound smug even if you took acting lessons from Edwin Booth himself.”

  They both returned to look out the window. Jackson knew he ought to be horrified at the murder of Bear River Smith. Well he was. But he was also excited. Yes, a man was dead; a man he had met, albeit briefly. Yet Smith was a man he’d developed some admiration for. Jackson had been paid well for his article about the marshal, and his editor had promised another nice payment if he could follow up with further tales about Smith. Well here was a story! Should he have misgivings about making money out murder?

  Death was random. Could happen to anyone, anytime. Will happen. Jackson did feel regret at Smith’s passing certainly. All those opportunities, those unmet friends, never to be loved lovers - never by Smith anyways. ‘Bear River’ wasn’t married so far as Jackson could tell, and now never would be. But over and above the regret, Jackson felt curious. How, why, when, who...? And would it have been different had the ‘no gun’ marshal carried a gun?

  Three hours later, sitting in the Marshal’s Office in Abilene, Jackson found the answer to that last question. “And to think,” mused one of the deputies, who’d introduced himself as Bryson and who was now sitting in Tom Smith’s chair, feet on Tom Smith’s table, probably drinking from Tom Smith’s mug, “and to think that he was actually carrying a gun! Sheesh!”

  The Preacher stood in the corner of the office, by the fire, leaning against the stone chimney, feeling the warmth pass through his clothes, then through his skin and into his very marrow. He was cleaning out the bowl of his pipe. It had been a cold journey on the train, so when it came to a choice of sitting around the table talking about Smith, or of standing by the fire warming his limbs, well old bones won out.

  “He was armed?” Jackson was incredulous. “He had a gun?”

  “S’what I said young fellah. An’ you’d better and be sure you write that down,” said the deputy, pointing at Jackson’s notebook with the stem of his pipe. Jackson did just that.

  Another deputy was present. Went by the name of Patmore. He was preparing fresh coffee. The aroma warmed the room more quickly than the newly placed logs on the fire. He took the pot off the grate where it had been quietly percolating, and poured steaming liquid into mugs for himself and the two visitors. Bryson turned down the offer of a refill. The Preacher took a mug, held it to his nose and inhaled, drawing the warmth into his lungs. Jackson’s questions continued: “So we heard about the murder this morning. When did it happen?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “News travels so fast nowadays.”

  “Must be the railroad makes it so,” said Bryson. “Guess it’ll be all over the United States before the marshal’s cold in the ground.”

  That thought excited Jackson. People would be wanting news of the incident. And here he was, the only newspaperman on the scene! “Then I had better get this story down and wired, else there’ll only be rumor and that would never do.”

  “No newspaper would ever allow that,” said the Preacher from the fireplace.

  “Was the marshal alone?”

  “No sir.” Bryson was still the story teller. “Jim MacDonald was with Tom. Escaped with his life.”

  “With his head still on his shoulders you mean,” interrupted Patmore.

  “Head on his shoulders?”

  “Sure. Tell ‘em Bryson.” Patmore’s tone was grim. Then he folded his arms, signifying that he was not going to say anything more about the matter. But he sure thought someone should say something. He went and stood by the window, looking out on Main Street. Patmore was an older fellow, older than the Preacher and more n’ likely a veteran of the Indian Wars. Portly now, he hitched up his gun belt which had been forced low by his belly.

  Bryson coughed. Jackson sensed his awkwardness. “What was the marshal doing out there, Bryson? And come to think on it, where was ‘out there’?” Jackson licked his pencil, sig
nifying that Bryson had the floor once more.

  The deputy sighed. He’d been fond of Smith. “There be these two farmers, McConnell an’ Miles. Thomas Smith, riding on his dapple-grey and being a man of justice an’ integrity, wanted to bring them in on account of them being accused of murderin’ a good citizen of this fair town. Name of Shea.” Here Jackson interrupted:

  “So they killed a man eh? Murdered this Shea? Leave the flowery prose to me if you don’t mind. Just tell it as you know it.”

  This was a reason why the Preacher liked Jackson: you couldn’t take offence at the way he had said what he’d just said. But it was clear he was in charge of the interview. The boy was really growing into this role. None of the fawning that had accompanied his interview with Hickok.

  Bryson cleared his throat and dropped his voice maybe a semitone in an attempt to replace the flowery prose with some semblance of gravitas. “Marshal Smith n’ Deputy MacDonald went after the pair. Holed up on their farm they was.”

  “Where was this?”

  “About four hours away. Thomas and MacDonald ride over and Thomas, he takes his gun. But that was because he was outside the town limits and wearing of firearms just makes sense, if only fer rattlers.”

  Jackson was busy writing this down, scribbling away in his notebook. His coffee was untouched. He didn’t want to interrupt Bryson now he was flowing.

  “Thomas just wanted to bring them in fer questions and to get their side of the story. Thomas was allers one to look fer hearing both sides of a story; get people talkin’, tellin’ their side of things. Do you know what I mean?” He looked straight at Jackson while slowly rocking back and forth on the hind legs of his chair.

  Jackson recalled Smith’s story about the stand-off at Bear River. About how he avoided what was sure to be a bloodbath by being even-handed. He nodded.

  “Seems that as Thomas and MacDonald approached the pair, one of them opened fire. Seems they was all outside, facing each other. MacDonald, well...” It seemed as if Bryson was in some sort of mental agony at this point. His pause was too long, even for Jackson.