Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  A man - a body - was strapped over one of the horses. Not one of the wanted men, for the Preacher could see them, under guard, each with a deputy either side. The body had to belong to one of the party that left that morning. And Jackson was not to be seen.

  Before the Preacher had time to take it in, before he had time to ask, “Where is Mr. Beauregard? Where is Jackson? Where is my friend?” Bryson dismounted, walked up and said, “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” Didn’t need to say what he was sorry about. Didn’t need to explain, didn’t need to spell it out. “We’re gonna take him to the chapel. If you want to accompany us....”

  While the posse dismounted and while someone took the prisoners into the cells and while someone said something empty about how it was merciful quick... God in His mercy... His mercy endureth forever... the Preacher walked to the chapel, walking behind Jackson’s horse like he would walk behind his hearse the following day.

  The chapel. When a man don’t have a wife, when he don’t have kin, when he don’t have a friend, he can always turn to his God. Turn to his God to seek succor. Turn to his God to seek comfort. But where does a man turn when he wants to know why?

  The chapel, such as it was, stood at edge of town. Some deputies, after muttering condolences, peeled away to find family, food or a saloon. Two or three others tried to explain what had happened.

  “We rushed ‘em and he wouldn’t stay back until it was safe.”

  “No need to stay back. It was sheer bad luck.”

  “The men just stuck a gun outa the window and fired a coupla shots.”

  “They weren’t aiming at us.”

  “They weren’t aiming at him.”

  “Weren’t even looking...”

  “It was quick mister. The lad didn’t know what happened.”

  “Didn’t suffer none.”

  Back in his room the Preacher thought on what Jackson had once said. Jesus was put to death and laid in his tomb. Then God sent an angel to roll back the stone and bring his boy back to life. Call that a sacrifice? Jesus was in his tomb for 36 hours, no more. How long had Louisa been in her grave? And Lorna? James too? How long had he ached for them? Now that was suffering. A deal more suffering than the two days God had to endure without his son by his side. Where was the angel who would roll back Jackson’s stone?

  The deputies thought the Preacher would want to spend the night in the chapel. But he couldn’t. In the chapel was a cross. A carving of a man suffering. If you know how bad suffering is Lord, why allow it?

  Two days after they had buried Jackson Beauregard, two days after the Preacher had stood in silence over his grave, passing up the opportunity to say a prayer, unable to even think of one, the Preacher walked into the Marshal’s Office to bid farewell.

  Bryson offered the Preacher a seat. As he did he poured the obligatory mug of coffee. The Preacher took it along with the proffered biscuit. “What will happen to the prisoners?”

  The deputy shrugged. “It will be grim whatever their fate. The noose or hard labor. One or the other.”

  Patmore, who was also present, piped up, “Whichever which way you looks at it,” he said without a hint of enjoyment at the thought, “both options will kill ‘em. Just that one will take longer. Same outcome.”

  The Preacher asked, “Do you know which one...” he changed his question mid-flow. “Who fired the gun?”

  “They say they both fired the revolver. Took turns. Just stuck the barrel out the window an’ fired.”

  “It was a freak shot. That’s all I can say by way of comfort. No malice.”

  “Won’t be much comfort to Jackson’s mother.” The Preacher’s sadness was much stronger than his bitterness. But the bitterness would come, he knew that.

  “And your plans sir?” Patmore it was. “Do you have family you’ll return to? Back east?”

  “No. No family. No more. Caught up at the wrong end of the war.” There’s the bitterness. Never far from the surface.

  “Like your friend Jackson eh? Caught up at the wrong end.” Bryson took a swig from his mug. The weather was growing colder each day. His office was as warm as any building in Abilene, being brick built an’ all. “You staying the winter or heading out?”

  The Preacher had enough money to go to California and, God willing, spend the winter there. God willing? What’s that supposed to mean? The Preacher had had his fill of Abilene. And as for God....

  “My plan was always to head for the Pacific. Some unfinished business left over from the war has been holding me back. Maybe held me back too long. Railroad goes pretty much all the way now-a-days. Seems this would be a good enough time to go.” To let go.

  “New start?”

  New start.

  That’s when the hitherto silent Davis, standing over by a window looking down Main Street said: “Beauregard?” He turned from the window and looked over at the Preacher.

  “Jackson, yes. Beauregard was his family name.”

  “No,” said Davis. “Back in the summer.”

  “That was when I met Jackson. July.” The Preacher took another biscuit. He was beginning to appreciate how hungry he’d become.

  The deputy persisted. “No, not the young fellah who got killed. There was another Beauregard you was asking after. Don’t you remember?”

  The Preacher remembered. Oh, he remembered. “Bascourt-Beauregard?”

  “That’s right! Bascourt-Beauregard. Patrice.”

  The Preacher put down his mug. It was empty, but it wasn’t a refill he was after. “What of it?”

  “You was asking ‘round if anyone knew him. Didn’t then. But maybe a week after you left town someone by that name turned up.”

  “Here? In Abilene?”

  “Yessir! For a few days at least. I recall he settled down a few miles away. Used to come into town an’ get his supplies reg’lar from Mortensen’s. The Swede. Runs a...”

  “I know Mortensen. Get on with it. He still around?”

  “Reckon so. Ain’t seen him fer a while now. Maybe three months. But no reason to s’pose he’s moved on. Jest ain’t see’d him, that’s all. Could tell you how to get to his place if you want.”

  The Preacher did want. Within two hours he was at the Livery Stable, fixing himself a horse. The hostler saw the Preacher attach a spade to his saddlebags. “Tad early fer snow. But if you’re planning to be away sometime, a shovel be better’n a spade.”

  The Preacher put his left foot in a stirrup and pulled himself up onto the saddle. Pulled his collar up under his chin and his hat firmly down on his head. “I aim to dig deep. Not out. Once I’m done, the snow can fall to Kingdom Come!” He pulled the reins of the horse, turning it round and out of the stables, and headed out of town.

  To say that the ride was uneventful doesn’t do justice to the Preacher’s mood. In truth, any number of events could have happened on that road north. Maybe they did. But if so, the Preacher was oblivious to them. He just rode, following the route as the deputy had told him, until he came across the smallholding. Just as the deputy had told him.

  He spent maybe half an hour looking around. Not so much a shack, more a hovel. Not a night had passed those five years without him not seeing this moment clearly in his mind’s eye. Render unto Caesar? An eye for an eye.

  Seemed Bascourt had a woman. The Preacher could see her working in the yard. From his vantage under a clump of bare trees the Preacher thought she had the look of a squaw about her. Hard to tell being twilight.

  Who said revenge was a dish best served cold? What’d they know about revenge? Serve it hot, that’s the best way. Taste it burn then move on. Maybe getting vengeance over quickly helped a man recover.

  Vengeance, retribution, justice... call it what you will. Whichever which way, Bascourt had to know why he was going to die. Had to realize, like Dexter, like Franklin, that his past had caught up with him. Had to fear death, like Dexter and Franklin did. Killing them wasn’t enough. A bullet through the heart ain’t sufficient. Too quick, too mercifu
l. What’d they know about mercy?

  Had Bascourt ever done a good deed in his life? A deed his mother could take pride in? Not just learning arithmetic, nor learning to read or to ride a horse. No. Had he ever done Good? Real Good? Jackson was a Good Person. Never a bad word for anyone, let alone a bad deed.

  What if Jackson was right? That death is just obliteration? No longer being anyone, anything. No longer sentient. No longer... Being. Even knowing there is hell can give a man hope. Hope that he might eventually escape the flames.

  But it wasn’t Death that the Preacher wanted to inflict on Bascourt; it was the Dying. The certainty that life, the warmth of the sun, the joy of a good meal, of hearing a child laugh… Bascourt had to know that all of that was about to be ripped from him. And he had to know why. The pistol ball that would tear through Bascourt’s innards would be nothing as to the pain of losing grip on Life itself.

  The Preacher hobbled his horse, stepped out from the shelter of the trees, walked silently to the shack. The air still, the cold everywhere. Le Mat in his hand, pointing down to the ground, the better to keep his arm relaxed.

  The Preacher paused at the entrance, a thick Indian curtain, embroidered in parts, repaired in others. No doubt another curtain behind, keep out the draught. He edged it to one side, then stepped noiselessly through.

  “I been expectin’ you. What took you so long?”

  Chapter 19

  The voice came from Bascourt. He was propped up in a bed, near an open fire that struggled in a rudimentary hearth that was the only part of the hovel built with stone.

  Two females either side. One, the squaw he had seen while watching from the wood. The other, a child.

  Bascourt pointed a finger at the Preacher and said, “So, what took you so long? Eh? I knowed you was near. I knowed it!” He turned to the woman, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I....” Then he fell back onto the cushions from which he had only just raised himself.

  “Shhhh, shh, quiet now.”

  The girl, maybe five years old said, “Doctor! Make pappy better!” She broke away from the weak grasp of her pappy and ran to the Preacher. “Doctor! Doctor!”

  The Preacher quickly, and unobserved, at least by the oncoming child, stuffed his firearm into his belt. He brusquely pulled his coat over to conceal it.

  “No child I am not a doctor. And down. Please!”

  “Down Ruth!” instructed the woman, but in the gentlest of tones. No scolding, no harsh words, only love and affection for a child who wanted a doctor to come and help her pappy. “Come precious. This is not doctor.” Then, rising from her position at Bascourt’s head, she smoothed down her skirts and approached the Preacher. “Please sir, come in. Warm by the fire, and...” Here she glanced over at her man. No, it wasn’t a glance, more of a loving look. Hard to tell as it had been too long since the Preacher had last seen such a thing. She turned back to the Preacher, “It is late. You take some soup?” She gestured to a pot that was simmering over the fire.

  But before the Preacher could answer, before he could change his mind and pull out his pistol and put a bullet through Bascourt’s stomach so he would die in agony, and maybe put a shot through the skull of the child and the heart of the woman, just to add anguish and impotence to his final minutes… before he could do anything, Bascourt raised himself once more. “He ain’t come to take soup, woman! He’s come to take away my soul!” He then fell back, pale, drained of blood and the very essence of life. As his hand dropped limply to his side he added, “This is the avengin’ angel I been telling you ‘bout. Come to take my soul away.”

  The young girl screamed “Don’t want pappy to die!”

  “Shh, my sweet.” The mother gathered the young girl into her bosom. “No one is going to die.” She looked at the Preacher, “Not tonight.”

  The Preacher could see, even in the half-light, how emaciated Bascourt was. He looked around: a single-roomed hovel, with maybe one or two areas capable of being curtained off, should these heathen desire privacy.

  The squaw was proffering a bowl of hot soup. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d become. How deep inside him the coldness went. He took it and seated himself on a box near the fire. The soup did taste good. The squaw had stopped administering to her man, leaving it to the girl to mop his brow. When the Preacher looked over at Bascourt he appeared to have fallen asleep. Seemed to have some form of fever.

  “There been an accident? Is he injured? Sick?”

  “Sick. Very sick.”

  “Will it pass?”

  The squaw shook her head. In a low tone, she said, “He knows it. And this is the worst he has been. Has lost half his weight, all strength. Before, he lift me. Now I carry him. But much pain, so much pain.”

  “Suffering bad?”

  The squaw nodded.

  The soup tasted good.

  “He is suffering very bad.”

  The soup tasted even better. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Four months. Bad stomach first. Real bad. Get worse. Now pain is in chest, throat, head, all over. He want to die. When a man want to die it mean life is worse than death.”

  “You his woman?”

  “He is a good man, mister.” She wasn’t looking at the Preacher, having turned away to look over at Bascourt. “Very good man. He not deserve this. Not for what he has done for me and St Jude.”

  “Patron Saint of lost causes?”

  “Patrice tell me about saints. You are religious man. A preacher. I can tell.”

  “That girl. His?”

  “Ruth. No. Patrice adopt her.”

  “And St Jude?”

  “I was lost cause. A lost cause with a baby. But Patrice save us.” Here the woman did turn back to face the Preacher. “We would not be alive without him.”

  “That crucifix up on the wall. His?”

  “Patrice pray every day. He fear the Lord his God.”

  “Has need to.”

  “The good that man has done since I meet him... I tell you preacher, no matter what he do before, if even he ever did bad, has been fixed by the charity - and the love - he has given me and my child. You a preacher, so must believe in redemption.”

  The Preacher was no longer enjoying the soup. He put it to one side, on the floor, which was mainly earth.

  “Patrice has sorrow. Don’t know why. He won’t tell. But he does say he wants... calls it salvation. He pray every day. Always say he not do enough to wash sins away. Always say he has to clean his soul. Always want to do good. Do good in this world so he can go to his heaven. Well he has done enough good for me. More than enough.”

  The Preacher sat looking at the fire. Bascourt was asleep now. No amount of goodness could wash sin from that man’s hands. Not even Christ’s blood.

  “His Good Lord send you, that is what he believe. Keep saying his Lord would send messenger. He wants to confess. Won’t say what. He is Catholic. He will not let go of the Earth and go to his heaven until he has said confession. Now you are here, preacher, now he can say what he needs to say and die in peace. That’s all that I want for him now. I not believe in miracles.”

  “You speak good English for an Indian. What are you? Kiowa?”

  “My mother was white woman.”

  “A half-breed eh?” The room was too gloomily lit for him to have noticed. Still made her an Indian though.

  The squaw went over to tend to Ruth, pausing to look at Bascourt. She turned to the Preacher, “He sleep. Best we do same. He might not wake. But we have to be ready for him. Be ready. I will make you a bed. It is good you are here.”

  “Good?”

  “His god send you. To hear his confession. What other reason could there be for you being here?”

  The Preacher slept a fitful sleep. By now he should have killed Bascourt, not eaten his soup. Yet all the while he was holding on to life, Bascourt was suffering. And there was much suffering during the night and the squaw was in constant attendance.

  Next morning, the squaw prepa
red a sparse meal of bread and molasses. But Bascourt did not eat. Instead, his woman gave him medication she’d made. When she took the Preacher’s empty dish from him she said, “He want to talk to you. Go over, please. He can speak little, the pain in his throat. He say it is like a cactus deep inside it. Go now.”

  The Preacher stood, walked over and sat on a stool beside the makeshift bed. He lowered his voice so only Bascourt could hear. “I know you have done bad things. I… know.”

  Bascourt was semi-delirious. Maybe that was the effect of the squaw’s medicine. He was fighting sleep, struggling to stay awake, stay alive. His voice was weak; the Preacher had to lean forward to hear him. “I was raised by the Fathers… an’ now at the end… I have to confess. Do you know how to do… the Last Rites?”

  “No. But I can say something sim’lar, should I feel it necessary.”

  “Send her… away.” Bascourt swallowed. He was so thin the Preacher could see his gullet stand out in what was left of his neck; could see the contractions it made as Bascourt struggled to force down saliva. “Send her and the child out. Get firewood. Something. Anything. Then we can do it.” He raised his arm in an attempt to signal the end of the conversation. The elbow was but a hinge from which the Preacher could trace both forearm bones down to the wrist; could see the veins, tendons, the withered muscles. The Preacher pulled the blanket back to reveal a thigh that even a hungry coyote would pass on. As for the cheeks, they were so hollowed out the Preacher could count the teeth even when Bascourt’s mouth was shut.

  The Preacher stood and walked to the door, motioning to the woman to join him. He pulled back the curtain and stepped outside. She followed.

  The sky was the sort of blue only cold winter mornings provide. The air was still and the ground showed signs of early frost. It would be hard work digging a grave. Some crows were out distant and the Preacher spied a red-tailed hawk. It was a good morning. The type of morning to be outside. There was even a semblance of warmth on his face as he looked east. “Walk with me woman. Tell me what you know of him.”

  She followed as they walked away from the shack. After maybe fifteen, twenty yards he turned and started to walk around the building in a circle, clockwise. The squaw followed dutifully, to his left and a few paces behind.