by S. F. Wood
“And?”
“We moved apart, the three of us. We knowed he could not point his shotgun at all three of us. So when he pointed it at Dexter, saying there was more men in the fields, ready to come a-running at the sound of a gun, well I just had to test his theory, didn’t I.”
The Preacher found that he was holding a pillow, kneading it, twisting it. “Test?”
“Yeah. Test. When he had the shotgun pointed at Frank, I drew my Colt and blew a hole in his chest.”
“You killed him.”
“Yes. Yes I killed him.” Bascourt sighed more than said those words. “That what you wanted to hear?”
“Is that what you wanted to confess? Need to confess?”
Bascourt pleaded: “Kill me now won’t you! The look in your eye tells me you want to do it anyway.”
The Preacher just looked at him.
“Water then. You want me to talk? I need water. Please.” The emotional effort of confessing was taking more of a toll than the physical effort of living. The Preacher found a canteen and allowed Bascourt a sip. The sick man’s expression was momentarily one of gratitude before he winced again at the effort of forcing the water down his gullet.
“Go on. There was more than just James and a servant there, wasn’t there.”
“Seems,” croaked Bascourt, “that you know as much about this as me. It’s like you was there.”
“Only you know what you know. And God will want to hear it from your own lips before He decides what to do with you. But don’t be surprised if He’s already decided.”
A small mounted company of Confederate cavalry passed through Oaklands later that day. They found James’s body by the well, and Moses’s body outside the open stables. Across the courtyard they could see that the main door was open, damaged. Inside they found the bodies of the Preacher’s wife and daughter in the kitchen. Louisa tied to a chair, Lorna stripped naked on the table.
“Then kill me now so I can tell it to God, not you.” Bascourt was fading. It wasn’t sleep that was enveloping him. The Preacher wondered about the medication the squaw had given Bascourt before she left. Did she expect to see him again?
“Inside the house. You went across the courtyard, up the steps, then through the double doors. Then what?”
“How d’you know ‘bout that? How’d you know about the house?”
“How long did they suffer?”
“Looked like they was mother and daughter.”
“Louisa and Lorna. Why d’you kill them?”
Bascourt didn’t bat an eyelid on hearing the names. Didn’t have the strength. “Was the mother’s fault. Shoulda shut up. Shoulda just taken it. ‘Stead she grabbed a meat knife. Flew at Aaron. Gave him a ‘mighty slash down the side of his face.”
Louisa had had a temper to match her red hair. And it meant it was she who had given Franklin the scar. This was the first crumb of comfort that had come the Preacher’s way since Bascourt had started his confession. He took the crumb because he knew what was coming next. He gripped the pillow even tighter, his knuckles white, his jaw set. The only thing that was stopping the Preacher from killing Bascourt there and then was the fact that the act of confessing was a more painful way for him to die.
“Tied her to a chair. She was screaming and a-shouting and the language was worse ‘an a trooper’s. So we made her watch. And as God is my witness, every day since I have regretted what we did to her daughter. I can hear her screams every night in my dreams, and her mother’s curses! As God is my witness. But in His absence... I guess that’s where you come in, don’t it.” Bascourt’s voice tailed off again.
The sun was low in the afternoon sky when the squaw and the child returned. The Preacher was sitting on a log, smoking his pipe. He had lit a fire in the yard and was brewing coffee. Lying on the ground beside him was the spade. It had a clod of soil stuck to the face. He rose and stepped towards the wagon, taking hold of the reins. He looked at the woman. “I suggest you go in alone.” With that the Preacher started to unhitch the horse and led it into the makeshift stables for some feed and water. He left squaw and her child to their grief.
Later he returned to the shack and lifted the body from the bed and carried it to the newly-cut grave. Ana and Ruth followed. They looked down at the body of Patrice Bascourt-Beauregard, lying now in its final resting place, wrapped in a sheet. The Preacher took the Bible from his pocket, opened it and tried for some words of Christianity. An eye for an eye? Turn the other cheek? Neither would do. Forgive and Forget? Won’t ever forget. And there ain’t no one left alive now to forgive.
He closed the book without having said a word, bent down and placed it in the grave. Then he gestured to Ana that she take Ruth inside. Once they’d gone he picked up the spade and did what he’d set out to do, five years previously. Bury the past.
Next day over breakfast of oatmeal pancakes he asked Ana about her plans.
“Stay put for winter. Then see what spring brings.”
“He told me he wanted you and the child to settle in town for the winter. Said he feared for you when the weather got bad.”
Ana poured him some more coffee, all the while looking out for her daughter. “A Baxoje woman is used to hardship.”
“Was this where you’d decided to settle? For good I mean? This land don’t look like it will ever provide for much.”
“Patrice said he wanted to take us all West. Oregon maybe. Or California. Over the mountains for sure. But that was him dreaming.”
“You didn’t believe him.”
She turned to the Preacher. “I believed in him. And that was because he did what he said he would do when he found me and Ruth. He said he would care and he did.” Her voice softened, slightly. “He had dreams, yes. Dreams along with nightmares. But he knew we would never have money to go West. Took long enough for him to get to Kansas and that was without us.” She took the Preacher’s empty plate.
The Preacher left her with the dishes and stepped outside for a pipe. It was going to be another cold day. And the days would get colder still. Sun was shining though. After a few minutes the woman joined him. “And you? Your plans? Where do you go?”
“California.”
“In the spring?”
“Now. The railroad goes there.”
“Much money for trains.” She was not bitter. Just matter of fact.
“Come with me.” He was looking at her when he said this. “Ana isn’t it? You and Ruth. Come to California.”
“You want to take half-breed squaw and her child? With you?” This was not said with any suggestion of suspicion, but certainly surprise.
“I had intended on setting up a chapel in San Francisco.”
“Are you?”
“No. Changed my mind. Want to set up a home instead. Grow oranges and maybe grapes. Used to grow cotton, so why not oranges now.”
“Patrice was Christian. Wanted Ruth to be brought up Christian. You being a Preacher, I take it you think the same.”
“Let her make up her own mind when she’s all grown up. That’ll happen soon enough.”
“You not going to bring her up to fear your God?”
“Young man I knew once said it was better to teach children to think things out for themselves. He might have had a point.”
Later that morning they set out from the shack in the wagon with what few belongings they had. Ruth sat between her mother and the Preacher, the better to keep warm. Ana turned to the Preacher. She didn’t smile, she just said, “If we are to go to California together, it is right to know the name of our guide.”
“I was baptized Solomon.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“In my case it means nothing at all.” The Preacher picked up the reins and flicked them across the rump of the lead horse.
“Then we will call you Sol,” said Ana.
“I would prefer Solomon, but I can see why it don’t rightly fit. Been blind to wisdom for far too long.”
“Where we go, Sol?” I
t was Ruth.
He looked at the girl. “You are an inquisitive young lady. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that. We are going to get on a train. There’s a town a few hours from here where the railroad runs through. We can sell the horses there and head to California.”
“What town is that?”
“Abilene.”
The End