The Long Walk (The Verge Walker Book 1)

by Ben Reeder

Broward returned to the Carson’s wagon and crouched by the nearest wheel. A thin, gray film covered the wheel’s spoke and sides, drawing a speculative noise from him. Flecks of green also stuck to the wheel, a common enough sight when a man crossed the Snake River. He stood and walked across the street. Raucous laughter came from inside the Gantry, and he could hear the Hamori boys bragging. But that wasn’t his business. The streaks of chalky gray mud on Stefan’s gelding’s legs were.

  Broward put his hand on the horse’s shoulder and slid it down the front leg. The hair was stiff with gray mud and bits of river grass. Damn if those boys hadn’t been on the same side of the river as the Carsons’ two sons. Muttering under his breath, he strode across the way to the livery stable, grabbing a two bit piece in his pocket and slipping it between his fingers. The silver coin glinted in the afternoon sun, then he was in the shade of the stable’s entryway. A familiar buckboard wagon was in the middle of the alleyway that ran through the center of the building. Stalls lined each side, and the feed and tack rooms were to the rear. Motes of golden hay dust drifted through a sunbeam that lanced across the open space from the loft above. A muttered curse floated up from the front of the wagon, and he imagined that it left the air a little bluer in its wake.

  “Hey, Zeb, who’s wagon is that?” he asked as he put a boot on an overturned bucket.

  A disheveled mop of blond hair popped up from behind the driver’s bench, and a pair of watery blue eyes squinted at him before the man responded. “Ain’t but one buckboard in this whole damn county with hick’ry strakes, sheriff. Who in the Sam Hill d’you think owns this damn thing?”

  “Aw, hell, Zeb, you know I can’t tell hickory from willow wood. Why do you think I took the job bein’ sheriff?”

  “‘Cuz you’re a lazy, no good cuss with a nose long enough to get in ever’body’s business?”

  “Probly so...probly so. Anyway, looks like someone’s got a busted wheel or somethin’.”

  “Ain’t no wheel o’ mine ever gone and busted for no one. The Widow Miller busted a lynch pin yesterday. I’da never figured her to make it back here on four wheels, but she said some stranger stopped and helped her out. Now, you know I ain’t normally one to go braggin’ on another man’s work, but look here at what this fella fixed up for her. That’s a workmanlike piece of craftsmanship right there,” he ended by pulling out a wire wrapped spike of wood and tossing it Broward’s way. “By the by...that’s willow wood, Jimmy Broward.”

  “You don’t say,” Broward mused as he looked the improvised pin over as if he could make sense of it. “So, is Harry somewhere about?”

  “Damn, Sheriff, I swear that nose of yours just got another inch longer. If I know that lazy son of mine, he’s busy nappin’ in the loft or something.” He turned away and looked up. “Harry! Get yourself down here and make like you’re good for somethin’! Sheriff Broward wants to have a word with you!”

  From the loft came a muffled “Yes, pap!”. Seconds later, a loud thumping came from overhead, announcing a pair of skinny, overall clad legs that flopped over the edge of the loft. Then the rest of the boy slid off the edge, hung by his arms for a moment, then let go and let gravity bring him the rest of the way to the floor.

  “Harry, did you take in that stranger’s horse today?” he asked, tossing the two-bit piece he’d been holding to Harry. The boy’s hand streaked out and snatched the coin out of the air faster than a snake striking. It was the fastest Broward had ever seen the young man move for anything short of food.

  “Yessir, Sheriff, I sure did. He asked me to brush him down and feed him grain and hay, and to make sure no one took off with him and he paid me three whole silver dollars for all of it.”

  “So, when you brushed him down, what kind of shape was he in?”

  “Well, he was a sweaty, like you might expect, but other’n that, he was in fine shape. Shoes were solid, teeth were good, mane wasn’t all whipped up or tangled. Now, he warned me he liked to step on feet, but that horse had better manners than Miss Perkin’s gals do.” Zeb reached out and tweaked the boy’s ear at the last remark, but it seemed to have little effect. “Well, it’s true, pap. He moved out the way fore and aft, if he coulda said please and thank you, I think he woulda.”

  “Did he have any mud on him?”

  “He...heck no, Sheriff. Nothing but road dust, and no recent brushin’, but his hooves hadn’t been wet since the Great Flood” He ducked under a half-hearted swipe from his father and kept talking. “Would you like to see him? He’s right over here.”

  “I think I will, Harry,” Broward said thoughtfully. “I think I will at that.”

  Chapter 2

  Caleb felt like he had just drifted off when a sharp rap came at the door to the sheriff’s office, and he heard Broward’s voice. “Robbie, unbolt this door,” Broward said from outside. There was a clicking of locks, and the door opened.

  “Thank you for going out of your way to do this, Mrs. Miller,” Broward said from the doorway.

  “Please, Sheriff, you may call me Annie,” Mrs. Miller said as the sound of linen rustling accompanied her entrance. “My Jonathan considered you a friend, and so do I.” Today, she wore a dove gray dress with full skirts and a bonnet that framed her face in soft linen that seemed to make her eyes larger and an even more striking shade of blue. The whole effect made her seem angelic and pure.

  “Then please, call me James. So, is this the fella you met on the road?” As they drew nearer, Caleb swung his feet to the floor and stood, West Point training making it impossible to keep himself from standing in the presence of a lady.

  “Mrs. Miller,” Caleb said as he pulled his blue Rigger’s scarf back into place from where it had fallen when he had laid down.

  “Mr. Archer,” Anne Miller smiled. “It’s good to see you again, though I had no idea you were such a ruffian, sir.”

  “I was rather hoping you could convince the sheriff otherwise, in spite of my rough looks.” Anne covered her mouth as she giggled, then turned to Broward.

  “This is the gentlemen who came to my assistance,” she said, then looked down at the lock.

  “Just one more thing, then, Annie, if you don’t mind,” Broward said as he pulled the keys from his pocket. “What else was he wearing when you saw him?”

  Anne sighed. “He was wearing a long coat and gloves, decked out like a Rigger.”

  “I had no idea you knew about such things,” Broward said as he unlocked the door.

  “Oh, Jonathan was fascinated by the aether and the trains. How do you think we made it this far from New York?”

  “Of course,” Broward smiled. “Mrs Mil….Annie, thank you again for going out of your way to do this.”

  “Think nothing of it,” she said. She turned and went to the door, then stopped and turned back. “And Mr. Archer, the offer of employment is still open, if you should be so inclined.” With a rustle of linen skirts, she was out the door, and both men found the room less bright than before.

  “You’re free to go, but I’d take it as a kindness if you’d do something for me,” Broward said as he pointed to where Caleb’s coat and gun belt hung across the back of a chair. “I couldn’t help but notice that you wear a priest’s collar under that bandana around your neck.”

  “I was not a priest but a brother of the Society of Jesus,” Caleb said. He walked past the sheriff and took his gun belt from the chair. “I'm not seeking a congregation.”

  “I ain’t after asking you for a baptism or confession or anything,” Broward said. “But our preacher has been feeling under the weather lately. If you could look in on him, one man of God to another, I’m sure it would be a comfort to him.” Caleb rolled his shoulders to settle his coat, then turned to face Broward.

  “I’ll look in on him, then,” he said. “Seems the decent thing to do.”

  “Much obliged. I’d wager you’ll find a warmer welcome with the preacher than at the Gantry at any pass. Folks are riled up over what happened to the Carson boys.
They’ll be lookin’ for someone to lynch, and after the way you made them Hamori brothers look the fool, they’ll have the whole town after your hide in no time if you show your face at the saloon.”

  “Wouldn’t I be safer here then?” Caleb asked.

  “The only thing those Hamoris fear more than the law is the wrath of God. You’ll be safer under the Cross, Mister Archer.”

  Caleb opened the door and put his hat on, then turned back to the sheriff. “Nowadays, my faith is more in Colt than in Christ, sheriff.”

  Chapter 3

  The walk up the hill wasn’t a long one, but it seemed to stretch out forever. The moment he stepped out onto the street, two women crossed to the other side, one shielding the eyes of her daughter as she bustled to the opposite side of the road. The first man he saw made a point to shift the burlap sack he was carrying to his left hand. Half-whispered words reached his ears.

  Drifter. Vagabond. Rigger. Killer. The words were whispered, usually behind his back, but sometimes folks didn’t bother to hide their contempt. The street led through the residences, mostly wooden one room affairs near the center of town, then a few with a second section for a kitchen. Near the edge of town though, were the larger homes, multi-room affairs with glass windows and curtains that had the uniformity of machine made products.

  Once he was past the last of the houses, the trail started to meander, favoring the smoothest route up the slope over the fastest. The trail was easily visible from just about anywhere in town, and he reflected that it would be a good place for folk to be seen in the act of piety. Which was the greater sin, he wondered? Ostentatious piety, or encouraging it by putting a church where it would be so easy to see?

  “Or am I the greater sinner for thinking the worst of my fellow man?” he asked himself as he rounded the last turn in the road and found himself on the level stretch that held the church, the parsonage and the graveyard. A small stable was perched near the edge of the plateau, just behind the preacher’s house. Caleb paused a moment to look about, one part of his brain surveying the landscape, measuring distances, elevation, routes, another part contemplating how much alike almost every church he’d ever set foot in was. From the steps up to the double doors to the steeple with its white wooden cross. There was something comforting in that sameness, like looking at the fingerprint of God reflected in His houses of worship. It was in the windows, he figured, that you could see the first differences in a church. Some featured stained glass, but others, like this one, had panes of clear glass looking out on a landscape that was a reflection of God’s glory. Even if a man thought to appeal to the vanity of others, Caleb thought, like Jonah with the whale, his baser motives could be made to serve the Lord’s purpose.

  “Thank you, Father,” Caleb whispered as he crossed himself, “and forgive me for doubting You.” He turned back toward the parsonage to find the front door open. A long limbed man leaned against the door jamb with a brindle mutt sitting at his feet. Silver hair framed a sagging face with stubble lining the cheeks and chin. A short-sleeved black shirt revealed sinewy forearms crossed over a broad chest.

  “Didn’t want to say nothin’ while you were enjoyin’ the view,” the older man said, a slight wheeze to his voice. “Not enough folks take the time to appreciate His work. It’s good to see a man who does.” The preacher stepped out and crossed the distance between them, holding his hand out as he got closer.

  “Name’s Ezekiel Flint,” he said. His grip was firm, and his hands was roughened from hard work.

  “Caleb Archer. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Heard a bit about you,” Flint said. “Not much of it good, which says something in your favor.”

  “Well, at least folks around here are consistent.”

  “That they are. So, is it true what they say? About you and the Widow Miller, that is?”

  “What are they saying?” Caleb asked. Flint smiled and raised an eyebrow, his look saying it should have been obvious. “No!” Caleb blurted. “She was the soul of propriety. Mrs. Miller is a good woman, Pastor Flint. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Flint nodded. “Folk know better than to accuse her of anything improper. Looks like this Sunday’s sermon is going to be about gossip and bearing false witness, then. Well come on in. It’s too hot to jaw out here in the sun like farmers.” He turned and headed back to the house, leaving Caleb to follow.

  Inside the parsonage, a woman’s touch was immediately evident, though fading. Embroidery samplers adorned the walls, and the windows were hung with drapes of white linen trimmed with hand tatted lace. A daguerreotype of a younger version of Ezekiel and a radiant woman sat on the mantle. Above that, a stunning portrait of the same woman in her late teens wearing a blue satin dress holding a white leather bound book held place of pride on the wall above the fireplace. A narrow bed sat in the corner of the room, under one of the windows. By the decorative look of the pillows and comforter, it was obviously not used often, probably reserved for the rare overnight guest and used as a settee otherwise. Ezekiel sat at a table in the middle of the room and pulled a bottle of beer from a bucket near his chair.

  “Well, sit yerself down, have a beer.”

  Caleb took a straight-backed chair from a peg on the wall and put the seat opposite him before he took the brown bottle the older man offered. “The sheriff said he was worried about you,” he said after he took a pull from the bottle. Ezekiel took a sip of his own beer, then gave a long, rattling cough.

  “Said the same thing ‘bout you. Didn’t go to mentionin’ you were a priest.”

  “Because I’m not,” Caleb countered. “Never took my orders or oaths. Anyway, I’m no longer part of the Church.”

  “Says who?”

  “The Church, I would imagine,” Caleb said.

  “You seem a decent enough fella,” Flint said. “And you’re still wearin’ the collar. Seems like you and Rome differ on a thing or two.”

  “Just how do you come about knowing that?” Caleb asked, his brow creasing at the uncanny revelations Flint had made.

  “Hell, son. I know a priest's shirt when I see one, and I know how a man looks when he’s wearing God’s dog collar.”

  “You could say I disagree with Rome on a few things, yes. Mostly who they should trust to look after their flocks.”

  “I see,” Flint said. “I take it someone failed in their duties, then?”

  “Failed?” Caleb growled. “If they failed, it was no accident. If they failed, they did everything they could to make an innocent boy…” he broke off, turning his face away, his features screwed up into a hard grimace.

  “I think I understand, son. Where was this?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “‘Bout a year or so back?” Flint asked. Caleb nodded. “Can’t say as the bastard didn’t get what he deserved, then. Papers said he was beat to death with a club or some such.”

  Caleb shook his head and looked down at his hands. “I didn’t use a club.”

  “Well, hell,” Flint said with a smile. “This calls for a toast.” He stood and went to a cabinet, returning with a bottle of amber liquid and two crystal tumblers.

  “I can’t celebrate a man’s death,” Caleb said, raising his hands to refuse.

  “Then celebrate all the lives you kept from ruin, son,” Flint said as he poured. “Says more to the good about you that you take no joy of his death, but the good Lord has a habit of putting a good man where He needs him.”

  Caleb picked up the cup Flint slid toward him. “To unsullied lives,” he said.

  “And the ones who protect ‘em,” Flint answered. They drank, both men taking a moment appreciate the burn as the brandy went down before taking a pull from their beers.

  “Seems a pity to put it away after just one drink,” Flint said, holding the bottle up and giving the amber liquid inside a long look. “B’sides, it’s rare enough that I get a chance to drink with another man of God, even if he’s a papist.”

  Caleb laug
hed, a sound rare enough that he felt out of practice with it. “I’ve been told Protestants can’t hold their liquor. Too prudish due to a lack of Confession.”

  “I’ll have to drink you under the table, then, and show you the error of your ways,” Flint said as he poured. “To the Pope.”

  “To the Holy Father.”

  Chapter 4

  “To talk to ‘em... one at a time,” Flint said several hours later, his eyes bleary from the combination of beer, brandy and dinner, “they’re good people, ever’ last one of ‘em. But you get ‘em in a bunch, and get ‘em riled up about somethin’...that’s when the Devil tries to come out in ‘em. But that’s why God gave men names, see.”

  “So they could remember who they were?” Caleb asked as he scrubbed a piece of frybread through the thin puddle of molasses that was left on his plate.

  “So they can remember who they are in a mob,” Flint nodded. “But they need someone to do that for ‘em. And I’m afraid I can’t do it much longer.”

  “Why not?” Caleb asked.

  “Consumption. You caught me on a good day, but the local sawbones says I don’t have long before I’m too sick to preach. I don’t want to say nothin’ ‘til I know there’s someone here to take over. Then I figure I’ll just retire, maybe head out to California or maybe down into Mexico while I still have a few good years in me.”

  “I didn’t realize…” Caleb let the sentence fade into silence. “I’m sorry.”

  “Bah, save your platitudes,” Flint said with a dismissive wave. “I got me a big old mansion waiting for me up in Heaven. Seems the least the good Lord can do for me after all the souls I helped Him save. But there is something you can do for me, when you head out.”

  “Of course,” Caleb said. “If I can, I’ll do it.”

  “It ain’t much, but it’d mean the world to me. I need you to take a letter up to Sonora. There’s a young preacher there I been corresponding with these past few years. I’d like him to come out and take over for me.”