Father Ryan Comisky was sitting at the dimly lit kitchen table when Jacob came walking in from his bath. He looked like an old codger who’d seen more than his fair share of trouble, earthly and otherwise. The priest was sipping on a steaming cup of coffee. In front of him sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a short tumbler half-filled with the liquor.
“Father Ryan?”
The priest looked at him, exhaustion visible in his sagging frame and sleepy eyes. He nodded. “There’s coffee on the stove, my son, if you’ve need of it. A glass in the cupboard if you’ve need of the whiskey too,” he said, his words thick with exhaustion and a heavy Irish accent, but not alcohol.
Jacob nodded and went to the cupboard. He sat down on the other side of the table and Father Ryan edged the bottle a little closer to him.
“So you’re a Templar, my son?” Jacob nodded, uncorking the bottle with a dull pop. “I would have thought you would come riding in with sword raised high, a cap of steel upon your crown.” Jacob could only smile. Father Ryan continued, “First impressions aside, I was also under the assumption your order was killed off in the 1300s.”
Jacob poured two fingers of whiskey. “1310, to be exact, Father. We were revived by the Pope from the remnants of the Hospitalers and Knights of Christ about a hundred years ago. Seems we’re still needed when it comes to Holy War on the Earthly Plane.”
Father Ryan snorted and said, “Aye, I’ll agree to that. A nasty bit of business this whole mess is. I had to be sure of what I was facing, Jacob, before I sent my request for aid to the diocese. Never in all my wonders would I have considered Bishop Lamy sending a knight to my aid.”
“So your assessment runs true then, Father? How bad are we talking here? Avarice or Wrath?”
“It’s the worst case I’ve seen, Jacob,” the old priest said as he shook his head. “The demon comes from the Seventh Circle of Hell, Violence. It’s also probable he’ll materialize once I make his current possession untenable, which is why I sent word. I may be able to drive the creature from its earthly host, but I’ll need you to strike at its corporeal form.”
Jacob took a sip from the glass. “So tell me what this bit of business entails, Father. I had two men and a boy try their hand at an ambush on my ride in, a shotgun leveled at me from behind a window, and now I’m drinking whiskey at a kitchen table.”
“Two men and a boy, you say? Jim Chisum knows you’re here then?”
“Who’s Chisum? One of the ranchers ‘round here? And what about that kid from New York?”
“Aye,” Father Ryan replied, taking a sip, “Jim Chisum is the biggest one, by the good word of the county tax records. He’s using this opportunity of unrest to try and steal Charles’s cattle and land. And that boy is Billy Bonney, a hired gun he is. If Chisum sent him, then he must believe himself to be within reach of his prize. A sad bit of business this. Poor Angela.”
“How many guns does this Chisum have, anyway?”
“Twenty, but only six or seven of them were hired for this, I believe. Most are just ranch hands that have been swept into the whole business. You’re not planning on fighting them, are you Jacob?”
“Father, if I’ve learned anything from years of this mess, it’s that when someone’s spoiling for a fight I don’t have much choice in the matter. Jim Chisum’s going to send, or not send, his men regardless of any plan of ours.” Jacob finished his whiskey in a single drink. Father Ryan nodded, sipping at his own. “If there’s nothing else, Father Ryan, I’d ask one thing of you.”
“What is it, my son?”
“I’d like to confess my sins.”
“Of course, my son,” Father Ryan replied, turning in his chair slightly as Jacob stood and went around the table. He knelt on the planks of the hardwood floor, closed his eyes, and made the sign of the cross.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession,” Jacob began. “I killed two men in self-defense today.”
“Your penance is to remain focused on the task at hand, and make sure Charles Goodnight receives his Angela back. I absolve you of your sins. Go now in peace, my child,” Father Ryan said, finishing by waving an outstretched hand in the sign of the cross over Jacob’s head.
“Thank you, Father,” Jacob said and recited the Act of Contrition.
Jacob stood, dusted off the knees of his jeans and went back around the table. As he was about to sit, Father Ryan stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“No, Jacob my son, you’ve had a day that’s been long enough. Go rest your head a bit. My bones tell me tomorrow will be a trying day even with plenty of sleep.”
“You’re probably right on that count, Father. Take some of your own advice, though, will you?”
“Aye, my son, I will try.”
Jacob stepped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He headed for his room, past the seated form of Charles Goodnight. The old rancher sat in the chair, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. The shotgun leaned beside him against the wall. The Templar stopped in front of Goodnight. “We’ll bring your Angela back, Charles.”
The rancher just grunted and nodded.
A Knight Templar in Lincoln County (A Jacob Smith Story #1) Page 3