“You baptize a man before you kill him, that your game?” I said. “Clear conscience before murder—you aiming for that? If you were half a man you’d throw me a rifle and settle this fairly.”
The sheriff looked startled a moment, then broke into a low chuckle. He bent at the waist and gave a good hee-haw, straightened up, and laughed again. “Look, Private—you’re the one who walked into a jailhouse carrying a sack full of stolen money.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’re right, I was baptizing you, but I ain’t here to fight, Rowdy. I’m here to offer you a job.”
“A job?”
“You’re a man of scruples who isn’t afraid of death. You can fight. You can speak. Can you study a book?”
“Yes sir.”
“For what I’ve got in mind, those are the only skills needed.”
“I got no idea what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”
“If a man’s truly changed, then his change is shown by his actions.” The sheriff dug into the shore with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got a hunch you’re a changed man. Or at least you’re beginning that direction.” He looked me over from head to toe. “Dry yourself off with your shirt and put your clothes back on. Let me see if I can explain the bigger picture.”
He took off his Stetson, wiped his head with his handkerchief, and a faraway look came to his eye. “Around 1900, a hardy band of women from the Texas Missionary Society opened the Cut Eye Community Church. It’s been sparsely attended ever since, mostly by the wives of the town’s business owners and a few old ranchers. These days, come Saturday night, most men in my town are atop the Cut Eye tavern. Their actions spill over during the week. Families are falling apart and my jail’s full to capacity. The last preacher we had didn’t last long, sorry to say. While the war was on, a missionary held the church together but is heading overseas soon and doesn’t want the job permanently.”
“A preaching job?” My eyes were round.
“Hiring and firing is up to me. I’m head of the church’s deacon board. Job comes with all your meals taken at Cisco Wayman’s café, a rickety parsonage that’s ready to topple over, and ten dollars spending cash per month. You’ll need a truck too, and we’ll scrounge up something to drive until you can afford your own. It ain’t much compensation, I know, and the job also comes with one unbendable condition. You following me boy?”
I nodded, now speechless.
“I’m a fellow veteran myself, fought and bled under General John Monash in the trenches of the Somme, so I can empathize with a fellow veteran who’s down on his luck, particularly since this is the great state of Texas where men are allowed to be a little rough around the edges.” The sheriff turned his head, scowled, and sniffed all at the same time. “It’s true—I want a new minister more than I want a crime confessed to. So here’s the condition: the real test of your changed ways will be to stick it out for a solid year. Twelve months of preaching in Cut Eye. Can you do that, boy?”
“Thanks much, Sheriff.” I found my voice. “But I don’t know nothing about being a preacher.”
“Actually, I ain’t offering you the job, son. It’s an order. I want this town cleaned up, and cleaned up good. A preacher who’s been an elite paratrooper is exactly the strong man to do it. It’s true I’m suspicious of a fella who arrives in a jailhouse with a sack of money, so this is your ultimatum: you take the job, or you go to jail right now. And if you don’t last the year, then my hunch will be correct—you robbed the bank—and I’ll hunt you down and crush you with the full weight of the law. But—” he cleared his throat, “belly chains and leg irons seem like an awful waste of a man with your potential for success.”
The wind rustled through the pines. My stomach growled and I found I was out of arguments except to mumble, “Like I say, sir, I don’t know nothing about being a preacher.”
The sheriff flushed with sternness. “Well, this is how I see it. In a moment we’re going to hike to the car and drive back to Cut Eye. My secretary will return the money to the bank and tell the examiner I found it, which ain’t a lie because it appeared on my desk. Meanwhile, you and I are going to walk around the corner to the Pine Oak Café where Cisco Wayman’s wife serves up the best peach cobbler this side of the Missouri. Once we sit down and begin eating, I’m going to tell you more about what comes next for you, Rev’rund Rowdy Slater.” He held out his revolver hand as if to shake.
A dry swallow slid down my throat, and I stared at the sheriff’s outstretched hand. Rev’rund Rowdy Slater—I had no idea what to think of that title.
“That’s my offer, boy—one solid year of preaching in Cut Eye.” The sheriff grinned, his hand still outstretched. “You take this job and you do it right.” He winked. “Or else you die.”
FIVE
She called it Peach-Lime Cornmeal Shortcake, and she described the ingredients in the same easygoing motion as she laid down a plateful in front of the sheriff, another plateful in front of me. “Four cups fresh peaches—canned if it’s all you can muster.” She dabbed her forehead with the corner of a serving towel. “One tablespoon fresh lime juice. One cup cold heavy cream.”
Her words flitted through my head loosely, mind you. Both my eyes stared transfixed on that plateful of glory while I licked my lips in cautious hope. Out of my periphery I saw the sheriff remove his Stetson, pick up his fork, and dive in. Right away I got busy with my teeth. The shortcake flaked in all the right places, still warm from the oven. The peaches dripped over the side, serious in their syrup. Another layer of fruit followed underneath with cream so buttery I swear it came straight from the cow that morning. Another solid foundation of shortcake held it in place from the bottom up. I cleaned my plate and hoped more would soon follow. Maybe even a whole meal.
“The name’s Augusta Wayman—and don’t call me Mrs. Wayman either—it’s always just Augusta.” The cook spoke with brightness in her voice, but there was a sadness hiding behind her words too—some hidden story of loss she couldn’t bury deep enough. She poured me a cup of coffee and added, “Cisco’s my husband. He works the breakfast rush only and ain’t here just now. Together we own this place, the Pine Oak Café, the only respectable eatery in town. Oh, a fella could choke down a hamburger along with his whiskey next door at the tavern, but the grease they use in their deep fryer is so dirty it would lower the price of a used Studebaker.” She was plump with gray hair wisping out from beneath her kerchief, and she snorted in disgust as she said the last words. The phone rang and she walked toward the kitchen to answer it.
“It’s for you, Sheriff,” Augusta said. “Martha at the switchboard says to come quick.”
The sheriff stood with a start, headed for the phone on the side wall, and took the receiver. “This is Halligan.” He listened a moment. “How bad?” His voice was flat. “Be right down.”
“Quick piece of pie for the road?” Augusta called over the counter.
“No time. Much obliged.” He grabbed his hat, made for the door, and pointed his thumb at me to follow. My visions of more food evaporated in the warm café air. The sheriff slid behind the wheel and motioned for me to sit up front in the passenger’s seat next to him this time. The siren let out a wail. He tore up the street out of town, the blue and red overhead lights flashing.
“One of your duties is to be chaplain of the sheriff’s department,” he explained. “When we get to where we’re going, you stay out of the way and let me and my deputy handle business. Comfort the grieving. Notify next of kin if they can be found. Savvy?”
I started to say something but I could tell the sheriff wouldn’t be listening to nothing I might say just now. He wore a look of uncommon seriousness, and I watched the speedometer inch past 85. The force of the wind against the car made me brace my feet against the floorboards, one hand holding steady to the door. Two miles up, a sign flashed by us that read, “Murray Plant 500 yards,” with an arrow pointing to the left. The sheriff slowed to 65 and kept his course northward. Traffic was stopped ahead of us. He pum
ped the brakes as we came closer, made for the left-hand lane, and inched by the row of idling trucks and cars. “This is gonna be a real mess,” he said.
Sure enough, twenty yards ahead a semitrailer lay on its side. The driver was already out, fuming at the wreck. His truck was jackknifed across the road, blocking both lanes of traffic, and the sheriff stopped the squad car and set the brake. We both jumped out and started jogging toward the accident. Off to the side in the field lay a Packard Custom Super Eight crumpled on its roof, all its window glass shattered. Whoever had driven that car needed to have some big money to own a piece of fine automotive craftsmanship such as that. A woman stood near the car, pacing. Her hands were balled up in fists, blood matted on one side of her head, her nose looked broken, and she was hollering in screams, letting loose one long wail after another. The sheriff’s deputy was already on the scene—I could tell by his uniform, the same fella who’d shot at me after Crazy Ake and me robbed the bank. The deputy was crouched on his knees next to the Packard, peering inside. The sheriff made for the ditch.
“Roy?” A tremor shook in the sheriff’s voice.
“Truck driver’s okay,” the deputy answered. “Just a cut across the forehead.” He rose from his crouch, turned and faced us gravely. “That’s more than I can say for Ridge Hackathorn, though.” He motioned toward the Packard. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I know he was close to you.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed shut. He paused a minute, swayed slightly, then swallowed hoarsely. “Emma been notified?”
“I had Martha give her a call. She’ll be here shortly.”
“You told her to leave the children at home, I hope.”
The deputy inhaled harshly. “No sir. I figured they had a right to know.”
A fighting man is trained to know when another man will make his move. For a split second I thought the sheriff was going to haul off and swing at the deputy. Instead, he changed course and glared hard at the other lawman, then motioned toward the hollering woman who stood nearer the road.
“Anyone coming for Luna-Mae?”
“No sir. She’s okay, despite the look of her wounds. I had Martha notify Ava-Louise at the tavern. She said to call an ambulance and that Oris Floyd would pick up the cost.”
“Oh! That’s mighty Christian of him.” The sheriff spat the words.
I glanced again at the hollering woman and noticed for the first time how shapely she was in spite of her ailments. Her dress was torn at the shoulder and I wondered if the sheriff’s friend might have had something to do with that. I was beginning to piece together the story.
“You called Gummer for the tow truck?” the sheriff asked. “Gotta get this traffic moving soon.”
The deputy nodded.
“Well, not much to do until he arrives.” The sheriff turned to me and motioned to his deputy. “Roy, you should know Rowdy Slater. He’ll be the new preacher in town. Reverend Rowdy, you should know Deputy Roy Malwae. He’s law and order through and through.”
We shook hands. Roy was a skinny fella, all bone and gristle, and his hand was soft as a woman’s. He eyed me suspiciously and asked, “Have we met somewhere before?”
I shook my head and glanced away. The sheriff stepped between us. “Rowdy, go see if you can calm Luna-Mae down. She helped land herself into this mess I wouldn’t doubt, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need a charitable hand.”
I glanced toward the hollering woman and hesitated. I didn’t want to stay close to the deputy’s prying eyes, but I wasn’t known much for calming women down neither.
“Go on.” The sheriff gave me a firm pat on the shoulder. “It’s your job.”
I climbed the bank of the ditch and walked toward the woman. Her nose was broken all right, and one eye was puffy and swollen. I’d seen enough black eyes in my time to know it wasn’t due to the traffic accident.
“Ma’am?”
The woman stared at me and hollered but said nothing.
“You going to be okay?” I asked.
She stopped hollering long enough to sniff. “Does it look so?”
“Just trying to help, that’s all. I’ll check the bleeding on your head if you want.”
“Deputy already did that. I’ll be fine. Sheriff say anything about me?”
“Only that you might need help. Maybe you can sit down somewhere? Find some shade out of this sun.”
She hollered again, then laughed. It was a cold laugh, death-scared like someone unused to public speaking gives at the start of a talk. “You best be prepared to take a hike, mister, unless you want your nose smashed. A fight’s going to break out any moment, and it ain’t going to be pretty.”
“You threatening to hit me?”
She laughed again. “No, not you, mister. Do I need to spell it out? Within the next thirty seconds, the wife of Ridge Hackathorn’s going to come screeching down this road. She’s going to see her husband lying with his neck broke in that Packard over yonder, then take one look at me and finally figure out what’s been going on these past six months. That’s when the fight’s going to break out. If she don’t kill me first, then the sheriff will soon enough.”
I stayed silent a moment, not understanding the breadth of her words. The woman hollered again. I’d been around enough medics to press the ailment issue again if all else was failing, so I asked, “Mr. Hackathorn do that to your eye? We can find some cool water somewhere. Press it over the eye.”
The woman stopped hollering, sniffed again, and gave a snort of repulsion. “Yeah. It was him all right. But forget the cool water—it’s too late for that. My nose broke in the crash. Same with my head. Cut’s not deep, I can tell. Shoot—the way I look now, I ain’t going to be able to work for weeks.”
This time I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t the first occasion I’d been around women such as Luna-Mae, although usually I was buying such a woman a drink, helping her get comfortable before heading upstairs hand in hand.
She looked toward the mesquite grass of the field and changed her tone. “Last week he told me he loved me. What an idiot I am. He promised he was leaving his wife and told me to meet him at the plant today where he’s the foreman and we’d head out together. Well, I met him as agreed, and we started driving up the road, see? I had my suitcase with me, stupid as anything, and when he asked what it was for, I reminded him of his promise and he broke out laughing.” She hollered a blue streak again, a nervous laugh of hilarity, like her mind was churning on something big and it had no place to land.
“You ain’t stupid, ma’am.” I wished I had a handkerchief to give her.
Her tone turned stern again. “‘No man loves a whore.’ That’s what Ridge Hackathorn reminded me of, his exact words, and when I got angry at him is when he blackened my eye. I told him to let me out by the side of the road—I didn’t even care about the money this time. Well, he got in such a huff that when he turned the corner from the Plant Road onto Highway 2, he lost control of the steering wheel just as that truck was coming straight toward us. Poor fool swerved a couple times, the truck jackknifed, and we went over onto our roof into the other ditch. Snapped his neck like a twig. So now you know the whole story. You a deputy too? You sure don’t look like one.”
“Not a deputy, ma’am, no.”
“What then? Why ain’t you writing any of this down? You work for the mayor—he’s already got all I own. You can tell him off for me, too. I don’t care anymore.”
My mind was reeling, and I wasn’t sure how to answer the woman—not about trying to help her, and not about what I did and why I was there. I sure didn’t feel like any reverend. I was still wearing the only clothes I owned, the clothes worn into the river—so I reckoned I didn’t look like a reverend neither. Fortunately just then a Mercury station wagon pulled up behind the sheriff’s car so I didn’t need to answer. I swallowed dryly and we both looked at the car. A woman climbed out along with four kids. Luna-Mae groaned, “Oooooh, here it comes.”
The woman climbing out was a few y
ears older than me, I guessed, maybe twenty-nine or thirty. She was pretty and her hair was neatly done and she wore a yellow dress with a flowered pattern running lengthwise. The oldest child, a boy, looked maybe nine or ten. A girl followed in age, then another two younger boys. The smallest looked about four or five, I reckoned, about the same age as my niece.
Sure enough, Mrs. Emma Hackathorn glanced at the smashed Packard lying out in the field and let out a yell. Sheriff Barker sprinted up and was at her side in a jiffy while Deputy Roy stayed with the body in the car. The sheriff spoke low to the woman, laying his hand on her shoulder. She broke down in tears and collapsed in a ball on the pavement. He crouched down along with her and gathered her in his arms, holding her close, then gathered the children to him and hugged the family together. The oldest boy wouldn’t come over, and stood by himself. I found it strange that the sheriff would hold one of the townspeople in such a familiar manner. She was sobbing on his chest now, long impassioned cries, and I thought the woman might die from her wailing, I rightly did.
From the other direction came an ambulance. It drove slowly along the shoulder and stopped behind the overturned semitrailer.
“This would be my ride.” Luna-Mae quickly turned to go. She dried her tears, tried to smile, and added, “Stop by the tavern and say hello whenever you get a chance, whoever you are.”
She was working again, I could tell by her words, trying to survive, trying to make a dollar, and I stood on the road smack dab in the middle of this unraveling tale of confusion—one unloved woman climbing in an ambulance, another unloved woman huddled in a ball of tears in the sheriff’s arms. I stood there on the shoulder of Highway 2, not knowing anything else to do, and so I simply let time pass.
By and by another car drove along the shoulder and another woman got out along with a woman I recognized to be the sheriff’s secretary. The secretary glanced my direction, then rushed over to Mrs. Hackathorn, gave her a long hug, and helped her stand. The secretary and the other woman helped Mrs. Hackathorn and the children get in the second car. The secretary drove off back toward town with the woman and her children while the friend drove Mrs. Hackathorn’s Mercury following.
Feast for Thieves Page 4