The Stranger from Medina (West Texas Sunrise Book #3): A Novel

by Paul Bagdon

  “Yes, I agree,” the preacher said as he sat down at his table, putting his tray near the Bible.

  “Reading the Good Book upside down, Duncan?” Lee asked, smiling. “Is that a new way to study Scripture?”

  “What?” the preacher snapped. He looked down at the Bible, and his face suffused with red. “Oh—I must have turned it when I got up to go to the door.” He looked away from the book and into Lee’s eyes. “I’m sorry I barked like that, Lee. I’ve been under quite a bit of pressure lately. Please forgive me.”

  Lee felt her face redden too. “Certainly,” she said. “No harm done.” She cleared her throat. “Say, what’s that smell I noticed? It’s something familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

  The preacher sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything, but it could be the furniture polish. Missy was here yesterday, and she cleaned up a bit.”

  “That’s probably what it is,” Lee said agreeably, even though she was quite sure the scent wasn’t that of furniture wax. “Actually, it’s good that you mentioned Missy, though, because she’s why I’m here. And, of course,” she added diplomatically, “a cup of your coffee and a chance to visit with you.”

  The preacher waited expectantly, without speaking.

  Lee cleared her throat. “Missy told me about the investment she plans to make. I’m not sure that she completely understands all the details, so I stopped by to discuss it with you.”

  Duncan’s smile seemed forced. “I told her not to . . . well, the poor lady does tend to forget details at times. That’s why I didn’t want her to talk to others about it.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s quite simple, actually. Several rather wealthy friends of mine have formed a consortium to purchase land that they know will be bought within a few weeks by a new railroad. Of course, the group will buy the land for little more than pocket change per acre and sell it back to the railroad as right-of-way for a very sound profit. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Why the secrecy, then?”

  “Well, think about it, Lee. If the fact that the railroad is going to buy the land gets out, speculators from all over would be buying it up, planning to do exactly what the consortium is.”

  “I guess that makes some sense. Still, it’s not the sort of thing I can see Missy involved in. I . . . I just don’t feel right about it. It’s not that the plan is dishonest, but it seems like the group is taking undue advantage of the railroad, somehow.”

  “Business is business, Lee. Think how wonderful for the church it will be after Missy passes on.”

  Lee felt uncomfortable at the implication behind his words. “How much is Missy going to invest?” she asked.

  The preacher shifted in his chair. “I can’t—won’t—answer that. Missy specifically asked me not to reveal that to anyone. But I can tell you this: I know that the bank draft has arrived from Boston, closing the account where Missy’s husband had his investments and savings.”

  “She’s investing everything her husband left to her?” she asked. “But what will she live on!”

  Duncan stood. “She has plenty of money here in the Burnt Rock bank to provide for the rest of her life.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Lee, but I won’t discuss the matter with you any longer. You’re asking me to breach the trust of a dear friend, and I won’t do that.”

  Lee stood too. It was obvious the meeting was over. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said. “And for your time.”

  The preacher walked her to the door and accompanied her outside. As she mounted Slick, she asked one more question, struggling to keep her voice neutral. “Did you ever have a church in Dallas, Duncan?”

  He answered her smoothly. “Poor Missy—another thing she doesn’t understand. I never had an actual church in Dallas, but I worked among the poor there.”

  “But if you were working with the poor, how did you meet the wealthy—”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Lee. It’s always a pleasure to visit with you.” Duncan turned away and climbed the steps to his front door before she could respond.

  Lee was in sight of her ranch when the scent she’d been wondering about came to her mind.

  It was gun oil.

  Warner watched Lee ride off. After she had disappeared, he shoved the chair she had been sitting in and then kicked it, for no reason other than it felt good. “Nosy shrew of a woman,” he muttered. “Just like all women—can’t keep her snout out of places where it doesn’t belong.” He kicked the table, and the Bible thudded to the floor, its pages fanning like wings. Then he bent to pick up what he’d been forced to hide under the chair when Lee rode up.

  The hard rubber grips of the Colt .45 revolver fit his right hand perfectly. Just holding the pistol helped him think more clearly. After all, the gun had been a genuine friend. It had saved his life twice during the war, and then many times in lousy little cow towns so insignificant that he couldn’t remember their names.

  The barrel gleamed as he turned the weapon over in his hand and admired the simple, deadly mechanics of it. When he spun the cylinder, the soft whirr of the action brought a smile of pride to his face. The brass tips of the six bullets he’d barely gotten loaded into the Colt before Lee came storming into his home glinted warmly in the light from the window. He set the pistol aside for a moment and picked up the tooled leather gun belt and holster, brushing bits of rug lint from it as carefully as a mother arranging a newborn infant’s hair.

  He looked out the window. There was plenty of light left, and he didn’t have to ride far to get out of hearing range. He needed some time outside the squalid little town and the drab little people who inhabited it. He needed some time with his best friend.

  Warner buckled his gun belt around his waist and tied the piece of latigo around his leg to secure the holster. He let his fingers graze the grips for a moment and then took a long duster from his closet and shrugged into it, checking to make sure the long tails of the coat completely covered his weapon.

  Chowder cringed to the back of his stall when Warner opened the gate. After backing Chowder into a corner, he jammed the bit into the animal’s mouth. He tossed his saddle blanket onto Chowder’s back and followed the blanket with the saddle. Then he kneed Chowder sharply in the gut and hauled the cinch tight before the animal could inhale.

  As he rode toward the end of Main Street, Mrs. Bartlett, a member of the congregation, called out to him from the sidewalk. “Hello, Reverend! I just baked a pie. Would you care to join me for a piece?”

  “I can’t stop, Julie,” he responded, trying to keep his voice pleasant. “I’m going on a sick call. Sorry.”

  The sucking of the glutinous mud tired Chowder quickly. Warner pushed the horse, mumbling curses, and lashed the reins back and forth on the sides of the horse’s sweat-slick neck. When Chowder began breathing even more loudly than the thoughts tumbling in his mind, he reined in near a rise that was scattered with rocks and some larger boulders. He dismounted, wrapped the reins snugly around a hip-high boulder, and tried to calm his own breathing. If he came apart now, he knew, the whole package would be gone. The money from the old woman, the money he knew was in Lee’s safe, and the entire performance he’d been giving for what seemed like an eternity.

  He could feel all his hard work falling apart. Lee would figure things out quickly, particularly if she got Missy to talk more with her. Was the rest of the facade strongly enough in place? For the moment, anyway, he believed that it was. But the whole thing was like a long line of dominoes standing one behind the other. If one was tipped . . .

  His act had been good. After all, he’d perfected it in the last two churches he’d been involved with. There’s always one believer who has a lot more money than the others. Always. And this stupid old woman is the richest yet.

  What he had learned at that seminary school his parents had sent him to years ago had helped him through some scrapes. It certainly helped with talking to those Bible-thumpers in Burnt Rock. He had the old lady believing every word he said, even about the la
nd deal fraud. Still, he’d made mistakes. Paying off that kid had blown up in his face.

  The storm had stepped on his idea to bring the boy back to Burnt Rock as if he, Warner, had found him. That would have reinforced his credibility with the people in town and made him even more of a leader. Maybe even a hero. But when the kid started whining about more money, there was no other way to go—he had to be eliminated. The fact that the bullet didn’t do the job almost gave things away. If Flood, that lovesick puppy of a lawman, had half the sense of a stray mule, he’d have seen what Warner was up to. That thieving weasel of a kid wasn’t calling for the preacher—he was trying to tell Flood that the preacher had shot him.

  Warner shook his head like a dog shedding water after a swim. Enough thinking. He unbuttoned and removed his duster and tossed it over a nearby boulder. A sensation of peace came over him.The gun belt around his waist felt good. He shifted his stance slightly, his boots a foot and a half apart, his right foot a few inches ahead of his left.

  Bits of mica in a bucket-sized rock thirty feet ahead caught his eye. His weapon leaped into his hand as if by its own volition. Six bullets sculpted the rock, smashing into it, creating fissures and faces that spun away, whining in a high-pitched scream. Fine bursts of brown dust rose when each slug struck the rock, but the bullets hit the rock so fast and in such a tight cluster that the grit rose as a single small cloud.

  He clicked open the cylinder and dumped the empty casings at his feet. As he reloaded, the warmth of the oiled metal brought a smile to his face. He put six new rounds into the pistol and selected a smaller rock, farther out. His smile spread as he watched the rock skip about, growing smaller each time he hit it. When he picked up the jagged, marble-sized nub that the rock had become and sent it whistling off into the prairie, he laughed like a child.

  When all the cartridge loops in his gun belt were empty and his Colt reloaded, Warner felt as refreshed as a man who’d just bought a long bath and a close shave at a barbershop. His mind was no longer scrambling. He knew precisely what he needed to do. It was time to finish up in Burnt Rock. Besides, he didn’t think he could stand to preach one more sermon.

  He holstered the pistol and put on his duster. Chowder attempted to back away from him as he approached, but the looped reins around the boulder held the animal securely. He mounted the horse, dragged his head around toward Burnt Rock, and jabbed heels into his sides.

  Warner tied up behind Missy’s house. He didn’t want a passerby—or the old woman herself—to see that his horse was lathered and dripping sweat.

  Missy greeted Warner at the front door. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “I’ve had nothin’ but trouble today.”

  “What’s the problem? If I can’t help you, the Lord certainly can.” He noticed that her eyes were red and puffy. “Let’s go inside and sit down and you can tell me what you’re upset about.”

  Missy tried a smile that didn’t work. “Let me take your coat, an’ then I’ll fetch us some coffee. Or do you want tea? I have both.”

  Quick sweat broke out on his forehead; he’d forgotten that he was wearing his weapon. “Tea would be fine,” he said. “I’ll leave my duster on for a moment. I got a little chill riding here.” He sat in a straight-backed chair in the parlor; his Colt and holster felt like an anvil strapped to his leg. He adjusted his coat carefully. Explaining to the old crone why he was armed would take longer than it was worth.

  Missy returned with two cups of tea. She handed one to him and then sat on the sofa. Again, she tried to produce a smile, with the same poor result.

  “Tell me, Missy,” he said gently.

  “It’s about the investment and my money, Rev. Lee was here. She as much as said right out that I’m a crazy ol’ lady for doin’ what I’m doin’.”

  Warner feigned surprise. “How can that be?”

  Tears began to seep from the old woman’s eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. She choked on a sob and then said, “I tol’ her about it. I know you didn’t want me to, but Lee promised not to tell anyone else.” She met his eyes. “It’s the right thing, ain’t it? What we’re doing is jist and godly, ain’t it?”

  “Of course it is, Missy.” Warner was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “I hate to say this, but I’m very concerned about Lee and the influence Ben Flood has over her. I’m afraid that her faith is failing and that she’s following a bad path that will lead her straight to perdition. I’ve seen for myself that the marshall is a violent man, and I’m worried what effect his sins will have on her. I . . . I hesitate to even think of what goes on when those two are alone together.”

  Missy brought her hand to her mouth. “Rev—you can’t mean that! They’re good Christians, and they’re my friends. I know them. You must be mistaken!”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but I’ve seen them together. I rode up one evening to the back of Lee’s house. They were drinking whiskey—they had a bottle right on Lee’s kitchen table. They were drunk, laughing like fools, and . . . and kissing. They were kissing, Missy, and not like friends kiss. I was so shocked that I rode away.”

  Missy began crying, and her voice broke as she spoke. “Oh, Lord. I never thought . . . what can we do? How can we help them?”

  “We’ll pray for them, my dear. And there’s one other thing we can do to show them what real faith is, how real Christians follow the true path the Lord set out for us.” He waited a moment and looked down at his hands.

  “Please,” Missy sobbed. “I’ll do whatever it is. Please.”

  Warner paused, as if thinking. “What we need to do,” he said in a level, calm voice, “is to go to the bank right now and have the document signed directly over to me. I’ll send it right on to Dallas. Then we’ll call the congregation together and tell them exactly what we’ve done—and why we’ve done it. We’ll show Ben and Lee that we don’t only talk about faith and charity, but we act on it. They’re bound to be moved back to the Lord’s side by that.”

  Missy was on her feet. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Let’s do it, Rev! Let’s do it right now!”

  “You’re completely sure, Missy?”

  “’Course I am, Rev! If you’ll hook ol’ Muffin to my surrey, I’ll run a brush through my hair an’ be ready to go.”

  Missy scurried from the room, so Warner went out through the back door to the small barn where Muffin, Missy’s cart horse, was kept. Muffin watched him from her stall as he pulled the light, two-passenger surrey outside. He arranged the reins along the traces and went back inside to bring Muffin out. He’d driven Missy’s surrey once a few months before, and the mare remembered him. When he reached for Muffin’s head in the stall, she spun away, snorting nervously. He cursed, shoved past her shoulder, and clutched her ear in his fist, twisting it sharply. Muffin squealed but stood still. Warner jammed the bit in her mouth and banged it painfully over her teeth. The mare squealed again, and sweat broke out on her neck and chest. Her eyes were wide with fear as he reached to buckle the strap over her muzzle, and she snapped her head back, away from his hand. Warner snarled a curse and threw a powerful blow to her face.

  “Reverend Warner!”

  He whirled around. Missy stood in her best coat, her hands in a rabbit-fur muff. Her eyes were as wide as those of her horse, but with a difference. Muffin was frightened, but Missy was angry.

  “The horse attacked me, Missy. I had no choice but to defend myself!”

  “Muffin has never attacked anythin’ but a flake of hay in her entire life! I won’t tolerate animal abuse from anyone, preacher or not.” She glared at him, and her words trembled with anger. “I’ll ask you to leave my property, Rev Warner.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I most certainly can throw you off my land! I have no use for any man who treats a horse as you jist did my Muffin. Lee may well have been right about you, sir. I’m gonna have to rethink this whole arrangement. And I’m gonna talk to Lee and Ben about it.”<
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  Warner cursed again and dragged the tails of his duster apart. Missy gasped as he drew his pistol. “Your friend Lee is my next stop after the bank. That safe of hers is just bulging with money, I’ve heard. And you’re not thinking anything over, you pathetic old fool. You’re going to do exactly as I say. If you don’t, you won’t be doing any more Bible-thumping. I guarantee you that.”

  “You’re a whitened sepulcher, Mr. Duncan Warner, if that’s even your name.” Missy’s words dripped like venom from a snake’s fangs.

  Warner replied in a controlled voice. “You’re going with me to town,” he said evenly. “You’re going to sign the document with me. You’re going to act calm and natural in the bank, or I’ll kill you right there. Understand?”

  “All of a sudden I understand a lot of things,” Missy said. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you. Do you think I’m afraid of your gun at my age? I’ve lived my life. I’m ready for whatever comes—even if it’s at the hands of a Judas!”

  Warner glared at the old woman. “You’d make things a little easier being with me. That Turner is nosy. But the letter I wrote to Boston specified that the draft should be payable to either or both of us. Turner’s bank has no say in the matter. The draft is legal. They have no choice. You’d have made things look a little better, but that’s all. And if you’d started to flap that big mouth of yours . . .well, I guess it’s better this way.”

  “Ben Flood will track you down and make you pay for this. He—”

  Warner laughed. “I’ve faced better men than Ben Flood. He’s nothing, old woman.” He stepped closer to Missy and raised his Colt. “I guess I don’t need you any longer.”

  “Rev Warner, good to see you,” Sam Turner said. “Come right in. Have a seat.” The bank president ushered him into his office, then went back to the big leather chair behind his desk. He rubbed his arm as he sat down.

  “That arm giving you trouble again, Mr. Turner?”