A Congregation of Jackals

by S. Craig Zahler

  Oswell walked three steps to the double door of the church; T.W. descried something anomalous in the man’s stride—a slight hitch in his right leg that he had not noticed before. The rancher put his hand to the bronze knob and twisted; the cylinder did not yield. He tried the second handle with no more success.

  “They’re locked.”

  “I see the minister,” Beatrice said, and pointed through the opposite window of the carriage. T.W. looked through the portal and squinted: a broad man clad in black with a bare skull and a long silver beard walked toward the church, a valise in his right hand.

  “That ain’t Minister Bachs,” Goodstead said.

  “It isn’t,” T.W. replied. “Minister Bachs’s chin whiskers aren’t that long or that white.”

  “That isn’t your usual minister?” Oswell asked.

  “It’s someone else,” T.W. replied, and looked at Oswell. The rancher watched the approaching man intently. For some reason, Godfrey glanced over at the gazebo and then focused his gaze upon the approaching stranger.

  “I wonder if something happened to Minister Bachs,” Beatrice said to her father.

  The approaching minister raised his right hand and waved amicably at the assemblage of the church.

  He shouted the word “howdy” across the plain.

  T.W. looked at Goodstead and said, “We’re getting out.” To Beatrice he said, “Wait in here until we get the church door open.”

  The deputy exited the carriage, turned around and helped T.W. down from the vehicle. Pain lanced through the sheriff’s left hip when he made contact with the dirt; he grimaced.

  T.W. limped over to the driver, climbed up beside him and said in a low, barely audible voice, “Tim.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “You see me scratch the back of my head, you lay into those horses and ride the hell out of here as fast as you can.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  T.W. climbed down the steps, thudded back upon the dirt, winced and then strode beside Goodstead. Oswell and Godfrey walked around the carriage to stand abreast the lawmen.

  “You look like quite a posse,” the stranger said and then cackled loudly in the way that men do when they have spent too much time alone and need to hear their own laughter to keep themselves company.

  The stranger was upon them; he was a bald six-foot-tall barrel-chested man of fifty with a long silver beard, eyebrows like raven’s wings and bright blue eyes; he wore black.

  The sheriff stepped forward and asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Minister Orton Bradley.” He extended his meaty hand toward T.W.; the sheriff clasped and shook it. The man’s grip had no yield whatsoever, as if the hand were made of stone.

  “Pleased to meet you, Minister Bradley,” T.W. said.

  “Call me Minister Orton.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Minister Orton. I’m the bride’s father, Sheriff Theodore William Jeffries. That’s my deputy, Everett Goodstead.”

  The minister released T.W.’s hand, shook the Texan’s and said, “Pleased to meet you, Everett.”

  “That’s some beard. Any critters in there, or just some crosses that never see the sun?”

  Minister Orton smiled, revealing big white teeth and two wooden replacements. The laugh that erupted from his belly sounded as if it originated in a tuba.

  The Danfords took a step back to exclude themselves from the conversation, yet remained near enough to observe the goings-on.

  T.W. appraised the minister’s apparel: the man’s black clothing was frayed at the edges; patches had been sewn onto his left knee and elbow.

  “Sorry my vestments aren’t more refined like, but I do heaps of missionary work, and they get worn down out on the plains.”

  “What happened to Minister Bachs?” Beatrice asked from the carriage.

  “Is that the bride in there?” A smile like a child’s sat upon Minister Orton’s prickly face.

  T.W. adjusted the shoe box beneath his left arm so that he could quickly reach into it and said, “That’s my Beatrice.”

  Minster Orton peered at the carriage window and whistled.

  “They don’t get prettier than that.”

  “What happened to Minister Bachs?” Beatrice repeated.

  “His brother got sick in Nebrasky. He sent a wire to have me come do the service for him.”

  “Why did he not inform us himself?” Beatrice asked; T.W. could detect mild perturbation in her voice.

  “It was all of a sudden. You can look here—”

  Minister Orton opened up his valise; at the edge of his vision, T.W. saw the Danfords walk in front of his daughter, protectively shielding her from the stranger. In that instant, the sheriff knew for certain that, no matter their previous wrongdoings, James’s friends were concerned for the safety of his girl. The holy man withdrew a card, upon which were pasted typed streamers, and handed it to T.W.

  The telegram read,

  MIN O M BRADLEY

  CHURCH OF THE LAMB WESTLAND, MONTANA TERR=

  DEAR ORTON

  MY BROTHER’S CONDITION HAS WORSENED. I MUST VISIT HIM IN NEBRASKA. PLEASE PERFORM THE WEDDING CEREMONY FOR JAMES AND BEATRICE LINGHAM IN TRAILSPUR ON 12 AUGUST. THE COUPLE WROTE THEIR VOWS AND DO NOT NEED TOO MUCH PREACHING. YOU MAY SLEEP IN MY HOME. IF YOU CANNOT COME, PLEASE FIND ANOTHER REPLACEMENT SINCE I WILL BE TRAVELING. MIN CAULDING OR TWINER MAYBE?

  THANK YOU. BLESS THE HOLY LAMB=

  MIN R D BACHS

  TRAILSPUR, MONTANA TERR

  T.W. handed the note back to Orton, relieved. Things looked legitimate. He knew for certain that Minister Bachs had an ailing brother in Nebraska.

  The holy man said, “Minister Bachs set aside some passages that have special meaning to the couple, so don’t worry. And I won’t do too much speechifying neither, though some words should be said about His suffering and guidance.” Minister Orton produced one of the worn, leather-bound Bibles to which T.W. had seen Minister Bachs add marginalia. “Let’s get inside so I can discuss the service with your girl.”

  “You’ve got the keys?”

  “Yup. He left them for me.”

  Minister Orton reached into the pocket of his black vest and withdrew a metal ring, upon which two large bronze keys dangled, clinking. He closed his valise, picked it up with his free hand and strode toward the double doors.

  T.W. walked alongside the minister, followed by Goodstead; the Danfords said something to each other that he could not hear.

  The holy man inserted a bronze key, twisted it (eliciting a single metallic clack) and pushed open the right door. Damp cool air that carried the scent of candles, roses and ashes swirled into T.W.’s lungs, exhaled by the holy enclosure.

  “It’s pretty,” Minister Orton remarked. He pushed the doors open wide, admitting a view of the aisle and burnished wood pews, and beyond them the dais, the white wood lectern, the piano and the luminous multicolored slats of stained glass reinforced with iron bars.

  T.W. opened the carriage door and helped Beatrice from her seat. Her cream boots clicked upon the step, pressed six footprints into the dirt, shuffled lightly upon the “Welcome to His House” doormat and walked upon the blue rug that extended the length of the central aisle like a stream. She strode toward the holy man.

  The minister said to Beatrice, “We oughta discuss the passages Minister Bachs and you selected, maybe a couple I’m fond of too. Or do you want to wait for the groom to arrive?”

  “Jim leaves such decisions to me.”

  “That’s what Minister Bachs said in his notes.” He grinned and motioned toward the lectern atop the dais. She followed him up the aisle.

  T.W. looked from his daughter over to the rancher, now standing just outside the door. Oswell withdrew a fountain pen from a fancy case, removed its cap and handed the writing implement to him. The rancher then opened the wedding ledger, scanned the names with his index finger (his lips moved when he did th
is), located what he was looking for and tapped a blank space.

  “Theodore William Jeffries. Please sign here, right next to where she wrote your name.”

  T.W. pressed the iridium tip of the fountain pen to the paper and signed his name in the tight neat cursive that he had learned in grammar school and never since adjusted.

  He handed the pen back to Oswell and said, “So you’re taking signatures?”

  “I am. This ledger is a souvenir for James and Beatrice.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “It was James’s idea.”

  “Sure it was.” Oswell did not acknowledge the intimation in T.W.’s words. “You going to keep out anyone not in that ledger?”

  “I am. Miss Jeffries said that everyone invited to the ceremony is listed in it.”

  With that admission, T.W. surmised that James’s friends did not know exactly who their enemy was . . . or at least what he or his accomplices looked like. Perhaps this was James’s business they were handling, not their own? Clearly they intended to keep some unknown person (or people) from entering the church, which was likely the best way to handle a bad element. T.W. resolved that he would not involve himself unless he needed to—these Danfords looked as if they could handle themselves capably.

  “You’ll need to add the name Mrs. Meredith Evertson to that ledger. I invited her two days ago.”

  “She’s the one you were with last night? The one in that dress?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I’ll write her in.” Oswell opened the ledger, turned to the last page and wrote “Mrs. Meredith Evertson.” He showed it to T.W. and asked, “Is that how you spell it?”

  “That’s how.”

  “Okay.”

  “It seems that you and your brother have some concerns about the minister. Should I be concerned?”

  Oswell considered the question for a moment before he said, “His story seems true?”

  “It checks.”

  “Then don’t worry about him.”

  T.W. glanced at his daughter and the minister: they stood at the lectern, looking at and discussing an open Bible.

  The sheriff said, “People in this town love Beatrice. And she is my whole life.”

  “She is an exceptional woman.”

  “This is her day. You don’t foresee it getting spoiled, do you?” He looked back at Oswell.

  “I do not.”

  T.W. put his free hand on the rancher’s shoulder and squeezed; the muscles beneath Oswell’s skin were tense and alive.

  “You do a good job getting those signatures. I know Beatrice will appreciate all the effort you put in. So will I.”

  Oswell nodded. T.W. removed his hand from the man’s shoulder.

  The sheriff looked over at Goodstead, who was playing cards on the driver’s bench with Tim Halders.

  “Deputy.” The Texan looked up from his game and at T.W. “You gambling at church?”

  “We’re keepin’ it outside. And when I play against Tim there’s no real gamblin’ anyhow—just me winnin’ different amounts.”

  “I beat you before,” Tim protested.

  “You beat me cuttin’ cards to see who’d deal. And only once.”

  “But I won it.”

  “I’m a fool to overlook that victory.”

  T.W. said, “Deputy. You want to come in?”

  Goodstead looked at T.W. for a signal; the sheriff touched the brim of his hat and dusted it.

  The blank-faced Texan understood the sign and said, “Nah, I’ll stay out here for a spell. Holler when Beatrice and James get to the kissin’.”

  T.W. shut the doors to the church, Oswell, Godfrey and Goodstead on the other side of it, all of them alert beneath nonchalant facades.

  The sheriff walked down the aisle to the foremost pew, turned left, placed the shoe box with the shawl and revolver beneath the bench and sat down, rubbing his left hip. He watched his daughter and Minister Orton discuss sin and sacrifice and redemption. When they discussed the merit of including a rather apocalyptic passage from Revelations, the door opened.

  T.W. turned in his chair and saw James Lingham walk up the aisle. The groom in blue had dark owlish circles around his eyes and a stripe of red on his neck where presumably he had cut himself shaving. When he saw the unknown minister beside his bride, he paused.

  “Jim, this is Minister Orton,” Beatrice said.

  “What happened to ours?” the groom said, his eyes more alert than they had been when he entered the church.

  “Minister Bachs was called away. Minister Orton is going to perform the ceremony.”

  James looked at the holy man for a moment and then said, “Okay.” He walked up the aisle, nodded to T.W., climbed up the pulpit, kissed Beatrice on the lips and took the minister’s proffered hand.

  Surprise lit into James’s eyes; he looked at his firmly clasped appendage and said, “Don’t break anything—I need to get a ring on her finger with that.”

  The minister laughed explosively and relinquished his steely grip.

  “How’d you get so strong?” Jim asked.

  “I built a lot of churches. Some cabins for poor folks too.”

  “Did you break the logs with your bare hands?”

  Another cachinnation erupted from the gaping orifice in the minister’s beard, reverberated in the enclosure and rose to the belfry, where it caused the bronze bell to buzz with metallic humor.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Wedding Marshals

  At a quarter after nine, an hour after Beatrice and the sheriff had entered the church, the guests began to arrive for the ten o’clock service; Oswell took the signatures of all comers prior to their admittance. One person, an Oriental named Snappy Fa, scratched a weird glyph next to his name, and another fellow, an illiterate oldster named Paps, scribbled a cross (perhaps meaning for it to be an X), but all of the guests who presented themselves had names in the ledger.

  “Good morning. Who are you folks?”

  “Harold Alben. This is my wife, Esther, and my daughter, Alicia.”

  “Please sign on the line right beside where your name is printed, Mr. Alben,” Oswell said. The silver-haired gentleman wrote his name in the ledger with a curvilinear flourish. His wife and daughter then signed their names with a heavily slanted cursive that looked as if it were written by the same woman. (Clearly the mother had taught her daughter how to write, not her father or some schoolmarm.)

  Oswell put his hand on the bronze doorknob, twisted it and admitted the Albens into the church, in which eighty-four signatories already sat. The rancher shut the door behind the family from Colorado and looked to his left.

  Godfrey rounded the corner as he did every five minutes. He shook his head, indicating that he had not seen anything noteworthy.

  “I’m going to wait here for a couple of breaths and then walk back the other way. Make the patrol irregular in case someone is trying to figure out how to get past me.”

  “Smart.”

  Oswell and Godfrey looked at the carriage parked ten yards off, within which Goodstead and the driver played cards. (They had moved the game inside the vehicle after thirty minutes too long in the sun.) The Danfords then looked at the gazebo. Dicky, who was observing the whole area with his binoculars, flashed them with his mirror—a single fast reflection of the sun.

  “All clear with him too,” Godfrey said. “It’s hard to imagine something spoiling this day.” The plump, bearded Danford tended to talk more when he got nervous, whereas Oswell became even more taciturn. “Any complications with the ledger?”

  “None worth discussion.”

  A family approached the church on foot; the women had parasols.

  “Isn’t the gal on the right the one Dicky danced with? Tara Taylor?”

  Oswell nodded when he recognized the buxom, freckled girl, her brother and their parents.

  “See you in a few,” Godfrey announced, and then walked whence he came.

  The Taylors
reached the church; the porcine father said to Oswell, “Are you the jailer?” His wife pushed out a laugh that did not come naturally.

  “James wants a ledger with signatures from all the guests. Tell me your names please.”

  Wilfreda began to play gospel on the piano inside; the music sounded particularly small and fragile in the open plains.

  “My wife is Vanessa Taylor, my daughter is Tara Taylor, my son is Jack Taylor and I am Roland Taylor.” Oswell opened the ledger, ran his finger down to the letter T and saw all four names listed. He handed the man the uncapped fountain pen and indicated where he was to sign.

  As Roland scribbled his name, two horses emerged from the eastern perimeter of the rural part of town, riding at a strong gallop toward the church. Oswell glanced from the steeds over to the gazebo, but received no signal. The beasts moved quickly.

  Oswell distractedly pointed out the spaces where the remaining Taylors were to sign the ledger and then called out, “Godfrey. I need a hand.” The horses—a white one and mottled one—continued their beeline directly toward the church, a wake of dirt and dust behind them; the riders were bent low in their saddles, nearly invisible.

  Godfrey jogged around the southeast corner of the church to join his brother; he adjusted the back of his jacket. (He had just secreted a gun there, Oswell knew.)

  The Danfords glanced at the gazebo to see if Dicky descried anything with his high-powered binoculars. Two quick flashes shined from the remote edifice—a warning (though not a definite engagement).

  “Is Dicky in the church?” Tara Taylor asked Godfrey. “He left the shindy last night and . . . and he never came back.”

  “He’s taken ill. I don’t know if he’ll make it out today.”

  “You all should go inside,” Oswell prompted.

  The mirror in the gazebo flashed again—two quick winks. Oswell fixed his eyes on the onrushing horses that tore up the weedy plain four hundred yards off.

  Tara inquired, “Did he mention me? Did he say anything about me?”

  “He said you weren’t his kind of woman,” Godfrey replied, trying to close the conversation.