“At midnight exactly the street was empty except for spectators shielded behind posts and whatever cover afforded them a view to whatever was going to happen. And that twelve-o’clock street was as silent as sweat, except for a dog barking and snapping in some dark alley.
“Neither of the two cattle barons who had hired the gunfighters was within a hundred miles of the imminent encounter. The sheriff and his son-in-law deputy were coincidentally and conveniently out of town.
“Two figures faced each other at gunfight distance.
“One was taller than the other.
“Wilson. Frigid blue eyes, his face a mask immune to emotion, whose stock-in-trade was tailor-made death, with no regard for life or afterlife. When the deed was done the doer traveled on to another place and another piece of work.
“The other figure.
“Jason Evers. Not as renowned or quite as experienced, but with a swelling reputation in the use of his Remington. Evers felt an unusual weight as well as a bulge in the left inside pocket of his waistcoat; but there was no time to do anything about it. His concentration was cemented on the figure he faced.
“Who drew first no one could tell.
“The shots were simultaneous.
“Evers felt the impact in his chest and staggered somewhat, but before he could fire again he saw Wilson drop his gun and fall forward, a deadweight.
“One more vacancy was filled in hell.
“The street was no longer empty . . . or quiet, as scores of citizens left their shelters and swarmed amid shouts of congratulation toward the standing survivor.
“Later, Evers sat next to Reverend Thomas Kinkaid. Just the two of them.
“There was a bullet hole through his waistcoat as he reached inside and withdrew a Bible.
“He held it in his hands as he flipped open the pages until he came to the slug lodged at the far side.
“Jason Evers held the spent slug in one hand and the Bible in the other.
“‘Thank you, Reverend, I . . .’
“‘It was the Lord’s will, my son.’
“‘The Lord’s?’
“‘God? Fate? Destiny? Call it what you will. It was an impulse as I was leaving you in that saloon.’
“‘An impulse?’
“‘Like Lazarus, you have a second chance at life. Please keep the Bible.’
“‘And the slug?’
“‘That, too. Nobody knows what Lazarus did with the rest of his life. Maybe this will help you change the rest of yours.’”
This time the troopers around the campfire remained silent.
But not for long.
“Well,” Sergeant Coolidge broke the silence, “did it?”
“Ah, Sergeant C . . . that’s the third act . . . until the final curtain falls . . . or does it?”
“Go ahead and tell us,” Lieutenant Connors waved.
“I’ll tell you what I know . . . after I refuel my friendly hookah.”
The Wise Old Man refilled his meerschaum, lit it, rubbed his chin, and proceeded.
“No one knows how many hours, days, and nights Jason Evers spent reading the scarred Bible, or exactly when the transformation took place, but take place it did. He was a changed man, in more ways than one. His eyes were just as keen, but somehow softer, his manner somehow gentler, and his voice richer and more self-assured with an emotional depth.
“And his gun was now truly silent, but Jason Evers kept the Remington and gun belt, along with the Bible and slug, in a leather satchel he carried as he spread the gospel that he memorized. At first there were only a few curious people gathered to listen.
“‘. . . The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are all over his works.
“‘. . . The righteous shall flourish like the palm tree.’
“At Sunday picnics where families celebrated the birth of a nation.
“‘. . . Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.
“‘. . . Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’
“Outside of saloons where wives and children of patrons gathered to listen.
“‘. . . Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
“‘Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled.
“‘Blessed are ye that weep now: for ye shall laugh.
“In town hall meetings of a place in need.
“‘. . . The Lord give mercy unto the house of Onesiphorus: for he oft refreshed me, and was not ashamed of my chain.
“‘. . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
“Then as guest speaker of churches in the wilderness of the West.
“‘. . . Open thine hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy, in thy land.
“‘. . . But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.’”
The Wise Old Man continued.
“And somehow even those who came in doubt, came to scorn, fell under the spell of this mystifier called Jason Evers.
“And then it happened. Jason Evers came upon a wagon train traveling west through hostile Indian territory, where renegade Chiricahua Apaches had decimated other trespassers.
“It became his nightly habit to stand before a makeshift pulpit, with the open Bible on it, but to sermonize from memory.
“After several nights, the wagon master, Pete Steele, turned impatient, even jealous at the rapt attention the travelers were showing Evers, but the sermons continued as the stranger addressed the tired congregation while a cold winter wind whipped through the camp.
“‘. . . Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.
“‘. . . For a good tree bringeth not forth corrupt fruit; neither doth a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.’
“At this moment the night wind swelled across the camp, caught up the pages of the scarred Bible on the makeshift pulpit, then ceased, as Jason Evers looked down on the open page and the words.
“‘. . . The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance: he shall wash his feet in the wicked.’
“Another gust of wind, another page.
“‘. . . and I will execute the vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.’
“Again.
“‘. . . for the rod of the wicked shall not rest upon the lot of the righteous.’
“The eyes of Jason Evers blazed, no longer those of the sermonizer, but those of the gunfighter of before.
“An impulse had seized him, as the Reverend Thomas Kinkaid was overtaken long ago . . . but a different impulse.
“He reached down and drew the Remington and gun belt from the satchel. His voice barked commands to the stunned viewers.
“‘Get to your guns and rifles!’
“‘Women and children to cover!’
“‘You men . . . be ready to fire!’
“‘An ATTACK! They’re GOING TO ATTACK!’
“The wagon master’s voice rang out.
“‘He’s gone crazy . . . they don’t attack at night.’
“But they did.
“A whirlwind of renegade Chiricahuas on horseback; they stormed out of the night rocks with ebony eyes out of flat red faces, and green paint, yelping and screaming.
“But the camp was ready, and Winchesters and Henrys . . . Colts and Remingtons spat their deadly messengers with blistering rapid fire into the charging bodies of the startled Apaches.
“For every galloping Apache there seemed to be a hundred shots tearing toward them from the blazing guns of the wagon train, until the remnant Apaches disappeared into sheltering darkness.
“The night ambush failed.
“The desert was silent.
“The wagon train had surviv
ed.”
“We heard tell,” Connors said, “that Indians don’t attack at night.”
“Apaches are a different breed of Indian,” the Wise Old Man noted, “and Fort Concho is in Apache territory.”
He settled back and drew again from the curved meerschaum as the troopers looked at him and one another.
“Well,” Sergeant Coolidge tossed the stub of his cigar into the dimming fire, “I guess you could call it ‘Blazing Guns of the Bible’ at that. Must’ve made Evers quite a hero.”
“Not for long.”
“How come?”
“Because, came the dawn and Jason Evers was gone, along with his satchel.”
“We get the point of the story, mister,” Lieutenant Connors said, “but tell us what you know about him after that.”
“Not much, neither does anybody else. Just speculation. Some say he was seen moving south toward Mexico . . . others, that he boarded a sailing schooner to the Sandwich Islands, or some; that he ventured to Alaska, or a monastery in India. Probably none of those.”
The Wise Old Man tapped out the dredges of his cold pipe and smiled.
“Well, it’s getting late and most everywhere they’ve played ‘Taps’ a long time ago, so, gentlemen, I’ll bid you good night.”
“Good night.” Connors smiled. “But, Sergeant, see that this gentleman gets those cartridges for his revolver before we turn in.”
“Much obliged.” The Wise Old Man smiled.
“So are we,” Connors nodded.
* * *
The next morning Sergeant Coolidge reported to Lieutenant Connors.
“Sir, that stranger, so-called Wise Old Man, is gone . . . disappeared before first light.”
“The sentries?”
“Seen hide nor hair of him.”
“How could he have . . . ?”
Connors left it unfinished, but Sergeant Coolidge replied.
“Beats me.”
“Yeah. Sergeant, the next two nights, till we get to Fort Concho, double the sentries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you catch any of ’em sleeping, or even blinking . . . shoot ’em.”
Sergeant Coolidge knew that Connors wasn’t exactly serious, but he wasn’t exactly kidding.
“Yes, sir . . . and, sir . . .”
“What?”
“I was just thinking . . .”
“Well, go ahead and think out loud.”
“Sir, he never did tell us his name . . .”
“So?”
“So . . . sir, he did have blue eyes . . .”
“And so have a lot of people, including me.”
“But . . . you think he might be Jason Evers?”
Lieutenant Connors paused.
“I don’t know. But after last night . . . that Wise Old Man could be anybody.”
THE WISE OLD MAN OF THE WEST and THE BRAVEST SOLDIER
For
WILLIAM BRYANT
Friend, Actor, and
WWII Hero—
Belly Gunner, B-17
The Bloody 101st
and of course
for
MARY FRANCES
“I was to the Little Big Horn with Custer.”
—JIM HUNTLY
“The bravest soldier I ever knew was not a soldier.”
—THE WISE OLD MAN
Fort Bowie, Arizona Territory
After decades of warfare, the vastly outnumbered Apaches were defeated and exiled from their native highlands to the faraway marshlands of Florida.
Since the departure of Colonel George Crook and General Nelson Appleton Miles, Fort Bowie wasn’t much of a fort. The cantina inside the decaying walls was even less.
Along one side, wide wooden planks on six heavy barrels served as the bar. A couple of crude wooden shelves beneath the warped mirror served as backbar stocked by liquor bottles with assorted labels. Amalgamated ashes from cigars, cigarettes, and pipe tobacco mixed with other matter graced the wooden floor that hadn’t been swept the night before or week before.
There were half a dozen round tables with Douglas chairs, most of them occupied by bleary-eyed soldiers. A haze of stale smoke wafted toward the low ceiling.
Among them all, at a corner table, sat a human anomaly known as the Wise Old Man of the West, in immaculate contrast to the four slovenly soldiers at his table who had been listening to the old man’s tales for the past three hours.
Sartorially impeccable, his three-piece dark gray suit might have been tailored for him at Savile Row. Clear-eyed and clean-shaven, except for a meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper military mustache. His ubiquitous malacca crosier leaned against a nearby wall with his high-toned homburg capped over the curved handle of the cane. His near-hypnotic voice was caramel coated and deeper than expected of a man his average size. The four soldiers involuntarily leaned in closer, anticipating that the raconteur was nearing the climax of his tale.
Also trying to listen while bartending, but catching only snatches of the Wise Old Man’s stories, was the cantina’s owner, who had a much weatherworn face for an indoor laborer. It was difficult to determine his age because he was bald as a peeled egg, but less difficult to determine was the loss of his left leg now substituted for by a wooden peg. His surname was MacBaldwin, but he was invariably addressed as “MacBaldy.”
As the four soldiers sat in rapt silence, the Wise Old Man finished his story with an actor’s stage whisper just before the curtain came down, “. . . and that was the last Tom Horn ever saw of his blood brother, the Apache Kid.”
The Wise Old Man took a draw from his meerschaum pipe, set it on the table, and with his thumb, then forefinger, stroked his trim military mustache. He reached toward his vest pocket and gently withdrew the Elgin hunter case gold watch by the slim gold chain, pressed the stem, and the lid snapped open, revealing both hands of the watch directly on the number twelve.
At that exact instant there resounded through the cantina the clattering dissonance of an alarm clock prominently stationed on the backbar to the accompaniment of MacBaldy’s raspy voice.
“MIDNIGHT!”
As if reacting to some officer’s command all the soldiers in the room rose wordlessly and filed out of the cantina.
The Wise Old Man also started to rise but was restrained by a wave from MacBaldy, stomping toward the table with a bottle in one hand and two large glasses in the other.
“Hold on, old fella. You’re not a soldier here and there’s no curfew for you. Besides, I wanted to hear one of those yarns you been spinning from start to finish along with the companionship of the best bottle of rye for the both of us. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” the Wise Old Man smiled, and sat down.
MacBaldy managed to sit, pour two fingers of rye into one glass, and half fill his own tumbler.
“You know, I used to be a soldier myself, but the army don’t have much use for a one-legged cavalryman—and vice versa—so I won this here cantina in a crooked poker game. The owner held four deuces and a jack. I held four kings and an ace. The game was crooked because I was dealing. Didn’t lose my limb in battle . . . damn horse fell on it and smashed it all to hell.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Shot the horse and it was the best thing ever happened to me . . . I mean, owning this cantina . . . make a tolerable living.”
“Congratulations.”
“You bet. How about that yarn? Sounds like you met quite a few soldiers in your time.”
“Quite a few.”
“Then, tell me about the bravest soldier you ever met.” MacBaldy took a deep swallow from his tumbler. “Closest to danger I ever come was seeing ol’ Geeroneemo himself from about ten yards away after he surrendered, right here at this ol’ fort.”
The Wise Old Man sipped from his glass and relit his meerschaum.
“The bravest soldier I ever met was not a soldier.”
“How could that be?”
“His name was Jim Huntly, and he told me about
it when our wagon train was lost in the snows of the Oregon Trail and we had suffered an attack from renegade Sioux. It was a small caravan composed of six Conestogas, with mostly women and children, led by a behemoth of a wagon master named Sam Waters. We knew they were going to hit us again, but Jim Huntly commenced to tell me his story.”
“‘I was to the Little Big Horn with Custer.’”
“Impossible! How could he tell you? Everybody was killed at Little Big Horn.”
“Not everybody. It was the night of June 24, 1876. Huntly was called into Colonel Custer’s tent. In his own words he spoke of the unlikely beginning.”
* * *
“It was past midnight. Colonel Custer sat behind a small desk, his long yellow hair curling over his buckskin jacket, with our regimental red scarf around his throat. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
“‘Tomorrow, more likely than not, there will be a remembered battle involving the 7th.’
“‘I know, sir.’
“‘There’s something I know, just found out in the last dispatch from Fort Lincoln; that’s why I’m sending you back before first light. Mount up on that prize hammer-head of yours . . . what do you call him?’
“‘Buckeye, sir.’
“‘Yeah, Buckeye. Mount up and get damn seldom in a hurry.’
“‘But, sir, you’ll need every soldier for the fight.’
“‘In the first place, you’re not a soldier . . .’
“‘But, sir . . .’
“‘You don’t qualify . . . years too young. In the second place, you wouldn’t make the difference. Besides, you’re about the same age our son would’ve been if Libbie and I hadn’t lost him at birth.’
“‘But, sir . . .’
“‘That’s three ‘but sirs.’ Be mounted by four a.m.’
The Christmas Trespassers Page 25