“Thanks,” Preacher said.
“Hey, Preacher,” one of the others called. “We got us a shootin’ match comin’ up tonight. Ever’one puts in a dollar, winner take all. What do you say?”
“What are you invitin’ him for, Drew?” one of the others said. “You know he always wins.”
“I know,” Drew said. “But they’s always them that’ll bet he won’t win, so what I lose by not winnin’ myself, I make up by bettin’ on a sure thing.”
“Yeah, I never thought of that. What about it, Preacher? You aim to get in on the shootin’?”
“I reckon not,” Preacher responded. He put some moss onto the cut, then put on a fresh shirt. “But thanks for the invite.”
As the trader continued to look through the pelts, Preacher sat on a fallen log. Setting the envelope down, he took out his pipe, poured in some tobacco, tamped it down, lit it, and took a few puffs before he turned his attention back to the letter. Finally, he reached for it, opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and began to read.
Dear Preacher,
It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the death of our mutual friend, Jennie.
“Oh, shit,” Preacher said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Somethin’ wrong?” the trader asked.
“You don’t know what’s in this letter?” Preacher asked, holding it up.
The trader shook his head. “Wasn’t my letter, wasn’t my place to read it,” he said.
“How long ago was it written?”
“I’m not sure. Six weeks, two months maybe. I’ve had it at least six weeks.”
Six weeks, Preacher thought. Jennie had been dead for at least six weeks, and he didn’t even know it. Several times, something would happen that would remind him of her, and he would hear her laugh, or see her smile—if only in his memory. But the ability to enjoy his thoughts and remembrances of her only worked if she was alive.
“Say, Preacher, do you mind if I take these pelts on over to my wagon so I can count and grade them?”
“What? No, no, go ahead, I don’t mind,” Preacher replied distractedly. Reluctantly, he returned to the letter.
I wish I could tell you that Jennie died peacefully, but I cannot. She was murdered, Preacher, in a way so vile as to defy any attempt to describe by written words. There were two of them, but one of them got away.
I’m sure you remember Ben Caviness, for you had such a difficult time with him when he was part of your trapping party. Nobody knows for sure who the one is that got away, but I believe it was Ben Caviness.
The problem is, what with Jennie being a whore and all, I’m afraid there will be no justice.
Preacher, I know what store you set by Miss Jennie, and I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you such sad news, but I knew you would want to know.
Your friend,
William Ashley
Folding the letter, Preacher got up and walked over to stick it down into his saddlebag. He glanced over toward where the fight had taken place, and saw that a couple of men were already digging a grave for Mouchette.
How odd, this sensation. Moments earlier, he had been locked in a life-and-death struggle, a struggle that he barely survived. Yet now, it seemed so remote to him that it could have happened to someone else. His thoughts were only of Jennie.
He wondered where Jennie was buried, and if anyone had shown up to say a few words over her. He hoped that they had, but he knew that it would take a brave preacher to risk the ire of his parishioners in order to pray over one of St. Louis’s most notorious women.
Preacher felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow over her loss. Then, as he considered the fact that she’d been was murdered, the sorrow gave way to anger.
He walked over to the trader’s wagon, where the trader was busy counting out and sorting Preacher’s pelts.
“It’s amazing,” the trader said. “All of your pelts are of the very highest quality.”
“How quickly can you pay me for them?” Preacher asked.
“Well, if you will take a marker against Ashley, I can pay you right away.”
“I’ll take his marker,” Preacher said.
“Very well, I’ll make one out for you.”
“Before you left St. Louis, did you hear about Jennie getting killed?”
“Oh, heavens, yes,” the trader replied. “It was all anyone talked about for a while. It’s a shame about her. Such a pretty young girl.”
“Yeah, a shame,” Preacher said.
He thought about what Ashley said in his letter about Jennie not getting justice. William Ashley was wrong. There would be justice, all right. It would be Preacher’s Justice.
FIVE
Ste. Genevieve, Missouri
The doctor in Ste. Genevieve daubed more wagon grease onto what was left of Ben Caviness’s ear.
“It’s a good thing you came to me when you did,” the doctor said. “This ear was near to mortifying.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been hurtin’ somethin’ awful.”
“What did you say caused this again?”
“A bear,” Caviness said. “I run up against a bear and he mauled me.”
“Looks more like something bit this ear off, rather than clawing it off,” the doctor said.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. The bear bit it off.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t bite off your whole head.”
“Do you have to talk so much, Doc? Just patch up the ear and stop the talkin’.”
“I was just being friendly,” the doctor said. “It’s always good to be friendly with your patients. Puts them in a good frame of mind.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t work with me.”
“I can see that it doesn’t,” the doctor said. He straightened up, then looked at Caviness. “That’ll be one dollar,” he said.
“One dollar!” Caviness exploded. “One dollar for a handful of grease you could get offen any wagon wheel?”
“It’s not the grease you’re paying for. It’s the knowing what to do with the grease,” the doctor said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Caviness said. Still grumbling, he paid the doctor the dollar, then left the doctor’s house and walked down to the river’s edge to wait for the next boat to come through.
When Caviness got the second letter from Epson, the one that said, “Make my problem go away,” he knew what Epson was asking for. Epson was paying him one hundred dollars to kill Jennie.
One hundred dollars seemed like an enormous amount of money then, because it seemed like a simple job. After all, how hard could it be to kill a woman?
Caviness knew about the dog. He had encountered the dog before. But he figured that he and Slater should be able to handle the dog with little difficulty. After all, the dog hadn’t actually attacked him the last time. The dog had merely barked and growled.
That sure wasn’t the case this time. The dog had attacked immediately. But even as Caviness was stabbing the dog, slashing away at him, the dog was ripping out Slater’s throat. Slater was killed before he could say a word.
What started out to be an easy job turned into a nightmare. Slater was dead, and Caviness had to face the dog alone. The dog turned on Caviness, and Caviness threw up an arm to guard his neck. He felt an intense pain in his left ear; then he managed to shoot the dog. The dog fell to the ground—whether dead or alive, Caviness didn’t know. All he knew was that the dog was away from him.
Caviness had planned to have a little fun with Jennie, but it was too late for that now. Dog had seen to that. Caviness was bleeding so badly that he was in danger of passing out from blood loss. When he finally did turn his attention to the whore, the expression on her face reflected the horror of the moment.
Caviness was a terrible sight to behold. He had blood all over his face, arms, and hands. The side of his head was covered with blood too, as well as an ugly little piece of shredded flesh that was the only indication of what had once been an ear.
Caviness made one m
ighty sweep with his knife, not only cutting her jugular, but nearly decapitating her. Leaving Dog dying, and Jennie and Slater dead, Caviness left the scene of the crime. Stealing a rowboat, Caviness started downriver. He had no immediate plan in mind. At this point, all he wanted to do was get out of St. Louis.
He wasn’t sure when he came up with the plan of going to Philadelphia to see Mr. Theodore Epson. But the more he thought of it, the better the idea became. He would get more money from Epson. He figured losing an ear should be worth a lot of money. And if Epson thought otherwise, then all Caviness would have to do is go to the law with the letter Epson had sent him.
Caviness wasn’t even sure where Philadelphia was, though he had a vague suspicion that one could get there, or nearly so, merely by taking a riverboat. It was his intention to take the next one that stopped in Ste. Genevieve. When he heard the whistle of the approaching boat, Caviness put his hand over the bandaged ear and walked down to wait for it. There was no one ashore selling tickets, but the moment he stepped on board, the purser arranged his passage for him. He found out from the purser that the boat couldn’t take him all the way to Philadelphia as he had hoped, but he would take it as far as he could.
Once they were under way, Caviness walked to the bow of the boat and watched the river roll underneath them. He had never been to Philadelphia. He had never been to any city any larger than St. Louis. He wondered if they had whorehouses in Philadelphia.
Kansas City
Jeb Law had his back to the bar as he was putting bottles of whiskey in their place.
“What do you have that isn’t poison?” someone asked from behind him.
Jeb didn’t turn around.
“Ain’t you ever heard the temperance lectures, mister? It’s all poison, some of it is just quicker than the other,” Jeb replied.
“Well, if you got anything that won’t eat through the glass before I can get it down, I’ll have a drink.”
This time Jeb recognized the voice, and he turned around, then smiled broadly as he stuck his hand across the bar. “Art!” he said. “Well, if you ain’t a sight for tired ole eyes.”
“Hello, Jeb,” Preacher said, shaking Jeb’s hand. “How are things here in Westport?”
“It’s Kansas City now,” Jeb corrected, reaching under the bar to pull out a special bottle to pour Preacher’s drink. “Nobody calls it Westport anymore. Come to think of it, nobody calls you Art anymore either, do they? It’s Preacher, isn’t it?”
“That’s the handle folks seem to have hung on me,” Preacher said, reaching for some money.
Jeb held out his hand, palm facing Preacher. “Your money ain’t no good with me, Preacher,” he said. “This drink is on the house.”
“I’ll let you buy me the first one,” Preacher said. “Then I’ll buy us both one.”
Jeb smiled. “Sounds good enough to me,” he said. “What brings you to Kansas City? You don’t come this far east all that often. From what I hear, you’re about as fixed in those mountains as one of them aspen trees.”
“I’m on my way to St. Louis,” Preacher said. “Thought I might find a place to board my string here, then take a boat.”
“What have you got?”
“Good riding horse, two good pack animals.”
“How long you plannin’ on being gone?”
Preacher shook his head. “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know as I can answer that question.”
Jeb smiled. “That ain’t like you not to have a clear plan of what you’re goin’ to do,” he said.
“Oh, I’ve got me a clear plan of what I’m goin’ to do, all right,” Preacher said. “I just don’t know how long it’s going to take me to do it.”
Preacher killed the rest of his drink, and Jeb set another glass on the table, filled both of them, then put his special bottle back under the bar.
“Sounds a little mysterious,” Jeb said. He took the coin Preacher gave him, then picked up his glass and held it out toward Preacher. “Here’s to you, my friend,” he said.
Preacher nodded and touched his glass to Jeb’s. “And to old times,” he replied.
Jeb tossed the drink down, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Now, what is it you’re a’plannin’ on doin’, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“I reckon you heard about what happened to Jennie,” Preacher replied.
“Jennie?” For a second Jeb squinted, then his face registered recognition. “You’re talking about that pretty little gal used to run the House of Flowers back in St. Louis?”
“Yes.”
“No, don’t know as I’ve heard anything about her lately.”
“She’s dead, Jeb,” Preacher said.
“Dead? Oh, the hell you say,” Jeb replied. He shook his head. “That’s a damn shame. She was a fine woman, for all that she was a whore. Wait a minute. You set some store by her, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did. I set quite a store by her,” Preacher said.
“I’m real sorry to hear about her dyin’,” Jeb said. “She come down with somethin’, did she?”
“She was murdered.”
“Murdered,” Jeb repeated. Without being told, he reached under the bar, pulled out the bottle, and refilled their glasses one more time. “Does anyone know who done it?”
“I got a letter from Mr. Ashley,” Preacher said. “He thinks Caviness may have had something to do with it.”
“Caviness? Ben Caviness?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from what I remember about the son of a bitch, he’s mean enough to do something like that. Come to think of it, didn’t he trail with you one season?”
“Yes, he and his partner Percy McDill.”
“McDill, yeah, I remember him. Hell, he was as ornery as Caviness from what I can recall. Whatever happened to him?”
“I killed him,” Preacher said. “I just wish I had killed Caviness the same time.”
“What happened?”
Preacher took another drink, then stared off, as if looking into the distance. “The son of a bitch tried to rape Jennie.”
“Yeah? Then the son of a bitch needed killin’. I’d like to hear about it, if you don’t mind the tellin’.”
“No, I don’t mind the tellin’,” Preacher said as he started the story.
Two years earlier, at Rendezvous
In the darkness, illuminated only by a single candle, Jennie faced a terrifying apparition. Percy McDill burst into her tent and now moved toward her, his face twisted by lust and anger into a grotesque mask. The candle’s reflection in his dark eyes gave Jennie the illusion of staring into the very fires of hell. She stepped backward, but found little room to maneuver in the confines of the tent.
Jennie screamed.
Outside, Preacher heard a woman’s scream. It came from a nearby tent. It startled him—not because of the cry itself, but because he thought he recognized the voice of the woman who screamed. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be who he thought it was. Could it?
Running in the direction of the noise, Preacher wondered what Jennie would be doing out here. He was certain she was in St. Louis, and yet, something about the scream touched his very soul. He hurried toward the tent.
McDill lunged, clamping his dirty hand over her mouth. Jennie bit his hand and he ripped it away, howling like a wounded animal. She screamed again. Outside the tent she could hear people moving around, and she hoped someone would come to help her. She fought back, pummeling his chest and face with her hands, but he was so big and strong that it had no effect.
“You bitch!” he sneered, cradling his wounded hand. “I was gonna pay you, whore that you are, but now I’m not—I’m gonna take it for free.”
“Stay away,” she warned. “For your own good, mister. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ha! You don’t want to hurt me?” he said with a lopsided, drunken grin. “Tell me, bitch, how are plannin’ on hurtin’ me?”
She couldn’t stand
the smell of him, and his ugly leer. Yet she realized that she had to be careful, that she couldn’t rile him even more—or else he was liable to kill her. She had known men like him for her entire life.
She gathered what composure she could, and brushed a fall of hair back from her face. She forced herself to smile at him.
“Look, you’re right, whoring is my business. But I was just getting ready for bed and I must look a mess. Why don’t you go away now, give me a chance to get ready, then you can come back later,” she said.
“No way, little lady. I’m here and here I stay. You’ll get to like me when you know me better. I promise.”
Jennie doubted that she would ever be able to bear the sight of this man, let alone like him. He was grotesque, and it didn’t matter that he was drunk. She had met this kind before, and he reminded her of her old master, among others.
“But you’ll like me better if you give me a chance to get ready for you,” Jennie said, making one last attempt to get through to him.
“I like you fine just the way you are,” he said, starting toward her again.
Jennie felt the world closing in on her and smelled blood in the air; she could only hope it wasn’t her own. Again she screamed for help.
At that moment the tent flaps opened, and it was as if God himself had heard her plea. The one man in the world whom she truly loved stepped inside. It was Preacher, the man she had known as a boy—the man who was a part of her life even when they were not together.
McDill turned to see the man he hated most in the world—the man he had thought was dead—moving at him swiftly and angrily. He ducked to avoid Preacher’s first swing, and came up with a hard punch of his own, taking Art off guard, smashing into his chin. He laughed as the younger man staggered backward.
“Well, now, if it ain’t my ole pal,” McDill said. “Are you goin’ to preach to me, Preacher? Are you going to save my soul?” He laughed.
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