Preacher pointed to the pile of washers on Blanton’s desk.
“Yes,” Preacher said. “I’m told those make very good weights. And since you aren’t a mechanic, I can’t think of any other reason you might have them on your desk.”
“Fishing weights?” Blanton growled angrily. He swept several of them from his desk and, as they clattered and clanged to the floor, he looked over at McDougal and Colby. “You brought me fishing weights?”
“How were we supposed to know?” McDougal asked. “They were in a bank bag and . . .”
“McDougal, shut the hell up!” Colby shouted.
“Oh, yeah,” McDougal said, growing quiet.
Preacher began stacking the gold coins up on the desk. When he was finished with the coins, he piled up an equally high stack of the washers right alongside. Then he put his finger on each one of them.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on them, Blanton,” Preacher said. “When you stop and think about it, if you put a bunch of iron washers in a bank sack, almost anyone might think they were gold coins.”
“You’ve got the deed to your father’s farm now,” Blanton said between clenched teeth. “I want you to take it, get the hell out of my office, and stay out.”
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Preacher said with a little laugh.
“I just wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall whenever ole Klyce Blanton dumped out that sack and what he thought was gold turned out to be nothing but iron washers,” Preacher’s brother, Morgan, said with a laugh.
The others laughed as well.
It was a gala dinner, with Preacher’s mother cooking everything she remembered as her oldest son’s favorite. The whole family was laughing and talking, celebrating the fact that, once more, the farm was owned free and clear.
Despite the celebratory atmosphere, though, Preacher’s father seemed unusually subdued. After a while, he excused himself from the table, then went outside.
“What’s wrong with your pa?” Betty’s husband, Jim, asked.
“Nothing, he’ll be all right,” Betty said.
“Sylvanias is a proud man,” Preacher’s mother said of her husband. “When the rest of us learned what a wonderful thing Arthur was doing, we went to him and begged him to accept this.”
“We finally convinced him,” Morgan said. “But it’s not sitting well with him.”
“He’ll get over it,” Preacher’s mother said to her son, reaching across the table to pat him on the back of his hand. “He just needs a little time, that’s all.”
“Hey, Vaughan, tell me again about Blanton’s nose,” Morgan said.
Although he had already told the story Ed was spreading around town, he retold it, adding his own embellishments.
“Whatever he looks like now, it has to be an improvement,” Tess said, and once again the dining room echoed with laughter.
With the others were engaged in animated conversation, Preacher left. A moment later, he pushed the front door open, then stepped out onto the porch. He saw his father standing against the porch railing, looking down toward the river.
The air was soft and warm, and filled with the sounds of the night: frogs calling for their mates, insects, and night birds. A mule brayed in the barn. Fireflies winked over the rolling land between the house and the river.
“Peaceful out here,” Preacher said.
“Yes,” Sylvanias answered.
Preacher walked over to stand beside him. A streak of light raced across the sky.
“There’s a falling star,” Preacher said.
“They tell me stars are really bright out in the mountains,” Sylvanias said. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” Preacher said. “Sometimes you get the idea you could just about reach up and pull one down.”
Sylvanias was quiet for another moment, and Preacher didn’t intrude into the silence. Finally, he spoke again.
“Art, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for what you did,” he said. “Paying off the mortgage and all.”
“I don’t think that,” Preacher said.
“But it’s hard for me to accept somethin’ I didn’t earn.”
“Pa, when a man has sons, he expects his sons to be a help to him until they get out on their own. Maybe they start small, picking up a few things here and there, then feeding the stock. But the time comes when the son has to carry a full share of the load.
“That happened with Morgan. He came of age and started carrying his full share of the load. But I never did. I left home, and I deprived you of what you had every right to expect. I know that paying off this mortgage doesn’t nearly pay you back for all that I owe you, but I hope it helps.”
Again, Sylvanias was silent. “You’ll be going on tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Preacher said.
“Chasing the man who killed your woman.”
“Turns out he also killed the Potters, over in Alexandria,” Preacher said.
Sylvanias nodded. “Yes, I remember reading about that in Jim’s newspaper. I reckon stopping someone like him is a noble enough deed. Just be careful. Even if you aren’t going to stay here, it’s nice knowing you are alive somewhere.”
“I’ll be careful,” Preacher promised.
“Preacher, you’ll always have a place to come to. I want you to know that.”
“Thanks, Pa. I do know it, and I take comfort in it.”
It did not escape Preacher’s notice that his father called him Preacher. In so doing, Preacher knew his father was letting him know that he had forgiven his young son Arthur for leaving home so long ago, and now accepted Preacher on his own terms.
For the first time in fifteen years, Preacher was absolutely at peace with himself over that rash decision he had made while still a boy.
EIGHTEEN
Philadelphia
Caviness had thought that St. Louis was a big city, but Philadelphia was ten times bigger. He had never seen as much activity as he saw when he arrived in the City of Brotherly Love.
He saw a lot of strange things, such as long wagons with several windows down each side, filled with seats on which people entered and left, seemingly without rhyme or reason. Someone referred to the wagon as an omnibus, and it was pulled by a single horse along rails of iron.
In addition to the omnibuses, there were literally hundreds of wagons and carriages of all sizes and descriptions, their iron-rimmed wheels ringing and the shod hooves clattering on the cobblestone-paved streets. Often, several of the wagons and carriages would congregate at a street intersection and some of the drivers would blow through the trumpets they carried, while others shouted impatiently as they tried to disentangle themselves.
In addition to the wheeled vehicles, there were also men on horseback, though there were not nearly as many riders as there were drivers and passengers of the wheeled vehicles. Even the walks, alongside the streets, were filled with people, rushing to and fro, pushing, crowding as they hurried to wherever they were going.
Caviness saw a man standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street, and he rode over to him.
“Hey, you,” Caviness said. “Where at can I find me a man by the name of Epson?”
“I have no idea,” the man replied.
“Epson,” Caviness said again, thinking that if he repeated the name, the man might be able to answer.
“No doubt there are scores of Epsons in Philadelphia,” the man said. “And even if I knew any of them, which I don’t, I would have no idea which one you are talking about.”
At that moment there was a break in the traffic, and the man walked quickly across the street.
Caviness inquired of several more people, with an equal lack of success. Then, as he was riding along slowly, taking everything in, he heard a trumpet being blown behind him. The horn was so close and so loud that it made his horse jump. He had to jerk back on the reins to keep the animal under control. Looking around, he saw a carriage in which four well-dressed men were
riding.
The men were sitting back in the passenger section of the carriage, engaged in animated conversation, oblivious to the traffic around them. But the driver, a large, liveried black man, was acutely aware of what was going on. He was the one who had blown the horn, and now he was standing up, shaking the trumpet at Caviness.
“Mister, if you don’t know what you are doing, get out of the road!” he shouted, angrily.
Caviness was shocked. He had never heard a black man talk to a white man in such a fashion, and he looked to the passengers in the carriage to see if they would remind their driver of his station.
To Caviness’s surprise, they not only did not correct him, but one of them shouted out, “We’re late, James. Get us through all this.”
“Yes, sir,” James replied. James picked up a whip and snapped it very close to Caviness’s face. “Now, mister, do you get out of the way, or do I whip you out of the way?”
With an angry glare at the black driver, Caviness moved his horse to one side. As the carriage passed him by, Caviness heard one of the men laugh.
“Where did that oaf come from?”
Caviness continued to ride up and down the streets, asking about Epson. Most of the time, he got no response of any kind, and those who did reply said that they couldn’t help him.
It was nearly noon, and as he rode by a few of the restaurants, he could smell the aroma of cooking food. The smells reminded him that he was hungry, but they also reminded him that he had no money.
Seeing a hitching rail, Caviness dismounted and tied off his horse.
“Mister, you can’t leave your horse here,” a fancy-dressed man told him.
“Why not?”
“Only members can tie their horses or park their carriages here.”
“Only members of what?”
“Why, members of the Philadelphia Social Club, of course,” the man replied haughtily.
“Are you a member?”
“Do I look like a member, dressed as I am?” The man was wearing a tri-corn hat, a red jacket with brass buttons, and yellow pants tucked down into highly polished brown boots.
“I don’t know, you look pretty fancy-dressed to me,” Caviness replied.
“I am sergeant at arms for the group,” the man said. “This is my uniform.”
“They got ’em somebody from the Army to look after things for them, do they? I never heard of such a thing. What do them folks do in that club?”
“The same thing as they do in any club,” the sergeant at arms replied. “They drink, eat, socialize, discuss matters of importance.”
“You don’t say. Well, that sounds good to me. Especially the eatin’ part. I think I’ll join.”
The sergeant at arms laughed out loud. “That’s very funny.”
“No, I’m serious, I’ll join. Where do I go to join up with ’em?”
“You have to apply for membership, and you must have two sponsors who are already members. Then, when they vote on you, you must be unanimously accepted. If but one member blackballs you, you will not be allowed in. And if you are allowed in, then you must pay the entrance fee and the dues.”
“How much is that?”
“If you have to ask, it is too much,” the sergeant at arms said. “Now, please, take your horse and go somewhere else.”
Grumbling, Caviness remounted and rode away. He had never heard of such a thing as a private club, but if they ate and drank, it sounded fine to him. Maybe Epson could tell him how to get in. Or maybe Epson already belonged to such a club. That fancy-dressed sergeant had told him that he would have to know someone who already belonged in order to be a member.
Two more times, Caviness attempted to tie off his horse, but he was run away both times, once because it was in front of someone’s house . . . though the house was larger than any hotel Caviness had ever seen. The other time, he was told that the hitching rail was for customers only. He was beginning to wonder if there was anyplace in Philadelphia for a visitor to tie his horse.
Where the hell was Epson anyway? And how was he going to find him?
More important than finding Epson right now was getting something to eat. This wasn’t like it was back in St. Louis, where he knew which households he could go to begging for food. Now, with his ear cut off, he made such a terrifying appearance that women were afraid of him. And it was his experience that women would have nothing to do with men who frightened them.
Caviness continued to ride through the city until he reached an area where there were far fewer people. There, he found a sapling, and at last was able to secure his horse.
Looking around, he saw that, though he was still in the city, this particular area had grass, shrubbery, and trees. It was actually a park, though “park” wasn’t a term Caviness would have recognized.
Looking across the open area, he saw a man walking along a path. The path led down into a grove of trees, where it disappeared. Moving quickly, Caviness hurried down to those same trees and followed the man along the path. Within moments, the city seemed far away. So isolated were they, that they could have been in the middle of the deep woods somewhere. This was more to Caviness’s liking.
Caviness knew he would not get a better opportunity than this. Taking out his knife, he moved quickly up the path until he saw, just ahead of him, the man he had seen earlier. Walking quickly but quietly, Caviness moved up on him so silently that his victim didn’t even know Caviness was there until he felt a hand clamp down across his mouth.
Caviness pulled the knife across the man’s throat, then dropped him to the ground. The man flopped around a few times, like a fish out of water, and died.
Looking around to make certain nobody had seen him, Caviness then bent down over the body and began searching his pockets. A moment later, he pulled out a wallet, and was gratified to see that it contained fourteen dollars in paper money.
“Well, now,” Caviness said aloud. “It ’peers as if my luck is changin’.”
Sticking the billfold into his own pocket, Caviness hurried back to his horse, mounted, then rode to one of the restaurants. This time, when he tied off in front of the restaurant, he wasn’t challenged.
THIRD MURDER VICTIM FOUND
Like Previous Two, Has Throat Cut
Philadelphia is being besieged with a string of gruesome murders. In but two weeks, three of our finest and most promising gentlemen have been killed by an unknown assailant in a manner so foul as to defy description.
The most recent victim was Mr. B.G. Grant, age 31. Like the other two victims, Mr. Grant was found with his throat cut, in a part of the city that is less traveled. It is believed that the murderer lies in wait in these more remote locations, picking his victims at a time when no one else is around to offer assistance.
The constabulary force of Philadelphia is searching for this heinous killer, and asks all to be on the alert for anything suspicious. Our citizens are cautioned against finding themselves alone in such areas, lest the killer strike again.
Theodore Epson was reading the newspaper when an office boy approached his desk.
“Mr. Epson?”
Epson looked up from his paper. “Yes, Johnny, what is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Fontaine asks that you come to his office.”
It had been some time since Fontaine had mentioned anything to Epson about the matter in St. Louis, and Epson thought that the matter was closed. Then he remembered that Miller was going to St. Louis.
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, sir, he didn’t say.”
“Tell me, do you know if Mr. Miller has returned from St. Louis?”
“Yes, sir, he has,” the office boy replied. “He’s in Mr. Fontaine’s office now.”
Once again, Epson felt a sense of apprehension. Had Miller found something incriminating during his trip to St. Louis?
“Are the other members of the board there as well?”
“No, sir. Just Mr. Fontaine and Mr. Miller,” Johnny answered.<
br />
Epson breathed a sigh of relief. If none of the other board members were present, then it didn’t seem very likely that anything was going to happen. Walking erect, as if he had nothing to worry about, Epson crossed the bank to Fontaine’s office. He started to knock on the door, but was interrupted by Joel Fontaine’s appointments clerk.
“Mr. Fontaine said for you to just go right in, sir,” the appointments clerk said. “He and Mr. Miller are waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” Epson said.
He pushed the door open and, hesitantly, stepped into Fontaine’s office.
“Come in, Mr. Epson, come in,” Fontaine called. “You remember Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, of course,” Epson said. “How was your trip to St. Louis?”
“Tiring,” Miller replied. “And disagreeable. St. Louis may call itself a city, but in fact it is nothing more than a frontier town. They have few of the amenities of a real city.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Epson,” Fontaine said, pointing to a comfortable chair that was close to his desk. This was a much better sign than the last time he was in here, when he was forced to sit in a hard, straight-back chair that was purposely set apart from the others.
“Thank you,” he said. Epson was still carrying the newspaper he had been reading, and he held it now, folded across his lap.
“Mr. Miller has a bit of disturbing news for us,” Fontaine said.
“You have some disturbing news?” Epson leaned forward in his chair, once more feeling a sense of apprehension.
“Yes, well, disturbing in its content. Though in one way, I suppose it is good news for you. Though, not the way you would like to hear it, I’m sure.”
“What is it? I don’t understand what you are talking about.”
“Mr. Miller, suppose you tell Mr. Epson what you told me.”
“Yes. Well, as you know, Mr. Epson, it was my intention, when I reached St. Louis, to question this Miss Jennie, to see what I could find out about all these claims she has been filing against you.”
“And did you interview her, sir?”
” No, I’m afraid that was not possible. When I arrived in St. Louis, I inquired about her at the bank, only to learn that she was dead.”
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