Head West (The Collected Western Stories of B.J. Holmes)

by BJ Holmes

  ‘It is a priest,’ confirmed the Colonel, espying a silver crucifix around the neck. ‘I saw a notice in town that they’re expecting a new preacher.’ He lowered himself down from his horse and knelt beside the man. Simultaneously with both hands he checked the pulse at the wrist and throat.

  ‘Mercy on us. There’s still life left.’ He straightened up and grabbed the dismounted Slack by his dirty shirt pulling him close. ‘If he dies, all our souls will rot in hell. But I’m telling you, Slack: you’ll be there first. I’ll make sure of that personally.’ He let the young man free and looked down at the still figure. ‘We gotta get him to the doc.’

  Curt, the last man, rode up with the horse and the four brothers draped the wounded man over his saddle.

  As the group neared the town, the Colonel took the reins of the blue roan.

  ‘Ritchie, Curt––you go tell Abe Hanley his new priest’s arrived. You other saloon tramps get back to the house. And remember we don’t know anything about this. The way I see it: there must have been some kind of accident and I just came across the guy laid out on the trail.’

  The doctor looked surprised and fearful when he opened the door to the Colonel. He looked even more surprised when the Colonel explained he’d found a wounded man who needed tending. The Colonel normally only put business the undertaker’s way, bypassing the doctor altogether.

  ‘Just found him, doc,’ the ex-officer man persisted as he helped the medical man to get the unconscious figure inside and onto a couch. ‘Dunno how he got shot up like this. Just found him, I did.’

  The doctor nodded enigmatically as he carefully removed the jacket. He was a well-read man and he was reminded of Shakespeare’s observation The lady protesteth too much. He deftly cut the cotton sleeve with a pair of scissors.

  ‘Funny welcome for the new priest,’ he said as he examined the wound.

  ‘How’s he gonna be, doc? What do you think?’ the colonel pressed anxiously. ‘Seems mighty sick to me.’

  The doctor picked up the delicately fingered hand by the wrist. It was a hand that had seen no manual work, not like the farmers in the community. Almost like a woman’s hand he thought. And a gentlewoman at that, used only to books and light tasks. He checked the pulse again. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll pull through. He’s lost some blood but the wound ain’t serious.’

  The Colonel nodded and slipped a big green bill into the medical man’s waistcoat pocket. He left the building and walked back to his house, a weight off his strange mind. He would not be barred from heaven after all!

  The man’s eyes began to flicker as the doctor bathed his wound.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living,’ he said, dropping the swab into a basin of blooded water.

  The man’s eyes opened. As he returned to a fuller awareness he groaned.

  ‘No, don’t try to move, son. You’re gonna be stiff and painful for a while. Allow me to put this bandage on.’ The doctor placed some lint against the wound with professional gentleness and finished the bandaging.

  ‘Where am I ?’

  ‘Lonsdale. And I’m Doc Swallow. And what do we call you, stranger?’

  ‘Millwood. Reverend Millwood.’

  The doctor was noticeably taken aback. If the Colonel had known who the man was he hadn’t said. The doctor looked at the man in a new light. Studied him in more detail. He put the man in his 30s. He would be tall and lean when standing. He looked at the man’s face. The central prematurely bald patch amid the long black hair. The thin features that one associated with priestly self-denial or the meager diet afforded by a niggardly stipend. Weak, scholarly eyes. Yes, his features had that preacher look. He should have guessed.

  ‘So you’re our new preacher? Some welcome you got!’

  ‘Is this kind of,…accident a regular occurrence, doctor?’

  ‘I have to be frank. It is not unknown these days. If you take my advice you’d best pass right on through when this arm of yours has healed some.’

  ‘Servants of the lord have met violence before. And, as in his Book, one has good Samaritans too––like the good man who found me and brought me in.’

  The doctor passed no comment on the irony. “Good Samaritan” was the last epithet he would use for labeling the evil Colonel.

  ‘No, I won’t be leaving,’ the injured man continued. ‘I’ve come a long way. The least I can do is give Lonsdale a try.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you’ve learnt more about the place.’

  Millwood was tended in the churchwarden’s house by Mrs. Hanley for a few days. During this time Abe, her husband, took the opportunity to finish off some repairs in the preacher’s house adjacent to the church in preparation for its new occupant..

  Days later, with his arm in a sling but his strength returning, the new man was seated at a table in the Hanley’s parlor. He said ‘grace’ then one-handedly began cutting into a steak.

  ‘Here,’ Mrs. Hanley said, ‘let me cut it for you. Forgive me, father, I was forgetting.’

  When she cut it into convenient pieces she returned to grinding coffee in the corner of the room. ‘Nobody’s going to find out who shot you, you know,’ she said.

  ‘How come?’ he asked.

  ‘There ain’t no law in town anymore.’

  ‘No law?’

  ‘No, the sheriff was first to be gunned down.’

  ‘Gunned down?’ he echoed, incredulously. Then: ‘Anybody know who did that?’

  ‘Not for sure. But it had to be the Colonel and his boys.’ She went on to explain the situation. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘the Colonel’s word goes round here.’

  ‘And people accept it?’

  ‘Some haven’t. But they go the same way as Harry Orme––got his in broad daylight last week. Abe buried him in our churchyard. Abe’s been saying the words over burials these days while there ain’t no preacher. You see, folk round here are like my Abe. Peaceful people, mainly farmers. All they know is they got a job to do from morning to night, and they do it.’

  She screwed on the lid of a full jar of coffee grounds. ‘It’s my thinking you’ve chosen a poor time to take on a new parish. With the killings, worry and such.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ the preacher said, wiping his platter clean with a hunk of home-made bread. ‘The manuals at the seminary spoke of succor and comfort . One of the main functions of a priest is to provide spiritual support in time of need. Sounds as if your town of Lonsdale has need.’

  ‘Parasites,’ said Mrs. Hanley, transferring some spoons of ground coffee to the pot. ‘That’s what that Colonel and his boys are.’

  ‘Didn’t catch that,’ Abe said as he came through the door. ‘Who are parasites?’

  ‘You know,’ his wife replied.

  ‘I told you not to bother the reverend with all that stuff yet,’ the churchwarden said in an admonishing tone.

  ‘I have to know the circumstances of my flock, do I not?’ the preacher said softly as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin, ‘Anyways, I have prevailed upon your hospitality long enough. Mrs. Hanley, that was a superb meal. I thank you.’

  She smiled ‘Any time.’

  He rose from his chair. ‘Time for me to move across to the preacher’s house and start looking after myself.’

  In his capacity as mayor of Lonsdale, Jedidiah paid a visit on the new preacher the day after he had moved in next to the church. Abe was with the new incumbent helping him to move some furniture in the sitting room.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ Jedidiah asked when introductions were over.

  ‘Healing fine, thanks,’ the preacher replied.

  ‘I hear you’ve been told about the situation here,’ Jedidiah continued. ‘With the Colonel and his cronies extorting ten per cent from every enterprise.’

  ‘That I have.’

  ‘Ain’t Christian, is it?’

  The preacher stroked his angular chin with his good hand. ‘Remember that the psalmists said: Offer the sacrifices
of righteousness.’

  Jedidiah had hoped to see a glimpse of understanding of the situation in the preacher because he wanted to confide in him and tell him about the hiring of a gunslinger. Not that the preacher could do anything practical but at least the telling of it would be sharing a hope; would let the preacher know there was some optimism. But being handed a quotation like that, he decided the need for courtesy on the part of the mayor had been satisfied and walked to the door.

  ‘Forgive me, father, but I’m sure that acquiescence to extortion is not what the good book meant. I remember something from Psalms: Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron.’

  The preacher closed the door behind the departing mayor and returned to the sitting room. He stood before the mantle looking down and Abe heard him softly say, I am for peace, but when I speak, they are for war.’

  He gave his first sermon the following Sunday. His arm hung stiffly at his side, out of its sling for the first time. There was a large gathering before him, swollen by those who wanted to see the new preacher. Particularly they were curious to see the man who had decided to remain in town and make a go of being preacher despite having been welcomed to town with a bullet.

  Despite the large numbers in church that day there was a still a noticeable gap around the Colonel and his boys who had taken up their usual position at the rear of the congregation. In his way the Colonel was god-fearing man. He had his own Bible at home. In it he underlined lines of significance which helped him justify his actions and those of his sons. Lines such as He that earneth wages puts it into a bag with holes; and I will not be afraid of ten thousand of people that have set themselves against me.

  The new preacher chose none of these quotations for his first sermon. For his congregation the harvest was to start the next day and so he preached on the text: Thou shall eat the labor of thine hands from the Book of Psalms.

  After the service he stood at the church door left-handedly shaking the hands of people as they passed out with brief introductions being made by the church warden. Outside three distinct groups were forming. As usual the womenfolk were settling into their after-church gossip. The men were stepping aside and striking up their own conversations. And the children, temporarily away from the attentions of their parents, were abusing their Sunday-best clothes one way or another.

  Lewis and Jed found themselves side by side.

  ‘What do you think of the new preacher, Lewis?’

  ‘A well meaning guy,’ the churchwarden said. They paused to light up smokes. ‘A town needs a preacher,’ he continued.

  Lewis indicated with his head for them to draw out of earshot of the other members of the congregation. He lowered his voice. ‘Any news about the gunslinger from Kansas City? We got just over $2000 together.’

  ‘No. A cousin of mine in the city is making enquiries but I ain’t heard nothing yet. I’ll not chase him on the matter for a while. I don’t suppose it’s quite like ordering groceries from the store––even in an anything-goes, cosmopolitan place like Kansas City.’

  The two men finished their smokes and joined their wives. Judging by the overheard snatches of conversation one could tell that the new preacher had made no converts, stirred no hearts. He had tried hard but he had large boots to fill. The previous preacher had been well loved and on occasion could all but invoke the fires of hell. The faithful needed reminding of the inferno in one direction and the ecstasy of paradise in the other.

  The people had come, listened and made their judgment. Because of the circumstances of his arrival some would give him another chance But the new preacher would still have a smaller congregation next week.

  A week passed. It was harvesting time. Around Lonsdale the fields were dotted with people still cutting down the wheat and tying up the bundles. This was the one time in the year when everyone worked. Women, children. Every saloon bum and down-and-out could find pay for his hands. And it was a time of silence. All that could be heard was the swishing of scythe blades, the crackle of oat-ears as they were crushed together; and the buzz of flies.

  Jedidiah Dent was in the yard near his house turning the handle of his grindstone. It was mid-day and a blunted scythe had sent him home. His body moved in rhythm as he turned the handle.

  ‘Jed! Jed!’

  He looked up at the rider bringing his horse to a standstill near the gate. It was a distressed Steve Powell from the next homestead.

  ‘Somebody’s gunned down Ritchie.’

  ‘Who’d do a fool thing like that?’

  ‘Dunno. Body’s by the trail on my spread.’

  Jed laid down his scythe and left the wheel spinning under its own momentum. ‘Give me time to saddle up.’

  Ten minutes later they were at the scene. The body had been hidden by the corn but the crowd of field hands around it had flattened the surrounding stalks. The blood around the hole over the heart matched the redness of the abundant poppies dotting the landscape acting as a backcloth to the corpse. The receding chin was instantly recognizable as belonging to one the Colonel’s young men. Ritchie, the Colonel’s, favorite, had been the only one of the brothers to go out by himself. He frequently used a bordello in the nearby town and the trail to it ran past the Powell farm.

  The young man had had some kind of confrontation because both his guns had been drawn. But his hardware had been no use.

  The two men dismounted. Jed picked up the two discarded guns and broke them. Neither had been fired. He returned them to their holsters on the corpse.

  ‘The Colonel’s gonna think it was me; the body is on my property,’ Steve whispered, his throat dry.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Jed assured him. ‘We’ll say the body was on yon trail. We’ll take it into town anyway.’

  A gig was brought up and the still form taken to the undertaker’s parlor. Steve fetched the doctor to confirm death and Jed took on the responsibility of informing the Colonel. Someone had to do it and he was the mayor.

  At the news the Colonel said nothing for a while. Slowly he turned to his remaining sons. ‘The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground – Genesis 4,10.’

  He faced the bearer of the news once more and added, ‘‘The town’s gone pay for this, Dent. You hear me? The whole damn lot of you.’

  ‘It wasn’t one of our people, Colonel,’ Jed protested. ‘Nobody’d be fool enough to dry-gulch one of your boys. They’d know what your reaction would be. Even if they did, they’d have hid the body. We aren’t hiding anything, Colonel. We found Ritchie and we brung him straight in, all open and above board.’

  ‘Get out before you join Ritchie right here and now.’

  Jed did as he was bid. At the door the Colonel called to him, his voice croaky. ‘Tell that new preacher to organize things. My boy shall have a decent burial.’

  The lads were uncomfortable; they had never seen their father like this.

  ‘Come boys, let’s go see your brother.’ Now there were tears in his eyes

  Jed was worried as he walked to the reverend’s house. The Colonel meant what he said. There was going to be trouble and more killings. There and then he decided there was nothing for it but for him to ride into Kansas City and find out what had happened and, if needs be, hire a gunslinger himself.

  The harvesting of his own crops would have to go without him, Jed reckoned. He got himself ready and two hours later his wife took him out on the wagon to Plains Halt. He was just in time to catch the daily through train and he was on his way. He arrived in Kansas that evening and took a hotel room with the intention of locating his cousin the next morning.

  His cousin worked as a clerk in a beef wholesalers. Jed located him without delay and they arranged to take a bite to eat together in a saloon at mid-day.

  ‘So you couldn’t get me a paid gun after all?’ he began after he had taken a refreshing sip of malt beer and scanned around to see they weren’t being overheard.. ‘Cos I ain’t heard nothing from you.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t let the g
rass grow under my feet,’ his cousin replied. ‘I gave it top priority when I got your note. Took me a few days to find one, though. You can buy anything in Kansas if you have the money but I ain’t used to that kind of purchase. Anyways a guy called Bo Quintaine said he’d take on the job. He was recommended to me by a friend of a friend.’ He winked. ‘You know how it is. Anyways, got a good reputation they tell me. Specializes in town taming. Reliable, which is what you want, ain’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about no Bo Quintaine coming.’

  ‘But I sent you a letter,’ his cousin protested.

  ‘Don’t know nothing about no letter either.’

  ‘Must have got mislaid in the mail. Can’t trust nothing these days. Yeah, sent a letter days ago. If your gunslinger ain’t got there by now he’ll certainly be on his way. Like as not you passed by each other on your way in.’

  Jedidiah’s reaction was mixed. Irritated because he’d wasted time in coming when there was harvesting to be done. Relieved that something appeared to be happening.

  His cousin described the man he’d hired.

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about him?’

  ‘No, he works alone is all.’

  ‘I’ll catch the next train back,’ Jedidiah concluded. ‘Have another drink afore I go?’

  That same day was the day of young Ritchie’s funeral. The Colonel was religious in these matters and wanted his son put into the ground in the proper fashion. There were no townsfolk at the burial. Not only did it seem nothing to do with them but they were uneasy about what was to happen afterwards.

  What form would the killing spree take? Who could guess?

  They’d all heard of the Colonel’s vow that the town was to pay for the death of his favorite son and they knew the vengeance-seeking was likely to start as soon as the body had earth on it.