“Hey, why the long jaw, pard?” grinned Draper as they walked in the sunlight. Jeb Draper had a broad white smile, twinkling blue eyes and an engaging manner. In the past he had often needed all three to help extricate himself from the sort of situation where his reckless temperament frequently led him. He clapped Brazos on the back and gestured at the Silver Dollar. “I know the magic word to cheer you, pard. Beer. And it’s on old Jeb today—every goldurned drop you and Bullpup can drink.”
Brazos’ trail hound pricked his ears at the word “beer”, for Bullpup was a beer drinker extraordinaire. Brazos was no slouch himself when it came to downing a few mugs, and he certainly felt the need of a drink now after the tension of the trial. However, with Duke Benedict’s parting remarks on his mind, Brazos rested a hand on Draper’s shoulder and stared him straight in the eye.
“Jeb,” he said quietly, “that was the truth you told us, wasn’t it?”
“What’s it matter now, pard?”
Iron fingers dug into Draper’s flesh. “It matters.” Brazos’ eyes were like chips of flint. “You was tellin’ the truth?”
Jeb Draper’s big con-man grin faded. During the war his former sergeant in the Texas Brigade was the sort of man who would stick by his friends, no matter what. Hank Brazos had already shown he was still very much that kind of man. But looking into Brazos’ eyes now and feeling the crushing pressure of his fingers, ex-private Jeb Draper remembered two other facets of Brazos’ makeup: one, the giant Texan was one of the few truly honest men he’d met; and two, Brazos’ fistic ability was enormous.
Draper swallowed hard. Maybe five years on the rock pile would be preferable to having Hank Brazos come down on him. But somehow he salvaged his smile. “You believed me before, Sarge. How come you’re showin’ doubt now?”
“Benedict,” was the slow reply. “He can be six kinds of a pain in the backside sometimes with his high-steppin’ ways, but no man can call him a fool. If he still reckons you’re guilty of—”
“Sarge,” Draper broke in, “remember somethin’. Benedict wore the blue and you and me wore the gray. Who are you gonna stick with?”
“I guess ... well …”
“That’s right, you’ll stick with your old pard from the Brigade. Now what are we gonna do, Sarge? We gonna stand around here chewin’ on our tails on account of some big-time Yankee don’t believe in old Jeb, or are we gonna put the whole damn business behind us and get down to some serious drinkin’?”
Hank Brazos’ response was to lead the way to the Silver Dollar with a “Benedict-can-go-to-hell” look in his eyes. He didn’t notice Jeb Draper brush a film of cold sweat from his forehead and sigh in relief.
Chapter Two – Came the Preacher Man
STRANGE MEN WITH strange ways were no novelty at Jenner’s Trailhouse on the Rawhide-Bowie Road, but the pair who came in to dine that summer twilight had the Jenners looking twice.
Pa Jenner immediately tabbed them as gunslingers. Never mind the tall one’s fancy manners and hundred-dollar suit—he still looked like a gun packer to old Pa, what with his big nickel-plated six-guns. As for his weird looking companion ... well, there was somebody who would stick his own mother for the right price.
But young Jube Jenner couldn’t decide whether the towering man in the broadcloth suit was a badman or a preacher, though the boy agreed with his father that the albino looked as mean as dirt.
There were no doubts in Ma Jenner’s mind as to whom their guests were tonight. A fine, upstanding woman of fifty, Ma regarded herself as a spiritual island in a murky sea of sin, and from the moment the tall man had strode into the trail house, she had accepted him as a man of God.
Daughter Emma, unable to make up her mind as usual, decided to satisfy her curiosity when she went to the table to clear off the supper things.
“Excuse me, sir,” she smiled, blushing prettily, “are you a man of the cloth?”
The tall man gazed at her from eyes as black as pitch. Even seated, he seemed to tower. His shoulders were broad, his middle lean, and his back was as straight as a rifle barrel.
“The cloth has many colors, my child,” he said ambiguously. He turned his big head to glance at the others, then added, “Let us say simply that I am a servant of the Lord.”
“Oh, I just knew you were a holy man, sir,” gushed Ma Jenner as she came across to their table. “Do you think you could give us a prayin’ afore you move on?”
“The mother,” the stranger said in his deep, rich voice. “The harbor—the port of safety.” He flicked his eyes at the girl and boy, then focused his attention on the father. Pa Jenner was still decked out in the Sunday best he had worn to Jeb Draper’s trial in Rawhide that afternoon. Pa Jenner had bought a large bottle to keep him company on the drive home, and now he was at least half drunk.
“The father,” the stranger intoned, his voice changing. “Tell me, good father, are you too in need of a praying?”
“Could be,” Jenner said cockily, “but I’d rather git a prayin’ from a bona fide preacher man than some pilgrim that looks more like a gun packer, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Pa Jenner!” Ma said in shocked voice, but the tall man silenced her with a gesture, then rose to stare down at Jenner from his great height.
“Deacon James at your service, sir,” he said quietly but forcefully. “And, sir, you are right. I use guns in the work of the Lord. I can see your confusion, sir, but I understand it. You belong to the breed that bundles all men of the spirit into the one category. You are one of those who believe that any man who is not too proud to go down on his knees and pray is less than a true man. Well, my feeble drunkard, let me tell you that there are those like myself who will stand by righteousness with Bible or gun, and who fight with equal fierceness with either weapon. Now, which do you believe I should use on you?”
Pa Jenner blinked. It was going too fast for him. Shaken by James’ words, he stared at the white-haired figure at the table, found no comfort there, then turned to his plump wife.
Ma Jenner smirked.
“Now’s your chance, Albert Jenner,” she said. “Tell the preacher what you really think of Bible-bashers now. You know ... like you’re always tellin’ me.”
Pa Jenner gulped. Suddenly the garrulous little man had nothing whatever to say. But the same didn’t apply to the strange man who called himself Deacon James.
“Duty calls me onward,” he intoned, “but there is never such haste that I don’t have time to bring small comfort to those I encounter on the journey.” He placed a hand on Ma Jenner’s gray head. “You, mother, are already blessed. You may pray with me if you wish. But your husband and offspring, they shall kneel, for I scent in all three the odor of sin.” He lifted his hands and spread them wide; “Kneel!”
Emma, Ma and Jube obeyed instantly, for the stranger was more commanding than any genuine preacher man they had encountered along the Rawhide-Bowie Trail. But old Pa found some nerve and shook his head.
“Not me, feller—” he began emphatically, but he was cut off by a voice that shook the room.
“Get down on your knees!” James thundered, and Pa Jenner went down with a thump. “Let the Lord into your miserable soul, old man. Hellfire and brimstone are licking at you. I can smell it.” He moved to Pa and placed a hand on his head. “Cleanse him, Lord. Scrub his hide of sin and corruption! Be kind!”
With Pa waiting in fear and trembling for the cleansing and scrubbing to begin, James moved on to the others, Emma shook as his hand rested on her head and she stared at the big, nickel-plated guns and burnished cartridge rims directly before her eyes. Young Jube was ready to accept a little passing salvation when it was his turn to be blessed, but he was distracted by James’ companion who had gone down on his knees and said “Hallelujahs” and “Amens” in an odd, whispery voice that touched the flesh like a chill.
Finally James was through. He motioned for them to rise. Delighted that her family had had some sorely needed spiritual refreshment, Ma
Jenner was effusive in her thanks. She shook her head emphatically as Deacon James produced his billfold.
“Your money is no good in this house, Deacon,” she insisted.
“It ain’t?” said Pa, whose job it was to try and make the books balance. Then he met James’ flashing eyes and gave a gap-toothed grin. “I mean of course it ain’t. Our treat, Reverend.”
“You are too kind,” James said. He pulled free a banknote and they all saw that his billfold was packed solid with more of the same. “But poverty is, fortunately, not one of the burdens I am forced to bear.”
“Well, if you insist, Deacon,” Pa beamed, snapping the bill from James’ fingers before he could change his mind. “You got some change comin’.”
“You owe me nothing,” James declared, picking up his hat. “Though you might oblige me with a little information before we take our leave?”
“Say the word, Deacon,” Pa said. “What do you want to know?”
James’ manner turned grave as he fitted his hat to his head. “I heard you discussing a trial in Rawhide today, did I not, sir?”
“That’s right, Deacon,” Jenner said. “Feller got hauled in for takin’ part in a bank robbery, but a smart lawyer man got him off.”
“I see ... Tell me, sir, are you in the habit of attending court in Rawhide?”
“Never missed, Deacon,” Ma Jenner supplied. “It’s an excuse for him to go off and get drunk. But why do you ask?”
James’ gaze remained on Jenner’s face. “Then you would have attended the trial of one Rory Calem about four weeks ago, sir?”
“They hung him!” James’ associate hissed. The man made a wild gesture and then slapped at the butt of his thonged-down .45. “They shouldn’t have gone and done that to—”
“Whitey!” James rapped. “Be silent. Don’t get excited.”
The man hugged his skinny chest and dropped his gaze to the floor. He nodded his head, tight white creases appearing at the corners of his mouth. He gave the impression that he was holding himself tightly, as though afraid he might fall apart. He’d looked weird to the Jenners ever since his arrival; now they all wondered if he might not be a little crazy as well.
James turned back to Pa Jenner. “You attended that particular trial, sir?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And the execution that followed?”
“Why, yeah, Deacon.”
“Did you cheer when they strung that boy up, sir?”
“Why, no, I never cheered, Deacon. Nobody did as I recall. Of course, there wasn’t no weepin’ neither, on account of young Calem gunned down a good man and—”
“And the town took it upon itself to exact vengeance, which is the province only of the Lord?”
“Well, I ... er ...” Jenner’s voice faded and he looked at his wife. He couldn’t make out what Deacon James was driving at, and his wife’s shrug and frown told him that she was a little confused herself.
“An eye for an eye,” Deacon James said deeply as he started for the door. “To them who show no mercy, no mercy can be shown ...” He paused to wait for his man to open the door. “You agree, of course, my friends?”
They nodded, though not quite certain what they were agreeing to. Their obvious confusion didn’t bother Deacon James. He smiled gravely, gave a low bow, then walked into the starlight. Whitey hurried on ahead of him to untie the horses at the rack. The man’s hands shook violently as he passed James the lines of his horse.
“You’re excited, Whitey,” James said quietly. “You know that is not good for you.”
“I’m tryin’ not to be, Deacon,” the man said. “It’s just that ... that ...”
“That the prospect of bloodshed fires your very soul? I understand.” He reached out and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “But you must remain calm, Whitey, for the time being at least. Close your eyes.”
Whitey closed his eyes and James’ deep voice intoned a prayer. As he spoke, Whitey Cassidy’s trembling ceased and the too-bright glitter left his pink eyes. As the Jenners had suspected, albino Cassidy was dangerously unstable, and the Deacon alone knew how to control him. Only two things could soothe Whitey when his excitement reached a dangerous level: prayer or the sight of blood.
There was never a shortage of holy words or bloodshed for any man who rode with Deacon James. In far-off Arizona, where he was known as the most expensive gun-for-hire in the Territory, they called him the Black Deacon. And it was a black purpose that had brought him all the long miles to Clearwater County, Utah.
Brazos was seated in the coolness of the Silver Dollar Saloon the morning after the trial when the batwings opened and Benedict entered. Slowed down a little by a mild hangover, the big Texan was sipping a medicinal beer while Bullpup snored between his boots.
Still chafing over Benedict’s remarks about Draper, Brazos scowled as he met his partner’s eye, but his expression changed to puzzlement as Benedict walked quickly towards him. For Duke Benedict looked downright shaken—and it took a lot to ruffle the gambling man.
Benedict pulled a chair out with his toe and sat down. Bullpup stirred, then snapped at a highly polished boot. But Benedict paid no attention to the ugly dog, a sure sign he had something weighty on his mind. Brazos watched him light a cigar, then he said:
“What happened? Your high-rollin’ friend Lanning wouldn’t shake hands and forget about yesterday?”
“Otto and I are on the best of terms again, I’m happy to say.”
“Then you must’ve had a bad run at the tables.”
“I haven’t been playing cards. I was with Otto and his charming wife until two o’clock this morning. I rose only an hour ago.” Benedict drew deeply on the cigar and shook his head as he reached into an inside pocket. “Hank, I’m in big trouble.” He produced a letter and pushed it across the table. “Take a look at that.”
Brazos stiffened. “You tryin’ to be funny, mister? You know I can’t read.”
Benedict nodded his handsome head. “That just goes to show you how badly this has shaken me, Johnny Reb.”
“Then how about gettin’ down to the nugget of it instead of beatin’ around the berry bush, Benedict?” Brazos tried to sound casual, but he was deeply intrigued, for Benedict’s harassed manner was completely out of character.
Picking up the envelope, Benedict stared at it, then sighed. “It’s from my father, Johnny Reb. Do you recall how I received a letter from him when we were in Colorado, telling me he was on his way out West on a business trip for the bank?”
Brazos grunted.
“Well, I wrote a reply and happened to mention I would be visiting a friend here in Rawhide for a few days. My father is coming to visit. He’s already on his way.”
At first Brazos didn’t get the significance. So Benedict senior wanted to see Benedict junior? Nothing earth-shattering about that. But then, as Benedict started to speak nervously, Brazos began to understand. Marmaduke Creighton Benedict, the wealthy Boston banker, was a snob. His son had never put it into those words, but rough-and ready Hank Brazos had gleaned it from what he had said in the past. The Benedicts were rich, important people in Boston who had never been able to understand why their son and heir had failed to return home after the war to assist in running the family affairs.
Hank Brazos knew why. Beneath Benedict’s fancy manners and polished ways was another man. Four years of war had made him restless. Excitement, new faces and places, and high adventure had become the stuff of life to Benedict. Brazos had nobody to answer to, but Benedict had his family, and the only way he had been able to pursue his free-wheeling way of life in the West without causing his parents alarm was through lying to them.
Benedict was a plausible liar when he had to be, and his letters home were filled with big deals, elegant friends, and a gracious and respectable way of life very little different to that which his father lived back home in Boston. Benedict had always been carefully vague about how he was earning the money to support his sophisticated way of
life, and his parents had never tried to pin him down concerning his occupation. But now Benedict’s patrician father was coming to Rawhide to discover that his son and heir was not a well-to-do banker or business tycoon, but a man Hank Brazos himself had described as “Too slick with a deck of cards, a six-gun or a woman for his own good.”
Tempted at first to enjoy Benedict’s discomfiture, Brazos found it was an attitude he couldn’t maintain for long. Judging by the way Benedict was taking the news of his father’s coming, this was as big a crisis as he had ever been called upon to face.
“It would kill him, Johnny Reb,” Duke said grimly around his cigar, “if he found out what I really am ... He’s always abhorred gambling and what he calls womanizing. The only woman in his life has been my mother, and he’s always expected me to be a one-woman man.”
“He might have something there,” grunted Hank Brazos, but before he could advance further on the theme, Benedict went on:
“As for violence, well, that is absolutely the last straw where my father is concerned. If he were to find out I have a reputation with a six-gun ...” He shook his head. “And he is going to find out, Brazos. He will find out everything—and it will destroy that fine old gentleman. Yes, it will definitely destroy him.”
Brazos knew Benedict had a tendency to over-dramatize situations at times, but there could be no denying that he had never seen the man so shaken. As the Yank seemed incapable of viewing the situation calmly at the moment, he took it upon himself to find a solution.
“Only one thing you can do as I see it, Yank,” Brazos said after a moment.
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