by Rod Miller
So he sat alone, at the end of the front bench directly below the pulpit.
Close though he was, the word of God never appeared to reach the boy. He fidgeted and napped and never heard a word. After a few weeks, maybe a month or two, I realized the futility of the effort and stopped calling around for the boy, and he did not attend anymore.
Oh, he did show up a time or two about the time he became aware of lust. I noticed him slipping in late on a few occasions and lurking at the back of the meeting room, positioning himself for the best view of the blossoming young girls of the town, then slipping out again before meeting’s end.
His reappearance at the church under those circumstances, I felt, called for another visit to talk with Harlow Mackelprang and his father. I waited and watched, and one day saw Broom on the way to his shack early in the afternoon appearing at least somewhat in control of his faculties.
A quick reconnaissance of the back alleys of the town turned up the boy attempting to reason out the operation of a tobacco pipe, but having no luck in keeping it lit. I, of course, confiscated the paraphernalia of sin on the spot, breaking it up and tossing the pieces, along with his twist of tobacco, into the dung heap behind the livery stable.
“Hey! What the hell you do that for?” he asked.
“Watch your mouth, boy. A tool of the devil, Harlow Mackelprang. That’s all that evil weed is, a tool of the devil. Where did you get it?”
“Found it.”
“Stole it more likely,” I said. “‘Thou shalt not steal,’ the Lord God commands.”
“Don’t make no never mind, one way or t’other. You got no call to throw it away.”
I did not pursue the subject, having other irons in the fire. “Come along, boy. We’re going to see your father.”
He laughed, then said, “You think he’s gonna care that you caught me smoking?”
“That is not why we are going. Just come along.”
“Supposing I don’t want to.”
That did raise a question. Although he could not have been more than thirteen years old at the time, he was already approaching me in height—and I am six feet tall.
Still, he was a boy, and an impertinent one at that.
So I slapped him hard with my left hand, then grabbed a handful of his cheek with my right and gave it a good twist. Much like a twitch on a horse’s lower lip, this tends to take a boy’s mind off rude behavior and sassiness, if only temporarily.
“I did not ask if you wanted to, Harlow Mackelprang. Now let’s go.”
By the time we were out of the alley and in the street, I figured he was tamed for the time being and turned loose from his face.
“Damn!” he said, rubbing the insulted cheek vigorously. “What you wanna do that for?”
“Tame your tongue, boy, or I will do it again.”
He offered no more sass for the remainder of the trip, merely shuffled along half a step behind me, murmuring.
We arrived at the shack just as Broom came out the door.
“Well, Preacher,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“We need to talk. About your boy.”
Broom eyed the boy suspiciously. “What’s he done now? I swear, boy, you don’t shape up, one of these days I’ll take a strap to you.”
Broom’s bloodshot eyes turned to me. “So what’s he done?”
“He has been showing up at church services.”
“I should think that would please you, Preacher.” Broom laughed. “Give you a chance to save a soul. God knows, his needs it.”
“Don’t blaspheme, if you please, sir,” I warned. “It is not his presence that I object to. It is the reason for his being there, and his behavior.”
With that, Broom lowered himself slowly onto the overturned powder box that served as the shack’s front step, propped his elbows on his knees, and laced his fingers behind his bowed head.
“What’s it he’s done?” he asked, the question muffled by his position.
“A better question might be what he intends to do. The boy is consumed by lust. He prowls around the back of the meeting hall like a herd bull waiting for the cows to come in season. I swear, I have seen him curl his lip and sniff the air.”
Broom dropped his hands and raised his red eyes to meet mine.
“That’s it? That’s all? You dragged him home to tell me that? Hell, the boy’s coming of age. Happens to everybody.”
“It is different with Harlow Mackelprang. He makes the girls nervous. Their parents too, of course. I have had reports that he is likewise lurking about the school. The marshal has had complaints that he peers in windows at night.
“It is part of man’s fallen nature, as you imply, to lust after women. But the Lord expects us to bridle our lusts and passions and not succumb. The commandments say, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ and, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.’
“I fear the boy is consumed with lust and has it in mind to violate those sacred commands if he has not done so already, whether his partner is willing or not,” I told Broom. “And I will warn you that several of the fathers in this town are keeping their eyes on him. They will not hesitate to act if they feel their wives or daughters are threatened.”
Broom mulled this over for a time, then said to the boy, “What you got to say for yourself?”
The boy said nary a word, his eyes burning with hate, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“Speak up, boy,” Broom said.
Still, the sin-riddled boy seethed in silence. Almost involuntarily, my right hand dealt him a sharp backhand slap to the face.
I shouted, “Pay attention, boy! Honor thy father.”
As my mark on the boy’s cheek reddened to a deeper shade than the angry flush on the rest of his face, Broom cast a penetrating glance in my direction that left little doubt that he would not countenance further assistance of that sort from me. He turned back toward his son.
“C’mon, boy. Speak your piece.”
“I got nothing to say. Not nothing.”
“You been bothering any girls or womenfolk?”
“No.”
“You got it in mind to?”
“No.”
“You best not. I hear anything more, I’ll turn you into a steer. You got that, boy? You know what I mean by that?”
Harlow Mackelprang did not reply. His shifty, hateful gaze lashed out at Broom and myself in turn. The threat, extreme though it seemed, accomplished its purpose. The boy backed off and, so far as I know, never approached any of the town girls in an inappropriate manner.
Not that they stopped worrying that he might. When encountering the boy on the streets, the mothers of Los Santos gathered their budding daughters into the folds of their skirts as hens gather their chicks.
Girls walking unescorted, or in the company of their friends, were often seen crossing streets or ducking into convenient doorways to avoid encounters with Harlow Mackelprang.
Even grown women wrapped shawls tighter about their shoulders and hurried past Harlow Mackelprang with heads down and eyes averted. It seems the fairer sex shared an aversion to the boy as if he were afflicted with the pox or some other evil contagion that might spread through the most casual contact.
And so the lust and wicked desire accumulated with his age, fed by anger and indignation at every slight. I felt it my bounden duty and sacred call to see that his pot did not boil over to the ruination of the females of my flock.
His pent-up rage was relieved many years later, I am told, upon the harlot Althea. She, being engaged in the practice of such an evil and wicked trade, deserves whatever punishment Harlow Mackelprang chose to mete out.
Now, these many years later, he sits before me as unrepentant as ever, the threat of damnation and the wrath of God having no effect, even as he faces death.
“God will punish you for your sins. You know that, don’t you?”
“I figure he might give me a break.”
“Highly unlikely,�
�� I scoffed. “‘Cursed be he that taketh reward to slay an innocent person. And all the people shall say, Amen.’ Deuteronomy, Chapter Twenty-seven.
“‘He is an holy God; he is a jealous God; he will not forgive your transgressions nor your sins.’ Joshua, Chapter Twenty-four.”
And then I heard another voice.
“‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’”
The words of Isaiah surprised me with their appearance in that den of sin. I turned toward their source, the darkness of the corner cell. “Who said that?”
“God himself. Book of Isaiah. First chapter, eighteenth verse.”
“I know that. Who are you?”
“A sinner. ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God,’” the voice said.
“Romans, Chapter Three,” I replied. “And that is true. We all are sinners.”
“Aah, yes. But contrary to what you have been saying to Harlow Mackelprang, all is not lost. There is hope. Read in Deuteronomy, Chapter Four, where it says, ‘For the Lord thy God is a merciful God; he will not forsake thee, neither destroy thee.’”
“But this, from Psalm One Hundred and Four: ‘Let the sinners be consumed out of the earth, and let the wicked be no more.’”
“I answer from the Twenty-third Psalm,” he said. “‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”
The man troubled me with his interpretation of Scripture. “You have read the Good Book, it is clear. But methinks your interpretation of its message is not the same as mine.”
“That does seem obvious, doesn’t it, Preacher.”
“You never did tell me your name.”
“Sweeney. Not that it matters.”
“I am curious, Sweeney. How do you come to pervert the Holy Word so? Such a thing is not to your credit”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Allow me to quote from Isaiah. Fifth chapter. ‘Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!’”
“So you think that I quote Scripture to support evil then, is that it?” Sweeney said.
“Yes,” I said.
“In what sense?”
“Your abuse of the Word will give Harlow Mackelprang false hope. It is abundantly clear in Scripture that retribution is required, that evil must be recompensed. As in Exodus, Twenty-one. ‘Thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’ I could go on, as I am sure you know, Sweeney.”
“And I do not doubt it, Preacher. But surely you have read the Apostle Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, where he clearly states in Chapter Twelve, ‘Recompense no man evil for evil,’ and, ‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ Are we not presuming the Lord’s role in taking vengeance on Harlow Mackelprang?”
“Perhaps. But I think not. I quote from Numbers Thirty-five. ‘The murderer shall surely be put to death.’ More to the point, Genesis, Nine. ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’
“By man, it says, Sweeney. By man. I take that to mean that God has not only given us the right to act in His behalf in these matters, but the responsibility.”
“And who is worthy to take upon himself the role of God?”
“What do you mean?”
“As Jesus Christ himself said to a self-righteous mob much like yourself, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.’”
“I will cast aside vengeance then. What about retribution? Do we not have a right to demand retribution of those who do wrong? Surely the Bible tells us so.”
“I am of the opinion, Preacher, that your Bible-reading is too much restricted to the Old Testament.”
“The ancient prophets are to my liking, I confess.”
Sweeney says, “My preference is for the New Testament, where I find more hope.”
“But hope does not relieve you of responsibility.”
“No. But even you hellfire-and-brimstone preachers cannot completely ignore the story of the Savior Jesus Christ. The first chapter of Ephesians speaks ‘to the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved. In whom we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his grace.’”
“Grace is a troublesome topic. I would not want my eternal salvation to rely on it,” I say.
“‘And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness,’ Second Corinthians, Chapter Twelve,” he replies.
“There is certainly merit in what you say, Sweeney. But you forget one important thing—all that you say applies to believers.” I turn my attention from the dark depths of the cell Sweeney occupied and back to the condemned. “Are you a believer, Harlow Mackelprang?”
“Sure, I’m a believer. I believe lots of things. I believe the both of you is full of shit.”
“Is there no end to your vileness? Are you wicked to the very core?”
“Beats the hell out of me, Preacher. What do you think, Sweeney? Is there any hope for a low-life ol’ gunman like Harlow Mackelprang over here?”
Sweeney didn’t respond for a moment, thinking it over. Then: “You are worse than you think, Harlow Mackelprang. And worse, I fear, than anyone else imagines.”
That drew a snorting laugh from Harlow Mackelprang. “I thought you was on my side, Sweeney,” he says. “It’s bad enough I got this Bible-thumper in a long black coat and boiled shirt down on me, without you piling on.”
“I am neither hot nor cold, neither for nor against,” Sweeney says. “I am merely stating my opinion. Although I doubt he would see any benefit in such action, perhaps you should confess your sins to the preacher.”
“I won’t do no such thing,” Harlow Mackelprang says.
“What’s your point, Sweeney?” I say.
“All will soon be revealed, Preacher,” he says. Then: “Harlow Mackelprang, do you understand the nature of sin?”
“Sure I do. I ain’t stupid, you know. That’s when you do something bad to somebody that don’t deserve it.”
“And do you believe you have ever committed a sin?” Sweeney asks.
“No, sir, I don’t.”
That certainly gets my dander up. “Harlow Mackelprang, you are an admitted thief, a robber, a rapist, and a murderer! And now I see lying can be added to the list! Just seconds ago you said you were not stupid. How can you deny that you are a sinner?”
“I never did nothing to nobody that didn’t deserve it. In my life, I took a lot more than I ever dished out.”
I cannot believe what I am hearing. “What about young Calvin, over at the bank? What did he ever do to you?”
“That little sissy was just like all the others in this town when I was growing up. He’d cross the street just to avoid walking past me. Besides, he worked at that bank. Them crooks cheated me out of a wad of cash one time. Claimed I never give it to ’em and I couldn’t prove they did on account of they never gave me one of their little books. I only wished I’da had time to burn the place down after I robbed it and shot Calvin. I shoulda shot that damn Tueller while I was at it.”
“But it was cold-blooded murder!”
“He had it coming.”
“How about Soren? Did he have it coming?”
“He sure as hell did. That dumb dirt farmer wasn’t going to give me the loan of his worthless plow horse.”
“Loan! You were stealing the horse!”
“Same thing,” he said. “I needed a horse. My life was in danger. Ain’t a man’s life more important t
han an old horse?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Well, I’da give it to him if he needed it.”
“But he did need it. It was his means of livelihood.”
“Yeah, but he coulda got another horse later. I had a damn posse breathin’ down my neck.”
“Harlow Mackelprang, I cannot believe what I hear.” The man really did think he was an innocent, a victim.
“What about that woman at the inn up at Madera? I know you’ll claim her husband, Murphy, and that lodger harassed you into killing them. But what did that poor woman do?”
“Hell, she was married to Murphy, wasn’t she? I just used her to get to him. And I damn sure did, I’ll tell you. Besides, I never killed her. She didn’t come to no harm.”
“You raped her!”
“Oh, that ain’t nothing. She mighta even liked it if she’da relaxed a little.”
Such indifference to the sanctity of life and the dignity of God’s children is astounding. I find myself stuttering and stammering, unable even to respond to the machinations of such a sick and distorted mind.
Sweat trickles down my ribs, whether from the heat of the anger within or the proximity of the flames of hell, I cannot say. As is often the case when I am at a loss for words, I fall back on the word of the Lord.
“But you have clearly violated the most basic of God’s laws. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Even you have heard of the Ten Commandments. I do not doubt you have broken them all. You are a sinner, Harlow Mackelprang, of the worst kind. Worse even than that, you are an unrepentant sinner.”
He makes no reply.
“Were I in your shoes just now, Harlow Mackelprang, I would be quaking.”
“I don’t doubt it, Preacher. But you’re a coward and I ain’t.”
“You, no coward! You are the worst kind of coward, preying on the helpless and those you have rendered defenseless. We will see your so-called bravery as you approach the gallows come morning. I will enjoy watching you whimper and snivel.
“Even more, I would like to see how brave you are an instant after you hit the end of the rope and find yourself face-to-face with your Maker. You will stand at the judgment bar and I prophesy you will be found lacking! Fear the Lord, Harlow Mackelprang! Fear the Lord!”