by Paul Bagdon
Ben rode slowly toward the end of Main Street and the partially framed skeleton of the church. Most of the folks who’d been at the celebration had gathered there, perhaps feeling the comfort a church—even an incomplete one—offers in times of death. Ben sat on Snorty to address the crowd.
“It was marauders—night riders—who killed Rev Tucker,” he said. “I’m gonna ask some of you men to stand guard with me around town tonight, but I’m not expectin’ more trouble. Bands like these are cowards and scavengers who do more fightin’ with each other than they do with anyone else. They pick off travelers and peddlers, and maybe a stagecoach every so often, but they’re not nearly brave enough to take on a town. I’ll be ridin’ around town tonight, and I’ll go after them tomorrow.”
“You gonna mount a posse, Marshall?” a man asked.
“No need,” Ben answered. “Ain’t but six or so of ’em. Just sit tight and try to go on like you usually do. That’s all I can say for now.”
Ben turned Snorty around. The crowd began to break up as he headed toward his office. As he rode at a walk past the depot, he noticed there was a loaded lumber car on the siding. That was good; work on the church had slowed in the past week due to lack of boards and beams. Lumber was hard to come by this far west, but the new link and depot built in Burnt Rock by the Trans-Texas Rail Road offered access to faraway markets.
Ben knew that the TTRR was a boon to the ranchers and farmers around Burnt Rock as well. Cattle drives were expensive and cut deeply into the money a rancher needed to keep his operation going. The farther a herd walked and the longer they sweated under the sun, the less they weighed at shipping time. Benton, the next town from which herds could be loaded onto cattle cars, was better than two hundred miles beyond Burnt Rock, and much of the way was hard traveling. Because the two-hundred-mile trek could be cut from the journey to market, Burnt Rock was becoming a bustling cow town. Farmers, too, benefited from the railroad, since the TTRR was linked to a multitude of other relatively small lines. Farm families could now deliver their grain and produce to hungry markets in the larger cities of Texas.
Louisiana lumber from the thousands of acres of pine forests could now reach Burnt Rock by rail at a better price than if it were shipped from within Texas. The aromatic scent of the cut wood reached Ben, and he breathed it deeply. It was a fine, fresh smell, but for the smallest bit of a moment, it evoked the memory of trees being cut at Bull Run for cover just before the battle. He shook the memory away.
Snorty attempted to swing over to the watering trough in front of the Drovers’ Inn, but Ben held him back and directed him down the street. Most of the businesses along Main Street had closed for the festival and remained closed after Rev’s death was announced. O’Keefe’s Café, Scott’s Mercantile, the Burnt Rock Land and Trust Company, Clara’s Dresses for Madam, and the restaurant attached to the Merchant’s Rest Hotel were locked and lightless. But even at the dinner hour, the Drovers’ Inn was doing good business: drunken laughter rolled out to the street past the batwing doors, and the acrid scent of tobacco smoke, alcohol, and sweat enveloped Ben like a cloud of swamp gas.
Ben turned down the alley by his office and the three-celled jail to the fenced lot where Snorty spent his spare time. There, Ben drew a half bucket of fresh water for his horse and stripped off his tack while he drank. Ben roughed Snorty’s coat with a grain sack, allowing the breeze to reach his flesh, and the horse grunted like a sow in a mud bath.
Ben entered his office through the back door and walked past the empty cells and into the front room. His desk was awash in WANTED posters. He sat in the chair, and the wood creaked under him, as it always did. On his desk a mug of coffee he’d abandoned hours ago rested on the editorial page of the Burnt Rock Express. He hefted the mug and drained it, savoring the harsh, outdoorsy flavor of the coffee. Heat, in his mind, was no more important to coffee than wrappings were to a gift. He picked up a pencil and began composing his wire to Fort Kaiser, the nearest army encampment, and to the other towns around Burnt Rock, on the back of a wanted poster.
When he was just about finished, Lee pushed open the office door from the street and stood framed in the doorway. As always when he saw her, he drew in a sharp breath. The dark luster of her long hair, the piercing intensity and warmth of her deep chestnut eyes, and the permanently tanned features of her high-cheekboned face never ceased to stun him.
She crossed the office and sat in the chair next to his desk. There were trails through the grit on her face down her cheeks. Without speaking, she extended her right hand to Ben, and he took it, cradling it gently in his own.
Lee spoke, her voice husky with emotion. “Remember when Rev slept at old Laphraim Miller’s place and then preached the next morning at the Gordons’ house?” Even though tears glittered in her eyes, the beginnings of a smile toyed with the edges of her mouth. “That’s what popped into my mind as I walked here from the livery stable.”
Ben smiled. “Sure—an’ Lap didn’t mention that his three hounds slept on the bunk Rev used that night. Rev was teachin’ from Romans and was squirmin’ and itchin’ and scratchin’ so’s it was impossible to follow what he was sayin’! Was the kids who started laughing first, but then we all . . .”
Lee nodded. “Then Rev started with that big, booming laugh of his and promised never to sleep at Lap’s again and started in on how Lucifer’s legions are like waves and plagues of fleas, and how . . .”
Her voice trailed off. There was a comfortable silence between them for a long moment.
“Things are gonna be different without him,” Ben finally said.
“Yes. They are.” Lee paused. “But as horrible as losing Rev is, we can’t let it stop progress on the church. He wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“We won’t. But I think we need to realize that we’ve got to have a full-time man of God in Burnt Rock. When I talked with Rev last week, he said that he felt his real mission was to travel the circuit as he’d been doing for years, not to settle into a town with a single congregation.”
“His heart was too big to serve only a handful,” Lee agreed. “It was really only because we needed him so badly that he agreed to give us a week or so a month.”
“Right. And the way Burnt Rock’s growing, even the time Rev could give us wouldn’t have been enough.”
Lee straightened in her chair. “I’ll start writing to theological schools tomorrow. And I’ll pay whoever we find the first year’s salary too. I’ve had two good years at the Busted Thumb, and the army just put in a purchase order for seventy head of remount stock. I’ve felt kind of . . . I don’t know . . . homeless since our little church burned down. It wasn’t much, but it was a place we could meet and pray and hold services. Now that I’ve made some profit, I want to get our church going again, stronger than ever.”
Ben squeezed her hand. “That’s great, Lee. It shouldn’t be too awful long before the church building is finished. Willy Teller said he’d give us the use of his grandpa’s little house for Rev or any other minister we got here, so we’ve got a good situation to offer a man of God.”
The office door slammed open and crashed against the wall. Ben was on his feet, and his Colt had cleared leather by the time the door bounced back.
Old Missy Joplin pinned her stare on him. “You might use that weapon on the scoundrels who murdered Rev Tucker rather than on an innocent and defenseless old lady, Benjamin.”
Ben holstered his pistol and sat back down behind his desk as Lee stood to embrace the old woman.
“You’re about as innocent and defenseless as a mama bear, Missy,” Ben said. “And I’ve asked you a dozen times not to come chargin’ in here like a bull buffalo! You like to give us both heart attacks!”
“Oh, hush,” Missy said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand and moving into Lee’s hug. “I’m so sorry it was you who had to find Rev, honey. What a terrible thing for you.”
Missy Joplin stood barely five feet tall; she was as lean and as hard
as a railroad spike, and her hair was a constant snowy battle of tangles and wisps. Her skin was gnarled like the shell of a walnut, and her eyes were an unwavering aqua blue that would have been devastating to men on a woman three-fourths her age. As it was, at ninety years old, Missy had more energy and gumption than any other woman of any age in Burnt Rock.
Missy released Lee and turned to Ben, removing a paper sack from her purse. “This is the money from the festival,” she said. “There’s almost eight hundred dollars—and that’ll buy a lot of boards and nails and such.”
“Eight hundred dollars?” Lee gasped. “That can’t be right! Selling a few cakes and pies doesn’t—”
“How much did you toss in on top of the festival money, Missy?” Ben asked, grinning.
“That’s none of your business, Benjamin. You just get the order out for what we need—and do it today.”
“Yes’m,” Ben replied, feeling like a schoolboy answering his teacher.
Lee grabbed onto Missy’s hand, acting more like an excited schoolchild. “I’m going to write to divinity schools,” she said. “We need to get a minister here as soon as we can.”
“Good. An’ don’t you dare settle on some ol’ fogey like me! We need a devoted young fella to boot the fear of the Lord into some of these Sunday Christians hereabouts!” She shook Lee’s hand. “I don’t expect you need a ride in my surrey back to the Busted Thumb?”
“No, but thank you anyway. I have Slick down at the livery stable.”
Missy snorted. “I’m sure you have—and I’m sure you know how I feel ’bout a Christian lady ridin’ astride a horse like a common cowhand. And those sinful trousers you insist on wearin’ don’t do nothin’ but give men the wrong idea about you, Lee Morgan.”
Lee sighed. “They’re culottes, and they’re not sinful,” she said. “I’m more covered than I’d be if I were wearing a dress. In France the women all wear—”
“We’re not in France,” Missy interrupted. “I understand that the French eat horse meat. Are you going to start doing that too?”
“Missy . . .”
The old lady turned to the doorway. “You see that those letters go out to find that preacher, Lee,” she ordered. “And Ben, are you going out after them who murdered Rev Tucker?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“You’d be well advised to carry your Sharp’s and not try to engage those animals at handgun range, Benjamin. I’ll pray for you tonight.”
Before Ben could respond, the woman was out the door, her heels tapping hurriedly on the wooden sidewalk as she hustled to her next stop.
“I guess we’ve been told,” he said.
Lee smiled. “Just like always.” She turned to the door. “I should head back to the Thumb. I need to tell Carlos and Maria and my men about Rev.”
Ben moved to her and drew her gently to him. “I’ll stop the day after tomorrow or maybe the day after that.”
Lee stepped back from his embrace. “Be careful, Ben.” “I will—you know that. Now that you’re in my life, I’m always careful.”
As she rode back to her ranch through the twilight, Lee dreaded telling Carlos and Maria, her ranch manager and his wife, about the death of the circuit-riding minister. Rev had spent many nights at Carlos and Maria’s home adjacent to Lee’s on the Busted Thumb Horse Farm.
Slick moved easily under Lee in his rocking-horse lope. The thud of the stallion’s hooves on the arid surface of the prairie sounded like the somber, measured beat of a funeral drum. The sky to the west was ablaze with the setting sun, and she watched the brilliance of the colors as the light diminished. For a moment, her heart was lifted beyond her sorrow and her fear for Ben that she locked away in a secret part of her heart.
But the thoughts returned. Could I bear that fear for the rest of my life? Could I live with knowing my husband faced death at the hands of evil men every day—and knowing that his work often forced him to kill? Lee shook her head sharply in an attempt to chase her concerns from her mind. The images and the fears persisted for a moment, but she broke free of them when she straightened in her saddle and cued Slick to run. That’s the only kind of running I do, she assured herself. And it’s the only kind I will ever do.
She focused her eyes and her spirit on the sunset and rode on toward her home.
The next morning Snorty was asleep, standing at the corner of his stall, when Ben walked into the small barn with a lantern swinging from his hand. He poured a ration of crimped oats with molasses into his horse’s grain pan and checked the level of water in the bucket hanging from its handle in the stall. He separated a flake of hay from a bale, sniffed it to be sure there was no dust or rot, and then dropped it into the stall.
The rich aroma of the horse feed and the strong, warm scent of well-cared-for leather were smells Ben knew he would never tire of experiencing. He sipped coffee from the steaming mug in his hand and watched Snorty eat for a few moments. Then he sat on the dirt floor under the spot where he’d hung his lantern and took a worn, well-thumbed Bible from a shelf where it rested beside a pound can of petroleum hoof dressing and a couple of hoof picks.
It was his system—or nonsystem—to open his Bible to a random page each morning and begin his reading at that spot. Actual Scripture study he left for the meetings he and Lee had begun at her ranch and that now were held at Grange Hall. His morning readings were a pure and necessary pleasure, like a dipper of frigid well water after a long ride across the Texas prairie in mid-August. He breathed a quick prayer of gratitude as he opened the book. There had been no trouble from the raiders or anyone else the night before.
When he closed the Bible and stood, his mind was free—at least for a little while—of his concerns and fears and sorrow over the loss of his friend. He saddled and bridled Snorty and led him outside, where the pastels of dawn were hardening into the brighter, more vibrant colors that preceded the sun. The morning air was cool, but Ben knew the temperature would start climbing in a couple of hours.
Burnt Rock was just rubbing the sleep from its eyes as he rode out of town. At a slow lope he covered the miles to the site where Rev Tucker had been killed, saving Snorty’s strength, not knowing how much ground he’d need to cover before nightfall.
The hoofprints in the sand were distinctive enough. Again, his eyes picked out the imperfect oval imprints of unshod horses and the more crisp, inverted Us of the shod animals. Ben put Snorty into a lope and followed the prints as easily as he’d follow a marked road.
Small clusters of clear glass glittering in the strengthening sun indicated that the gang of murderers was drinking whiskey and using the empty pints for target practice. The mindless arrogance of the gang set Ben’s mouth in a grim line. They’d murdered a man of God, stolen his horse, and were now meandering to their next bloodletting, making no attempt to cover their tracks.
Ben reined in, dismounted, and hunkered down, using his forefinger to test the tracks. The impressions were still clean—the dirt hadn’t yet sifted in to fill them. He couldn’t tell how far behind he was, but the spacing of the tracks showed the killers were moving more slowly.
At about noon, he stopped and climbed down from his saddle. He loosened the girths and checked under the saddle blanket for galls, at the same time allowing fresh air to reach Snorty’s back. Then he filled his Stetson with water and held it steady as his horse drank from it. Ben took a pair of swallows from the canteen, replaced the cork, and tied it back on his saddle. He wanted more water, but he swallowed his thirst; he wasn’t sure when he’d strike water, so rationing was necessary.
During the midafternoon, he noticed what he thought was an injured bird flapping its white wings on the prairie floor a few hundred yards ahead. He eased Snorty into a gallop, thinking he could put the bird out of its pain. When he drew closer, he saw that it wasn’t a bird at all—it was a Bible that had been tossed aside. It rested on its back, open wide, and a ground breeze was now ruffling the pages. He dismounted and picked up the book. The i
nscription inside the front cover read:
To my beloved son, the Reverend
Morris Tucker, who now carries
the truth with him,
just as this book does.
Mrs. Bernard Tucker
June 12, 1851
Ben put the remains of the Bible in his saddlebag. When he swung into his saddle, a vein at his right temple began throbbing in tempo with his pulse. That evening he paid scant attention to the splendor of the sunset that engulfed the western sky. His eyes swept the vastness of the prairie around him, never still, seeking out any sign of the gang. He no longer watched for tracks; the murderers had ridden dead west since they’d left Rev’s body, and Ben doubted they’d switch directions. After darkness fell, he came upon a small, shallow spring and let Snorty drink. Then he filled his canteen with the tepid, muddy-tasting water and rode on.
The moon, so large and so close in the sky that it seemed he could reach out and touch the stark white fullness of it, provided all the light he needed. A couple of hours past midnight, he heard the distant echo of gunfire—two single rounds and then a volley of pistol and rifle reports. Ben cued Snorty out of his mile-eating lope and into a gallop. The horse responded with a burst of speed and power that carried him over the prairie like a mountain cat following the strong scent of prey.
A few more shots helped Ben center in on precisely where the raiders were located. He topped a small rise, and a wisp of smoke reached him a moment before he saw the fire. It was a large one, with flames reaching well into the sky, the smoke thick and gray in the moonlight. The night riders were burning a farm wagon and whatever it had been carrying. There’d been no ruts as Ben tracked the gang, so the wagon must have been coming from the opposite direction.
