by Paul Bagdon
When a small chimera of dust appeared to the east of Burnt Rock, Lee said almost breathlessly, “That’s the stage!” Ben unfolded his arms and moved a couple of steps forward, closer to the two women.
The four-passenger stagecoach clattered down Main Street toward the depot, the side curtains of the passenger compartment closed against the sun and dust. The six horses were sweating but not lathered, and the leather suspension of the coach and the dry wood of the frame squeaked and groaned under the weight of the passengers and the wooden crates strapped to the top. The driver, a gnarled, middle-aged man with a face like a tumbleweed, pulled the stage to a halt in the middle of the street. The shotgun rider next to him stood and rubbed his lower back with his left hand, his double-barreled Remington twelve-gauge clutched in his right. The horses blew and snorted, knowing they’d soon have the water and feed they craved.
When the passenger compartment door swung open, a young cowhand with a stock saddle slung over his shoulder stepped down from the coach. His face reddened, most likely with embarrassment at being in the unexpected presence of two such finely dressed ladies and a man with a star on his chest. He managed a friendly wave but didn’t waste any time getting on down the street.
Reverend Duncan Warner stepped down from the coach gracefully, a leather valise in his left hand. The valise looked brand new, its leather polished, as if the preacher had purchased it just for this trip. The man stood at Ben’s height—about two inches over six feet—and was dressed in a dark suit that fit him too well to have been ordered from a Montgomery Ward catalog. He looked his stated forty-four years of age, and his skin had the deep color of a man who spent a good amount of time outdoors. His features were even—handsome, actually—and when he smiled his teeth were straight and white against his tanned face. He looked fresh, even after a long ride in a stifling stagecoach.
Lee and Missy stepped toward him. “I’m Reverend Warner,” he said before either of the ladies could speak. “Duncan Warner. I’m very glad to be here.” Then he grinned and added, “If you ladies aren’t here to meet me, I guess I’m getting off at the wrong stop. But assuming you are, I’m pleased to meet you.”
Ben noticed that Rev Warner’s voice projected like one very accustomed to speaking to audiences—rich, deep, his elocution flawless. He watched as Lee and Missy stepped forward and stood in front of the preacher.
Lee cleared her throat. “On behalf of Burnt Rock, we’re pleased to welcome you to our town. I’m Lee Morgan. I’m the one who wrote to you.”
Missy smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Hannah Joplin,” she said, “but everyone calls me Missy. I’d be pleased if you would too.”
Warner bowed the slightest bit as he took Missy’s hand. “I’ll do just that, Missy. Thank you.” He released her hand and reached for Lee’s. “You write a fine and legible letter, Miss Morgan. You must have paid close attention to penmanship and composition in school.”
Lee’s cheeks reddened. “Why, thank you, Reverend Warner.”
Ben stepped up, and Lee turned to him. “This is Marshall Benjamin Flood. He’s the law in Burnt Rock.”
The two men shook hands. “Good to meet you, Mr. Flood,” the preacher said, smiling. “I hope to stay on your good side as long as I’m in Burnt Rock—no matter how long or short a time that may be.”
“Pleased to meet you too, Reverend,” Ben said. “I wish some of the cattle crews and cowhands who show up in town would give me the same greeting. Things would be a lot quieter.” He noticed that the preacher’s palm felt hard and dry, and that there was strength in his fingers. Strange. Turning the pages of a Bible doesn’t callus a man’s hand.
Warner chuckled politely. “I’m sure you’re able to keep matters well in hand, Mr. Flood.”
“Please, call me Ben. We’re not awful formal round here.”
“I’d be glad to. I’m no friend of needless formality either. Please—all of you—call me either Rev or Duncan. ‘Reverend Warner’ makes me feel self-conscious, as if I set myself apart in some way from others. That’s not the case at all. If nothing else, I’m a man of the people. The Lord has chosen to work through me, but that’s to his glory, certainly not to mine.”
Missy beamed at him, obviously pleased with his words. “You must be starved, Rev,” she said brightly. “Let’s go on down to the café and we’ll see to that. We’ve got a nice room for you at the hotel, and after we eat you can go and rest up from your trip.”
“Fine, fine,” Warner said. “Now—as to the arrangements . . . ?”
Lee looked confused for a moment. “Arrangements?” Then she smiled. “I’m sorry, Rev. Of course, you want to know what’s going to happen in terms of the church board. I’m afraid the quickest we can meet isn’t until next Wednesday. One of our members is out of town until then, and another is down with ague. I know that’s almost a week away, but it’s the best we could do.”
“Well,” Warner said. His voice was the least bit less expansive and warm. “Frankly, I anticipated the meeting and interview to take place on a more expeditious basis. You see . . . there’s another church that . . . no, never mind that. I can wire them. And I’ll have the interim time here in Burnt Rock to meet a few people and get to know a bit about the town. Perhaps the slight delay is a blessing in disguise.” He smiled broadly, announcing the matter to be closed. “Now, then—did someone mention a meal? The food at the stage stop early this morning was atrocious—and it was a long time ago!”
Lee wondered if any of the chairs in the café had ever before been pulled out for ladies in the manner Reverend Warner did it for her and Missy. Ben would often tug a chair away from the table for her, but it tended to look like an afterthought, something he’d almost forgotten to do. The preacher, however, moved the chairs as if it were his particular honor to do so, and he met and held her eyes as she sat.
Bessie served them, but her usual bantering with Lee, Ben, and Missy was replaced by a stiff formality, and her customary “Can I get you anything else?” became “Will there be anything further?” Lee smiled inwardly. The Reverend seemed to be the sort of man who garnered respect and even preferential treatment from people everywhere he went. Was that, she wondered, because he was a man of God or because of his manners? This time a smile reached her face. Or is it because he looks like the hero of a stage play?
“Something funny, Lee?” Ben asked. “You’re grinnin’ like a kid at Christmas.”
“I’m just glad we’re all here and that we’re finally meeting.”
“No more pleased than I am,” Warner said, patting lightly at his mouth with a napkin.
“Letters are fine for what they are,” Missy piped up. “But I don’t think they’re a measure of a person. Takes a real settin’ down together like we’re doin’ to get a feel
’bout someone. Now, Rev Warner here, I can tell he’s—”
A prolonged whoop from the street, followed by the pounding of hooves, interrupted Missy’s speech. Ben stood up suddenly, as if he’d been waiting for the moment. Lee glanced toward the street through the front window of the café. The Benson twins—nine-yearold boys—rode by double on their dad’s carriage horse, both wearing Indian headdresses made from chicken feathers.
“I gotta check on that,” Ben said, grabbing his hat. “Sorry, Rev. Ladies.”
Lee caught the hardness of his eyes before he turned away. “It was only the . . .” she began, but Ben was already halfway across the room.
“His must be a trying job,” Warner observed. After a moment, he added, “Tell me more about the people of your church, ladies. I’m very much looking forward to getting to know them.”
Reverend Duncan Warner had plenty of time to think over the next six days. The rain that fostered bountiful crops and fat cattle and horses had begun as he, Missy, and Lee had left O’Keefe’s Café, and it hadn’t let up in four days. It wasn’t a driving rain, but it made walking about town decidedly uncomfortable, and since not all of Main Street had sidewalks, the viscous
mud played havoc on well-shined shoes.
Warner stepped away from the window facing the street and slumped into the single chair his room at the Merchant’s Rest Hotel provided. An interesting little town, he thought. Rich with opportunity for the right preacher. As he shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the harsh light of the lamp on the dresser seemed to drive itself into his eyes. The waiting is the hardest part for a man with a mission.
The preacher walked the few steps to the coffin-sized closet. He sorted through his two suits, several pairs of trousers, and a series of starched white shirts and found what he was after: a shawl-like cloak that would keep the rain off his shoulders, chest, and back. A pair of mud-encrusted shoes rested forlornly near the door. He pulled them on, buttoned them, and stepped out of his room, locking the door behind him.
The tinkling of the piano from the Drovers’ Inn is an oddly light and innocent sound to issue from such a den of iniquity, he thought. It seemed to call to him. He turned in the opposite direction as he began his walk. The wind had picked up since the afternoon, and it was now blowing the rain in gusts. The preacher looked up and down Main Street. All the shops and stores had long since been closed for the night, and the only lights shone from the saloon, the livery stable, and the marshall’s office. A hard man, that Ben Flood. Not one to trust another quickly, and guarded about himself. Proprietary toward Lee Morgan too.
A sheet of rain began down the deserted street, and the preacher stepped into the alley beside Scott’s Mercantile to avoid it. A creaking sound down the alley caught his attention. As he watched in the murky darkness, a slight form clutching something to its chest backed out of a side door to the mercantile. As clouds shifted away from the moon, Warner saw that the figure’s movements were quick and furtive.
“Hey!” he said.
The boy—Warner could now see it was a boy—spun and bolted, flinging away what he was carrying. The slick mud was treacherous, and the boy’s boots skidded out from under him. He went down in the muck. Before the boy could scramble to his feet, Warner had a good hold of his arm and the back of his neck.
“What’s this all about?” Warner demanded.
“Lemme go! I didn’t do nothin’!”
“You broke into this store and were stealing from it. That sounds like something to me. Who are you?” “You can go right to—”
Warner released the boy’s arm and with the same hand slapped him sharply across the face, cutting off the curse. The boy cowered back against the wall, his eyes wide in fear. Rain drained from the narrow brim of his oversized bowler onto his shoulders, chest, and back. Warner saw he was dressed in rags.
“There’s no call for cursing. What’s your name, son?” “Henry. Jus’ Henry. I got no last name.”
“Where do you live, Henry? Where are your parents?” He eased his hand free of the boy’s neck but stood directly in front of the cowering youth, blocking his escape.
“I been stayin’ at the smithy shop. The owner lets me sleep there if I clean up the place each day. I ain’t got no parents.” The thief’s spirit seemed to be returning. “What’s it to ya, anyway? If you’re gonna take me to the marshall, let’s get goin’. Least I’ll sleep dry an’ on a cot tonight.”
Warner chuckled. “Why’d you do this, son? Why’d you break into the store?”
“Why’s anybody steal? I needed some stuff, an’ I didn’t have any money.”
Warner turned his head to the side for a moment. An Armor’s canned ham was submerged in mud, and a blanket was soaking up rain where it had landed.
“You’d risk jail for things worth a couple of dollars?”
“Look, Mister—I ain’t gonna stand here an’ jaw with you. Either take me to Flood’s office or leave me alone.”
Warner thought for a moment. When he spoke, the sharpness was gone from his voice. “I don’t think I’m going to turn you in, Henry. I think that maybe we can be friends. I’m going to be the new preacher here, and I could use a friend. Are you a believer, son?”
“I dunno. I lived for a bit with some folks who had religion. I guess I didn’t take to it. Hey, you bein’ straight about not takin’ me in?”
“I am. Perhaps we can both use a friend. Take the blanket and the ham and go on your way. Being hungry is no sin. But don’t let me learn of you breaking into another store, you hear me?”
“Yeah. I hear.”
“After I’m installed at the church, we’ll talk again—we’ll talk about many things. Is that all right with you?”
“I guess so, if that’s what you want. I ain’t much for talkin’, though.”
Warner stepped back and held out his hand. Henry paused and then shook it. “One thing,” the boy said. “Don’t you never hit me again.”
“Don’t give me a reason to, Henry.” The preacher smiled. “I’m looking forward to our talks. Bless you, son.”
The rain stopped the afternoon before the meeting, but the air remained thick with humidity. The six members of the Burnt Rock church board sat on either side of a long table in the meeting room of Grange Hall. It was brighter than day due to the three large lamps suspended from the ceiling, and although the room’s single window was open, no air stirred.
Lee, Missy, and Sam Turner sat on one side of the table, and Joshua Scott, Harvey Stein and his wife, Rose, and Deland Ehrich, the photographer, sat on the other. All were dressed as if for an important occasion—which this meeting was.
Duncan Warner, standing at the head of the table, had kept his initial presentation short, citing his education at the School of Theology in Medina, New York, and his work as assistant pastor at three small churches afterward. He responded to scriptural questions from the board like a biblical scholar, stressing his strict interpretation of the Word of God. Then, he closed.
“These are letters from each of the pastors I worked under,” he said, taking three envelopes from the inner pocket of his suit coat and placing them on the table. “I’ll ask you to read them. I think you’ll find them quite complimentary concerning my work.”
“What exactly was your work in Chicago, Reverend Warner?” Sam Turner asked.
The preacher paused and looked down at the table. “My mission there was a difficult one,” he answered. “And it was one at which I failed.”
The board members waited, their eyes locked on Warner’s face. For a long moment, the preacher said nothing. When he looked up from the table, his face seemed to have lost some of its healthy glow. A bead of sweat started at his hairline and ran down his cheek. “Because of the ladies present, I hesitate to expand on the subject,” he said quietly.
“We’re brothers and sisters in Christ here, Reverend,” Missy said. “You needn’t be embarrassed. Please go on.”
Warner straightened his shoulders. “Very well. Chicago is a city given to sins of the flesh. My mission—and it was one I assigned to myself—was to work with the soiled doves who offered their bodies to men for money. These fallen women live lives of terrible degradation, of calamitous sin, of utter godlessness. I believed that I heard their silent voices crying out for the Lord even as they went about their licentious business. I worked with them, counseled them, brought them the words of God. My eyes have seen horrors that I’ll never forget, ladies and gentlemen. I did all I possibly could for those women. They spurned me, laughed at me, ridiculed me and what I was trying to do for them and with them. Then their men turned on me—not only their customers but the owners of the brothels.” He pushed aside his collar, revealing a slightly raised pale scar the size of a five-cent piece on the fleshy part of his neck. “This was from a bullet,” he said quietly. “I have scars from the lash on my back and chest.”
There was an audible intake of breath by the board members.
“When I was finally able to leave the hospital, I prayed for counsel. I knew I had failed the Lord, and I asked that he provide another chance for me, another opportunity to spread his Word and work with his people.” He sighed. “That’s why I’m here.”
/>
“One further question,” Mrs. Stein said. “What was it that brought you to take on such an impossible task?”
The preacher leaned forward and put both of his hands on the table, almost supporting himself with them. He lowered his head. When he spoke, his voice was tortured. “My younger sister, Emma, had become a prostitute. She died of a wasting disease in an alley in Chicago.”
Deland Ehrich cleared his throat and met the eyes of each of his fellow board members individually, turning his head slowly. “Thank you, Reverend Warner. I’ll now ask you to leave the room for a few moments.” He cleared his throat again and added, “I don’t think we’ll be long.”
* * *
5
* * *
Mike and Bessie O’Keefe closed to general business the next afternoon to host Reverend Warner’s welcoming party. The air in the café was redolent with the sweet, spicy aroma of apple pie and freshly brewed coffee. Several tables had been pushed together end to end and were covered with heaping platters of fried chicken, sliced roast beef, sugar-coated ham, bowls mounded with thick, creamy mashed potatoes, a large tureen of vegetable soup, rolls and bread still warm from the oven, and several quart crocks of fresh butter. The children had been let out of school early for the celebration, and Bessie put them to work cranking the ice cream maker.
Rev Warner stood at the head of a receiving line after everyone had eaten, flanked by Missy and Lee. Many of the older ladies in his flock fussed over him, and more than a few had tears in their eyes as they welcomed their new shepherd. Sam Turner discreetly handed Warner an envelope, as did several of the other wealthy cattlemen and merchants of the town. When the line finally ended, the preacher had a half dozen envelopes in his hand as he addressed the group.
