by Paul Bagdon
“No thanks, Lee,” Warner said. “But I do thank you for the splendid meal. I’m only sorry Marshall Flood couldn’t make it. And I don’t know how to even begin thanking you for the horse. I’m truly blessed. Rest assured that Chowder will receive the best of care.”
“I’m sure he will, Rev. Thanks for coming. It’s been a lovely evening.”
Carlos stood and shook hands with the preacher. “Sí. And thank you, Lee. Ees time for me an’ Maria to head home. The sun, it come up early roun’ here.”
Maria joined Carlos and Warner as they walked to the door. “Gracias, Lee, mi amiga,” she said. “As always, your cheeken was perfecto.”
Missy hung back in the kitchen as the two men and Maria stepped outside. “Are you all right, honey? You didn’t say much tonight.”
“I’m fine, Missy. A little tired maybe, after all the excitement.” She smiled and grabbed Missy’s hands. “Our church has a preacher! Our prayers have been answered.”
“Praise God!” Missy exclaimed. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Have you ever seen such manners on a man?”
“He’s going to be a good influence on all of us, I think,” Lee said as she walked with Missy to the door. After the woman was settled in her surrey, Lee watched as she drove off with Rev, on Chowder, riding beside her. Carlos and Maria’s house was already dark. Light from the moon sifted through strands of clouds, softening sharp edges, casting a gentle glow on the Busted Thumb. Lee turned off her lamps in the kitchen, but instead of going to bed, she sat at the table for a long while. It was a good evening, she thought. Rev Warner has an air about him—a gift from the Lord—that will benefit all of us in his flock. She smiled. Missy would jump through a flaming hoop for the man already, and Carlos and Maria were charmed as well. Carlos even opened up about how well the horse operation at the Thumb is progressing.
Yes, it had been a good evening.
Rev Warner’s first sermon in his new town and church was a success. He strode about the area behind the newly varnished pulpit, making excellent use of the space afforded to him. His voice was resonant, powerful—almost theatrical—and he used it with practiced skill. His whisper was a peaceful interlude, and when his tone and volume rocked from the barely audible to the righteous thunder of cannons, his congregation fell under not only the spiritual strength of his words but also the seductive flow of his presentation.
Rev Tucker hadn’t been much of a public speaker. He relied on the truth of Scripture and his own convictions and faith to offer ideas and counsel to those he addressed. The difference between the styles of the two men was so vast that it was disconcerting to some.
“Reminds me of that stage play we seen in the big city,” Will Butterridge commented to his wife, loud enough so that his raspy, eighty-year-old voice could be heard throughout the church. Tessa Butteridge, red-faced, responded just as loudly, “Hush, ya ol’ coot.” If the new preacher heard the exchange—and it was likely that he had—he gave no sign.
Rev Warner stood at the front doors of the church afterward, shaking hands and accepting praise for his sermon. Missy Joplin dawdled in the church until Rev Warner was alone.
“Don’t you take for serious what that ol’ fool Will Butteridge said durin’ your talk,” she said. “He never did have the sense of a bale of hay.”
The preacher smiled. “Maybe I was a bit dramatic,” he said.
“Don’t worry ’bout that. The whole congregation enjoyed your words, Rev. Will, he’d find a problem if Gabriel hisself was up in front tootin’ his horn.” Missy reached into her beaded handbag and pulled out four gold coins. “Don’t you say no to this money,” she told him. “There ain’t a man in the world who don’t have some expenses, preacher or not. You’re gonna hafta buy feed an’ hay for the horse Lee gave you—an’ you’ll need shoes and so forth for him.”
Rev Warner shook his head. “I surely do appreciate your kindness, Missy. But a widow lady such as you can’t have much money to spare. I really can’t accept—”
“Pshaw, Rev,” Missy said. “My departed husband never laid out a dime that didn’t bring in five dollars. I have more money than I’ll ever need. It ain’t like I’m a sweet young thing, jist startin’ my life neither. I want to use what I have to do good.”
Rev Warner pocketed the gold eagles and thanked Missy again.
Lee and Ben stood together outside the church. They both smiled as Rev and Missy walked out into the sunshine. Lee pulled her shawl around her shoulders more snugly. The breeze that scurried around the churchyard promised that autumn was pushing summer away.
She greeted Missy with a warm smile and held out her hand to Warner. “How’s Chowder treating you, Rev?” she asked.
“Great. Seems like I’ve spent more time on him than I have off for the last couple of days. We’re getting to know one another well.”
“Chowder’s a good mount,” Ben said, “but he’s a smart horse, and the smart ones are the ones you need to be careful of.”
“He’s a clever one, that’s for sure,” the preacher said. “But I haven’t had any problems. He’s a tad pigheaded at times, but maybe he’s just testing me, seeing what I’ll put up with and what I won’t.”
Lee caught Ben’s eyes for a second, and then each one looked away. When the conversation changed to matters of the church board, Ben wandered to the hitching rail where the preacher’s horse was tied.
Chowder—Ben remembered the gelding’s name had come from the washed-out, grayish color of his coat, which matched the hue of prairie chowder, a meatless stew made of whatever a chuck wagon cook had on hand—was the type of horse a man would call “handy.” Chowder moved gracefully and carried himself proudly. Ben had seen him work cattle, and the horse had real cow sense. He’d taunt a bull but keep away from the hooking, razor-sharp horns, and he’d cut a calf from its mama as smooth as an eagle arcing lazy figure eights in the sky.
Ben breathed on Chowder’s muzzle—into the animal’s nostrils—as he stroked his neck. That breath exchange, Ben knew, was like the human custom of shaking hands. Chowder huffed softly back at him, remembering his scent.
There were bits of dried sweat on Chowder’s chest, Ben noticed. He stepped to the horse’s side, and his eyes stopped at the barrel, just in front of the rear cinch of the double-rigged saddle. There was dried sweat there too, and faint rowel marks. Ben walked to the other side of the horse and ran his fingers over more spur trails. His face reddened and his jaw tightened. None of Lee’s men who’d used Chowder ever felt the need to gouge him with spurs.
There was a pair of fancy Mexican silver spurs hanging from straps around the saddle horn. Ben tapped the point of a rowel with his fingertip and grimaced in anger. Not only were the points too long and too sharp, but the rowel barely moved when Ben attempted to spin it—meaning the sharp peaks would grind against the horse’s flesh rather than roll easily.
Ben took the spurs from the saddle horn and stood looking down at them in his hand for a long moment. When he returned to Missy, Lee, and Rev Warner, he felt his face redden with anger.
“Rev,” he said, “I hope you won’t take this wrong, but you don’t need these things with Chowder. He isn’t used to spurs, and that’s probably why he’s been acting up a bit. You’ll do better with leg pressure and a light touch on the reins.”
Lee looked at the pair of spurs in Ben’s hand. A quick spark flared in her eyes. “Ben’s right. I hope you’ll throw the spurs away. Some horses need a little gentle prodding at times during their training, but not with spurs like this. The wranglers call them ‘gut-rippers’ because they actually hurt the horse.”
Rev Warner’s face flushed. “I certainly didn’t know any of that,” he said. “I was talking with an old fellow in front of Scott’s, and he told me those spurs were exactly what I needed. I . . . I’ll get rid of them right away. I’m really quite sorry—but I erred from ignorance, not from any desire to hurt—”
“We know that, Rev,” Lee interrupted. “I’m
sure there’s been no harm done. But please—come to me or Ben or Carlos with any horse questions. OK?”
“Absolutely. Ben, give me those things. I’ll get rid of them right away.”
Ben nodded. “Good idea.” He handed the spurs to the preacher as if they were a dead snake rather than metal and leather. Then Missy tugged at the preacher’s sleeve.
“Come on, Rev,” she said. “My pie has been settin’ on my windowsill coolin’ since before service, an’ I can hear it callin’ out to ya.”
Warner cupped his ear, grinning. “I believe I can hear it, Missy. Ben, Lee? You’ll excuse us?”
Lee and Ben watched as the preacher and Missy walked to her surrey. Lee felt an unease emanating from Ben.
“It was an honest mistake,” she said.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Here’s the thing, though. A man doesn’t have to be born on horseback to know those rippers will hurt a horse.”
“One of those old coots who sit in front of the mercantile gave Rev bad advice is all. You know how those fellows have an opinion on everything under the sun.”
“Sure. But still. . . . No, I guess you’re right.”
“He’s a good man, Ben.”
“Sure. I know that.” He checked the position of the sun. “Whew—time’s gettin’ away. I promised Snorty a good rubdown. I’ll see you during the week, OK?”
“I hope so. I owe you a chicken dinner with all the trimmings.” She hesitated, then added, “Just the two of us, OK? To make up for the dinner you had to miss.”
Ben’s smile was broad, and the tightness left his face. “I’d like that, Lee.”
Snorty stood with his eyes half closed, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun tempered by the cool breeze that blew in off the prairie. The stallion perked up his ears when he heard Ben approaching, and snorted his usual wet greeting.
Ben pulled the reins from the loose loop they formed over the hitching rail and swung into the saddle. The toes of his boots found his stirrups as unconsciously as his right hand so often dropped to the handles of his Colt. He pointed Snorty toward town and put the slightest bit of leg pressure against his sides. A one-horse covered cart rattled up behind him.
“Marshall Flood! You! Marshall Flood!” The screeching voice sounded like the angry squeal of a pig. Ben sighed, considered putting Snorty into a gallop, and then made a wide circle back to where Mrs. Loftus Pestle sat, her eyes as dark as a crow, glaring at him as if she’d just caught him with his hand in her purse.
“I want you to execute that rooster this time, sir! In fact, I demand that you do so!”
Ben drew rein in front of the old widow. “What happened this time, Mrs. Pestle?” he asked.
“That . . . that . . . creature came right into my house this morning. It’s bad enough I have to listen to that horrible voice every morning, but this takes the cake. He came right in through my kitchen window and strutted around like a king. When I went to shoo him out, he attacked me, Marshall.”
“It’s just a rooster, Mrs. Pestle,” Ben said as gently as he could, “and folks have every right to keep chickens around their homes. I’ll talk to the Shermans again, but you can’t expect them to put their ol’ rooster on a leash, can you?”
“Don’t you dare make fun of me, sir. He came into my home. That’s breaking and entering, isn’t it? What are you going to do about it?”
“Ma’am—”
“Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time drinking coffee at O’Keefe’s and mooning over Miss Morgan, you’d have more time to protect the citizens of this town!”
“Yeah, maybe so,” Ben agreed. “Like I said, I’ll talk to the Shermans again.” He tipped his Stetson and eased Snorty away from the sputtering old woman.
Burnt Rock was quiet, as it almost always was on Sundays. Of course, the Drovers’ Inn and its denizens had no more respect for the Sabbath than a scorpion would—the out-of-tune tinkle of the piano reached Ben’s ears as he unlocked the back door to his office. He walked past the empty cells and through the door to the front of the building and sat behind his desk. He hadn’t replenished the wood in the potbelly stove this morning, so the fire had died. If he wanted coffee, he’d have to start from scratch. It seemed like more trouble than it was worth.
Without much interest, he pushed through the WANTED posters, state notices, and other papers that almost covered the top of his desk. He rolled his chair back and toed open the lower drawer to rest his feet on. A cheery little tinkling sounded as something in the drawer tapped against some glass. Curious, he leaned forward and looked into the drawer. A pint bottle and a pair of old handcuffs. He shook the drawer slightly, and the tinkling repeated. He picked up the bottle.
The label read “Blended True Rye Whiskey,” and he remembered taking it from the pocket of a drunken cowhand before he locked the man in a cell. Usually he poured the contents of the bottles of those he arrested into the dirt behind his office. He remembered the day of that particular arrest—he’d been frantically busy and must have dropped the whiskey into his drawer, intending to dump it later. He held the pint in his hand.
He’d had a problem with booze at one time. He hadn’t touched a drink in years and hadn’t found it difficult to leave the alcohol behind. But for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend, today he wanted a drink.
Lee flashed in his mind, and he saw her smiling at Rev Warner.
A cloud shifted away from the sun, and a beam pierced the office window and turned the liquid in Ben’s hand into the amber color of clover honey. The cowboy hadn’t had time to open the bottle; the cork was sealed and the line of wax around it was unbroken.
It’s been a long time since I had a taste of whiskey. Ben fingered the cork, feeling the dryness of its surface, the cool smoothness of the wax around its base. He stood and tucked the bottle into his back pocket, making sure the neck didn’t protrude in plain sight. Outside in the enclosure behind his office, he saddled Snorty mechanically, giving no conscious thought to what he was doing.
A little ride to give myself time to think. Maybe exactly what I need is a little red-eye. It’ll calm me down a bit, let me have some room in my head to figure out what’s happening with Lee an’ me an’ my life. Maybe I’ll see what it is about the preacher that makes me wonder about him . . .
He put the pint of whiskey in his saddlebag before he mounted. After riding up the alley next to his office, he turned in the opposite direction from the church. He continued on at a lazy walk to where the houses of the first residents of Burnt Rock stood, alongside the new ones being built. He smiled and tipped his hat to a lady who was watering the flower box that lined her front porch. Matt Sherman was in his rocker on the front porch, sipping from a mug and leafing through a Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog. Ben could hear Matt’s wife playing the piano inside. He reined Snorty to a stop.
“That vicious rooster of yours tore into Widow Pestle today, Matt,” Ben said. “About wrecked her house too.”
“So I heard,” Matt said, grinning. “Thing is, I was lookin’ out the kitchen window an’ I seen Mrs. Pestle whalin’ on my poor bird with a broom, screamin’ and swingin’ at him like he was Satan hisself. She run him right under my porch, an’ he didn’t come out for over an hour.”
“That’s about what I figured. Maybe you can send your missus over to calm the widow down a bit?”
“Sure. Fact is, Millie’s bakin’ up a cake right now for Mrs. Pestle. That’ll keep her till the next time.”
Ben nodded. “I’d hate to have to try to bring that rooster in, Matt. From what I hear, he’s fast an’ dangerous. I’m right scared of him, is the truth of the matter.”
“I don’t blame you. Only thing I can tell you is get rid of that Colt and carry a broom with you, instead.”
“I’ll think on that,” Ben said, laughing with his friend. He put Snorty into an easy lope and rode beyond the houses and into the prairie. When he was four or five miles outside of town, he stopped and looked around at the seemingly endless p
anorama of buffalo grass. A rise behind him blocked his view of the town he’d just left. He turned in his saddle and took the pint from his saddlebag. He twisted the cork to break the seal and then pulled it free. The harsh scent of whiskey reached him immediately.
A couple of swallows ain’t goin’ to hurt nothin’. Thing is, I could really use a drink. The image of the late Rev
Tucker flooded his mind. “The worst possible time to take a drink is when you think you need one or deserve one,” Rev had said. “But why not leave it alone completely, Ben? I know you can do this if you make a single promise to me and to yourself: that you’ll always say a prayer for direction before you take a drink. Will you promise that?”
Ben bowed his head. His lips moved silently.
A smile stretched across his face as he opened his eyes. He hurled the bottle up and away, and then his hand closed over the bone grips of his Colt. The pint took a strange flip, and his first shot missed it. His second took it square on, sending out dripping shrapnel that glinted in the sunlight. His third round shattered the largest piece his eyes could find. He fired his last three bullets at the remains that littered the ground.
On the ride back to Burnt Rock, he thought about Lee.
* * *
6
* * *
Slick danced at the end of the lead line, nostrils flared, coat gleaming in the morning sun, eyes crackling with mischief. Lee tugged him closer with the lead and stroked his neck. “Feeling your oats, my friend?” she murmured. “Does this weather make you want to run?”
“Lee, look here,” Carlos called from the small horse trough in front of the main barn. “Ees the first—how do you say?—hide of ice thees year.”
“Hide?” Lee asked.
“Sí.” He tugged at the flesh on the back of his hand. “Hide.”
Lee bit back a chuckle. “I think you mean skin, Carlos.”
Carlos thought for a moment. “Ees the same thing, no?” He walked closer to Lee. “An’ Maria, she saw a woolly bear in the garden, an’ hees band wass muy wide—the tan part. Means early winter an’ hard winter.”
