Preacher

by William W. Johnstone

  “Look what I found,” he said, though he still hadn’t showed her what he was holding.

  “What is it? What do you have?” Jennie asked.

  “Huh-uh, you’ll have to guess.”

  “Oh, now, I’m not good at guessing. Please tell me what it is.

  “I’ll do better than that,” Art said. “I’ll give it you. It’s yours to keep.” He held the little rabbit out toward her.

  “Oohhh!!” Jennie squealed in delight as she held the wriggling little piece of fur in her hands. “Oh, thank you! He is so pretty.”

  Jennie’s face lit up brighter than it had been at any time since Art first saw her. She held the little rabbit to her cheek. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Oh, that’s not for me to say. He belongs to you now. You’ll have to name him,” Art said.

  “I think I’ll call him . . .”

  That was as far as she got. Unnoticed by either one of them, Younger had walked quickly up to the wagon. Reaching over the edge of the wagon, he grabbed the little rabbit, then turned and threw it as far as he could.

  “Mr. Younger no!” Jennie screamed, while Art watched the little bunny flying through the air, kicking ineffectively. It fell hard, several feet away, bounced once, then remained perfectly still.

  “I told you, I don’t hold with that kind of business,” Younger said. “Keepin’ rabbits ’n such as pets is for babies and chil’run. You’re a woman, full-growed now, and it’s time you started actin’ like one.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jennie said contritely.

  “And you,” Younger continued, turning toward Art. “Next time you bring in a rabbit, it better be big enough to make into a stew.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said, mimicking Jennie’s response.

  Younger moved on up toward the head of the team. He reached out to grab the harness of the off-mule, using it to help pull him along.

  Art looked up at Jennie and saw that tears were sliding down her cheeks. He had hoped to cheer her up, but wound up making things worse. He felt very bad about it.

  “I’m sorry about the rabbit,” he said quietly.

  “It’s all right. You couldn’t do nothin’ about it,” she answered with a sniff.

  “Why do you call your pa Mr. Younger?”

  Jennie looked at Art in shock. “He ain’t my pa,” she said.

  “Oh, I see. He’s your step-pa then? He married your ma, is that it?”

  Jennie shook her head. “Mrs. Younger ain’t my ma.”

  “They ain’t your ma and pa?”

  “No. They’re my owners.”

  “Owners? What do you mean, owners?”

  “I’m their slave girl. I thought you knowed that.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Art said. “Fact is, I don’t know as I’ve ever knowed a white slave girl.”

  “I ain’t exactly white,” Jennie said quietly.

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m Creole. My grandma was black.”

  “But how can you be their slave? You don’t do no work for ’em,” Art said. “I mean . . . no offense meant, but I ain’t never seen you do nothin’ like get water or firewood, or help out Mrs. Younger with the cookin’.”

  “No,” Jennie said quietly. “But gathering firewood, or helping in the kitchen, ain’t the only way of workin’. There’s other ways . . . ways that”—she stopped talking for a moment—“ways that I won’t trouble you with.”

  “You mean, like what you was doin’ with all them men last night?”

  Jennie cut a quick glance toward him. The expression on her face was one of total mortification. “You . . . you seen what I was doin’?”

  “No, I didn’t really see nothin’ more’n a bunch of men linin’ up at the back of the wagon. Even when I went to bed, I couldn’t see what was goin’ on on the other side of the tarp.”

  “Do you . . . do you know what I was doing in there?”

  Art shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I got me an idea that you was doin’ what painted ladies do. Onliest thing is, I don’t rightly know what that is.”

  Jennie looked at him in surprise for a moment; then her face changed and she laughed.

  “What is it? What’s so funny?” Art asked.

  “You are,” she said. “You are still just a boy after all.”

  “I ain’t no boy,” Art said resolutely. “I done killed me a man. I reckon that’s made me man enough.”

  The smile left Jennie’s face and she put her hand on his shoulder. “I reckon it does at that,” she said.

  “You don’t like doin’ what Younger is makin’ you do, do you?”

  “No. I hate it,” Jennie said resolutely. “It’s——it’s the worst thing you can imagine.”

  “Then why don’t you leave?”

  “I can’t. I belong to ’em. Besides, iffen I left, where would I go? What would I do? I’d starve to death if I didn’t have someone lookin’ out for me.”

  “I don’t know,” Art said. “But seems to me like anything would be better than this.”

  “What about you? Are you going to stay with the Youngers?”

  “Only as long as it takes to get to St. Louis,” Art replied. “Then I’ll go out on my own.”

  “Have you ever been to St. Louis?” Jennie asked.

  “No, have you?”

  Jennie shook her head. “No, I haven’t. Mr. Younger says it’s a big and fearsome place, though.”

  “I’ll bet you could find a way to get on there,” Art said. “I’ll bet you could find work, the kind of work that wouldn’t make you have to paint yourself up and be with men.”

  “I’d be afraid. If I try to get away, Mr. Younger will send the slave catchers after me.”

  “Slave catchers? What are slave catchers?”

  “They are fearsome men who hunt down runaway slaves. They are paid to find the runaways, and bring ’em back to their masters. They say that the slave hunters always find who they are lookin’ for. And most of the time they give ’em a whippin’ before they bring ’em back. I ain’t never been whipped.”

  “I can see where a colored runaway might be easy to find. But you don’t look colored. How would they find you? Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you get away.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Easy,” Art said with more confidence than he felt. “I aim to leave the Youngers soon’s we get to St. Louis. When I go, I’ll just take you with me, that’s all. You bein’ white and all, you could pass for my sister. No one’s goin’ to take you for a runaway. Why, I’ll bet you could find a job real easy.”

  “Maybe I could get on with someone looking after their children,” Jennie suggested. “I’m real good at looking after children. You really will help me?”

  “Yes,” Art replied. He spat in the palm of his hand, then held it out toward Jennie.

  “What . . . what is that?” Jennie asked, recoiling from his proffered hand.

  “It’s a spit promise,” Art said. “That’s about the most solemn promise there is.

  Smiling, Jennie spat in her hand as well, then reached out to take Art’s hand in hers. They shook on the deal.

  Half an hour later they stopped to give the team a rest. Younger peed right by the side of the road, making no effort to conceal himself from the women. Buttoning up his trousers, he came back up to the wagon.

  “Art, they’s a cow down there,” he said. He reached down into the wagon and pulled out a piece of rope. “I want you to go down there and get her, and bring her back up here. Tie her off to the back of the wagon.”

  “You mean just go get her?” Art asked in surprise. “How can I do that? Doesn’t she belong to anyone?”

  “Yes. She belongs to me,” Younger said.

  “But how can that be? I thought you said you hadn’t been up this way before.”

  “The cow belongs to me because I say she does,” Younger said irritably. “Now, go get her like I said.”

  “I’d rather not,” Art said
. “I’m afraid that would be stealing and I don’t want to steal from anyone.”

  “It’s not stealing,” Younger insisted. “Look, the cow is just standing out there. If she belonged to someone, don’t you think she would be in a barn somewhere? Or at least in a pen. Now, go get her like I said.”

  Art thought about it. On the one hand, he felt a sense of obligation to Younger for taking him in. On the other, he was sure that the cow didn’t belong to Younger, so taking it would be stealing. It was clear, however, that if he didn’t go get the cow, Younger would, so the end result would be the same. And if Art was being ordered to take the cow, then he didn’t think it would be the same thing as him stealing.

  “All right,” he said, taking the rope. “I’ll get her.”

  “Good lad,” Younger said. “You’re going to work out just fine.”

  They hadn’t gone more than a mile beyond that when two horsemen overtook them. Both riders were carrying rifles and they rode up alongside the wagon, demanding that it stop. One of the riders was about Younger’s age; the other looked to be little older than Art. Art was sure they were father and son.

  “Something I can do for you gentlemen?” Younger asked.

  “Hell, yes, there’s something you can do, mister,” the older of the two riders said. He pointed to the cow. “You can untie our cow from the back of your wagon.”

  “This is your cow?”

  “You’re damn right this is our cow.”

  “Art, untie that cow right now,” Younger ordered. “Give it back to the rightful owners.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art said, walking back toward the cow.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Younger said to the two men.

  “What I’d like to know is, what are you doing with our cow in the first place?”

  “I can see how it might look a little suspicious,” Younger said. He pointed to Art. “But the boy there had the cow with him when we picked him up on the road.”

  “You say the boy had the cow?”

  “He did. He said he had a hankerin’ to go to St. Louis, and he offered me the cow in exchange for my wife and me to take him there.”

  Art heard Younger’s lie, but he made no attempt to dispute it.

  “If you was a mite older, boy, you’d be hanging from yonder tree,” the older rider said as Art passed the end of the cow’s lead rope up to him.

  “He’s near as old as I am, Pa,” the younger rider said. “Seems to me like that’s old enough to hang.”

  The older man shook his head. “No. I don’t take to hangin’ boys.” He pointed his rifle at Art. “But hear this, boy. If I ever see you in these parts again, I’ll like as not shoot you. I figure the earlier you can stop a thief, the less grief other folks will be getting from him.”

  “I don’t think the boy meant to steal the cow, mister,” Younger said. “He told us he found it walkin’ down the road. I think he thought the cow had just wandered off.”

  “Uh-huh. You say you just picked him up, did you?”

  “Yes, sir, my wife and I did. Figured it would be a Christian kindness to take him in.”

  “Well, you’d better watch that he don’t steal ever’thing you got and leave you in the middle of the night,” the older of the two riders said gruffly. “Come on, son. Let’s get Nellie back into the barn.”

  The riders left then, at as fast a trot as the cow would allow. Art waited until they were well out of earshot before he spoke.

  “Mr. Younger, it wasn’t right, you telling those men I stole that cow.”

  “I didn’t tell them you stole it, I told them you found it,” Younger said. “Besides, you saw how they were. If they had thought I took it, they would’ve hung me. Would you have wanted that on your conscience?”

  “No, I reckon not,” Art replied. It didn’t occur to him to tell Younger that his conscience would have been clear since he had opposed taking the cow in the first place.

  “I guess we’ll just have to be more careful next time, won’t we?”

  Art didn’t answer.

  “Let’s step up the pace a little,” Younger said, running his finger around his neck collar. “This place don’t sit well with me.

  6

  When they stopped that night to make camp, there were no other wagons around. Younger griped a bit about the fact that nobody else was there.

  “You’d think for sure there’d be some travelers here,” he complained. “They’s a goodly supply of wood, grass, and water. The land is flat, makin’ for easy campin’. Seems to me like it’s the perfect place to stop, only ain’t nary a traveler in sight.”

  Jennie didn’t say a word, but Art knew that she was happy they were alone. That meant she didn’t have to entertain any men.

  After supper, Younger asked Art to come with him to look for some dewberries. “I seen me some back a ways, so there’s likely to be more around here some’ers. Iffen we can gather us up a mess of berries, I’ll have the missus make a dewberry pie. I reckon both of you young’uns would like that.”

  Art thought of the blackberry pies and cobblers his mother used to make, and his stomach growled. It had been quite a while now since he had anything like that.

  “Yes, sir, I’d like it a lot,” he said.

  “Well, then let’s get to lookin’,” Younger ordered.

  The two left the campsite, Younger carrying a shovel with him, while Art had two empty buckets. Younger indicated that they should go out into the woods, so they left the wagon trail. To Art fell the job of breaking through the brush, while Younger had the somewhat easier task of following along behind.

  They were nearly half a mile deep into the woods when Art saw several of the fruit-laden bushes. “There are some over there,” Art said, pointing, already tasting the dewberry pie.

  “No, them’s too little to make a good pie,” Younger said. “Let’s walk on down a little farther and see what we can find. The bigger and fatter the berry, the sweeter it is. And the sweeter the berry, the better the pie.”

  “Little? If you think those berries are little, they must grow awful big here. Those are about as big as any I’ve ever seen,” Art said.

  “Don’t be smart-mouthin’ your elders, boy,” Younger said.

  Art was surprised by Younger’s vitriolic response.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. And I suppose you didn’t mean nothin’ by tryin’ to talk Jennie into runnin’ away with you when you got to St. Louis either.”

  Art didn’t answer.

  “You prob’ly thought I didn’t hear what you was sayin’ to her. But I got ears like an old hound dog and I heard ever’ word.”

  “It ain’t right, what you’re makin’ her do,” Art said. “She don’t like it, and 1 don’t think it’s right.”

  “You don’t think it’s right, do you?”

  “No, sir. Not even a little bit,” Art said resolutely.

  “Well, let me tell you somethin’, boy. It ain’t none of your business what I do with her. That girl belongs to me, bought and paid for.”

  “I don’t hold with no kind of slavery either. Black or white,” Art said.

  “Yeah, well, what you think don’t matter. And you already showed me that you ain’t goin’ to be worth a damn when it comes to takin’ advantage of the lay of the land, so to speak. Iffen you had acted quicker when I told you to take that cow, like as not we would’ve been long gone before them folks discovered what happened. What you almost done was get me hung.”

  “That ain’t right, Mr. Younger, and you know it,” Art said. “In the first place, even if I had gotten that cow the first time you told me, they would have still caught up with us. And in the second place, what you done wasn’t right. I don’t hold with stealing, and those men were right to be mad.”

  “So what you are telling me is, you’re planning on traveling with us, but you don’t plan to help out along the way. Is that right?”

  “Not if helping out means stealin
g.”

  “Uh-huh. I sort of thought that,” Younger said. “That’s why I aim to leave you here for the buzzards to pick over your bones.”

  During the entire conversation, Younger had been walking just behind Art. Now these words, coming from behind him as they were, had a chilling effect, and Art turned.

  “What do you mean, leaving me here for the buzzards to pick over my bones?” he asked.

  Younger answered Art by swinging his shovel at him. Art threw up his arm at the last minute, but it did little to ward off the blow. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, then a smashing blow to the side of his head.

  * * *

  Younger looked down on Art’s still form.

  “I should’a left you lyin’ alongside the privy back there in New Madrid. But you had near fourteen dollars on you and I figured anybody as young as you, with that much money, must be a pretty enterprisin’ fella. Too bad you turned out like you done. A young boy like you would’a been pretty good at stealin’ and such. We could’a made out pretty well along the trail, if you’d’a had enough sense to listen to me. But some folks are just too hardheaded to listen.”

  Younger began digging a grave then. He started it with every intention of making the grave six feet deep, but after a few minutes he got tired of digging. He looked at the hole he had dug, then at Art’s still form. Figuring it was deep enough, he rolled Art’s body over into the hole, and started covering him with dirt.

  It began to rain . . . just a few drops at first, then the rain came harder, and harder still.

  “Shit!” Younger swore loudly. He looked down at Art’s body. It was only half covered with dirt from the waist down. “Shit, shit, shit!” He sighed. “Well, don’t blame me for leavin’ you for the wolves and sech,” he said. “I was goin’ to bury you proper, but I ain’t goin’ to stay out in no downpour to do it.”

  Picking up the two empty buckets and throwing the shovel over his shoulder, Younger started back toward the wagon. He didn’t look back at the melancholy sight behind him.

  The rain continued to fall, drumming into the trees, sifting down through the limbs, and causing little rivulets to run and form pools on the ground below.

  * * *