Black Noon

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “Yes, George,” Libbie smiled, “you’ll be twenty-eight on your next birthday, and besides, you’ve had offers . . .”

  “Hell, yes. Offers to run for mayor, for governor, maybe even president, but I’m no politician . . . offers to use my good name and front for corporations that have nothing to sell except my good name. Well, I won’t do that . . . ever. That’s why I envy you, Jon. You’ve found your calling, and you’re going to practice it. Well, I found mine a long time ago, and they won’t let me. They’ve sent other ex-generals out west, but not the Boy General. There are politicians and general officers jealous of that ‘glory-grabbing Custer’ who don’t want his reputation to grow too much—in fact, they prefer that he just lie fallow and be forgot.”

  “This country will never forget,” Libbie said, “what you’ve done for it, Autie.”

  “Seems like it’s been forgot already . . . if it weren’t for you, Libbie, I’d go crazy. I might just go crazy anyhow. Excuse me. I’m lousy company. I’m going to go for a walk along the river . . . and if I couldn’t swim, I think I’d jump in.”

  “General, do you mind if I walk with you a ways?”

  “Not if you don’t mind lousy company . . . Reverend . . . and don’t bring your Bible.”

  “Some picnic,” Lorna smiled as Keyes sat at the side of the bed.

  “What did you talk about, Jonathon, you and George Custer?”

  “He did all the talking, about his favorite subject . . . war. What did you and Libbie talk about?”

  “She did most of the talking,” Lorna smiled, “about her favorite subject, General George Armstrong Custer. Did you know, Jonathon, that General Philip Sheridan bought the table that generals Grant and Lee signed the surrender on at Appomattox? Well, he did and presented it to Libbie with a note saying, and I remember every word of it . . . Libbie repeated it to me:

  My dear Madam,

  I respectfully present to you the small writing-table on which the conditions for the surrender of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia was written by Lt.-Gen’l. Grant; and permit me to say, madam, that there is scarcely an individual who has contributed more to bring about this desirable result than your very gallant husband.

  Very Respectfully,

  Phil. H. Sheridan

  Maj.-Gen’l.

  “Well, Libbie told me that she had just sent a letter to Sheridan virtually begging him to cut through the bureaucratic red tape, and whatever else it took, on behalf of her husband. But she hadn’t told him in case Sheridan couldn’t help . . . and Custer would be even more despondent and ‘out of sorts.’”

  “What a woman!” Keyes laughed. “There aren’t many like her . . . and like you, Lorna.”

  “And the same could be said about Custer . . . and you, my husband.”

  “That could only be said,” Keyes smiled, “by you . . . my wife.”

  “I’ll say this Jonathon . . . let’s go on that picnic.”

  Moon, dressed in his satanic black, with that impenetrable look on his face, outlined against a gunpowder sky, rode slowly toward his destination.

  CHAPTER 41

  A rough-hewn cross marked the site of the new church being constructed—but there was more evidence than that—living evidence.

  Townspeople, Joseph, William Bryant, Sam Hawkins, Jacob, and all the rest—hammering, carrying lumber as some of the framework was already taking shape. Children were doing their share of the lighter work. Even Caleb was at it in his supervisory capacity, with his ever-present pipe still stuck in his mouth.

  More than a dozen of the ladies, including Deliverance and Bethia were preparing food and liquid refreshment at a nearby table. A covey of cooked chickens, baked potatoes, varied other vegetables, salads, pies and cakes were on display.

  Lorna sat in a chair under a shady spot sipping lemonade, but her face was somewhat drawn and now almost colorless.

  Keyes approached carrying a saw, his sleeves rolled up, as he wiped a patina of perspiration from his brow.

  “Lorna, would you like me to bring you a fresh glass of lemonade?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  She didn’t exactly look fine to Keyes, and he did his best to cheer her up.

  “At the rate they’re going,” he pointed with the saw toward the activity, “the church will be ready for that first sermon in short order.”

  “I hope so, Jonathon, but . . . to tell you the truth, I’m not sure how much longer I should stay out here.”

  He leaned close and kissed her forehead.

  “Lorna, please, you’ve got to stay a little longer . . . until you have something to eat. It’ll do you good. Just look at that table and the fare those ladies are preparing.”

  “All right, Jonathon, I’ll stay for a while.”

  “Reverend.”

  Ethan and one of the other boys approached.

  “Yes, Ethan?”

  “I just wanted . . . wanted to say . . .” there was a broad smile on his sweaty face, “. . . that I’m glad you’re still with us . . . and we all look forward to your next sermon.”

  “Thank you, Ethan . . . and how are those legs of yours coming along?”

  “Great, sir. Just great,” he grinned, “doing my share of the work here.”

  “Yes, well, don’t overdo it, Ethan.”

  “No, sir, I won’t.”

  Ethan was already on his way back to work.

  Keyes watched after him as the young lad practically skipped along as he moved out.

  “What a change in that little fellow since we’ve been here.”

  “Yes, Jon, there’ve been a lot of changes.”

  “And things usually change for the better.”

  “Usually,” Lorna replied. There was a trace of doubt in her eyes . . . a trace that Keyes noticed, but tried to ignore.

  “Are you sure?”

  “What?”

  “About the lemonade?”

  “I’m sure, Jonathon . . . about the lemonade.”

  “I’ll be back soon.” He smiled.

  “Very good.” Lorna did not smile, but continued to look as he walked away—and noticed that he did not take the shortest route toward his destination, but deviated, walking toward the food-laden table . . . and Deliverance.

  Lorna could not see her husband’s face, but couldn’t help noticing the avid smile on Deliverance’s face and radiant, sun-reflected look in her eyes.

  Both Lorna and Deliverance continued their gaze toward Keyes in the work area as he commenced to saw one of the planks. Lorna’s look occasionally shifted to Deliverance, but Deliverance’s gaze never deviated from the minister.

  “Reverend,” Joseph appeared carrying a hammer and removed a six-penny nail from between his lips, “the Book says that ‘there is a time for all things.’”

  “So it does, Joseph . . . and what time is it now,” he smiled, “according to that Good Book of yours?”

  “Reverend, the sun has passed its zenith and is journeying into the west.”

  “Does that mean you’re getting hungry?”

  “‘All the labor of man is for his mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled.’”

  Keyes put down the saw.

  “Well, let’s fill it.”

  “Amen, Reverend.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation of you two gentlemen because I was doing my best to listen, so I’ll just second . . . or is it third the motion. These old joints of mine are beginning to creak and not just from old age but from lack of nourishment,” Caleb’s voice grew louder. “Somebody ring the dinner bell.”

  “Don’t have a dinner bell, Mr. Mayor,” Sam Hawkins hollered back.

  “Then ring the church bell, we still have one, even though we haven’t got a church yet.”

  The church bell rang out . . . and as it did the sun passed into a cloud and spread a layer of darkness across the area. A chill wind snapped through the framework of the church, and workers and women who were sweating just a moment ago
, now were trying to rub warmth into their shivering bodies.

  But their bodies were not shivering only from the chill wind . . . it was from his sudden, almost mystical, appearance.

  MOON.

  A vision of darkness where a moment ago there was sunlight.

  MOON.

  Mounted on his stallion as if lord and master viewing his domain.

  MOON.

  Silently commanding all that he surveyed . . . and beyond.

  He sat there full height in the saddle so they could all get a good look.

  But this time he dismounted, slowly, in perfect balance, in every movement with the grace of a ballet dancer . . . even with the twin pistols strapped on either side of his narrow waist.

  Moon walked slowly, then stopped in front of the cross stuck into the ground.

  He smiled. Not out of respect.

  Still he said nothing.

  He looked at the food on the table and moved toward it.

  “Looks good enough to eat.”

  He stopped directly in front of Deliverance, reached out . . .

  “Moon . . .” Caleb took a step forward.

  “Shut up!” Moon took a sliced carrot from a plate and bit off the end.

  “Moon,” Caleb persisted, “we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You have?” Moon’s look went from Deliverance to Caleb. Then around all those gathered, watching and listening to what he had to say next. “Well, then you won’t have to wait any more.”

  “Moon . . .”

  Moon waved a hand in the direction of the food . . . and Deliverance.

  “All this feast just for me!” His smile broadened, then quickly narrowed. “You went to all this trouble just for me? Very hospitable . . . but not hospitable enough . . .”

  “Moon, listen to me . . .”

  “I’ll listen, when I’m ready . . .”

  He picked up another carrot stick and took a bite.

  “Armies travel on their stomachs,” he smiled again, “and so do snakes”—the smile disappeared—“but I don’t.”

  The cat was still playing with the mice, but this time the cat seemed a mite more playful, but at the same time, a mite more grim.

  On other occasions Moon had doled out words in dollops; this time his word count was more prolific, his gestures, a mite more sweeping. He almost seemed like an actor enjoying performing to an audience—particularly one member of that audience. More often than not his glance singled out Deliverance.

  This time Moon picked up a pickle, turned and pointed it at Caleb. There was an unmistakable shade of malevolence in his voice.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Mayor, to listen . . . for just a little while.”

  “Moon,” Caleb spoke quickly, eagerly, persuasively, “we’ve had some good fortune . . . good for all of us. Listen! We’ve found a new vein of gold in the mine. It’s rich! I tell you there’ll be gold . . . more than ever before. You’ll get your share!”

  Moon took a bite, consuming more than half of the pickle and tossed the rest of it on the ground. He reached onto the table, grabbed a chicken, rented it in half, and commenced to eat while some of the juices leaked down his chin.

  And all the time he was looking at Deliverance.

  Caleb took another step forward.

  “You’ll be rich, Moon. Come back in a couple of weeks . . . give us a chance to work the mine.”

  Moon continued to eat and to look at Deliverance.

  “I’ll give you a chance. And I’ll come back . . .”

  His hand lunged out and grabbed Deliverance . . . roughly drew her close.

  Nobody moved.

  Not Caleb. Not Joseph. Not Sam Hawkins. Not Jacob. Not William Bryant. Not Reverend Jonathon Keyes, nor did any of the women or children.

  As still as a painted desert. And as silent.

  Moon dropped the chicken bone and with the palm of his hand on the back of her neck, forced Deliverance’s face closer.

  A fierce kiss with his food-smeared lips, a kiss that twisted her face in horror. Terrified, she tried to tear away, but Moon’s hawser-like hand was on her . . . pulling, ripping away part of the dress that covered her shoulder and more, much more. Her hair fell undone and splashed onto her shoulders.

  Deliverance’s cat ran from under the table and disappeared into the framework of the church.

  As Moon again drew Deliverance’s body closer, pressing against his, leaning in to kiss her once more, Reverend Jonathon Keyes stepped out.

  “Moon!” Keyes stood legs spread, right hand held out.

  Moon stopped but still held Deliverance in the grasp of his left hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Preacher Man.”

  “Moon, in the name of decency . . .”

  “Never heard of it,” Moon smiled.

  “Then listen . . .”

  “If you’re gonna spout some sort of sermon, save your breath to cool your soup . . . and your soul . . . cause I ain’t got one . . . ’sides, what’s she to you and you to her?”

  Lorna was staring at them. She did her best to rise, but fell back onto the chair.

  Keyes looked to his wife then back to Moon and Deliverance.

  “Now listen to me Preacher Man. I let you off easy the first time. But don’t push . . . or I’ll push back hard. She’s my little plaything, till I get the gold.”

  Moon shoved her rudely ahead but held onto her wrist. She did her utmost to scream as her mouth widened in dread, but there came no sound.

  Caleb moved as quickly as he could, clutching at Moon.

  “I won’t let you take her . . .”

  In a swift terrible stroke Moon backhanded Caleb who fell in a half-conscious heap.

  There were gasps all around from the men and women who covered their children’s eyes. But nobody moved to stop Moon.

  “Anybody else want to try!?! Just go ahead . . .”

  He paused, then drew the gun from his left holster and threw it to the ground. Then laughed . . . an ugly, lascivious laugh . . . a taunting challenge.

  “. . . Try it.”

  Moon’s chainlike fist still gripped fully around Deliverance’s slender wrist, he pulled her alongside of him.

  “You spunkless pack of craven milksops . . . and don’t try to follow. You won’t want to see her when I get through with that lily-white . . .”

  Moon laughed again and pulled Deliverance with him.

  “. . . you won’t want . . .”

  Keyes leaped to the gun on the ground, grabbed it, and with a quick aim fired.

  Moon’s back bent; he twisted, drew with his right hand . . . and as Keyes fired again, Moon staggered, pitched forward a step, tried to lift and aim, but there was another shot, and Moon collapsed.

  In Keyes’s trembling hand the gun was still smoking. He covered his eyes with the palm of his left hand but only for a beat. He lowered his palm to make sure Moon did not move.

  But there was no movement in Moon’s sprawled body.

  None.

  Caleb rose to his feet and absorbed what had happened.

  The rest of the congregation was too stunned to do anything but stand still and stare.

  All except Joseph, who went to the fallen Moon and stooped over him, then looked up.

  “Dead.”

  Keyes let the gun drop to the ground, rose slowly, swayed slightly, and took an intense breath.

  Both Caleb and Joseph approached, but Joseph spoke first.

  “‘Spite the wicked,’ it’s been said, and now it’s been done . . . by you, Reverend.”

  “M’boy . . .”

  It took every fiber of Keyes’s being to gain control, but still not fully.

  “I’ve killed. I’ve . . . taken a man’s life.”

  “He wasn’t a man,” Caleb said.

  “I’ve killed.”

  “You saved her . . . and the rest of us. Jon, he was an animal . . . a mad dog. Jon . . .”

  But Keyes still struggled against the realization of what he had done . . .
the vow he had broken . . . un til—

  Deliverance’s hand touched his hands and took hold of one of them.

  Slowly, he looked up into her grateful eyes.

  Lorna’s gaze was frozen on both her husband and the woman he had rescued.

  Deliverance’s lips quivered. She spoke for the first time Keyes ever heard her voice.

  “Thank you . . . thank . . . you.”

  This time it was Keyes who remained silent but managed to nod an acknowledgment.

  But while Keyes remained silent, the others who were assembled did not when they heard Deliverance speak those words of thanks.

  Other words shot through the crowd—“miracle”—“killed Moon and gave her speech”—“phenomenon”—“wondrous”—“amazing”—“unbelievable”—words mixed with relief that Moon was no longer a threat and that Deliverance could at long last speak.

  “Joseph. Sam,” Caleb’s voice broke the chatter of the crowd. He pointed to the crooked body of Moon on the ground not far from the rough-hewed cross.

  Joseph and Hawkins responded by stepping closer to Caleb as he pointed with the stem of his pipe.

  “Cover the body with something, and get it out of here.”

  The two men started to carry out his orders as Caleb looked around at the still mesmerized congregation.

  “Then, let’s all go home,” he said, “this day’s work is done.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Lorna was in bed staring straight at the ceiling, and although Keyes sat next to her on a straight-back chair holding the Henry rifle in his hands, she heard nothing of what he was saying. Her mind, her thoughts, and maybe her spirit were adrift in some other sphere.

  Although he didn’t realize it at the time, Keyes was talking to himself and the rifle.

  “It’s ironic, Lorna, all this time, this rifle,” he turned it over in his lap, “all this time making sure it was clean and accurate in case I needed it to hunt for food, or to save our lives if we were attacked out there in the desert or anyplace else.

  “And here in San Melas, I killed a man, not with this rifle, but with his own gun . . . a despicable man, a man without conscience, without scruple . . . but a man, nevertheless . . . who am I to judge whether he should live or die, in spite of his malicious intent . . . who am I to judge and execute? Lorna . . .”