Preacher's Justice

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Vaughan said.

  “I know they were all shocked to see me just drop in out of the blue the way I did.”

  “They may have been shocked—who wouldn’t be to have you suddenly show up after such a long time. But I’ll tell you this. I know they were all very happy to see you,” Vaughan said. “Oh, where are my manners? Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you, that would be good. And one of my sister’s pastries,” he added with a smile. “I left the house before breakfast this morning.”

  A moment later, Vaughan served him.

  Preacher took a bite of his sister’s strudel. “Ummm, tell Tess this is very good.”

  “You can tell me yourself,” Tess said, appearing in the door from the kitchen. She was wearing an apron upon which there was a light dusting of flour. An errant strand of hair hung down across her eyes, and when she brushed it back, she left a smudge of flour on her cheek.

  “All right, I will tell you,” Preacher said. “This is very good.”

  “Thank you,” Tess replied. Then, in a more troubled tone of voice, she asked, “Arthur, what are you doing here? You aren’t leaving again so soon, are you?”

  “Not just yet,” Preacher said.

  “I’m glad to hear that. And don’t think I’m not happy to see you, but I think you should spend more time with Mama and Papa.”

  “I will,” Preacher said. “It’s just that I had some business to take care of with Klyce Blanton.”

  “Klyce Blanton? You are doing business with that disagreeable man?” Tess asked. “Has Papa told you about the loan on the farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything was going just fine until Blanton bought the bank and began foreclosing on all the farmers. Why did he have to go sticking his nose into everyone else’s business?”

  “Some people are just that way, I suppose. But I do think that Blanton will be more careful about where he sticks his nose from now on,” Preacher said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, I was just making conversation.”

  “What kind of business did you have with Klyce Blanton?” Tess asked.

  “Mortgage business,” Preacher said, without being more specific. “Vaughan, if you were going to use a bank other than Blanton’s bank . . .”

  “I do use a bank other than his,” Vaughan replied quickly.

  “You do? You mean there is another bank in town? Which one? Where is it?”

  Vaughan shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s not in Portsmouth. The bank I use now is the Ohio Bank for Savings, over in Alexandria.”

  “Alexandria? Yes, I remember passing it on the way here. It’s about ten miles downriver, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Alexandria isn’t as large as Portsmouth, but it does have a good bank. In fact, since Klyce Blanton bought out the bank here in Portsmouth and turned a good bank into a bad one, a lot of our local folks are doing their business over in Alexandria.”

  “Who is the head of the bank over there? Do you know him personally?”

  “Yes, I do know him. His name is Burt Rowe. He’s a good man.”

  “Arthur, if you are going to go over there to try and arrange a loan for Papa, I can tell you right now it won’t do you any good. Vaughan had a new loan all set up, but Papa wouldn’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Papa says you can’t borrow yourself out of debt.”

  “Yes, well, he is probably right. But that’s not what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I plan to pay off Pa’s note so that he has the farm free and clear.”

  Tess gasped. “Arthur! You have enough money to do that?”

  “Yes, and I have it with me. But it’s not in cash. It’s all in bank drafts.”

  “Bank drafts are fine,” Vaughan said. “Why bother to go over to Alexandria with them? Blanton is the one who is holding the note. Why don’t you just do business directly with him?”

  “Well, like I said, Blanton and I had a brief discussion about that very thing this morning,” Preacher replied. “He says he won’t honor the drafts, and it is his right not to do so.”

  “I guess I’m not all that surprised that he won’t do it,” Vaughan said. “I have believed all along that Blanton isn’t really interested in having the note paid off. What he actually wants is the land. He’s got his hands on several thousand acres of prime bottomland right now, and your father’s land is as good as any piece of land in the entire county. It may be the best land in the county. I’m sure Blanton is just itching to add your pa’s land to his holdings.”

  “Well, he may want Pa’s land, but he’s not going to get it,” Preacher said.

  “Arthur, does Papa know you are doing this?” Tess asked.

  “No. And don’t you tell him until it’s already done. I’m afraid he would try to stop me.”

  “You are right about that. He absolutely would try to stop you,” Tess said. “Papa is a proud man who won’t accept a handout from anybody. Not even one of his own children.”

  “Believe me, Tess, when I tell you that this isn’t a handout,” Preacher said. “The way I look at it, this is just payment for all the hurt I’ve caused Ma and Pa . . . that I’ve caused all of you . . . over the years. I’m hoping that once it’s done, Pa will look at it that way too.”

  Tess smiled. “He will,” she said. “I’ll talk to Betty and Morgan, and we’ll make certain he sees it that way.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tess leaned across the counter and put her hand on Preacher’s. He could smell the scent of cinnamon and the aroma of flour and brown sugar. For just a moment, it caused him to recall his youth. Many times over the past several years, on those long, lonely nights in the mountains, he would sometimes think of his family, and he couldn’t think of his mother without recalling that homey aroma. It seemed right and good now that his sister would be carrying that on.

  “You’re a good man, Arthur,” Tess said. “I was very young when you left, and I’m afraid I don’t remember you all that clearly now. I’ve often wondered where you went and how you turned out. I’m glad you came back, just so we would know what a good man you really are.”

  Preacher chuckled self-consciously. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a saint, Tess,” he said. “I’ve done things that I wouldn’t want Ma or Pa, or even you or Betty or Morgan, to know about.”

  “You went out on your own when you were twelve years old, Arthur,” Tess said. “I’ve no doubt that you had to do some things to survive. But survive you have, and here you are today, offering to pay off the farm for Papa. Whatever you may have had to do in the past, you are a good man today, and I love you for it.”

  “Thank you, Tess. I appreciate that coming from you.”

  The scene of familial affection was interrupted by the boisterous entry of a customer.

  “Woo-hoo,” the customer said loudly, coming into the inn laughing and slapping himself on the knees.

  “Good morning, Ed,” Vaughan said. “What’s gotten into you this early in the day?”

  “Vaughan, pour me a cup of coffee and bring out one of your wife’s strudels, and I’ll tell you the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” Ed said, taking a seat at the bar.

  Vaughan poured the cup of coffee, then set a precut piece of strudel in front of him. “All right, Ed, just what is this funny story?” he asked.

  “You know that fella that bought out the bank? The high-and-mighty Klyce Blanton?”

  “Yes, of course I know him,” Vaughan said. “He is so disagreeable, he has made himself known all over town.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the one, all right. But you just wait till you hear what just happened to him.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying something happened to Klyce Blanton?” Vaughan asked, glancing with some apprehension toward Preacher.

  “It sure did, and Cleetus Butr
um seen it all happen, so, according to him, this is the gospel truth.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Blanton got his comeuppance, that’s what happened,” Ed said. He took a bite of the strudel. “Ummm, Mrs. Roberts, every strudel I have here is better than the one I had the day before. How do you do that?”

  “I just follow the same recipe my mama and grandmother used,” Tess said. “Tell us what happened to Klyce Blanton.”

  By now both Tess and Vaughan were staring at Preacher, who seemed to find something interesting to study in his coffee.

  “It seems like some feller come into the bank this mornin’ to discuss somethin’ with Blanton. Well, I reckon the discussion didn’t go to the feller’s likin’, so he took out his knife, then without so much as a by your leave, took him a slice out of the side of Blanton’s nose.” Ed laughed. “Just like that,” he said.

  “What do you mean when you say he took him a slice? Are you saying this man cut part of Blanton’s nose off?” Vaughan asked.

  “Well, no, not exactly,” Ed clarified. He put his finger alongside his nose, then made a cutting motion. “He just sliced right through it. Leastwise, that’s what Cleetus is sayin’.”

  “And Cleetus is saying that all this took place in the bank?” Vaughan asked.

  “Yes, in the bank. Right there in Blanton’s office, accordin’ to Cleetus,” Ed said. He took another swallow of coffee, enjoying his moment of being the center of all attention.

  “What about Colby and McDougal?” Vaughan asked. “They don’t strike me as being the kind of men who would just stand there and watch all that happen without doing something about it. I thought they never left his side. Where were they when this was all going on?”

  “Well, sir, accordin’ to Cleetus, they was right there in the bank at the time and seen everything that happened.”

  “They saw it, but they didn’t try to stop it?”

  “Oh, yeah, they tried,” Ed replied with a chuckle. “That’s the best part,” he said. “They did try, but accordin’ to Cleetus, this here fella handled the two of ’em like they was no more’n babies. Had ’em both sittin’ on the floor, he did, starin’ at the wall, like the way teachers sometimes do with their dunces.”

  “You don’t say,” Vaughan said. Now the apprehension in his face was gone, and he looked at Preacher with awe in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

  “Chris Dumey seen Blanton a while ago and he said Blanton’s nose was all red, with a purple scar where the cut was. The scar wasn’t all that big, but you could sure see where it was. No, sir, I don’t reckon the high-and-mighty Mr. Blanton is going to be so high-and-mighty anymore.

  “So,” Tess said to her brother. She chuckled quietly. “Klyce Blanton is going to be more careful about where he sticks his nose, is he?”

  “That might be the wisest thing for him to do,” Preacher replied.

  Ed overheard Tess and Preacher, and though he didn’t make the connection that Preacher was the one he was talking about, he did make the connection that the remark about the nose. He laughed out loud. “He’s going to be more careful about where he sticks his nose,” he said. “Yes, I reckon he is, all right.” Ed laughed again. “That’s a good one, that is. I’ll have to remember that while I’m tellin’ this story.”

  Finishing his coffee and strudel, Preacher stood. “I think I’d better be going. Tell me, Vaughan, can I rent a horse at the livery?”

  “No need for you to be renting a horse when I can lend you one of mine,” Vaughan said. “And I guarantee you, you’ll be better mounted on my horse than you would if you rented.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” Preacher said.

  “Also, before you leave, I’ll write a letter of introduction to Mr. Rowe. That might be helpful to you in case he has any questions about why you want gold instead of paper for the bank drafts.”

  “Yes, thank you, Vaughan, that would be a big help,” Preacher said.

  SIXTEEN

  It took Preacher less than an hour to reach Alexandria. Armed with the letter Vaughan had written, as well as the letter Constable Billings had given him back in St. Louis, he presented himself to Burt Rowe, the head of the bank.

  Burt read both letters, then returned them. “They are good letters,” he said. “They speak well of your honesty and integrity. Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I need to cash these bank drafts,” Preacher said. “I need six hundred dollars in cash.”

  “Certainly, I see no problem with that,” Rowe said. “Step over to the teller’s cage, I’ll instruct him to honor the drafts.”

  “I’ll need the money in gold coin,” Preacher added.

  Rowe scratched his chin for a moment. “Gold coin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why gold coin? We issue United States Bank promissory notes. They are as good as gold everywhere.”

  “As good as gold isn’t gold,” Preacher said. He sighed. “I don’t mean to be picky, Mr. Rowe. But I’m paying off the mortgage on my father’s farm. Klyce Blanton holds the paper, and he is demanding payment in gold in order to release it.”

  “I see,” Rowe said, nodding his head. He sighed. “Blanton is the kind of man that gives bankers a bad name. Very well, Mr. Coopersmith, I’ll honor the drafts with gold coin. I’ll even put them in a bag for you.”

  “That would be helpful,” Preacher said.

  As Rowe searched for a cloth bag, Preacher happened to glance toward the wall, where there hung several posters. One poster in particular caught his attention, and he walked over for a closer look. As he examined it, he felt a surge of anger and determination.

  WANTED FOR

  MURDER

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  Murderer Is

  Missing His

  Left Ear

  Burt Rowe came over to him then, bringing the cloth bag and the money. “Here is your money,” he said, counting out the gold coins in front of him. When he counted out the full amount, he dropped the coins into the bag and handed the bag to Preacher.

  “I saw you looking at that,” he said, pointing to the poster.

  “Yes. What do you know about this?”

  “Terrible thing, that,” the banker said. He then proceeded to tell the story of Billy and Suzie Potter finding their parents dead on the floor.

  “They were murdered, both of ’em. Billy chased him with a pitchfork, but the man was mounted and rode away.”

  “How were Mr. and Mrs. Potter killed? Did the murderer slit their throats?”

  “Yes,” Rowe answered. He squinted. “Say, how did you know that?”

  “Because that’s the way he works.”

  “That’s the way who works?”

  “Ben Caviness. Could you tell me where the sheriff’s is located?” Preacher asked. “I may have some information for him.”

  “Sheriff Wallace’s office is just across the street, down on the corner,” Rowe answered. “You can’t miss it, it’s the only brick building in that block.”

  Preacher took the bag of coins from Rowe. “Thank you very much for your help,” he said, holding the bag up.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Sheriff Wallace, a gray-haired man of about fifty, was sitting at his desk, filling his pipe with tobacco, when Preacher came into his office. He looked up at Preacher with curiosity.

  “Yes, sir, mister, something I can do for you?” the sheriff asked.

  “Sheriff Wallace, my name is . . . ” Preacher started to identify himself as Preacher, but thought of the letter his brother-in-law had written for him, so he used his real name. “Art Coopersmith. I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Coopersmith. What do you have on your mind?”

  “First, I’d like to show you this,” Preacher said, handing Wallace the letter Constable Billings had written for him, appointing him his temporary deputy. The sheriff read it, then handed the letter back. “This letter calls you Preacher.”

  “I
t’s a name some folks call me,” Preacher said. He showed the sheriff his letter from Vaughan.

  “All right, Preacher, or Mr. Coopersmith, whichever name you prefer. This first letter says you are a deputy in pursuit of a criminal and it asks for my cooperation. I’ll be glad to cooperate with you all I can, but we are a pretty small town and I know everyone here. So I can tell you for a fact that the fella you are looking for, this”—Wallace glanced at the letter again—“Ben Caviness, isn’t in Alexandria.”

  “He probably isn’t,” Preacher said. “But I believe he was here.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I was just in the bank and noticed that you have a dodger posted on the wall. You had a murder take place here recently, committed by a man with only one ear.”

  “Yes, he killed Hiram and Emma Potter.”

  “I’m pretty sure that may the same man I’m looking for. Mr. Rowe said that the Potters’ son and daughter saw the man.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “I wonder if I could speak with the boy and his sister.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll talk to you,” the sheriff replied. “Are you mounted?”

  “I am.”

  “Let me saddle my horse and I’ll ride out to the Potter farm with you.”

  At the Potter farm, Suzie was working in the garden while Billy was up on the roof of the house, replacing shingles. He had just reached for another shingle when he saw two riders approaching.

  “Suzie, someone’s coming,” Billy called down from the roof.

  Suzie looked up and used her hand to shield the sun from her eyes. “Who is it, can you tell?”

  “Looks like the sheriff is one of them, but I don’t know who the other man is.”

  “I’ll make some lemonade,” Suzie said. “No doubt they’re hot after their ride.”

  Billy left his shingles on the roof, then climbed down the ladder. He was standing in front of the house when the two riders arrived.