by Monty McCord
“Help yourself to the coffee and pull up a chair,” Joe said, wondering if he’d been slighted by the preacher’s comment. “And, uh, sorry for thinkin’ you was a hawker.”
Evans poured a cup and sat down in front of Joe’s desk. “Think nothing of it, Marshal. My enthusiasm is to blame, I’m quite sure,” he said, and sipped at the steaming cup.
“That’s quite a handle. What do folks call you?” Joe said.
“‘Preacher’ or ‘Pastor,’ mostly. ‘Christmas’ is fine as well. My family hails from Wales, where my grandfather studied under the great Christmas Evans. Never knew my father, but my future calling was assured at an early age because of my grandfather.” Evans shot a huge grin at Joe.
“Who is this Christmas Evans fella?” asked Joe.
“Born on the Lord’s glorious birthday, as one might reasonably assume. He was a one-eyed Baptist minister who was considered one of the greatest preachers in the history of Wales. Why, he was equipped with such a vigorous imagination, he was dubbed the Bunyan of Wales.”
“And I take it you two are related?” Joe said.
“A common supposition, but unfortunately, no. At least not that my family was ever aware of,” Evans said. “I like to think that I, as well as my grandfather, shared the great one’s enthusiasm for the infectious spread of the gospel, however.”
“So, you’re of Baptist persuasion then?”
“We came to America when I was young. I studied in New York, first at a Presbyterian college, but left for an assistant Methodist ministership position. Then in sixty-one I was invited to join the Seventy-Eighth New York Infantry. I did so with great intentions,” Evans said, his cheerful voice taking on less enthusiasm. “Did you serve in the great conflagration, Marshal?”
“First Nebraska Volunteers. Fought in Tennessee. Then they changed us over to cavalry and sent us back here to Fort Kearny to fight the Sioux and Cheyenne,” Joe said. He pulled open the bottom desk drawer and pulled out the whiskey bottle and two shot glasses. “Do you imbibe, Christmas?”
“I most certainly do, privately, of course!” Evans said.
“Of course,” Joe said and poured. “That was a miserable time. Americans killin’ each other.”
“My duties as chaplain unfortunately consisted mostly of helping at the field hospitals. One can only toss so many human appendages into a wagon before your beliefs become a bit shaky. I hang my shingle solely on the Bible now.” Evans looked sullenly at the glass and downed the whiskey without rebuke. Joe poured another.
“So what brought you to this little town?” Joe said.
“Looking for a place requiring my services, much the same as yourself, I presume, Marshal.”
Joe nodded.
“Our first church should be finished soon, God willing and the river doesn’t rise. You know where it is? Just a shake south of the main street. Like to see you there,” Evans said.
“I’ll try to make it when I can.”
“Been holding services in that saloon that closed up last summer. The one toward the east end of town. The new owner is anxious to reopen, so our new home is none too soon in coming,” Evans said. “Have you met Budd Jarvis? He’s the owner. Been patient with us while the church is being finished.”
“Yes, I’ve met Mister Jarvis,” Joe said.
“My tardiness in coming in to meet you was due to being delayed by the weather. I try to cover a circuit of country folks a few times during the year and try to plan for one before Christmas. My last stop before returning was at the Forsonn farm.Your generosity was inspiring. Those folks, like many, have struggled since seventy-three. But the smiles on their faces, especially Hadda and the children, I wish you could have seen them, Marshal.”
Joe could feel a flush in his face. “Those folks saved me from freezin’ to death . . . least I could do,” he said.
“Well, my hat’s off to you, sir.” Evans stepped to the basket by the door, picked it up, and placed it on Joe’s desk. “Before I take my leave, this is from the Forsonns, a small thank-you until they can properly thank you in person. Appreciate the drink and the conversation, Marshal.” Evans pulled the bulky coat over him, replaced the cap, and was gone.
Joe had found the conversation enjoyable and interesting. Now he stared at the basket, wondering what the Forsonns could afford to give him. He pulled off the cloth covering. The cloth was a hand-stitched bandana, always a useful item. Inside he found two loaves of bread, gingersnaps, berry jam, and an apple pie. Next to the pie was something wrapped in old newspaper. He removed the paper and found a dark brown horse not quite two inches tall, as well as a little man wearing black clothing and hat, slightly taller than the horse. Both had been hand-carved from wood. Joe guessed the horse had been stained in tea or coffee for coloring but wasn’t sure how the man was colored—with bootblack, maybe. Gifts from Nada and Jorund. The surfaces were smooth and well carved. He carefully slipped them into the upper vest pocket opposite his watch and patted them.
His thoughts returned to Lute Kinney and Charlie’s letter. Joe scratched down a quick reply to his former boss, to let him know where he was and that he had gotten his letter. He would send it with the teamsters, for relay to the telegraph office in Willow Springs.
At Siegler’s, Joe gave Earl the message for Willow Springs. “Mister Siegler in his office, Earl?”
“Sure is, Marshal, go on back.”
Joe knocked on the partially open door. “Come on in, Joe, just finishing some paperwork.” The office was small, outfitted with a desk, shelving, and a couple of chairs. Papers were piled all over the desk, making Joe wonder how Siegler could find anything.
“Please sit down,” Siegler said. “Excuse the mess.”
Joe looked up at a gilt-framed painting of a man. “My father. Had a successful mercantile business in Chicago, which I inherited upon his death. I wanted out of that city, so we came west,” Siegler said. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing really, just wanted you to be aware of somethin’, should it ever come to pass.” Joe told Siegler about the shooting in Baxter Springs and being followed by and meeting with Russ Pickard.
“I wanted you to see this, came today,” Joe said and pulled out the letter and Wanted poster from Charlie Oster. The normal pleasant expression on Siegler’s face slid away as he read.
“Good God, he shot down that family, and now he’s coming here for you?” Siegler returned the papers to Joe and leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t tell me about this before . . . why not?”
“Didn’t expect anything more to come of it. Didn’t know about him coming ’til now,” Joe said. “Would the shootin’ down there have changed your mind on hirin’ me?”
“Well, no . . . I guess not. I think the board accepted the fact that the job had its problems. No. But I’m not too happy to hear that a hired killer is heading our way and could be here anytime.”
“Not too enthused in that regard myself. But if he shows up, I’ll handle it.”
“Is that a good likeness of him?” Siegler said, pointing to Joe’s jacket pocket where the letter and poster were tucked away.
“No, not really.”
“So, how will we spot him if he comes in?” Siegler asked.
“That’s my job, Mister Siegler. Don’t want no folks gettin’ mixed in.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was just after noon when Joe knocked at the door and listened. He heard floorboards squeaking, so someone was home. He knew he was taking a hell of a chance coming unannounced, but that was what he’d decided to do. He did wonder what to say if a customer was with her.
The door opened, and Joe held up two silver dollars. Sarah Welby stared at him. Her face gave away the pleased look she tried to conceal. She was wearing a long muslin chemise with a wool lap blanket around her shoulders and brown wool socks. Stepping aside so he could enter, she noticed the basket in his other hand. Joe took his hat off as she closed the door.
“Little cold to be going on a picni
c, isn’t it, Marshal?” Joe handed her the basket.
“This is for you.” Joe had kept one of the two loaves of bread at the office and left the rest in the basket that the Forsonns had sent.
“Oh. Well, that’s very nice. Are you a baker too?” Sarah said.
“Not hardly. Missus Forsonn made all these.”
“As a thank-you, I understand. I heard about what you did for them. That was very kind.” Sarah’s dark brown hair hung to her shoulders, and she wore no rouge. It was obvious that she didn’t need any.
The house was small and tidy.The parlor had a heating stove, a very worn area rug with a settee, table, and two straight-backed chairs. In the front corner of the room was a treadle sewing machine. Through a doorway to the left was a tiny bedroom, and to the right was a small kitchen with cooking stove and table. Lace curtains adorned the windows, and every impression was that this was a warm home and not just living quarters.
Sarah dropped the blanket onto one of the chairs and began to pull at the ties of her chemise. That wasn’t why Joe had visited, but he found his voice gone while watching her. When the final tie pulled free, he forced a sound.
“Uh, Sarah, uh, I didn’t come here for that. I wanted to see you and, uh . . .” He had trouble removing his gaze from the slender form of her body and the vertical line of bare skin visible where the chemise gapped. Her breasts pushed against the thin material. “Invite you to accompany me to church tomorrow evening. Pastor Evans wanted to have the first service at the new church to be on Christmas Eve. It’s finished enough for a service. I’ll be by just before seven o’clock.” With that he positioned the black hat atop his head and turned toward the door.
Sarah gathered the chemise and held it closed in front of her. “You just won’t quit, will you?” she said, and handed him his two silver dollars.
Joe turned to face her, ignoring the money. “Not likely.”
“Do you know that I was informed by the ladies of this community that I was not welcome at their church anymore?”
“I do,” Joe said. He walked out and closed the door behind him.
The new church was a rectangular, unpainted, wood-frame building, with a pitched roof. A two-foot-tall wooden cross was mounted above the front door at the roof peak. Three windows on either side allowed light in during the day. The oil lamps, mounted on the walls inside and at the altar, were lit when Sarah and Joe stepped in from the darkness. It was very plain but a triumph for a small town. It would serve as a schoolhouse and community gathering place as well. To the right of the altar was a door that Joe assumed led into the preacher’s quarters. To the left was a large heating stove, compliments of Siegler’s general store, which radiated warmth for those in the first several rows. Flat benches without backs served as pews. Only about half of those needed had been completed. Those were offered to the elderly and women.
Sarah and Joe stood at the back with the others and drew several quick glances. Harold and Harvey Martin greeted them both, as did Byron Siegler. His wife was pretty much speechless, even though Joe was extra friendly to her.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. I really don’t,” Sarah whispered to Joe.
Joe looked over the mass of faces that filled the new church, to see how many he recognized. Budd Jarvis and his wife were the last to arrive. They walked in and stood beside Joe, without looking to see who they were next to.
“Mister Jarvis,” Joe said and nodded. “Ma’am.” Jarvis turned his head as his wife did the same.
“Mundy,” he said, and recognized Sarah. Instead of acknowledging her, the Jarvises stepped over to the other side of the aisle.
Sarah said, “This is humiliating. Is that your intent, to humiliate me?”
At seven o’clock on the dot, Pastor Evans stepped behind the cross-adorned lectern, and everyone hushed. He stood there for a moment, quietly surveying the crowd.
“Welcome. Welcome everyone into the house of God! How fortunate can we be, for this gift? And all of us here together, friends, neighbors, acquaintances, together to worship the Lord,” he said, and raised his hands. “Praise the Lord!” The people joined in, repeating his chant, and the sermon got under way.
Joe watched a man three rows ahead of him lean toward a couple of cowboys, who still had their hats on. They shot a surprised look at the man and quickly pulled them off.
“. . . Blessed is he who considers the poor, the Lord deliver him in time of trouble!”
Sarah gently took hold of Joe’s right hand. He turned his head and looked down at her. She didn’t notice. Her concentration was firmly locked onto the sermon that Cadwallen Christmas Evans was so eloquently delivering. Joe wondered if she knew that she was holding his hand. Packed in the crowd, he didn’t think anyone noticed. He liked it.
“. . . all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.” Evans had the crowd spellbound. “But the ruin is not hopeless.What was lost in Adam is restored in Christ!” Several of the cowhands were so taken by the sermon that they blurted out, “Amen!” A few chuckled, and the cowhands looked a little embarrassed. Sarah smiled slightly, and then realized she was holding Joe’s hand. She quickly jerked it away and shot him an angry glance.
After a while, Evans wrapped up the sermon: “Let us be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might, that we be able to stand in the evil day.” He walked up the middle aisle, leading the congregation in song. “Amazing grace, how great thou art—!”
Evans stood inside the front door and shook hands with each worshipper as they left the church.
“Glad to see you, Marshal, Missus Welby. Hope you’ll come back,” he said.
“Lively sermon, Christmas, thank you,” Joe said.
Sarah no longer held his hand but walked close to his side. Snowflakes were falling, and occasional wind gusts blew them into their faces. Joe pulled his hat down tighter. The wind made an otherwise tolerable temperature bitter.
“If you want some coffee and pie, I just happen to have some. Can’t eat it all myself.” Sarah didn’t look at Joe as they walked toward her house.
“That sounds fine.”
As they rounded the corner of Sarah’s house, they heard a voice calling out.
“Marshal! Marshal Mundy!” Adam Carr ran up, almost out of breath. Joe noticed a small bloody scrape mark on his left cheek.
“Ma’am,” he said, touching his hat brim. “Marshal, thought you’d want to know that two fellers’ come a-drivin’ a freight wagon to the livery. They assed where they could buy a whore, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, and I told ’em where the Palace was. Then they said some awful things about what they was gonna do to one when they got one.These two are som’ bitches, Marshal. And they stunk.”
“They aren’t the freighters from Willow Springs?” Joe asked.
“Oh, no sir, these ain’t them. Them fellers’ is okay, these ain’t. They assed if we got a lawdog here. I guess that meant you. I tol’ ’em, ‘Yeah, we got a marshal, and he don’t put up with no shenanigans neither,’” Adam said. “That’s when one of ’em grabbed me up against a stall and hurt my back. He backhanded me a couple times . . . he said for talkin’ back to ’em. They said I better take care of their team, or I’d be pullin’ their wagon!”
“All right, Adam, thanks. You git back to the livery now. I’ll take care of it,” Joe said.
“Lucy’s working by herself tonight. I’m coming with you!” Sarah said.
“You stay here. This is my business.” Joe took off for the office to get his guns.
While strapping on the gun belt, Joe glanced at the shotgun. He pulled two brass shells from a box in a desk drawer and grabbed it off the rack. With two shells dropped into place, he snapped the barrels closed.
Joe trotted quickly down the boardwalk to the corner and turned north. He slowed to a normal pace as he entered the Palace Saloon doors. The bartender and owner, John “Smiley” Wilkie, stood sullenly behind the bar as usual. There were about twenty customers drinking at the
tables and a half dozen at the bar. Surprising, Joe thought, on Christmas Eve. He heard the screams as soon as he entered. Smiley acted as though he didn’t hear them, allowing Joe to believe they weren’t the first.
The screams came from upstairs. With the shotgun in his right hand, Joe jumped the steps two at a time. The screams guided him to the middle room. The door was locked, so he stepped back and kicked it open. A man in a dirty white union suit was riding Lucy and backhanding her across the face with hard blows. Her face, pillow, and mattress were covered with blood. She appeared next to unconscious. His partner was on the other side of the bed with a Bowie knife in his hand. Joe smashed the butt of the shotgun into the first one’s face as hard as he could, knocking him off Lucy and onto the floor. The other man had to dodge him as he fell. The partner then raised his left hand, with the knife, and let it fall to the bed.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” he yelled. As the knife fell toward Lucy, he drew a Navy Colt from a holster on the table and hastily fired a round that hit the door sill. Joe’s attention had been momentarily diverted, watching the knife. The ten-gauge roared, tearing half the man’s head off. His body arched backward into the wall, bounced off the bed, and fell on top of his friend. The small room was full of smoke, which, combined with the human stench of body fluid and tissue, made for a putrid aroma. Joe’s ears were ringing from the shotgun blast.
Once sure there was no further resistance, he turned to lean the shotgun against the wall and saw Sarah standing in the doorway with her hands over her open mouth as if in a silent scream. Adam stood behind her with his eyes fixed on the blood and tissue running down the wall. “Somebody get the doc!”
“Doc Sullivan’s comin’, Marshal,” Adam said, his eyes still on the bloody wall.
Joe sat down on the bed and pulled the sheet up to cover Lucy. He gently wiped some blood out of her eyes. “Sarah. Sarah! Need some help here!” Joe shouted, snapping her out of a trance. She looked at Joe and pulled out a handkerchief and sat on the bed in front of him. Next to Lucy, she wiped softly where Joe had left off. “Lucy, Lucy, honey, can you hear me?”
