Render Unto God... Read online

  Jackson’s amused interest was turning into serious concern. Banks was considerably shaken by the Preacher’s action. And there was a tremor in his voice, as well as an edge. But what Jackson could not discern was whether Banks was highly indignant at the implication that he was cheating, or whether he was running scared due to having been found out. The storekeeper on the other hand, not having been alive to Jackson’s suspicions, merely thought that this was too good a deal to let go by. “Well damn! I’ll stake my dollar against you Preacher Man.” And then, realizing the profanity added, “Begging your pardon an’ all.”

  Without taking his eyes off Banks, the Preacher’s left hand slowly moved over to the storekeeper’s arm. Pushing it down firmly on the big Scandinavian’s wrist the Preacher said, “The bet is only with the dealer. Only the dealer has touched those cards since the last shuffle. Queen of Hearts.”

  “You ain’t no Preacher! You are a conniving bilk, that’s what you are. A con!” and he made to raise from the table. It was then that McGilligan, who was by now standing just behind Banks’ right shoulder, brought the clubbed end of his shillelagh hard down onto the card that was at the center of everyone’s attention. It had all the authority of a judge’s gavel demanding silence in court. And silence ensued.

  None of the men around the table, with the exception of the Preacher, had been aware of McGilligan’s presence. But now everyone was. Even the orchestra stopped playing, although that was merely a coincidence. But with that, the whole of the Alamo held its collective breath.

  The next move rested with the man with the shillelagh. Which was fine by McGilligan as he didn’t want anyone else to make a move. He addressed the salesman in the lovely lilting Irish brogue that he had. But for all his soft-spokenness, his message was pointed. “I run a perfectly respectable establishment and will thank ye for not calling it neither two-bit, nor stinkin’.” Then to the two players sitting out the drama, “Is the Preacher Man right about no one touching the cards save the dealer?”

  Jackson and Mortensen attested that this was so. McGilligan called over to one of the saloon girls who was seated close by. “Loretta!” Now Loretta was just pleased that something was happening, finally, in the bar that afternoon. And she knew that if the tension broke with nobody getting themselves killed, the surge of excitement might get some Texans putting their hands in their pockets. “Over here girl.” McGilligan motioned with a nod of his head to the table, to the card. “Come and turn this Goddamned card over. Let’s see just what it is and just who, if anyone, is a-cheating.”

  Loretta was wearing a red ruffled skirt, crimson almost. Some would say that it was scandalous short, being knee-length. The wives of shopkeepers and farmers were more modest, and would not have appreciated Loretta’s bodice being cut so low, nor that her arms and shoulders were bare. The bell-shaped skirt was covered with sequins she’d sewn on herself. Protruding from under her skirt the patrons of the Alamo could see a variety of petticoats. Her ankle-length kid leather boots were adorned with tassels, and when she had occasion to sit on a bar stool, men would admire her net stockings, held up by garters. Her hair was clearly dyed as darker roots were beginning to show. The ivory-handled dagger, visible at the top of her right boot, was not just ornamental.

  Loretta rose from the red velvet chaise lounge upon which she had been sitting with two Texans and smoothed down her skirts before proceeding to walk, slowly, over to the table. All eyes were on her now and she savored the attention. With one hand on her hip she ensured her boot heels clicked, step by step, as if marking time; one foot being placed directly in front of the other, as if walking a line. Lauretta had noticed Jackson earlier and had tried to catch his eye, only for a salesman to start talking to him about some fool newspaper. From Loretta’s point of view Jackson was wearing a brand-new frock coat. And frock coats have pockets and pockets have purses and purses have money. Usually. She kept her eye on Jackson as she moved around the table, working it so that it would be his shoulder she leant over to reach the card. Then, putting her right arm around his neck (the better to balance herself of course) Loretta leant forward, extending her left arm, the better that Jackson could feel her chest resting on his shoulder, and that he could smell her perfume.

  But Jackson, like everyone else in the bar, was only interested in seeing the value of the card once she had turned it over.

  Queen of Hearts.

  The salesman’s chair crashed to the floor as he leapt to his feet. He reached inside his waistcoat, but didn’t get chance to pull anything from it because McGilligan jabbed the shillelagh hard into Banks’s ribs, causing him to join his chair in a heap on the floor. The barman twirled his club like a drum major’s baton, bringing it down for the second time hard on the table top. “Now don’t any of you think of standing too quickly and you all keep your hands plumb on the tabletop where I can see them. That’s right.” Then slowly turning to the heap on the floor, “Get up and get out. Now! And there’s a house rule against whatever it is that you have done that means you forfeit your winnings. So leave that pile on the table.”

  The salesman was getting his breath back, but not yet enough to be able to spare any of it raining curses and profanities onto the remaining players, the Preacher especially. But, as he stood and gathered his jacket and hat, he fixed his nemesis with a stare that had all the bile and hatred of, well, of a cheat that had himself been cheated. He barged his way past still silent onlookers and went out into the street.

  With his departure, the silence was broken. McGilligan called for a bucket and then swept into it all the notes and coins Banks had left behind. “Game’s over gentlemen. But the bar is still open as are,” he gestured to Loretta, “other forms of entertainment.” With that he returned to his place behind the bar and the cleaning of the glasses. The onlookers, stirred by the excitement, did just as Loretta had expected and made for the bar. Back at the table Mortensen finally realized that some form of cheating had been taking place and wondered why the salesman’s gains weren’t being distributed equally to the three remaining players.

  “Look friend,” said Jackson “Think of it this way: you could’ve lost even more if it hadn’t been for this preacher taking such a risk an’ all.” He rose from his chair, the game clearly over. “Indebted to you, sir,” he said, turning to the Preacher. “I hail from New York City, back east, in the state of New York. I work for the Herald. It is a new newspaper, if you see what I mean and the owner, Mr. Bennett, has sent me to interview Wild Bill Hickok and...”

  “I know where New York is, Mr. Beauregard,” interrupted the Preacher, pushing his own chair back and rising to his feet. “And I am very familiar with the work of newspapers. But there is a time for everything and this is not the time to tell me your life story.” He picked up his winnings – a sizable sum, noted Jackson – and, ignoring Loretta, nodded curtly, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Money safely stowed in the cavernous pockets of his frock coat, he pulled down the brim of his hat even more firmly over his eyes, and strode purposefully out of the bar. If Banks was waiting for him around some corner, well the Preacher showed no sign of concern.

  The storekeeper gathered what remained of his notes and coin, and calculated that he had enough left for another drink. And there were people a-plenty wanting to buy him a beer and hear his version of the story. He upped and left the table while Loretta came up behind Jackson and slipped her arm through his. “Well, forget what that Preacher Man says, I want to hear your life story, Mr. Jackson Beau-re-gard from New York City, New York State. You going to buy Loretta a drink and tell her all about your big, bad editor from way back east?” She squeezed his arm and looked up at him. He was about a foot taller than her and she liked tall men did Loretta. (But that’s not what she tells short men.) She smiled her trademark smile. Her long wavy hair was done up with a big black ribbon and she had a beauty spot on her left breast. She saw Jackson looking down at it. “You like that do you?” It wasn’t a question. Didn’t need to be. “I’ve
got another you know. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you where it is. Buy me two, and I might even let you have a peek...”

  There was an empty red velvet sofa over by the wall, beneath a painting, just waiting for them. And his ‘big, bad editor out east’ had told Jackson that he would pay all reasonable expenses.

  Chapter 2

  The Preacher was glad to get outside and get some fresh air. And it was good to walk and stretch those limbs too. There was no sign of Banks, not that the Preacher even considered looking out for him. He kept to the wooden sidewalk, the better to make use of the late afternoon shade afforded by the shop fronts.

  The Preacher had viewed the whole experience in the Alamo merely as a diversion; something to help the time pass in a tolerable fashion. That someone was cheating only served to make the afternoon interesting. But all the same, he couldn’t let Banks get away with it. Sure, he’d seen cheating at cards end in fights an’ worse. And back at Andersonville that could happen even when all that was at stake was tobacco. Especially when it was tobacco. Not that the Confederate guards would do anything about it. They’d end up confiscating it all after they’d enjoyed a few minutes watching Yankee prisoners beat seven shades of... whatever, out of each other.

  Across the road, past Mortensen’s hardware store. A nod to two respectable ladies out for some groceries. Keep walking, past the Billiards Saloon. Could hear a drunk passing water down a small alley. There was a cabin that did quite a reasonable dinner: ‘First Class Meal’ the painted sign outside the bat-wing doors stated. ‘$1 coin, $1.25 currency’. He turned right at the Ladies Ice-Cream Parlor, which was doing good trade.

  The Merchant’s Hotel, whitewashed and presentable, was a two-storied affair. There was no one to bother him as he entered the reception area. He reached over the counter, retrieved his key, and made his way up the flight of stairs. His room was one of three looking out onto the main street.

  The door was not locked. But it should’ve been. Couldn’t have been the maid being careless; the hotel would need to offer a maid service for that to be the case. Slowly turning the door handle. Carefully stepping into the room. The red shades were together, just as he’d left them. But the material was thin so the room was bathed in a strange, orange light. Over by the window the Preacher saw the silhouette of his uninvited guest sitting, still, silent. Waiting.

  The Preacher noted the boots, the spurs, the belt, the badge. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Marshal, sir. I’m the Town Marshal. Name’s Smith,” said the lawman rising, offering his hand. The Preacher took it, but only out of a cautious civility. ‘Bear River’ Smith. The Preacher knew the man’s reputation.

  Apart from the armchair, the room offered a small chest of drawers and a single bed. Impressively comfortable for such an hotel. Nothing in it was new of course, but... “The desk clerk let me in. ‘Bin waiting for you quite some time. But I guess you preachers never get to rest, what with all the souls around these parts that need a-saving.” Smith sniffed, “There’s enough of ‘em.”

  He picked up his hat from where it had been placed on a small side table. Tall and well-built was this marshal, as befitted a former prizefighter. And what with his thick moustache he was handsome with it, which showed he’d been successful at his sport. His red hair, well-groomed, gave away his Irish lineage. “And it is more about what you can do for someone else, Preacher, not for me. There’s a man a-dying in the Courthouse and he needs to confess.”

  “Isn’t there a pastor in this town?”

  “Sure. I tried him. But he’s drunk. Not likely to be sober enough in time. I’ve seen you out and about this past week. Not sure if you’re planning to stay a-whiles in Abilene or are just passin’ through. Anyways, will you sir, do your Christian Duty by this man?” The marshal was standing directly in front of the Preacher, his right thumb tucked into his trouser belt, his left hand holding his broad hat. He was itching to put it on, for that would mean they’d be on their way. But he wouldn’t wear it while he was in the room for he’d been brought up properly.

  “Sounds from what you say this man is in more need of a doctor. What’s he a-dyin’ of?”

  “Broken neck.”

  “When’d that happen?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Sun up.”

  There was no escaping it. “Lead on, marshal.”

  The two retraced the Preacher’s steps from the hotel back to Texas Street, then made their way towards the Courthouse, perhaps the only brick and stone building in Abilene at that time. It was new, but that was purely because the previous wooden jail had been torn down by the Texans. The marshal was in a talkative mood, and the Preacher was not inclined to interrupt. Nor listen. “It’s not far, Preacher. On the corner of Second Street and Broadway. Got three cells inside. The gallows, such as it is, is out near the town limits. Out by the livery stables.”

  Thomas ‘Bear River’ Smith had a reputation such that the Preacher knew more about Smith than he did about anyone else in Kansas. Some folk called him the ‘no gun’ marshal, on account that he didn’t carry a gun and more to the point, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to do so either, leastways not within the town limits.

  “Seems he is a drifter, just passing through,” continued the marshal. “I bet he’s done time in a few places. Going no place now though. But there’ll still be a few gawpers tomorrow, even if he is an unknown ‘round here. But that’s a hanging fer yer. An’ it’s not just the ghouls. Families will be there too. Mothers allers want to put the fear of God into their children. But I guess you’d agree with that, Preacher Man.”

  Smith didn’t wait for any affirmation. “Turns out he was released from Leavenworth a while back. Lookin’ fer work I guess, but likely work of the dishonest kind. Drifted down here and I bet he wishes he’d had stayed in jail. Wouldn’t have killed that Mary Magdalene then, would he. Hit her too hard. Probably didn’t mean it in my ‘pinion. And no doubt she had something coming to her.” The Preacher decided it would be best if he walked a bit faster; just get this over and done. But he had a strong pair of lungs did Marshal Smith. “Allers causin’ trouble was that old whore, more ‘an all the others put together. Most of the sportin’ girls in Abilene behave you know. Gen’rally it’s the whiskey does it and whiskey gone done it this time for sure. When one of the gals went lookin’ for her she found Lucy dead and him drunk on the floor of the shack. Thought he was dead too. I’m a Temperance man myself sir, as no doubt you are.”

  The Preacher responded with a question. “I guess you get to know everyone around here, what with your job being so central to everything that’s happening in Abilene. So tell me, have you ever come across someone named Bascourt-Beauregard?”

  “Can’t say I have. But I only been here these two months’ past. What’s this fellow look like?”

  “Shorter than me, thicker set. Strong. Moustache. But you’d recognize him most by his vicious streak.”

  “I will ask my turnkey for you. If he has done wrong in Abilene any time over the past three years, you can bet your breakfast Jonah will know him. Why d’you ask?”

  “He could keep your prisoner company tomorrow morning.”

  Occupying a block to itself, the Courthouse also served as the Marshal’s Office and the town jail. The Preacher had no intention of allowing this to take long. It had been sometime since he’d eaten and he’d had opportunity to take in a variety of aromas from the diners and bars they’d passed on the way.

  The turnkey, sitting on a chair outside the door, had seen the two approaching. Short and stumpy, he was clearly as strong as a bullock which, in his line of business, it pays to be so. He greeted the approaching pair as far as greetings go, then turned his back on them, and led the way inside. Smith thanked the Preacher then said: “You be sure an’ tell me if the prisoner mentions anything the Law needs to know about.” With that he handed his charge to the turnkey and stepped back outside, closing the door behind him.

  The turnkey looked at the Preacher.
“You’ll want to spend a good while with him no doubt. You Bible men gen’rally do.” It was a statement, not a question, and was prefaced and concluded with profanities. His hoarse voice suggested that he wasn’t much used to conversation. He led the Preacher through a door at the back of the office to the cells. It was only a few steps to the prisoner’s. The Preacher followed the brute into the gloom. He pulled his neckerchief from the depths of his trouser pocket and held it to his nose. Some light came in through the vent in the wall at the opposite end of the corridor.

  Each cell was basically a cage of maybe 60 square foot. The turnkey opened the door to the middle one, keeping his eye on the man sitting squat on a small three-legged stool in the corner. The Preacher noted the single bunk and the bucket. The stone floor was partially covered in straw. Difficult to tell whether the smell came from the bucket, the straw, or the wretch on the stool.

  There was only one occupant in the jailhouse that day. This was unlikely to change during the course of the night; a town like Abilene wasn’t set up to have a regular police force. The turnkey gestured the Preacher inside. No introductions. Immediately he was over the threshold the door was slammed shut and the lock turned again, the echo testament to the fact.

  “You the hangman?” The creature on the stool looked up, then quickly looked away again. “I already bin measured. Got me a nice new necktie fer the morning.” He remained sitting. Shoulders slumped. Legs akimbo. One boot on. The top of his pants half open. He’d given up, that much the Preacher could tell from the resigned tone of his voice. And just those few words had reduced the man to a coughing fit. If the rope hadn’t beaten it, consumption would surely have claimed a victim within the year.

  “Marshal said you wanted clergy. Well that I ain’t, but I’m all you’re getting.”

  “Don’t want no clergyman, nor no preacher neither. Don’t want no psalms or religious claptrap. Had ‘nuff of that at Sunday School. See where...” but another fit of coughing put paid to his revelation. He was a deal shorter than the Preacher, but then again, most folks were. Probably around 40 years old. Dirty skin, with a beard that was in sore need of a barber, as was his thinning hair that was down past where his collar would have been were he wearing a shirt. Instead, he wore a sweat-stained, gravy smeared, grime soaked, vest. “I ain’t afeared, Preacher. Even if’n I’d been a-spared what’s a-coming I knows this cough will get me soon enough. ‘Spose ary will do.” And this set off yet more coughing.