Render Unto God... Read online

  “I’m no physician, but you sure sound like a lunger to me,” said the Preacher without sympathy. “Anyway, the marshal said you wanted to confess. Now I’m not a Roman - God forbid! - but if you want to say something, say it, else I will be on my way.”

  The prisoner was silent for a few moments and the Preacher stood his ground. The man looked up from his stool. “You’ve more the look of the grim reaper about you than is wholesome.”

  Then he began to raise his voice, not much, just as much as his failing strength would allow. “I got nothing to confess to! I’m innocent.” He coughed. “I don’t remember killing that bitch. They shouldn’t be allowed to hang a man if he can’t remember what he done.” A little bit of passion in his voice now. He stopped to wheeze and get his breath back. “That’s not Justice is it? Huh?” Measured tone now. “You being a Preacher an’ all means you must have some learnin’. If a man as simple as me can see that, then thems as is smart must see it even more so.” He rose from his stool, took the three steps to the cell bars and rattled them with an old tin mug yelling, “I’m innocent, you murdering bastards!” But it was a half-hearted effort, just going through the motions for a visitor. Faint obscenities from the turnkey back now in his office. Loud coughing from the prisoner, back now on his stool.

  The Preacher sat himself down on the bed, a low wooden framed affair with a straw mattress. It was going to be a long evening. How to make sure it did not turn into a long night. He decided to give compassion a try. “Calm down friend. Tell me, what’s your name?”

  The man raised himself slightly and adjusted the stool that looked like it once belonged in a cow barn. He leant back against the wall and stretched out his legs. “Williams. Jed Williams. From Joliet, Illinois. What a way to end, huh?” But this question was more for himself than the Preacher.

  “Mind if I sit a-while friend?” The Preacher kept his voice low, slow, deliberate. Didn’t want this Williams to raise his voice and start coughing all over again.

  “This ain’t right Preacher Man.” Williams turned and looked full at his visitor. “I didn’t kill that woman. There was two of us and he did it. I know. Never see’d him afore, just a Texan. But he didn’t like wimmin. I shouldn’t’ve let him talk me into sharing her. Said it’d save us both money and she warn’t good lookin’ ‘nuff to pay her the five dollars she was a-wantin’ from both of us for going separate like.” He paused. Idly he rubbed the heel of his boot back and forth across the stone floor. Preacher kept the silence. Maybe this would do for a confession in which case he’d say a prayer and go. “We’d had a skinful of whisky an’ we got her down to three bucks each if we shared see. Made sense then. An’ well... Hell.” Williams looked up at the Preacher, but there wasn’t much life in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and continued, “I said all this to the Judge and just because there ain’t no witness no nothing. Well, yeah, there were other Texans hangin’ ‘round, but themselves they all stick together. Like cow shit on a boot.” He cleared his throat and spat into a corner. The facilities of the county did not extend to spittoons in its prison cells. His head flopped back against the wall and he shut his eyes.

  There followed a period of silence, interspersed by groans from Williams. Ordinarily the Preacher didn’t have sympathy for folks that felt sorry for themselves. So why make an exception here.

  “Listen friend. If you’d rather be alone I will respect your wishes and...”

  “No Preacher, no. If I am gonna, well, you know... Don’t want to be alone right now. Wait ‘til the boy comes with the food.”

  “Would you like me to read something from the Good Book.” The Preacher reached deep inside his coat and pulled out his leather-bound Bible. It had been passed down from great-grandfather to grandfather to father and then to son over the generations. The entire family tree was written, mostly in copper-plate, on the insides of the cover. Different handwriting of course, different Keepers of The Book. It showed the names of fathers, mothers, siblings, and babes that had died even as they were being born. But to each and every one the Preacher was indifferent: he’d found the book inside a bag he’d bought from a carpetbagger back in Vicksburg in the dog days following the end of the war. Only the Good Lord knew what had happened to the Bible’s owners, so best leave that to Him.

  “Hell no! Put that away! Don’t believe in that horseshit! Beggin’ yer pardon an all Reverend.”

  “Ok, friend, I hear you. If you don’t want to share a prayer then I reckon I won’t insult your intelligence...” the Preacher paused momentarily then concluded, “by trying to convert you at this late hour.” He stood up. “Many would, but like I said, I can leave if you wish.”

  “Wait!” A touch of desperation in his voice, mellowing into more of a request. “Wait, please. I do wanna do some good see. Before I...” he coughed and his voice tailed off. “If this is a confeshun, it ain’t a religious one. An’ it’s only becuz I want ma sister Martha to have something for her old age. Don’t know why. She ain’t bin nothin’ to me. But I guess she is kin, when all is said and done. And I have some money stashed. Was gonna use it myself, see. But now. Guess she should have it.”

  “Money?” said the Preacher sitting down again. “You say you have some money that you want this sister to have? Does she know?”

  “No. ‘Course she don’t. Got no idea.” He started to chuckle and this brought on a coughing fit. He resolved it by hacking at his chest to bring up the phlegm, which he spat out with venom into a pile of straw by his foot. “She got no idea she’s been a-sleeping and a-screwing with maybe twenty thousand dollars under her floorboards. Me an’ my pardner,” he paused, looked about to make sure the turnkey wasn’t listening. He lowered his voice a shade more. “We robbed a stage maybe five years back, right at the end of the war it was. Had to hightail it out of the territory and we thought best if we’d not have the stash on us on account there was some pretty angry people after going to give us no mercy. Hid it in a whorehouse. Wuz gonna return when everything had settled down, but things have a way of a-happening.”

  Williams seemed to get lost in his remembrance. The Preacher said, “Things?”

  “We headed up north.” Williams paused, took a deep breath. Deciding then he might as well tell his tale as let it be buried with him he said, “Got to some small nothing of a town and robbed a store. The only store. Only we got caught see because a posse of US Marshals just happened to be passing. I mean, what’s the chances of that a-happening? Spent the next few years in Leavenworth. Where is I got this chest see.” He slapped his breast for emphasis. “When I was released I headed to Ellsworth. Came through here on the way.”

  “Ellsworth ? That where the money... where your kin lives? Your sister. Martha?”

  “Sister do, yup. She’s a bed-faggot, Preacher Man. Works in a hog ranch on the edge of the town. Serves the fort there. And every other cowboy an’ cowpoke with a dollar in his pocket. But then, wasn’t the Good Lord one to mix with whores? One of the Marys eh? Bet your Jesus had her share his blanket on cold nights.” The Preacher didn’t rise to this, partly because he wasn’t convinced Williams was trying to provoke him. But mainly because he wanted him to continue the story. Williams was short of breath as it was. And continue he did. “That’s why we had to skedaddle. And quick! A trooper got shot when we hit the stage. Young fellah he was. Didn’t know there was a soldier on board. Guarding a strongbox. Full of cash. Wrapped in oilskins. So we put ‘em... hey! I ain’t tellin’ you no more see. This ain’t a confeshun, remember!”

  “I do understand mister... Can I call you Jed?” And without waiting for a reply, “Jed, how are you going to tell your sister what’s a-coming to her if you don’t tell me? You can hardly tell that marshal now, can you?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon reverend, but even if I wuz gonna confess an all, I could hardly ask a Man of the Cloth to turn a blind eye to a crime, now could I? You’d be duty bound to hand the money back to the authorities there, now wouldn’t ye. See, that wouldn’t h
elp Martha nothing now would it. Maybe I said too much.” Williams lapsed into silence.

  It was getting pretty dark in the cell, but it wasn’t getting any cooler, although the air was becoming marginally more bearable. The Preacher didn’t need his ‘kerchief any more, he’d gotten used to the stench. Breathing through his mouth helped. Could’ve taken off his frock coat, loosened his neck-tie, even unfastened his waistcoat. But the Preacher remained tightly dressed for that was his way. Fortunately for the Preacher, the turnkey interrupted the confession by sidling up to the cell door and asking him if he wanted a lamp, or was he nearly finished?

  The Preacher was only just beginning. The turnkey opened the door and holding a revolver in one hand, passed through a lantern with the other. He then banged the door shut and, following the sound of the lock a-turning, stamped back to his office, slamming the adjoining door behind him. The two were left in silence.

  “You do know that the bank will have claimed insurance on the stolen money by now.” This the Preacher.

  “No. So what if the ten thousand then turns up eh? What then? Don’ that go to the ‘surance?”

  The Preacher let the revised amount pass. “Why, it goes to charitable causes. Unless of course, some crooked official decides to keep it all for himself. Now that could happen. And I reckon that giving the money to your sister is a very charitable cause in itself, ‘deed I do. Yessiree. And all I want to do now is to help you on your way to the grave with a clear conscience, due to having done a most charitable thing. Now I know you don’t Believe. But believe me, when you get to see St Peter at them Pearly Gates, you are going to be mighty glad that you did such a charitable thing at the last. And it’s a Christian thing too.” The ensuing silence suggested that something was going on in that dense head sat opposite. The Preacher continued, “Just how were you going get this information through to your sister?”

  “Yeah, well, I wuz planning to get the boy brings my food to go to her and tell her to look in...” he paused, “...a partic’lar place. Wasn’t gonna tell him why an’ all. But wuz gonna say that he was to tell Martha that she wuz to give him 100 dollars for his trouble. And that when she did as he said, that she would know how to get him his 100 dollars. An’ it’ll take two of ‘em to move... To move what needs a-movin’. Took both me an’ my pardner to shift it.” Williams paused here, letting a latent coughing fit subside. “See, that boy... he’s a-been a-bringing me my vittles morn’ and ev’ning since I been locked up here. He sits here whiles I eat. And we talk. I can tell he’s a good boy. Soon be a man by the way his voice is a-changing. Only person in this town who has treated me fair. No need for him to have done. But he done. So I wuz a-thinking that I could trust him and maybe he deserves the chance to do summin’ with his life that a 100 dollars could make a-happen.” Then he added bitterly, “Is that charitable ‘nuff for you an’ St Peter?”

  “Of course, of course. Most Christian. Tell me... this partner of yours. Were you planning to meet up again with him? Did he get released same time as you?”

  “Pickens? Still in Leavenworth. He warn’t what you calls a model prisoner. Got extra time fer fightin’. He can rot there ‘sfar as I’m concerned. We jest teamed up fer the one job see. The stage. Wuz planning to separate straight after.”

  “So what’s he like? Pickens.” The Preacher was interested to find out who was the brains behind the partnership. If there were enough brains to go around, that is. Might give him some clue as to what they did with the money.

  “Medium.” Williams shrugged. “Who cares.”

  “Medium what? Medium height?”

  “Yup.”

  “Heavy guy, is he?”

  “Nope. Just medium.”

  “And, let me guess... medium hair? Color and length?”

  “Yup. You got Pickens there right enough, Preacher. I can see yer an ej-ucated man, an’ no mistake!”

  “Medium color eyes too, I suppose.”

  “Well...” Williams paused for thought. “One of them was a medium grey, that’s fer sure.”

  “And the other?” Tell this tale to St Peter and he’ll turn you away out of boredom.

  “Can’t rightly say now, Preacher, on account of his only having the one. His left ‘un had a patch. Lost it at Manassas Junction I think. Did say. Forgit now.”

  The Preacher thought that a period of silence was due, chiefly so that he could give himself time to think about what he had just learnt. But after a short bout of coughing it seemed that Williams wanted to continue. “Wasn’t much of a partner to me was Pickens. Reckon we wouldn’t have been caught if’n we’d been more careful a-robbin’ the store an’ all. An’ that was his idea! The only luck we had wuz that we didn’t have the money on us by then.” He spat on the floor, “and that was my idea.” Rubbing the spittle into the floor with the heel of his boot, making a swirling pattern with the moisture. He added, “Truth be told Preacher, an’ I guess that’s all I got left to do ain’t it? I mean, I gotta ‘acknowledge the corn’, as they say where I comes from, what with you being a Man of God an’ all. Anyways, seeing as how I got out first and seeing it was ‘cuz ma behavior was better’n Pickens’ what with his fightin’ an’ all, well I warn’t going to wait fer him now wuz I? I mean, I coulda waited fer years fer him to be let free.”

  “Was that how much longer he was in for? Years?”

  “Nooo... He only had a month more ‘an me an’ then he’d be freed. But what I am a-saying is that it coulda been years. An’ how am I to know if he ain’t gone and done more fightin’ after I’ve bin an’ left? Now do I?”

  The Preacher acknowledged the logic of Williams’ argument, such that it was. He decided it would be inappropriate at this delicate stage of their conversation to point out to Williams that he was a no-good, double-crossing, sonofabitch, who was aiming to get the money before he partner was released.

  “Now I’m a-feared he’ll get the march on me and get to Ellsworth afore the boy. He’ll not know about the fix I’m in, but sure as hell he will double-cross me and take everything. Gotta stop that Preacher. I’d rather that money burn than he gets his claws on it. Even go back to the Feds. Anything!”

  Williams’ next bout of coughing brought a timely end to his talking. The Preacher moved the lantern nearer to the bed. He picked up the Good Book and read a few verses, but quietly, to himself, so as not to antagonize Williams. The pages fell open at Proverbs 10:22 “The blessing of the LORD, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.” He pondered on this for a while, then stood, turned and banged hard on the door. “Turnkey!” he yelled. “Turnkey!” Within a few moments the turnkey appeared, cursing. The Preacher turned to Williams who had been watching without comment from his stool. “I’ll be back.” Then he left the cell.

  Out in the turnkey’s office the Preacher said: “I think this will last the night. He has a lot on his conscience. Where does he get his food from?”

  “Boy brings it from Alice Tucker’s Kitchen. Mrs. Tucker is the marshal’s fancy.” This was followed by another profanity. The turnkey had his feet up on a stool and was amusing himself by whittling on a stick. Used a big old Bowie knife. He didn’t look at the Preacher.

  “Boy hers?”

  “Yup.” Still whittling. Not looking.

  “When’s he bring it over?”

  “Maybe next hour. Maybe not.”

  “Where can I find this place? Could do with some food myself. Not eaten since breakfast and, like I said, it’s going be a long night.”

  It was the Preacher’s offer to bring him back some food that turned the turnkey into a helpful officer of the law. Of course it wasn’t far. Nothing was in Abilene. Alice Tucker’s Kitchen was a cabin a little ways down the street in the opposite direction to the Preacher’s hotel, on the way to the livery stables; the route Williams would be taking in the morning. As the Preacher approached the cabin he noted that some folk had chosen to eat at the tables outside under an awning erected to provide shade during the day. Although the
evening air was turning relatively pleasant, the Preacher chose to sit inside. There was a long trestle table in the middle of the room with two long pews either side. Could hold up to maybe twenty, twenty-five people he reckoned. Three or four single tables made up the eating area. The Preacher chose one of those, one near the stove. From there he could see Alice Tucker cooking and her people taking the orders, doing the serving.

  Waiting for his steak he drank a glass of weak beer and got to talking with the boy. Mrs Tucker didn’t mind her son spending time with a preacher, no sir. He’d be an educated man and a good influence. But keep an eye on the big table mind, customers need a-serving.

  “Tell me Nehemiah – and by and by, that is a good name! Nehemiah in the Bible was the cupbearer to Artaxerxes. Did you know that?”

  “Yes sir. That is, I think so sir. It was my grandfather’s name. Nehemiah I mean, not Ata... Atax...” He was a tall lad of maybe a dozen years. No longer a child, but a long ways from having to buy a razor; between hay and grass as they say. Thatch of blond hair. Would break a few hearts afore he was settled down. Bright eyed and eager to help. The Preacher interrupted him, save him struggle with the name of the Persian King.

  “I hear that you are the cupbearer to that man in the condemned cell.”

  “Yessum sir.” The Preacher hadn’t invited the boy to sit down opposite and he was too well brought up to seat himself uninvited.