Render Unto God... Page 6

  The Parson prayed to God in His Mercy, and a deputy spat on the ground. The Preacher held his Bible in both hands, lowered his head, and thought on how he would get someone to help him retrieve the money. The marshal and parson climbed down from the wagon while the executioner climbed up into the driver’s seat. Once the reins were in his grasp the executioner turned his head back for a last look at Williams standing motionless beneath his gallows. He then faced forward to look for a signal from the marshal, who was positioned by the leftmost mule. No need to drag this out. Get it over quickly so the men could get some breakfast. Smith gave a small, but final, nod of his head, at the same time hitting the hind of the mule with a stick. The executioner yelled “Hee Yar!” and lashed the reins across the beasts’ backs. The mules began to move and the wagon lurched forward, clear of the bar and into the yard, taking with it the support from under Williams’ feet. The sudden lack of footing caused him to drop, plummet even, until the noose grabbed ahold of his neck. The rope jerked ramrod straight, bringing the drop to a violent halt. Williams was left dangling some three feet above the ground, swinging, spinning slowly and kicking for maybe five or six seconds before he became still. Nobody witnessing dare draw breath during this time, despite at least one person present giving his all just to do that very thing. Observant folk would have noticed Williams’ left foot twitch for a couple more seconds after the self-same leg had stopped kicking, and seen the contents of his bladder drip off his boot onto the ground, where it was quickly absorbed into the dirt. The rest of him would follow within the half hour.

  Williams was still now, and the onlookers began to breathe again. Two of the deputies approached the body and grabbed hold of a leg each, pulling down with all their might to make sure that the neck was well and truly broke, and the prisoner well and truly dead. The marshal, with the parson as his shadow, went over to the Preacher. The Lawman said, “We’ll cut him down so’s the doctor can attest to him being dead. The Death Certificate is already complete, jest needs signing.” He tapped the breast pocket of his waistcoat to signify that he had it in his possession. “So all that’s needed is to take him to the bone orchard an’ be done with him. You comin’? See the thing through to the end?”

  “Parson’s job now,” nodding to the man in question. It was the first time the Preacher had acknowledged the man. Truth is, they had nothing in common, with the established churchman as skeptical about the Preacher’s motives as the Preacher was about the other’s sincerity. “If Williams found the Lord at the end, it is because he received the spirit from me last night. I’ve done my bit Marshal. If St Peter is going to turn him away he’s probably done that already. Nothing nobody can say over his grave can make no difference. Now I got breakfast to ‘tend to.” With a nod to both, the Preacher touched the brim of his hat, turned away from the scene and strode back towards town. He noted from the corner of his eye one of the mothers scurrying away with her children, scolding them for crying.

  “Preacher! Hey, Preacher Man!”

  The Preacher had barely walked twenty yards. But he recognized the voice as coming from the previous day’s card game. He turned around slowly, deliberately, on the heel of his right boot, frock coat flapping gently in the faint breeze that wasn’t really needed just then - the morning chill was still there. He looked at his accoster from under the pulled down brim of his black hat. Standing now full-on to the source of the interruption, with his hands on his hips and his feet firmly planted in the ground, looking at the unwanted intruder into his thoughts. “Mr. Beauregard. Writing a report on a ‘wild west hanging’ for your eastern readers are you?”

  Jackson was wearing a light gray jacket, double-breasted with the bottom button undone as was the fashion. The trousers were of a darker grey and pulled high up the waist, suggesting braces. With his white shirt finished off with a small laced tie, he was suitably dressed for the occasion. As he reached the Preacher he removed his broad-brimmed hat (probably his only concession to the West to date, but even that had been bought in New York. There were the boots of course. The Preacher couldn’t help noticing that they were a mighty fine pair of boots). Jackson extended the greeting by extending his hand. The Preacher took this and as he did each man was pleasantly impressed by the firmness of the other’s grip. This was no limp-wristed easterner, someone who is used to holding nothing more than a pen, thought the Preacher. And Jackson was immediately aware that the hands of this particular preacher could do more than just heal the sick. “Well we have executions back east you know. But it would have been better were it a lynching.” Realizing that this might not sound as objective as he intended, Jackson added: “Purely from a public interest point of view, you understand. I’m not saying that I want some poor soul to be lynched just to satisfy the readers back home. I just meant...”

  “Would your editors have the same view I wonder, Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher, saving the younger man’s fluster. The Preacher made to resume his journey. He was hungry and in want of breakfast. “Why don’t you go and interview Marshal Smith? You can find out more about the hanging from him. And...” here the Preacher turned to Jackson, “this marshal is, how can I put it? A legend out here in the West. City dwellers like to read of legends, so I hear.” He continued, “I notice you are not sporting a gun, Mr. Beauregard. Did you have one when you arrived in town?”

  “Rest assured, if you are concerned with my safety, I do possess a weapon.”

  “A weapon!” Jackson failed to spot the mockery.

  “That’s right. I do not expect to tackle a gunfighter. But I am prepared, let us leave it at that.”

  But the Preacher was beginning to enjoy this. “Prepared, Mr. Beauregard. What with, pray?”

  “Well I have a Philadelphia Derringer. Widely used back east sir. And popular with the officer class, I believe.”

  “And with the Ladies.”

  “But you are probably not aware, you being a man of the cloth an’ all,” continued Jackson. “that firearms are prohibited in this town. The marshal and a couple of his deputies greeted everyone who alighted from the train I was on, and they cordially took care of all our weapons. Did seem unusual. Sort of thing I would expect in Albany or Buffalo, not out here.” The Preacher resumed walking, and Jackson continued in his wake. He wasn’t going to be shaken off.

  “So go and interview him, Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher without breaking stride, “and ask why he won’t tolerate guns in town. And...” here the Preacher dealt what he thought would be his winning card, “You say you write for a New York journal? Well I do believe Marshal Smith hails from that city. Something else for your readers, I do declare!”

  But Jackson, by now in front of the Preacher and walking backwards in an attempt to catch his eye, persisted. “But I would rather interview you sir”. He began to backpedal faster as the Preacher forced the pace. “You exposed a card cheat in the Alamo yesterday. That was very impressive. Tell me how you knew. My readers would like to hear that.”

  “Mister Beauregard...” began the Preacher, stopping momentarily, only to resume his stride when he was overruled by Jackson’s impetuousness.

  “I can see the headline now...”

  “Headline? Are you...”

  “Man of God turns the tables in a House of Sin!”

  “That’s both unoriginal and sacrilegious, Mr. Beauregard.”

  “That was impressive, the way you exposed Banks’s cheating yesterday. You’re no greenhorn when it comes to gambling are you sir! How did you know he was cheating?”

  “Mis-ter Beau-regard,” said the Preacher, but it was a sigh really. He stopped - again - and turned to Jackson. “We have just seen a man being dispatched before his time for a meeting with his Maker. For me, this is a time for contemplation about the immediacy of death, and for a celebration of life, or what’s left of it. Not a time for talking about two-bit bunko artists and cheats. And believe me young man, Banks is nothing but a bunko artist!” The Preacher hadn’t an appetite for arguing
with Jackson just then, which was largely due to him having a stronger appetite for breakfast. “But right now, I want food and coffee.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking too, sir! Allow me to stand you breakfast of ham and eggs. It is the least I can do given you saved my bacon at the cards yesterday.” Jackson paused, inviting comment on his joke, only to receive a withering glare.

  The Preacher decided it was time for a change of tone; give the young man something else to think about and then he could be on his way. “I shall take you up on your offer, Mr. Beauregard. For as it says in Exodus, ‘And they gathered it every morning, every man according to his eating: and when the sun waxed hot, it melted.’”

  “What melted? I’m afraid maybe I don’t know my Bible as well as you do sir.”

  “Why, Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher, “I reckon that for us it could be cheese, melting on hot bacon. May I recommend Drover’s Cottage? It does a fine breakfast, and we can sit out on the veranda, being as it’s going to be such a beautiful morning.”

  “And we can talk about how you knew Banks was no good?”

  “If we must Mr. Beauregard.” As they strode off to the Drover’s, the Preacher began to explain the cheating methodology used by Banks the previous day. “The salesman’s technique was quite amateurish in my opinion. Of course, you will have noticed that Banks allowed,” the Preacher paused for emphasis, “insisted even, that Mortensen, you, me, all check the pack. It was new. Why, was it not you Mr. Beauregard, who broke the seal?”

  Jackson nodded, remembering.

  “And we each agreed it was a clean pack?”

  “Even you sir!”

  “Yes,” acknowledged the Preacher. “Even me. And that was because there was no question about it. That was indeed a clean pack.”

  Only the Preacher had seen him switch. It was a move that took place almost as soon as the game had started, lest the players become too familiar with the deck they were using. No one would have noticed unless they were specifically looking. But the Preacher was specifically looking. He was specifically looking for no reason other than he made it a rule never to trust anyone he played cards with.

  “Once I’d seen the switch made, I knew something was up. After that it was a simple matter of observation.”

  Jackson interrupted: “I noticed that he mainly won when he was dealing. And if I had a good hand on his deal he would fold quick.”

  “Well done, Mr. Beauregard! A good and accurate observation. Banks had been able to recognize high value cards when he was dealing, when they were still face down in his hand. And,” the Preacher permitted himself a self-satisfied smile, “over the course of the afternoon so did I Mr. Beauregard, so did I. Which meant that Banks knew when, and when not, to raise the stakes because he knew when, and when not, someone had a good hand. Knew pretty much what the hand was as well.” Naturally the Preacher had started to use the technique himself. Well if he could work it out, why not make use of the knowledge? After all, it hadn’t been him who’d switched the pack. No, it was fair game to make full use of the circumstances he was in, that’s all. And it was up to Mortensen and Jackson to look out for themselves.

  The Drover’s Cottage was in view now and the Preacher could smell coffee. “You have heard of Mr. George Devol? Claims to be the King of the Mississippi gamblers. I’ve seen him at the tables and I do not dispute that boast. He once dealt to each of his opponents in a single hand, four aces. He was just showing off then. But take heed: if Devol joins you at a table, cash in your chips.”

  “Devol eh? Him I would like to meet. ‘Deed I would.”

  Drover’s Cottage was three-stories high and had around 100 rooms. For the residents, and they weren’t always drovers, it provided a laundry service and a dining room. “Shall we sit outside and eat?” suggested the Preacher. He stopped and gestured to let Jackson climb the steps up to the verandah.

  Jackson continued to ask questions. “I find it hard,” said Jackson, shaking his head, “to accept that Banks switched the pack without anyone noticing it.”

  “Mr. Beauregard,” said the Preacher, pointedly, “I noticed it.”

  “So why didn’t you expose him as a cheat right away?”

  “Because that would not be as harsh a punishment as being exposed and losing a deal of money. So I decided to wait until the moment was more...opportune.”

  “And that was when you were comfortably ahead in your own winnings.” Sensing that he might have said the wrong thing, Jackson immediately added, “You played a mean game yourself sir. Very impressive. Though that’s not quite something I would have expected from a man of your persuasion.”

  The Preacher led the way to a table. It was long and would seat a couple of dozen when the place was full. But it wasn’t full. A few other early risers, however, were already eating. “Many ‘men of my persuasion’ are oft not so persuaded until later in life. And the card table has a place in polite society.” They took their seats, opposite one another. “Or rather, had a place when society was polite.”

  “I admit to having always liked a game of cards. My parents would oftentimes have friends over for dinner, after which they would get the playing cards out. Why, my father has a copy of Hoyle’s ‘A Short Treatise on the Game of Whist’ in the library.”

  “Library Mr. Beauregard? A privileged upbringing, I detect.” Despite the mild sarcasm, the Preacher was pleased to acknowledge a man from a Good Family, while a painful memory of his own library surfaced. Built up over generations. Burnt down on a single night as the Union Army cut The South in two.

  “My father frowns on poker though. We played whist for the points. He didn’t like the influence of money on the game. It was gambling sir. ‘Money is the root of all evil’, is what he would say.” He caught the eye of a waitress and she went off to fetch some coffee and cutlery.

  The sun was clear of the rooftops now, warming the air. It was going to be another hot day. “It is the Love of Money, I think you will find, Mr. Beauregard. Timothy, 6:10. And I do not love lucre. Indeed, I believe that the Lord has made it my duty to relieve gamblers of their gains - which are ill-gotten without exception I think you will find - and to turn their vice into a virtue by using it for charitable works.”

  “Such as building a church in the land of the heathen?”

  “You have a sound memory, Mr. Beauregard. Useful in your profession I do not doubt.”

  “Can there be such a thing as an honest gambler?”

  “Most players are either cheats, or fools. Both need to be pulled up short. We saw an example of each at the table yesterday.”

  “And which category would you put me in sir?” But Jackson was being playful with his question. He was looking forward to his breakfast and the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen added to his desire.

  “A fool to play with such an obvious cheat, Mr. Beauregard. I think you will allow that.” It had been a long time since the Preacher had been involved in anything like a friendly conversation. This young man seemed to have a bright mind, and an honest naivety, which appealed to someone who had been exposed to cynicism and death for perhaps too long.

  “So just how did Banks spot the high value cards when he dealt them? Did he use some small mirror cupped in his hand? It would sure be educational for me to know some of the ploys - just so I don’t get caught out again you understand.” Jackson turned and smiled at the waitress as she placed two mugs on the table and proceeded to fill them with steaming black coffee. She took their orders for breakfast.

  “The cards were glazed Mr. Beauregard, as you will have noticed. Helps keep ‘em clean. But some of the key cards on the switched deck had a small, unglazed spot, or sometimes a line or maybe two, on the back.”

  “So the position of the unglazed spots and lines would relate to... would relate to the value and suit of the card!”

  “Of course. And the way the light fell on the back of the card was crucial, else Banks would not be able to see the marks. And the only times Banks
could comfortably and discreetly see the cards in the right light was...”

  “Was when he was dealing them!”

  “Yes! Mr. Beauregard, Yes! And the same for me too, when I had the deal. Tell me, what did you think of Banks’ approach?”

  “He came over all above board and ever the Gentleman, I would say. Of course, I know now I was wrong in my judgement. But as I hope at some stage to earn my living on the River Boats, well I sure need to learn your skill at spotting a... how did you call it?”

  “Mister Beauregard!” The laughter was rare, but genuine, and not in the least mocking. “Make a living? Lose your shirt more like. If you ever play the Boats, ensure, I implore you, to play in a pair. You always need a partner to watch out for you.”

  “Well no one was watching out for me yesterday, that’s for sure.”

  The Preacher wasn’t irritated by Jackson’s remark. After having spent the night with Williams, then witnessing his execution, well Jackson’s enthusiasm was positively refreshing. “I, Mr. Beauregard, I was looking out for you. And you did not lose, did you?”

  “Well I think I...”

  “Well not much. Just enough to pay for the lesson you learnt, I would say. And I left you enough to pay for breakfast, lest you forget.”

  And pretty soon, breakfast arrived. Three fried eggs each, rashers of bacon, fried tomatoes, sausages too. And a thick slice of freshly baked bread. The two men got straight down to the business of eating. A couple of cowboys arrived and were seated down a-ways.

  Jackson removed his hat and placed it alongside on the bench. “Do you think you will see Banks again? I mean, he won’t be best pleased with you, if he saw you again. What would you do if he came here for breakfast, say?”