Preacher's Justice Read online

  “Are you talking about you and me, uh, about us being together?” he asked.

  “Preacher, in all this time that I have known you, I’ve never said anything to you about how I felt about you. I never even made the slightest suggestion as to how I felt because . . . well, I know that you belonged to Jennie, so . . . ”

  “Carla, do you know what you are saying? What you are doing?” Preacher asked.

  “Yes, I know exactly what I’m saying and what I’m doing,” Carla said. “I’m a virgin, Preacher. All the time I was working in the house with Jennie and the other girls, Jennie insisted that I keep myself a virgin. She said that someday someone special would come along. She wanted me to wait until that some day.”

  Preacher sighed. “Carla, you understand that the reason nothing ever came of my relationship with Jennie is because nothing could come of it? I don’t live the kind of life that would allow for a family.”

  “Yes, I know,” Carla said.

  “The same would go with us. I can’t offer you anything, or promise you anything.”

  “I know that as well,” Carla said.

  “What I’m saying is that, under the circumstances, I may not be that someone special Jennie wanted you to save yourself for.”

  “Oh, you are the someone special, all right,” Carla said.

  “You are sure about this?” Preacher asked.

  “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life,” Carla replied.

  She began unbuttoning the top of her dress, but just before she opened it, she leaned forward and blew out the candle. A moment later, Preacher felt her arms around his neck, her breath on his cheek, and her soft, naked flesh against his chest.

  ELEVEN

  The smell of bacon frying in the pan, and freshly brewed coffee, awakened Preacher the next morning. For just a moment, he wondered where he was. Then he remembered that he had spent the night with Carla.

  He smiled as he recalled that it had been an active night.

  Dog shook himself, making his loose skin flutter as he did so.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Dog? That Preacher is awake?” Carla asked.

  Dog walked over to the bed and lifted his paw.

  “You didn’t have to fix breakfast,” Preacher said.

  “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” Carla said.

  Preacher looked around the room.

  “The necessary is out back,” Carla said. “And there’s a pump and washbasin just outside the back door.”

  “Thanks.”

  Preacher took care of his morning business, washed his face and hands, decided against a shave for now, and came back into the small house. Carla had breakfast laid out on the table.

  “Carla, really . . . ” he began, but Carla held up her hand to stop him in mid-sentence.

  “Preacher, this may be the closest thing to a normal family that I’ll ever have,” she said. “Please, don’t deny me this pleasure.”

  “Deny it?” Preacher smiled broadly. “On the contrary. I intend to enjoy every bite of it.”

  “Slater? Yeah, I knew him,” LaBarge said, replying to Preacher’s question. “Worthless as tits on a boar hog, that one was.”

  “Were he and Caviness pards?” Preacher asked.

  “You goin’ to buy more beer, or just ask questions?” LaBarge asked.

  “I’ll take another beer.”

  LaBarge drew a mug of beer from the barrel, then set it in front of Preacher. Preacher blew the head off, then took a drink.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say they was pards,” LaBarge said. “But I did see them together from time to time. Sometimes they’d sit at that far table over there and talk real quiet about things.”

  “Things? What sort of things?”

  “I don’t have any idea. Like I told you, they would talk just real quiet.”

  “I heard ’em palaverin’ about Philadelphia one night not too long ago,” one of the other bar patrons said. He had been standing at the bar, about ten feet away from Preacher and LaBarge. Supposedly, he was minding his own business, but the fact that he could respond indicated that he was paying attention to what was going on.

  “What were they saying about Philadelphia?” Preacher asked.

  The patron shook his head, then raised his glass for a drink. “Well, now, I can’t answer that,” he said. “I just heard ’em mention Philadelphia.”

  “Do you know some of the other folks who were at that table?”

  The patron stroked his chin for a long moment, supposedly in thought, but obviously waiting for Preacher to make an offer to pay him for information. Preacher slid a nickel down the bar.

  “Finch was one of them,” the patron said. “They was two more. But it’ll cost you a nickel a name.”

  “No, it won’t,” Preacher said.

  “What do you mean it won’t? I’m the one knows who was at that table.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Finch knows.”

  Finch was working at the wagon freight yard when Preacher found him. Sitting on an overturned barrel, he was packing grease into the wheel of one of the wagons.

  “Your name Finch?”

  Finch grabbed a handful of grease and started shoving it into the wheel hub.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I do,” Preacher said without identifying himself.

  “I owe you money, mister?”

  “No.”

  “Have I got your sister, wife, or daughter in a family way?”

  “No.”

  “Did I challenge you to a duel when I was so drunk I wasn’t makin’ any sense?”

  “No,” Preacher said. He laughed.

  Smiling, the wagon mechanic stood up, then extended his grease-filled hand toward Preacher’s.

  “Well, then, if you ain’t a’wantin’ me for none of them things, I reckon I’m the man you’re lookin’ for.”

  Preacher started to take Finch’s hand, but seeing it all filled with grease, he jerked his hand back.

  “I’m sorry,” Finch said, reacting to Preacher’s aversion. “When you work in grease all the time, sometimes you just forget.” He wiped his hand on his own trousers, then stuck it out for a second time. It was nearly as greasy and dirty as it had been the first time, but Preacher took it anyway.

  “Now that you know who I am, what can I do for you?” Finch asked.

  “Do you know Ben Caviness?”

  “Caviness?” Finch’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know the son of a bitch. Don’t tell me he is a friend of yours.”

  Preacher shook his head.

  “He’s no friend of mine,” he said. “But I am trying to find him. When is the last time you saw him?”

  “Oh, mercy, let me see. I’d make it two or three months now, for sure.”

  “Have you seen him since March?”

  Finch thought for a moment, then shook his head. “You mean since he killed that girl? No, and I don’t reckon anyone else has either.”

  Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “You think Caviness is the one who killed Jennie?”

  “Well, folks is saying he’s the one that done it, and knowin’ the son of a bitch like I did, there ain’t nothin’ that would make me disagree with ’em.”

  “What about this man Slater? I hear he and Caviness were pards?”

  Finch shook his head. “Well, if either one of them was goin’ to have a pard, it would have to be each other,” he said. “Warn’t neither one of them worth a pail of warm piss. But no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they was pards or anything like that.”

  “But last March, you and some others were seen sitting at the same table as both Caviness and Slater.”

  “Sittin’ at the same table?” Finch shook his head. “No, you got me wrong, mister. I wouldn’t never sit down to dinner with either one of them sorry sons of bitches.”

  “No, not a dinner table. A table over in LaBarge’s Tavern.”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, I suppose I could have done that from
time to time. LaBarge’s gets awful crowded sometimes, so’s that you can’t always be none too particular who it is you wind up sittin’ with.”

  “Do you recall sitting at a table with both Caviness and Slater? According to one person I spoke to, they were discussing Philadelphia.”

  Finch tried to snap his fingers, but because of the grease, he didn’t get a pop.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You know, now that you mention it, I do mind that night. Oh, LaBarge’s was crowded somethin’ awful that night.”

  “What did they say about Philadelphia, do you remember?”

  “Well, it’s not so much what he said, it’s just that Toomey brought him a letter, and he’s the one that passed the remark.”

  “What remark?”

  “Somethin’ ’bout this getting’ to be a habit, him deliverin’ letters from Philadelphia.”

  “What did he mean by that? It being a habit?”

  “According to Toomey, that was the second letter that month that come from Philadelphia.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Finch,” Preacher said, extending his hand again.

  “Wait a minute, you’re the fella they call Preacher, ain’t you?” Finch said as he shook Preacher’s hand a second time.

  “I am.”

  “This girl that Caviness killed, some says as how she was your woman.”

  “She was,” Preacher said without going into any further explanation.

  “I see now why you’re so all-fired interested in Caviness. You aim to find ’im and kill ’im, don’t you?”

  “I aim to do just that,’ Preacher said.

  “Well, by damn, I wish you luck,” Finch said. “Anyone in this world that deserves to die, it’s that son of a bitch.”

  “Thanks again,” Preacher said.

  Edgar Toomey looked up from behind the counter that separated the post office area from the customer area.

  “Yes, sir?” Toomey said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sometime ago you delivered two letters to Ben Caviness. Both were from Philadelphia. Do you recall that?”

  Toomey shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the U.S. mail. That’s confidential information.”

  “Hell, what’s so confidential about it?” Preacher asked. “Everyone in LaBarge’s Tavern saw you deliver the letters.”

  “Well, if you have their word on it, why do you need confirmation from me?”

  “I don’t need confirmation. I know you delivered the letters. All I want to know is who sent them.”

  Again Toomey shook his head. “Now, you are really asking me to violate postal regulations,” he said.

  “You know that Caviness killed Jennie, don’t you?” Preacher asked.

  Toomey nodded. “I’ve heard that possibility discussed,” he said.

  “You know that, but you won’t help me find him?”

  “I told you, I can’t answer your questions. Perhaps you should enquire over at River Bank.”

  Preacher looked confused. “The bank? What does that have to do with it?”

  “They might be able to answer your question,” Toomey said pointedly. “That’s all I can do for you, do you understand? All I can do is refer you to the bank.”

  “I’m not sure it is appropriate for me to be discussing bank business with you,” Abernathy said in response to Preacher’s question.

  “I don’t know that we are discussing bank business,” Preacher replied. “All I’m trying to do is find Ben Caviness and when I asked Mr. Toomey about it, he referred me to the bank.”

  “Yes, well, I . . . ”

  “Tell him what he wants to know, Duane,” a woman’s voice said.

  Preacher turned to look toward the door of Abernathy’s office, and saw a rather stout, stern-faced woman standing there.

  “Sybil, are you . . . ”

  “Tell the man what he wants to know,” Sybil Abernathy repeated. Her voice softened. “Please, Duane,” she said. “I feel responsible for this whole awful mess. If I had not been so insistent that that beautiful young woman be run out of her house, none of this would have happened.”

  “What do you have to tell me?” Preacher asked Mr. Abernathy.

  “Sybil, discussing the business of our depositors is highly unethical.”

  “So is paying someone to murder,” Sybil said. “Tell him.”

  Mr. Abernathy sighed, then looked up at Preacher. “Caviness cashed two bank drafts, drawn against the account of Theodore Epson, on the Trust Bank of Philadelphia,” he said. “The first was for fifteen dollars, and the second was for one hundred dollars.”

  “One hundred dollars? That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Abernathy agreed. “For someone like Ben Caviness, it is quite a substantial sum.”

  “Yes, well, I guess murder isn’t cheap,” Preacher said.

  Once more, Constable Billings was peeling an apple. Two previously peeled and browning apples sat on the windowsill, evidence of earlier efforts.

  “I think I know where Caviness is,” Preacher said.

  “Oh?” Billings was toward the end now, and what was clearly the longest unbroken peel he had yet made lay in a coil below the apple. He was being very careful as he continued to peel. “Where?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  Billings looked up in surprise. “What makes you think he is in Philadelphia?”

  “Because Theodore Epson is in Philadelphia.”

  “Epson? The man who used to be the head teller at the bank?”

  “Yes. Did you know that Epson sent Caviness two bank drafts, one for fifteen dollars and one for one hundred dollars?”

  “No, I didn’t. What the Sam Hill would he be sending Caviness money for?”

  “I think he paid Caviness to kill Jennie,” Preacher replied. “If the killing had gone smooth, Caviness would’ve taken the money and been on his way. But it didn’t go smooth. Slater got himself killed and Caviness lost an ear. And knowing Caviness, he’s going to figure that he’s got more money coming.”

  Billings nodded. “You may have an idea there,” he said.

  TWELVE

  Carla and Dog came down to LaClede’s Landing to see Preacher off on his quest. The boat he would be taking was a side-wheeler called the Cincinnati Queen. Because it was designed for use on the Mississippi and Ohio, both rivers deeper and more stable than the Missouri, the Cincinnati Queen was larger and more ornate than the Missouri Belle.

  There was a great deal of activity around the landing as both people and cargo were being taken aboard the three-decker, red-and-gold painted boat. William Ashley and Constable Billings had come down to the riverfront as well, and all were gathered in a little cluster as Preacher prepared to board.

  “I’ve written a letter appointing you as my deputy,” Constable Billings said, handing the letter to Preacher. “To be truthful with you, I don’t know how much authority it will have, but if you find a sympathetic peace officer or judge, he might recognize it and grant some reciprocity. Sometimes law officers do that for one another, since our jurisdiction is so limited.”

  “Thanks,” Preacher said, taking the proffered letter.

  “And I’ve prepared several bank drafts for you which should be recognized wherever you go,” Ashley said. “You have fifteen hundred dollars in fifty-dollar drafts.”

  “I appreciate that,” Preacher said. He looked at Carla, who so far had been very quiet. Dog was sitting by Carla’s side.

  “Preacher, you will be careful, won’t you?” Carla said. “I’m not over losin’ Jennie yet. It would be awful hard on me to lose another friend just now.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Preacher promised. He looked at Dog. “Dog, you did a really good job of looking after Jennie. Now, I want you to look after Carla for me. Will you do that?”

  Dog looked up at Carla, then back at Preacher. Preacher smiled, and rubbed him behind the ears. “I knew I could count on you,” he said. “And I promise you this. When I return, I’ll take you b
ack to the mountains with me.”

  The dog opened its mouth and let its tongue hang out. Laughing, Preacher rubbed him behind his ears.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought you would like that.”

  The boat’s whistle blew and, looking toward the boat, they saw the purser coming up to the bow, which was pegged against the bank. The purser raised a megaphone.

  “All aboard that’s comin’ aboard!” he shouted.

  There were several last-minute good-byes as those who had remained ashore, including Preacher, started up the gangplank.

  “Stand clear!” one of the deckhands shouted as he closed the gate.

  “Stand by to cast off!” the captain shouted down from the wheelhouse.

  “Standing by!” the deckhand answered.

  “Cast off.”

  The deckhand lifted the heavy rope from its stanchion and threw it toward the bank. The boat’s whistle blew two deep-throated blasts that echoed from the opposite side of the river. The engine was put in reverse and the steam boomed out of the steam-relief pipe like the firing of a cannon. Like the boat whistle, the booming came back in echo from the Illinois side of the river.

  The wheel began spinning backward, and the boat pulled away from the dock, then turned with the wheel going upriver and the bow pointed downstream. The engine lever was slipped to full forward, and the wheel began spinning in the other direction until it caught hold to begin propelling the boat downstream.

  Walking back to the stern of the boat, Preacher looked toward the landing they had just departed and saw that though many had left, Carla and Dog were still standing there, watching as the boat moved quickly downriver. Preacher stood there looking back at them until the boat moved around a bend in the river, taking them out of sight.

  The Mississippi River was placid, though with a current powerful enough to push the steamboat south at a fairly good clip. It was nearly dusk and the sun, low in the west, caused the river to shimmer in a pale blue, with highlights of reflected gold.

  As Preacher stood on the deck, he recalled his first experience on the river. As a twelve year-old boy looking for adventure, he had met a man named Pete Harding at a trading post on the Ohio River. Harding was taking a flatboat down the Ohio. The boat was loaded with goods to be traded at the Mississippi River port town of New Madrid, and Harding hired Art as his deckhand and assistant. It was a position young Art accepted readily, for not only was it a job, it provided him with food and transportation for his trek westward.