Preacher's Justice Read online

  Fifteen years earlier

  “Run away from home, did you, boy?” Harding asked.

  “No, I . . .” the boy started to reply, but deciding it would be better to be honest with Harding, he sighed and spoke the truth. “Yes, sir, I ran away from home.”

  “Having trouble there, were you?”

  “No, sir, I wasn’t havin’ any trouble. It’s just that I wanted to . . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

  “You wanted to see the creature.”

  “See the creature?”

  “That’s a saying, son, for folks like you and me.”

  “You and me?”

  “It would be my guess that you and I are just alike,” Harding said. “There are some folks who are born, live, and die and never get more’n ten miles away from home in any direction. Then there’s those folks, like the two of us, that’s always wondering what’s on the other side of the next hill. And when they get over that hill, why, damn me if they don’t feel like they got to go on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one after that. They’re always hopin’ they’ll find somethin’ out there, some sort of creature they ain’t never seen before. I know it’s that way with me, and I’m reckonin’ that it’s the same way with you.”

  The boy laughed. He had never heard it put that way before, but he knew that Harding had pegged it exactly as it was.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “That’s the way it is with me. I want to see the creature.”

  The boy went to New Madrid with Harding, but there, one night, he was hit over the head.

  Art felt the sun warming his face, but that was the only thing about him that felt good. He had a tremendous headache, and he was very nauseous. He was lying down. Even though he had not yet opened his eyes, he knew he was lying on sun-dried wood, because he could smell it. He was also in motion. He could feel that, and he heard the creak and groan of turning wagon wheels and the steady clopping sound of hooves.

  The last thing he remembered was leaving the tavern to go to the privy. What was he doing here? For that matter, where exactly was here?

  Art opened his eyes. It was a mistake. The sun was glaring, and the moment he opened his eyes, two bolts of pain shot through him.

  “He’s awake,” a girl’s voice said.

  Putting his hand over his eyes, Art opened them again. Now that he was shielding his eyes from the intense sunlight, it wasn’t as painful to open them. Peering through the separations between his fingers, he looked at the girl who had spoken. She appeared to be about his age, with long dark curls and vivid amber eyes staring intently at him.

  “Who are you?” Art asked.

  “My name is Jennie,” she replied.

  That was Preacher’s introduction to the girl, later to become a woman who would be so important to him.

  Preacher soon learned that Jennie was actually a slave girl belonging to Lucas Younger, the man who owned the wagon in which he was riding. To his surprise, he discovered that he was being considered a slave as well. Because he had no proof of his identity, the mere suggestion that he was a slave was enough to make Younger’s claim credible.

  The boy escaped, spent time with the Indians, then found his way to St. Louis, where he worked in a wagon freight yard. Then, two years later, when General Jackson raised an army of volunteers from the Mississippi and Ohio River valleys to go to New Orleans to fight against the British, the boy was reunited with Pete Harding.

  Pete Harding was killed in the Battle of New Orleans. Preacher was mustered out of the Army after the battle, and even though he was but fourteen, he was discharged as a lieutenant. And in keeping with his promise to Pete Harding, Preacher went west to the Rocky Mountains to “see the creature.”

  After a full day’s run from St. Louis, the Cincinnati Queen put in at Cape Girardeau, Missouri. There, merchants from the town came on board the boat to sell their goods. This was the ultimate destination for many of the passengers, who disembarked, while others left the boat merely for a stroll around town. In the meantime, the boat took on a fresh supply of wood for its continuing journey.

  From Cape Girardeau, the boat continued south on the river until it reached the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. There, the Cincinnati Queen turned up the Ohio. Leaving Missouri behind, it journeyed north and east, bordered on the south by the state of Kentucky, and on the north by the fertile farming fields of Illinois.

  After it entered the Ohio River, forward progress became much, much slower because it was now necessary for the boat to beat its way against the current. However, proceeding at a pace that was only slightly faster than a man could walk, the boat continued on its journey.

  Without even realizing it, Preacher was growing more and more tense until, five days after they turned up the Ohio, he realized what had been making him so tense. He was about to come face-to-face with his past. Standing at the rail, he watched the shore slide by slowly, monotonously, almost hypnotically. And, as vividly as if he were reliving it, he remembered the past.

  Fifteen years earlier

  Leaving his brother sleeping in the bed behind him, the boy who would one day be called Preacher stepped out of the bedroom into the upstairs hallway. He moved to the end of the hall to his parents’ bedroom, where he stood just outside their door for a moment, listening to his pa’s heavy snoring.

  His pa’s snores were loud because he slept hard. He worked hard too, eking out a living for his family by laboring from dawn to dusk on a farm that was more rock than dirt, and took more than it gave.

  His ma was in there too, though her rhythmic breathing could scarcely be heard over her husband’s snores. She was always the last to go to bed and the first to get up. It was nearly two hours before dawn now, but Art, the boy who would one day be called Preacher, knew that his mother would be rolling out of bed in less than an hour, starting another of the endless procession of backbreaking days that were the borders of her life.

  “Ma, Pa, I want you both to know that I ain’t leavin’ ’cause of nothin’ either of you have done,” the boy said quietly. “You have been good to me, and there ain’t no way I can ever pay you back for all that you have done for me, or let you know how much I love you. But the truth is, I got me a hankerin’ to get on with my life, and I reckon twelve years is long enough to wait.”

  From there, the boy moved down to his sisters’ room. He went into their room and saw them sleeping together in the bed his father had made for them. A silver splash of moonlight fell through the window, illuminating their faces. One was sucking her thumb, a habit she practiced even in her sleep; the other was clutching a corncob doll. The sheet had slipped down, so Preacher pulled it back up, covering their shoulders. The two girls, eight and nine, snuggled down into the sheets, but didn’t awaken.

  “I reckon I’m going to miss seeing you two girls grow up,” the boy said quietly. “But I’ll always keep you in my mind, along with Ma, Pa, and my brother.”

  His good-byes having been said, Preacher picked up the pillowcase in which he had put a second shirt, another pair of pants, three biscuits, and an apple, and started toward the head of the stairs.

  Although he had been planning this adventure for a couple of months, he hadn’t made the decision to actually leave until three days ago. On that day he’d stood on a bluff and watched a flatboat drift down the Ohio River, which flowed passed the family farm. There was a family on the flatboat, holding on tightly to the little pile of canvas-covered goods that represented all their worldly possessions. One of the boat’s passengers, a boy about Preacher’s age, waved. Other than the wave, there had been nothing unusual about that particular boat. It was one of many similar vessels that passed by the farm every week.

  To anyone else, seeing an entire family uprooted and looking for a new place to live, traveling the river with only those possessions they could carry on the boat with them, might have been a pitiful sight. But to a young boy with wanderlust, it was an adventure that stirred his soul, and he wished mo
re than anything that he could be with them.

  On the morning Art left, he was nearly to the bottom of the stairs when the sudden chiming of the Eli Terry clock startled him. Gasping, he nearly dropped his sack, but recovered in time. He smiled sheepishly at his reaction. The beautifully decorated clock, which sat on the mantel over the fireplace, was the family’s most prized possession. His mother once told him with great pride that someday the clock would be his. He reckoned now that it would go to his brother. His brother always put more store in the clock than he did anyway.

  Recovering his poise, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and put it on the mantel beside the clock. It was addressed to “Ma and Pa.”

  At first he hadn’t planned to tell anyone in his family that he was leaving. He was just going to go, and when his folks woke up for the next day’s chores they would find him gone. But at the last minute, he’d thought his parents might rest a little easier if they knew he had left on his own, and had not been stolen in the middle of the night.

  The boy had enough schooling to enable him to read and write a little. He wasn’t that good at it, but he was good enough to leave a note.

  Ma and Pa

  Don’t look for me, for I have went away. I am near a man now and I want to be on my own. Love, your son, Arthur.

  With the note in place, Arthur opened the front door quietly and stepped out onto the porch. It was still dark outside, and the farm was a cacophony of sound: frogs on the pond, singing insects clinging to the tall grass, and the whisper of the night wind through a nearby stand of elm trees.

  Once he was out of the house and off the porch, the boy moved quickly down the path that led to the river. When he reached the bluff, he turned and looked back. The house loomed large in the moonlight, a huge dark slab against the dull gray of the night. The window to his parents’ bedroom was gleaming softly in the moonlight. It looked like a tear-glistened eye, a symbol that wasn’t lost on him. A lump came to his throat, his eyes stung, and for a moment, he actually considered abandoning his departure plans. But then he squared his shoulders.

  “No,” he said aloud. “I ain’t goin’ to stand here and cry like a baby. I said I’m a’goin’, and by damn I’m goin’.” He turned away from the house.

  “Sorry about sayin’ ‘damn,’ Ma, but I reckon if I’m goin’ to be a man, I’m goin’ to have to start talkin’ like a man.”

  The boy left the beaten path, then picked his way through the brush down to the side of the river’s edge. To the casual observer, there was nothing there, but when he started pulling branches aside, he uncovered a small skiff.

  He had found the boat earlier in the year during the spring runoff. No doubt it had broken from its moorings somewhere when the river was at its freshet stage, though it was impossible to ascertain where it had come from. He hadn’t actually stolen the boat, but he did hide it, even from his father. And he assured himself that if someone had come looking for the boat, he would have disclosed its location. But as no search materialized, at least none of which he was aware, he got to keep the boat.

  The boat provided him with a golden opportunity, and it wasn’t until it came into his possession that he seriously began considering running away from home. He left, not because of any abuse, but because of pure wanderlust.

  THIRTEEN

  Portsmouth, Ohio

  Preacher thought about it before he left the Cincinnati Queen. Should he or should he not visit his family? If he did visit them, how would they react? Would they welcome him, or would they resent him? If they reacted with resentment, it would certainly be an emotion he could understand. In all the time he had been gone, he had never once contacted them, to let them know whether he was dead or alive.

  Dead or alive.

  He suddenly realized that he didn’t know whether or not his parents, or indeed any of his family, were dead or alive. The thought gave him pause, especially because he realized that, until this very moment, it wasn’t anything he had ever considered before.

  Was it confidence that they were alive that kept the worry from his mind? Or was it extreme selfishness on his part?

  He didn’t want to face up to that shortcoming in his own personality, but if truth be told, he would have to say that it was because of his own extreme selfishness.

  That consideration made up his mind for him. When the boat reached the point nearest the old family homestead, he would get off and seek them out. He could only hope that they were all still alive, and were still in the same place. Further, he could only hope that they would accept him.

  He did not feel that he was compromising his mission by leaving the boat to search for them. After all, there was no sense of immediacy to what he was doing. Jennie was dead, and would remain dead. There was only a need to bring about justice, and that he would do.

  Portsmouth, Ohio, was the nearest town to the old homestead. As it turned out, it was also a scheduled stop for the boat, though primarily because it was a place to replenish the wood supply.

  As the boat pulled ashore, Preacher visited the purser’s office and informed him that he would like to get off there.

  “But you’ve purchased a ticket all the way to Steubenville,” the purser replied. “We are quite a long ways from Steubenville.”

  “Yes, I know, but I would like to visit Portsmouth.”

  The purser chuckled. “I’ve seen Portsmouth, mister. Believe me, it isn’t much to look at.”

  “Maybe so. But I’m getting off here.”

  “All right. Will you want to be going on to Steubenville at a later time?”

  “Yes. Can I buy another ticket from here?”

  “Well, if you are going through, that won’t be necessary,” the purser said. “You’ve already bought the ticket.” The purser handed Preacher a little slip of paper. “Just present this to the purser of the next boat belonging to the Ohio and Mississippi Line that stops here, and he will honor it for passage on to Steubenville.”

  “Thanks,” Preacher said, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

  Several toots of the boat’s whistle indicated that it was about to dock. That was followed by the slight jolt of the bow as the captain pegged it on the shore.

  “Make fast the lines!” the captain called down, and at the bow, the deckhands secured the boat to the shore.

  Preacher waited until the gangplank was stretched down from the side. Then he left the boat, climbed up the cobblestone-covered riverbank, and stood there for a moment, looking out over the town of his youth. As he stood there looking at the town, the town was looking back at him, or at least, several of the town’s citizens. He was not their typical visitor.

  Preacher had not brought his rifle with him, deciding to leave it for safekeeping with his friend William Ashley back in St. Louis. But he had brought his knife and his pistol, and he was wearing both of them on a belt that he had strapped around his waist. His clothes consisted of a buckskin shirt and trousers, as well as a rather wide-brimmed hat.

  Preacher wandered through the town, looking it over carefully. Oddly, it was a little like trying to recall a dream that slips away so quickly after waking, for while he recognized some of the buildings, many he did not.

  One of the buildings that he did recognize was the Riverman’s Inn, on the corner of Third and Court Streets. He remembered it, even though he had never been inside the building. That was because the Riverman’s Inn was a saloon, and as Preacher had been so young when he left Portsmouth, this saloon wasn’t a place he had ever visited. Preacher paused just in front, his hand resting on the door frame for a moment before he went inside.

  Although this was the first time he had ever been inside the establishment, there was a degree of familiarity about it. Like most of the saloons and taverns he had been in, this one had a bar that ran down one side of the room. The bar had a foot rail, as well as rings every ten feet or so, from which hung towels for the customers’ use. In addition to the bar, there was a handful of tables out on the f
loor.

  All of the tables were empty. In fact, the bar was empty as well. There were only two people in the place, a man behind the bar and an attractive young woman who was standing at the far end of the bar. For a moment Preacher felt there was something different about the young woman. Then he realized what it was. She wasn’t dressed in the provocative style that he had come to associate with bar girls. Preacher didn’t know if that was unique to this particular woman, or if all bar women back East dressed in a more conservative fashion.

  Both the man and the woman looked toward him as he came inside.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the man said to Preacher, greeting him with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Riverman’s Inn. You just get off the boat, did you?”

  “I did,” Preacher said.

  “I thought so.” He tapped his finger to his temple. “I have the power of divination, you know.”

  The woman laughed. “Don’t let Vaughan fool you, mister. It’s your clothes that give you away. Nobody around here wears that kind of clothes. What do you call that?”

  “Buckskins,” Preacher replied. “They are useful in my line of work.”

  “And what would that line of work be?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m a fur trapper.”

  “A fur trapper, is it?” the man replied. “Well, now, that sounds fascinating. Have a drink, sir. The first one is on the house,” the bartender said as he drew the beer.