Preacher (3 page)

“I would sure like to see somethin' like that.”

Harding laughed out loud. “Well, when we get to New Madrid, don't tell any of them folks that. I reckon they've seen enough of it over the last couple of years.”

“Is that where we're goin'? New Madrid?”

“Yep. It's in the Missouri Territory.”

“What's there?”

“New Madrid is a good marketplace,” Harding said. “Folks buy there, then take it up to St. Louis, or on down to New Orleans. I plan to sell everything I got on this here boat. Then I'm going to sell the boat. Then, after a couple of days of raisin' hell and havin' a good time, I'll buy myself a horse, ride back to Ohio, get me another boatload of goods, come down here to do the same thing all over again.”

“You're going back to Ohio'?”

“Sure am. That's where I can get goods the cheapest. The trick in this or any business is to buy cheap and sell high,” Harding said with a laugh. “What about you? You're sure welcome to come along with me. You can be my partner if you want to.”

“I . . .” Art started, but with a wave of his hand, Harding interrupted him.

“I know, you don't have to say it. You're anxious to see the creature.”

Smiling, Art nodded. “I reckon I am,” he said.

“Well, I can't say as I blame you. And as long as you're plannin' on seein' the creature, why, I figure New Madrid is as good a location as any to start.”

* * *

New Madrid was a booming town of nearly three thousand people, spread out along the west bank of the Mississippi River. There were nearly one hundred flatboats and scores of skiffs tied up along the riverbank, and less than one hundred feet from the river's edge on a street called Waters Street, nearly as many wagons, carts, horses, and mules.

The wooden structures of the town were built right up against each other; leather-goods, stores, trading posts, cafes, and taverns. Art realized that, like the trees, the earthquake must have also destroyed New Madrid. That was the only way he could explain the fresh-lumber appearance of all the buildings. Even now, half-a-dozen new buildings were going up, but whether they were a sign of the town's growth and progress, or merely the reconstruction of destroyed buildings, he didn't know.

In addition to the sound of hammering and sawing coming from those buildings under construction, the air also rang with the clanging of steel on steel, emanating from the blacksmith shop. These sounds of commerce were clear evidence of the vibrant new community. Waters and Mill Streets, the two streets that ran parallel with the river, were crowded with people, visitors as well as permanent residents.

It didn't take Harding long to sell his goods. Once his task was accomplished, he came back to Art, holding a handful of money. He counted out ten dollars in silver, and handed it Art.

“What's this for?” Art asked.

“Your wages,” Harding said. “You earned them.”

“But I was only with you for a couple of weeks,” Art said. “You fed me, and gave me transportation. You don't need to pay me as well.”

Harding laughed. “Son, you're going to have to learn your own value. Anytime you sell your services to someone, sell them for as much as you can get. If you are going to argue, argue for more, not less.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Besides, whether you did ten dollars worth of labor isn't the question. You saved my life, and that's certainly worth ten dollars to me. Now, do you want the money or not?”

“I want the money,” Art said.

“I thought you might come around,” Harding said. “Now, since you will soon be going to go your way and I'm going mine, what do you say we go to a dram shop and have a beer?”

“A beer? Well, I . . .”

“Hell's bells, boy! Are you going to tell me you don't like beer?”

“I don't know,” Art admitted. “I've never had a beer.”

Harding laughed. “You've never had a beer?”

“No, sir. My mom didn't hold with drinkin'. Not even beer.”

“What do you think about it?”

“I've never give it much thought, one way or the other.”

“Then it's time you did give it some thought,” Harding said. “You've got some catchin' up to do. Come on, it'll be a pleasure for me to buy you your first beer.”

* * *

The sign in front of the building read
WATSON'S DRAM SHOP.
Inside the saloon was a potbellied stove that, though cold now, still had the smell of smoke about it from its winter use. A rough-hewn bar ran across one end of the single room, while half-a-dozen tables completed the furnishings. The room was illuminated by bars of sunlight, shining in through the windows and open door. Flies buzzed about the room, especially drawn to those places where there was evidence of spilt beer.

“Mr. Harding, good to see you back in New Madrid again,” a man behind the bar said. He was wearing a stained apron over his clothes, and a green top hat over a shock of red hair.

“Hello, Mr. Watson. I hope you haven't sold all of your beer.”

“I just got a new shipment down from St. Louis,” Watson answered, taking a glass down from the shelf, then holding it under the spigot of a barrel of beer. “What about the boy?” he asked.

“Don't let his looks and age fool you,” Harding replied. “Art's as good a man as I've ever come across. I reckon he'll have beer too.” He looked over at Art. “That right?”

“Yes, sir. I'll have a beer,” Art replied, watching as the mug filled with a golden fluid, topped by a large head of white foam.

“Here you go, boy,” Watson said, sliding the first mug over to him.

Art raised the glass to his lips and took a swallow. He had never tasted beer before and had no idea what to expect. It was unusual, but not unpleasant.

“Here's to you, Art,” Harding said, holding his own beer out toward Art. For a moment, Art didn't understand what he was doing, but when Harding tapped his mug against Art's, he realized it was some sort of ritual, so he followed along.

Art had that beer, then another.

“Let's go,” Harding said, suddenly getting up from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“There's a certain etiquette to spendin' money in a town like New Mardrid, and part of it is that you spread your money around. This is my favorite place. I spend all my money with Watson, then he's liable to start takin' me for granted, while all the other places will be resentful. Do you see what I mean?”

“I guess so,” Art replied.

“Besides, we all have our own way of looking for the creature,” Harding added with a twinkle in his eye. “I've always been of the opinion that it might be in the next dram shop.”

Art followed Harding out the door, then up the boardwalk toward the next drinking establishment.

A wagon rolled by on the street. Driving the wagon was a tall, rawboned man, dressed in black. He had beady eyes, high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and a prominent chin. A short, stout, very plain-looking woman was sitting on the bench beside him. The wagon had bows and canvas, but the canvas was rolled back at least two bows. As a result, Art could see the third occupant of the wagon, a girl about his own age. She was sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the wagon side opposite from Art. As a result, when he glanced toward her, he saw that she was looking directly at him. For a moment their gazes held; then, embarrassed at being the recipient of such scrutiny, Art looked away.

“Ah, here we go,” Harding said. “Let's pay a visit to Mr. Cooper.”

Cooper's saloon was almost an exact copy of Watson's, with a bar and a few tables and chairs. However, there was a card game in progress here, and Harding joined it.

Cardplaying was another of the vices his mother had warned him against. But as beer drinking was proving to be a rather pleasant experience, Art decided he would investigate cardplaying as well. So, drinking yet another beer, he leaned against the wall and watched the card game.

As he stood leaning against the wall, Art happened to see a “pick and switch” operation lift a man's wallet. The victim was a middle-aged man who was standing at the bar, drinking his beer while carrying on a conversation with another man. A nimble-fingered pickpocket deftly slipped the victim's billfold from his back pocket. At that moment, a big, black-bearded man came in through the door, and Art watched as the pickpocket passed the pilfered wallet off to the man who had just come in.

The entire operation was so quick and smooth that the victim never felt a thing. No one else in the saloon saw it happen, and if Art had not been in the exact spot at the exact time he was there, he wouldn't have seen it either. The accomplice walked directly to the table where Harding and three others were playing cards.

“May I join you, gentlemen?” Blackbeard asked.

“Sure, have a seat,” Harding offered congenially. “Your money is as good as anyone else's. What do you say about that, Art? Isn't his money as good as anyone else's?” Harding asked, teasing his young partner.

“It would be, I suppose, if it really was his money. Trouble is, it isn't,” Art said easily. “He stole it.”

Art's matter-of-fact comment brought to a halt all conversation in the saloon.

“What did you just say, boy?” Blackbeard asked with an angry growl.

“I said it isn't your money.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Blackbeard sputtered.

“Yes, Art, what do you mean?” Harding asked.

Art looked over toward the bar. Nearly everyone in the place had heard his remark, and now all were looking toward him with intense interest.

“This man,” Art said, pointing to Blackbeard, “has this man's poke.” He pointed to the middle-aged man who was standing at the bar. It wasn't until that moment that the man standing at the bar checked his pocket.

“What the hell? My poke
is
missing!” he said.

“I don't know what this boy is talking about!” Blackbeard said. “Hell, I just this minute come in here. I haven't even been close to the bar.”

“He's right,” another man said. “I seen him come in.”

“If somebody took that man's money, it wasn't me,” Blackbeard said.

“Oh, you didn't take it,” Art said.

“Boy, you ain't makin' a hell of a lot of sense,” Cooper said. Cooper was the man who owned the place. He was also working the bar. “First you accuse Riley there of takin' McPherson's poke; now you say he didn't take it.”

“I said he
has
the poke,” Art said. “I didn't say he took it.” Art pointed to the original pickpocket, who was now at the far end of the bar, trying to stay out of sight. “That's the man who took it. He picked the man's pocket, then gave it to Mr. Riley when he came in.”

“By God! I don't care if you are just a pup,” Riley said. “A fella doesn't go around accusin' another fella of somethin' lessen he can prove it.”

“I can describe my purse,” the man at the bar said. “It's made of pigskin and it's sewed together with red yarn. My wife made it for me.”

“Well, this seems like a simple enough problem to solve,” Harding said. He looked at Riley. “Why don't you just empty your pockets on the table? If you don't have it, then we'll just go on about our business.”

“That sounds reasonable,” one of the others in the saloon said.

“Yeah, if you didn't take it, just empty your pockets and be done with it.”

“To hell with that. I ain't goin' to empty my pockets just 'cause of some snot-nosed boy's lie.”

Harding looked over at Art. “You're sure about this, are you, Art?”

“I'm sure,” Art said.

“Empty your pockets,” Harding said. This time his tone was less congenial.

“Wait a minute! You are going to take this boy's word over mine?”

Harding scratched his cheek. “Yeah, I reckon I am,” he answered easily. “See, here's the thing, Riley. I don't know you from Adam's off-mule. But I do know this boy and he's already proved himself to me. So if truth be known, I reckon I'd take his word over that of my own mama. Now, either empty your pockets on the table, or by God I'm going to grab you by the ankles, turn you upside down, and empty them for you.”

“The only thing you are going to empty is your guts,” Riley said, suddenly pulling a knife.

“Look out!” someone shouted.

“He's got a knife!” another yelled.

“Yeah, I sort of figured that out,” Harding said.

There was a scrape of chairs and a scuffling of feet as everyone else backed away to give the two belligerents room. Riley held his knife out in front of him, moving it back and forth slowly, like the head of a threatening snake.

Harding pulled his own knife; then the two men stepped away from the table to do battle. They raised up onto the balls of their feet, then crouched forward slightly at the waist. Each man had his right arm extended, holding his knife in an upturned palm. Slowly, they moved around each other, as if engaged in some macabre dance. The points of the knives moved back and forth, slowly, hypnotically.

Art watched them. The fight with the river pirates had been deadly, but it had also been quick and spontaneous. This was the first time he had ever seen two men fight face-to-face, each with the grim determination to kill the other. Although he had a vested interest in the outcome—for surely if Riley killed Harding, he would then turn on Art—yet he was able to watch it without fear. He was certain that the day would come when he would find himself in this same situation. Some inborn sense of survival told him to watch closely, and to learn, not only from the victor, but also from the vanquished.

“You ever seen one of them big catfish they pull out of the river?” Riley asked. “You see the way they flop around when they're gutted? That's how it's going to be with you. I'm going to gut you, then I'm goin' to watch you flop around.”

Riley made a quick, slashing motion with his knife, but Harding jumped out of the way. Mistaking Harding's reflexive action as a sign of fear, Riley gave a bellow of defiance, and moved in for the kill, lunging forward.

It was a fatal mistake.

Harding easily sidestepped the lunge, then taking advantage of Riley's awkward and unbalanced position, counter-thrust with his own knife. Because Riley was off balance, he was unable to respond quickly enough to cover his exposed side. He grunted once as Harding's knife plunged into his flesh.

The blade slipped in easily between the fourth and fifth ribs. Harding held it there for a moment, then stepped up to Riley and twisted the blade, cutting-edge up. As Riley fell, the knife ripped him open. Harding stepped back from his adversary as Riley hit the floor, belly-down. Almost instantly, a pool of blood began spreading beneath him.

“Boy,” Cooper said to Art. It wasn't until that moment that Art and the others in the saloon realized that Cooper was holding a double-barreled shotgun, and had been throughout the fight. “You look through Riley's pockets there. For your sake, and for the sake of your friend there, you had better come up with McPherson's purse. 'Cause if you don't, I reckon we might have to hang the both of you for murder.”

“Wait a minute!” Harding complained. “How can you call this murder?” He pointed to Riley's body. “You saw that he drew the knife first. Hell, everyone saw it.”

“Seems to me like he didn't have much of a choice,” Cooper said. “You all but called him a thief. If he wasn't the thief, then he had every right to defend his honor.”

Art looked at Harding.

“Go ahead, Art,” Harding said easily. “If you say Riley has McPherson's wallet, then I've got no doubt but that he does.”

At that moment Riley's accomplice, the man who originally made the pick, started to leave the saloon.

“Hold it right there, Carter,” Cooper called out to him. “If the boy's right, if he finds the wallet, then you're goin' to be the one we'll be askin' questions.”

“Wait a minute!” Carter said. “What if he does find McPherson's purse on Riley? That don't prove I had anything to do with it. It just means that Riley took it.”

“Huh-uh,” Cooper said. “Everyone agreed that Riley had just come in through the door and didn't come nowhere near the bar. That means if he has McPherson's wallet, the only way he could have it is if you give it to him.”

Art knelt beside Riley's body. He hesitated for a moment.

“Go ahead, boy. Look for it,” Cooper said.

Nodding, Art took a deep breath, then stuck his hand in one of the back pockets.

Nothing.

The other back pocket produced the same result. Art tried to turn Riley over, but Riley was a big man and his inert weight made turning him difficult. Harding started to help him.

“No!” Cooper shouted, and he pulled back the hammer on one of the two barrels. “Let the boy do it alone. If he finds that purse, I don't want nobody claimin' that, somehow, you sneaked it to him.”

“All right,” Harding said, backing away.

Straining with all his might, Art finally got the body turned over onto its back. Riley's eyes were still open, and they gave the appearance of staring right at Art. Gasping, Art pulled back slightly.

“He ain't goin' to hurt you none, boy. He's dead,” Cooper said. “Get on with it.”

Art searched Riley's front pants pockets without success, then reached into one of the man's jacket pockets. He came away empty-handed. Now, there was only one pocket left.

“This is it, boy,” Cooper said. “If it ain't in that pocket, then you done got a man killed for nothin'. And don't think it'll go easy on you just 'cause you're young.”

“It's in there,” Art said resolutely.

But it wasn't. He stuck his hand all the way down and felt the entire pocket. When he pulled his hand out, it was empty.

“Haw!” Carter said. “I reckon this proves the boy was lyin'.”

Art's stomach tumbled in fear. Almost in desperation, he put his hand back in Riley's jacket pocket, and this time, he felt something. Grabbing it, he realized that whatever he was feeling wasn't actually in the pocket, but was behind a layer of cloth. Something was sewn into the lining of the jacket.

“I think I've found it!” Art said.

“Pull it out. Let us see it,” Cooper said.

“It's behind . . .” Art started to say, then seeing Riley's knife, he picked it up and used it to rend the fabric. After that, it was easy to wrap his hands around the wallet.

“Glory be!” McPherson said. “That's my purse!”

“Damn your hide, boy!” Carter shouted from the edge of the bar. As Art looked toward the one who had let out the bellow, he saw that Carter was pointing a pistol at him.

Carter fired, just as Art leaped to one side. The huge-caliber ball dug a big, splintered hole in the wide-plank floor. Though the bullet itself didn't strike Art, he was sprayed in the face by the splinters that were ejected when the bullet passed through the floor.

On top of the roar of Carter's pistol, came a second, even louder blast. This was from Cooper's shotgun, and Art saw Carter's chest and face turn into instant ground sausage. Carter pitched backward, dead before he even hit the floor.

“Free beer to anyone who helps drag that trash out of here,” Cooper said as he stood there holding the still-smoking gun.

The offer of free beer was all the inducement necessary. Instantly, it seemed, half-a-dozen men sprang forward. It took them but a moment to drag the two bodies out into the alley behind the dram shop. Leaving them there, they hurried back inside for their reward.

Although neither Art nor Harding joined the detail in dragging the bodies out, they didn't lack for beer. McPherson, whose poke Art had saved, bought a round for each of them.

After the round furnished by McPherson, Harding suggested that it might be better if they moved on. As a result, Art, who by now had drunk five beers, was a little unsteady on his feet as he followed him outside.

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Art asked.

“What sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing?” Art repeated, surprised by the question. He nodded toward the bar they had just left. “The knife fight. I mean, that man was trying to kill you.”

“Yeah, he was,” Harding answered easily. “That's why I killed him.”

“I've never seen anything like that before.”

“The hell you say. What about the business down on the river?”

“That wasn't the same thing,” Art said. “The fight on the river happened real quick. This . . . I don't know . . . this sort of unfolded real slow. One minute everyone was having a nice time, and the next minute you and that man Riley were fighting.”

“Have you thought about what caused us to fight?”

“You said he wanted to kill you.”

Harding chuckled. “I mean, have you thought about why he wanted to kill me?”

“I guess because . . .” Art paused.

“Because I asked him to empty his pockets,” Harding said. “And the reason I asked him to do that was because you had just accused him of stealing.”

“Oh!” Art said. “Then
I
was the cause.”

Harding chuckled again. “No, not really. Riley and Carter brought it on themselves. Stealing is not the safest way to make a living out here. If someone plans to make his livelihood that way, then he damn well better be prepared to face the consequences. And in this case, the consequences were pretty severe.”

“Yeah, I guess they were,” Art said rather pensively.

Harding reached over and rubbed his hand through Art's hair. “Look, Art, it's like I told you back on the boat when you killed that son of a bitch who was trying to kill me. Life is hard out here. Look around you, and you'll see an eagle killing a mouse, a snake killing a frog, and a fox killing a rabbit. If you aren't ready to face up to that, then you may as well go on back home to your mama and papa. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I reckon I do,” Art said.

“Good.”

“But I don't reckon it's ever goin' to be somethin' I will enjoy doin'. Killin' someone, I mean.”

“Son, I pray to God that you never do get to where you enjoy it. There's a difference between doin' somethin' that you have to do to survive, and doin' it for the pure, evil pleasure of it. And when you stop to think about it, it's those who do take pleasure from it who are going to wind up giving you the most trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said.

“Well, that's enough teaching for now. I've saved the best for last. Come on, I want you to see the Blue Star.”