Preacher's Justice (13 page)

“How did she recognize me after all these years?” Preacher asked quietly as he stepped down from the wagon to go toward his mother.

“Mothers have a way of knowing these things,” Tess said. Even though Tess was not a mother, and was younger than Preacher, she was already in touch with the wisdom that is peculiar only to women.

At supper time, Preacher sat at the dining room table with his mother and father, Tess and Vaughan, Betty and her husband, Jim, and Morgan and his wife, Ann, and their young son, Art.

Preacher's father was holding the Bible.

“A reading from St. Luke,” Preacher's father began. He looked up at everyone at the table, then, clearing his voice, began to read.

Preacher's father closed the book and looked across the table at his son.

“And, like the father in the Bible, I welcome my returning son. He was lost, and now he is found.”

There was a moment of silence, then Morgan spoke. “Hey, Pop, we didn't kill any fatted calves, though. All Mom did was wring the neck of a couple of chickens. You think that will count the same?”

Everyone at the table laughed.

Later, after dinner, Preacher's father took a couple of chairs out onto the front porch, and invited Preacher to join him. Although everyone wanted to talk to him, to hear his story and to find out where he had been and what he had done, they all acquiesced to Preacher's father, giving him his just due.

“Have you taken up smoking, son?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose we light our pipes and have a talk.”

“All right.”

A cool breeze blew across the porch and, from there, they could hear the whisper of the Ohio River as it moved by in front of them. The sun was low, and the river was a translucent blue, gleaming as if with its own light. The two men lit their pipes, then sat there for a long, quiet moment, enveloped in the smoke of their own making.

Preacher knew that his father must have a thousand questions, so he said nothing. He waited patiently for his father to begin the conversation. He was surprised by the first thing his father said.

“It's been my experience that men who wear a gun and a knife like that generally know how to use them. Are you skilled with those weapons?”

“I get by,” Preacher said.

“Ever killed anyone?”

“Only in self-defense, Pa. It's not something I take pleasure in.”

“Tess said you introduced yourself in the tavern as Preacher. How'd you come by a name like that?”

Preacher told his father the story of how, as a captive of the Indians, he had preached a sermon continuouslyfor twenty-four hours, convincing the Indians that he was crazy, thus causing them to spare his life.

“Folks heard about that,” he concluded, “and I've been called Preacher ever since.”

Preacher's father laughed. “That's a wonderful story, son,” he said. “And a fitting name. But if you don't mind, while you are here, we'll call you Arthur, the way you were born.”

“I don't mind at all,” Preacher replied.

“Now, tell me, if you can, why you up and left us in the middle of the night, without so much as a by your leave.”

“I wanted to see the creature,” Preacher said, remembering the expression used by Pete Harding.

“To see the creature,” Pa repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you see the creature?”

Preacher was quiet for a long moment before he answered.

“Yes, sir. I think you could say that I have seen the creature,” he replied.

“Tell me about it,” his father said.

Preacher began speaking then, starting the story from the morning he sneaked out of the house and onto the boat, telling about his encounter with river pirates, about being declared a slave by Lucas Younger, about his experiences in the war, and about his experiences in the mountains.

He left nothing out, including his relationship with Jennie. He even told his father that Jennie was one-quarter black and, according to the laws of Missouri and other slave-holding states, legally considered a Negro for purposes of slavery. And he told his father that the reason he was going to Philadelphia was to find the man who killed her.

“And what do you aim to do with him when you find him?” his father asked.

“I aim to kill 'im, Pa.”

His father was quiet for a moment. “Well, I don't hold with killin', but then, that's my world, not yours. I won't fault you for livin' in your world, seein' as it's the only one you've got now, and we all have to do what we have to do.”

“Yes, sir, that's pretty much the way I look at it too,” Preacher said.

It was now nearly one o'clock in the morning. Tess and Vaughan had left for town long ago, and the others were sound asleep. Still, Preacher and his father talked. Preacher found that it was as necessary for him to fill his father in on what had happened to him over the past several years as it was for his father to know.

Finally, stories were finished and the two men sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the sound of the night creatures.

“I read the story of the Prodigal Son for a reason,” Preacher's father said, finally breaking the silence. “Not because I thought you had been a wastrel, living a life of debauchery and sin. You were a good boy when you were twelve, and I couldn't see anything, any temptation, that would change you.

“No, sir. I read the story because I wanted you to know that, despite all that's happened, I'm happy you came back. My one prayer, for all these years, has been that I could see you at least one more time, to satisfy myself that you are still alive and well.”

Preacher didn't answer.

“Are you satisfied with the life you are living, boy?”

“Yes, Pa, I am,” Preacher said, realizing at that moment that he was very satisfied. “I can't think of anything I would rather do than what I'm doing now.”

“I'm glad. You won't mind, then, if I leave all the farm to Morgan, who has stayed here and worked it for his whole life.”

“I think that would be the only right thing to do,” Preacher said.

“I'm glad you feel that way, for that's what I intend to do. That is, if I'm able to hold onto it.”

“Able to hold onto it? What do you mean?”

“You've told me your story,” Preacher's father said. “Now, maybe it's time I told you mine.”

 

 

Although neither Preacher nor his father realized it, Morgan had heard every word of their conversation. His and Ann's room was just above the front porch, and because it was a warm night, his window was open. The breeze the open window allowed in also brought to him, very clearly, the conversation his brother and father were having.

Until his father said what he did to Art, Morgan had no idea that his father was planning on leaving everything to him.

He was pleased to hear Preacher agree to his father's plan. And now, as his father explained the difficulty they were in, Morgan felt that his older brother would be able to help them. He didn't know how, but he was confident that he would.

Klyce Blanton owned the Security Bank of Ohio. He had only recently purchased the bank, and immediately upon acquisition had let it be known that it would no longer be business as usual.

“No more mollycoddling of debtors,” he said. “From now on, every penny owed to this bank must be paid on the date it is owed, or I will foreclose.”

It was no coincidence that Blanton acquired the bank at the time when a severe drought had brought about crop failure for many of the farmers, Preacher's father included. Blanton bought the bank for the express purpose of forcing all the neighboring farmers into default so he could take their land at a fraction of its actual worth. He had already foreclosed on several farms.

Under the previous banker, the farmers had been able to arrange for additional time by paying the interest only when their note came due. It was a normal procedure, and Preacher's father had not the slightest idea that he would not be allowed to do so until he went to the bank to make his payment. That was when he was informed that Klyce intended to exercise his legal right to call the note the moment it was due.

“That's two weeks from now,” Sylvanias said. “The land that my father cleared, and that I have nurtured all these years, the land that I intended to pass down to my children, is being taken away from me, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Preacher said nothing to his father, but at the earliest opportunity he planned to go into town and set things right. It was the least he could do after causing them so many years of worry and heartache.

 

 

Getting up early, Preacher came down the stairs and left a note on the kitchen table.

Preacher walked into Portsmouth, arriving around eight o'clock, just as the town was beginning its daily activity. Though it was much smaller than St. Louis, it had a cosmopolitan air about it with its businesses and enterprises. Merchants were in front of their establishments, industriously sweeping their porches. Freight wagons were already rolling in and out of the town, some of them queuing up at the river's edge in preparation for meeting the next arriving boat.

Preacher walked by Dunnigan's Mercantile store and saw that Mr. Dunnigan, wearing an apron, was putting together a display of some of his goods. Preacher recognized Dunnigan right away because the merchant hadn't changed that much over the last fifteen years. Preacher smiled as he recalled that he had worked for Dunnigan one summer, sacking potatoes.

“Good morning, Mr. Dunnigan,” Preacher said, touching the brim of his hat.

“Good morning, young man,” Dunnigan replied cheerily. It was obvious that Dunnigan didn't recognize him, and Preacher didn't say who he was because he didn't want to have to go into a long explanation as to where he had been all these years. “Looks like it's going to be a nice day,” Dunnigan added.

“Yes, sir, it does indeed,” Preacher replied, continuing on toward the bank.

The bank was on Front Street. It was closed, but on the front door was a sign that said it would open for business at nine o'clock. Looking through the window of the bank, Preacher could see the clock inside. It was now eight twenty-three.

 

 

For the next few minutes, passersby saw Preacher standing in front of the bank. From all outward appearances, he seemed totally relaxed, with his arms folded across his chest and one foot raised and pressing against the front wall. In truth, he was keenly alert, both mentally and physically, for whatever challenge he might have to face.

Shortly before nine, a fancy carriage, accompanied by a rider on either side, turned onto Front Street and came toward the bank. The carriage stopped in front and the passenger climbed down.

“Will you be needing the carriage this morning, Mr. Blanton?” the driver asked.

“No,” the passenger answered. The man was grossly overweight, with large jowls and several chins. He had virtually no neck, so his bald head seemed to rest, like a cannonball, on his round shoulders.

“Very good, sir. I'll be over at the livery if you do need me.” The driver clucked to his team and the carriage pulled away.

The fat man looked at Preacher, curious as to who he was.

“Are you Klyce Blanton?” Preacher asked.

“I am he, sir. Why do you ask? Are you waiting for the bank to open?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm always glad to do business,” Blanton said as he unlocked the bank door. “But the bank doesn't open for another fifteen minutes.”

“I'll wait,” Preacher said, making no effort to move.

“What sort of business do you have with the bank?” Blanton asked.

“I'm here to give you some money,” Preacher said.

Blanton smiled broadly. “Well, now, if you are here to give me money, I think we can make an exception and let you in a little early. Come on inside, Mr. . . . ”

“Preacher.”

“Preacher? Your name is Preacher?”

“Preacher will do.”

“Well, Mr. Preacher, come on inside and we'll do some business.”

The two men who had accompanied Blanton, both armed and rough-looking, tied their horses off at the hitching rail, then went inside as well. One of them sat in a chair by the front door, while the other walked toward the back office with Preacher and Blanton. This one settled in a chair just outside the door to Blanton's office.

“These two rather formidable-looking gentlemen are my bodyguards,” Blanton explained when he saw Preacher looking at them. “A man of my prominence can't afford to be without protection. Now, I believe you said something about being here to give me money?”

“That's right.”

“Well, then, Mr. Preacher, come on into my office and we'll take care of business. Are you opening an account with us?”

“No,” Preacher said. “I'm here to pay off a loan and pick up the paper you hold on a farm.”

The smile left Blanton's face and his eyes narrowed. He stroked his multiple chins as he stared at Preacher.

“What makes you think you can just come in here and buy up a loan?” he asked. He pointed to Preacher's buckskin clothes. “I can tell you aren't from around here, but that's not the way business is done.”

“I'm not buying up a loan,” Preacher said. “I'm paying one off. I want it returned to the borrower, free and clear.”

“Why would you want to pay off someone else's loan?”

“It's the loan my pa borrowed against his farm,” Preacher said. “I want him out from under that debt.”

“Who is your father?”

“Sylvanias Coopersmith,” Preacher said.

As Preacher said the name Coopersmith, he realized that it was the first time he had so much as spoken the name in over fifteen years. When he left home he had purposely dropped his last name in order not to bring any discredit on his family.

Blanton shook his head. “Are you trying to pull something on me, mister? I know Sylvanias Coopersmith's son, Morgan, and you aren't Morgan.”

“I'm his other son, Art.”

“I thought you said your name was Preacher.”

“That's what folks call me, and I'm comfortable with it,” Preacher replied.

“You know I think, mister? I think you are a liar,” Blanton snarled.

As quickly as a striking snake, Preacher pulled his knife and stuck the point of it into Blanton's left nostril. He sliced the side of the nostril, not a very large cut, but one that went all the way through. It was not only painful, it produced a lot of blood.

“Ahhh!” Blanton shouted, grabbing his wounded nose. “Colby!”

The bodyguard who was posted just outside Blanton's office came running in through the door, his pistol in his hand. Spinning toward him, Preacher threw his knife, and the point of it punched through Colby's sleeve, pinning his gun hand to the wall just inside the door.

The other bodyguard came running in as well, but as soon as he stepped through the door he was greeted with Preacher's drawn pistol, charged, cocked, and leveled right at him. The second bodyguard stopped dead in his tracks and threw up his hands. “No, wait! Hold it, hold it!” he called out in quick fear.

“Mr. Blanton, you might want to rethink what you just said,” Preacher said calmly. “You see, where I'm from, a man's word is his bond. When you call someone a liar, you commit a serious offense against his person.”

Blanton held his hand cupped under his nose and the palm was pooling with blood.

“What?” Blanton replied, his voice strained with pain and distraction.

“Whenever someone calls me a liar, I take it real personal,” Preacher said.

“I . . . I didn't mean that I actually thought you were a liar. I just didn't realize that Mr. Coopersmith had a son other than Morgan,” Blanton whined.

“I thought that might be the case,” Preacher said. He looked at the two bodyguards, who were glaring at him with anger. “You,” he said to Colby. “Bring my knife to me. And be careful how you do it.”

Still glaring, Colby pulled the knife from his sleeve and the wall, then brought it back to Preacher, handing it to him handle-first.

“Thank you. Now, I'd like for both of you to put your pistols on Mr. Blanton's desk,” Preacher said, motioning with his own pistol.

Still glaring at him, the men started across the room with their pistols.

“Uh,-uh,” Preacher said. “Carry them by their barrels.”

Both pistols were cocked, and the men stopped, then started to ease the hammers down.

“No, I want you to leave your guns cocked,” Preacher said.

“Are you crazy? You expect me to hold a cocked pistol by the barrel?” Colby asked.

Preacher smiled coldly. “Yes, I do,” he said. “That way I know you will be careful.”

Slowly, gingerly, the two bodyguards turned the pistols around and held them by the barrel. As Preacher had ordered, the pistols were still cocked. Then, carefully, the men walked the rest of the way across the floor and put the pistols on the desk.

“Thank you. Now, if you would, I want both of you to go over there and sit on the floor facing the wall.”

“Mister, just who the hell do you think you are, ordering us around like this?” the other bodyguard asked angrily.

“I think I'm the one with the loaded gun,” Preacher said. “Now, do what I told you to do.”

Reluctantly, but clearly with no choice, the men complied.

Turning his attention back to Blanton, Preacher saw that the banker was now holding a handkerchief to his nose. The slice on his nose was still bleeding, though not as profusely as before.

“I am Sylvanias Coopersmith's son,” Preacher said. “I admit that I haven't been much of a son to him.” Preacher was speaking as conversationally as if nothing had happened. “But I am his son nevertheless, and I'm here to pick up the paper you are holding against the farm.”

“I'll get the paper for you,” Blanton said. “You can have it. Just don't kill me.”

Preacher shook his head. “No, you don't understand,” he said. “I don't want you to give it to me. That would be the same as bank robbery and as soon as I left, you would just send the sheriff out there and take my father's farm. I'm not here to steal the paper, I'm here to pay off the loan. This is strictly a business operation.”

“Is it your business to cut a man's nose off?” Blanton asked.

“Oh, but I didn't cut your nose off, though I could have if I had wanted to. So tell me, Blanton, are we going to talk business or not?”

Blanton pulled the handkerchief away from his nose. The bleeding had stopped, though there was quite a bit of blood on his face and the front of his shirt and vest. Blanton studied the handkerchief for a moment, as if unable to believe this had happened to him in his own bank. Finally, he looked up at Preacher.

“You do understand, don't you, that the entire amount is due? That includes principal, interest, and transfer charges.”

“Transfer charges? What are transfer charges?” Preacher asked.

“There were expenses involved with transferring all of the loans from the previous mortgage holder over to me,” Blanton explained.

“Seems to me like that would fall under the cost of doing business. By rights those are your costs, not the costs of your borrowers.”

“All right. You are the one holding the gun. If you say no transfer charges, then there are no transfer charges.”

Again, Preacher shook his head. “No, if these transfer charges are part of it, then I'll pay them as well. I told you, I intend for this to be all legal and proper. How much does my pa owe you?”

Blanton opened a drawer and pulled out a file. “It looks like your father, and I see here that your brother Morgan has signed as well, owes this bank a total of six hundred and twenty-seven dollars. “You have six hundred dollars and twenty-seven dollars on you, do you, Mr. Preacher?”

“I have these bank drafts,” Preacher replied. Preacher showed him Blanton six documents, drawn for one hundred dollars each. “And I have twenty-seven dollars in cash,” he added.

Blanton shook his head. “You don't have six hundred dollars. What you have are bank drafts, and they aren't worth the paper they are printed on unless you can get a bank to honor them.”

“These drafts are drawn against the River Bank of St. Louis,” Preacher said. “Any bank in the country will honor them.”