Preacher's Justice (18 page)

“Do they have any idea who the other one was?”

“They are looking for a man named Caviness,” Miller said.

Epson gasped slightly. “Caviness?” he asked.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I, uh, know who he is,” Epson replied. “He was a ne'er-do-well who hung around town. A one-time fur trapper who wasn't very good at it, as I recall. How do they know he was involved?”

“They don't know for sure, but it seems he and Slater had been seen together earlier that night, and Caviness hasn't been seen since.”

“Terrible thing,” Fontaine said, clucking and shaking his head.

“It is indeed,” Miller agreed. “And one might say that the poor girl was murdered because St. Louis is such a wild frontier town that there is little law and less civil behavior. But I understand now that while I was gone, we had three murders in as many weeks right here in our own city of Philadelphia.”

“Yes,” Epson said. He held up the newspaper. “As a matter of fact, I've been reading about them.”

“Ironically, the poor souls who died here were killed in just as gruesome a fashion as was the lady in St. Louis,” Miller continued. “They died by having their throats cut. And that is exactly how the young lady of your acquaintance died.”

“I respectfully ask that you not refer to her as a person of my acquaintance, since that suggests that there was a relationship when, clearly, none existed,” Epson said.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you had a relationship with the lady,” Miller explained.

“Woman,” Epson corrected.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I've explained before, the woman in question is, uh, that is, she was a prostitute. A common whore. It seems to me inappropriate to call a harlot a lady.”

“Perhaps that is so,” Fontaine replied. “But I would hope you could be a bit more generous in your comments about her now that the poor lady is dead.”

Fontaine came down harder on the word “lady.”

“After all,” he continued, “her untimely death has cleared you of all suspicion.”

“Yes, sir, it has indeed,” Epson said, unable to prevent the smile from spreading across his face.

So great was Epson's relief over how things had turned out that he didn't even notice the disapproving look Fontaine and Miller exchanged.

“That is all, Mr. Epson. You may return to your work now,” Fontaine said with a slight, dismissive wave of his hand.

“Very good, sir,” Epson replied.

When Epson returned to his desk, he pulled out the newspaper and attempted to read, but though he tried hard, he was unable to finish the story. He couldn't keep his mind off the meeting he had just had with Fontaine and Miller.

Was he responsible for Jennie's death? He could be, he knew. In his last letter to Caviness he had been very specific about what he wanted. He'd wanted his troubles to go away, and he'd said exactly than in his letter.

But he had not been specific as to how he meant for Caviness to make those troubles go away.

It now appeared as if Caviness had decided that the only way to make that happen was by killing Jennie.

Epson felt a momentary twinge of regret over that. He did not consider himself a criminal, even though he had taken 950 dollars that didn't belong to him.

Some might call him a thief for that, but in his mind, a thief was someone who stole by force or stealth, and he had done neither. Although he had not come by his windfall of 950 dollars in what could be described as an honest way, he had not stolen it in any way that he would describe as theft. After all, the money had been dropped in his lap. He'd merely taken advantage of that, as he was sure any astute businessman would.

He was not a thief.

Nor was he a murderer.

He did not kill Jennie, though it now seemed certain that Caviness did. And if Caviness did kill her, it was surely in response to his specific instructions to make his “problems go away.”

He wondered where Caviness was now. If, as Miller said, his ear had been chewed off, there was a good chance Caviness was dead somewhere. It would be hard to stop the bleeding in a wound like that. The wound could also putrefy. Either one could kill him.

When Preacher awoke, he got out of bed, walked over to the window of his hotel room, and looked out over the city of Philadelphia. Arriving by stagecoach after dark last night, he had gone to a hotel, deciding to start his search today.

There was a knock on his door and for a moment, he was startled by it. Who would be calling on him? Who even knew he was here?

“Breakfast,” a muffled voice announced from the other side of the door, and Preacher relaxed. He remembered now that when he'd arrived last night, he'd been asked if he would like breakfast delivered to his room this morning.

Crossing the room quickly, Preacher opened the door to see a young black boy, no more than twelve years old, holding a tray. From somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that a tip was required, so handed the boy a coin.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said with a wide grin.

Preacher took the tray into his room, put it on a table, pulled up a chair, and began having his breakfast. He chuckled as he compared this breakfast, in a plush hotel room in a large Eastern city, with the breakfasts he had eaten in the wilderness over the last several years.

“I'd better watch myself,” he said aloud as he reached for a jar of marmalade. “I could learn to like this awfully easily.”

Even as he spoke the words, he knew that he couldn't really live like this. Already he was feeling restricted, and he missed the mountains that had become his home.

He also realized that he had better watch himself as far as speaking to himself was concerned. It was a habit he had developed in the wilderness, but that wasn't needed here. In a city the size of Philadelphia, he had plenty of opportunity to hear other voices and to speak to other people. There was no justification for speaking to himself, and if anyone heard him, they might think him crazy.

A newspaper had been delivered with his meal, and as Preacher put marmalade on his biscuit, he glanced through the paper. He had just raised the biscuit to take a bite when he read the headline over one of the articles.

Preacher read the story carefully, and by the time he finished both his breakfast and the newspaper, he was totally convinced that Ben Caviness was in Philadelphia. He was convinced of that fact because he was certain that Caviness was the Philadelphia murderer.

Preacher stood in front of a rather substantial-looking brick building looking up at the sign over the front door. The sign read P
HILADELPHIA
P
OLICE
A
GENCY.

Unlike St. Louis, which had a constable and a deputy, Philadelphia had a well-organized police agency, consisting of constables, wardens, and watchmen. The watchmen patrolled the city from “watch boxes,” which were scattered throughout the town.

Preacher went inside, where he was met by a man who was wearing a domed hat with a badge.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge,” Preacher said.

“That would be Chief Constable Dolan,” the man said. “May I tell him what this is about?”

“Yes,” Preacher said. “I think I know who is doing all the killings here.”

“Do you now?” To Preacher's surprise, the man began filling his pipe.

“What is your name?” Preacher asked.

“I'm Constable Coleman,” the man said as he tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.

“Well, Constable Coleman, are you going to tell the chief constable that I would like to see him?” Preacher asked.

“And just who do you think is doing the killing?” Coleman asked.

“I'd rather give that information to the chief constable,” Preacher replied.

Coleman lit his pipe, then drew several puffs, encircling his head with wreaths of smoke, before he responded.

“Well, now, here's the thing,” Coleman said. “You are the tenth person to come in here with an idea as to who is doing the killing.”

“I am?” Preacher replied, surprised by Coleman's comment. “Have that many people heard of Ben Caviness?”

Coleman had just started to take another puff of his pipe, but he pulled it away from his lips. Now the expression on his face changed to one of interest.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you really know who this is?”

“Well, I know Ben Caviness, I know that he has killed like this before, and I know he is in Philadelphia, because I followed him here.”

“You followed him here?”

“From St. Louis,” Preacher said.

Coleman studied Preacher for a moment longer. Then he said, “Wait here. I'll tell the chief constable that you would like to speak to him.”

“Thank you.”

A moment later, Coleman returned and escorted Preacher to a room in the back of the building.

“I'm Chief Constable Dolan,” a tall, bewhiskered man said, extending his hand. “And you are?”

“Folks call me Preacher,” Preacher said.

“Well, Preacher, Constable Coleman here tells me that you know who our murderer is.”

“Yes, I do,” Preacher said. “Or at least, I think I know.”

“Well, which is it? You do know, or you think you know?” Coleman asked.

Preacher told them the story of his quest, beginning with the fact that he was a mountain man and fur trapper who had come back to St. Louis when he learned that a female friend of his had had her throat cut by a man named Ben Caviness.

“She was killed in the same way as the four people in this city were killed,” Preacher said. “That is, if the details in the newspaper article are correct.” He thumped the newspaper with his thumb.

“And from that you have concluded that this Ben Caviness is the person we are looking for?” the chief constable asked.

“Yes.”

“Other than the fact that the woman in St. Louis was killed by having her throat cut, and the victims here were killed by having their throats cut, what possible connection can you make?” Dolan asked. “One event took place in St. Louis, which is at least a thousand miles from here, and the other events took place here in Philadelphia.”

“There was also a similar event in Alexandria, Ohio,” Preacher said.

“Where is Alexandria, Ohio?” Coleman asked.

“That is a town on the Ohio River, between here and St. Louis. There, two people, a husband and his wife, had their throats cut.”

“And you think the person who killed the two people in Ohio is the same person you are looking for?”

“Yes, I know it is,” Preacher replied.

“How do you know it is the same person?”

“Because there were witnesses to that murder. The two people who were killed were Mr. and Mrs. Potter. And their son and daughter saw the killer.”

“Oh,” the chief constable said. “Oh, my. Do you mean to tell me that those two children saw their own parents killed?”

“Yes. Well, they weren't children exactly. The boy was seventeen years old, and made a very credible witness. There is no doubt that the person he described as the killer is Ben Caviness.”

The chief constable clucked, and shook his head. “What a shame they should have to witness such a thing,” he said. “But how can you be certain that the man they described is the one you are looking for? I mean, just in a general description.”

“This was more than a general description,” Preacher explained. “Turns out that when Caviness attacked the woman in New York, her dog chewed off his ear.”

“I'll be damned,” the chief said. “So what you are telling me is that you have come to Philadelphia to look for a man with one ear, who also happens to be cutting down our citizens like a scythe through wheat.”

“Yes,” Preacher replied.

“All right, suppose I believe everything you are saying. And, God help me, I think I do believe you. What makes you think that this Caviness person you are looking for is even in Philadelphia?”

“Because I think he has come here to extort money from Theodore Epson. He used to be a banker at the River Bank of St. Louis. But now he is with some bank here.” Preacher went on to explain how Epson had stolen money from Jennie.

“And when Jennie started making trouble for him, I believe he hired Ben Caviness to kill her,” he said, finishing the explanation.

“That is about the wildest story I've ever heard,” Constable Coleman said. He looked at the chief constable. “Chief, I apologize for bringing him in here to see you. I thought he might have something, but he is really clutching at straws to put all that together and say that that we are looking for the same man.”

“I'm not so sure, Coleman,” the chief constable said. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. “As crazy as it sounds, I think it might be exactly the way he says.”

“So, what are we going to do? Start looking for a man with only one ear?” Coleman asked.

“Why not? At least it gives us something and someone to look for. That's better than chasing after a ghost.”

“Yeah,” Coleman said. “Yeah, I guess you do have a point there.”

“I intend to search for him as well,” Preacher said. He showed Dolan the letter that had been given to him by Constable Billings back in St. Louis.

Dolan looked at the letter for a moment. “Well, I'm afraid this letter won't have much authority with any of our judges here.”

“I see,” Preacher said. He didn't react negatively to it because he had already made up his mind. With or without local permission, he was going to hunt Ben Caviness down, and he was going to make certain that justice was done.

“But,” the chief constable continued, pulling out a piece of paper, “I can take care of that.” He wrote something on the paper, then signed his name. “I'll make you my special deputy. This will give you authority to act in Philadelphia.”

“Thank you,” Preacher replied.

 

 

Epson had never seen or even heard of Preacher. But when he saw Preacher come into the Trust Bank of Philadelphia, he had a feeling about him. The man wearing buckskins was tall and muscular, like someone who lived and worked in the wilderness. He had seen several such men when he was in St. Louis. And if this man was from St. Louis, that couldn't be good.

He watched as the man spoke to someone, then, with a sinking feeling, watched the man approach his desk.

“Your name is Theodore Epson?” the man asked when he reached Epson.

“I am,” Epson replied. “And you are?”

“Preacher.”

“Preacher?”

“That's all you need to know. Epson, Jennie was a friend of mine. In fact, she was a very special friend, if you get my meaning.”

“Jennie?”

“Yes, Jennie. You will remember her, I'm sure. She is the young lady you stole nine hundred fifty dollars from.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Sure you did,” Preacher said easily. “Both Mr. Ashley and Jenny gave you the money to pay off her mortgage and you kept it.”

“There are no signed papers anywhere that supports that claim,” Epson said. “You would never be able to prove that in a court of justice.”

Preacher chuckled ominously. “You don't understand, do you, Epson. I don't need to prove it. I only need to believe it. I'm the only justice you will ever see.”

“What . . . what are you going to do?” Epson asked, his voice quivering in fear.

“Oh, I don't intend to do anything yet. You are my bait.”

“Your bait?”

“I'm a fur trapper, Epson. I know that you don't catch your quarry without using bait. Right now, my quarry is the man who killed Jennie. Things didn't work out quite the way he thought they would, so it's my bet that he'll be looking you up. Since he's already in Philadelphia, all I have to do is keep an eye on you. Like I said, Epson, you are my bait.”

“Ben Caviness is in Philadelphia?”

Preacher laughed dryly. “I didn't say anything about Ben Caviness.”

At first, Epson thought he had been caught. Then he smiled as he remembered that Miller said Caviness was the murder suspect in Jennie's case.

“No, you didn't say anything about him, but Mr. Miller did. Mr. Miller just returned from St. Louis, and he told me about the tragic events surrounding Miss Jennie. And he said that Ben Caviness was the prime suspect, so naturally, when you said the murderer was in Philadelphia, I made the connection.”

“Did you now?” Preacher asked.

“Yes. How else would I have known that you were talking about Ben Caviness?”

“I wonder,” Preacher replied. “How else?”