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Authors: Mike Blakely

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BOOK: Dead Reckoning
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May didn't know quite what to make of Clarence Philbrick. First he wants to walk her home, then he wants to give her over to a bunch of pilgrims. She had heard about the group on Clear Creek. She read something in the paper, too. An editor had ridiculed them, calling them “cur-istians” because they allowed mingling of the races. They had even taken in a Mexican Catholic since arriving in Denver.

She sighed as a man passed her on the boardwalk, glanced up and down at her, and tipped his hat. She ignored him. Where had Clarence gone, anyway?

It was true that she had enjoyed going to church before. People were nice there. Men were on their best behavior. She liked the music, too, though she sang in such a small voice that she could scarcely hear herself. What would it be like to establish a town? A lot of hard work, probably, but she was used to that from the farm.

She had sat on the bench for several minutes when it dawned on her that maybe Clarence wasn't coming back. That was odd. He had seemed so sincere. Well, now she was on her own tonight. Her feet were too sore to walk all the way up Clear Creek to the campground of the Church of the Weeping Virgin. Where was she going to sleep? God, not the wagon yard. The thought sickened her now for some reason. Dark was coming on quickly, though, and she had to think of something.

She heard a buggy whip crack and saw a nag pull a runabout around the corner. Clarence had the reins! She stood to meet him, forgetting her aching feet. He drove the horse to the edge of the boardwalk and pulled in the reins.

“Where on earth did you get that?” she said, a genuine smile showing her rows of perfect teeth.

“Hired it. Come on, let's go meet the pilgrims.”

She took her skirt in her hand as she stepped into the buggy. “How much did it cost?”

“A rattletrap like this? Not enough to worry about. I didn't expect you to walk all the way up there with blisters on your feet.”

He cracked the whip, and May surged ahead with the Vermonter, feeling like a gliding hawk moving effortlessly through the clapboard canyons of Denver.

Seven

It was almost dark when Dee Hassard carried his bottle from the saloon and looked at the sky. The first stars were out, wavering from his point of view, and carousers had taken over the streets. He smacked his lips and stepped down to the dirt to take his mule's reins from the rail.

“One more ride up the hill, Henrietta,” he said, “then I'll be done with you.” He tightened the cinch around the weary beast and mounted, holding the bottle atop his thigh like a carbine. The photographer would be long gone now, and Hassard could collect his diamond field earnings. He had had a notion about those religious fanatics earlier, but Carrol Moncrief was coming to lead them. It was better to go back east now, and let the pilgrims alone.

As he plodded toward Clear Creek, he noticed a voice filling the street somewhere ahead of him. It sounded like the rant of a hellfire and brimstone preacher, but this wasn't Sunday, and no churches stood on this street. He squinted through the twilight and located the source of the tirade.

It came from a big man in a black suit standing at the door of a saloon. The man wore a dusty hat at an angle over his forehead, a gun belt at an opposing slant across his hips. He held a Bible in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

Hassard knew who it was at a glance. The resemblance to the man he had killed in South Park was unmistakable. It could be none other than the Reverend Carrol Moncrief—the Fightin' Parson.

“… so go ahead and drink, you scoundrels!” Moncrief was saying. “By all means, drink, and I'll drink with you! Jesus loves a drunk as much as a parson. Take your toddies and your highballs, your juleps and smashes, your punches and cobblers and sours…”

Hassard pulled his mule up in the street, buttoned his coat to make sure Frank Moncrief's pistol and holster were covered. He put a forearm on the saddle horn and leaned into the most unusual sermon he had ever heard.

“… but for the love of God Almighty! Don't let the devil take the stool next to you! There is a better way!”

Three men tried to enter the saloon, but the preacher stepped in the doorway.

“Sir,” he said, raising his glass and singling out one of the men, “give your life to Jesus now, and I'll drink to your salvation.”

The man stepped back and smirked. “Tell you what, mister. You buy me and my pals a bottle, and Jesus can share it with us.” He laughed with his friends beside him.

“You can't buy your way into the Kingdom of Heaven as easy as you can buy a bottle, friend. And let me warn you: Hell is dry.”

“Now, that ain't so. I've been to Dodge City, and there's liquor there to drown an army. In fact, the army drowns in it pretty regular.”

The preacher shook his head slowly and began to tip the shot glass in his hand. “Your soul is poured out like this jigger,” he said, watching the drink splatter on the boardwalk. He tossed the shot glass to the man. “You're empty, friend.”

“What do you think we come here for?” He pushed his way past the preacher and led his group into the saloon.

“Hey!” A man in a bartender's apron stepped into the doorway and glared at the parson. “Why don't you go preach in church where you belong?”

“Anybody can preach to saints and hypocrites. I serve those who need it most: the honest sinners.”

“Well, you've served here long enough. Go preach somewhere else now. You're drivin' away my customers.”

“I'll stay here until I save a soul, then I'll move on,” Moncrief said.

The bartender's lips curled under with frustration. “You'll move on now,” he said, stepping from the saloon. He grabbed the parson by the collar.

Moncrief drew the revolver from his holster—smoothly, quickly—cocking it as its muzzle pressed against the throat of the bartender, whose eyes grew with surprise. “Don't stand between me and the work of the Lord,” the parson said.

“Whoa, Preacher,” the bartender wheezed. “Stay as long as you like.”

“God bless you,” Moncrief said, grinning as he let his pistol down. “I believe you've seen the light.” He shoved the bartender back into the saloon as his eyes landed on Dee Hassard, straddling the mule in the street. “You, sir!” he cried. “I'll make you a deal for that bottle on your knee.”

Hassard lifted the half-full bottle and looked at it. “What kind of deal?” He felt Lady Luck smiling on him, but this was a little spooky. Carrol so favored his dead brother that it seemed Frank was looking at him now.

The parson stepped into the street. “Throw it straight up in the air and give me one shot at it. If I miss, I'll buy you a full bottle. If I hit it, you get on your knees and give your soul over to Jesus.”

Hassard looked at the bottle. “Can I take one more swig first?”

“Long as you don't swig it all,” Moncrief answered.

Hassard pulled the stopper on the bottle and took a long draw. Replacing the cork, he sucked a fiery breath down his windpipe and looked at the preacher misty eyed. “Ready?” he said.

“The question is, friend, are
you
ready? You lose the bet, and Jesus wins your soul. I'll see you on your knees in this road of mud and manure if my bullet shatters that bottle.”

“That'll take a miracle in this light, Preacher. Now let's see if you're really in the miracle business.”

The preacher nodded, and Hassard lofted the bottle high above the false fronts of the buildings. Moncrief watched the clear glass glint in the starlight, whipped his piece from the holster, and paced the target until it reached its zenith, hanging for an instant. The Colt erupted, and glass burst from the bottle like a round of canister.

“Praise the Lord, Preacher!” Hassard dismounted as pieces of glass peppered his hat brim. When he got both feet on the ground, he stood agog and let his mouth drop open. “By golly, I feel different. I think I really do, Preacher!”

“Get down on your knees, friend. Quick, before the feelin' passes!”

Hassard pulled his hat off and dropped to his knees as if ax-handled. He went so far as to fold his hands and look up breathlessly at the preacher.

Moncrief sank to one knee beside the swindler and put his hand on Hassard's shock of red hair. “Do you renounce the devil?”

“I do!” Hassard said.

“Do you take the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart and into your life?”

“You bet!”

“Hallelujah! You can get up now.”

Hassard stood and made his knees tremble. “Amen!” he shouted.

“How do you feel?” Moncrief asked.

Hassard paused and looked cockeyed at the street, as if trying to sort out some new emotion coursing through him. “I feel like I need a bath,” he declared. “I'm all clean inside, and filthy on the outside.”

Moncrief smiled and clapped the convert on the shoulder. “Come sit down, friend. Let's talk.”

They moved together to the boardwalk and sat with their feet on the dirt street.

“Tell me,” Carrol said. “How do you plan to do the work of Christ now?”

“I don't know,” Hassard replied. “I've only just been saved. I reckon I don't know what I'm supposed to do. What's it like, being a Christian?”

The fighting parson breathed deep and looked at the sky. “Son, it's like all your life you've had an outlaw hoss by the tail, draggin' you around, and that tail was full of burrs. Now, all of a sudden, you just let that hoss go, and dang if it don't feel good!”

“Yeah, but the reason I was hangin' on to that hoss is 'cause I wanted to ride.”

Moncrief smiled and looked his convert in the eye. What he had here was a philosopher. “You can still ride. Your new mount might seem slower than that outlaw hoss at first, but just wait till you get up to speed. This hoss has wings, son!”

“Which hoss is that, Reverend?”

“The love of the Man Upstairs, and the forgiveness of His only son, who died on the cross for you.” He poked Hassard in the chest with his finger. “I know you done some bad things in your past. You ought to know what all I done before I changed hosses. But the Good Lord makes all things happen for a reason.”

Hassard chuckled. “That's what I hear, but I don't savvy much of that talk. The things I done, I don't think you'd see much reason to 'em, Preacher.”

“It ain't for me to see, son. I'm just as mortal as the next man. The Good Lord sees more than you can ever wish to imagine.” He rose, looking down the street for another wayward soul. “Let me warn you, friend. The devil can eat back into your heart. Bein' a Christian is hard work, but it's worth it for the way it makes you feel.”

“I can do it,” Hassard said. “I've been lookin' for this day. Hard to explain, but I've been searchin' for somethin', and this is it. I can feel it.”

“Bless your soul,” the parson said, “and go do the Lord's work in life.”

Hassard shook his hand, and Moncrief turned away renewed.

“Wait, Preacher!” Hassard said. He watched the big man turn on him. “You're him, ain't you? The fightin' parson?”

“I've been called such.”

“You're the Reverend Carrol Moncrief.”

“I am.”

Hassard curled his hat brim in his hand as he approached the preacher. “Well, Reverend Moncrief, seein' as how I'm saved now and all, I guess I might as well start the Lord's work with you. I know you're hurtin' over what happened to your brother, Frank, and I just want you to know that I feel for you, and if there's anything I can do … Maybe say a prayer or somethin'…”

Moncrief squinted. “What the devil are you talkin' about?”

Hassard sucked in a gasp. “Oh, Lordy, don't tell me you haven't heard. I'd have broke it easier if I thought you hadn't heard.” This was so much fun that he had to fight back the smile.

“Heard what?” the preacher roared.

“Your brother's dead,” Hassard said, casting his eyes to the ground.

Moncrief snorted a laugh. “You don't know Frank. He's ornerier than that.”

“I know you don't want to believe it, Reverend, but I was passin' through Fairplay a while back, and I was there when they brought his body into town. They found him shot in the head somewhere out in South Park. Said he left to take some prisoner to Cañon City and never come back.”

Moncrief gritted his teeth and grabbed his convert by the lapel of his dusty coat. “You better be sure of what you're sayin'.” His heart felt as if it were sinking red hot into his guts.

“I wish it was somebody else tellin' you, Reverend. It ain't fair. You've just given me a new look at life, and I've got to be the one to break this news to you.” He put his hand on Moncrief's fist. “Just remember, Carrol, he's gone to a better place.”

The preacher opened his fist and drew away from the confidence man. “Who was the prisoner he was taking to Cañon City?”

“I couldn't tell you,” Hassard said. “Didn't stay in town long enough to find out. Now, if there's anything I can do, Carrol. Anything at all…”

The parson pulled a watch from his pocket and turned its face to the light from the saloon. There was a train going south tonight. If he caught it he could ride to Colorado Springs, then buy a horse for the trip to Fairplay. His head was throbbing, not knowing what had happened. “I've got to get down there.”

Hassard stuck his lower lip out and looked at the ground. “Well, godspeed, Carrol. I'm sure sorry you had to find out this way.” He turned toward his mule.

“Wait,” Moncrief said. “There is somethin' you can do.”

“Name it.”

“There's a bunch of pilgrims from back east camped somewhere up Clear Creek. They call theirselves the Church of the Weeping Virgin. I was supposed to meet 'em and guide 'em over the mountains. Go find 'em for me. Tell 'em they'll have to get somebody else.”

BOOK: Dead Reckoning
10.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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