Preacher (4 page)

The Blue Star dram shop was decidedly more attractive than the other saloons had been. Where the others had been thrown together with unpainted, ripsawed, raw lumber, the Blue Star was a carefully finished building. The outside was painted white, and trimmed in red. It was also a two-story building with a false front that made it look even taller from the street.

“Doesn't look like this building suffered any from the earthquake,” Art said.

“Oh, but it did. It went down, just like the others did. But whereas everyone else has only halfway built their buildings, Mr. Bellefontaine decided he would return the Blue Star to its original state, complete with paint and all the furnishings. The other bar owners were a little put out with him, and if truth be known, I think most of them are sort of privately hoping that the earthquakes come again to sort of even things out for them. Come on, let's go in. If you think it looks nice from out here, wait until you see the inside.”

The inside lived up to Harding's promise. Instead of rough-hewn lumber, the bar was finished mahogany, and behind the bar was a large, gilt-edged mirror. Scores and scores of elaborately shaped and colored bottles stood on the counter in front of the mirror, their number doubled by the reflection. At the back of the room, a finished staircase climbed up to a balcony that overlooked the ground floor. Though he couldn't see it all, he knew that the balcony went as deep as the saloon itself, so there had to be rooms upstairs as well. The interior of the bar was lit, not by unfiltered sunlight, as had been the case with the others, but by a brightly shining chandelier. As a result the windows were closed, and no flies were crawling around on the customers' tables. Even these tables, Art noticed, were made of finished wood.

“Oh, my,” Art said, looking around.

“Impressive, huh?” Harding asked. “My friend, there is not another dram shop like this on the Mississippi, not from St. Louis to New Orleans. And I ought to know, for I have been in just about every one of them.”

“It is beautiful,” Art said. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it.”

“You can see now why I saved this for last.”

As soon as they chose a table, a woman came over to join them.

“And, as an added attraction, the Blue Star has something that none of the other dram shops have,” Harding added, smiling at the approaching woman. “It has women. Art, meet Lily.”

“Well, Harding, I hear you've had a busy night,” Lily said by way of greeting.

“You mean you've already heard?”

“Word of a killing gets around fast. Even if it is some no-count like Moe Riley, who needed killing.”

“You knew him?”

“All the girls knew him,” Lily said. “And there won't be any of us shedding any tears over the likes of him.”

Art had never seen a woman who looked like Lily. There were dark markings around her eyes, her lips were as red as ripe cherries, and her cheeks nearly so. The top of her dress was cut very low, and it gapped open so that Art could actually see the swell of the tops of her breasts. He couldn't stop staring at her.

Bellefontaine brought three beers to the table. Art didn't remember ordering, but he picked up the beer and began drinking it. Whereas the taste had been somewhat foreign to him when he began the evening's drinking spree, he now found that he liked it. He drank nearly half the mug before he set it down. As he looked at Lily's breasts again, they seemed to be floating in front of him. His head was spinning, and he felt very peculiar.

“Do you like what you see, Art?” Lily asked, looking directly at Art.

“Yesh, ma'am,” Art said. His tongue was thick and he found that he couldn't make it work as easily as he normally could. He pulled his tongue out of his mouth, felt it with his thumb and forefinger, then looked down at it, trying to see it.

Lily laughed. “I'll say this for your boy, Harding. He's a polite one, calling me ma'am.”

“He's not my boy. He is my friend and business partner.”

“Business partner, is he? He's a fine-looking young boy, I'll give you that. But isn't he a little young to be a business partner?”

“Well, he was my partner,” Harding said. “And he still could be if he wanted to, but he wants to see the creature.”

“Yesh, shee the creasure,” Art repeated.

“Uh-huh,” Lily said. “Well, it ain't ‘the creature' he's been lookin' at since he come in here.” She stared right at Art and grinned broadly. He was still trying to see his tongue. “Ain't that right, sonny?”

“Whash right?” Art asked, his speech still slurred.

“I just told your friend here that I don't believe you been lookin' at the creature tonight. I think you've been lookin' somewhere else.” She grabbed Art by the back of his head, then pulled his face down onto her breasts. He could feel the warm smooth skin against his face, and he reacted quickly, pulling away.

All the other patrons in the tavern had a good laugh at Art's expense.

“I . . . I'm shorry,” Art said, blushing in embarrassment.

“Hell, sonny, don't be sorry,” Lily said with a whooping laugh. “If I didn't want men to see my titties, I wouldn't wear clothes like this.”

Art had not only never seen a woman who looked like this, he had never heard one talk like this.

“You're embarrassing him, Lily,” Harding said.

“I'm not embarrassing him. I'm giving him an education,” Lily said. “Here, Art, as long as we are at it, have yourself a good look.” She unbuttoned two more buttons, then opened her bodice, exposing her breasts all the way to the nipples. “Do you like what you see?”

Again, there was reaction from the others in the tavern. Lily didn't stop at exposing herself to Art. She opened her blouse wide, then turned toward the others in the tavern, curtsying formally as they whistled, cheered, and beat their hands on the tops of the tables.

She turned back toward Art. “Well, we know what they think about them, but what about you? Do you like my titties?”

“I think your titties are very nice,” he finally said.

Lily whooped again. “Nice,” she said. “I have to tell you, sonny, nice is not a word folks use much around Lily Howard. I do appreciate it, though.”

“Are you a painted woman?” Art asked.

“A painted woman? Well, yes, I reckon I am.”

“Come on,” Harding said, taking Lily by the arm. “You've got a room upstairs, don't you?”

“Right at the head of the stairs, honey,” Lily replied. “As if you didn't know that. You've been there enough times.”

This time the laughter was at Harding's expense.

“Well, so I have,” Harding admitted. “But what do you say we go again? I think Art has seen as much of ‘the creature' as he needs to see.”

“I could get Sally to join us. We could teach the boy a thing or two, we could,” Lily offered.

“The boy has grown a lot since he came to me,” Harding said. “But I don't think he's ready to be that grown just yet.”

“Okay, honey, whatever you say,” Lily replied. She put her hands on his shoulders, leaned against him so that the spill of her breasts mashed against his chest, then looked up at him.

“Here, watch that. Else we'll be startin' right here.”

Smiling, Lily took Harding by the hand and led him to the foot of the stairs.

Harding looked back toward his young friend. “Art, I'll be back in a little while,” he said. “In the meantime, why don't you get something to eat? I think it might do you good.”

As Art watched them climb the stairs, it was almost as if he was watching himself watch them leave. He had never felt such a peculiar sense of detachment from his own body.

“Another beer, sonny?” Bellefontaine asked.

“What? Oh, uh, no, thank you,” Art replied. “I think I'd rather have something to eat, if you've got it.”

“I got bacon, eggs, taters right here, if that's to your likin'.”

“That'll be fine,” Art said. He stood up, almost too quickly, and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself.

“You all right, boy? You look a little unsteady on your get-along there,” Bellefontaine said.

“I'm all right. I think I'll jush step out back to the privy,” he slurred. “I'll be right back.”

“Take your time, sonny. Wouldn't want you to wet your pants,” Bellefontaine said, laughing loud at his own joke.

“I told the boy I wouldn't want him to wet his pants,” Art heard Bellefontaine telling someone as he stepped out into the alley.

It was quite dark outside, and Art wondered how long he and Harding had been drinking the beer. He wasn't surprised by the dark. He had watched it get progressively darker after each beer, because he'd found it necessary to visit the privy after each one. He had never peed as often as he had been peeing since he arrived in New Madrid. He wondered if something was wrong with him. Using the privy, then feeling much better, he turned to go back into the tavern to have his supper.

Suddenly he felt a blow to the back of his head! He saw stars, his ears rang, then,he felt himself falling. After that, everything went black.

Harding awakened to the aroma of coffee. When he opened his eyes, he saw Lily sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of coffee.

“Uhmm,” he said. “Is that for me?”

Smiling, Lily handed it to him. “I'll just bet you don't get service like this from all your other women.”

“What other women?” Harding asked, receiving the cup from her, then taking a welcome swallow of the brew. “You're the only woman for me, Lily. Hell, you know that.”

Lily laughed out loud. “You are full of it, Mr. Pete Harding,” she said. “I know at least three other women right here in New Madrid you have bedded.”

“Well, yes, but I had to pay them for it.”

“Here, now, what are you trying to do? Cheat a poor working girl out of her money? Of course you had to pay them for it . . . just like you are going to pay me.”

“Oh, Lily, now I am really hurt,” Harding said. “And here I thought you invited me to your place out of love.”

“Compassion, maybe, but not love,” Lily teased. “Besides, this is what I do. I'm a . . . what did the boy call me? A painted lady?”

“Oh, shit!” Harding said, sitting up quickly. “Art.”

“What about him?”

“1 just left him sitting there last night.”

“I'm sure he'll be all right. He looked like a pretty resourceful young man to me.”

“He's very resourceful,” Harding said. “And about the finest person I've ever run into, regardless of his age. But he was also drunk.”

Lily laughed again. “He damn sure was. Cute too.”

“The thing is, he's never been drunk before. I think I'd better go down and try to find him.”

Harding swung his legs over the edge of the bed. As soon as he did so, Lily hiked up her nightgown and straddled him.

“Wherever he is, he has waited this long,” she said. “Don't you think he could wait just a little longer? This one is free.”

Feeling himself reacting quickly to her, Harding lay back down. “He could wait just a little longer,” he said.

* * *

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, and 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, as well as hear 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 hanging down and with vivid amber eyes staring intently at him. There was something familiar about her and for a moment, he couldn't figure out what it was. Then he remembered. She was the girl he had seen in the passing wagon yesterday afternoon.

Was it yesterday afternoon? Somehow it seemed much longer ago than that.

“Who are you?” Art asked.

“My name is Jennie.”

“Whoa, team,” a man's voice said. The wagon stopped. “Boy?” the same voice called. “You all right, boy?”

Art sat up and as he did so, his head spun and nausea swept over him.

“I've got to throw up,” he said, leaning over the edge of the wagon. He threw up until he had nothing left, which didn't take long as his stomach was nearly empty.

When he was finished, he looked back into the wagon. Besides the girl who had introduced herself as Jennie, there was a man and a woman in the wagon. Both of them were staring at him as if had just turned green.

“I'm sorry about that,” he said.

“Had a bit too much to drink last night, did you?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir,” Art said. He felt the back of his head. There was a bump there that was very tender to the touch. “At least, I reckon I did.” He felt another wave of nausea, and once more he leaned over the edge of the wagon. Although he didn't think he had anything left to throw up, he managed a little. Mostly, though, it was a painful retching.

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“That's all right; anytime you got to throw up, you just do it,” the man driving the wagon said. “My name is Younger. Lucas Younger. I own this here wagon. This is my wife, Bess. What's your name?”

“Art.”

“Art what?”

“Just Art. I ain't got no last name.”

“Why, Art, honey, that can't be right,” Bess Younger complained. “Ever'one has to have a last name.”

“I ain't got one,” Art said resolutely.

“Don't bother the boy none, Bess,” Younger said. “If he don't want to give us his last name, he don't have ta'.”

Art looked around outside the wagon. They were on a road of some sort, now passing through swampland. On either side of the road he could see stands of cypress trees, their knees sticking up from standing pools of water. “Where are we?” he asked. “What am I doing here?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions,” Younger replied.

“Last thing I remember is orderin' my supper. But I don't remember eating it.”

“From the way you looked when we found you, you didn't eat your supper. You drank it,” Younger said.

“Oh ...” Art groaned. He put his hand to his head. “I did. I drank beer. I drank a lot of beer.” He looked up again sharply. “What do you mean, when you found me?”

“Just what I said, sonny. Me, the wife, and the girl there found you. You was lying out in the road leavin' New Madrid. The wife thought you was dead, but soon as I got down and looked at you, I know'd you wasn't dead.”

“You say you found me on the road leaving New Madrid?”

“Sure did.”

“My money!” Art said. He stuck his hands in his pockets, but they came out empty.

“Boy, if you had any money on you, somebody took it offen you a'fore we come along,” Younger said. “I hope you don't think we took it.”

“No,” Art said. “No, I don't think you would take my money, then take care of me like this.”

“Glad you know that.”

“Where are we now?” Art asked.

“Oh, we're some north of New Madrid, headin' on up to St. Louie. This here road we're on is called the El Camino Real. That means The King's Road.”

“We saved back a biscuit for your breakfast if you're hungry,” Bess said.

At first thought, the idea of eating something made Art feel even more queasy. But he was hungry, and he reasoned that, maybe if he ate, he would feel better.

“Thank you,” he said. “I'd like that.”

“Jennie, get him that biscuit.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jennie said. She fumbled around in some cloth, then unwrapped a biscuit and handed it to Art. He thanked her, then ate it, hoping it would stay down.

It did stay down, and before long he was feeling considerably better.

* * *

“Right after you left, the boy went out the back door to the privy,” Bellefontaine replied to Harding's question. “He never come back in. When you find him, tell him he owes me for the supper he ordered.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen cents ought to do it.”

Harding put fifteen cents on the counter, then pointed toward the back door. “You say he went through there?”

“Yep. Ain't no use in lookin' back there, though. I got to worryin' some about him, seein' as how he didn't come back, so I went out there to have a look around myself. He wasn't nowhere to be found.”

Despite Bellefontaine's assurance that there was nothing to be seen out back, Harding went outside to have a look around. Art was nowhere to be seen.

After satisfying himself that Art wasn't behind the Blue Star, Harding checked all the boarding houses in town. Art hadn't stayed in any of them. Then he checked the other taverns, and even checked with all the whores on the possibility that Art might have decided to give one of them a try. Nobody had seen him. He decided it was time to talk to the sheriff.

The sheriff was in his office, feet propped up on a table, hands laced behind his head. A visitor to the office was sitting on a stool near the cold stove, paring an apple. One long peel dangled from the apple, and from the careful way he was working it, it was obvious he was going to try and do it in one, continuous peel.

“Sheriff Tate, I'm Pete Harding.”

“Hell, Harding, I know who you are,” the sheriff answered. “After the show you put on last night, I reckon ever'one in town knows who you are.

“Damn!” the apple peeler suddenly said. Looking toward him, Harding saw that the peel had broken.

“Ha!” Sheriff Tate said. “That's a nickel you owe me.”

“I could'a done it if he hadn't come in,” the apple peeler said. “Him walkin' on the floor like he done jarred it so's that it broke.”

“You're full of shit, Sanders,” the sheriff said. “It would'a broke whether Harding come in here or not. Pay your nickel.”

Sanders took a nickel from his pocket and slapped it down on the sheriff's desk. Then, looking at Harding with obvious disapproval, he left the office.

“Now,” Sheriff Tate said, putting the nickel away. “What do you need, Harding? If it's about last night, don't worry about it. Enough folks have given statements about what happened that there ain't even goin' to be an inquiry.”

“It's not about last night,” Harding said. “Well, yes, I guess it is, in a way. I come in here with a boy named Art. He was working on the boat with me. The thing is, I've lost him.”

“What do you mean, you lost him?”

“I left him at the Blue Star for a while when I left to, uh, conduct some business.”

Sheriff Tate laughed. “Conduct business? You mean going off with one of the whores, don't you?”

“Yes,” Harding admitted. “And when I came back . . . this morning . . . the boy was gone.”

“Well, hell, Harding, you didn't expect him to sit there the whole night, did you?”

“No. But I've checked with every place he could possibly be. I've checked all the boardinghouses, taverns, even the other whores. Nobody has seen him.”

“You think something happened to him?”

“I'm a little worried about him, yes. He drank quite a bit of beer last night. I'm pretty sure he had never had one before. Nobody's reported anything to you, have they?”

“You mean like a body?”

“Yeah,” Harding said with a sigh. “That's exactly what I mean.”

“Far as I know, we only got two bodies in this town right now,” Sheriff Tate. “Riley and Carter. And I reckon you know about them.”

“What about the river? What if someone threw a body in the river?”

“Unless they went to the trouble of weighing the body down, it'll come back up within an hour,” Sheriff Tate said. “And what with the bend in the river, it pretty near always stays right here. You think maybe, him bein' drunk and all, he might'a fallen in the river?”

“I don't know,” Harding replied. “I hope not.”

“Well, I'll keep my eyes open and if I see anything, I'll let you know.”

“That's just it, I won't be around after today. I've bought myself a horse and I'm ridin' back up to Ohio to put together another load of goods. I just thought I'd see what I could find out before I left.”

“You got 'ny reason to suspect foul play?”

“No.”

“Was he plannin' on goin' back to Ohio with you?”

“No,” Harding said again. “He said he would be going on from here.”

“Well, there you go then. Most likely, that's what happened to him. We had a couple of wagons pull out of here early this morning, bound for St. Louis. Could be he went out with one of them.”

“That's probably what happened,” Harding said. “Sorry to have been a bother to you.”

“Ah, don't worry about it. I'm sure he's all right, but like I said, I'll keep my eyes open.”

“Thanks,” Harding said.

* * *

It was midafternoon by the time Harding rode out of town. He headed north, intending to cross the river just above the juncture of the Ohio and Mississippi. That way, he would only have to cross once.

“Art, I don't know where you got off to, but I'd feel better if I knew for sure that you were all right,” he said, speaking aloud to himself.

* * *

There were nearly three dozen other wagons parked where they made camp that night. Although few of the wagons were traveling together, and some in fact were even going in opposite directions, it was quite common for wagons traveling alone on the frontier to join with other travelers at night in a temporary wagon park. And not only wagons, but travelers on horseback as well, for at least a dozen single men had staked out their horses and thrown their bedrolls down within the confines of the wagon camp.

Such an arrangement not only granted company and the opportunity for some trade, it also provided the safety of numbers against attack from hostile Indians or marauding highwaymen. Younger asked Art if he would mind doing a few chores.