Preacher's Justice (15 page)

“You don't say,” Vaughan said. Now the apprehension in his face was gone, and he looked at Preacher with awe in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

“Chris Dumey seen Blanton a while ago and he said Blanton's nose was all red, with a purple scar where the cut was. The scar wasn't all that big, but you could sure see where it was. No, sir, I don't reckon the high-and-mighty Mr. Blanton is going to be so high-and-mighty anymore.

“So,” Tess said to her brother. She chuckled quietly. “Klyce Blanton is going to be more careful about where he sticks his nose, is he?”

“That might be the wisest thing for him to do,” Preacher replied.

Ed overheard Tess and Preacher, and though he didn't make the connection that Preacher was the one he was talking about, he did make the connection that the remark about the nose. He laughed out loud. “He's going to be more careful about where he sticks his nose,” he said. “Yes, I reckon he is, all right.” Ed laughed again. “That's a good one, that is. I'll have to remember that while I'm tellin' this story.”

Finishing his coffee and strudel, Preacher stood. “I think I'd better be going. Tell me, Vaughan, can I rent a horse at the livery?”

“No need for you to be renting a horse when I can lend you one of mine,” Vaughan said. “And I guarantee you, you'll be better mounted on my horse than you would if you rented.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” Preacher said.

“Also, before you leave, I'll write a letter of introduction to Mr. Rowe. That might be helpful to you in case he has any questions about why you want gold instead of paper for the bank drafts.”

“Yes, thank you, Vaughan, that would be a big help,” Preacher said.

It took Preacher less than an hour to reach Alexandria. Armed with the letter Vaughan had written, as well as the letter Constable Billings had given him back in St. Louis, he presented himself to Burt Rowe, the head of the bank.

Burt read both letters, then returned them. “They are good letters,” he said. “They speak well of your honesty and integrity. Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

“I need to cash these bank drafts,” Preacher said. “I need six hundred dollars in cash.”

“Certainly, I see no problem with that,” Rowe said. “Step over to the teller's cage, I'll instruct him to honor the drafts.”

“I'll need the money in gold coin,” Preacher added.

Rowe scratched his chin for a moment. “Gold coin?”

“Yes.”

“Why gold coin? We issue United States Bank promissory notes. They are as good as gold everywhere.”

“As good as gold isn't gold,” Preacher said. He sighed. “I don't mean to be picky, Mr. Rowe. But I'm paying off the mortgage on my father's farm. Klyce Blanton holds the paper, and he is demanding payment in gold in order to release it.”

“I see,” Rowe said, nodding his head. He sighed. “Blanton is the kind of man that gives bankers a bad name. Very well, Mr. Coopersmith, I'll honor the drafts with gold coin. I'll even put them in a bag for you.”

“That would be helpful,” Preacher said.

As Rowe searched for a cloth bag, Preacher happened to glance toward the wall, where there hung several posters. One poster in particular caught his attention, and he walked over for a closer look. As he examined it, he felt a surge of anger and determination.

 

 

Burt Rowe came over to him then, bringing the cloth bag and the money. “Here is your money,” he said, counting out the gold coins in front of him. When he counted out the full amount, he dropped the coins into the bag and handed the bag to Preacher.

“I saw you looking at that,” he said, pointing to the poster.

“Yes. What do you know about this?”

“Terrible thing, that,” the banker said. He then proceeded to tell the story of Billy and Suzie Potter finding their parents dead on the floor.

“They were murdered, both of 'em. Billy chased him with a pitchfork, but the man was mounted and rode away.”

“How were Mr. and Mrs. Potter killed? Did the murderer slit their throats?”

“Yes,” Rowe answered. He squinted. “Say, how did you know that?”

“Because that's the way he works.”

“That's the way who works?”

“Ben Caviness. Could you tell me where the sheriff's is located?” Preacher asked. “I may have some information for him.”

“Sheriff Wallace's office is just across the street, down on the corner,” Rowe answered. “You can't miss it, it's the only brick building in that block.”

Preacher took the bag of coins from Rowe. “Thank you very much for your help,” he said, holding the bag up.

“You're welcome.”

 

 

Sheriff Wallace, a gray-haired man of about fifty, was sitting at his desk, filling his pipe with tobacco, when Preacher came into his office. He looked up at Preacher with curiosity.

“Yes, sir, mister, something I can do for you?” the sheriff asked.

“Sheriff Wallace, my name is . . . ” Preacher started to identify himself as Preacher, but thought of the letter his brother-in-law had written for him, so he used his real name. “Art Coopersmith. I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Coopersmith. What do you have on your mind?”

“First, I'd like to show you this,” Preacher said, handing Wallace the letter Constable Billings had written for him, appointing him his temporary deputy. The sheriff read it, then handed the letter back. “This letter calls you Preacher.”

“It's a name some folks call me,” Preacher said. He showed the sheriff his letter from Vaughan.

“All right, Preacher, or Mr. Coopersmith, whichever name you prefer. This first letter says you are a deputy in pursuit of a criminal and it asks for my cooperation. I'll be glad to cooperate with you all I can, but we are a pretty small town and I know everyone here. So I can tell you for a fact that the fella you are looking for, this”—Wallace glanced at the letter again—“Ben Caviness, isn't in Alexandria.”

“He probably isn't,” Preacher said. “But I believe he was here.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I was just in the bank and noticed that you have a dodger posted on the wall. You had a murder take place here recently, committed by a man with only one ear.”

“Yes, he killed Hiram and Emma Potter.”

“I'm pretty sure that may the same man I'm looking for. Mr. Rowe said that the Potters' son and daughter saw the man.”

“Yes, they did.”

“I wonder if I could speak with the boy and his sister.”

“Yes, I'm sure they'll talk to you,” the sheriff replied. “Are you mounted?”

“I am.”

“Let me saddle my horse and I'll ride out to the Potter farm with you.”

 

 

At the Potter farm, Suzie was working in the garden while Billy was up on the roof of the house, replacing shingles. He had just reached for another shingle when he saw two riders approaching.

“Suzie, someone's coming,” Billy called down from the roof.

Suzie looked up and used her hand to shield the sun from her eyes. “Who is it, can you tell?”

“Looks like the sheriff is one of them, but I don't know who the other man is.”

“I'll make some lemonade,” Suzie said. “No doubt they're hot after their ride.”

Billy left his shingles on the roof, then climbed down the ladder. He was standing in front of the house when the two riders arrived.

“Sheriff Wallace,” Billy said, greeting him.

“Billy, this is Mr. Coopersmith,” Sheriff Wallace said. “But he goes by the name of Preacher.”

“You're a pastor?”

“No. It's just a nickname people have hung on me. I'm comfortable with it now.”

“I see you're keeping busy,” Sheriff Wallace said, nodding toward the ladder.

“Yes, sir.” Billy pointed to the roof of the house. “Pa kept tellin' me that we was goin' to have to put shingles on the roof this summer, but I kept puttin' 'im off 'cause I didn't want to do the work,” he said. “But I put it off too long. Durin' the rain last week, the roof leaked somethin' awful.”

The sheriff chuckled. “When shingles go bad, roofs will do that,” he said. “How are you and your sister doing?”

“We're doin' all right. We miss Ma and Pa, but we're doin' just fine. Come on in, Suzie's makin' some lemonade.”

“Thanks. Sounds good after a hot ride.”

The three men went into the house, where Suzie greeted them with glasses of the confection.

“I just drew the water from the well, so they should be cool,” she said, offering each of them a glass.

“Billy, Preacher thinks he knows who the fella is that killed your ma and pa,” Sheriff Wallace said.

Billy looked at Preacher. “You know this man?” he asked.

“Yes. If he is who I think he is, he also killed a woman in St. Louis a few months ago,” Preacher said. “I've been looking for him ever since.”

“I wish you had found him before he got here,” Suzie said, a tear sliding down her cheeks.

“I do too, miss,” Preacher said. “And I'm very sorry for your loss. But I'll tell you this, if it's any comfort to you. I will find him.”

“It won't bring Ma and Pa back.”

“No, it won't do that,” Preacher admitted.

“What's his name?” Billy asked.

“His name is Caviness. Ben Caviness,” Preacher said. “He's a big man with dark hair and a crooked nose. And he's missing his left ear.”

“That's him!” Suzie said, gasping.

“How'd he lose that ear?” Billy asked. “What he's got left is about the ugliest thing I've ever seen.”

“The woman he killed had a dog with her. The dog chewed the ear off.”

“Good for that dog,” Billy said. “Too bad he didn't kill him.”

“There were two men who attacked the woman,” Preacher said. “And the dog did rip the throat out of the other one, killing him.”

“Good.”

“Billy, Sheriff Wallace said that you ran after Caviness, but he was riding.”

“Yes. He was riding a bay,” Billy said. “If he hadn't been mounted, he would be dead, because I would've caught up with him.”

“He went that way, east,” Suzie said, pointing. “Of course, he could have turned a different direction after he was out of sight. I think about that, about him still being out there, and sometimes I'm afraid at night, afraid that he may come back.”

“I told her I wish he would come back,” Billy said. “He got away from me once. If he comes back, he won't get away again.”

“He won't be coming back,” Preacher said. “He's heading east.”

“You say that like you know it for a fact,” Sheriff Wallace said.

“I do know it for a fact.”

“Where is he heading, do you know?”

“He is going to Philadelphia.”

After they finished their lemonade, Preacher and the Sheriff took their leave. As they left, the sheriff saw several rusting, iron washers lying on the ground under a tree, and he chuckled.

“You've got a lot of iron washers there, Billy,” the sheriff said. “What are you planning on doing with them? Going into the iron washer business?”

“You remember, don't you, sheriff, how Dad use to run a float line out in the river for catf ish?” Billy asked.

“Indeed I do,” Wallace said. “I've had more'n one mess of your pa's fish.”

“Well, he used these iron washers as weights for the fishing line. He liked to gather them up, but I don't have any use for them.”

“You mean you don't fish?” Sheriff Wallace asked. “I figured, as good a fisherman as your pa was, you'd be out on the river too.”

Billy shook his head. “No. Dad enjoyed it, but I don't. I wish I did enjoy it. I think Dad would have appreciated it if I had gone fishing with him, but I never did. I just don't have the patience, I guess.”

“What are you going to do with all these washers now?” Preacher asked.

“I don't know. Bury them, I guess.”

“I'll give you two dollars for the lot of them,” Preacher offered.

Billy smiled broadly. “What? You'll give me two dollars for this?”

“For the whole pile,” Preacher said. “What do you say?”

“I say that you've got yourself a deal!”

Preacher gave Billy two dollars, then scooped up all the washers and put them in his hat.

“What are you going to do with all them things?” the sheriff asked.

“I don't know,” Preacher replied. He smiled. “Maybe I'll go fishing.”

 

 

Billy and Suzie watched the two men ride away.

“I wish I was going with him,” Billy said.

“Why?”

“I think he is going to catch up with this man Caviness. And when he does, I'd like to be there.”

Suzie shivered. “Not I,” she said. “I never want to see him again. And I don't know why you would want to.”

“There's something about this man that tells me that when he does catch up with Ben Caviness, he is going to kill him,” Billy said. “And I would like to be there when that happens.”

“You mean you could watch something like that?” Suzie asked.

Billy spat on the ground, then started back toward the ladder to resume his work on the roof.

“Watch it?” he said. “I could do it myself.”