Preacher's Peace (4 page)

Jennie was tired. It was more than the bone-weary, back-sore tired that comes from working; it was the kind of deep-down tired that begins to tell on a person who has been through several years of “being on the line,” selling her body to trappers and tradesmen, soldiers, scouts, and anyone else Bruce Eby offered her services to. Furthermore, it was a tired that wasn't ameliorated by any money she might earn. For Jennie was not only a prostitute, she was property—a slave owned body and soul by Bruce Eby.

Eby had brought Jenny to Rendezvous, a seasonal gathering of fur trappers, mountain men, and traders, because he could sell her services for three times what the market would bear in a city. But even with the increased cost, Jennie—an exceptionally pretty young woman of nineteen—had been doing a brisk business. For three days and nights, the line outside her tent was unabated, interrupted only when Eby reluctantly gave her a couple of hours to sleep.

Now, however, because of the excitement of an upcoming shooting match, Jennie was able to find a respite from her activities. Taking advantage of the break, she stood just in front of her tent, looking toward the gathering crowd of shooters who were preparing for the upcoming match.

Some of the shooters were cleaning their guns, others were sighting down the barrels of their rifles at the targets they would be using. Some shooters just stood by calmly. In that group of quietly confident men, she saw and recognized a young man she had known from before—when he was a boy and she was still a young girl. No, she reminded herself. Art may have been a boy then, but she hadn't been a young girl. She had never been a young girl.

“Art?” she called. “Art, do you remember me?”

Startled to hear his name spoken by a woman, Art turned to see who had called him. He saw a young woman between eighteen and twenty, with coal-black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. For a moment Jennie could see the confusion in his eyes; then she saw that he recognized her.

“Jennie? Jennie, is that you?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “You remembered,” she said.

“Yes, of course I remember.”

Spontaneously, Jennie hugged him. He hugged her back.

“Here, now, that's goin' to cost you, mister,” a gruff voice said. “I ain't in the habit of lettin' my girls give away anything for free.”

Quickly, Jennie pulled away from Art, an expression of fear and resignation in her face.

“If'n you want to spend a little time with her, all you got to do is pay me five dollars,” the man said.

“You are Bruce Eby,” Art said.

Eby screwed his face up in confusion. “Do I know you, mister?”

“No,” Art answered. “But I know you. What have you got to do with Jennie?”

“Ahh, you know Jennie, do you? Then you know she's the kind that can please any man.”

Art looked at Jennie, who glanced toward the ground. “He owns me,” she said.

“What about it, mister?” Eby said. “Do you want her, or not?”

“Yeah,” Art said. “I want her.”

Eby smiled. “That'll be five dollars.”

“No,” Art said. “I don't want her five dollars worth. I want to buy her from you.”

Jennie's heart skipped a beat. Art wanted to buy her? Could he? Oh, please, Lord, that it be so, she prayed quickly.

Eby took in a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. “Well, now, I don't know nothin' 'bout that. She's made me a lot of money. I don't know if I could sell her or not.”

“You bought her, didn't you?”

“Yes, I bought her.”

“Then you can sell her. How much?”

“One thousand dollars,” Eby said without blinking an eye.

“One thousand dollars?” Art gasped.

Eby chuckled. “Well, if you can't afford her, maybe you'd better just take five dollars worth.”

“No,” Art said. “I reckon not.”

“On the other hand, you could come back next year. I 'spec she'll be a lot older and a lot uglier then. You might be able to afford her next year.”

Jennie looked at Art. For just a moment there had been a look of anticipation and joy in her face. Then, when she realized that her salvation was not to be, the joy had left.

“I'm sorry, Jennie,” he said.

“I am too,” Jennie replied. She fought hard to hold back the tears.

“Shooters, to your marks!” someone called.

Looking away from Jennie, Art picked up his rifle and walked over to the line behind which the shooters were told to stand. Jennie went over as well.

Jennie stood in the crowd with those who weren't in the shooting contest to watch. There were a few favorites, men who had participated in previous shooting contests, and the onlookers began placing bets on them.

The first three rounds eliminated all but the more serious of the shooters. Now there were only ten participants left, and many were surprised to see the new young man still there. Even Jennie was pleasantly surprised to see that Art was still in contention, and privately she began pulling for him, hoping and praying that he would do well.

“All right, boys, from now on it gets serious,” the organizer said. “I'm putting a row of bottles on that cart there, then moving it down another one hundred yards. The bottles will be your target, but you got to call the one you're a-shootin' at before you make your shot.”

As Jennie looked up and down the line of competitors remaining, she saw that one of them was her master, Bruce Eby. Eby had the first shot. “Third from the right,” he said. He aimed, fired, and the third bottle from the right exploded in a shower of glass.

This round of shouting eliminated four competitors; the following round eliminated two, and the round after that eliminated two more. Now only Art and Eby remained. A series of shots left them tied.

“Move the targets back another one hundred yards,” the organizer ordered, and two men repositioned the cart.

By now all other activity in Rendezvous had come to a complete halt. Everyone had come to see the shooting demonstration. Only two bottles were put up, and Eby had the first shot.

“The one on the left,” Eby said quietly. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. The bottle was cut in two by the bullet, the neck of it collapsing onto the rubble.

“All right, boy, it's your turn,” the organizer said.

Art raised his rifle and aimed.

“Boy, before you shoot, how 'bout a little bet?” Eby said.

Art lowered his rifle. “What sort of bet?”

“I'll bet you five hundred dollars you miss.”

Jennie saw Art contemplating the offer. She didn't know if he had that much money or not. And if he did, she didn't know if he was confident enough in his shooting to take Eby up on his offer.

“Ahh, go ahead and shoot,” Eby said. “I'll be content with just beating you.”

“I'll take the bet,” Art said.

“Let's see the color of your money.”

Art took the money from his pocket, then held it until Eby also took out a sum of money. Both men handed their money over to the organizer, who counted and verified that both had put in the requisite amount.

“It's all here,” the organizer said.

“All right, boy, it's all up to you now,” Eby said.

Once again, Art raised his rifle and took aim. He took a breath, let half of it out . . .

“Don't get nervous now,” Eby said, purposely trying to make him nervous.

“No fair, Eby. Let the boy shoot without your blathering,” someone said.

Art let the breath out, lowered his rifle, looked over at Eby, then raised the rifle and aimed again. There was a moment of silence; then Art squeezed the trigger. There was a flash in the pan, a puff of smoke from the end of the rifle, and a loud boom. The bottle that was his target shattered. Like the other bottle, the neck remained, though only about half as much of this neck remained as had been left behind from the first bottle.

“Yes!” Jennie shouted in pleased excitement. Quickly, she covered her mouth before Eby looked toward her. He wouldn't go easy on her if he knew she had been cheering for his opponent. Fortunately, the applause and cheers of the crowd covered up Jennie's response.

The organizer handed the money over to Art. “Looks like you won your bet,” he said, “but the outcome of the shooting match is still undecided. Gentlemen, shall we go on? Or shall we declare it a tie?”

“We go on,” Eby said angrily. “Put two more bottles up.”

“Wait,” Art said.

Eby smiled. “Givin' up, are you?”

“No,” Art said. He pointed toward the cart. “We didn't finish them off. The necks of both bottles are still standing. I say we use them as our targets.”

“Are you crazy?” Eby asked. “You can barely see them from here. How are we going to shoot at them?”

“I don't know about you, but I plan to use my rifle,” Art said.

The others laughed, and their laughter further incensed Eby.

“What about it, Eby?” the organizer asked. “Shall we go on?”

Once more, Eby looked toward the cart. Then he saw that the neck from his bottle was considerably higher than the neck from Art's bottle. He nodded. “All right,” he said. He raised his rifle, paused, then lowered it. “Only this time he goes first.”

Art nodded, and raised his own rifle. “The one on the right,” he said.

“No!” Eby shouted quickly. “You have to finish off the target you started. You have to shoot at the one on the left.”

“I thought we could call our own targets,” Art replied.

“You can. And you already did. Like you said, we didn't finish them off. You called the bottle on the left, that's the one you've got to finish.”

“I think Eby's right,” one of the spectators said.

“All right,” the organizer agreed. “Your target is what remains of the bottle on the left.”

“A hunnert dollars he don't do it,” someone said.

“Who you goin' to get to take that bet?” another asked. “Ain't no way he can do it.”

“What about you, mister?” Eby asked. “You want to bet whether or not you hit it?”

“No, I'll keep my money,” Art said.

“Tell you what. You wanted the girl a while ago. I'll bet her against a thousand dollars you don't hit it.”

Jennie felt a sudden flash of hope, followed by a feeling of guilt. If Art could hit the target and win her, she would be free of Bruce Eby. On the other hand, if he missed—and this target was very small—then he would lose the one thousand dollars, which was, in all likelihood, every cent he had. Part of her begged him to accept the wager, and yet she prayed that he would not.

Art looked over at Jennie and she saw that he was going to take the bet. She took a deep breath and held it. Could he hit the target? It was mighty small, and it was a long way off.

“What do you say, mister?” Eby taunted. “Is it a bet, or isn't it?”

“I don't want the girl to come to me.”

Jennie felt a sudden draining of all the blood from her face. She had allowed herself to think that he might win her from Eby; now that hope was dashed.

“You don't want the girl? Then what do you want?” Eby asked.

“If I win, I want you to set Jennie free.”

Jennie gasped, and her knees went weak. Could this be? Could it really be that for the first time in her entire life, she would be free?

“All right, boy, you hit that sawed-off piece of a bottle neck on the left there, and I'll set her free,” Eby promised.

Art nodded. “You've got a bet.”

Everyone expected to wait for a long moment while Art aimed, but to their surprise he lifted the rifle, aimed, and fired in one smooth, continuous motion. The bottle neck shattered. The reaction from the crowd was spontaneous.

“Did you see that?”

“Hurrah for the boy!”

“Who woulda thought . . .”

Jennie saw Eby raising his rifle, aiming it at Art. “Art! Look out!” she screamed.

Almost on top of Jennie's shouted warning, there was a loud bang, followed by a cloud of smoke. When the smoke rolled away, Eby was lying on his back with a large bullet wound in his chest. Turning quickly, Jennie saw another mountain man standing there with a smoking rifle. He had shot Eby.

“Clyde Barnes! Where did you come from?” Art asked.

“I decided to come on in early as well,” Clyde said as he held his still-smoking rifle. “I couldn't let you have all the fun.”

“Ever' one seen it,” the organizer of the shooting match said. “Eby was about to shoot the boy when this fella shot him. We ain't got no judge nor law out here, but I say it was justifiable homicide.”

“Hear, hear!” another shouted.

“Anyone say any different?”

There were no dissenters.

“Then let's get this piece of trash buried and get on with the Rendezvous. Oh, by the way,” the organizer said, looking over toward Jennie. “I reckon we also heard the bet. Girl, you're free.”

“Wait, you can't do it like that,” someone else shouted.

Once again, Jennie felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. Was this all to be a cruel hoax? Was she destined to remain a slave? But if so, who would be her master? Eby was dead.

“What do you mean you don't do it like this?”

“Someone is going to have to draw up a letter of manumission.”

“Manumission? What is that?”

“It's a letter that says this here girl has been given her freedom.”