Feast for Thieves (5 page)

“You know how Cut Eye sprung into existence, boy? Answer if you know.”

I shook my head.

He glanced around at the pond and sniffed. “It’s because men on Highway 2 needed a watering hole between destinations. You’re no stranger to watering holes, I guess, so you know what kind of business it is that money-loving men put on top of taverns.” He glanced at his secretary, then glanced away.

I kept silent and studied the pond. It appeared deep enough, cold and quiet, and I wondered if they’d ever find my body once the sheriff finished with me.

“That’s right, boy, all other businesses in my town sprung from the first watering hole and the place of ill repute that still sits on top today,” the sheriff said. “My town is founded on a lack of scruples, I admit, and it’s grown up hard and fast with iniquity ever in mind. These days, two miles northeast of Cut Eye, there’s a branch of the Murray Company that runs a plant for gas-fired floor furnaces. It’s honest work, heavy labor, and fairly mindless. Couple hundred fellas from Cut Eye work there, although mostly women did during the war, and the rest of my town is populated by ranchers, oilmen, drifters, and other rough-hewn men. Every mother’s son is looking to fight and drink and spend his money on a good time, and those roustabouts are exactly what I deal with every day in my line of work—men making my life hard as sheriff. You were born in a small town, yes, Private Slater?”

“Yes sir. Denim. About two hundred and thirty miles from here.”

“I know where it lies. Your folks still living?”

“No sir, both dead.”

“Any other kin?”

I collected my thoughts before answering. “A niece, sir. Uh … age four. She’s an orphan too, boards with a family in Rancho Springs. She needs—”

“That’s all I need to know.” The sheriff’s voice was brusque and he tapped me on the shoulder. It felt like a shove. “Strip to your briefs and wade to your waist in the pond.”

I glanced at the secretary. My heart was nearly pounding through the lining of my chest now. Her face remained motionless, her eyes focused at the sky.

“Go on,” the sheriff said. “There’s an easy way and a hard way. Your choice.”

I took off my jacket and shirt, my boots, socks, and pants. My dog tags jangled in the wind. Don’t know why I still wore them. Maybe I always felt naked without. The pond water was mountain cold as I waded forward, and my skin rippled with goose pimples. No sense looking back. No sense trying to intimidate a man with a revolver when all you got is your stare.

“Far enough,” the sheriff called. “Turn around and look at me.”

I obeyed. His hand still wisped against his revolver but he hadn’t yet drawn. For a moment I considered making a run for it. I knew I wouldn’t get far.

“You grew up in a small town, Private Slater—so you were taught to fear Jesus. That the case? Answer.”

“Sir, I went to Sunday school as a child.”

“So you fear God today, even though you’ve led a wayward life? Answer.”

“I guess so, sir. As of yesterday—”

“Your mouth is shut!” the sheriff shouted. “We ain’t here for testimony.”

The secretary watched me now. All this time she hadn’t uttered a word, but now she tapped the sheriff on the arm and said, “I’d like to say something before it occurs.”

He nodded.

The secretary took two steps forward on the beach and raised her head slightly. Her nose looked too far in the air for my asking.

“One of my inspirations, the great poetess Ella Wheeler Wilcox, spoke of a burial for her dead,” the secretary began. “Missus Wilcox didn’t have a shroud or coffin, no prayers uttered or tears shed. Only a picture turned against the wall. In moments where life and death is pictured, I prefer Psalm 23—‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil’ …” Her voice trailed off. A small, reddish dabbling duck flew in and skidded onto the pond between me and the shore.

The sheriff grunted at her finish and called my direction, “Dunk yourself then, Private. We don’t have all day.”

I stared confounded at the man. “Sir?”

“You heard right. Get your hair wet. I don’t think it’s official unless your hair’s wet. I’d come out there and do it myself, but I fought the flu this winter. The girl would do it, but I don’t condone mixed bathing. Go on. Get yourself under.”

I kept my eyes on the sheriff, sunk myself down in the water, and stood up again.

“Back to shore now,” the sheriff called. “Plenty of work to do.” He turned to his secretary and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Sit in the car for a bit, will ya, sweetie. Write another of your poems. No sense you being here for the rest of this.”

She nodded, smiled at him, and headed back up the trail.

Everything became clear in an instant and I waded back to shore in a huff. My nervousness fled. I saw straight through the sheriff and his cowardly ways, and my blood bristled. Three yards south of him, I squared off, the cold river water dripping off my body. His hand was still a flea speck away from his holster.

“You baptize a man before you kill him, that your game?” I said. “Clear conscience before murder—you aiming for that? If you were half a man you’d throw me a rifle and settle this fairly.”

The sheriff looked startled a moment, then broke into a low chuckle. He bent at the waist and gave a good hee-haw, straightened up, and laughed again. “Look, Private—you’re the one who
walked into a jailhouse carrying a sack full of stolen money.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’re right, I was baptizing you, but I ain’t here to fight, Rowdy. I’m here to offer you a job.”

“A job?”

“You’re a man of scruples who isn’t afraid of death. You can fight. You can speak. Can you study a book?”

“Yes sir.”

“For what I’ve got in mind, those are the only skills needed.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”

“If a man’s truly changed, then his change is shown by his actions.” The sheriff dug into the shore with the toe of his boot. “I’ve got a hunch you’re a changed man. Or at least you’re beginning that direction.” He looked me over from head to toe. “Dry yourself off with your shirt and put your clothes back on. Let me see if I can explain the bigger picture.”

He took off his Stetson, wiped his head with his handkerchief, and a faraway look came to his eye. “Around 1900, a hardy band of women from the Texas Missionary Society opened the Cut Eye Community Church. It’s been sparsely attended ever since, mostly by the wives of the town’s business owners and a few old ranchers. These days, come Saturday night, most men in my town are atop the Cut Eye tavern. Their actions spill over during the week. Families are falling apart and my jail’s full to capacity. The last preacher we had didn’t last long, sorry to say. While the war was on, a missionary held the church together but is heading overseas soon and doesn’t want the job permanently.”

“A preaching job?” My eyes were round.

“Hiring and firing is up to me. I’m head of the church’s deacon board. Job comes with all your meals taken at Cisco Wayman’s café, a rickety parsonage that’s ready to topple over, and ten dollars spending cash per month. You’ll need a truck too, and we’ll scrounge up something to drive until you can afford your own. It ain’t much compensation, I know, and the job also comes with one
unbendable condition. You following me boy?”

I nodded, now speechless.

“I’m a fellow veteran myself, fought and bled under General John Monash in the trenches of the Somme, so I can empathize with a fellow veteran who’s down on his luck, particularly since this is the great state of Texas where men are allowed to be a little rough around the edges.” The sheriff turned his head, scowled, and sniffed all at the same time. “It’s true—I want a new minister more than I want a crime confessed to. So here’s the condition: the real test of your changed ways will be to stick it out for a solid year. Twelve months of preaching in Cut Eye. Can you do that, boy?”

“Thanks much, Sheriff.” I found my voice. “But I don’t know nothing about being a preacher.”

“Actually, I ain’t offering you the job, son. It’s an order. I want this town cleaned up, and cleaned up good. A preacher who’s been an elite paratrooper is exactly the strong man to do it. It’s true I’m suspicious of a fella who arrives in a jailhouse with a sack of money, so this is your ultimatum: you take the job, or you go to jail right now. And if you don’t last the year, then my hunch will be correct—you robbed the bank—and I’ll hunt you down and crush you with the full weight of the law. But—” he cleared his throat, “belly chains and leg irons seem like an awful waste of a man with your potential for success.”

The wind rustled through the pines. My stomach growled and I found I was out of arguments except to mumble, “Like I say, sir, I don’t know nothing about being a preacher.”

The sheriff flushed with sternness. “Well, this is how I see it. In a moment we’re going to hike to the car and drive back to Cut Eye. My secretary will return the money to the bank and tell the examiner I found it, which ain’t a lie because it appeared on my desk. Meanwhile, you and I are going to walk around the corner to the Pine Oak Café where Cisco Wayman’s wife serves up the
best peach cobbler this side of the Missouri. Once we sit down and begin eating, I’m going to tell you more about what comes next for you, Rev’rund Rowdy Slater.” He held out his revolver hand as if to shake.

A dry swallow slid down my throat, and I stared at the sheriff’s outstretched hand.
Rev’rund Rowdy Slater
—I had no idea what to think of that title.

“That’s my offer, boy—one solid year of preaching in Cut Eye.” The sheriff grinned, his hand still outstretched. “You take this job and you do it right.” He winked. “Or else you die.”

FIVE

S
he called it Peach-Lime Cornmeal Shortcake, and she described the ingredients in the same easygoing motion as she laid down a plateful in front of the sheriff, another plateful in front of me. “Four cups fresh peaches—canned if it’s all you can muster.” She dabbed her forehead with the corner of a serving towel. “One tablespoon fresh lime juice. One cup cold heavy cream.”

Her words flitted through my head loosely, mind you. Both my eyes stared transfixed on that plateful of glory while I licked my lips in cautious hope. Out of my periphery I saw the sheriff remove his Stetson, pick up his fork, and dive in. Right away I got busy with my teeth. The shortcake flaked in all the right places, still warm from the oven. The peaches dripped over the side, serious in their syrup. Another layer of fruit followed underneath with cream so buttery I swear it came straight from the cow that morning. Another solid foundation of shortcake held it in place from the bottom up. I cleaned my plate and hoped more would soon follow. Maybe even a whole meal.

“The name’s Augusta Wayman—and don’t call me Mrs. Wayman either—it’s always just Augusta.” The cook spoke with brightness in her voice, but there was a sadness hiding behind her words too—some hidden story of loss she couldn’t bury deep enough. She poured me a cup of coffee and added, “Cisco’s my husband. He works the breakfast rush only and ain’t here just now.
Together we own this place, the Pine Oak Café, the only respectable eatery in town. Oh, a fella could choke down a hamburger along with his whiskey next door at the tavern, but the grease they use in their deep fryer is so dirty it would lower the price of a used Studebaker.” She was plump with gray hair wisping out from beneath her kerchief, and she snorted in disgust as she said the last words. The phone rang and she walked toward the kitchen to answer it.

“It’s for you, Sheriff,” Augusta said. “Martha at the switchboard says to come quick.”

The sheriff stood with a start, headed for the phone on the side wall, and took the receiver. “This is Halligan.” He listened a moment. “How bad?” His voice was flat. “Be right down.”

“Quick piece of pie for the road?” Augusta called over the counter.

“No time. Much obliged.” He grabbed his hat, made for the door, and pointed his thumb at me to follow. My visions of more food evaporated in the warm café air. The sheriff slid behind the wheel and motioned for me to sit up front in the passenger’s seat next to him this time. The siren let out a wail. He tore up the street out of town, the blue and red overhead lights flashing.

“One of your duties is to be chaplain of the sheriff’s department,” he explained. “When we get to where we’re going, you stay out of the way and let me and my deputy handle business. Comfort the grieving. Notify next of kin if they can be found. Savvy?”

I started to say something but I could tell the sheriff wouldn’t be listening to nothing I might say just now. He wore a look of uncommon seriousness, and I watched the speedometer inch past 85. The force of the wind against the car made me brace my feet against the floorboards, one hand holding steady to the door. Two miles up, a sign flashed by us that read, “Murray Plant 500 yards,” with an arrow pointing to the left. The sheriff slowed to 65 and kept his course northward. Traffic was stopped ahead of us. He
pumped the brakes as we came closer, made for the left-hand lane, and inched by the row of idling trucks and cars. “This is gonna be a real mess,” he said.