Magnificent Guns of Seneca 6 (16 page)

"I can get that baby out."

"With what?"

"With the Lord."

Jem grunted and said, "Get the hell out of here, old man."

“What do you have to lose, Sheriff?”
 
The preacher hurried up the steps to the store's wide bay window with his arms outstretched.
 
“Can you hear me in there, son?” he hollered.
 

There was no answer.

“I’d like to come in there and speak with you.
 
I ain't armed, and I ain't the law.
 
I'm not even from these parts.”

“I ain’t fallin’ for no tricks," Doolin shouted.
 
"I let you in and the next thing I know, you’re pullin' a gun.”

“It ain't no trick," the preacher said.
 
“And not only do I have no guns, I have no way of firing one.
 
At least not accurately.”
 
The preacher yanked off his leather gloves and pressed both his hands against the window.
 
Both were missing their trigger fingers. "See that?
 
You have nothing to fear from me, son.
 
I just want to talk to you.
 
Trade the baby for a preacher and I’ll help you get what you need.”

 
There was only silence in response, until footfalls louder than rifles in the old man’s ears came across the store’s wooden floor.
 
He listened to the locks on the door clicking open and sighed with relief.
 
Bill Doolin popped the door open and glared out from behind it.
 
His eyes were wide and panicked.
 
“I’m telling you.
 
First thing you do funny this kid’s mother won’t recognize it as human anymore.”

The preacher inched around the front of the door, keeping both his hands in front of him.
 
"See?
 
No tricks,” he said.
 

Doolin slammed the door shut behind him and locked it again.
 
His hands were shaking so badly that the knife in his hands was as much a threat to him as it was the baby.
 

“Did you cut her?”

“No.
 
I just pinched her thigh enough to get her to bawl.
 
But I
will
if I have to.
 
I swear to God I will.”

“I know, son,” the preacher said.
 
“It's all right.
 
We're just talking here.
 
What’s your name?”

“Bill Doolin.
 
What’s yours?”

“Father Charles Buchinsky.”

“You a priest?”

“Just a preacher.”

“What happened to your fingers?”

“I use to be a werja tamer in the circus.
 
One night, my final trick didn’t go quite right.”

Bill looked at him for a moment.
 
“You serious?”

“No.
 
I cut both of them off.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

"Well, it's funny you should say that, because hell is precisely why I did it, Bill."

"I don't follow."

“You ever read the Bible?”

“Not since I was a kid.”

Father Charles held up his hands and wiggled the stumps of the knuckles on his trigger fingers, “There's a part in there that says if there's a part of your body that's done wrong, you should cut it off and cast it into the fire rather than condemn your immortal soul.
 
So that’s what I did.”

Bill’s face twisted in disgust.
 
“Are you serious?
 
That’s sick.”

Charles shrugged and said, “It made sense at the time.
 
Now I just have to live with it.”
 
He inched closer to Bill, keeping his hands in front and on display.
 
“There's only one thing I regret, though."

"What's that?"

"Being sober when I did it."

Bill looked down at the gnarled and scarred stumps and said, “The Bible told you to do that?”

Charles smiled thinly, continuing to close the distance between them, “The bible says to do a whole lot of things, son."

***

First, the infant cried out.
 
Loud and piercing, like only a baby can.

Then, another kind of scream.
 
Loud and shrieking.
 
A man's voice turned high-pitched and full of misery.
 

Jem kicked the store's door in and raced through the threshold, gun ready to fire.
 
There was the preacher, holding the little girl unharmed, while Bill Doolin writhed on the ground clutching his face.
 
“My eye!
 
That son of a bitch stabbed me in the eye!”

Jem looked down at Bill Doolin and then back at the preacher.
 
"What the hell happened?"

“He fell.”
  

“He fell?
 
On his own knife?
 
Into his eye?” Jem said.
 

The preacher shrugged and carried the baby outside toward her mother.
 
She dropped to her knees and thrust her arms up into the air to thank him and the Lord.

Chapter 11: The Passing of Betsy Clayton

Royce Halladay stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked narrowly at the boy playing on front porch above him.
 
"Good morning, Jem.
 
You have already eaten, I presume."

Jem looked up at him and said, "Yes, sir.
 
Why?"

"So you are not hungry?"

"No."

Halladay nodded and started up the steps.
 
"Good, then if you bite me this time, I shall assume it is not because your parents are starving you, but rather because you are a vexing, evil child."

"No, I ain't," Jem said.

"This scar on the tip of my left ring finger demonstrates otherwise."

"I already said I was sorry, Doc.
 
Plus, my dad made me sweep out your ratty old barn.
 
We're square and that's that."

Halladay cocked his eyebrow, "We are?"

Jem nodded firmly, "That's how I see it."

Halladay pressed his knuckles against his chin in an exaggerated gesture of thought.
 
"Do you think perhaps we should become friends, then?"

Jem shrugged, "I guess so.
 
You going to try and stick anymore needles in me?"

"Not today."
 
Halladay thrust his hand forward and said, "Let it be known from this day forward that I offer you my hand in eternal friendship.
 
The houses of Clayton and Halladay are forever united in the bonds of chivalry and shall stand together to defend one another, even unto the very death!"

Jem took the doctor's hand in his and shook it.
 
Halladay did not let go.
 
"And henceforth," he said, "if evil should befall one of us it is the other's solemn duty to correct it, soothe it, or avenge it if need be."

Jem nodded and tried to pull his hand away but Halladay continued shaking.
 
"We must make our declarations, Jem Clayton," Halladay said.

"What's a declaration?"

"I declare that if you are abducted by a hostile alien species I will not only commandeer a spacecraft and learn to fly it, but also assemble a galactic fleet of mercenaries who will assist me in taking you back by force."
 
Halladay lowered his voice, "Now it's your turn to make a vow."

"I vow…to always be your friend?"

"Bah, too simple," Halladay said.
 
"Be creative, my dear boy.
 
This world is a dreary place and language is one of the finest ways to fill it with color.
 
So, once more, what is your vow to me, Jem Clayton?"

"I vow to never bite you again," Jem said.
 
"Unless you try to stick me with a needle."

Halladay pumped Jem's hand vigorously and said, "Well spoken, sir. It is a deal."

***

Betsy Clayton peeked through the living room window and said, "What is that crazy coot doing with our son?"

"He's just having some fun with him.
 
The last time they saw each other it didn't go so well," Sam said.
 
He stopped bouncing Claire on his knee and ran his fingers along her lower gum.
 
"Speaking of biting, those chompers are coming in mighty fine, little lady.
 
Yes they are.
 
Pretty soon, you'll be the one giving Doc fits, won't you?"

"It won't be Doctor Halladay catching fits.
 
It'll be you when the first boy shows up asking if he can take her out on a date."

Sam's eyes widened in mock surprise, "Those nasty mud grubbers better be able to outrun a dozen of Daddy's bullets if they try," he said.
 
Claire giggled as he stuck his fingers under her armpits and tickled her ribs.
 
"You know, there's a nunnery on Wolfe One."

"Don't even think about it, Sam Clayton."

"I'm just saying."

Royce Halladay knocked lightly on the door before he opened it.
 
"Good morning, Betsy.
 
Hello, Sam."

"Doc," Sam said.
 
He held up Claire's hand and waved at Halladay.
 

"You hungry, Doc?
 
I can put something on," Betsy said.
 

"No thank you, darling," Halladay said.
 
He took his hat off and held it against his waist with both hands, tapping its brim nervously.
 
"I came to speak to you both, about a professional matter."