Preacher (21 page)

Once the trap was set, Art and the others would leave, remaining in the water until they were some distance away in order to avoid leaving their own scent to compete with that of the castoreum.

When the last trap was set, the men returned to the first group of traps. There, they found that some beavers had already been taken. They removed the beavers, then skinned them by making a slit down the belly and up each leg. After that they would cut off the feet, then peel off the skin. Once the pelt was removed from the carcass, it was scraped free of fat and flesh, the necessary first step in curing the pelts.

“Here, boy,” Clyde said, lobbing off the tail of one of the beavers, and tossing it to Art. “Cook up our dinner for us.”

It was the first time Art had ever eaten beaver tail, but he found it quite delicious.

* * *

The three men being hanged in St. Louis were river pirates who had terrorized the Mississippi River for several months. Their mode of operation was to wait in hiding along the banks of the river until they saw a flatboat or keelboat making its way downstream. Then they would get into a skiff, paddle quickly out to the boat, kill the unsuspecting boatmen, and take the boat's cargo.

More than fifteen boatmen had lost their lives to these same river pirates, and thousands of dollars worth of goods had been stolen. Then a group of St. Louis citizens, tired of the piracy, set a trap for them by concealing several armed men on one of the boats. The pirates were captured, brought to St. Louis, tried, and sentenced to death by hanging.

Today was the day their execution was to be carried out, and almost two thousand people had gathered along the riverbank to watch the spectacle.

Bruce Eby, thankful that he had avoided this fate, stood in the crowd and watched as the three pirates, Moses Jones, Timothy Sneed, and Ronald Wilson, were led to the gallows. Wilson was a boy, no older than fifteen, and he was weeping and wailing entreaties to God to have mercy on his soul, and by his contrition had elicited some sympathy from the crowd of onlookers who were gathered for the execution. Moses Jones remained absolutely silent, but he glared sullenly, frighteningly at the crowd. Timothy Sneed, on the other hand, shouted taunts at them.

“Hear me, all you good people of St. Louis,” Sneed called out to them. “You've come to watch ole Timothy Sneed dance a little jig at the end of a rope, have you? Well, don't be bashful. Come on up close. Hold your children up so they can get a good, close look at my ugly face. When my ghost comes callin' in the middle of the night, I want all the little children to know it's me comin' to get them!” He glared at the children, then laughed maniacally.

“Mama!” a boy yelled in a frightened voice. “Is he going to get me?”

“Yes, I'm comin' for you, sonny!” Sneed said. “I'm comin' for all of you!” he added. “No more peaceful sleep in St. Louis.” Again, he laughed, a cackling, hideous laugh.

“You're an evil man, Timothy Sneed, to be frightening children in such a way,” someone shouted up from the crowd.

“I may be frightenin' the children, but I'm givin' the ladies a bit of a thrill, I think. You men will all be thankin' me tonight when the ladies, still warm and twitching from watching ole Timothy's eyes pop out, will be snugglin' up to you for a little lovin'.”

“Shut your evil mouth, Sneed, or I will gag you before the hanging,” the sheriff warned.

Sneed laughed again. “Why would you gag me, Sheriff? If I didn't play the fool for you at this hanging, what would be the pleasure in watching? Don't you know this is all part of the show?”

“Do you have no shame? Have you no sorrow for your wicked ways?” someone asked from the crowd.

“None!” Sneed replied.

“I do!” Wilson shouted. “I am sorely shamed that I left my poor old mother to seek my fortune. How she will grieve for me when she learns of my fate.” Wilson was weeping now.

“Hell, boy, your mother's a bloody whore,” Sneed sneered. “Grieve for you? She don't even remember you.”

“Lord, I'm sorry for my sins!” Wilson shouted.

“Die like a man, Wilson,” Sneed said. “Don't be givin' these psalm-singers your prayers.”

“Leave the boy alone, Sneed. I'm thinkin' it might do us no harm to be goin' to meet the Lord with a prayer on our lips,” Moses suggested.

“Ha!” Sneed replied. “It's not the Lord we'll be seein' when we open our eyes again. It'll be the face of Satan his ownself, and I'll not be goin' to see that bloody bastard with prayers. I'll be screamin' and cussin' all the way to hell. And when I get there, I plan to kick the devil right in his rosy red ass.”

A gasp came from the crowd, for never had this group of God-fearing people been so close to pure evil. Some swore they could even smell sulfur.

“It's time,” the sheriff said. He nodded to his deputy, and the deputy slipped a black hood over the head of each prisoner, one at a time.

Just before he put the hood over Sneed's face, Sneed happened to see Eby standing in the crowd.

“Eby, you son of a bitch!” he yelled. “I remember when you was one of us! How is it you ain't up here getting' your neck stretched?” The last part of Sneed's shout was muffled by the hood.

For a moment, Eby was frightened that perhaps someone in the crowd would connect him with Sneed's last, agonized challenge. But it quickly became obvious that Sneed's words were a mystery to the crowd.

With the hoods in place, the deputy stepped back away from the three men, then nodded at the sheriff. The sheriff pulled a handle that opened the hinged floor under the feet of the condemned.

The door fell open with a bang, and the three men fell through the hole. They dropped no more than knee-deep into the hole before the ropes arrested their fall. The ropes gave a snap as they grew taut. The hangman's knots slammed against the backs of the now-elongated necks as the three bodies made a quarter turn to the left.

Moses Jones and Ronald Wilson died instantly, and their bodies hung still. Timothy Sneed was not killed outright, and he jerked and twitched, lifting his legs and bending at the waist as if, by that action, he could find some relief. Those in the front row could hear choking sounds coming from behind the black hood, and they watched in morbid fascination as he continued his death dance.

Not until Sneed's body was as still as the others did Bruce Eby turn away. He felt a little nauseous, not because he had watched his erstwhile friends die in such a brutal way, but because he could have been one of them. It was only by luck that he'd avoided capture during his years of piracy, as it was by luck that he'd escaped death a year earlier when he and others had attempted to rob a steamboat.

He had given up piracy after the steamboat incident, and for the last few months had been living solely on the income generated by Jennie's prostitution. But though Jennie was a favorite among St. Louis's sporting gentlemen, she wasn't the only whore in town and competition was getting stiffer. It was time to do something else, and he already had his next move planned.

It was a man, full-grown, who came down from the mountains three years later, riding a horse and leading a mule. His square jaw, straight nose, and steel-gray eyes staring out from under a wide-brimmed hat gave him the kind of rugged good looks that women would find handsome, if there were any women around to observe him. But for the last two years, from adolescence into young adulthood, Art had been much more apt to encounter a grizzly bear than a woman.

When he could, Art rode down the middle of a stream, thus keeping his track and scent difficult to follow. The mule behind him was packed with his share of the beaver pelts he, Pierre, and Clyde had taken over the last two years, and now he was going to Rendezvous to sell them.

This would be Art's first Rendezvous, and he was very much looking forward to it. Pierre and Clyde had told him a great deal about Rendezvous, how trappers and mountain men from all over the West would gather in one place to sell their furs and buy fresh supplies for the next year's trapping.

“They's booze there too. And gamblin',” Clyde said.

“And sometimes ladies,” Pierre added.

“Whores,” Clyde corrected.

“Prostitutes they may be,” Pierre agreed, “but they are women nevertheless.”

“What are you tellin' him about it for?” Clyde asked. “He's just a boy.”

“A boy? He is bigger and stronger than either of us,” Pierre said. “And I think the women might find him better-looking as well.”

“Maybe so. But seein' as he's never had a woman, he's still a boy far as I'm concerned,” Clyde said.

That conversation had taken place a week ago. Then, when Art announced the next morning that he would be leaving for Rendezvous before them, Clyde teased him by asking if he was going early so he could find a woman and become a man.

“I'm going because I can no longer stand the sight or smell of either of you,” Art replied. It was all in good-natured fun, and though Art had already informed them that, after Rendezvous, he planned to go out on his own, the three men parted as good friends. And why not? Art knew that he owed his very life to them.

* * *

For the time being, Rendezvous on the Platte was the biggest city between the Pacific Ocean and St. Louis. Nearly a thousand people were gathered in the encampment: trappers from the mountains, fur traders from the East, Indians, explorers, mapmakers, merchants, whiskey drummers, card sharks, and whores.

Before Art left the cabin, he, Pierre, and Clyde had divided, evenly and fairly, the beaver pelts they had taken. When he arrived at Rendezvous, he was greeted by representatives from the fur traders, all wanting to make offers on his plews, as the beaver pelts were called.

“The London Fur Trading company will give you the best deal on your plews,” a representative of the company said. “If you sell to anyone else, you'll regret it.”

Similar offers came from half-a-dozen other traders, all anxious to take his load. Some offered “a line of credit at any merchant in Rendezvous” as their compensation.

Art sold to a dealer from St. Louis, doing so because, though the St. Louis dealer offered him less money, it was all in cash. Also, Art could remember seeing one of the company signs back in St. Louis, so he knew it was a legitimate operation.

With the money in hand, Art began wandering through the encampment grounds to see what was available.

He bought lead and powder, a new trap to replace one he lost, a new rubber slicker, and some waterproof matches. He bought some new flint, a needle and thread, a flannel shirt, and some socks. He also bought a book. When he left home, sneaking out of the house that night five years ago, the last thing he ever thought he would miss was reading. But there were times over the last couple of years when he wished he had a book, not only as a means of passing the time, but also in order to improve his reading skills.

He bought coffee, flour, and sugar. He also bought some dried peaches, thinking he might make a pie or two when he got around to it.

After he made all the necessary purchases, he began looking around the encampment to see what kind of entertainment was available. There was a tent that sold liquor, so he had a couple of beers. There were whores there too, but they were obviously whores who were no longer able to earn a living in competition with younger, more attractive whores. Every one of them was much older than he was, and all showed the ravages of their profession.

One thing that did catch his interest was a shooting contest. A hand-lettered sign offered a prize of one hundred dollars to the winner. A board was stretched across two oaken barrels, and on the board was the sign-up form for the contest. Behind the board, a man sat in a chair, paring an apple. He looked up as Art studied the entry form.

“You plannin' on enterin', mister? Or, are you just goin' to read the words offen that piece of paper there?”

“Where does the one-hundred-dollar prize come from?” Art asked.

“It comes from me,” the man said.

“You are going to give one hundred dollars to the winner?”

“Yep. Crazy of me, isn't it?” the man replied. He carved off a piece of the apple and popped it into his mouth. “But that's the kind of man 1 am. You think you could win?”

“I don't know,” Art replied. “Maybe.”

“Then you ought to enter. It would be an easy one hundred dollars for a man who can handle a rifle.”

“All right,” Art said. He picked up the pen and started to sign the paper.

“Huh-uh,” the man behind the board said, shaking his head. “First you give me ten dollars. Then you enter.”

Art took ten dollars from the roll of money he had just received for his pelts.

“Sign up, young man.”

As Art signed the roster, he saw that he was the twenty-seventh man to do so. He looked at the proprietor, who was carving off another piece of the apple.

“According to this, you have already taken in two hundred seventy dollars. 1 don't think it will be all that hard for you to give away one hundred.”

“Well, well, what do we have here, a scholar? What do you care about how much money I make, as long as you get yours?”

Art thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “I won't mind taking your money.”

* * *

It was early afternoon and Art was waiting, with more than three dozen other shooters, for the contest to begin. 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 were just standing by calmly, and Art was in that group.

“Art? Art, do you remember me?” a woman's voice asked.

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. She had coal-black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. She was pretty, though there was a tiredness about her. Suddenly Art recalled the young girl who had cared for him in Younger's wagon so long ago.

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

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

“Yes, of course I remembered.”

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, and he saw the expression of fear and resignation in her face.

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

“Eby,” Art said, recognizing the man.

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

“No,” Art said. “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, Art,” 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.”

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.”

Art looked at Jennie. For just a moment, there had been a look of anticipation and joy in her face. When she realized that her salvation was not to be, the joy had left. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Shooters, to your marks!” someone called.

Looking away from Jennie so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment mirrored there, Art picked up his rifle and walked over to the line behind which the shooters were told to stand.

Those who weren't in the shooting contest gathered round to watch those who were. 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.

“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 Art looked up and down the line of competitors, he saw that one of them was Eby. He wondered if anyone but him knew who Eby was, that he was a river pirate and, probably, a murderer.

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 eliminated four more, the following round eliminated two, and the round after that eliminated two. 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 the 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, then 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.”

Five hundred dollars was all the money Art had left. If he missed, he would leave here totally broke. Plus, he would have lost the shooting contest, so he wouldn't even have that money.

On the other hand, he had already bought and paid for everything he needed for another winter's trapping.

“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 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.

Art let the air 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.

The crowd applauded as the organizer handed the money over to Art. “Looks like you won your bet, but the outcome of the shooting match is still undecided,” he said. “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? 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?”