Preacher's Justice (12 page)

On the morning Art left, he was nearly to the bottom of the stairs when the sudden chiming of the Eli Terry clock startled him. Gasping, he nearly dropped his sack, but recovered in time. He smiled sheepishly at his reaction. The beautifully decorated clock, which sat on the mantel over the fireplace, was the family's most prized possession. His mother once told him with great pride that someday the clock would be his. He reckoned now that it would go to his brother. His brother always put more store in the clock than he did anyway.

Recovering his poise, he took a piece of paper from his pocket, and put it on the mantel beside the clock. It was addressed to “Ma and Pa.”

At first he hadn't planned to tell anyone in his family that he was leaving. He was just going to go, and when his folks woke up for the next day's chores they would find him gone. But at the last minute, he'd thought his parents might rest a little easier if they knew he had left on his own, and had not been stolen in the middle of the night.

The boy had enough schooling to enable him to read and write a little. He wasn't that good at it, but he was good enough to leave a note.

With the note in place, Arthur opened the front door quietly and stepped out onto the porch. It was still dark outside, and the farm was a cacophony of sound: frogs on the pond, singing insects clinging to the tall grass, and the whisper of the night wind through a nearby stand of elm trees.

Once he was out of the house and off the porch, the boy moved quickly down the path that led to the river. When he reached the bluff, he turned and looked back. The house loomed large in the moonlight, a huge dark slab against the dull gray of the night. The window to his parents' bedroom was gleaming softly in the moonlight. It looked like a tear-glistened eye, a symbol that wasn't lost on him. A lump came to his throat, his eyes stung, and for a moment, he actually considered abandoning his departure plans. But then he squared his shoulders.

“No,” he said aloud. “I ain't goin' to stand here and cry like a baby. I said I'm a'goin', and by damn I'm goin'.” He turned away from the house.

“Sorry about sayin' ‘damn,' Ma, but I reckon if I'm goin' to be a man, I'm goin' to have to start talkin' like a man.”

The boy left the beaten path, then picked his way through the brush down to the side of the river's edge. To the casual observer, there was nothing there, but when he started pulling branches aside, he uncovered a small skiff.

He had found the boat earlier in the year during the spring runoff. No doubt it had broken from its moorings somewhere when the river was at its freshet stage, though it was impossible to ascertain where it had come from. He hadn't actually stolen the boat, but he did hide it, even from his father. And he assured himself that if someone had come looking for the boat, he would have disclosed its location. But as no search materialized, at least none of which he was aware, he got to keep the boat.

The boat provided him with a golden opportunity, and it wasn't until it came into his possession that he seriously began considering running away from home. He left, not because of any abuse, but because of pure wanderlust.

 

Preacher thought about it before he left the
Cincinnati Queen.
Should he or should he not visit his family? If he did visit them, how would they react? Would they welcome him, or would they resent him? If they reacted with resentment, it would certainly be an emotion he could understand. In all the time he had been gone, he had never once contacted them, to let them know whether he was dead or alive.

Dead or alive.

He suddenly realized that he didn't know whether or not his parents, or indeed any of his family, were dead or alive. The thought gave him pause, especially because he realized that, until this very moment, it wasn't anything he had ever considered before.

Was it confidence that they were alive that kept the worry from his mind? Or was it extreme selfishness on his part?

He didn't want to face up to that shortcoming in his own personality, but if truth be told, he would have to say that it was because of his own extreme selfishness.

That consideration made up his mind for him. When the boat reached the point nearest the old family homestead, he would get off and seek them out. He could only hope that they were all still alive, and were still in the same place. Further, he could only hope that they would accept him.

He did not feel that he was compromising his mission by leaving the boat to search for them. After all, there was no sense of immediacy to what he was doing. Jennie was dead, and would remain dead. There was only a need to bring about justice, and that he would do.

Portsmouth, Ohio, was the nearest town to the old homestead. As it turned out, it was also a scheduled stop for the boat, though primarily because it was a place to replenish the wood supply.

As the boat pulled ashore, Preacher visited the purser's office and informed him that he would like to get off there.

“But you've purchased a ticket all the way to Steubenville,” the purser replied. “We are quite a long ways from Steubenville.”

“Yes, I know, but I would like to visit Portsmouth.”

The purser chuckled. “I've seen Portsmouth, mister. Believe me, it isn't much to look at.”

“Maybe so. But I'm getting off here.”

“All right. Will you want to be going on to Steubenville at a later time?”

“Yes. Can I buy another ticket from here?”

“Well, if you are going through, that won't be necessary,” the purser said. “You've already bought the ticket.” The purser handed Preacher a little slip of paper. “Just present this to the purser of the next boat belonging to the Ohio and Mississippi Line that stops here, and he will honor it for passage on to Steubenville.”

“Thanks,” Preacher said, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

Several toots of the boat's whistle indicated that it was about to dock. That was followed by the slight jolt of the bow as the captain pegged it on the shore.

“Make fast the lines!” the captain called down, and at the bow, the deckhands secured the boat to the shore.

Preacher waited until the gangplank was stretched down from the side. Then he left the boat, climbed up the cobblestone-covered riverbank, and stood there for a moment, looking out over the town of his youth. As he stood there looking at the town, the town was looking back at him, or at least, several of the town's citizens. He was not their typical visitor.

Preacher had not brought his rifle with him, deciding to leave it for safekeeping with his friend William Ashley back in St. Louis. But he had brought his knife and his pistol, and he was wearing both of them on a belt that he had strapped around his waist. His clothes consisted of a buckskin shirt and trousers, as well as a rather wide-brimmed hat.

Preacher wandered through the town, looking it over carefully. Oddly, it was a little like trying to recall a dream that slips away so quickly after waking, for while he recognized some of the buildings, many he did not.

One of the buildings that he did recognize was the Riverman's Inn, on the corner of Third and Court Streets. He remembered it, even though he had never been inside the building. That was because the Riverman's Inn was a saloon, and as Preacher had been so young when he left Portsmouth, this saloon wasn't a place he had ever visited. Preacher paused just in front, his hand resting on the door frame for a moment before he went inside.

Although this was the first time he had ever been inside the establishment, there was a degree of familiarity about it. Like most of the saloons and taverns he had been in, this one had a bar that ran down one side of the room. The bar had a foot rail, as well as rings every ten feet or so, from which hung towels for the customers' use. In addition to the bar, there was a handful of tables out on the floor.

All of the tables were empty. In fact, the bar was empty as well. There were only two people in the place, a man behind the bar and an attractive young woman who was standing at the far end of the bar. For a moment Preacher felt there was something different about the young woman. Then he realized what it was. She wasn't dressed in the provocative style that he had come to associate with bar girls. Preacher didn't know if that was unique to this particular woman, or if all bar women back East dressed in a more conservative fashion.

Both the man and the woman looked toward him as he came inside.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man said to Preacher, greeting him with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the Riverman's Inn. You just get off the boat, did you?”

“I did,” Preacher said.

“I thought so.” He tapped his finger to his temple. “I have the power of divination, you know.”

The woman laughed. “Don't let Vaughan fool you, mister. It's your clothes that give you away. Nobody around here wears that kind of clothes. What do you call that?”

“Buckskins,” Preacher replied. “They are useful in my line of work.”

“And what would that line of work be?” the bartender asked.

“I'm a fur trapper.”

“A fur trapper, is it?” the man replied. “Well, now, that sounds fascinating. Have a drink, sir. The first one is on the house,” the bartender said as he drew the beer.

“And if I don't order a second?” Preacher replied.

The man laughed. “Well, then, the first one is still on the house and I'm the fool for thinking it would generate more business for me.”

Preacher laughed as well. “You're no fool, mister. That seems to me like a friendly way to welcome new customers.”

“Doesn't hurt to be friendly, and I can afford to give away a drink now and then,” the man said. He put the beer mug in front of Preacher. “There you go, sir.”

“Thanks,” Preacher said. Picking up the mug, he blew the foam off the mug, then took a long swallow.

“A fur trapper, you say?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I think folks used to trap some around here years ago. But most of the trapping now is out West somewhere. And from the looks of you, I'd say that's where you would be doing your trapping—out West somewhere.”

“Yes,” Preacher said. “I trap in the Rocky Mountains.”

“I've never seen the Rocky Mountains, but I would truly like to. I've heard they are something awesome to behold.”

“They are indeed,” Preacher said. He finished the beer. “Now, I wonder if you would let me buy one for each of you.”

“Well, sir, that's kind of you to offer,” the bartender said. “But if all I did was stay here all day drinking my own product, I'd be too drunk to work.”

“And the lady?”

“The lady is my wife,” the bartender said. “And she don't drink at all. Can you imagine, marryin' a tavern keeper and not even drinkin'?”

“Yes, if she's drawn to the man and not what he does,” Preacher said. “I'll have another for myself then.”

The bartender drew a second drink.

“Well, here's to you both,” Preacher said, paying for a second drink, then holding it up to them.

“What brings you from a place as glorious as the Rocky Mountains to a tiny place like Portsmouth?” the bartender asked.

“I'm just traveling through,” Preacher said. “Heading for Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia,” the bartender said. “Have you ever been there?”

“No, I haven't.”

“I think you will find it a fascinating place to visit. I was there a year or so back myself.”

The woman laughed. “It was more like ten years,” she said. “We wasn't even married yet when you went.”

“The name is Vaughan Roberts,” the bartender said, sticking his hand out by way of introduction. “And whatever it is that caused you to stop by our fair town, you are truly welcome.”

“Thanks,” Preacher said. “Folks call me Preacher.”

“Preacher? And would you be a man of the cloth, Preacher?”

Preacher chuckled. “Far from it, I'm afraid. It just seems to be a name I've picked up.”

“Ever been here before, Preacher?” Vaughan asked.

“Yes,” Preacher said. “As a matter of fact, I am from here. I used to live here, or not far from here, when I was a boy.”

“You don't say? So that explains why you dropped by. You wanted to visit the place of your youth.”

“You might say that,” Preacher agreed. “I lived upriver a few miles. My folks had a place there, just where the river makes a big sweep.”

“Well, there's a couple of places up there,” Vaughan said. “But that's pretty good land. Finest land in the country, some folks say. What is it that made your family up and leave like they done?”

“Oh, you misunderstood me. My family didn't leave at all,” Preacher said. “They are still here. Or at least, as far as I know, they are still here.”

“As far as you know? Here, that's a mighty strange thing to say about your own family. You mean you don't even know if they are still here?”

“I'm ashamed to say that I don't know,” Preacher said. He took another drink before he continued. “You see, I told you I left here when I was a boy, and that's just what I did. As I look back on it now, I probably did a bad thing, but when I was twelve years old, I just up and left on my own.”

Suddenly the woman gasped, and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my,” she said in a soft voice. “Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my.”

“Tess, what in the world has got into you?” Vaughan asked.

“Tess?” Preacher repeated in a quiet voice. He looked at the young woman. “Is that your name? Tess?”

Tears sprang into Tess's eyes, and she nodded. “Yes,” she answered.

“Would you have a sister named Betty, and a brother named Morgan?”

“I also have a brother named Arthur,” Tess replied, now smiling broadly through her tears. “We thought he was lost, but I know now that he has come back to us.”

“My God,” Vaughan said, now realizing what was going on. He stared at Preacher. “You are Arthur, aren't you? You are Tess's long-lost brother.”

“I reckon I am,” Preacher said.

With a little cry, Tess ran into Art's arms. He embraced her for a long moment, feeling her against him, feeling her tears wet his cheeks.

Finally, Tess drew away from him. “Why?” she asked. It was more of a sob than a question. “Oh, Arthur, why in heaven's name did you run away from us like that?”

“I'm sorry, Tess,” Preacher said. It was the only way he could think of to respond to this question that had no answer. “I'm sorry.”

 

 

Vaughan closed his place for the rest of the day, hitched a team to a wagon, then drove Tess and her long-lost brother out to her parents' farm.

“I've got a thousand questions I want to ask you,” Tess said as they drove along the dirt road that ran parallel with the river. “But I'm going to save them because I know that everyone else will want to ask the same questions, and there's no sense in making you say everything twice.”

“Thanks,” Preacher said. “I'll answer all the questions as best I can, I promise.”

Tess's promise not to ask a lot of questions caused the ride out to be a quiet one, and Preacher welcomed the silence because it gave him time to reconnect with his past. As the wagon rolled along the road, Preacher looked out over the landscape, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with memories. As it was mostly trees and plowed fields, there wasn't anything significant enough to make an impression on him. That is until they came around the final bend and he saw the house, a white, two-story house, sitting on a small hill.

The house was exactly the same. The final moments before he'd left, indelibly burned into his mind and heart, were recreated by what he was seeing now. For a minute, all the intervening years between the time he stood there as a twelve-year-old boy, fighting tears, and this moment rolled away. It was as if the years of his life had formed one, long ribbon, and someone had grabbed the ribbon at each end and folded it together, connecting past with present so that it was impossible to differentiate one from the other.

The wagon pulled into the front yard, and his mother came out onto the porch.

“Well, hello, Tess, Vaughan,” she said. She was holding a dish towel. “I didn't expect to see you two until this weekend. Who's your friend?”

“Mom, this is . . . ,” Tess started, but she didn't finish. Suddenly, the woman on the porch gasped, and put her hand to her chest. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth began to tremble.

“Don't tell me,” she said. “I know who it is.” With her arms open wide, she hurried down from the porch. “Arthur,” she said. “My dear, sweet, Arthur!”