Preacher's Justice (19 page)

“What makes you think Caviness is in Philadelphia?”

“As he passed through Ohio, on his way to Philadelphia, he killed a man and his wife by slitting their throats. There have been four killed here by having their throats slit. I believe the killer is Ben Caviness.”

Involuntarily, Epson put his hand to his own throat. “What I don't understand is why you think he would want to look me up.”

“Like I said, things didn't go well for him back in St. Louis. I think he's coming to see you in order to ask for more money.”

“I'm . . . sure that I don't know what you talking about,” Epson said, though his protest sounded weak even to his own ears.

Caviness was sitting at a table with three others in the Bucket of Blood Tavern. He no longer resembled the man who had arrived in Philadelphia nearly six weeks ago. His hair had grown long enough to cover the missing ear. And with the money he took from the men he had killed, he'd bought clothes that were more in the style of the average Philadelphia citizen. Because he was now blending in with the others, he no longer drew curious stares from the casual observer. He was still rough-looking, but no more rough looking than the men who were sitting at the table with him.

To the degree that a person like Caviness could make friends, he had befriended these three. Several times over the last few days, he had encountered them here in the Bucket of Blood Tavern. Like Caviness, none of the three men seemed to have any visible source of income.

Caviness bought a round of beer for them. “I need to find me somebody,” he said as he lifted the mug to his lips. “I don't reckon none of you know a feller by the name of Epson, do you?”

“I know a man named Epson,” one of the men said. This was Jim Gray. “But he prob'ly ain't the one you're lookin' for.”

“How do you know he's not?”

“'Cause he's one of them bigwigs that works in a bank.”

“Yes!” Caviness said excitedly. This was his first real lead. “The fella I'm looking for works in a bank. It's got to be the same man. Where is the bank?”

Gray laughed. “Well, they's a lot more'n one bank in Philadelphia,” he said. “But the one Epson works in is the Trust Bank. What you need to see him for?”

“He owes me money,” Caviness said.

Gray stroked his chin as he stared across the table at Caviness. “Does he now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What's in it for me if I take you to him?”

“I'll give you a dollar,” Caviness replied. He could afford to be generous. He planned to get a lot more than a dollar from Epson.

“Make it two dollars, and you got yourself a deal,” Gray insisted.

“All right, two dollars. But for that, I want you to take me to him.”

Gray finished his beer, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You got yourself a deal,” Gray said. “Let's go.” He stood up.

 

 

Epson stepped out to the privy behind the bank. When he returned, he saw two men standing by his desk, but as there was nothing unusual about their looks or demeanor, he approached them without any sense of concern.

“Yes, gentlemen, may I help you?” Epson asked, greeting them with his practiced mile.

“Hello, Epson,” Caviness said.

“Caviness!” Epson said. “What are you doing here?”

“I took care of that little job you had for me back in St. Louis,” Caviness said.

“Shh,” Epson said, looking around the bank to see if anyone was close enough to overhear them. “Who is this?” Epson asked, indicating Gray.

“This here is Jim Gray,” Caviness said. “He's a pal of mine. Now, about that business in St. Louis.”

Epson put his finger across his lips in a signal to be quiet. “Let's step outside to discuss this,” he said. “I don't want everyone listening in to our business.”

“All right,” Caviness agreed.

“Mr. Sinclair, I'm going to step out front for a moment,” Epson said to the chief teller.

“Very well, Mr. Epson,” Sinclair replied.

The three men walked outside, then stood in front of the bank.

“What are you doing in Philadelphia?” Epson asked.

“I need more money,” Caviness replied.

“I paid you a fair price,” Epson said.

“Yeah, well, things didn't go the way I thought they would.”

“Yes, I know, the dog chewed off your ear, but that's your problem, not mine.”

Gray laughed. “That's what happened to you ear?” he said. “A dog chewed it off?”

“It ain't funny,” Caviness said. He looked at Epson. “How did you know about my ear?”

“Preacher told me.”

“Preacher?” Caviness's eyes grew wide. “Where did you see Preacher?”

“I saw him here in my office yesterday,” Epson said.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“He's after you, Caviness.”

Caviness looked around, his face clearly reflecting his fear at the mention of Preacher's name.

“How did the son of a bitch know I was here?”

“He followed you here from St. Louis.”

Gray laughed again. “What's got you so spooked?” he asked Caviness. “You that scared of a preacher?”

“He ain't a preacher,” Caviness said. Then to Espon. “What did you tell him?”

“How could I tell him anything? I didn't even know you were in Philadelphia.”

“This is bad. This is real bad.”

Suddenly Epson got an idea. “Maybe not,” he said. “Not if we're smart.”

“You got an idea?”

“Yes,” Epson said. “You want some more money?”

“Hell, yes, I do. I told you, that's why I'm here.”

“All right. I'll pay you some more money.” He looked at Gray. “And I'll pay you as well. All you have to do is take care of Preacher.”

“What do you mean, ‘take care of Preacher'?” Gray asked.

“What do you think I mean?”

“I think it means you want us to kill him,” Gray said.

This was Epson's moment of truth. He had danced around being a thief, and he had danced around the responsibility for Jennie's death. But things had gone too far now. It was time to fish or cut bait, and the way he saw it, Preacher had left him no choice.

“Yes,” Epson said. “I'll give you one hundred dollars apiece to kill him.”

“One hundred dollars? Yeah, I'll do it. How hard can it be to kill a preacher?” Gray replied.

“I told you, he's not a preacher,” Caviness said. “And he is going to be a hard man to kill. I've run into him before.” Caviness looked at Epson. “A hundred dollars ain't enough. You give me one hundred dollars to take care of your problem in St. Louis. Taking care of your problem here is going to be even harder.”

Epson smiled. “He's not just my problem,” he said. “He's after you too. Think about it, Caviness. You are going to have to face him one way or the other. This way, at least, you are getting paid for it.”

“A hundred dollars sounds good to me,” Gray said.

“Make it one hundred and twenty dollars,” Caviness said.

“Why one hundred and twenty?” Epson asked.

Caviness looked at Gray. “You think Scott and Kelly would throw in with us for ten dollars apiece?”

Gray laughed. “Yeah, if we don't tell 'em how much we're getting. But you really think we are going to need them?”

“I told you. This Preacher is one tough son of a bitch,” Caviness said. “Yeah, we're going to need them.” He looked back at Epson. “What about it, Epson? One hundred and twenty dollars apiece?”

“All right,” he said. He held up his finger. “But not until the job is done.”

“We've got to have some of the money now,” Caviness said.

“I'll give you ten dollars apiece now, plus ten dollars for your two friends. Come back to me when the job is done, and I'll give you the rest.”

“All right,” Caviness agreed. “But try and hold out on me when I come back, and I'll slit your throat from ear to ear.”

Epson shuddered. How had he ever let his life get so out of hand that he was in league with men like this?

“I won't cheat you,” he promised.

The lobby of the Federal Hotel had a red carpet and was dotted here and there with potted plants, chairs, and benches. Coming in off Fourth Street, the stairwell to the upper three floors was to the left of the lobby, while the registration desk was to the right.

When Preacher returned to the hotel from lunch, written in chalk on a slate just inside the door was a sign that read: M
R.
P
REACHER TO THE DESK, PLEASE.

Preacher picked his way through the potted plants. The clerk was making entries in a ledger. He looked up as Preacher approached.

“I'm Preacher.”

“Yes, this was delivered for you, sir,” the clerk said, handing him an envelope.

“Thank you,” Preacher said.

Preacher climbed the stairs to his room, then sat in the light of the window to examine the envelope. There was no name or address on the outside. He withdrew a one-page letter.

Preacher did not believe for one moment that Epson's instructions to Caviness had been misunderstood. He was convinced that Epson had wanted Jennie killed.

He was equally convinced that this wasn't a letter giving up Caviness, but was, instead, a letter designed to set him up. He was certain that once he showed up at the park in Kensington, he would be ambushed by Ben Caviness. But as they say, forewarned is forearmed. Preacher intended to keep that rendezvous.

If Epson went so far as to set Preacher up for an ambush, then he was sure that the banker had even more surprises in store for him. Therefore, before Preacher left the hotel that night, he prepared himself for any eventuality. He had two pistols, loaded and stuck down into his belt. He also had two knives—one on his belt and one stuck down into his boot.

Thus armed, he entered the park.

There was no moon tonight, so it was very dark. Even more so because the park was some distance from the ambient light of the city. The night sky was alive with the sounds of insects and frogs, as well as the silent whisper of the Schuylkill River. Although he was in the middle of a great city, Preacher was more at home right now than he had been at any time since leaving the mountains. He was in the middle of a wilderness, albeit a small one, listening to the ebb and flow of the sounds and moving with—not intruding upon—the natural order of things.

As he approached Elephant Rock, he noticed something that not one other person in Philadelphia would have noticed. There was a slight disruption in the sound patterns made by the night creatures, and that disruption told him that someone was very close and watching him. The hackles stood up on the back of Preacher's neck and he eased one of his pistols from his belt, then cocked it.

Suddenly a shot was fired. The night was lit up by the light from the muzzle flash. In an instinctive reaction, Preacher had anticipated the shot by no more than an instant, and he dove to the right.

Hitting the ground, Preacher rolled quickly to his right, as the ball whizzed by where he had been but a moment before. Had he not moved when he did, he would be dead now.

Preacher returned fire, and was momentarily blinded by his own muzzle flash. In addition, tiny bits of expended gunpowder peppered his face. He heard a grunting sound, then the sound of someone falling.

Remaining on his belly, he crawled forward until he reached the body of the man he had just shot. Rolling him over, he saw that the man was dead.

He also saw that it wasn't Ben Caviness.

A second shot hit the rock just above Preacher, then careened off through the park, its transit marked by a whining sound.

“Scott, did you get him?” someone called. Preacher did not recognize the voice. “Scott, did you get him?” the voice repeated.

“Nah, the son of a bitch got Scott,” another voice answered. “Scott is dead.” Preacher didn't recognize this voice either. How many were out here?

“Kelly, Gray, quit your jabbering and wait for a shot,” a third voice called from the darkness.

This voice, Preacher did recognize. It was Ben Caviness.

“Caviness,” Preacher called. “I'm coming after you, Caviness.”

“Come ahead, you son of a bitch!” Caviness shouted. His shout was punctuated with a pistol shot, and once again a ball passed dangerously close.

Preacher returned fire, and saw his bullet strike sparks as it hit a rock. He also heard Caviness yelp in pain, though he knew that hadn't done any real damage to the outlaw. The best he could have done was to send shards of his bullet into him. That would be painful, but certainly not fatal.

“Kelly, he's already fired twice,” Gray called. “Unless he's carryin' a whole bag of guns, he's got nothin' left.”

“Let's get 'im!” Kelly yelled.

Suddenly, two men jumped up from their place of concealment, no more than thirty feet in front of Preacher. With shouts of defiance, they rushed toward him, their pistols leveled.

Preacher filled his hands with his two knives. He waited until they had closed to within ten feet, then suddenly stood up in front of them.

“There he is!” Gray shouted.

Gray and Kelly fired simultaneously while, at the same time, Preacher brought both his arms forward, throwing the two knives. The dual muzzle flashes momentarily illuminated the park. In a picture that was frozen in time, the two knives seemed to hang in the air, the points of the blades toward Kelly and Gray, suspended between Preacher and his two adversaries

The two assailants saw the knives coming toward them, but they had no time for any reaction other than fear. Both blades struck the men in the chests, burying deep. With groans of pain, they went down. By now, the two bullets they had fired were landing harmlessly in the river beyond.

Now Preacher was effectively unarmed. Both pistols were empty, both knives expended. He dropped behind a rock, then moved quickly and silently to his left in order to reload.

 

 

His own pistol empty, Caviness left after his brief exchange with Preacher. He was already on his way out of the park when he heard Kelly and Gray's challenge. He also heard the discharge of their weapons. What he did not hear was their shouts of victory, and had they killed Preacher, he knew they would have let it be known.

The silence could only mean that they missed, or even more likely, that somehow Preacher had killed them. And Caviness believed it was the latter. He knew Preacher, had run across him before, and he knew what the man was capable of.

Caviness had only one thought in mind now, and that was to find Epson, get his money, and get out of Philadelphia.

The only way Caviness knew how to find Epson was to return to the bank and stay there all night long. When Epson showed up for work the next morning, Caviness would be waiting for him.

 

 

It was daylight when Epson stepped down from the omnibus in front of the bank. Caviness was waiting behind a flowering shrub as Epson, nattily dressed in a suit, vest, and hat, came walking by. When he drew even with him, Caviness suddenly stepped out into the path in front of him.

Epson gasped, then took a step back. “Caviness!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Caviness looked awful. His face was cut and swollen where the shards of Preacher's bullet had cut into him. He smiled, showing stained, crooked, and broken teeth.

“Well, now, is that any way to greet an old pal?” he asked.

“We aren't . . . pals,” Epson said.

Caviness put his hand over his heart. “Well, now, that pains me deeply, that you don't consider us pards,” he said. The smile left. “But that makes no never mind. Just give me my two hundred dollars, and I'll be on my way.”

“Did you . . . that is—is Preacher dead?”

“No, Preacher ain't dead,” Caviness said. “But all my pards is. You're hard luck to be around, you know that, Epson? First off, Slater gets hisself kilt back in St. Louis and I get my ear chewed off. Then my new pards that I met here got themselves kilt last night. Three of 'em,” he added. “They was three of them and one of me, so that we was four to one against Preacher. But that didn't make no never mind. He kilt all three of them.”

“Four of you against one man, and he got away?”

“Yeah. So you can see, Epson, the best thing for me to do is just get the hell out of Philadelphia, only I can't do that if I ain't got no money. So, I'll take that two hundred dollars you was goin' to give me.”

“That money was to be disbursed only if you killed Preacher,” Epson said.

Caviness pulled his pistol. “Yeah, well, I didn't kill him, but you are going to
disburse
it anyway,” he said mockingly.

 

 

Even before sunrise, Preacher was pretty sure that Caviness had gotten away from him somehow, sneaking out of the park under the cover of darkness. He dragged the bodies of the three men he had killed into a spot that was some distance from the normal path people took when walking through the park. With the bodies out of the way of incidental pedestrians, he went to the headquarters of the Philadelphia Police Agency to report upon the events of the night before.

Chief Constable Dolan, Constable Coleman, and a couple of the watchmen, including one whose “watch box” was very near the entrance of the park, were there to, listen as Preacher told his story.

“You think it happened the way this man says it happened?” Constable Coleman asked after Preacher was finished.

“Why? Do you think it didn't?”

“I don't know . . . four men against one, and this morning three of the four is dead. It don't ring right to me.”

Dolan nodded. “Well, I believe it,” he said. “Let's go down to the park and have a look.”

Accepting a ride in Dolan's carriage, Preacher led them into the park and to the place where he had left the bodies this morning. They were still there, undisturbed.

Chief Dolan looked at them for a moment, then pointed out the bodies, identifying them one by one. “That's Jim Gray, Luke Kelly, and Martin Scott,” he said. “They are the dregs of society, three of the most disreputable men in the city. If they were out here in the park in the middle of the night, you can bet they were up to no good. Preacher did the whole city a favor by killing these three.”

“Thanks,” Preacher said. “But the one I wanted got away.”

At that moment, a constable on horseback came riding into the park at a gallop.

“Chief!” he started shouting, even before he dismounted. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to one of the other watchmen, then hurried over to Chief Constable Dolan.

“What is it, Smith?”

“Some banker has been taken prisoner,” Smith said.

“Taken prisoner? What do you mean ‘taken prisoner'?”

“A fella by the name of Epson,” Smith said. “Witnesses say another man jumped out from behind some bushes this morning and took him at gunpoint down to the river.”

“Epson?” Preacher said. “Chief Dolan, if Epson has been taken prisoner, then Caviness has to be the one who took him.”

The recently arrived watchman looked at the tall man in buckskins, then looked back at Dolan. “Who is this?”

“This is my deputy,” Dolan said. “Come on, let's get down to the river.”

 

 

Down at the river's edge, Caviness had commandeered a small paddle boat. Ordering the boatman to build up the steam, he stood there, pointing his pistol at Epson, while a crowd of curious onlookers began gathering around to watch the unfolding drama.

“My name is Constable Marvin Jensen,” one of the men in the crowd shouted to Caviness. This was a watchman, a member of the Philadelphia Police whose watchbox was close enough to the area to arouse his interest in what was going on by the river. He'd arrived to find Caviness standing there by the edge of the water, holding a pistol pointed at the head of a very frightened Theodore Epson. “Just what is it you are planning on doing?” the constable asked.

“I'm going to kill him if anyone comes any closer,” Caviness replied with a menacing jerk of his gun.

“You don't want to do that, mister. That would be cold-blooded murder, and you would hang for it for sure,” the watchman replied.

“You want to save this man's life?” Caviness called.

“Yes.”

“Then you go to this here feller's bank, and you tell the person in charge there that he had better come up with two hundred—no, make that one thousand dollars. Yeah, one thousand,” he repeated, getting bolder. “You tell the bank it's going to cost them one thousand dollars to keep me from killin' this here little pissant.”