Preacher's Justice (2 page)

“Well, now, that's where the mistake is,” Preacher said. “You must have your streams mixed up. I have been trapping this same stream for five years now, so you couldn't have been here two years ago.”

“I ain't the one that made the mistake. It was you,” Mouchette insisted. “By all that's right, that stream belongs to me.”

“Not now, it doesn't. Put your traps somewhere else.”

“I aim to put my traps right back where I had them,” Mouchette insisted. “And I plan to get your traps out of there.”

Preacher's eyes narrowed. “Well now, Mr. Mouchette, I would strongly advise you against doing that,” he said.

Mouchette glared at Preacher for a long moment. Then, without another word, he took his traps and trekked back into the woods, once more leaving his footprints in the snow behind him. Preacher noted, with some satisfaction, that he wasn't heading toward the stream in question.

Preacher waited four days before he returned to the stream. Evidently, Mouchette had paid heed to Preacher's warning, because Preacher's traps were still in place.

It was nearly three weeks after his encounter with Mouchette when the shot came. Preacher was gathering his first crop of beaver pelt. The traps were full, and the beaver were prime with rich coats. He had bent over to check something when a ball whizzed by, right where his head had been. Had the shot been fired half a second earlier, Preacher's blood and brains would have decorated the tree beside him. Instead, there was just a streak of green wood in the tree where the bullet had chewed off a limb and stripped away some of the bark.

Preacher dove to the ground, burrowed into the snow, and turned to look in the direction from which the shot had come. Just below a snow-bearing pine bough, he saw a puff of smoke hanging in the cold, still air. This was where the shot had come from.

Wriggling through the snow on his belly, Preacher returned to his kit. Grabbing his rifle, he rolled onto his back and began loading it. He poured powder into the barrel, then used his ramrod to tamp the wad down. All the while he was loading his rifle, he kept his eyes toward the tree line from which the shot had come. He knew that whoever shot at him would also be reloading, and his assailant had a head start.

Just as Preacher was dropping in the ball, he saw a rifle barrel protrude from the trees, not where the smoke of the first shot was, but from some distance away. His assailant had cleverly changed positions after the first shot.

Preacher rolled hard to the right, just as a flash of fire erupted from the end of the protruding rifle barrel. The ball crashed into the snow where Preacher had been.

“Now, you son of a bitch! You're empty and I'm loaded,” Preacher said. Standing, he moved quickly toward the puff of smoke.

But Preacher had miscalculated, because another barrel suddenly appeared, not a rifle, but a pistol. Preacher realized, too late, that his assailant had loaded his pistol as well and was holding it in reserve.

Once again, Preacher had to throw himself to the ground in order to avoid being shot, and once again, the ball came so close to him that he could hear it whizzing by his ear. When Preacher hit the ground this time, he felt himself tumbling, slipping, and sliding down the side of a long hill. When he finally stopped, he was more than one hundred feet below where he started.

Scrambling back to his feet, Preacher searched through the snow until he found his rifle. Cleaning the flint and pan of snow, he worked his way back up the hill. When he got to the top, he started toward the tree line where he had last seen his assailant. He found marks in the snow where the man had waited in ambush for him, but whoever it was had gone.

Following the trail the assailant left, Preacher saw someone hurrying across an open field, trying to reach the safety of the woods on the other side. He was too far away for Preacher to be certain, but there was something about the way the man was moving that made Preacher believe it was Mouchette. And of course, as he thought about it, Mouchette was the only one who would have a motive to attack him now.

Preacher raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed. Mouchette, if that was who it was, was just on the extreme outer range of his rifle. Despite the great range, Preacher was an exceptionally good shot. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, there was a good chance he would hit him.

Preacher took a breath, let half of it out, then gradually began to increase the pressure on the trigger. Then, taking his finger off the trigger, he sighed and lowered the rifle. Whoever it was had tried to kill him, and he had every right to shoot. But Preacher's life wasn't in immediate danger right now. To shoot a man in the back, while he was fleeing, didn't set well with Preacher—even though that man had tried to kill him.

Raising the rifle to his shoulder again, he aimed—not to kill, but to frighten. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed and rocked him back, a cloud of smoke puffing up around him. He saw the strike of the ball in the snow, just a few feet in front of the fleeing man, and he saw the fleeing man throw himself to the ground in terror.

Preacher laughed. “Let that be a lesson to you, Mouchette,” he said, positive now that Mouchette was the one who had attacked him. “If you come back, don't think you are going to get another shot at me.”

Returning to work his trap line, Preacher leaned the rifle against a tree, then loaded his pistol and put it on the ground close by. Keeping both firearms loaded and ready, he went back to work.

“Damn, Dog, this is one time I could've really used you,” he said, speaking aloud. “You would never have let anyone sneak up on me like that.”

 

Dog lay on the front porch of the little store into which Jennie had gone. There were some buildings he could go into, and some that he could not. Dog never understood exactly why it was like that, but he was aware of the difference, and he knew that this was one of those buildings where he was not welcome.

Being denied entry into a building didn't present a problem to Dog. Whenever he encountered a building in which he wasn't welcome, he would simply wait outside until Jennie came out again. He didn't care that much about being around many humans anyway.

Dog missed the life he had led before coming to this place. Part wolf, he was completely at home in the woods and the mountains. But he was part dog as well, and the part of him that was dog felt some primordial instinct to bond with man. The man Dog chose was well worthy of his bonding. For Dog had seen the man fight a bear and kill him. Others called that man Preacher, but Dog thought of him as Bear Killer.

Dog not only bonded with Bear Killer, but traveled with him as well. In their travels, they wound up here, in this place of many men and few animals. Dog had waited patiently for Bear Killer to leave this place of many men and few animals so he could return to the woods and the mountains.

Before it was time to leave, however, Bear Killer gave Dog a job to do. That job was to look after Bear Killer's woman. Dog wanted to leave with Bear Killer, but the part of him that was dog would not let him do so. Loyalty was the strongest trait of a dog, and Dog's loyalty was particularly well developed.

Others came and left the little store, but Bear Killer's woman, Jennie, was still inside. Dog slept on the porch, with his nose between his paws. As he slept, he dreamed of the woods and the mountains, of clear, sweet streams of water, and of rabbits he would chase down and eat. Yet, even as he was dreaming, a part of him was still alert. He assessed all who entered or left the store to determine whether or not they represented any danger to the woman he had been ordered to protect. Some would speak to him, others would go out of their way to avoid him, frightened by his powerful, wolf-like appearance. Dog actually preferred those who went out of their way to avoid him.

 

 

“There you are, Dog, right where I left you,” Jennie said, coming out of the store. She squatted down beside him and smiled at him. Jennie was an exceptionally pretty woman with a smooth, olive-complexioned skin, high cheekbones, flashing brown eyes, and dark hair that hung in easy curls about her shoulders. She held a piece of ribbon beside her face. “Do you think this is pretty?” she asked.

Dog raised his head, then twisted it slightly, as if trying to respond to her question.

Jennie laughed. “Of course you think it's pretty. You're a good dog and you like anything I like. Come, let's go.”

Jennie stepped down from the porch and Dog stood up, shook himself, then started after her.

 

 

 

Theodore Epson sat across the desk from Joel Fontaine, the president of the Trust Bank of Philadelphia. They were in Fontaine's office, and as a measure of the size of the Trust Bank, Fontaine's office alone was as large the entire River Bank of St. Louis, the bank where Epson had worked before coming to Philadelphia.

“Mr. Epson, I have recently come in receipt of a very disturbing letter,” Fontaine said, holding the letter up for Epson to see.

“A disturbing letter, sir? What type of letter?” Epson asked.

“It is a letter from one William Ashley of St. Louis. I'm sure you are familiar with William Ashley, are you not?”

Epson began to get a little nervous, and a small line of sweat beaded on his upper lip. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it.

“Uh, yes, sir, indeed I do know Mr. Ashley,” Epson said. He knew that whatever Ashley had to say in the letter about him couldn't be good. “Mr. Ashley is a furrier,” Epson continued. “And as such, he is a man who must deal with the most common class of people. Unfortunately, I'm afraid he is sometimes unduly swayed by them.”

“Unduly swayed by them?”

“Prone to believe them over the more substantial and trustworthy citizens of the community,” Epson said.

“An interesting observation,” Fontaine said, stroking his chin.

“I would be interested in hearing what Mr. Ashley has to say. What is the subject of the letter, if you don't mind sharing?”

“I don't mind sharing at all, as it concerns you.”

“The letter concerns me? How so?”

“According to William Ashley, there was an incident in St. Louis where mortgage money duly paid to the River Bank of St. Louis was not credited.”

“Well, now, I don't understand that,” Epson said, nervously patting his mouth with his handkerchief. “Why would Mr. Ashley be writing to you about some business that supposedly took place in St. Louis? It would seem to me that he would take that up with the River Bank. And as I am no longer with the River Bank, why would that information, if it is true, concern me?”

Joel Fontaine cleared his throat. “Well, it has to do with you, Mr. Epson, because I'm afraid Mr. Ashley is accusing you of fraud.”

“Me?” Epson said. “This is preposterous. I have no idea what you are even talking about. My record at the River Bank of St. Louis is spotless. Why, you checked my credentials yourself. You were satisfied that they were impeccable. The directors of the River Bank in St. Louis gave me a sterling report I know that they did.”

“That is true,” Fontaine agreed.

“Well, then, there you go,” Epson said. “If the bank has found no fault with me, then this . . . this preposterous story that Mr. Ashley is spreading about me taking money from some whore, and not crediting her account, has absolutely no basis in fact.”

“Whore?” Fontaine asked, screwing his face up in confusion. He looked at the letter he was holding. “And just what whore would that be, Mr. Epson?”

“The woman you said is claiming that I stole money from her. Why, she is nothing but a common whore. As a matter of fact, the house on which we held her mortgage was a house of prostitution.”

“Well, now, that is interesting,” Fontaine said. “For as it turns out, the money in question was supposed to be paid on a woman's house. But I made no mention of that fact. If, as you say, you have no idea what I'm talking about, how is it that you know that I was talking about a woman?”

“I . . . I just know because both she and Mr. Ashley have tried to make trouble for me in the past,” Epson stammered. “And I'm sure, should you deem it necessary to look into this most preposterous story any further, you will see that I am telling the truth.”

“Yes, I'm sure that the investigation will prove you innocent,” Fontaine said. “Although I must say, the amount of money Mr. Ashley claims was not credited to the woman, nine hundred fifty dollars, is remarkably close to the amount of money you deposited in your personal account when you arrived at our bank.” Fontaine looked at a piece of paper. “The amount you deposited was nine hundred dollars, I believe.”

“Yes,” Epson said. “But of course, that was a mere coincidence. I assure you, there is nothing to this story. You will recall that when I came to work here, I told you that I had been instrumental in putting some brothel houses out of business?”

“Oh, yes, I do recall.”

“I'm sure this all has to do with that. It is spite directed against me because I did my civic duty. As I say, the woman in question is a whore. You ask how I know who was behind this, even though you had not mentioned a name. I can only report that the woman in question has tried shenanigans of this sort before. It is bitterness, pure and simple.”

“Well, that may be the case for the woman,” Fontaine said. “But what about Mr. Ashley? I have checked on him, and I find that he is one of the most successful businessmen in St. Louis, highly respected by all in the fur-trading industry.”

“Yes, but you must understand that William Ashley cavorts, on a daily basis, with whores, trappers, hunters, wilderness guides, boatmen. And one cannot come into such constant contact with such people without being affected by them. Why, I have no doubt but that Mr. William Ashley was himself a habitué of the establishment in question.”

“That is quite an accusation,” Fontaine said.

“Perhaps so, but it is less damning than the false accusation he has lodged against me,” Epson said.

“Why do you think someone like Ashley would make such a charge?” Fontaine asked.

“Oh, that's easy to understand. The whore, Jennie, no doubt talked him into making the accusation against me and bringing it to your attention. I'm sure that she understands that a respectable bank such as the Trust Bank of Philidelphia will have nothing to do with such a spurious accusation being lodged against a bank officer by a common whore.”

“No doubt the matter will soon be cleared up,” Fontaine said.

“Yes, I'm sure it will be.”

“Go on back to work, Mr. Epson. I will investigate thoroughly, but quietly.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Epson said. “I shall return to work confident in my total and complete exculpation.”

Shortly after he left Fontaine's office, Epson wrote a letter to a St. Louis citizen whom he knew to be of disreputable character. Such a low-class citizen, however, was exactly what he needed for the task at hand.

The letter went by stage from Philadelphia to Steubenville, Ohio, making the transit in six days. At Steubenville, the letter was put aboard a riverboat for transit to St. Louis. Traversing the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers required another fourteen days so that, twenty days after Epson mailed the letter, the St. Louis postal clerk stepped into LaBarge's saloon, carrying the letter with him.

LaBarge, who was wiping off the bar, looked up as Toomey came inside. He smiled.

“Well, well, if it isn't our illustrious mail official Mr. Toomey,” LaBarge said. “This is indeed an occasion. I don't believe I've ever seen you in here before. What can I get for you, Mr. Toomey?”

“I'm not here to partake of any spirits, thank you,” Toomey answered officiously. “I am here on U.S. Government business. I have come to deliver a letter.”

“I've got a letter? Who from?” LaBarge asked, reaching for it.

“It isn't for you,” Toomey said, pulling the letter from him.

“Well, if the letter ain't for me, what the hell are you doin' in my tavern?”

“Because I am told that the person for whom I am looking can nearly always be found here,” Toomey said as he continued to look around the room. “And indeed, there he is.”

When LaBarge looked in the same direction as Toomey, he blinked in surprise.

“What the hell?” he said. “Surely, you ain't talkin' about ole Ben Caviness?”

“I am,” Toomey replied.

“Well, hell, that son of a bitch can't even read, can he?”

“My dear Mr. LaBarge, whether or not any of the recipients of our mail can read is of no concern of the U.S. Post Office,” Toomey replied. “Our job is merely to see that the recipient receives the letter that is sent to him. Getting it read is his responsibility.”

 

 

At one time, Ben Caviness considered himself a fur trapper, and he had actually spent a few winters in the mountains. But he had never been very productive in what was actually a very difficult job. Then, when his friend Percy McDill got himself killed by the one they called Preacher, Caviness gave up the trade altogether.

Now Caviness made his living by pulling odd jobs when they were available, and by resorting to petty thievery when necessary. It worked well that way because Caviness's personal needs were few. He never wasted money on clothes or personal hygiene. He lived in an empty stall at the livery, paying for it by mucking out stables. And there were a handful of houses in town where the woman of the house felt disposed toward feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, so he could show up at the back door of such a place, hat in hand, and be able to count on a meal.

With those basic needs met, any money Caviness managed to earn through the various odd jobs he performed was spent in LaBarge's Tavern. As a result, Caviness spent every available hour there, often the first to arrive when LaBarge opened his doors in the morning and the last one to leave in the evening.

Caviness was there now, at a table in the back of the room, drinking raw whiskey and talking to a few others whose own station in life was no higher. He had no idea an official of the U.S. Post Office was looking for him to deliver a letter. In fact, if questioned, Ben Caviness would have to answer truthfully that he had never received a letter in his life.

“You would be Ben Caviness?” Toomey asked, approaching the table.

“Who's askin'?” Caviness replied.

“I am an official of the U.S. Post Office,” Toomey said. “And I have a letter for Mr. Ben Caviness.”

Caviness looked shocked. “You have a letter for me?”

“I do indeed,” Toomey replied, handing the envelope to him.

“Ha!” one of the other men at the table said. This was a man named Slater who, like Caviness, lived a hand-to-mouth existence, working as much for liquor as for food. “Who do you know that can actually write? Let alone send you a letter?”

“You'd be surprised at the high-tone people I know,” Caviness replied.

Caviness opened the envelope and took out two pieces of paper. One piece of paper was obviously a letter to him, but the other looked official. He had never seen anything quite like this.