Stealing the Preacher (7 page)

Finally Coleson blinked. “You know those fellers?”

“Nope. I was as surprised as anyone when they forced me from the train. I thank the Lord they decided they didn’t need me after all and let me go. I’m supposed to be in Brenham tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” Coleson said, lifting his cup. “The witness
accounts said the men were looking for a preacher. Seems like a strange request for a gang of outlaws.”

“Doesn’t it, though? They didn’t even steal anyone’s belongings, even when the passengers offered them up. I tell you, this adventure will make a great tale to add to a sermon. Jesus warned that he will return like a thief in the night. I experienced a thief in the daylight, but it was certainly no less unexpected. Goes to show one must always be ready to meet one’s Maker.”

“I reckon so.” Coleson thumbed his hat back on his forehead. “You hear any names or see any faces you could identify?”

“They wore bandanas over their faces.” Which was true—at least for the first part of the encounter. Crockett worked to change the direction of the conversation before Coleson demanded more details. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Marshal, but I won’t be pressing charges.” Crockett set his mug down, scraped the chair backward, and stood. “The men let me go, and except for a little inconvenience, no harm was done. Besides, what kind of parson would I be if I preached forgiveness from the pulpit but failed to extend it to those who do me wrong?”

“No charges, huh?” Coleson gained his feet, as well, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he saw right through the conversational maneuver. “Well, I guess that’s your right. The railroad might take a different stand, though, so your testimony is still needed.”

“Of course.” Crockett edged toward the door. “I’ll be sure to leave my home address with the boardinghouse proprietress, in case you hear from the railroad.” Praying that would prove sufficient, Crockett lifted a hand in parting. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You know, Archer,” Coleson called out before Crockett could reach the door, “justice is a biblical concept, too. A man is to be held accountable for his crimes. To make restitution. Or don’t you think the book of Exodus applies today?”

Crockett held his face carefully blank, despite the fact that
every nerve ending in his body seemed to be sending alarms to his brain.

Marshal Coleson stepped around the desk. “It sticks in my craw when a criminal eludes justice. Reminds me of a gang I chased around Texas the first couple years I served as a Ranger. They were the only outlaws I chased that never gave in to greed. Smart, really, seeing as greed is what leads most thieves to their ruin. They never went after army pay wagons, government shipments, or banks. I’m guessing because they were too well guarded. They seemed content to rob stage passengers and an occasional railcar. And because no one was ever injured in the robberies, most lawmen saw them more as a nuisance than a serious threat.”

He moved closer, his eyes locked on Crockett’s. “They up and disappeared fifteen or so years back. Strange how your kidnapping is suddenly bringing them back to mind.” He raised a brow. “Always bothered me that them yahoos didn’t pay for their misdeeds. Thievin’s wrong, no matter how little is taken.”

“Indeed it is, Marshal,” Crockett hurried to agree. “But remember, though all will be held accountable for their actions on the Day of Judgment, justice is not always achieved through men’s efforts.”

“Mmm,” the lawman murmured noncommittally. “The witnesses had a sense the outlaws you encountered were older men.” Coleson obviously wasn’t ready to let the matter drop just yet. “Gray hair, stiff gaits. What did you obser—”

The door swung open, cutting off Coleson’s question. “Howdy, Marshal.” The telegraph operator rushed through the opening, oblivious to the tension filling the room. Crockett felt like kissing the little weasel—or at least bear-hugging him.

“A reply came from Brenham for you, Mr. Archer. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”

8

C
rockett reached for the slip of paper in the operator’s hand and managed to sidle around the fellow, putting the little man squarely between him and the marshal. “You’re a godsend, my friend.” He tossed the operator a coin for his most timely interruption and turned back to Coleson.

“I’m afraid this is rather urgent, Marshal. Would you excuse me?” He reached behind him for the door frame, eager to make his escape.

Coleson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression none too pleased. “You really ought to press charges, Parson. If not for yourself, then for the poor fella they choose to kidnap next time. Do you want his fate on your hands?”

Recalling the way Joanna had taken her father to task over the day’s shenanigans, Crockett felt certain Silas Robbins wouldn’t be attempting any future clerical abductions. The train-riding preachers of the area should be safe.

“Your concern is well-meaning, Marshal, but unnecessary.” Crockett backed fully into the doorway, pleased when the lawman made no move to stop him. “Today’s events were instigated
by a misunderstanding that has since been cleared up. These men pose no further threat. Therefore, I insist on extending forgiveness. I’ll not be filing charges. Good day.”

Crockett hesitated a moment longer, but the instant the marshal grunted and waved him off, he dashed through the door and made for the boardinghouse. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket as he went, afraid that if he paused to read it now, Coleson might corner him again. Better to save it for the privacy of his room.

Orange and red streaked the sky to the west, hailing evening’s rapid approach. Crockett lengthened his stride as he rounded the corner where the now-darkened barber shop stood and searched for some kind of a placard to identify the boardinghouse.

The side street only boasted three homes, none of them very large. But the second one on the left had a porch lantern lit. Like a ship seeking safe harbor, Crockett aimed for the welcoming light, hoping his knock wouldn’t disrupt a family’s meal.

A woman tall enough to look him in the eye answered the door. “Yes?”

He doffed his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am. I’m looking for Miss Bessie’s boardinghouse.”

“Ya found it.” She turned and started off down the hall, leaving the door gaping behind her. “Scrape your boots afore ya come in. I don’t abide no boarders trailing mud on my rugs.” Her voice filtered back to him and smacked him into action like a wooden spoon across the knuckles.

Crockett darted to the edge of the porch. He’d polished his boots yesterday before boarding the train, and except for some dust, they’d survived his adventures relatively unscathed. But he didn’t want to risk offending his hostess, so he gave them an obligatory scrape against the end of a floorboard and then hastened after Miss Bessie, taking care to close the door behind him.

“You’ll be in the west room. Here.” The woman pointed to a
doorway on the left of the hall but moved past without stopping. “Harold put your belongings in the room. Parlor’s to the right.”

Crockett barely spared the rooms a glance in his effort to keep up.

“I’m dishin’ up supper now,” she said as they entered the kitchen. “Breakfast’s at six thirty. Food hits the slop bucket at seven, so don’t be late.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman marched up to the stove and ladled some kind of soup from the bottom of a small pot. As she poured it into a bowl, he thought he smelled chicken. But when she slapped the bowl onto the roughhewn table, all he could identify were a few orange chunks that he guessed might be carrots and a green bean or two. Nothing resembling meat floated in the pale broth.

“I don’t eat with the boarders, so don’t lollygag.” She opened the door to the warming oven and brought out a pan of yeast rolls that smelled heavenly. Man might not live on bread alone, but Crockett suspected the rolls would do more to sustain him through the night than the watered-down soup.

That was unkind
. Crockett harnessed the uncharitable thought and forced his mind onto a godlier path.

Miss Bessie hadn’t been expecting company. She’d probably diluted her own small portion in order to share with the guest thrust upon her. He should be thankful for her generosity.

The woman covered the rolls with a dish towel and set them on the table along with a crock of butter. Then spoon and knife clattered beside the bowl. When she finally glanced his direction, it was to singe him with the heat of a perturbed glare.

“Don’t just stand there sucking up the air. Get to eatin’.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Crockett took hold of the chair nearest him and pulled it out. Before he dropped into his seat, however, he favored his hostess with a bright smile. “Thank you for the fine meal, Miss Bessie.”

The woman grunted and turned her back on him. “Just make sure you leave the night’s payment on the table—it’ll be two dollars.” Then without another word, she disappeared into what he could only assume was a back bedroom and shut the door with a decisive thump—a thump followed by a click that sounded suspiciously like a key turning in a lock.

Did she think he would do her harm? Or was she simply protective of her privacy? He supposed the precaution wasn’t wholly without merit. An unscrupulous man might attempt to take advantage. Although Crockett imagined Miss Bessie could hold her own with most. She’d probably have any disrespectful fellow hog-tied and booted out the back door before he could sneeze.

The woman was as no-nonsense as they came and seemed an expert at keeping folks at a distance. She’d never even asked his name. Nevertheless, she provided a roof over his head, food for his stomach, and a place to lay his head. If he’d wanted conversation, he could have stayed with the marshal.

Crockett laid his hat on the corner of the table and took his seat. After saying grace for the meal, asking the Lord’s blessings on Miss Bessie, and thanking God for watching over him during the craziness with Silas Robbins, he took a few extra minutes to petition the Almighty on Joanna’s behalf.

Provide the right man for her mission, Lord. Work through him to reestablish a flock of believers and assist Joanna in her efforts to win over her father. Soften Silas’s heart to your message. Penetrate it with your truth.

As he mentally closed out the prayer, it occurred to him that he’d not mentioned the Brenham congregation. Adding a quick postscript, he asked that the elders be granted wisdom in their decision and that the members be blessed as a result.

His memory jogged, Crockett dug out the telegram from his trouser pocket and set the crumpled paper beside his spoon.
Too hungry to resist the call of the rolls any longer, he slathered one with butter, ate it in two bites, then buttered another before unfolding the message.

STAY IN DEANVILLE.

ELDERS WILL MEET AND SEND INSTRUCTIONS.

Crockett’s jaw halted midchew. His eyes moved over the words a second time.

Stay in Deanville? Really? He’d expected them to encourage him to make all possible haste.

Well, if he were to be completely honest, he’d expected them to arrange a late afternoon service to accommodate his tardy arrival. Pretty vain expectation, now that he thought about it. People had farms to see to, families to tend. It would be unrealistic to ask them to stay in town all day or to make a long return trip. And in truth, that wouldn’t be in his best interests, either. Surely only a handful of members would turn out for an evening service. Did he really want a decision to be made when the majority of the members had only heard the first candidate?

Crockett resumed his chewing, though he barely tasted the buttery bread any longer. His mind was fully consumed with generating convincing arguments as to why he shouldn’t feel threatened or disheartened by the telegram.

While he slurped his soup, he lectured himself about how God was in control, how he knew what was best. During the consumption of his third and fourth rolls, he imagined scenarios where waiting for a later date to speak would actually prove beneficial. Perhaps a member of considerable influence in the congregation was currently out of town. Maybe an afternoon service would require preaching over wailing babies who’d missed naps. Or maybe the Lord knew that a tree was
fixing to fall on the church roof at precisely 3:42 tomorrow afternoon, and keeping him away meant saving his life and the lives of dozens of church members.

All right, so that last one was a bit farfetched. But stranger things had happened. Like a preacher being stolen from a train instead of watches and jewelry. Who would’ve believed that would happen?

Crockett stood and carried his dishes to the washtub. As his bowl and utensils slid beneath the murky water, he cast a glance at the bolted door to his right. Washing the dishes himself might not do much to improve Miss Bessie’s hospitality, but perhaps the small kindness would ease her burden a little. Crockett added some warm water from the kettle on the back of the stove, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work—not only on his dishes but on the few others he found in the bottom of the tub.

When he’d washed, dried, and stacked them on the counter, he hung up the damp towel and rolled down his sleeves. Then he covered the rolls he’d left on the table and collected his telegram. Scanning the kitchen to make sure he was leaving it as tidy as he’d found it, he placed two silver dollars beside the bread pan, where his hostess would be sure to find them, grabbed his hat, and headed for his room.

His travel satchel sat waiting for him on the end of a too-short bed atop a brown patchwork quilt that needed mending. He ran his finger along a frayed square that had come unstitched on one side. Miss Bessie would have his hide for sure if he snagged a satchel buckle on that and tore it further.

He hung his hat on the bedpost and moved the satchel from the bed to the small desk beneath the room’s single window. A plain lamp with a slightly sooty chimney jiggled when the bag hit the desk, and its low flame flickered. Crockett adjusted the wick to allow more light to fill the dim room, then unbuckled the satchel and extracted his Bible. A page of sermon notes fell
from inside the front cover and fluttered to the floor. Crockett bent to retrieve it.