The Law of a Fast Gun (13 page)

“I thought I’d do Bach for the prelude and postlude, but I was hoping Mrs. McCall would select the hymns for me.”

“I’m sure she would love to do it,” Gideon said.

There were several gasps of surprise from the congregation when they arrived later that same morning to see the saloon piano player setting at the piano bench. Their whispers could be heard as they commented on it from their pews, but when Hawke began to play, all conversation halted, the congregation lost in the beauty of the music.

The ensuing service went peacefully, as it always did. “May the Lord bless you and keep you, and may His countenance shine upon you. Go, now, in peace, to serve one another and to love the Lord,” Gideon said at the conclusion.

As Hawke began playing the postlude, Gideon hurried to the front door to greet the departing congregation.

“It was a wonderful sermon today, Reverend McCall, one woman gushed. “And the music was lovely, just lovely.”

There was one woman, however, who was so adamant in her disapproval that she demanded a meeting of the church board.

“Her name is Evelyn Rittenhouse,” Gideon explained when he told Hawke about it. He sighed. “I think God gives every church someone like her just to see how far the pastor’s patience can be tried. And Lord knows, this woman has taken me to the end of my patience more than once.”

“When is the meeting?” Hawke asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Gideon said. “Hawke, please don’t feel that you have to attend. This is my problem, not yours, and I’ll handle it. Besides, I’m afraid your presence might make her even more entrenched in her opposition.”

“If you say so,” Hawke agreed.

As Hawke left the church, he saw a few cowboys in town, and as they rode by he saw that none were armed. Apparently, word was getting around.

WHEN HAWKE DROPPED BY THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE
the next day, Vernon Clemmons was standing at the composing table, setting type.

“Good morning,” Hawke said.

“Which sounds better?” Clemmons asked without looking up. “‘We must balance the economic benefit derived from our visiting cattle herds
with
the safety of our citizens,’ or, ‘We must balance the economic benefit derived from our visiting cattle herds
against
the safety of our citizens’?”

“I think ‘against’ is better,” Hawke said.

“Why?”

“It’s a more dynamic word, don’t you think?”

Now, Clemmons looked up and at Hawke. “See! See! I knew you would make a good newspaperman,” he said. “Who else but a natural newspaperman would consider a word because it is dynamic?”

Hawke chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling you were just testing me?”

“Perhaps because you have a newspaperman’s intuition,” Clemmons said. “And you are right. If you look here, you will see that I have already set that word.”

“Where is the story you are setting it from?” Hawke asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you write your stories before you set the type?”

“No, why should I? That’s just a wasted step. I write it as I set the type,” Clemmons replied. “I’ve been doing this for so long that I can set type as quickly as I can write the story on paper.”

“I’m impressed,” Hawke said as he watched the newspaper publisher’s hands fly from type box to plate. “But, about the job you offered me—”

“I know. You are coming by to tell me that you are turning it down.”

“Uh, yes. I did think about it, but—”

“You decided to play piano for the church instead,” Clemmons said, finishing Hawke’s response for him.

Hawke chuckled. “How did you know that? You weren’t in church yesterday.”

“I know that, my boy, because I am a newspaper editor. And it is my business to know everything. And as far as seeing me in church, that’s not likely to ever happen.”

“You have a score to settle with God, do you?” Hawke asked.

“No, not at all. In fact, I like to think that God and I get along pretty well. I just don’t want some organized religion to come between us.”

“What do you have against organized religion?”

“Do you have to ask? You’ve had one day there now. That should be enough for you to pick out a few of the more holier-than-thou members.”

“You mean like Evelyn Rittenhouse?”

“Ah, yes, so you have met the grand dame of the Army of the Republic, have you?”

“I haven’t actually met her, but she has come to my attention. What do you mean by the grand dame of the Army of the Republic?”

“Evelyn Steffe Rittenhouse is the sister of John William Steffe. It is said that he is the one who came up with the tune for ‘John Brown’s Body.’ Later, of course, Julia Ward Howe added different words, and that became—”

“The ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic,’” Hawke said, interrupting. “That is an interesting piece of information to know.”

Clemmons tapped himself on the temple. “That’s me. I’m a walking repository of interesting, though often totally worthless, bits of information.”

“Maybe not as worthless as you think,” Hawke said.

There were six voting members of the church board, all of whom were men, and four nonvoting members of the ladies’ auxiliary. Not only did the ladies’ auxiliary have no vote, but they could speak only if they were invited to do so. That did not stop Evelyn Rittenhouse, who, by the power of her personality, treated her membership on the auxiliary as if it were a full-fledged voting position on the church board. She didn’t wait to be invited to speak, she addressed the board as if she were the head deacon.

“I am very disappointed in you, Reverend McCall,” she said. “It was bad enough when you conducted a funeral for a common harlot. But now, right here, in my church, you have invited the piano player, from the same saloon that employed that woman, to play for us.”

“Your church?” Gideon said. “That’s funny, Mrs. Rittenhouse, and here, all this time, I thought it was God’s church.”

“Of course it is God’s church,” Evelyn said, fuming. “But that makes it even worse. I mean, the very idea of a sinner like that man, a killer even, mingling with us during our
worship. What sort of impression do you think it will make on our children to have a murderer playing piano for us?”

“He isn’t a murderer. He killed in self-defense,” Gideon said.

“It doesn’t matter why he killed, the point is, he did kill. He took another person’s life.”

Although Hawke had not come into the pastor’s study where the meeting was being conducted, he had come to the church, and now stood just outside the door, in the sanctuary, listening to the discussion.

“Mrs. Rittenhouse,” Jubal Goodpasture said. “I’ve killed. So have several others in the church.”

“What?” Evelyn said in a shocked tone of voice.

“It was during the war,” Jubal said.

“Oh, well, that’s different.”

Hawke walked over to the piano and sat down. He began playing, very softly. There was a somber elegance to the music.

“Yes, ma’am, it is different. You see, Mr. Hawke killed a man who was not only trying to kill him, but who had already shot another innocent person…to say nothing of the fact that McDougal was responsible for a young woman’s death. And I believe that, had Mr. Hawke not killed him, McDougal might well have killed someone else.

“In my case, the sin is greater, because I killed good men who were God-fearing family men, who had never committed a crime against anyone. Their only guilt was that they were wearing a gray uniform. So if you want people to leave this church because they have killed another human being, regardless of why or how they killed, then I’m afraid I would have to leave.”

“So would nearly half the men who are members of this church,” Gideon added. “We have many veterans of the war in our congregation, men who served on both sides.”

“Well, of course I didn’t mean that,” Evelyn said. “My own husband was a veteran of the war.”

The music Hawke was playing slowly built in intensity.

“But regardless of whether the killing was justified or not, it still leaves the fact that he plays piano in a house of prostitution.”

“He
played
piano in the Hog Lot,” one of the other board members said. “He plays it no longer. Besides, it is a saloon and restaurant; it is not a house of prostitution.”

“Call it what you want, I still say—” Evelyn started, then heard the music. By now the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” filled the church, with each bar distinctive and resonating within the souls of all who could hear it. Evelyn looked back toward the sanctuary.

“What?” she said in a quiet voice. She pointed toward the sound of the music. “What is that?”

“That’s Mr. Hawke,” Gideon replied. “I imagine he is just practicing. If you wish, I’ll go tell him to stop playing until after our meeting.”

“He is playing my brother’s song.”

“Is he?” Gideon asked, turning his head toward the sanctuary. “I hadn’t noticed, but now that you mention it, I believe he is.”

Evelyn got up from the meeting table and started toward the door that led into the church.

“As I said, I’ll tell him to stop.” Gideon stood and started toward the door.

“No,” Evelyn said. “Wait.” She went out into the church and saw Hawke, leaning over the piano, coaxing every note from the song, making each bar a concerto all its own.

Evelyn walked over to the piano and stood there, listening to the music. Her eyes welled and glistened, then tears began sliding down her cheeks. She stood, completely mesmerized, until the last note hung regally in the air.

It wasn’t until then that Hawke looked up and saw her there.

“Oh,” he said. “I beg your pardon. Did my playing disturb the meeting? If it did, you have my most sincere apology. I’ll leave and come back later.”

“No!” Evelyn said, sticking her hand out to touch him on the arm. “Please, would you play it again?”

“The ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’? Of course I will.” Hawke chuckled. “That is a Yankee song, and I fought for the South. But now it belongs to all of us, and I am glad. I have always considered myself a musician first and foremost, and I believe that to be one of the most beautiful tunes ever written.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said.

“Thank you?”

“My brother wrote the music that you just played.”

“Steffe? You are related to John William Steffe?”

“You know about John? Most people only know about Julia Ward Howe. How is it that you know of my brother?”

“Because I am a musician, Mrs. Rittenhouse. Without the music, Mrs. Howe’s words would be mere poetry. With the music, it becomes the greatest patriotic anthem in the history of our Republic.”

“Yes! You are so right! My brother has never received the credit he deserves. I am so glad that you know his name and recognize what he has done.”

Hawke stood, took her hand, and bowed to kiss it. “Mrs. Rittenhouse, your brother has my utmost respect and admiration. I have played music of the masters, but for sheer impact from simplicity of style, I have played nothing that compares with this masterpiece.”

“You are too kind,” Evelyn said, flattered by the attention Hawke was bestowing upon her.

“Please, sit here,” Hawke said, drawing up a chair and seating her. “Let me play it again, this time just for you.”

By now the other members of the board, which included the other ladies of the auxiliary, had come out into the sanctuary. They took seats to listen as well.

The first fifteen notes of the song were played as individual notes, clear, bell-like, uncluttered tones. Then he brought in harmony and bass, counter melody and trills, enriching
the tone and tint of the music until it was full, thunderous, and majestic. And yet, through it all, woven like a golden thread in a beautiful and elegant tapestry, was the continuing, bell-like notes of the melody.

Then, as the last crescendo reverberated back from the walls and stained-glass windows of the church, Gideon presented his handkerchief to Evelyn Rittenhouse. There was a moment of silence before Gideon cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, we must get back to our meeting. The discussion at hand is whether or not we should continue to use Mr. Hawke as our pianist.”

“Reverend McCall,” Evelyn said in a choked voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Rittenhouse?”

“I know that I have no legitimate voice nor vote in this matter, but I would like to urge, as strongly as I possibly can, that Mr. Hawke be retained.” She smiled at Hawke through tear-glistened eyes.

“Anyone who has a God-given talent like this should use that talent in God’s house.”

“Hear, hear,” Jubal said.

“Well, then there’s no real need to return to my study is there?” Gideon asked. “We can put it to a vote right here. Shall we retain Mason Hawke as pianist for the Ecumenical Church of the Holy Spirit? All in favor say aye.”

“Aye,” the board said as one.

“Very good,” Gideon said. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming.”

“And thank you, Mr. Hawke,” Evelyn said, “for the most beautiful rendition of my brother’s song that I have ever heard.
C’était vraiment musique joué pour les anges
.”

“I believe all music is played for the angels,” Hawke responded.
“Et c’était un honneur et un privilège jouer pour vous, madame.”

“Oh, my! You speak French. Mr. Hawke, you are a man of surprising depth,” Evelyn said, almost flirtatiously.

“And you, madam, are a woman of grace and charm.”

Evelyn blushed under the compliment. “Reverend McCall, if you ever let this magnificent pianist get away, I will be extremely upset.”

“I will endeavor to hold on to him,” Gideon replied.

Not until Evelyn and the other board and auxiliary members left did Gideon break out into laughter.

“My French is a little rusty, but did you actually say that it was an honor and privilege to play for her?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you this, Mason. You certainly know how to flatter and cajole a person. You have won her over, and that is something I haven’t been able to do ever since I came to this church.”

“That’s because I can lie easier than you can,” Hawke said, and both men laughed.

As Hawke was leaving the church he saw Marshal Truelove and his deputy, Truman Foster, stopping two cowboys who were just coming into town.

“What the hell do you mean you’re a’goin’ to take our guns?” one of the cowboys shouted angrily. “They didn’t nobody take away our guns when we come here last year.”

“It’s a new city ordinance, just passed this year,” Truelove said to the cowboy.

The cowboy pointed toward Hawke, who was standing close by, watching the drama unfold.

“He’s a’wearin’ a gun,” the cowboy said. “Why don’t you take his gun?”

“He is a citizen of the town. Only the cowboys coming into town have to give up their guns. You can pick it up again when you leave town.”

“I ain’t givin’ no one my gun! You want my gun, you’re goin’ to have to take it!” the cowboy shouted, pulling his pistol.

“Kerry, no, don’t do it!” the other cowboy yelled.

Truman Foster was holding a shotgun, and as the cowboy started for his pistol, the deputy shouted out as well.

“No! Leave it be!”

“The hell you say!” the cowboy replied, continuing to draw his gun.

Foster waited until the cowboy brought his gun up and cocked it, but before Kerry could shoot, the deputy pulled the trigger. The ten-gauge Greener roared and billowed smoke, and the load of double-aught shot hit Kerry in the chest, knocking him from his horse.

“Kerry!” the other cowboy shouted in alarm as he watched his friend go down.

Kerry lay motionless, his unfired pistol on the ground beside him.

“You son of a bitch! You killed Kerry!” the cowboy said. He started toward his own pistol.

“Don’t do it, cowboy!” Hawke shouted, his own pistol now drawn.

“He killed my friend!” the cowboy replied. “He killed my friend in cold blood!”

“Your friend was given a choice,” Hawke replied. “He could either follow the law or fight it. He made the wrong choice.”