The mother had risen and dashed around the table to her daughter. She held the girl close, and they hastily departed.
Calista angrily stamped a foot. “Look at what you’ve done! Gone and scared off my customers!”
I was content to sit there and let them have at it, but Calista looked at me in heartfelt appeal. Since it was a rare minister who would permit blood to be shed in his presence if he could help it, I stood up and stepped between Carson Butcher and Hank. “Have a care, brothers. The lady is right. This is hardly the right time or place.”
Hank put a hand on my shoulder. “Who in hell are you to butt in, mister?” he growled.
The other cowboy, Skeeter, grabbed Hank’s wrist. “Are you plumb blind, pard? That’s a preacher you’re shoving.” He was of middling size and build and had the bushiest eyebrows I ever came across.
“What?” Hank stepped back and raked me up and down. “Damn. You’re right. Sorry, Parson. I was so mad, I didn’t notice.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said civilly. “But I must ask you to calm yourself. If you have a complaint against these gentlemen, find the marshal and charge them.”
“Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a lawdog,” Skeeter said.
“We don’t need one,” Hank declared. “A man steps out of line, we treat him to a strangulation jig.” He cast meaningful glances at Carson and Sam.
“But we didn’t kill your stupid cows!” the youngest Butcher objected.
Hank was offended. “That’s my livelihood you’re insulting, boy. But I’ll let you walk out as a favor to the reverend.”
“We’re not leaving until we’re done our meal,” Carson informed him. “And no flea-ridden cow nurses are scaring us off, neither.”
His jaw muscles twitching, Hank looked at Calista and then at me. It was plain he was in the mood for a scrape, but he swallowed his resentment and touched his hat brim. “Sorry to have barged in like this, ma’am. I trust you won’t speak ill of me to Lloyd and Gerty.” Glowering at the Butchers, he backed out. Skeeter opened the door for him and they were gone.
Calista let out a long breath. “See what I meant about ill will?” she asked me. “I shudder to think what would have happened if you weren’t here.”
“Glad I could be of help.” I reclaimed my seat and went to pour coffee, but she snatched the coffeepot and did the honors.
“Permit me, Reverend Storm. After you finish, give a yell and I will show you to your room.”
“Why not join me?” I requested, indicating an empty chair. “I would very much enjoy the pleasure of your company.” Sometimes I surprised myself at how polite I could be.
“Well, perhaps for a minute or two.” Calista fussed with her hair and smoothed her dress, and sat. “Normally I wouldn’t, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“I’m honored.” I was also admiring the swell of her bosom, and once again had to tear my gaze away.
“I must say, Reverend, that you are not at all what I would expect,” Calista commented. “You’re different from most parsons.”
I couldn’t have that. In order to do what I was sent for, I must remain above suspicion. “In what regard?”
“You don’t look like someone who spends most of their time indoors with their nose buried in Scripture,” Calista answered. “You’re as dark as an Indian. If I didn’t know better, I would take you for a cowboy or a scout or a mountain man.”
“I travel a lot, my dear, and am often out under the sun,” I said, hoping to explain my bronzed hide.
“There’s more to it. The way you move, the way you carry yourself, the way you fill out your coat.” Calista appraised me like I was a racehorse and she was a buyer. “I’m just not used to a parson being so”—she seemed to search for the right word and came out with—“manly.”
Make of that what you will. I made it out to be that she found me attractive, which isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. My wife must have thought I was halfway handsome or she never would have married me. That our marriage did not end well is irrelevant. The thought caused me to grimace.
“Are you all right? You appeared to be in pain there for a moment?”
“Just a twinge.” I was quick to change the subject. She was too observant, this one. “Tell me more about the bad blood between the LT and the Butchers.” It always paid to hear other points of view.
Calista placed her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “The LT is run by Lloyd Tanner. He owns practically all the land between the two Sisters. About twenty hands ride for his brand, and as you just saw, they are a salty bunch. His wife, Gerty, is a friend of mine. They have a son named Phil who recently came home from back East, where he went to school.”
“And the Butchers?”
“Hannah and Everett Butcher moved here from Tennessee about five years ago. They staked a claim to land up on the Dark Sister. Everyone thought they were loco, but the Butchers are hill folk, and used to living by themselves.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Carson and Sam had stopped eating and were listening.
“Eight months ago or so, Everett disappeared. Indians, everyone figured, although the Comanches haven’t acted up in a coon’s age.”
“It weren’t no danged Comanche!” Carson Butcher interrupted. “Pa was too savvy to be caught by any mangy redskins.”
“Be that as it may,” Calista said skeptically. “Now Hannah runs the clan. Sam is the baby of the bunch. Next oldest is Carson, there. After him is Kip. Then there is Jordy, Clell, and Ty. The two girls are Daisy and Sissy.”
I had been counting them off on my fingers under the table. “Eight in all. That’s some brood.”
“There was a ninth,” Sam mentioned. “But he died a few days after he was born. Something to do with his heart, the doc said. Ma wouldn’t leave her bed for two weeks, she was so sad.”
I finally got around to the reason I had been sent for. “When did the trouble over the cows start?”
“During the spring roundup,” Calista revealed. “A tally showed the LT was fifty head short. They scoured the countryside and someone found a hide with the LT brand up on Dark Sister. Since only the Butchers live up there . . .” She did not finish. She did not need to.
Carson did it for her. “Since only my family lives up there, naturally everyone blames us. But we had nothing to do with that hide, and we sure as blazes didn’t steal no fifty head.”
“So far it’s been a lot of finger-pointing,” Calista said. “But it won’t be long before lead starts to fly.” She extended an arm across the table and lightly clasped mine. “Your arrival is a godsend.”
“In what way?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You can do what no one else can. That collar gives you the right. You can stop the bloodshed before it begins.”
Little did she realize I was there to do the opposite. “Blessed are the peacemakers.” I was rather proud of that one. There was more to the quote, but I’d be dipped in gold if I could remember it.
Calista warmly squeezed my hand. “I knew you would understand. Now if you will excuse me, I have breakfast dishes to attend to.”
I pondered the situation over my coffee. The letter had been short and to the point, merely stating that I was needed to regulate rustlers. My standard fee of a thousand dollars was acceptable, half on arrival, half when the job was done.
I often marveled at how far and wide word of my services had spread. I did not advertise. I did not mail flyers. I couldn’t. In some jurisdictions what I did was out and out illegal and would earn me the privilege of being the guest of honor at a hemp social as quick as you can spit. In others, such as the recent business in Wyoming, Regulators were tolerated so long as they did not make a spectacle of themselves. Secrecy was my byword.