HAVE RIGHT TO THE TREE OF LIFE, AND MAY ENTER IN THROUGH THE
GATES OF THE CITY.
Slowly, the Reverend closed the book.
There was a lump like a hairball in his throat. He and the bed reeked of rain and whisky, and there was also the faint aroma of his blood.
He worked the lump from his throat and fell on his knees beside the bed, hands clasped.
"Thy will be done, oh Lord. Thy will be done."
Still on his knees, he prayed for an hour, and it was the first time he had done so in a long time and deeply meant it.
Later, he cleaned himself at the basin, and shook the sheets free of glass, undressed, bedded proper.
Before he drifted off, he wondered if he would be worthy of whatever test the Lord had prepared for him here in Mud Creek.
It did not matter. Whatever it was, he would try with all his might.
He slept.
And he did not dream.
VIII
With the sun kicked out and a gold doubloon moon rose in its place—a moon that shone down with a bright, almost unnatural hue on Mud Creek and the surrounding countryside—the nightwalkers began to walk.
The livery gave up its tenant—the padlock dripping off into the dirt like melted butter, only to fall to the ground whole again, and finally to return locked and solid to its place.
Just outside of town at the Furgesons, their little month old girl died. Next morning, amidst much wailing, it would be attributed to natural causes.
A few yard pets disappeared, though one small dog was found the next morning with its belly savaged. The way it was torn up wolves were suspicioned.
Certainly there had been a wolf howling last night.
From the sound of it, a large one.
…
And it was almost time.
…
IX
Next morning the Reverend cleaned his suit, and put on a fresh shirt from his saddlebag, spit-polished his boots.
He did not start his morning with a swig of whisky this time. He truly craved bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee.
He went over to Molly McGuire's for breakfast.
The cafe was bustling, noisy.
Waitresses moved back and forth from kitchen to table like ants from harvest to home.
They carried plates of flapjacks, bacon and eggs, pots of steaming coffee.
From his vantage point in the doorway, the Reverend saw one old codger grab a handful of a waitress' ass. She slapped it away in a professional manner, set the fellow's plate down without losing her smile.
At a table against the wall, he spotted the sheriff's badge. It was pinned on a broad-shouldered man of medium height and a sadly handsome appearance. That was the man he needed to see.
The sheriff was sitting at the table with a considerably older man who looked as weathered as an Indian's moccasins.
There was an empty table next to them, and as they were talking briskly back and forth, waving their hands about, he decided to take up that position until a good opportunity presented itself.
When he was seated, he strained an ear for their conversation. He was not even aware of the habit. He had learned it long ago. When traveling from town to town, preparing a sermon, he liked to eavesdrop on what was said. Sometimes it gave him the ability to work into his sermon a message that an individual would recognize. If he heard some man gloating over how he was dipping his wick into another man's wife, he would speak his sermon in such a way that the man might think God had given the preacher inside information.
It came in handy when the offering plate was passed. With their guilt boiled to the surface, the repenters (at least for that moment) would put in heavily, trying to buy off God.
As of last night, the Reverend had decided he would return to the original inspiration of his sermons. Desire to spread the gospel. He was God's boy again, and preaching purely for coinage to afford whisky was no longer his design.
Yet old habits—like eavesdropping—die hard.
"Well," said the older man to the sheriff, "I guess that means you ain't come up with nothing?"
"Not a thing. I rode out the stage trail this morning. Didn't see hide or hair of the passengers.... Could have been Indians, I guess. Or robbers."
'"You're grabbing at farts," the older man said. "Matt, you know well as I do there ain't been no Indian trouble around here in years. 'Cept maybe that medicine show fellow and his woman, and we took care of that problem."
"You hung him. Not me. I wasn't there."
"Judas didn't nail up Jesus either," the older man said with a mean smile. "Cut the holy-on-me shit, boy. You gave him to us. It's the same thing. And it ain't nothing to feel guilty for. He was just an Indian and that gal was half nigger at the least."
"He was an innocent man."
"Like the feller said, 'only good Injun is a dead'n'. And I'll second that on niggers, greasers, and half-bloods."
The Reverend noticed that Matt's face drew up in disgust, but he said nothing.
"All right," the older man continued. "It wasn't Indians, and it damn sure wasn't no robbers. Didn't you say the bags wasn't bothered with?"
Matt nodded. "Shitty robbers, I'd say. Polite like too. After they got the folks off the stage and hid them, they was nice enough to bring the stage on in, set the brake, and leave it in the middle of the goddamned street. Hell, I don't know why the lazy sonsabitches didn't just go on and feed the horses."
The two sat silent for a moment, and the Reverend took this as his cue. He stood up and stepped over to their table.
"Excuse me" said the Reverend to the sheriff, "I'd like a word with you."
"Speak ahead. This here is Caleb Long. Sometimes he's a deputy of mine."
The Reverend nodded at Caleb, who examined him with a look of wry humor.
Turning back to the sheriff, the Reverend said, "Sheriff, I'm a man of God. I travel from town to town teaching and spreading the Word...."
"And filling your offering plates," Caleb said.
The Reverend looked at Caleb. Considering that for some time that was exactly what he had been doing, he could not find it in himself to anger. He nodded.
"Yes, I admit that. I'm a man of God, but like you, I must eat. But I do bring something with me besides a sermon. I bring the Word of our Lord and eternal salvation."
"You fixin' to pass the plate now, Reverend? If so, don't push it my way. I don't buy nothing I can't see."
"I suppose I get a might carried away when the subject of the Lord is brought up," the Reverend said.
"You brought it up," Caleb said.
"So I did."
"Pardon me," Matt said, "but Reverend, do you think we could cut through the horseshit here and get down to cases? What can I do for you?"
"I would like to rent a tent, and with your permission, hold a night of gospel singing, prayer, and bringing lost souls to Jesus." Glancing at Caleb. "And passing the offering plate."
"It's all right by me," Matt said, "but we have a preacher.
He might not take too kindly to an outside Bible yacker. And as far as I know, he's the only one around these parts with a tent like you want. He used to travel-preach too."
"That a fact," the Reverend said.
"You go down the street," Matt pointed in a southerly direction, "till you come to a church, and Reverend Calhoun lives in part of it. You tell him it's okay by me if it's okay by him."
"Thanks," said the Reverend.
Caleb stood, tossed money on the table for his breakfast. He lifted one leg and cut loose with a loud fart.
For a moment the cafe went quiet. Customers stared at him.
Loud enough for everyone to hear, Caleb said, "Don't let it slow you none, folks. My mama didn't teach me no manners." He turned to Matt, "See you," then to the Reverend,