“Sheriff says.”
“Well!”
“WELL!”
“What d’ya know.”
“Hey! There he is!”
There he was, standing meekly near the jail. He was uncertain and having conscience pains. Now that it was done, maybe he shouldn’t have — or worse still, maybe it wouldn’t work, and folks would only laugh like always and he would have lost his chance. Christ, it was difficult figuring out things about people. And if it didn’t work, maybe he ought to tell the sheriff he’d made a mistake. And...
“Hey, Jerry! Come on, kid. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Invitation! No funning? No cussing? No jokes? A real invitation, just like a real man?
“Here he is, boys. The man who got Frank Craven’s killer!”
He was numb and fighting to smile. Was it true? Suddenly all his dreams were there on the bar before him and folks were passing the word. The crowd swelled and over and over he repeated his story between free drinks until the drinks and the story became one and the same and the story became much more explicit and at the same time fuzzy. The room danced and faces blurred. All the smiling, happy, sweating faces that looked up at him on his lofty perch on top of the bar.
“Here’s to the man who got the greaser!” a voice from the haze proposed.
The noise grew louder with the agreements and the boy danced a little and bowed deeply until they helped him regain his balance. Then everyone laughed and that felt good, too. Everybody laughing with him, and he wanted to cry. He would have, too, he thought, if he hadn’t been so happy. You dream and dream and dream of happiness and when it finally comes it wraps you up in its soft cloak and makes you feel so warm and good all over.
So, the hero was made and the oft-repeated word began to fade into the jubilant background and from this fog of phony merriment another word came slipping stealthily out. Softly, hesitantly at first, but the momentum was as inevitable as the rising sun. As the parched lips grew wet with whisky, the word grew bolder and more important and more compelling — LYNCH!
No one had said a word. The priest had been allowed to enter through the crowd. He had stopped when he reached the bar and stared into the expressionless eyes of the bartender. To his left, along the bar, he could see the newly crowned hero, weaving slightly and glaring at him through bleary eyes. He dared not turn around to face them, for his intrusion had been a grandstand move in a game he had never played before. Perhaps they will make the first move, he thought, but as the silence continued behind him, he realized it was up to him. They were giving him his moment. “Oh, My Heavenly Father,” he prayed silently, “give me strength.”
“Could I have a glass of wine, bartender, please?” he finally asked. His voice caught on the word “wine,” but the bartender never flinched as he produced a dusty bottle, a clean glass and fulfilled the churchman’s request. When the priest started for his money pouch the bartender’s growl stopped him. “On the house,” he said.
The priest nodded his thanks. He felt the silent words of laughter and contempt pass from eye to eye of the men behind him. The wine burned and tasted vinegary and he was ashamed of the tear that formed in his eye. He blinked it away helplessly.
From somewhere out of the forest of silent men a throat was cleared. His time had come. “Turn and face us, Priest,” their probing eyes demanded. “Say your say — if you dare.”
He turned quickly, jerkingly, for he was not able to muster the courage of a confident slow turn. There they were, waiting — a sea of hot, sweating, featureless faces staring through him and seeing inside him to his paralyzed mind and pounding heart.
He noticed Charlie Tinkham, the dry-goods storekeeper, near the front of the mob. The man’s rimless glasses clung perilously to the prim little nose and his mouth twitched as the priest’s eyes singled him out. “Mr. Tinkham? Hadn’t you better be getting back to the store?” he asked softly. The little man sighed with relief at being let off so easily and his eyes cast about looking for a twinkle of encouragement. But the priest wasn’t through. “Might lose some sales,” he blundered on. He tried to make it sound light, but the laugh, which should have accompanied his little Joke, caught in his tense throat.
Tinkham had passed his test. Without a word he turned toward the bar and offered his empty glass for a refill.
What frightened the churchman most was that there seemed to be no anger toward him. It was as though he posed no threat and thus rated only a passive tolerance for his trouble.
He spotted Josh Reynolds and asked the old carpenter if he’d been able to get started on his benches. “Busy!” came back the terse reply. “Building a casket for Frank Craven.”
Had he tried, he could not have written a better epitaph to his peacemaking efforts.
“Best be going along, Padre,” Logan Answain, the giant blacksmith, advised. He spoke as though telling a small boy to leave the room so, the adults could talk and the silence around the dismisser only added insistence to his request.
As the crowd had parted on his entrance, so they gave way again. He made no effort to save face. No strong nod or pointed wave of the hand. He dragged himself out the way he had come. Pushing open the door before him, he passed through into the sweltering street. The door swung closed behind him and a voice inside exclaimed, “Jesus Christ! Gimme a drink!”
Twenty-eight years old and ever since he could remember he had wanted to be a priest. Hard work and honest devotion had earned him his collar. Now he was on the threshold of his first real challenge and all he had been able to offer was a silly joke — “You might lose some sales.” What manner of man was he? The thoughts tore at him. Had he deluded himself so completely? He had asked for his assignment with splendid assurance. Now he stood in the dusty street, outside a saloon, a pitiful failure and he wanted to be sick.
The church had done a great deal in bringing both understanding and peace to the difficult border lands. Their task hadn’t been easy, but the men who had preceded him west had cut their niche. He had read about them eagerly and he honestly felt it to be his destiny. He could have had a church in Weymouth or he might even have stayed on to teach at the seminary, but his belief was genuine and the bishop had wished him well.
He gripped the hitching post and fought back the nausea boiling within him. He was losing a battle to self-pity and his weakness disgusted him. Slowly he gained control of his churning stomach. I am going to be a party to a murder, he thought, and he mumbled a silent prayer for forgiveness. Well, pull yourself together, he finally demanded. At least face your victim like a man. Give him solace if you can give him nothing else. He straightened up with an exaggerated effort and marched across the street to the jail.
When he entered, his eyes met those of the prisoner. They were eyes full of hate and fury. They asked for neither love nor understanding, as if they belonged to a man who had learned that such did not exist for him.
“May I speak to him?” he asked the lawman.
“Suit yourself.”
He walked to the barred cage. “I’m afraid there may be some trouble,” he explained weakly. “Do you know what you are charged with, my son?”
“They think I kill a man.”
“An old man.” The priest went on, “Did you do it?” he asked, hopefully wishing to find help for his sagging conscience.
“I kill nobody,” he said defiantly. “Nobody!”
Dear God in Heaven, the priest thought, they are going to kill an innocent man. He is telling the truth. He must be, he repeated to himself as he searched the man’s eyes for one sign of untruth. “I believe you,” he said solemnly. “May God give you strength, my son.”