“This isn’t the time or the place.” He looked from Matthew
to Bird, licking his top lip, where a bead of sweat had broken out.
The
man called Matthew looked down at her tied-down gun and then back up at her.
“Who
the hell are you?” he said.
“I
am a woman who loves her whiskey, and right now, you are interfering with a highly
romantic interlude.”
The
man turned on his heel and stormed out of the saloon.
She
shrugged her shoulders and drank the rest of her beer. It was her favorite
kind.
Free.
Twenty-Two
T ower
got directions to the town’s doctor from the desk clerk. He stepped out of the
hotel’s front door onto the boardwalk and felt the afternoon’s sun on his face.
He absentmindedly touched the scratches on his cheek and neck.
He
turned left and walked along the boardwalk until he reached the end of the
street; then he crossed over and walked behind a leather goods store.
The
doctor’s office was a single-story house with a weathered front porch and a
rocking chair sitting empty next to the front door.
Tower
walked up the steps and knocked on the door.
It
opened to reveal a woman with dark hair shot through with gray, wearing a light-blue
dress and a world-weary expression.
“Yes?”
she said.
“Good
day, ma’am,” Mike Tower said. “The clerk over at the hotel said you had a
severely injured man here.”
The
woman appraised him, then shook her head.
“He
passed away an hour ago,” she said. “He’s with God and the undertaker now.” She
smoothed down the front of her apron. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen anything like
what was done to poor Mr. Smitty. I thought I’d seen it all.”
Tower
considered asking for more details but decided against it.
“I’ll
go see if the undertaker needs help with the final proceedings. Thank you.”
She
nodded and shut the door.
Tower
walked back the way he’d come, past the hotel, to the other end of town. The undertaker’s
shed was next to the livery, and since the door was open, Tower stepped inside.
A bald man with enormous forearms and hands was stacking wood. He glanced up.
“Help
you?” he said.
“My
name is Mike Tower, and I understand a man passed away earlier today. I was
checking to see if you need any help with the proceedings.”
The
man shook his head. “No, all taken care of. You might want to send a prayer up
to God for the young man, though. Those Indians tortured the hell out of him
before bashing his head in. Animals.”
The
bald man looked Tower up and down, his gaze hardening. “Speaking of which, I heard
about you,” he said.
Tower
nodded. “Figured you might have.”
He
walked out of the undertaker’s shed and into the street, where a small group of
men had gathered. They were heavily armed. One of them, a tall man with a
shotgun and an angry, pinched face, spoke for the others.
“There’s
the rapist right there,” he said.
Before
anyone else could speak, Sheriff Ectors stepped forward through the group.
“Afraid
you’re under arrest, Preacher,” he said. “For the rape of Susan Arliss.”
Twenty-Three
B ird
leaned against the doorframe and gazed upon Mike Tower, confined in his cell. It
was a tiny jail with just the one cell, and on the other side of the door was
the office of Sheriff Ectors.
“I
can’t leave you alone for one minute, can I?” she said, shaking her head. “I
bet when you pictured this situation, you had me on the other side of the
bars.”
Tower
looked at her. She could see he was calm, even slightly amused by her words.
“Usually
once a year I try to do a good deed,” Bird said. “Getting you out of here ought
to do it.”
Tower
stood and came to the front of the cell.
“Yes,
I don’t think this is what Father Johnstone had in mind when he sent me out. Preachers
are supposed to save people, not the other way around.”
“Look
on the bright side,” Bird said. “This isn’t too bad of a jail. I’ve been in a
lot
to Bird, licking his top lip, where a bead of sweat had broken out.
The
man called Matthew looked down at her tied-down gun and then back up at her.
“Who
the hell are you?” he said.
“I
am a woman who loves her whiskey, and right now, you are interfering with a highly
romantic interlude.”
The
man turned on his heel and stormed out of the saloon.
She
shrugged her shoulders and drank the rest of her beer. It was her favorite
kind.
Free.
Twenty-Two
T ower
got directions to the town’s doctor from the desk clerk. He stepped out of the
hotel’s front door onto the boardwalk and felt the afternoon’s sun on his face.
He absentmindedly touched the scratches on his cheek and neck.
He
turned left and walked along the boardwalk until he reached the end of the
street; then he crossed over and walked behind a leather goods store.
The
doctor’s office was a single-story house with a weathered front porch and a
rocking chair sitting empty next to the front door.
Tower
walked up the steps and knocked on the door.
It
opened to reveal a woman with dark hair shot through with gray, wearing a light-blue
dress and a world-weary expression.
“Yes?”
she said.
“Good
day, ma’am,” Mike Tower said. “The clerk over at the hotel said you had a
severely injured man here.”
The
woman appraised him, then shook her head.
“He
passed away an hour ago,” she said. “He’s with God and the undertaker now.” She
smoothed down the front of her apron. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen anything like
what was done to poor Mr. Smitty. I thought I’d seen it all.”
Tower
considered asking for more details but decided against it.
“I’ll
go see if the undertaker needs help with the final proceedings. Thank you.”
She
nodded and shut the door.
Tower
walked back the way he’d come, past the hotel, to the other end of town. The undertaker’s
shed was next to the livery, and since the door was open, Tower stepped inside.
A bald man with enormous forearms and hands was stacking wood. He glanced up.
“Help
you?” he said.
“My
name is Mike Tower, and I understand a man passed away earlier today. I was
checking to see if you need any help with the proceedings.”
The
man shook his head. “No, all taken care of. You might want to send a prayer up
to God for the young man, though. Those Indians tortured the hell out of him
before bashing his head in. Animals.”
The
bald man looked Tower up and down, his gaze hardening. “Speaking of which, I heard
about you,” he said.
Tower
nodded. “Figured you might have.”
He
walked out of the undertaker’s shed and into the street, where a small group of
men had gathered. They were heavily armed. One of them, a tall man with a
shotgun and an angry, pinched face, spoke for the others.
“There’s
the rapist right there,” he said.
Before
anyone else could speak, Sheriff Ectors stepped forward through the group.
“Afraid
you’re under arrest, Preacher,” he said. “For the rape of Susan Arliss.”
Twenty-Three
B ird
leaned against the doorframe and gazed upon Mike Tower, confined in his cell. It
was a tiny jail with just the one cell, and on the other side of the door was
the office of Sheriff Ectors.
“I
can’t leave you alone for one minute, can I?” she said, shaking her head. “I
bet when you pictured this situation, you had me on the other side of the
bars.”
Tower
looked at her. She could see he was calm, even slightly amused by her words.
“Usually
once a year I try to do a good deed,” Bird said. “Getting you out of here ought
to do it.”
Tower
stood and came to the front of the cell.
“Yes,
I don’t think this is what Father Johnstone had in mind when he sent me out. Preachers
are supposed to save people, not the other way around.”
“Look
on the bright side,” Bird said. “This isn’t too bad of a jail. I’ve been in a
lot
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