Dead in the West

The Reverend smiled. He seldom did that of his own free will, only out of habit when he was after something he wanted. He felt as if his silver-tongued approach was not doing much good against this old preacher dog.

'He also said that you had a tent, and I would need a tent. I'd like to rent it for the preaching.'

'I haven't given you permission for any preaching yet. You did say the sheriff said he wanted you to have my permission, did you not?'

'I did at that. I'm willing to pay nicely for the rental of that tent, by the way.'

'How nicely?'

'You name it.'

'Six bits.'

'A popular price,' said the Reverend. He reached in his pocket for the money.

'I choose the night you preach.'

'I wouldn't want it to conflict with your services. You choose the night.'

'Very well, Saturday.'

The Reverend stopped the hand with the money.

'Saturday? Now Reverend Calhoun, I want to abide by your wishes, but that is the worst night of the week. The saloon will be filled.'

'Take it or leave it, Mr. Mercer.'

'Reverend Mercer.'

'Take it or leave it.'

Frowning. 'I'll take it.' The Reverend slapped the money into Calhoun's outstretched palm.

Calhoun counted it out, slipped it into his pants pocket.

'You sure you're a preacher?' he asked.

'Don't I look like one?'

'You don't see that many with a gun. Carrying a pistol is hardly part of the Lord's work, Mr. Mercer.'

'Reverend Mercer.'

'It seems mighty peculiar that you carry a revolver like a common gunslinger, you supposedly being a man of peace,'

'Who said the Lord's work is peaceful? Sometimes it's necessary to bring a sword to deal with the infidels... or a gun....' Smiling. 'Besides, you haven't heard any of my sermons. I have to have something to persuade attendance with.'

If Calhoun caught the joke, he didn't show it. 'Would you like to get the tent, Mr. Mercer.

I have work to do.'

'Right. The tent.'

II

The interior of the church was sparse. Rows of pews, a pulpit on a raised platform, and behind it on the wall: a huge, crude, wooden cross bearing a cruder Jesus of the German grotesque school.

Dead center of the middle row of pews was a door. Calhoun led the Reverend there and opened it. He reached inside, took hold of a kerosene lamp, and lit it. He turned up the wick and they went down a row of creaking stairs.

The Reverend could see a high window to the rear covered with a thick curtain. Light crept through it. Though the room was deep, the roof of it was still on a level with the rest of the church. It appeared that at one time there had been a second floor, but it had been torn away to make room for all the things stored there, stacked atop one another like dog turds.

There were boxes, barrels, bundles, and crates. Against the wall—covered in dust—was a rack of Winchesters, double-barreled shotguns, and a couple of ancient Sharps rifles.

Near them, were several crates marked AMMUNITION and ARMS.

'For a man who dislikes guns,' the Reverend said, 'you certainly have a few on hand.'

'Don't be snide with me, boy.... When they first built this church it was used as storage, and as a sort of fortress against outlaws and Indians.... Well, we never really had much of either. The guns are still here, and there are bars on most of the windows. Come next year, I'm taking the bars out, and I'm going to see if I can't get the town council to move all this out of here. I could put the space to better use.'

'What's in all these other crates?'

'Tools. Some clothes. Odds and ends. Pistols and ammunition.'

The Reverend walked over to the gun rack and looked. Though some of the guns had spots of rust on them, they looked to be in pretty good shape. The dried-brick walls must have been pretty air tight.

'Here's the tent, Mr. Mercer.'

'Reverend Mercer,' Jeb said turning.

III

He had a relapse.

After he and Calhoun dragged the massive tent upstairs, and the Reverend hired a wagon to haul it over to The Hotel Montclaire, then hired a fistful of boys to help him carry it up to his room, he saw the woman again.

He had come out of the hotel onto the sidewalk with the boys, and he was paying them each—six bits of course—when he saw the dark-haired woman who looked like his sister crossing the street with the elderly man.

She was holding the man's arm firmly, and she turned and looked in the Reverend's direction.

It was a good distance between them, but it was as if the Reverend could feel the aftereffect tingling of a close-strike lightning bolt. It made his groin ache and-his soul feel bad.

He went upstairs, locked himself in his room, and masturbated to the woman's image.

Then he got back on the whisky.

There was yet another bottle in his saddlebags, and he took it out and resumed his drinking position on the bed. He felt totally unworthy of the second chance God had given him. He had messed it up. Here he was, once again, with the devil juice which he could not handle, and here he was lusting after his sister or a woman who brought her to mind, throbbing his manhood with his hand like a schoolboy. He had the willpower of a rabid dog.

He knew the night would come and with it would come the dreams—the boat down the river of hell with the spider-thing at the end.

There was a knock on the door.

The Reverend was amazed to find that he had thrown the whisky bottle to his left hand and drawn his Navy from his pants as easily as he had drawn his lily out earlier and stroked it until it gave dew.

He rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed.

He put the whisky bottle on the floor, stood, and put the revolver and himself in his pants again.

There was another knock.

'Hold your horses,' the Reverend said.

He opened the door.

Looking up at him was David from the livery.

IV

'Don't tell me,' the Reverend said. 'The price of my horse has gone up another six bits, and I have to supply the currycomb.'

David ignored him, sniffed.

'Smells like a drunk's nest in here—and maybe like you been greasing your axle.'

'A boy your age should know,' the Reverend said, somewhat embarrassed that he had been found out.

'Yeah, but I got an excuse. I'm too young for women.'

'What can I do for you?'

'I thought you preachers didn't approve of strong drink.'

'I don't, but I drink it anyway. Medicinal purposes.... Something I can do for you, or you just come by to give me a temperance lecture?'

'You don't seem quite as pert and godly as you did yesterday, if you don't mind me saying so, Reverend.' David smiled broadly.

'Would you like me to wipe that smile off your face?'