5
Ste. Genevieve, Missouri
The doctor in Ste. Genevieve daubed more wagon grease onto what was left of Ben Caviness’s ear.
“It’s a good thing you came to me when you did,” the doctor said. “This ear was near to mortifying”
“Yeah, well, it’s been hurtin’ somethin’ awful.”
“What did you say caused this again?”
“A bear,” Caviness said. “I run up against a bear and he mauled me.”
“Looks more like something bit this ear off, rather than clawing it off,” the doctor said.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean. The bear bit it off.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t bite off your whole head.”
“Do you have to talk so much, Doc? Just patch up the ear and stop the talkin’.”
“I was just being friendly,” the doctor said. “It’s always good to be friendly with your patients. Puts them in a good frame of mind.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t work with me.”
“I can see that it doesn’t,” the doctor said. He straightened up, then looked at Caviness. “That’ll be one dollar,” he said.
“One dollar!” Caviness exploded. “One dollar for a handful of grease you could get offen any wagon wheel?”
“It’s not the grease you’re paying for. It’s the knowing what to do with the grease,” the doctor said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Caviness said. Still grumbling, he paid the doctor the dollar, then left the doctor’s house and walked down to the river’s edge to wait for the next boat to come through.
When Caviness got the second letter from Epson, the one that said, “Make my problem go away,” he knew what Epson was asking for. Epson was paying him one hundred dollars to kill Jennie.
One hundred dollars seemed like an enormous amount of money then, because it seemed like a simple job. After all, how hard could it be to kill a woman?
Caviness knew about the dog. He had encountered the dog before. But he figured that he and Slater should be able to handle the dog with little difficulty. After all, the dog hadn’t actually attacked him the last time. The dog had merely barked and growled.
That sure wasn’t the case this time. The dog had attacked immediately. But even as Caviness was stabbing the dog, slashing away at him, the dog was ripping out Slater’s throat. Slater was killed before he could say a word.
What started out to be an easy job turned into a nightmare. Slater was dead, and Caviness had to face the dog alone. The dog turned on Caviness, and Caviness threw up an arm to guard his neck. He felt an intense pain in his left ear; then he managed to shoot the dog. The dog fell to the ground—whether dead or alive, Caviness didn’t know. All he knew was that the dog was away from him.
Caviness had planned to have a little fun with Jennie, but it was too late for that now. Dog had seen to that. Caviness was bleeding so badly that he was in danger of passing out from blood loss. When he finally did turn his attention to the whore, the expression on her face reflected the horror of the moment.
Caviness was a terrible sight to behold. He had blood all over his face, arms, and hands. The side of his head was covered with blood too, as well as an ugly little piece of shredded flesh that was the only indication of what had once been an ear.
Caviness made one mighty sweep with his knife, not only cutting her jugular, but nearly decapitating her. Leaving Dog dying, and Jennie and Slater dead, Caviness left the scene of the crime. Stealing a rowboat, Caviness started downriver. He had no immediate plan in mind. At this point, all he wanted to do was get out of St. Louis.
He wasn’t sure when he came up with the plan of going to Philadelphia to see Mr. Theodore Epson. But the more he thought of it, the better the idea became. He would get more money from Epson. He figured losing an ear should be worth a lot of money. And if Epson thought otherwise, then all Caviness would have to do is go to the law with the letter Epson had sent him.
Caviness wasn’t even sure where Philadelphia was, though he had a vague suspicion that one could get there, or nearly so, merely by taking a riverboat. It was his intention to take the next one that stopped in Ste. Genevieve. When he heard the whistle of the approaching boat, Caviness put his hand over the bandaged ear and walked down to wait for it. There was no one ashore selling tickets, but the moment he stepped on board, the purser arranged his passage for him. He found out from the purser that the boat couldn’t take him all the way to Philadelphia as he had hoped, but he would take it as far as he could.
Once they were under way, Caviness walked to the bow of the boat and watched the river roll underneath them. He had never been to Philadelphia. He had never been to any city any larger than St. Louis. He wondered if they had whorehouses in Philadelphia.
Kansas City
Jeb Law had his back to the bar as he was putting bottles of whiskey in their place.
“What do you have that isn’t poison?” someone asked from behind him.
Jeb didn’t turn around.
“Ain’t you ever heard the temperance lectures, mister? It’s all poison, some of it is just quicker than the other,” Jeb replied.
“Well, if you got anything that won’t eat through the glass before I can get it down, I’ll have a drink.”
This time Jeb recognized the voice, and he turned around, then smiled broadly as he stuck his hand across the bar. “Art!” he said. “Well, if you ain’t a sight for tired ole eyes.”
“Hello, Jeb,” Preacher said, shaking Jeb’s hand. “How are things here in Westport?”
“It’s Kansas City now,” Jeb corrected, reaching under the bar to pull out a special bottle to pour Preacher’s drink. “Nobody calls it Westport anymore. Come to think of it, nobody calls you Art anymore either, do they? It’s Preacher, isn’t it?”
“That’s the handle folks seem to have hung on me,” Preacher said, reaching for some money.
Jeb held out his hand, palm facing Preacher. “Your money ain’t no good with me, Preacher,” he said. “This drink is on the house.”
“I’ll let you buy me the first one,” Preacher said. “Then I’ll buy us both one.”
Jeb smiled. “Sounds good enough to me,” he said. “What brings you to Kansas City? You don’t come this far east all that often. From what I hear, you’re about as fixed in those mountains as one of them aspen trees.”
“I’m on my way to St. Louis,” Preacher said. “Thought I might find a place to board my string here, then take a boat.”
“What have you got?”
“Good riding horse, two good pack animals.”
“How long you plannin’ on being gone?”
Preacher shook his head. “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know as I can answer that question.”
Jeb smiled. “That ain’t like you not to have a clear plan of what you’re goin’ to do,” he said.
“Oh, I’ve got me a clear plan of what I’m goin’ to do, all right,” Preacher said. “I just don’t know how long it’s going to take me to do it.”
Preacher killed the rest of his drink, and Jeb set another glass on the table, filled both of them, then put his special bottle back under the bar.
“Sounds a little mysterious,” Jeb said. He took the coin Preacher gave him, then picked up his glass and held it out toward Preacher. “Here’s to you, my friend,” he said.
Preacher nodded and touched his glass to Jeb’s. “And to old times,” he replied.
Jeb tossed the drink down, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Now, what is it you’re a-plannin’ on doin’, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“I reckon you heard about what happened to Jennie,” Preacher replied.
“Jennie?” For a second Jeb squinted; then his face registered recognition. “You’re talking about that pretty little gal used to run the House of Flowers back in St. Louis?”
“Yes.”
“No, don’t know as I’ve heard anything about her lately.”
“She’s dead, Jeb,” Preacher said.
“Dead? Oh, the hell you say,” Jeb replied. He shook his head. “That’s a damn shame. She was a fine woman, for all that she was a whore. Wait a minute. You set some store by her, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did. I set quite a store by her,” Preacher said.
“I’m real sorry to hear about her dyin’,” Jeb said. “She come down with somethin’, did she?”
“She was murdered.”
“Murdered,” Jeb repeated. Without being told, he reached under the bar, pulled out the bottle, and refilled their glasses one more time. “Does anyone know who done it?”
“I got a letter from Mr. Ashley,” Preacher said. “He thinks Caviness may have had something to do with it.”
“Caviness? Ben Caviness?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from what I remember about the son of a bitch, he’s mean enough to do something like that. Come to think of it, didn’t he trail with you one season?”
“Yes, he and his partner Percy McDill.”
“McDill, yeah, I remember him. Hell, he was as ornery as Caviness from what I can recall. Whatever happened to him?”
“I killed him,” Preacher said. “I just wish I had killed Caviness the same time.”
“What happened?”
Preacher took another drink, then stared off, as if looking into the distance. “The son of a bitch tried to rape Jennie.”
“Yeah? Then the son of a bitch needed killin’. I’d like to hear about it, if you don’t mind the tellin’.”
“No, I don’t mind the tellin’,” Preacher said as he started the story.
Two years earlier, at Rendezvous
In the darkness, illuminated only by a single candle, Jennie faced a terrifying apparition. Percy McDill burst into her tent and now moved toward her, his face twisted by lust and anger into a grotesque mask. The candle’s reflection in his dark eyes gave Jennie the illusion of staring into the very fires of hell. She stepped backward, but found little room to maneuver in the confines of the tent.
Jennie screamed.
Outside, Preacher heard a woman’s scream. It came from a nearby tent. It startled him—not because of the cry itself, but because he thought he recognized the voice of the woman who screamed. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be who he thought it was. Could it?
Running in the direction of the noise, Preacher wondered what Jennie would be doing out here. He was certain she was in St. Louis, and yet, something about the scream touched his very soul. He hurried toward the tent.
McDill lunged, clamping his dirty hand over her mouth. Jennie bit his hand and he ripped it away, howling like a wounded animal. She screamed again. Outside the tent she could hear people moving around, and she hoped someone would come to help her. She fought back, pummeling his chest and face with her hands, but he was so big and strong that it had no effect.
“You bitch!” he sneered, cradling his wounded hand. “I was gonna pay you, whore that you are, but now I’m not—I’m gonna take it for free.”
“Stay away,” she warned. “For your own good, mister. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ha! You don’t want to hurt me?” he said with a lopsided, drunken grin. “Tell me, bitch, how are you plannin’ on hurtin’ me?”
She couldn’t stand the smell of him, and his ugly leer. Yet she realized that she had to be careful, that she couldn’t rile him even more—or else he was liable to kill her. She had known men like him for her entire life.
She gathered what composure she could, and brushed a fall of hair back from her face. She forced herself to smile at him.
“Look, you’re right, whoring is my business. But I was just getting ready for bed and I must look a mess. Why don’t you go away now, give me a chance to get ready, then you can come back later,” she said.
“No way, little lady. I’m here and here I stay. You’ll get to like me when you know me better. I promise.”
Jennie doubted that she would ever be able to bear the sight of this man, let alone like him. He was grotesque, and it didn’t matter that he was drunk. She had met this kind before, and he reminded her of her old master, among others.
“But you’ll like me better if you give me a chance to get ready for you,” Jennie said, making one last attempt to get through to him.
“I like you fine just the way you are,” he said, starting toward her again.
Jennie felt the world closing in on her and smelled blood in the air; she could only hope it wasn’t her own. Again she screamed for help.
At that moment the tent flaps opened, and it was as if God himself had heard her plea. The one man in the world whom she truly loved stepped inside. It was Preacher, the man she had known as a boy—the man who was a part of her life even when they were not together.
McDill turned to see the man he hated most in the world—the man he had thought was dead—moving at him swiftly and angrily. He ducked to avoid Preacher’s first swing, and came up with a hard punch of his own, taking Art off guard, smashing into his chin. He laughed as the younger man staggered backward.
“Well, now, if it ain’t my ole pal,” McDill said. “Are you goin’ to preach to me, Preacher? Are you going to save my soul?” He laughed.
Preacher got to one knee and shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of the hammerlike blow. He stared up at McDill, and at the hideous leering grin on his face.
McDill held his hand out and curled his fingers, tauntingly inviting Preacher toward him.
“Well, come on, Preacher,” he said. “Come on, you son of a bitch. I’m going to beat you to a pulp.”
His head cleared, Preacher leaped up again and charged at McDill. He buried his head in McDill’s midsection and both men went crashing to the ground.
Preacher scrambled to his feet and grabbed McDill by the collar, then dragged him outside. He wanted to take this confrontation away from Jennie. By now a crowd, drawn by the screams and the commotion, had gathered just outside. They surrounded the two men, who were locked in a deadly confrontation.
The crowd cheered for Preacher and jeered McDill. McDill managed to get to his feet, and the big man charged like a bull. Preacher stepped out of the way, and McDill went hurtling into the crowd.
Laughing at his awkwardness, the men in the crowd caught McDill and pushed him back into the circle of combat. The two men faced each other again, and Preacher punched him as hard as he could. McDill doubled over. Preacher landed a strong right to McDill’s jaw, straightening him out and sending him back on his heels, massaging the hand that had struck the blow.
Ben Caviness was watching with the others in the crowd. He wanted to go to the aid of his friend, but he dared not, for fear of the retribution of others. McDill was on his own now. Caviness melted away into the growing darkness. Even as the fight was going on behind him, he saddled his horse. If Preacher won, he might come after Caviness. If McDill won, he would want to know why Caviness didn’t help him. Under the circumstances, Caviness knew that this was no place for him to be.
Jennie came out of her tent then. Preacher turned toward her, then held his hand out, as if telling her to stay away. “Jennie, stay back, keep out of the way!” he cautioned.
Preacher looked away from McDill for just that quick second. McDill pulled his long-bladed hunting knife from its sheath and lunged at Preacher, the knife pointing at his guts. Now, enraged and humiliated by the beating he was taking from this younger and smaller man, McDill was more animal than human.
Jennie saw McDill and called out to Preacher: “Look out! He has a knife!”
Preacher turned just in time to see the blade flash in the flickering light of the nearby fires. He reared back to avoid the killing knife, then circled his enemy bare-handed. Someone from the crowd tossed him a stick. Preacher used it as a defensive weapon, swinging it at McDill to keep him at bay. With one swing, McDill’s knife chopped the stick in half.
“What are you goin’ to do now, Preacher?” McDill taunted, holding the knife out in front of him. He moved the point back and forth slightly, like the head of a coiled snake. “You think that little stick is going to stop me? I’ll whittle it down to a toothpick, then I’ll carve you up.”
Preacher realized then that he had no choice, he must fight this madman on his terms—no rules, any weapon at hand, and to the death. He drew his own knife and held it up, showing it to Percy McDill. He said, without words, that he intended to kill the man who had threatened Jennie.
Suddenly, it seemed as if McDill had sobered up. The taunting, leering grin left his face and he became deadly serious and focused. With a steady hand, he held his own knife up, challenging his opponent. His face was now a mask of calm determination.
“You’d better start preachin’ your own funeral, Preacher,” McDill said. “It’s time for you to die.”
Now, for the first time, Preacher grinned. It was neither taunting nor leering. Instead, it was confident, and it completely unnerved McDill. “I don’t think so, McDill,” Preacher said easily. “I think you are the one who is going to die.”
“I’m going to kill you, and that damned mutt of yours,” McDill said with false bravado, trying now to bolster his own courage.
Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher could see Dog, standing on the edge of the watching crowd. The young mountain man put aside all thoughts other than one: McDill must die. Trying to hurt Jennie was the last evil thing this son of a bitch would ever do.
The two men circled each other like gladiators in a Roman arena. The crowd became silent. Even Jennie, who watched in horror, could neither speak nor cry out. Dog stood at alert. He could have attacked McDill, but somehow seemed to sense that this was something Preacher needed to do by himself.
McDill moved first. He swung his blade at Preacher, missing his face by only a few inches. Preacher felt the wind of the swift knife blade and jerked his head back. In almost the same movement, he swung his own knife low and hard, aiming for McDill’s belly. He missed.
The big man then punched Art on the side of his head.
Art was stunned, and for a second he couldn’t see anything. He backed away quickly to avoid the oncoming McDill, then stepped to one side. As McDill shot past him, he stabbed with his knife blade and felt it slip into McDill’s midsection.
He pushed the knife in as far as it could go, then held it there. The two men stood together, absolutely motionless, for a long moment. Preacher felt McDill’s warm blood spilling over his knife and onto his hand.
Howling like a stuck pig, McDill pulled himself off the knife. He stepped back several feet, then came back toward Preacher. But before he could even lift his own knife, he gasped, dropped the knife, and put his hand to his wound. Blood filled his cupped palms, then began oozing from his mouth as well. His eyes turned up in their sockets, showing the bloodshot whites.
From her position by the front of her tent, Jennie looked at McDill’s eyes. They had caught the reflection of the campfires, and once more, she had the illusion of staring into the pit of hell. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as she realized that, within minutes, McDill would be in hell.
“Damn . . . you . . .” McDill managed to gurgle through the blood and spit that filled his mouth. “Damn ...”
Preacher took one step toward the dying man, then stopped. McDill’s big body shuddered, then collapsed in a heap on the ground. Beneath him, the blood pooled darkly from his leaking wound.
Jennie ran up and threw her arms around Preacher, kissing him. He stood still, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap that had once been a man.
Finally, he spoke. “Where did Caviness go?”
“I think we will never see him again,” said one of the men in the crowd. “I saw him sneak away like a dog.”
“That’s one hell of a story,” Jeb said when Preacher finished with the telling. “You’re plannin’ on goin’ after Caviness, you say?”
“Yes,” Preacher said.
“What are you going to do with your string?”
“I don’t know, sell them, board them. I was hoping you would have an idea.”
“I’ll keep your animals for you,” Jeb said. “If you don’t come back by next season, I’ll sell ‘em and hold the money for you, after takin’ out what it took me to feed ’elm.”
“I appreciate that,” Preacher said.
“Now, what do you say to me’n you goin’ down to the Blue Hole Cafe and havin’ us some supper?” Jeb offered.
Preacher smiled. “Sounds good to me.”