Would this feud ever end, Parson Martin Gentry asked himself as he watched Tom Blevins push the edge of the kitchen curtain back enough to peek outside into the fading evening light of a late November day. Blevins patted the butt of his revolver as he looked for the trouble that stalked him. The War Between the States had ceased almost eighteen months earlier, but the killing in their part of Texas had continued as old grudges remained and new ones emerged in the aftermath of defeat. Gentry believed Blevins, a known Union sympathizer, had been more sinned against than sinner in the turmoil that had sent four men to early graves and disabled another seven. Doing most of the sinning, in Gentry’s mind at least, was John Wesley, a rabid warrior who had returned from the conflict embittered rather than chastened, but the truth of the vendetta remained as elusive as the peace most folks craved. Gentry feared the feud would never conclude as long as both Tom Blevins and John Wesley survived.
Too old to fight for the Confederacy, Parson Gentry had remained in north Texas, but four of his five sons had taken up the same cause as John Wesley. Three sons returned. One did not. Samuel, his fifth son, had been too young to fight, but now verged on manhood. Standing by his mother near the stove, Sammy stared across the kitchen table at Blevins, the target of so many of the county’s unreconstructed citizens. Blevins released the edge of the curtain and turned to face the family, forcing a smile and nodding at Gentry’s wife, Susannah, who stirred a pot of stew on the cast-iron stove in the corner. Susannah nodded gently, then placed the spoon in a stove-top cradle and lit two more candles to counter the room’s growing gloom as darkness crept up outside.
“Sorry, ma’am, for the intrusion,” Blevins apologized, “but today’s my boy’s birthday. I promised him a present, and I intend to deliver it. Must be hard on you Gentrys, living next to my place, me being the most hunted man in the county.”
“Being sought by the law,” said Parson Gentry, “is the work of God. Being hunted by the lawless, like you are, is the work of the devil. My place is a refuge from the killing for everyone. I’d do the same for the other side.”
“I know you would.” Blevins nodded and drew the back of his gun hand over his dry lips. “And, I know you wouldn’t tell a soul of my comings and goings, or me of theirs.”
The parson nodded slowly, sadly. “Only God can sort the good from the evil, Tom. I’m called to minister to everyone, whether it’s you or John Wesley.”
Blevins’s parched lips tightened, and his hand dropped to the grip of his revolver. “His name grates on my ears, Parson. He and his bunch started it all.”
“I won’t deny that, Tom, but he’s a creature of God.”
“So’s a rattlesnake,” Blevins shot back, “but that don’t keep one from biting me.”
Susannah stepped toward Blevins and motioned at the kitchen table. “You’re welcome to join us for supper, Tom. There’s enough stew to share.”
Parson Gentry smiled at his wife, proud of her hospitality, even though he knew the servings would be smaller with the added guest, and prouder still that his wife knew when to interrupt his theological discussions when he had no satisfactory answer.
Blevins again peered outside the window. “It smells mighty fine, Mrs. Gentry, but I’m just a mile from the house, and I’ve a hankering for Emma’s cooking. I didn’t want to approach home in the daylight so I appreciate you letting me stay and hide my horse in your barn.”
“The Gentry place is a refuge for all until God can straighten this county out,” the parson added.
Stepping back from the window, Blevins nodded. “I just want it safe for my Emma and my boy.” He nodded at Sammy, still standing by his mother. “I want my boy to grow up like Sammy there and be able to ride the roads without worrying about getting shot in the back by his father’s enemies.”
Parson Gentry glanced from Blevins to his youngest son. “Samuel’s turned out fine for the runt of the litter.”
Sammy grinned. “I’m his favorite.”
“That’s true,” Gentry responded. “Of course, he’s the only one at home with me and his momma now so we don’t have many to choose from anymore or to help us with the chores. How old’s your boy now, Tom? Jacob, isn’t it?”
“Jake’s nine today.”
“I bet you got him a fine gift.”
“Bought it in Fort Worth, I did. A tin whistle.”
“What about a gift for yourself, Tom? Have you accepted the greatest gift of all? How are you with God?”
“I’ve been baptized, Parson, if that’s what you mean.”
“Baptized, not sprinkled, right?”
Blevins grinned. “Yep, full Baptist, Parson. Got baptized and a bath at the same time.”
Gentry smiled. “That’s the way it should be done. You sure you won’t stay for a bowl of stew? Mrs. Gentry’s a fine cook.”
“I know that to be true, but I want to ride on as soon as it’s full dark.” He glanced out the window again. “It’s getting close. Give me a few more minutes, then I’ll fetch my horse and get out of your hair.”
“I’ll have Samuel get your horse, Tom, so you can stay inside until it’s a little darker.”
“That’s neighborly of you, Parson, assuming Sammy don’t mind the extra chore.”
Sammy nodded and grinned. “I’m glad to do it. I can say I helped Tom Blevins in his feud with John Wesley.”
Parson Gentry stomped his boot on the plank floor. “You’ll say no such thing, Samuel! We don’t mention the comings or goings of any visitors to our home, not with this vendetta still burning hot as a branding iron. We don’t take sides, and we don’t brag about helping one side or the other. We help everyone. Do you understand?”
Sammy bowed his head. “Sorry, Papa, and Mr. Blevins. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the barn and get his mount.”
“Wait just a moment,” Gentry said. “Let’s pray before you go.”
Blevins removed his hat as Susannah and Samuel stepped to the parson. Sammy took his mother and father’s hands, then Gentry and his wife extended theirs to Blevins.
“We hold hands when we pray in this house,” Gentry informed him.
Blevins nodded, then placed his hat on the table and gently grabbed the proffered hands of his hosts.
After everyone bowed, Parson Gentry began. “Oh, God, see Brother Blevins safely to his family and let this be but the first of many birthdays he will share with his son, Jacob. Protect his son and his Emma from the dangers of the lawlessness that pervades this county. Help him and his enemies see the errors of their ways and come to lie down together like the lamb with the lion. For these blessings we beseech Thee and would be eternally grateful for your gift of them. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated the others as Parson Gentry opened his eyes and released Blevins’s hand.
“Okay, Samuel, fetch Tom’s horse. Make sure he gets some water so Tom won’t have to tend to that when he gets home.”
“Yes, Papa.”
As Sammy walked out the back door, Blevins picked up his hat and placed it atop his head. “Thank you for your hospitality and your prayers, Parson. I feel safer now.”
“Just the same, Tom, you keep your eyes and ears open. I think there’s more right than wrong on your side in this vendetta, but God is the ultimate judge of all men’s affairs. Ride with God as you leave here.”
“I will, Parson. Thank you both for your hospitality in spite of my intrusion, and thank you for your blessings on my safety.” Blevins stepped to the window and looked outside again. “It’s plenty dark now, so I’ll be on my way once Sammy returns.”
“I’ve a couple of cold biscuits from lunch you can take with you,” Susannah offered.
“That’s mighty kind, ma’am, but I bet my Emma’s baked some fresh ones for Jake’s birthday,” Blevins replied. “I’ve missed her cooking while I’ve been on the run.”
They heard Sammy approaching, humming a song with each step as he neared the back of the house. Parson Gentry grimaced as he realized his son was humming “Dixie.”
“Pay no mind to Samuel’s music,” Gentry apologized. “He means nothing by it.”
Blevins cocked his ear toward the door, listened, and smiled. “‘Dixie,’ isn’t it?”
Parson Gentry nodded.
“It’s a fine tune. I heard tell the night Robert E. Lee surrendered that our martyred President Lincoln had a band serenade the White House with a rendition of ‘Dixie.’ I figure if he was forgiving enough to request ‘Dixie,’ I can listen to it without rancor. I just wish John Wesley was as forgiving.”
As Sammy neared the back porch, Blevins shook the parson’s hand and tipped his hat to Susannah, then opened the door and stepped out into the night. He took the reins from Sammy, mounted his horse, and rode cautiously around the house, then angled toward his own home. Sammy came inside and closed the door behind him. Susannah stepped to the stove, stirred the stew, and announced that supper was hot.
Gentry looked around the room at the four burning candles and blew out the flames of the two farthest from the table. No sense burning more candles than necessary to eat as they were expensive, and money was tight, especially for a parson. Preaching put little food on the table, so he had to farm as well to eat. He wished not only for enough to feed his wife and son, but also for enough to barter for their other needs and an occasional luxury for his dwindling family.
Sammy fetched bowls and spoons, placing the utensils on the table and carrying the wooden dishes to Susannah so she could fill them with the steaming stew. The aroma of beef, potatoes, and tomatoes tickled the parson’s nose, and he wished he could provide greater fare for his family, but he had a calling as a preacher that always overrode everything else. Despite his successes and failures, he always seemed to have enough of everything, but never too much of anything. At least he didn’t have to ride around the county fearful of being shot in the back or having his family or home attacked. In that way he was certainly richer than Tom Blevins.
As Susannah filled the three bowls with stew, Gentry seated himself at the head of the small table, propped his elbows on the surface, clasped his hands beneath his chin, bowed his head, and said a silent prayer for Tom Blevins, Emma, and Jacob. His own son sat down to his left as Susannah placed the bowls in front of each, then sat to Gentry’s right. The parson mouthed “amen,” then lowered his hands to those extended to him by wife and son. As his fingers clasped theirs, he dropped his head and blessed the meal, then gave his wife’s hand a tender squeeze, a sign of affection he always shared with her after a mealtime prayer, his way of thanking his partner for assisting him with God’s work.
They ate silently, their meal lit by the two flickering candles. As he chewed, Gentry felt as inadequate as the candles that fought the nighttime gloom of the room. Just as the candles were too weak to cast the darkness aside, Gentry felt impotent to dispel the wickedness that had tainted his slice of Texas since Appomattox. But how could one man, a modest preacher who eschewed violence at that, bring peace and justice to a land that thirsted for both? If the Union troops assigned to bring order to the region had failed, how could Gentry become a peacemaker? Questions such as those tormented his conscience every day as a man of God in a godless land. In such moments of weakness as this, Gentry always turned to his Bible. Even if the Holy Book couldn’t provide answers to all his questions, its wise words would soothe his conscience and fight his self-doubts.
As he finished his thoughts and his supper, he heard a noise muffled by distance. He feared it was the dying boom of a shotgun, likely both barrels. Silently, he looked to his wife and son, their anxious eyes widening. They, too, had heard it. One, two, three, four more delicate retorts carried from the distance, and Gentry took them to be shots fired from one or more pistols.
“I fear Tom Blevins is dead,” Gentry said softly. “I failed in my prayers.”
Susannah reached toward him, took his hand, and squeezed it tightly. “You did your best, Martin. You can’t torment yourself over it. What a terrible birthday for his boy.”
Gentry nodded and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Thank you, Susannah, but I failed.”
“Papa,” Sammy whispered, “are we safe?”
“I don’t know anymore, son, I don’t know.”
“I suppose you’ll handle his funeral, Martin, won’t you?”
Gentry stared at the table. “I think not, Susannah.”
His wife yanked her hand from his, shocked by his answer. “But, Martin, you—”
Gentry raised his hand for silence. “You don’t understand, woman. If his friends came, John Wesley and his ruffians might ambush them as well. So, his friends’ll stay away for their own safety. A funeral without guests honors no man. I’ll not conduct his funeral, Susannah, but I’ll bury him.” Gentry grasped his wife’s hand again, feeling a tremor in her fingers.
“I’ll go with you, Papa,” Sammy volunteered.
Gentry pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “No, son, I must go alone. What I would like you to do is to hitch the team to the wagon and throw the shovel, pick, and axe in the back so I can dig the grave. Come morning, I’d like you to make a cross for a marker.”
“Yes, Papa,” Sammy answered as he arose and walked to the back door.
The parson watched his youngest son step outside into the darkness to attend to his task. As the door closed, Gentry arose, eased to his wife, and hugged her. “I think I’ll retire to our room and read the Bible until the wagon is ready.”
Susannah returned his embrace, then gently pushed herself away far enough to grab each arm and look into his eyes. “Are you are okay, Martin?”
“I failed Tom, Susannah, I failed him. My prayer went unheard and unanswered.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Martin.”
Gentry kissed Susannah on the forehead. “I’ll do better once I’ve had a few minutes to read the Bible and ask forgiveness.” He slipped from his wife’s grasp, picked up a candle, and carried it into the modest bedroom he shared with Susannah. He placed the candle in a holder on the tiny table by his reading chair, sat down, and picked up his Bible, thumbing the well-worn book to the third chapter of Ecclesiastes. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven,” he read. “A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” Gentry knew the whole chapter by memory, but it soothed him to read the printed scripture aloud. He read the entire chapter twice, stopping in between to say a prayer for Tom Blevins, his soul, and his family. When he heard Samuel pull the wagon up out back, he said a final prayer, asking a blessing upon himself for what he knew he must do. He placed his Bible back on the stand, stood up, retrieved the candle, and returned to the kitchen as Sammy barged in and hurriedly shut the door behind him.
“What is it, Samuel?” Gentry demanded.
“A rider’s skulking out behind the barn,” Samuel answered, his lip trembling.
Gentry blew out his candle. “Susannah, kill the other.”
His wife complied quickly. Gentry eased to the back window, moved the curtain aside, and peered into the distance as Tom Blevins had done less than an hour earlier. Gentry thought he could make out a dark form approaching, but the darkness was thick and his worries thicker. His muscles tightened when Gentry heard the sinister call of a man on horseback.
“Hello the house,” came the cry. “Is Parson Gentry home?”
Susannah gasped. “Don’t answer him, Martin!”
“Who wants to know?” Gentry called back.
“It’s your friend, John Wesley,” came the answer. “I need you to do something.”
“I only follow God’s orders, John Wesley.”
“Get out here or you’ll be seeing God face-to-face in a minute. I’ll burn your house down, if I have to, and shoot your family like varmints when you run out,” Wesley replied.
“Keep my family out of this, John Wesley.”
“Then get out here.”
“No, Martin, no,” cried Susannah.
“Don’t, Papa, don’t,” Sammy begged.
Gentry shook his head. “I’ve got to. I can’t let him harm you.”
“And we can’t let him harm you,” Susannah retorted.
“I’ve got to trust in God,” Gentry replied as he brushed past his wife.
She folded her arms across her bosom. “He didn’t answer your prayers with Tom Blevins!”
“Hush, woman! No more blasphemy!” Gentry stepped to the door and eased it open. “I’m coming out, John Wesley. I’m unarmed, save for the armor of God.”
Wesley laughed. “His armor won’t do you much good against a forty-five slug.”
“He’ll protect me when I need it,” Gentry said, slipping outside, closing the door behind him, and stepping off the porch. “What is it you want, John Wesley?”
“I got some news for you, Parson,” Wesley sneered. “It seems Tom Blevins had an accident between your place and his. Best I can tell he was trying to load his shotgun when it went off and hurt him bad.”
Gentry looked up at Wesley’s gaunt figure on his skittish horse, just making out the killer’s eyes in the darkness. As Gentry took a step toward the feudist, Wesley’s horse nickered and backed away.
“Easy, boy,” Wesley said, leaning over and patting his mount on the neck, then describing the accident. “Seems the pain was so bad from him shot-gunning himself that he pulled out his pistol and shot his brains out.”
“Did it take him four shots to do it?” Gentry answered.
“Can’t say, Parson, as he was dead before I could ask him. Point is, I know you do preaching and undertaking and even some doctoring as well, Parson. You need to know he’s beyond doctoring, and preaching won’t do him any good now. As for undertaking, you just leave him be, let the wild hogs and varmints take care of his remains, what’s left of them.”
Gentry shook his head. “I can’t do that, John Wesley. Every man’s entitled to a decent burial. I’ve had no part in this feud and haven’t taken sides.”
“That’s a lie, Parson. You hid him this evening.”
“He asked for shelter, and I gave it to him. I’d do the same for you or your accomplices. I’d even bury you, John Wesley, and give you the final respect every man deserves.”
“I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again, Parson. Don’t bury Blevins! I want to come back in a year and see his bones bleaching in the sun. If I return and he’s not where I left him, you’ll’ve taken his side in this feud.”
Gentry shook his head. “I do what God tells me, not man.”
“If God tells you otherwise, he must not like you because I will kill you.”
The parson stepped suddenly toward Wesley, whose horse shook his head, snorted, then danced away from Gentry. “Then do it now, John Wesley!”
Gentry heard Susannah gasp from behind the door.
“Go ahead, John Wesley, shoot me now and save yourself a trip.”
Wesley spat at Gentry’s feet, then yanked the reins on his horse, which spun around. The murderer looked over his shoulder at the parson. “I’ll be checking on you, Parson, and on Blevins and he better be where I left him or someone’ll have to dig you a grave.” Wesley nudged his horse in the flank, and the animal trotted away into the darkness.
Instantly, Susannah and Sammy burst out the door, racing to Gentry. Susannah flung her arms around her husband. “Oh, Martin, what are you going to do?”
“Bury Tom Blevins,” he answered.
His day of reckoning with John Wesley would come as sure as the sun would rise in the morning, Parson Gentry knew, but he had done what was right, what God led him to do. He worried not for himself, but for Susannah and Samuel, for he had dug a hole and then made a grave for Tom Blevins the very night he had died, contrary to John Wesley’s orders. Gentry had spent twice as much time as he usually did in preparing the final resting place for a deceased. Gentry had found Blevins’s body a bloody pulp from the shotgun blast, likely to the back, though it was hard to tell in the darkness. He searched Blevins’s pockets and found a few greenbacks and the tin whistle he had planned to deliver as a birthday gift for his son. Gentry regretted he had not taken one of Susannah’s old quilts with him so he could have wrapped the feud’s latest victim before lowering him into the earth’s dark embrace. But the night was cold, and Gentry had too much work to do in decoying Blevins’s grave so that his body might rest in peace. After he had lowered Blevins into the earth, Gentry placed the dead man’s hat over his face, said a silent prayer, and then shoveled dirt over the body.
When he had finished filling the grave, Gentry climbed into his wagon and directed the team over the pimpled spot several times to help disguise the site. It was a feeble effort, Gentry knew, because freshly turned dirt was hard to disguise, but he did it in the hope that Blevins might rest peacefully. Then he had ridden to the Blevins cabin and informed Emma that she was a widow. She and Jacob sobbed, and, despite his efforts, Gentry could not console them. He fished the tin whistle out of his pocket and offered it to Jacob, identifying it as a gift to him from his father. He gave the inconsolable widow the greenbacks her husband had carried in his pocket. As if the death of their husband and father wasn’t sorrow enough to face, Gentry told them he feared for their lives, the vindictiveness of John Wesley and his gang likely unsatisfied by Blevins’s death. Gentry helped them hurriedly pack what clothes and belongings they could, then tossed those possessions in the back of his wagon. After the last load, Emma boosted Jacob into the wagon seat, turned around, and retreated to the door, kissing it and her home goodbye, likely forever. After she climbed into the wagon, Gentry drove them toward the freshly turned dirt on the grave where Tom Blevins would spend eternity. Emma sobbed and Jacob blew his tin whistle, but Gentry did not stop for them to pay further respects as evil men might be watching and might return to desecrate the grave.
Back home Susannah and Samuel had welcomed Emma and Jacob, promising them they could stay as long as they needed. Gentry ran the wagon into the barn without unloading their belongings, then saddled a horse and rode off to find a trustworthy neighbor who could take Emma and Jacob out of the county to a place of safety. That very night the sorrowful journey of Emma and Jacob Blevins continued as a reliable neighbor drove them in Gentry’s wagon to a safe haven thirty miles west of Fort Worth. The next morning, Gentry rode back to the mound of freshly turned dirt, leaned over in his saddle, and stuck Samuel’s makeshift cross into the still soft ground at the head of the upturned soil. He mouthed a prayer for the safety of Tom Blevins’s family and for an end to the county’s wickedness.
The next evening after supper, Gentry and his family heard shouts and gunfire from the direction of the Blevins place. Gentry slipped outside and in the distance saw a glow like a yellow tombstone on the horizon. John Wesley or his allies had returned to the Blevins place to murder his wife and son, then burn the cabin to the ground. They, of course, had failed to kill Emma and Jacob, which was God’s blessing, but now Parson Gentry feared he had thrust his own family into the feud simply by doing the right thing. Might he wake up one night with his own home aflame? The fear tormented him for the following week. He prayed harder than ever and yet nothing allayed his apprehension. During that week, he relieved Samuel of all outside chores so his son might not be seen or ambushed by a cowardly sniper. Then he waited for the day that John Wesley would return.
That moment arrived on a crisp morning as Gentry exited the barn carrying the pail of milk he had just squeezed from the family cow. Halfway between the barn and the kitchen door, Gentry observed John Wesley approaching on his black gelding. The murderer cradled a double-barreled shotgun in the crook of his arm. His vindictive eyes burned with the rage of revenge.
Gentry felt fear coursing through his veins, but he walked, firm and steady, determined to hide his fears, even when John Wesley leveled his shotgun at Gentry’s stomach. The parson took solace in Romans 8:31: “If God be for us, who can be against us?” Surely God was for him. The thought gave him a dose of courage. He thrust out his chest and strode proudly forward.
“Morning, Pastor. You didn’t pay no mind to what I told you on my last visit.”
“I follow God’s commands, not yours, John Wesley.” The parson stepped toward Wesley.
The killer’s horse nickered, then backed away. “Damnation, Pastor, even my horse don’t like you.”
“Don’t use that kind of language on my place, John Wesley.”
The kitchen door swung open, and Susannah rushed onto the porch, gasping in fear. “Martin,” she cried.
Sammy came out behind her, his jaw set in defiance, but his eyes jittery and nervous.
“Morning, ma’am,” John Wesley mocked. “Just wanted to visit your husband and take him for a stroll. Seems he doesn’t take to instructions well.”
“He takes to God’s instructions, not man’s,” she shot back.
Proud of his wife and her defiance of evil, Gentry smiled. “It’s okay, Susannah. God will protect me.”
Wesley laughed. “We’ll see if God can protect you from a shotgun blast, Pastor.”
“Not in front of my family, John Wesley. Surely, you are not so evil as to do that.”
“Nope, Pastor. You and I are going for a little walk. I told you not to bury Tom Blevins, but you went ahead and did so.”
“I’d do the same thing for you, John Wesley. The deceased harbor no vendettas.”
“But I do, Pastor. Now have your boy fetch your shovel, and let’s go visit Tom Blevins.”
Gentry stepped to the porch and sat the milk pail at its edge. “Samuel, would you run to the barn for my shovel.” He nodded, jumped off the porch, and raced to the barn. “Susannah, would you retrieve my Bible for me?”
“Oh, Martin,” she said, “I’m scared for you.”
“The Bible will be my shield.”
John Wesley laughed as Susannah retreated into the kitchen. “You place a lot of faith in that old book. It ain’t gonna save you now, not after you sided with Tom Blevins. I intend to settle our score.”
“Vengeance is God’s, not yours or mine,” Gentry replied as Samuel came running from the barn, carrying the shovel. Gentry took the tool from his son, noticing a quiver in Samuel’s lower lip. “It’ll be okay, son. God will look after me.” He patted Samuel on the shoulder as Susannah, tears streaming down her cheeks, burst from the house, bounded down the steps, and thrust the Bible in her husband’s hand. As soon as he took the Bible, she threw her arms around him.
“Oh, Martin, I don’t want to lose you. Tell me what I can do?”
“Just pray, Susannah. That’s all any of us can do.”
“Okay, Pastor, it’s time for us to go.” Wesley scowled and waved his shotgun at Gentry.
“Let me saddle my horse first,” Gentry replied.
Wesley shook his head. “It’s not that far, Pastor, and you won’t be returning.”
Susannah bawled and hugged her son.
“God’ll decide that, John Wesley, not you.”
Wesley looked up at the cloudless sky and snickered. “I don’t see your God anywhere, Pastor. And if he’s a Yankee God, I don’t want any part of him.” Wesley waved the shotgun for Gentry to start walking, then turned to Susannah and sneered. “Say goodbye to your man of God. If I hear you or the boy’ve told the law about this, I’ll come back and kill the both of you.”
With his right hand Gentry placed his Bible against his heart, then took the shovel mid-handle with his left and smiled at his wife and son. “I’ll be back by noon. Have a good meal for me,” Gentry said, strangely confident of his return. As he started toward the Blevins place, Gentry said a silent prayer for God’s grace over his wife and son to ease their worry until he returned. He felt no need to pray for himself. His faith assured him he would survive, even though the sobs of his wife told him otherwise.
As he walked around the corner of the cabin, John Wesley trailed, riding a gelding as black as his own heart. The horse seemed as skittish as John Wesley was wicked. Perhaps a nervous horse favored a man on the prowl, sensing danger before a rider’s instincts kicked in.
“Where are we headed, John Wesley?”
“To the grave I found where Tom Blevins died. You even put up a cross to spite me.”
“I did what God told me.”
“So you speak to God, do you? Have him say something to me, Pastor.”
“Your heart is too hardened to hear, even if he spoke.”
“My ears are listening, Pastor, and I don’t hear a goddam thing.”
“Don’t blaspheme God, John Wesley, or you’ll tempt fate.” The pastor extended the Bible toward Wesley. “The Holy Book will save me.”
“Nothing can protect you now, Gentry, and save your breath ’cause you’ll need it to dig up Tom Blevins.”
Gentry pressed his Bible against his heart and walked silently toward the crude cross Samuel had fashioned from a pair of weathered boards. The pastor walked slowly, taking a half hour to reach the site. John Wesley relished the walk like a tomcat toying with an injured mouse before the kill.
When they reached the cross beneath a stand of live oaks, Gentry ignored his accuser and stared at the earth, gratified that he had taken twice as long as usual to give Tom Blevins a proper grave, not just a hole in the ground.
“Quit stalling and start digging,” Wesley ordered. “I want his body removed and scattered to the four winds.”
Gentry smiled at the command, even if the task was repulsive and ungodly. He removed his coat and hung it from the stub of a broken tree branch, then placed his Bible on the rock at the base of the tree. After rolling up his sleeves, Gentry stepped to the mound of dirt and attacked it a shovelful at a time. He worked slowly and deliberately, tossing the dirt in a pile that grew taller as he dug deeper. The digging was easy compared to the first time he had excavated the hole. He had thought a lot that dark night about how to provide Tom Blevins a grave beyond John Wesley’s reach.
As the pastor shoveled dirt, John Wesley circled him on his horse, never getting down, likely so he could dash away if anyone approached. Gentry doubted that possibility as no one else but him and the dead man’s wife and son knew where Tom Blevins lay buried. Gentry kept digging, confident that Tom Blevins would rest in peace in spite of John Wesley.
Finally, when the hole was about three feet deep, Gentry hit hard, unturned dirt. “I’m at the bottom,” he announced.
“Then throw out the body.”
Gentry shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“I don’t care how disgusting the chore is, throw out the body.”
“It’s not here!”
“What do you mean, it’s not here? Don’t tell me Tom Blevins arose from the grave!”
“Well, he’s not here. Come see for yourself.”
Wesley yanked the reins on his black gelding and steered him to the shallow pit where Gentry stood. The gelding shook his head and blew his displeasure as Wesley forced him to approach the hole and the pastor. Standing up in his stirrups to inspect the hole, Wesley pointed the shotgun at Gentry.
“There’s nothing here but me,” Gentry said.
Wesley’s face reddened with rage. “What’s your play, Gentry?”
“I dug two graves the night you ambushed Tom Blevins.”
“Then you dug a grave too many, Gentry. Take me to the other and dig him up.”
“Won’t do it, John Wesley. Your hatred ends here, ends now.”
“My hatred will simmer until every carpetbagger and Yankee-lover like you is dead in Texas.” Wesley twisted the reins and directed his horse to the foot of the hole, all the time aiming the shotgun at Gentry. “Take me to his grave or die here, Gentry.”
The pastor shook his head. “The feud’s over for Tom Blevins! You’ll not drag him back into it.”
“Then, Gentry, you just dug your own grave.”
The parson unrolled his sleeves, then buttoned the cuffs. “I’d like to die in my coat with my Bible in my hand.”
“Nothing doing,” Wesley answered, pointing the shotgun at Gentry and backing his horse away from the foot of the would-be grave.
Gentry stared at the shotgun’s twin black eyes, looking into the darkness of eternity. His faith gave him courage as he stepped to the foot of the hole and used the shovel to push himself out of his grave, pulling the implement with him. He straightened to his full height, then stepped away from the edge of the pit, his hand gripping tightly the shovel’s handle.
The gelding tossed his head and snorted. Wesley struggled to control the animal and keep his weapon aimed at Gentry.
“You plan to shoot me in the back like you did Tom Blevins, John Wesley, or can you look me in the eyes when you pull the trigger?”
“Damn right I can, Pastor. Prepare to meet your maker, you son of a bitch.”
Gentry nodded, vowing to die as a man, not a coward. He thrust his chest out and flung the shovel aside.
The abrupt movement frightened the fidgety gelding, which suddenly reared on its hind legs as John Wesley tugged the reins to control the animal. The rider cursed God as the gelding landed on his hooves.
Gentry flung his hands in the air and jumped at the horse, screaming shrilly.
The frightened animal bucked and reared on its hind legs again.
Wesley yanked the reins with his left hand, while his right hand flailed to control the shotgun.
Gentry kicked the shovel at the bucking mount.
The whining gelding reared again, kicking the air with his forelegs, as Wesley lost his balance.
Boom! The shotgun exploded, then fell from Wesley’s hand.
The black hide of the gelding’s neck turned red, splotched with blood.
Wesley tumbled backward, just as the dying horse collapsed on its back, the gelding’s legs twitching uncontrollably. Wesley disappeared beneath the horse, which thrashed about momentarily until death overtook the gelding.
Wesley screamed in agony, first at the pain and then in horror as he realized he was pinned between his dead mount and the cold earth. He fought against the carcass to free himself, panicking at the futility of his exertions, then glancing about to find his shotgun.
Realizing Wesley’s goal, Gentry dashed around the slain horse and grabbed the shotgun. He stepped to Wesley, thrashing on the ground, his right arm flopping helplessly at his side, evidently broken in the fall. Desperate, Wesley reached with his left hand for the pistol pinned under his right hip, but he could not reach the sidearm, the pain from his broken bones pulsing like molten lead through his body. He screamed. Gentry stuck the shotgun at Wesley’s ear and stepped on his broken arm, drawing more shrieks and curses from his former captor. The pastor bent over and yanked the revolver from Wesley’s holster, then backed to the rear of the horse, pulling Wesley’s carbine from its scabbard.
“I can’t use my arm,” Wesley cried. “My leg feels broke. Help me! Please, Pastor, help me!”
Gentry carried the weapons to the tree where he had hung his coat, dropping the rifle and revolver, then breaking open the shotgun’s breech to make sure both barrels had been fired. They had. He then snapped the barrels back in place, grabbed the business end of the weapon, and beat it against the tree until the stock broke.
All the time Wesley screamed in agony. “Help me, don’t shoot me,” he cried.
Until then, Gentry had never considered shooting John Wesley, so he picked up the carbine and pointed it at the feudist.
Wesley begged for mercy. “Please don’t, Pastor, please don’t shoot me. I’m not ready to die.”
“Neither was Tom Blevins,” Gentry answered, then aimed at Wesley’s hat a couple feet behind the wounded man’s head. He pulled the trigger. The gun exploded. The hat flew backward. Wesley flinched, then begged for mercy.
Gentry fought the devil’s urging to shoot John Wesley and put him out of his misery like he would a wounded animal, but animals didn’t have souls. John Wesley did, no matter how dark it might be. Instead of shooting over his antagonist again, Gentry turned to the hole he had twice dug and then he fired, emptying the gun into the pit that John Wesley had planned to make the pastor’s grave. When he had levered the final hull out of the weapon, he grabbed it by the barrel and beat it against the tree until it, too, shattered.
Once the carbine was useless, he picked up the revolver and took it over to Wesley, whose eyes widened as he whimpered in pain and fear. Wesley fought against the gelding’s body to free himself, but the excruciating pain of his crushed hip and broken leg left him breathless and grimacing as tears of agony drained from his eyes.
In an ungodly moment, Gentry squatted by John Wesley and stuck the revolver barrel in his ear. “The devil in me says I should pull the trigger. What do you think, John Wesley?”
“No, no,” Wesley pleaded.
Gentry nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” He stood up, then stepped to the gelding’s head. Bending over, he shot the animal in the ear, not to ensure the gelding was dead as much as to terrorize John Wesley. It was an ungodly gesture, Gentry knew, but one that seemed appropriate nonetheless. Then he shot the pistol in the air until it was empty, broke it apart, and tossed the parts in the directions of the four winds, just as Wesley would have had him do with Tom Blevins’s body.
Gentry retreated to the tree to retrieve his coat, which he grabbed and draped over his arm. He picked up his Bible, held it against his heart, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to God.
“Please, Pastor, please!” Wesley sobbed, “Help me! Don’t leave me trapped here!”
Gentry finished his prayer and turned to his tormentor.
Wesley pleaded, “Give me a chance!”
“Like the chance you gave Tom Blevins or planned to give me?”
“I was funning you, Pastor,” he cried. “It hurts, it hurts bad. Please help me.”
Gentry nodded. “Okay, I’ll give you the best medicine I can, the Word of God.” He opened the third chapter of Ecclesiastes and read to John Wesley about a season and a time to every purpose under heaven, a time to be born and a time to die. When he completed the chapter, he closed his Bible and looked at John Wesley, helplessly trapped beneath his horse. “I think, John Wesley, you need some time alone with God. May he have mercy on your soul for I have no more to spare today.”
“Don’t leave me, Pastor, don’t. I hurt so.”
“No more than the families you’ve wounded with your meanness. Good day, John Wesley. You need to have a long talk with God about all your sins.”
“Please don’t go.”
“I promised my family I’d be back for my noon meal,” Gentry said, “and I promise you I’ll be back tomorrow.” Gentry turned his back on his tormentor and walked away. He was halfway home before the sound of Wesley’s screams and cries died away in the distance.
As he came within sight of his modest home, the front door flung open, and Susannah and Sammy bolted out toward him, shouting and crying as they ran. He raced toward them, opening his arms for them. They ran into his embrace, and he grasped them both.
“We heard shots, then feared you were dead,” Susannah sobbed.
“Are you okay, Papa?” Sammy asked. “What happened?”
“God decided not to call me home, son.”
“But John Wesley,” Susannah asked, “what about him?”
Gentry pulled himself from the grasp of his wife and son, then put his arms over their shoulders as they walked back to their humble place.
Sammy echoed his mother’s question. “What about John Wesley?”
“He’s contemplating his relationship with God.”
“And what about you?” Susannah asked.
“I’m fine, just hungry. In the morning, though, I’ll need to retrieve my shovel and see if I dug a grave too many.”
Preston Lewis is the Spur Award–winning author of thirty western, juvenile, and historical novels. He is best known for his comic western series, The Memoirs of H.H. Lomax.