Ralph Compton Brimstone Trail (9781101612637) Read online

  “Guess I’d rather just have my wicked thoughts and not make any lady feel uncomfortable by them.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Paul said while clasping his hands once more behind him. “Now, why don’t you get some sleep?”

  Gar took half a step forward and then stopped. “Mind if I ask you something, Father?”

  “I’ve asked you and everyone else to just call me by my given name.”

  “Father is your given name,” Gar replied simply. “Me and everyone else here in town gave it to you.”

  Suddenly feeling as if he were the one who’d transgressed, Paul shifted his eyes from the stars to the little town in front of him. Then he looked to the man who was always, no matter what the hour, looking to him. “In that case, I suppose you can call me what you like. What did you need to ask?”

  “Why ain’t you like other preachers?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been to other churches in other towns, heard plenty of men in black spouting off about hellfire and telling folks what to do, but you’re not like any of them as far as I can tell.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Paul said.

  “You don’t take proper confession.”

  “That isn’t part of the practices of my belief.”

  “What is your belief?” Gar asked. “Are you Baptist? Catholic? Something else?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To some . . . it matters a whole lot.”

  Paul didn’t need to think for very long before conceding, “Yes, it does. I guess I’ve tried to learn what I can from as many good men as I could find.”

  “So you’re not a proper minister?”

  “Of course I am! I just believe that someone in my position should tailor his lessons to the needs of his flock. If you’d like me to answer for myself any more than that, you’ll have to wait until morning. It’s getting awfully late. Hopefully, you’ll be able to sleep now that I’ve eased your mind a bit concerning those dreams.”

  Nodding happily, Gar said, “I don’t expect you to answer for anything, Father. You’ve done a hell of a good job here and . . . oh no.”

  “I’ll give you that one for free,” Paul said. “Just watch your language in the future. Good night.”

  Gar started to walk away, but turned around again before Paul had a chance to open the church door and step inside. “I must be tired!” he said. “My mind’s slipping. I never told you why I was here.”

  “It wasn’t about a dream?”

  “No, Father. That was the last time I came to see you. Seems like we both just got swept up in our philosophical discussion.”

  While Gar might have gotten swept up, Paul knew all too well that he’d pointed the conversation in a particular direction. In talking with Gar, such a tactic was a necessity. The alternative was to sign over hours upon hours in meandering debates and question after question that had no proper answer. Every now and then, those talks were refreshing. To excess, they were taxing beyond measure.

  “You sure this can’t wait until morning?” Paul asked.

  Gar cringed, wrung his hands, and shifted from foot to foot.

  Coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t about to get to bed any time soon, Paul asked, “Would you like to come inside?”

  “Most definitely!”

  Paul opened the church’s door and allowed Gar to step inside. Rather than close it, he stood beside the doorway to make it clear this would be a short talk. The interior of the church was currently only lit by two candles placed at the front of the chapel, which had two rows of pews that seated sixty people comfortably. The altar was a simple affair consisting of a long table covered in white linens embroidered with a beautiful crucifix surrounded by rays of light sewn in bright yellow thread. Candles were lined up along the table, framing a simple dais placed front and center between the long table and pews. Upon that dais were two things that had been with Paul since his first days preaching the Good Word: an ornate wooden cup and a Bible encased in a battered, dusty cover.

  “What’s troubling you, Gar?”

  “It’s something I overheard a few days ago.”

  “Overheard?”

  “That’s right. I was in the Red Coyote.” When he mentioned the town’s largest saloon by name, Gar’s eyes drifted downward.

  Not only did the Red Coyote sell liquor, but it also employed dancing girls as well as a couple of soiled doves who plied their trade in rented rooms above the bar. “There were a few strangers in town,” Gar continued. “They were talking to Lydia about . . . well . . . you know.”

  Since Lydia was one of the soiled doves residing in the saloon, Paul nodded to show that he did indeed know.

  “I think they were gamblers,” Gar went on to say. “Or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yes, Father. They carried guns.”

  “That doesn’t make a man worse than anything,” Paul assured him. “If you recall, I carried a gun when I first came to town. In a land as rough as this, it would be unwise not to be prepared to defend yourself.”

  “These men carried pistols strapped to their sides. And they looked like they knew how to use them. But it wasn’t just the sight of a gun that caught my interest. It was what they talked about. Before you say anything,” Gar snapped, even though Paul hadn’t even started to cut in, “you should know that I wasn’t trying to listen in on a conversation that didn’t concern me. One of the men was drunk and he was mighty loud.”

  Nodding while placing a hand on Gar’s back, Paul gently moved the bigger man toward the door.

  “He was saying something about riding with another fella,” Gar said.

  “I’m sure they spoke about plenty of things. That’s what folks tend to do in saloons.”

  “One of the names he mentioned sounded familiar.” Now that he was outside again, Gar looked around as if he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there. “I think it was the name of a wanted man.”

  “It’s probably best you don’t concern yourself with that sort of thing,” Paul told him. “That could be dangerous.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, which is why I didn’t say anything. Not even to Sheriff Noss. And the more I thought about it, the worse I felt.” Gar smirked and rubbed his hand flat across his forehead. “After all we talked about just now, I feel a little silly for getting so worked up about it. I suppose I didn’t harm no one and it was just a bunch of talk.”

  “That’s right.”

  “After all, ain’t nobody heard a peep from Jack Terrigan for some time.”

  “Jack Terrigan?” Paul asked.

  “I think that’s the name that was mentioned. Then again, it could have been something else. I was drinking more than my share and I feel mighty bad about it. You got any way for me to make up for that, Father?”

  Paul was quick to shake his head. “No need. It’s just as likely you misheard what was said in the midst of all that noise inside the Red Coyote. Honest mistake.”

  “I suppose so. Good night, Father.”

  As Gar walked away, Paul felt an itch work its way beneath his skin like a single flea that had managed to crawl down the back of his shirt. He retreated into the church and closed the door, wishing for the first time since the church’s construction that he could lock himself within the building.

  Instead of going through the narrow door that led to the little room where he slept on a cot beneath a few blankets donated by a few kind families, Paul took a seat at one of the middle pews and prayed until the candles burned down to nubs.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning, Paul emerged from the church later than usual. His delayed appearance wasn’t on account of oversleeping, because he’d only allowed himself to drift off for an hour or two. It
was the middle of the week, which meant his absence wasn’t noticed by more than a handful of folks along the route he normally took when getting his breakfast or running the errands that filled his day. The woman who served him his fried eggs and bacon smiled as he passed. She seemed to have a question for him, but didn’t try overly hard to ask it as he tipped his hat to her and continued along.

  Paul wore simple clothes without his white collar. Since most everyone in Pueblito Verde knew who he was, a uniform was hardly necessary. There would have been no way for him to sneak into the Red Coyote, so he didn’t even try to cover his steps. Doing so would only have started some kind of scandal among the town’s looser tongues.

  The Coyote wasn’t unlike many other saloons in many other towns. Its name was painted across a wide front window beside a door that opened into a large room containing a short bar, a few tables and chairs, as well as the stage that had no doubt captured so much of Gar’s attention in recent days. At the moment, the stage was empty and a skinny old man played a piano that could very well have propped up one of the saloon’s walls. The piano player stopped in the middle of a bouncy tune long enough to look over, toss a wave at Paul, and say, “Howdy do, Father Lester!”

  There were less than half a dozen men drinking in the saloon at that time of day, and all but one of them turned toward the door as if they were afraid they’d be facing their final judgment then and there. Paul tried to allay their fears as best he could with a shaky smile and a friendly “Hello to you, Manny. Just stopping by for a quick drink.”

  Mentioning he was there for a sip of firewater was enough to make the local drunks cool their heels a bit. One man had barely glanced up to acknowledge Paul’s entrance and seemed to have forgotten the door had even opened by the time Manny got back to his song.

  Paul was no stranger to the Red Coyote. In fact, he often wondered why the saloon’s regular customers still reacted the way they did whenever he entered. It was a simple, unavoidable repercussion for any man who stood at the front of a church every Sunday. No matter how human he tried to appear to his congregation, he would always be seen as something else. Something more.

  Paul stepped up to the bar, leaning his elbows against a spot at the corner of the stained wooden surface that was close to the door but where he could see most everyone else inside the place. Before he could finish returning a couple of friendly nods from some of the other patrons, Paul was approached by a man with a medium build and a face sporting about two days’ worth of light blond stubble.

  “Sorry I wasn’t at services this last Sunday,” the barkeep said. “Had to stay here and keep an eye on the place. Not that I wouldn’t prefer to close up on Sunday. I know that’s the proper thing to do and all, but—”

  Paul stopped him with a gently raised hand. “No need to explain yourself, Harrold. Every man needs to earn his daily bread. I’ll have a beer.”

  Looking as if he’d been granted a reprieve, Harrold went straight to the beer taps located at the opposite end of the bar. It was a short walk that, Paul noticed, ended with the barkeep reaching for the tap on the right, which poured a brew that was much higher in quality than the cheaper swill he sold at the same price. One of the benefits attached to the strip of white around Paul’s neck.

  Harrold returned to Paul’s end of the bar, wiping off the mug in his hand with a mostly clean rag. “What brings you by today?” he asked while setting the drink down. “Not that you need a reason, of course.”

  Sipping the beer helped calm Paul’s jangling nerves. He’d been wound up tighter than a pocket watch ever since Gar’s visit, and the only thing more difficult than spending a sleepless night in such a state was trying to look as if everything was right as rain. He leaned forward, prompting the barkeep to do the same. “I heard a bit of news that I find somewhat . . . distressing,” Paul said in a whisper that was mostly drowned out by the piano music. “Could be nothing more than a rumor, though.”

  Harrold leaned in a bit more. “Plenty of rumors floating around any saloon. Usually not worth getting your feathers ruffled over. What did you hear?”

  “Apparently, there was some . . . and I even feel a bit foolish for bringing this up . . . but what I heard involved a man named Terrigan.”

  The barkeep’s eyes had shown hungry curiosity at the prospect of taking part in some juicy bit of news. That spark was immediately snuffed out when Paul mentioned Terrigan’s name. Recoiling a bit, but dropping his voice to maintain their privacy, he said, “I heard something along those lines myself.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Not much. Just that . . .” Harrold sighed and his eyes darted toward the rest of his customers. Then he shifted his weight to lean against the bar so he was facing the shelves of bottles behind the bar and, to some small degree, Paul. If he’d been attempting to make his stance seem casual, he did a poor job of it. “Jack Terrigan is a cold-blooded killer. When it comes to men like that, it’s best to just let them pass you by and hope they don’t look in your direction. We may not get many of that sort around here, but I’ve run saloons in enough towns to know what I’m talking about.”

  “So someone here does know something about this Terrigan fellow?”

  “Yes, but . . . like I already said . . . probably just some silly rumor.”

  Paul had always had a knack for reading people’s faces, and his years in the ministry had only sharpened that skill. Hardly any such experience was needed for him to know that Harrold was certain whatever had been said in regard to Jack Terrigan was more than a silly rumor.

  “Even if that’s the case,” Paul said, “I’d like to have a word with anyone who might know something about it and I’d appreciate if you could point me in the right direction.” He took another couple of sips of his beer, giving the barkeep a chance to speak up on his own. When it became clear that Harrold intended to try to wait him out, Paul sighed and nodded slowly. “I suppose I’ll just have to pursue the matter on my own. I was hoping you’d make this a little easier for me, though.”

  When Paul shifted his weight, Harrold reached out to grab his arm as if his favorite customer were about to be swept out through the front door. Seeing that he’d caught a few curious eyes, Harrold released the other man’s arm. “What could you . . . Damn it, Manny! Who told you to stop playing?”

  “Just taking a drink,” the man at the piano replied.

  “Take it quickly, then! I don’t pay you to sit on your backside.”

  “Barely pay me at all,” Manny grumbled.

  Harrold wheeled around and stomped to the other end of the bar to fill a mug from the cheap tap. “Here,” he said while slamming the beer down. “Come and get your free drink and play something to earn what I do pay you. Otherwise, you can be on your merry damn way.”

  The old man’s grumping lasted until he crossed the room, got his beer, and took a sip. “Best in town!” he said while lifting the glass.

  That brought a grin to both Harrold’s and Paul’s faces.

  Turning back to Paul, Harrold waited for the lively music to resume before saying, “Sorry about the bad language, Father.”

  “Was there bad language?”

  “I do my best to be charitable, but some kind just don’t appreciate it. Know what I mean?”

  Paul merely shrugged and took another drink.

  “Who would talk to you about someone like Jack Terrigan?” Harrold asked in an urgent whisper. “It was Gar, wasn’t it? That portly fool can hold his damn tongue about as well as he can his liquor, which is to say not at all. Sorry about the language again.”

  “You can stop apologizing and just tell me what I’d like to know,” Paul said.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “So do you mean to say that if I was any other paying customer, you wouldn’t want to swap stories about some known gunman passing through these parts? I’ve be
en to some saloons in my day as well, and I know talk like that swirls around inside them thicker than cigar smoke. All I want to know is what is being said on this particular subject.”

  “First of all,” Harrold said, “you’re not a paying customer.”

  That sent a cold jab through Paul’s gut, which showed plain as day on his face. He reached into a pocket, removed a silver dollar, and set it on top of the bar. “Here,” he said evenly. “Since money is what you want, there it is.”

  If Harrold looked as if he’d gotten a reprieve before, he now looked as if he’d just gotten news of his condemnation. “Tha-that’s not what I meant,” he sputtered while pushing away the coin as if it might burn his fingers. “All I meant is that you’re not just one of the other cowboys or drunkards that walk through my doors. You’re a man of God.”

  “I may have chosen a path of faith, but I’m just a man.”

  “A man who does things differently than most others. For example, when most men want to hear about a killer like Terrigan, all they want to know is gruesome details of the last time he traded shots with the law. They don’t even care whose blood was spilled. Come to think of it, they tend to like the stories where it’s the lawmen who were left in the dirt. Them stories are just so much trash and ain’t hardly the sort of thing I’d want to tell to a preacher.”

  “I think there were more than just bloody stories told about Terrigan in this saloon. Otherwise, I doubt they would have created such a commotion.”

  Harrold slowly shook his head. “Damn it all to hell. It was Gar who flapped his gums to you.” After seeing one of Paul’s eyebrows raise, the barkeep winced and muttered, “Sorry about the language, Father.”

  “Why don’t you make up for it by telling me who brought this news to Pueblito Verde?”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “All right, then, what if I settle for a different question?”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Harrold replied, “I’d like that very much.”