Preacher (2 page)

“No, sir. I come by boat,” Art said.

“Well, after you eat your supper, come on down and help me get loaded up. Then, if you're a mind to go with me, why, I reckon you can tie your boat on behind. Or else, leave it here.”

“You got a boat you want to leave here, I'll keep it for you till you get back,” Eby said. “Won't charge you but a dollar to keep it for a whole month.”

Harding laughed. “Yeah, in a pig's eye you will,” he said. He stroked his beard and looked at Art. “Boy, you don't have any money at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if that boat don't mean nothin' personal to you, why don't you just sell it? That way you can go on downriver with me, and have a little money besides.”

“Sell the boat? Why, yes, I reckon I could,” Art said. The boat had served its purpose, getting him away from home. Now he truly was on his own, and any money the boat brought would have to be good.

“All right, Eby. What'll you give the boy for the boat?”

“Fifty cents.”

“It's worth five dollars,” Harding said.

“Not to me, it ain't.”

“As many people as you got comin' through here, you could give the boy five dollars for the boat, then turn right around and sell it within a week to someone else for seven dollars.”

“I'll give the boy three dollars.”

“Four,” Harding said.

“All right, four dollars.”

Harding looked at Art. “What do you think, son? It's your boat, and your decision.”

“Four dollars?” Art said. “I've never had that much money in my life. Yes, I'll sell it.”

“Give the boy four dollars,” Harding said.

“Where's the boat?”

“I'll take you to it,” Art said.

“We'll take you to it,” Harding corrected. Then he looked at Art. “After you make the transaction, we've got work to do.”

“Yes, sir!” Art said.

* * *

Harding had unloaded his goods there, in order to do some business with the folks who had tied up at the trading post. It took no more than half an hour to get them loaded back onto his boat. It was a flatboat, nearly as wide as it was long, with a small cabin at mid-deck. A long tiller, which could also be used to propel the boat, stuck out from behind the boat. Every available square inch of the boat was covered with cargo; bales of cloth, pots, pans, various kinds of tools, barrel staves, hoops, and three cases of Bibles.

When the boat was loaded, Harding invited Art to step aboard.

“It's time for us to get a'goin',” he said.

“We're going to run the river at night?” Art asked.

Harding shook his head. “No, we'll put in a couple miles downstream,” he said. “It'll be safer than staying here with the river pirates.”

“River pirates?”

Harding's searching look covered both sides of the river, into the rocks and behind the trees.

“They like to hang around river stops, like trading posts and the like,” he said. “That way they can get a good look at what the boats are carrying, and if they see anything they like, they'll go cross-country till they can find a place to set up an ambush. What with the river meanderin' back and forth, it's easy enough for them to get ahead of a boat.”

“You mean there might be pirates here right now?”

“Truth to tell, boy, I wouldn't put it past Eby himself. I've always suspected him, but I've never been able to prove it. If I ever got proof, I'd get some of the other boatmen together and we'd clean this place out.”

Harding cast off the line, then using the tiller, worked the boat out into the center of the river. He pointed it downstream and, as had been the case with Art's skiff, the current provided all the propulsion they needed. The only difference was that the flatboat didn't travel quite as fast as the skiff.

“Come here,” Harding said once they were under way.

Art stepped to the rear of the boat.

“Take the tiller,” Harding said. “You may as well start learning right off.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, taking the tiller in his own hands. He could feel the surge of the water, and the control he had over the boat. It was similar to what he experienced with the skiff, though as the flatboat was bigger, the tiller longer and with more surface area, he felt a much greater pull.

“You're doing a good job,” Harding said, sitting down on a bale of cloth. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out a pipe, filled it with tobacco, then using a flintlock and steel mechanism, managed to get his pipe lit. A few minutes later, he was puffing contentedly.

“How far do we go before we put in?” Art asked.

Harding laughed. “You tired already?”

“No, sir!” Art replied, his face stinging in embarrassment. “I just meant, well, I just wondered, that's all.”

“Not much longer,” Harding said easily. He took a few more puffs while he studied Art. “Run away from home, did you?”

“No, I . . .” Art started; then he decided that it was time to be honest with the man who had helped him. “Yes, sir,” he said sheepishly. “I ran away.”

“Trouble at home?”

“No. I just wanted to . . .” He let the sentence trail off, and Harding laughed.

“You wanted to see the creature, didn't you?”

“See the creature?”

“That's just a saying, son. It's a saying for folks like us.”

“Like us?”

“You and me. There are some folks who are born, live, and die and never get more'n ten miles away from home in any direction. Then there's folks that's always wondering what's on the other side of the next hill. And when they get over that hill, why, damn me if they don't feel like they got to go on to the next one and the next one, and the next one after that. They're always hopin' they'll find somethin' out there, some sort of creature they ain't never seen before. I know it's that way with me.”

Art smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I'd say it's that way with me too.”

“Pull in over there,” Harding said. “We'll camp here, tonight.”

“Get up, boy!” a gruff voice ordered.

Art was jerked awake when someone grabbed him and pulled him up from the bale of cloth he was using for a bed.

It was still dark, but in the ambient light of the moon, Art could see that two men were holding Harding. One of the men had the point of his knife sticking into Harding's neck, far enough that a little trickle of blood was streaming down. One flick of the hand, Art knew, and Harding would bleed his life away in seconds.

The third man, the one who had so abruptly awakened Art, was now holding Art's arm twisted behind him. He put pressure on the arm and Art winced in pain, but he didn't cry out.

“What'll we do with the kid?” the one who held Art asked.

“Knock him in the head and throw him overboard,” the man with the knife replied.

Art's captor was holding a club, and he raised it over Art's head in order to accomplish the task.

“No, wait! Eby told me he give the boy four dollars for that boat. Check his pockets, he ain't had no chance to spend it yet.”

“That right, boy?” his captor asked, smiling at Art. Two of his teeth were missing and his breath was foul. “You got four dollars on you?”

The man started to put his hand in Art's pocket, but in order to do so, he had to loosen his grip. That was all that was needed, for as soon as the grip was relaxed, Art twisted away and jumped into the river beside the boat.

“Goddamnit, Percy, you let him get away!”

“Couldn't help it, Deekus. The little sumbitch was slick as a greased hog.”

* * *

This close to the bank, the river was only about chest-deep, but it was dark, and Art moved up under the curve of the boat keel so he couldn't be seen by those on board. His heart was racing. These men must be some of the river pirates Harding had told him about. And the fact that they had mentioned Eby's name seemed to prove Harding's theory about Eby's involvement with the pirates.

“What'll we do with Harding?” Percy asked.

“Well, we know he's got some money, 'cause Eby seen 'im doin' a lot of business back at the trading post,” Deekus replied.

“That right, Harding? You got yourself a poke hid some'ers on this here boat?”

“If I did, I wouldn't tell you, you sorry sack of shit.”

“Oh, I think you'll tell us,” Deekus said. “Break one of his fingers, Clyde.”

Even from his place of hiding, down in the water, Art could hear the bone pop as Clyde broke one of Harding's fingers. Harding gasped in pain, but he didn't cry out.

“Harding, we know you got the money hid on the boat, and you know that we're a' goin' to find it. All we're askin' is that you make it easier on us, and we'll make it easier on you.”

“Yeah,” Percy added with a demonic giggle. “We'll be real nice to you. We'll kill you fast, instead of slow.”

“Go to hell,” Harding said. His refusal was followed by the sound of another snapping bone, and another gasp of pain.

“You got ten fingers and ten toes,” Deekus said. “And ole' Clyde there, he's the kind of fella that likes to make other folks hurt. So, you can tell us now, or you can just let Clyde bust you up, one bone at a time, until you do.”

Carefully, and quietly, Art pulled himself back onto the boat, boarding it at the bow. Harding and the three men who were working him over were back at the stern.

Art had no idea why he was doing this. Every impulse and nerve in his body was screaming at him to run. The night was dark enough, and the woods by the riverbank were thick enough that he could easily get away from them. And yet, here he was, crawling back onto the boat.

Keeping low, and staying behind the bales of cargo, Art slipped into the mid-deck cabin from the front end. He knew exactly what he was looking for, because he had seen them early that afternoon.

It was considerably darker inside the cabin than it was on the deck of the boat. Art couldn't see six inches in front of his face, so he had to do everything by feel. On the other hand, there was some advantage to that, because even if the pirates were looking right at him, they wouldn't be able to see him.

Art's fingers closed over what he was looking for—two fully charged, primed, and loaded fifty-caliber pistols. Picking them up, he eased both hammers back quietly, then moved to the stern door of the little cabin. He was less than ten feet away from the pirates, but they couldn't see him.

“He ain't goin' tell us nothin', Deekus,” Percy complained.

“I reckon you're right,” Deekus said. “We may as well kill 'im now, and get it over with.”

Deekus drew back his knife, ready to plunge it into Harding's chest. It was at that exact moment that Art fired. The gun roared and bucked in his hand, while the muzzle flash lit up the deck like a bolt of lightning. For one instant in time, all action was frozen and Art could almost believe he was looking at a drawing. In a harsh white-and-black tableau, he could see Deekus's expression of shock and pain as he looked down at the gaping hole in his chest, the surprise on Clyde's face, and the fear in Percy's eyes.

“What the hell?” Percy shouted.

Only Harding was jolted into action. Dropping to one knee, he grabbed Deekus's knife, then, with a quick underhand flip of the wrist, threw the knife at Clyde. The knife buried itself in the pirate's neck and, with a gurgling sound, Clyde reached up to pull it out, too late, for it had already severed his jugular.

Only seconds before, Percy had been one of three armed river men, easily in command of the situation. Now he was the only one left, and he realized that his position had suddenly become very perilous. With a roar of anger and desperation, he raised his own knife and started toward Harding.

Because Harding had thrown the knife at Clyde, he was unarmed. Still on one knee on the deck, Harding rolled to his right, just barely managing to avoid Percy's lunge.

“Mr. Harding!” Art shouted. “Here!” He thrust the other pistol toward Harding. Harding grabbed it, then spun toward Percy, who was just now recovering from his failed lunge.

Percy turned back toward Harding, then realized too late that Harding was no longer unarmed. Harding pulled the trigger, and Art watched as the impact of the heavy ball knocked Percy backward, over the boat rail. He hit the water with a splash, then floated away, leaving a thick, black stream of blood in the water behind him.

Harding checked the two men who were still on board. He leaned down over Deekus.

“Is he . . . is he dead?” Art asked from the shadows of the cabin.

“Dead as a doornail,” Harding replied. “You did a job on him, boy.”

“Oh,” Art said rather pensively.

Harding dragged both Percy and Clyde to the edge of his boat. “Get the hell off my boat, you bastards!” he said angrily as he pushed them over. They fell into the water with a little splash.

Harding stood there for a long moment, looking down at the three floating bodies. He spat down at them.

It was not until then that Art came out of the cabin. He too looked down at the dead pirates.

“Are we just going to leave them here?” Art finally asked.

“Hell, yes, we're going to leave them here,” Harding responded. “You don't think I'm going to take the time to dig graves for those sons of bitches, do you?”

“No, sir, I guess not.”

“Let the alligator-garfish feed on their sorry carcasses. I just wish they weren't quite dead yet, so they could feel it.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said.

Harding looked up at the sky. “It'll be getting light soon,” he said. “We may as well get under way. Untie the forward line.”

Art picked his way to the bow, then untied the line that held them secure to an overhanging branch. Harding poled them away from the bank, then out into the river. After they reached midstream, the current took over and, once more, they moved rapidly down the river.

“Take the tiller, boy,” Harding said. “I've got to tend to this hand.”

Art watched as Harding pulled on both his fingers, grimacing in pain as he straightened them out. After that he rummaged through the little pile of firewood until he found a stick just the right size. He put the stick alongside his two fingers, then called Art over.

“Take some of that rawhide cord there and bind these fingers to this here splint.”

Art started to do what Harding said, but as soon as he began wrapping the rawhide around the badly swollen fingers, Harding winced in pain. Art stopped.

“Don't stop, boy, else I'll have a couple of useless hooks here, instead of fingers,” Harding said. “And do it pretty tight. It's goin' to hurt a mite, but I'll be the one hurtin', not you.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said. He wrapped the cord around the two fingers.

“Not so tight that it cuts off the blood,” Harding cautioned.

Art nodded, then finished the task, cutting off the rawhide and tying it secure. Harding held his hand out and looked at it.

“Doubt there's a doctor this close to St. Louis who could've done a better job,” he said. “I'm proud of you, boy.”

“Glad I could help.”

Art went back to the tiller. By now the sky had turned a dove-gray, and streaks of pink slashed through the eastern sky. Harding got a fire going, then disappeared into the cabin. He came out a moment later with a pot, which he placed over the fire. After a few minutes, the rich aroma of brewing coffee permeated the boat.

“Coffee comes so dear that I don't generally drink it, 'cept on Sundays,” Harding said. “But I reckon this occasion is special enough for us to have some this mornin'.”

“What's the occasion?” Art asked.

“Well, you saved my life,” Harding said. “Now, that might not be all that much of an occasion to some folks, but it sure is to me.”

“I didn't do much.”

“The hell you say,” Harding said. “Once you went over the side of the boat and into the water, you could've kept on going and they would've never found you. But you came back. And you saved my life.”

“I ... I wish I hadn't had to ...” Art let the sentence hang.

“Kill a man?” Harding asked.

Art nodded.

“First time you ever had to do it?”

Art nodded again.

“Well, of course it is, you bein' no older'n you are. How old are you, Art?”

“I'm, uh, sixteen,” Art said.

Harding just looked at him.

“All right, I'm thirteen. Well, nearly so anyway,” Art insisted.

“Nearly thirteen. So that means what? That you're twelve?”

“Yes, sir,” Art admitted sheepishly.

Harding poured two cups of coffee, and handed one to Art. Art took a swallow, then frowned a little at its bitter taste.

“You're used to having milk and sugar in your coffee?”

“Milk, sometimes a little syrup or honey,” Art said.

“Well, you'd best get used to having it black. You see, you can purt' near always have coffee with you. You can't always have milk or sugar.”

Art took another swallow. “It's good,” he said.

Harding laughed. “You're going to do fine, boy. And don't worry none 'bout that no-count son of a bitch you killed. His kind always die young. If you hadn't killed him, someone else would have.”

“I just wish it hadn't been me.”

“Listen to me, boy,” Harding insisted. “He may have been the first one you've killed, but he won't be the last one you're going to have to kill. Not by a long shot. Not if you are going to survive out here. You've got to realize that, and not dwell none on it. Maybe you are only twelve years old by the calendar, but today, you showed me you're a man.”

“Because I killed someone?”

“No. Any fool can kill. But you came back to help me, when you could've easy gotten away. There's lots more things that go into making a man than the number of years someone has lived. Live long enough, and the years will come to ever'one. The other things—honor, duty, and knowin' how to do what's right—don't come to ever'one, but they done come to you. Let nobody tell you different, Art. You're a man now. And I'm glad to call you my friend.”

Harding stuck out his hand. Art started to shake it, remembered the broken fingers, pulled back, then realized that the broken fingers were on Harding's left hand. Smiling, he gave Harding a good, strong, grip.

* * *

Harding explained to Art that they were no longer on the Ohio River, but were now on the Mississippi. The Mississippi was broader, and the current stronger than it was on the Ohio, and the boat moved a lot faster. One of the first things Art noticed was the number of felled trees. During his trip down the Ohio he had seen maybe as many as a hundred downed trees, but here, there were literally thousands of trees on the ground.

“I've never seen such a thing,” Art said in awe.

Harding chuckled. “Well, boy, you left home to see the wonders of the world. This is one of them.”

“But how can this be? Was there such a wind that it could blow this many down?”

“It wasn't the wind that did it. It was the trembling earth.”

“Trembling earth?”

“Shakers. Some folks call 'em earthquakes. What happens is, the ground just starts to shaking something awful, shaking so bad a fella can't even stand up.”

“You seen such a thing?”

“Yep, it happened a couple of years ago,” Harding said. “Trees was fallin', and the earth was opening up, sulphur commenced spewing into the air. All the shakin' and tremblin' made the Mississippi River flow backwards. And it pushed it right out of its channel for a bit, to form a new lake.”