The Boatman, page 2
Esther didn’t seem to mind. Her hands remained folded in her lap, face obscured by the veil. She started to move in her chair, but I raised a palm at her.
“That’s not necessary,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s said what she needed to in her own time, I’m sure.”
Another voice, somewhere to the left.
“Let’s leave the poor woman alone, yeah?” Ezra called. “If you have problems with Larry, you can piss on his grave tomorrow.”
I shot a glance in that direction, ready to skin him with words, but the widow rose to her feet.
She stood, walking to the edge of the pulpit. Passed it like a strong wind before stopping beside her dead husband.
She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t touch the lid or the coins. Instead, she reached down and plucked the note from his pocket. She looked down, as if committing his face to memory before crumpling the folded paper in her fist.
“Larry owed a lot of people,” she said. “In money. In time. In pain.” Her voice rasped, parched and ragged.
I swore the paint would start to curl off the walls if this got any more tense.
“He never made things right. He never said sorry. And I don’t suspect he will now.” She paused, a grim chuckle leaving her lips.
“But I loved him. I married him because I saw what a good man he was. He always tried. Gave me a good life.”
She unfolded the note, scanning it. The ruddy hue of her face faded, replaced with a paleness I’d only seen in the men from the mines. I followed her hand, trying to catch what was written.
The script was small, handwritten. I caught one word before she crumpled it in her fist:
Bill for Medicine: $6—
The number was three digits. At least six hundred dollars. Larry must have left her hurting, and with that amount of money, it wasn’t something she could wash away.
She palmed it and descended from the stage before I could read more. Her face stayed the same ashen color, eyes returning to the floor, leaving the congregation numb.
I cleared my throat and stepped back to the altar. I smoothed my shirt, confused, but not going to pry.
“Burial will start an hour before sundown. I ask only his closest friends and family be there.” I stared in Richard’s direction before continuing:
“Confession is canceled for this evening and will resume tomorrow. Thank you and God bless.”
I stepped from the pulpit and crossed to the widow, stopping short. Dread pooled low in my gut. I’d forgotten something important.
I forced a deep breath and plodded closer.
Her veil let only the smallest breaths of light through, face illuminated by several pox of gold. The black dress she wore had seen better days. Three days of mourning and it was starting to tatter around the feet and wrists.
“Thank you for speaking, Mrs. Hamboldt.” I clasped my hands in front of my belt, bowing my head.
“It’s Esther to you, Father.” She smiled up at me, dry.
I nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“And it ain’t no problem,” she continued. “The people know Larry was a son-of-a-bitch. No point in lyin’.”
“Still, I apologize for the congregation’s… Sorry, Richard’s outburst. If you need anything at all, know the church is here for you. I’ll take care of the rest.” I raised my eyebrows at her and she nodded.
“Thank you, Father. But I think I’ll be alright.”
I smiled at her and she stood, placing a hand on my shoulder. She turned, fighting off a slew of prayers and condolences on her way out.
“Father Boone,” Boy Reed said from behind me. He beamed up at me rubbing his smoothed Sheolite necklace between his thumb and forefinger.
A new tic of his thanks to a well-meaning gift from Ms. Mabel. It was a useless trinket, but a nice gesture nonetheless.
He was good as an altar boy. Gave him something to do over the past year. Capable of a lot, more than his condition should allow. I admired him for it.
“The hole is dug, ready for the Boatman.” He rubbed the stone on his neck and frowned. He came with bad news.
“The ground is still very soft from the week’s rain. It may be a problem lowering him.”
“Don’t concern yourself with that, Reed. The River doesn’t care how soft the ground is.” I flashed a warm smile. “You’ve done good. Round up a couple volunteers and have them carry Larry out to his grave. I don’t want to see you carrying it.” I pointed at him, peering under my brow.
He lowered his head, nodding before getting to work.
I coughed, spitting up bog water. A blade of grass wedged in my molars. I picked at it with my tongue, the silt rubbing on the back of my teeth.
I didn’t know how much longer I could do this. The pressure was obviously getting to me. One soul already damned. That I knew of.
Reed and his helpers started to move Larry out of the chapel.
If only Father Orin was here. He’d know what to say. What to do. Or at least pretend to.
2
Pale Horse | Sawyer
Nothing quite as satisfying as surprising someone after they decide they don’t have to make good on their deal. And Sheriff Jessup was a special kind of stupid.
Something about a tin badge makes fools feel ten feet tall.
I’d been tracking him down all day; one of his own men ratted to me. Told me I’d find him here, at the bath house, getting his revolver cleaned. A true man of the law—the mere existence of the bath house was a violation of the law he was supposed to enforce.
Steam wheezed out of the metal pipes poking out of the roof, curling into the air. Took one last lungful of clean air before diving into the stink.
I shouldered my way through the swinging doors, trailing muddy prints into the entry. Rosewater and sex hung thick in the air, folding into my nose and clinging.
A sign, ironic as anything, hung on the sweating wood of the front desk:
No Solicitation.
I snorted. These southern folks preached scripture but didn’t recognize the gluttony they soaked in. The foyer opened wide, lined with damp doors and sparely furnished with dampened seating. Steam chewed through the walls. The wood blistered, swollen with rot.
No one was present, at least not visible through the thick fog that rolled over the floor.
Chewing on my teeth, I started to wonder if I’d been given a bad lead. Started to turn before somebody giggled behind one of the doors. The gentle sound of water lapping tile. An amused smile cut my face.
I crossed the room, mud squelching off my boots with every step. Two doors on the left were open, third room closed.
My boots ticked against the planks, each step louder than the last. I reached and turned the handle, the door giving way, revealing a copper tub. It hunched in the room’s center, hidden by a veil of fog that spilled from the room. The open door dragged enough steam with it to reveal the bleached figure inside.
His eyes were hidden but I knew who it was.
Sheriff Jessup blinked through the mist. It took a long second for him to make out who I was. When he did, he froze, eyes snapping wide. He gripped the edge of the tub as if it might float him out of this. A sharp breath cut over the slow slosh of the bath.
I didn’t speak. Let the panic run its course. No need to rush the moment.
His gaze drifted toward his holster he left slung over the chair. The belt twisted around in a loop, weighed down on the chair only by the weight of the holster.
I wondered if he’d make a move and hang himself with it.
His muscles coiled, ready to snatch at it.
The woman behind him poured another ladle of water over him. She didn’t bother covering herself. Smiled at me like I had an appointment.
“Ma’am.” I nodded, removing my hat and resting it at my side. “I apologize for the interruption.”
She paused, looking me over. She gave me the faintest smile, more show than any real emotion. It was a part of her job—to flash a disarming smile while sizing up your wallet.
Sheriff Jessup blinked hard. Cleared the water from his eyes with his hand.
“Don’t reckon you belong here,” he said. “Friend.”
I turned to him, flashing a cool smile. Let it hang for a few moments. Let the silence press into him.
“Please, kind lady, would you give us a moment?” I stayed locked on Jessup. He stared back, but I could feel him start to sweat.
She hesitated, eyes flicking between us. Finally she reached for her towel. She sauntered across the floor, towel draped low around her hips. It loosened on one side as she passed, but she didn’t flinch. Her fingertips brushed down my shoulder before she slipped by.
“Boys,” she tossed over her shoulder before vanishing into the corridor.
I tipped my head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The door clicked closed. Jessup twitched in his bath.
I clasped my hands behind me, head tilted, almost amused.
“I’ve come to ask about the five slats of whiskey I ordered,” I said. “Which was paid for in advance, in case you forgot.”
Jessup puffed his chest, but the water couldn’t hide how all the blood had disappeared from his features. He opened his mouth to say something disrespectful, but thought better of it.
“I don’t follow.” He stared at me with empty eyes. Swear I could see the back side of his skull through them.
“Are you dumb?” I asked. “Still using lead spoons?”
“How dare you—”
I held up a hand, cutting him off. Rage teased at my fingers, but I tamped it down.
“Two months ago, you took delivery of an—” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Illegal shipment from Mr. Dunsmuir out of Shroud’s Crossing. You marked it impounded. Five slats have since gone missing. My people say you put it in private storage.”
I grinned at Jessup, enjoying his discomfort. Didn’t expect me to know so much.
“My guess? Cellar under the Tuttle barn. Please, correct me if I’m wrong.”
Jessup lurched to his feet, his bare skin prickling from the cool air. One foot slid on the tub floor, but he steadied, breathing hard. “You think you can walk in here—”
“Settle down, Sheriff,” I said, waving a hand to his whole existence. “I have the receipts. Signed and stamped. Return what’s owed, or its value in coin, and we’ll be square.”
Jessup stepped out. Water slapped the boards beneath him. “Where the hell do you get off—”
“Sir,” I interrupted. “You said you reckon I don’t belong here. Let’s not stretch your reckoning any further.”
His face contorted, incredulous. I chuckled under my breath. Jessup was always so easy to upset.
“Get dressed, would ya? The air is awful unflattering.” I clicked my tongue, pacing the length of the room. “Will you fetch it yourself, or should I send one of my men to dig it up?”
The knot in his jaw jumped once. He smoothed his hair, gaze tugged toward the chair on his right. His belt and weapon lay curled across it. I watched each twitch. His jaw, the hand, the eyes. Weighing the odds of darting for his weapon and if he’d get to it before I filled him full of holes.
He swallowed. “I’ll go get it.”
“Much appreciated,” I nodded and adorned my hat. “And Sheriff? No substitutions. Last man tried swapping in cedar soaked shine. Heard his barn floated downriver the next storm.”
I whistled low and tapped the dust from my brim before turning away.
“I’ll be at the church in Potter’s Field for a couple nights. I’ve got some business there. The good Father Boone will hold the liquor for me if you can’t find me.” I stepped toward the door, stopping under the frame. “Take care now, Sheriff.”
I hurried out of the humid building and stepped into the dying light of the afternoon. Not even the sun could bleach the stink off this town. The only ones left in the street were the hopeless who pushed through the bog.
Anyone with sense was either inside or long gone.
Maggie stood where I left her, tail flicking at the flies and stoic as ever. She never needed tied up. Never once ran off on me. She huffed as I approached, giving me the same sideways look she gives before biting me.
She was a pale thing. Dapple-gray, nearly half white with age. Hide pulled tight over long legs and a back bowed from years of work. Her eyes shimmered, brimming with dismay and a recognition I’d seen missing in some folks. Maggie’s tail swung up, knocking my hat off my head. Clearly wasn’t sure of what I was up to and didn’t much approve.
I laid a hand on her neck, running down her coarse hair in gentle strokes as I plucked it off the ground.
“Hey now, girl. Ain’t no trouble without me, were ya?” She nickered low, shifted just enough for me to reach the saddlebag. I pulled a sugar cube from her treat satchel. Last one. She took it without pause. Calmed, for now.
I stepped into the saddle and mounted her. The leather groaned and Maggie stomped the ground twice.
She didn’t startle easy or shy from blood. Weirder yet, somehow knew the sound of a lie. More than once she’d pawed the earth in front of a debtor’s doorstep like she was fed up and going to dig the grave herself.
I laid a hand on her shoulder before grabbing the reins and turning her to the road leading to Potter’s Field. It was a half day’s ride, maybe more.
“Let’s go, Mags.”
We rode quiet as the sky bled of color, Maggie’s hooves tapping a slow drumbeat. The path bent away from Shroud’s Crossing and around a trickling ravine. A canvas lean-to sagged between the trees, sun-bleached and teetering.
A man in rags materialized from the trees, a brimless hat pulled back on his head. His skin purpled, as if he’d died days ago and no one had been kind enough to let him know.
Maggie snorted and jerked, hooves pulling up mud.
“Sir,” he said. His voice gurgled, river water in still in his lungs. “May you spare some silver? I got three babes to feed. Ain’t askin’ fer much.”
The beggar held his hands to his chest, wringing them
I tugged Maggie’s reins. She huffed but settled down, ears twitching. Reaching down, I plucked a small brown bag from one of the pockets on the saddle.
“I have five coins. And what would you give in return?”
Maggie stomped twice, flicking her head. Extra impatient today.
“I can give thanks.” He stood straight, puffing his chest. “And I’ll remember yer face.”
I smiled. He was direct and polite as a preacher. Something I could appreciate.
“Sounds like a fair deal,” I said, tossing the sack at him. He jumped, barely catching it before pouring the contents into his hands.
The beggar trembled as he turned them over in his palms, eyes full of disbelief.
“I’ll be back in a month,” I straightened on my horse, tipping my hat. “Only your word. Be here as I found you, with your thanks intact.”
The beggar nodded fast, clutching the coins so tight I thought they’d split the skin.
“I swear it. Thank you, kind stranger.”
“Take care of you and yours.”
I dug my heels in and rode on toward Potter’s Field. The wind started to shift, carrying loam and lilies on its back. I clicked my tongue, gave Maggie the reins.
Behind us, the beggar stood in the road, waving a hand over his head in a slow arch. A chill washed over my skin. Something about him was off. He turned off the road and walked straight into the woods.
I kept staring at him until Maggie veered left and I lost him between the tree trunks.
3
A Whore Doesn’t Mourn | Desiree
Real fuckin’ nice of the men to leave me to set up their card game.
Ezra told me I couldn’t go to the funeral. Too much drama.
Sure, I slept with the man. But that’s my job and he paid for it.
Most of the time, anyways.
I pulled the oilcloth tight, securing it on the oak with rusted clamps. Spots for them all: Yellow, Boone, Larry, Ezra, and me. The cloth was stained from spilled drink and other un-savories. It wouldn’t matter, no one cared once the hands were dealt.
The shack reeked of old sweat and cedar smoke. The roof still leaked steady near the stove, despite Ezra saying he’d fix it. The rhythm was relaxing, however. If you could ignore the water damage.
Despite all of its flaws, it was a perfect stand-in for a man. Smelled like shit, dripped on you. Even swore up and down it’d keep you safe.
Yet all it’d take is a stiff wind to knock it flat.
I dragged the copper pot over to the stove and let it catch the drops.
Outside, the frogs croaked like drunks in a choir. Early start. I hummed along with them, low and tuneless, setting down the stack of battered clay chips. Red ones were low, black were high, silver were just for show. Sheriff called ‘em mercy chips.
Just an excuse to keep playing.
I didn’t expect kindness or whimsy tonight.
Boone rarely drank in front of us. Barely even talked and when he did he chose every word careful. With Larry gone and an uncomfortable burial ahead, I assumed he would be in a bad mood. If it was up to me, I’d call it off.
Guilt hadn’t missed me either. Despite my reasons, Larry was a good man married to a good woman, and she didn’t deserve the pain I enabled. I’d turned down jobs before. I didn’t need to take every man just because he paid.
But Larry made me laugh. All these nights playing cards and talking for hours… I felt bad for him. For how he struggled at every turn. The town didn’t like him. And that was justified. He cheated, stole, and lied to just about every soul in Potter’s Field.
And yet, after a couple of drinks, he was just a sad man trying to do his best.
I ran a fingertip along the edge of the table. Felt the rough grain split where Yellow’s ring had gouged it once. That traveling cardsharp pulled a pistol over a folded flush, but not faster than Yellow.
Boone tried to patch the man up. There was so much blood. It was the first time I’d seen the preacher shaken. I held that man’s hand while he died.
Same table, different stakes.
Final task was the lantern. I lit it and turned the flame down low. No sense in burning the place down while we waited. The shack bloomed orange under the light. I stepped back, arms crossed, feeling nostalgic. I’d miss him.
