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All day long the preacher had been talking to himself. Sometimes he talked to his horse. Sometimes he even talked to Lilly and Myra . . . though those conversations usually blurred his vision, cut fresh tear-tracks down his dust-caked face, and left him alternately laughing like a madman or choking between hoarse, hitching sobs. Was that what going loons was like? Mind, body, spirit . . . all fleeing in three different directions at once, utterly disconnected from the world surrounding?
It barely mattered. Even in moments of clarity there was little comfort. The fact remained that Lilly was dead, Myra was God-knew-where, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do about it.
And then there’s Tooms, he thought. I put him down in Creek Hill, but he won’t stay down. Didn’t stay down in Dodge, did he? Three days later, there he was, nippin’ my heels… followed me all the way back to Creek Hill.
Same way he’s right behind me now.
But I gotta sleep tonight. This horse, too. Sleep tonight, push on harder in the morning.
All this the preacher contemplated in the gloomy shadow of the house as he stripped off his dust-stiffened black coat, his waistcoat, his collar and his shirt. He set them aside on a nearby stump for splitting cordwood, then worked the creaking old pump to top off the horse trough with fresh, cool water from the well. Trough full, water rippling in the faint moonlight, he bent to dunk himself under.
I baptize you with water, but another will come, and he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.
He held his head under for a moment, enjoying the darkness, the silence, the peace. I wonder if a dunk in the river’d be like this, he thought absently. Still wearing my boots. Still wearing my gun. Those’d take me to the muddy bottom right quick.
He thought of how easy it’d be. The river was only a thousand yards away, after all, and his hosts might be glad of a free horse.
I bet it’s quiet down there, he thought. I wouldn’t hear myself laughing or crying under the muddy Missouri.
His air was out. He stood upright, water washing down his bare shoulders and back. The preacher breathed deep, enjoying how his wet skin was cold in the night air—how it felt good to feel the cold . . . to feel anything at all . . .
Then he heard the scuffle of shoes. He turned toward the sound and found Mill, his erstwhile host, with a plate of black-eyed peas and cornbread in one hand, a rusty old lantern in the other. Mill wasn’t looking at the preacher’s eyes, nor did he seem troubled by how filthy and rail thin the preacher was.
No, Mill was staring at the Peacemaker holstered on the preacher’s hip. The preacher couldn’t blame him for being more than a little suspicious.
“Didn’t see that before,” Mill said.
“Guess it was under my coat,” the preacher said.
“You really a preacher?” Mill asked. He wasn’t scared at all. More likely, the preacher guessed a wrong answer would get him brained by a rusty spade or run through by a handy pitchfork. The man’s taciturn speech and hollow stare marked him as bone-weary and impatient; a fella at the end of a frayed rope.
“Yessir,” the preacher said. “Graduated Marthasville Theological Seminary, class of ’71. Got a congregation in back in Creek Hill part of the year, ride the circuit spring to fall.”
Had. I had a congregation. They’re all ash and bone now…
Mill approached and offered the plate. The preacher took it, thanked him, and sat on the stump. In the lantern light, he saw that the peas had ham hocks chunked up in them and they were steaming in the dark. The smell made him so sick with hunger and grief and a sense of what he’d never get back, he felt the first sting of tears in his eyes.
Smells so good, he thought. But damned if it don’t smell just like all those people burnin’ in that church…
How I used to love Lilly’s cornbread…
He fought the urge to cry and tried to meet the level, appraising gaze of his host.
“You got a name?” Mill asked.
“Delphi,” the preacher said, and offered his free hand. “Zebulon Delphi.”
Mill didn’t shake his hand. “Circuit rider, huh?” Mill suggested the gun on the preacher’s hip, snorting a little. “You preach at gunpoint?”
The preacher managed a smile, though he knew that Mill probably saw right through it. “Gift from my wife. Jesus said, ‘Be wise as serpents, but gentle as doves.’ She figured while I was out on my long rides, if I got in a tight spot, I’d get further with a kind word and a gun than just a kind word. If it makes any difference to you, she’s been drawn, cocked, and cleaned a hundred times, but never fired.”
The was a lie, but the preacher wanted to give Mill some sort of comfort.
Mill kept staring, inscrutable. “She loaded?”
“She’d be worthless if she weren’t,” the preacher answered. He chewed mouthful after mouthful of beans because he knew his body needed them, but still they tasted of ashes in his mouth. Every swallow was a struggle.
A long silence fell. “You gonna be on your way early?” Mill finally asked, and the message was clear: I’ll give you what hospitality I can, but I don’t want you lingering.
“’Spect so,” the preacher said. “Just needed somewhere to sleep. Be on my way soon as me and the horse are rested.”
Satisfied, Mill left him. The preacher finished his beans and sopped up their gravy with the cornbread. Before the last spoonful went down, tears cut new tracks down his cheeks and salted his cornbread.