8
Trent tied his horse to the white fence bordering a small white house—a white house that sat next to a white church. Purity?
He doubted it.
He loosened the girth on the saddle, and hung on a feedbag. Unlatching the gate, he let it swing shut behind him and walked up to the porch. Looking at the white church again, the whole place looked bleached.
The man who opened the door was a tall, lank man who held himself erect and proud. Although he appeared to be pushing sixty, his hair was as blond as Katie’s. “Reverend Stephens?”
“You must be Marshal Trent. Come in. Come in.” The preacher opened the door and Trent passed through into a spare room, with a few chairs parked against the walls. An ancient sofa seemed to be the main gathering place in the room. As they stood, sizing each other up, the reverend spoke in a voice meant to carry to the entire congregation. “My daughter seems quite taken with you, Marshal. She talks about you all the time. I’m surprised a man of your age would encourage that.”
Well, no beating around the bush here. “Your daughter seems to have a mind of her own, Reverend. I think she’s capable of making up her own mind about who keeps her company.”
The man stared at him a moment, then nodded slightly. “Perhaps. And she is headstrong. But even strong minds can be changed. How old did you say you were?”
He smiled and replied with icy calm. Tread lightly. “I didn’t say, Reverend. But since you are asking in such an oblique way, I’m thirty-six.”
The preacher folded his arms across his chest, and then turned slightly away. “That would put you about twice my daughter’s age, wouldn’t it?”
He was beginning to dislike this man. A lot. “Reverend, you are grinding this ax a little thin. If you have got something to say, spit it out.”
Katie cut any reply short as she entered from the kitchen. “I see you two have met.” She cast an amused glance at him. “I hope you are playing nice.”
“Hello, Katherine.” Suddenly he was tongue-tied as a schoolboy on his first date. Dressed in a full-skirted dress, with ruffles at the shoulders and a dip in the front that went way below her open throated tan line, she’d gone from beautiful to breathtaking. He was suddenly aware of his clothes, still dirty from the trail, and the fact he hadn’t had a bath in days.
She took him by the arm. “Close your mouth, boy. The flies are getting in. You will excuse us, father?” Not leaving her father any time to disagree, she led him out the back door. “I thought you might want to wash up.”
“Thanks for saving me.” There was a bench by a well pump, with two pans of water. Trent took the hint and stripped off his shirt. She leaned against the side of the house, watching as he washed vigorously in the cold water, and then stood looking around for a towel. Katie reached inside the door, snagged one off a hook, and tossed it to him.
He flattened his wet hair with a comb found on the bench, which made him wish he had a haircut. This, in turn, made him think of his chin and wish he had a razor, which made him wish he were somewhere else entirely. He smelled her before he felt the towel rubbing his back. Lilac and sweetness, mixed with cooking smells of bread and chicken. When he turned, she stepped inside his arms, her breasts nudged up against him, her searching eyes serious and humorous at the same time.
“Don’t let my father run over you. It just makes matters worse. We’ll have dinner, and then he’ll likely preach at you awhile. Then he’ll go over to the church to study.” She smiled at him. “We’ll be alone, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Trent acquiesced with a smile and none-to-gentle squeeze.
“Ah, now. Patience is a good word to think of.” Her lips left a small wet spot on his nose and then she left him to get into his shirt by himself, her fingers leaving feathery tracks down his chest and across his stomach.
9
Supper was over and the two men were sitting on the front porch. The church and parsonage were set on higher ground, so the valley lay open before them like a mural. Trent tried to remember where he had seen a painting like this. In the distance, they could hear a piano playing in the saloon, or more accurately being beat into submission—and occasional laughter drifted to them, carried by the summer breeze on its way out of the valley.
The Reverend, perhaps trying to circumvent the melancholy atmosphere the evening had brought, didn’t waste any time. He waved at the town. “They are a godless people, with little thought for life or propriety.”
Knowing this was just another opening salvo, he responded lightly. He could imagine the thoughts of the good Reverend. “Which ones? There are a lot of people down there.”
“All of them, Mr. Trent, each and every one of them.”
He thought about how to respond to such arrogance. “Well, I’m sure glad I’m not down there.”
Reverend Stephens snorted at his sarcasm. “You think you’re better, Mr. Trent? I’m not blind or deaf. I’ve heard of you, and of your kind. Frankly, I can’t tell much difference between you and the people you’re supposed to protect us from.”
He could feel a headache coming on. There were men like this on both sides of any issue. Maybe this Marshal thing wouldn’t work after all. He wasn’t much of a fence straddler. “So your answer to the problem is…?”
The man answered quickly, like he’d given the subject a lot of thought. “Leave, Mr. Trent. The will of God can be done without your assistance. Lives will be saved.”
He nodded with a small smile and tried to meet the man’s gaze. “With you interpreting God’s will, I suppose.”
The Reverend ignored the barb. “This killing has to stop. With you here, posing as a US Marshal, the situation will only get worse. No one will have respect for your kind of law. The badge you are wearing is a vain trinket that you should put away. That,” he pointed to the worn handle of Trent’s pistol, “won’t solve anything here.”
He thought a moment, realizing he and the reverend were at an important juncture. This was a minefield that needed a careful path. “Has it occurred to you that I may be as much God’s instrument as you? When you think about it, we have the same goals. We want an end to the killing, and we want peace.” He stood and leaned against a worn post. “Do you think for one moment that your preaching of peace will make any difference to those people down there? They only understand one thing. Survival. The quick and strong live. The slow and weak die. They don’t want to die, Reverend.”
“Violence is never the answer.” The Reverend was starting to warm up to the subject and he could feel the sermon coming on that Katherine warned about.
Abruptly, he interrupted the man. “What happens when they come for your daughter? What happens when they decide they want to live in your house? What happens when the bad guys become tired of the girls in the saloon, and take after the women in your congregation? How will you stop that, Reverend?”
Stephens did not answer, just turned and looked over the valley.
“I’ll tell you, Reverend. Unless they know you will hurt them more than they can hurt you, unless you make the price of their actions so high they won’t chance it, then you don’t have a chance in hell, Reverend. Not one.”
The man turned back to him, with a sad look. “And your way, Mr. Trent?”
“You say you’ve heard of me. Well, so have they. Most of the men down there are followers. Oh, they’ll kill you quick enough, providing they can get away with it. But most of them don’t want to die trying. For those people, my presence will make a difference. That cuts down the numbers and leaves the real problem. Men like Pagan Reeves, and a few others. Those I’ll have to defeat, Reverend. There just isn’t any other way. I won’t have time to debate the issue, or bring them to you for conversion and counseling. The bad ones have tasted blood, and nothing less than blood will stop them.”