Sanctuary (2 page)

Inside, Judd was greeted with the smell of boiling meat. Tough the meat was, and stringy, but to Judd it was delicious.

And after he and his grandmother had eaten and Judd had rubbed his fingers clean on his shirt, he asked his grandmother where she had gotten the meat.

“It is a gift of the manitou,” she said in Cree.

It wasn't until later, when the snow began to melt, that Judd found the dog's skull behind the cabin. He knew then why the dog had haunted the cabin.

Judd didn't tell the preacher about the dog. He nodded and slipped back into the narrow space between the hotel and the leather shop, breathing deeply to catch the scent of new saddles and harness and shoes.

He ducked into the alley at the back of the building and followed the preacher, catching glimpses of him in the flashes of dark and light between buildings. The preacher walked along the boardwalk, heels clattering against wood, nodding to curious passersby, and Judd followed in the alley, furtive and silent, desperately willing himself invisible.

The preacher stepped into the Silver Dollar Cafe, and Judd waited in the alley, his belly tied in a knot. The smell of frying onions and hot grease reminded him of how hungry he was. A spasm racked him, and he wrapped his arms around his gut, doubling over with pain. His eyes filled with tears for a moment, blurring everything around him, and he was ashamed of himself.

When the pain passed and Judd had pushed himself erect, the preacher was standing beside him.

“Bought a couple of steaks, these eggs, and some potatoes for you,” the preacher said. “Take them home and have some breakfast. I'll see you later.”

Judd shook his head.

“Don't you have somebody at home, boy, who would enjoy this?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Saw you. Take the food, Judd. I wouldn't feel right eating with you standing out here hungry. So if you don't take this, I'll go hungry and you'll go hungry and your grandmother will go hungry.”

“I have money,” Judd said, opening his hand to reveal the quarter.

“You have money
and
food,” the preacher corrected.

Judd stared into the preacher's eyes, trying to read what was hidden beyond. Then he took the food and fled, running for the shack as a ground squirrel runs for his hole when the shadow of a hawk floats by. And each step Judd took, each breath he drew, the question nagged at him. How did the preacher know about his grandmother?

Mordecai shoved back from the table, tipping his chair on its back legs. Breakfast had been good—the best he'd had in years—and he lingered at the table, sipping his third cup of coffee and picking at his teeth with a splinter.

Mordecai stretched and stood, then stepped around tables to the hall that tied the Silver Dollar Cafe with the Silver Dollar Saloon.

The hall was dark, and Mordecai smelled the saloon before he saw it—sour beer, stale cigar smoke, the smell of unwashed bodies. Saloons were pretty much the same wherever they were.

Sunday morning had driven most of the crowd home to sleep off Saturday night, but for some the Silver Dollar was home. They were gathered now in familial knots of two and three, nursing from shared bottles.

All eyes focused on the preacher's collar as he stepped through the door, and the regulars huddled closer together. Damn shame, they muttered, when even the sanctity of the Silver Dollar was invaded by preachers.

Mordecai settled at one end of a mahogany bar so dark and richly carved it gave the room a gothic air. That impression was enhanced by the rows of stuffed heads that lined the walls—great, dead animals surveying the dimly lit scene with glass eyes.

“What'll you have?”

The bartender was short and wiry, the white apron he wore an accent point painted into a melancholic picture too somber to be real. While he waited for Mordecai's order, he polished glasses with a clean, white towel, snapping it as he finished each glass.

“Three fingers of red eye.”

The bartender cocked his head, staring at Mordecai. “Got some coffee—good and stout.”

“Bar whiskey.”

The bartender nodded. “Name's Ben,” he said, offering his hand. “… Johnson.”

“Mordecai,” the preacher replied, taking Johnson's hand.

Whispers followed the preacher's first sip of the whiskey. He was all right, they said. Can't fault a man of the cloth who owns up to having a taste for whiskey. Preachers need a drink once in a while just like everyone else. Only thing is that some of them won't admit it.

The preacher settled back, for a moment forgotten. He watched as the back door opened and a grizzled creature in an ancient, tattered suit slouched through. He wore a white beard, the product not of intent but of neglect.

Johnson set an empty glass on the bar. The old man stiffened then, studying the glass as a starving wolf studies a lone sheep.

He nodded, his lips moving in a conversation only he could hear, and shuffled to a closet. He reached inside for a push broom and a box of oiled sawdust, then stopped, staring at the bar until Johnson poured the glass full of whiskey. The old man nodded again and resumed his conversation with himself. He took a scoop of oiled sawdust and shuffled determinedly toward the front door, spraying sawdust from his shaking hand. He paused after each trip to the barrel, to look at the glass of whiskey and to wet his lips.

“Name's Doc,” Johnson said to Mordecai, propping his elbows on the bar. “Old Army doctor, rode with Colonel Miles. Told me one time that he was up in the Bear Paws when Chief Joseph turned himself in.”

Mordecai nodded. “How long's he been doing that?”

“Swamping? He's been here longer than I have. I 'spect he'll be here long after I've gone … if his liver holds out. Man who owned the Silver Dollar before me gave him a place out back. Didn't see any reason to take it away from him.”

The old man worked steadily, the
swish, swish, thump
of the broom broken only by the scrape of wood on wood as he moved tables and chairs. When he finished, he circled the room, dumping cigar and cigarette butts into a spittoon still awash from the night before. Then he carried the other spittoons out back, presumably to empty and wash them.

“Does a good job,” Johnson said, returning from a trip to one of the tables. “At least so long as that whiskey glass sits on the bar. Give him a drink first, and he's done for the day.”

The old man returned, put the spittoons in their receptacles at the bar and on the floor by the tables, then shuffled toward the bar, wiping his reddened hands on his pant legs. He shuddered to a stop and stared at the glass of whiskey. The quiet talk stopped, and everyone turned to watch the morning routine.

Doc ran his tongue around his lips and reached for the drink, hand shaking violently. He tried to pick up the glass, but some whiskey spilled on the bar and the old man set the glass down so hard more sloshed out.

Doc leaned over and pressed his lips down on the bar next to the glass, but before he licked up the whiskey, he felt the eyes on his neck. He stood then, pulling himself to attention like the old soldier he was.

“Here, Doc,” Johnson said. The old man looked up as the bartender launched a wadded bar towel at him. He nodded and draped the towel around his neck, holding the short end with his left hand. Grasping the long end of the towel with his right hand stopped the shaking, and he was able to pick up the glass. He pulled the towel slowly around his neck, the tension keeping his hand steady until the glass was at his lips.

He took a deep sip, and for a moment it appeared that the old man's knees would buckle. He waited until the alcohol seeped into his system and then dropped the towel, his hands steady. He took another sip.

“Sweet Mary,” one of the men whispered reverently. “There is a man who loves good whiskey.”

The preacher set his glass down on the bar. “Have any port?” he asked Johnson.

Johnson nodded.

“And some glasses—eight.”

Johnson walked down the bar to collect the order, and Mordecai slipped off the bar stool.

“I want to buy a drink for the house!” the preacher announced, and all eyes turned to him. “Over here by the window.”

Raised eyebrows and shrugs circled the tables, but the Silver Dollar regulars clumped across the hard oak floor and settled into the two tables by the door. Maybe they would get two shows this morning.

“First,” the preacher said, “we'll bow our heads.”

Some of the men were digging I-told-you-so elbows into their neighbors' ribs. But they all bowed their heads, some necks creaking like rusty pump handles with the effort.

“
Our Father who art in heaven
…”

Most of the men mumbled along, memories of their youth tumbling into their minds as the prayer continued. And some were silent, afraid of being branded as religious by their friends.

Doc was hanging at the back of the group, and the preacher said, “Come on, Doc, have a glass of wine with us.”

But Doc shook his head. “That wine's too bitter for me.”

The preacher walked around the two tables, passing out crackers he had taken from the bar.

“‘Take and eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.'”

And then he passed out glasses of wine.

“‘This is the Blood of the new Covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.'”

The preacher was almost at the end of the line when a loud chorus of mismatched voices accompanied by a bass drum broke in on the simple ceremony. “Onward Christian Soldiers” filled the bar with sanctimony.

“Guess it's our turn,” one of the regulars said, and the others guessed he was right. The preacher caught his eye, and the man explained.

“Well, the Reverend Eli gets the good folk of Sanctuary up to church on Sunday and gets them all riled up about us sinners. Then he picks the sinner of the week, and the Christian soldiers march onward. Sometimes they roost down here; sometimes over at the—uh, cribs; sometimes at one sinner's house or another.”

“The Reverend'll start yelling at us pretty quick, and after he's told everybody what he thinks of us, they'll all march back to the church feeling real good about themselves. I guess you might say that us sinners do those folks a real service.” Nods followed that observation.

“Let's celebrate that,” the preacher said, moving down the line, continuing to pass out the glasses of wine.

Just as Mordecai was serving the last man, the door to the Silver Dollar opened and the Reverend Eli Timpkins poked into the bar. The Reverend was tall, skinny, and hard, the heat of his passions having burned away all softness long ago. His righteousness raged and blazed within him, and sweat ran down his face as though to cool the furnace within. His brows were bushy and pulled down tight over eyes burning with righteousness. Those eyes blazed through the room before settling on Mordecai.

“Blasphemy!” The word spewed from the Reverend like the rumble and hiss of a geyser erupting from the bowels of the earth. “It was the Lord who led me here today to witness this blasphemer”—his finger settled like the barrel of a pistol on Mordecai's nose—“who offers the Lord's holy sacrament to these miserable sinners in this place of depravity.”

Mordecai, his hand resting on the last man's shoulder, continued the litany, “… This is my blood of the new Covenant which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”

Some of the men began rising from the table.

“See you next week,” Mordecai said, “and since the good gentleman has raised the question, I'll talk about blasphemy, although I lack the expertise the Reverend apparently has.”

Laughter rippled around the tables, peppered with “We'll be heres,” and the Reverend Eli's face twisted with rage.

“Those who mock the Lord shall be cast down into hell to suffer damnation and eternal fire!” The words hissed from the Reverend's mouth as though his soul were already sizzling.

“And those who
make
a mockery of the Lord will have their toes warmed at that same fire,” Mordecai said.

Another round of hoots echoed through the bar, and the Reverend shook with rage. He stalked from the bar, legs shaking, but before he stepped through the door, he turned, his eyes opaque and aimed at Mordecai's heart.

“I will see you in hell!”

“Could be you'll be waiting for me.”

Mordecai followed the Reverend outside. The town's good folk were gathered there wrapped in their righteousness and their Sunday go-to-meeting best.

“Before you come marching down Main Street in search of other sinners to humiliate,” Mordecai said, “might be you'll look for the logs in your own eyes.”

Some of the men and women on the edge of the crowd shifted, suddenly fascinated by the boardwalk under their feet. The Reverend raised his fist for the drummer, and the beat began, but it was not as measured as it had been when the group arrived, and there were more stragglers than marchers making their way back to the white frame church at the far end of Main Street.

The saloon regulars crowded around the door to watch the final scene in the show that morning—all except for one.

Doc stood rooted near the stool where the preacher had been sitting, his foot covering the gold double eagle he'd spotted on the floor. He wanted to move, to reach down and pick up the coin, but he was afraid that if he did, someone would spot him and claim it.

So Doc stumbled, lurched into the bar, and fell to the floor, his hand scrabbling for the coin. Nobody would think anything odd about an old drunk falling down.

Two

“Where you headed, Doc?”

Doc stopped midshuffle, pinioned to the floor. He had hoped to escape the saloon unseen, but he knew that wasn't likely. He was as much a fixture of the place as the bottles lined up on the back bar and his absence just as noticeable.