Oliviaville by OTHNIEL SMITH

OLIVIAVILLE A WESTERN

O. E. Smith

iii

DEDICATED TO:

RAYMOND SMITH (1970-1997)

OLIVIAVILLE

“For the Lord thy God is a vengeful God! A jealous God! A God who, in His eternal mercy and loving-kindness will not shrink from striking down with the full force of His wrath they who would defy His will. A sign? A sign?! Shalt thou defy the will of God and seek for a sign? Shalt thou betray thine own unbelief and seek for a sign? Dost thou dare to flaunt thy disobedience in the very face of the Lord? For make no mistake, of all the hateful sins with which we are tempted in this vale of tears, disobedience is the most pernicious, the most contemptible, the most offensive in His sight. For it is the refusal to obey to the will of the Lord which is at the root of all evil. It is disobedience which causes adultery, it is disobedience which causes theft, it is disobedience which causes murder, it is disobedience which leads a man to covet another man’s land, another man’s cattle, another man’s wife. It is disobedience which will lead you into

the eternal fires of damnation. If thou seekest, friends, after life eternal in the golden, loving presence of the Lord, then there is but one path: the path of obedience to His will!”

Obadiah Williams did not consider himself a religious man. Oh, he believed in God, alright. That had been infused into him at an early age. One of his earliest memories was his mother squeezing his hand tight as they joined in with the communal singing of spirituals in the barn after a long day of back-straining, heart-breaking toil in the fields. As they prayed for deliverance, dreamt of freedom in the sweet by and by. This was one of only two clear images he had of his mother. The only other one was of her on her sweatand-urine soaked death-bed, her belly still swollen from the still, half-formed body that had been dragged out of her. Another of Master Charles’ rape-children, this one, born dead, like most of the others. “I thank the Lord you ain’t his child”, she whispered. This wasn’t quite her final breath. Her very last words were mumbled in some language from Africa, passed down from her own father, who had long since passed. Obadiah often imagined running into a learned African, 2

drawing the words up from the well of his memory, and asking him what they meant, to be told that it was some declaration of eternal love. “I’ll always be with you, my child”, that manner of thing. But the words were lost to him. No point brooding over it. The sun was high in the near-cloudless sky. Obadiah supposed that his ancestors from not too far back worshipped the sun. Hell, for all he knew, the African cousins he’d never meet were doing it right now. He could think of worse things to worship. He’d known people who’d worshipped gold, fine clothes, women. Maybe the sun was less likely to let you down. He certainly felt that it sustained him as he rode Westward. Although he might be less kindly disposed if he didn’t happen across a waterhole pretty soon. “How you doing’, Frisco?” He patted the neck of the mighty gray beast beneath him, which lightly tossed its head as if in contented reply. Frisco would be about five or six, by now – Obadiah didn’t know for certain. He’d arrived at the Sawdon ranch around three years before, as part of a group of animals that had been brought in by the Kepple gang. As usual, Old Man Sawdon didn’t asked where they came from, but

Obadiah feared the worst – that the gang had gone into a small Indian settlement while the men were off hunting, killed whoever got in their way, and made off with as much livestock as they could marshal. Sawdon didn’t pay them a lot for their haul; the fact that Kepple didn’t complain too much added weight to Obadiah’s theory. Not that he made it known. He was a lowly ranch-hand, it wasn’t his job to make waves. It was only a month or so after this that Kepple was found out in the desert, staked out like a horizontal crucifixion, with his insides cut open and his eyes pecked out by buzzards. More evidence. By this time, the bulk of the horses had been incorporated into Sawdon’s herd. Not so the animal which Obadiah had named Frisco, after an overheard business conversation. The colt was scrawny and his skin showed through in ugly patches. He wouldn’t allow any human, and precious few other horses to get near him without rearing up, his brown teeth bared, his eyes rolling wildly. “Obadiah – if you can break that creature, he’s yours”, laughed Sawdon. Obadiah didn’t altogether approve of the idea of breaking the spirit of another living thing. Maybe it had

something to do with his early years, on the plantation, and bad memories of newly arrived fellow slaves being whipped into cringing submission. As far as he was concerned, the weeks he spent straying ever closer to Frisco with casual pails of feed, finally taking the risk of offering him his hand, were all about making friends. Frisco wasn’t broken – he didn’t allow anyone else to ride him, and he was still capable of tossing Obadiah into the air when he was having a bad day. Frisco was as free as he was. And these days, at fourteen hands, with a sleek coat and an air of well-fed superiority, he was sometimes mistaken for an Arabian by those less well schooled in these things than Obadiah. The kind of person who assumed that a black man could only have gained ownership of such a fine creature through under-handedness. “No, he ain’t no Arabian, suh! He a cross-breed, jus’ like mah mama was!”, Obadiah would say, playing up the Alabama in his accent, playing down the level of his self-education. He estimated that he was pretty much two days away from the nearest town. Towns made him nervous. Too many dark corners that an unkind stranger could sneak out of and slip back into, having done you damage. Obadiah was a country boy, and proud of it. If 5

the War had taught him anything, it was that the more there were people gathered together, the greater the possibility that bad things could happen. Not that he had been old enough to fight in the war, of course. He thanked Providence that he hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been. Several of his fellow slaves had taken up the Confederate banner, not out of any love for their chains, but because they felt it nobler to die struck down in battle, than to fall in a cotton-field, sick with fatigue, old before their time. Joseph, his older brother, had gone off to act as a messenger-boy for the troops, but ended up dead after some of his own side thought it might be fun to take pot-shots at him. He was lucky, post-Emancipation. While for many, freedom meant a new kind of poverty, Obadiah had a valuable skill. His affinity with horses had been noted at an early age, and with his mother gone, spending time in the stables learning a trade was a healthy way to keep his mind occupied. Talking out loud to them as though to a loved one was encouraged. He fancied that having learned to read the mood of a horse from a twitch or a flare of the nostrils had helped him in his dealings with humans, in terms of assessing when to move in close and when to leave well alone. 6

After Master Charles died, broken by the loss of all three sons in the war -- he was already a widower twice over -- Obadiah chose to move on. His more ambitious compadres moved North, towards the bustle of Chicago and New York. He decided to go West. At first, he didn’t get far -- finding work on a tobacco plantation not fifty miles from where he’d set off from, and taking up with Mary. At sixteen, she was three years younger than him, but managed to teach him plenty about how to please her. But, after a blissful summer, she took ill, and died of the consumption that had always been lurking within her. After Mary, Obadiah wandered aimlessly for a year or two, pretty close to being a hobo, almost succumbing to starvation in the winter of ’71. Just in time, and by pure good fortune, he came upon Sawdon’s, managed to impress the old man by subduing an Appaloosa that had been badly -- everyone thought fatally -- affected by locoweed, and landed himself a job. It was a productive few years. He learned to read, taught himself how to handle a gun, and managed to make friends with white people for the first time, although he was always careful not to get overfamiliar. This was the problem when it came to Lucy, 7

Sawdon’s youngest daughter. It was fine for her to be seen helping him with his book-learning when she was thirteen, and it was cute. Four years on, however, with her starting to bust out of her blouse, it began to draw the wrong kind of attention around the homestead. Lucy and he loved one another like sister and brother, but Obadiah was painfully aware that others might detect something more sinister in their playful teasing and tickling. In order that her reputation, and his genitalia, remain intact, he thought it wise to leave. Very soon, he discovered to his delight that Sawdon’s “Just mention my name!”, was as good as a gilt-edged letter of recommendation when it came to finding a few days’ casual labor, and the food and shelter that went along with it, anywhere in Texas and an appreciable distance beyond. He’d been on the road since early spring, and something was troubling him. Something other than the uncertainness of his destination, and the ominous lightness of his water-skin. Obadiah Williams was bored.

The Reverend Eglinton happened to cough as Teddy was removing his stiff collar. “Careful, Bo”, counseled the bigger man. “Don’t wanna take your damn head off with this thing.” Eglinton smiled. “This town’ll be the death of me.” “… That’s a joke, right?” Bo Eglinton smiled. Teddy was a reliable lieutenant, but not the brightest. “Yeah, Teddy. It’s something called irony.” Teddy shrugged and laid the clerical collar on Bo’s bed, smoothing it with a huge, scarred hand. “I need a woman.” “I need a woman, too. But it ain’t gonna happen in Oliviaville.” “I know. But I really need one. Listen…” Teddy’s brow creased comically, and his eyes narrowed as if in parody of thought. “We could… we could get a message to Miss Kitty’s house, we could go in the back door, we could creep in in the middle of the night…” “Teddy…” Bo sighed. “Teddy… what did I preach about last week?”

“I can’t rightly say’s I remember.” “Yes, you do. What did I preach about? Teddy?” “Immorality, I guess. Same as usual.” “That’s right, Teddy. Immorality. And what goes on at Miss Kitty’s is most definitely immoral.” “What goes on in your head is most definitely immoral.” Bo smiled. “Well, that’s an opinion. And the people of this town are mercifully unable to look into my head. But if we pay a visit to Miss Kitty, the whole of Oliviaville’s gonna know all about it even before we get our boots back on. Then where will we be?” Teddy plumped himself down on the edge of Eglinton’s bed. “But I need a woman, Bo. I even been lookin’ at my horse funny.” “She’s a mighty fine-looking animal, I’ll give you that.” Bo laughed, and sat down beside Teddy, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “Teddy – if I ain’t Reverend Eglinton, and you ain’t Deacon Ted, then there’s no plan. And if there’s no plan, who’s gonna be angry with us?” “Mister Johnson.” 10

“And is that a good thing? Remember what happened to Pedro.” “Yeah. I liked Pedro.” Teddy shuddered, involuntarily. “A man shouldn’t die like that. Shot in the balls, rollin’ around on the floor, beggin’ to for someone to blast his brains out.” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge the image from his mind. It was Teddy who had delivered the final bullet, against Mister Johnson’s express orders, for which he had received a mighty slap in the face, which he barely felt. “Mister Johnson doesn’t respond well to disobedience, Teddy, as well you know. And if we screw up this job, he’ll class that as disobedience of the highest order.” “Yeah, I guess so.” Teddy paused, suddenly embarrassed. “Am I gonna go to Hell, Bo?” Eglinton was brought up short by this. In the weeks since becoming a deacon, Teddy had shown a worrying tendency to wax philosophical. Well, as far as he was able. “Teddy… as far as I can make out, we’re already in Hell. We’re just makin’ the best of things.” “Oh. Right.” This didn’t appear to have put Teddy’s mind at rest.” 11

“Hey – listen buddy. How about we take a trip, huh? Go into the desert, commune with the Lord.” “Oh. Yeah.” Teddy did not sound overly enthusiastic. “Sure.” “And maybe, along the way, we can lose the God clothes. Maybe call into a little town.” He nudged Teddy gently in the ribs. “Find their Miss Kitty’s place, huh? Maybe spend the night?” A broad grin slowly spread across Teddy’s strangely hairless moon face. “Yeah. Now there’s an idea I can get behind!”

Blue Leaf had not been one of the Comanches whose family was slaughtered by the Kepple boys, but her story was similar. Her mother, sisters and baby brother had been killed some nine years before that particular assault, and several hundred miles further west. She’d been shot during the attack, receiving a wound to the chest that pretty near killed her. She would have died, in fact, had her grief-stricken father, surveying the bloody scene with a brokenness which never left him, failed to notice the six-year-old’s twitching arm amongst the array of already rotting 12

corpses. She could not be sure if she actually remembered being held close to his warm body as they galloped across the plains to the town of Isis, where Running Fox sought out the white man’s medicine which would save her from the white man’s murderousness. He always told her that she had displayed the bravery of a warrior, that she never screamed or cried once. In retrospect, Blue Leaf supposed that this was through weakness rather than fortitude, but chose never to puncture the old man’s pride in her. Not that he was old, not in years. But the loss of most of his family took it out of him, as did the drink which he turned to in order to ease the pain. By the time he died, even though he was barely forty summers old, he could have passed for a man of seventy. She knew that Running Fox wouldn’t even have lasted as long as he did if it hadn’t been for Marta. Nevertheless, Blue Leaf disliked her stepmother intensely. The fact that she ran the saloon where her father drank himself to death was a contributory factor. Furthermore, even before Running Fox was cold in the ground, Marta was attempting to promote his daughter, still barely past puberty, as a possible night-time 13

companion for her customers. “Now that Foxy’s gone, you gotta start paying your way around here, chica.” Within the month, she’d moved out, finding a job as housemaid at the O’Halloran’s. There were two ladies’ clothing stores in Isis, and Frank O’Halloran owned both of them. His wasn’t quite the biggest house in town, but, leaving aside the servants’ quarters, there were six bedrooms to keep clean, and O’Halloran’s wife and three daughters liked everything just so. “We shall call you Jane,” said Mrs O’Halloran, during their first interview. “My name is Blue Leaf.” “Yes, but… well, that’s not very ladylike, is it?” “But she isn’t a lady, Mother.” This was the unpleasant middle daughter. “She’s a servant.” A year and a half on, an uneasy consensus had been reached: on the rare occasions where they needed to address her by name, she was called Blue. Or sometimes Bluey, when the youngest daughter was being playful, or when an intoxicated Mr O’Halloran was knocking upon the door of her tiny room on those nights when his wife was visiting her sister in Phoenix. Blue Leaf hadn’t opened up yet, but she figured that, if

she was intent on keeping her job, it would only be a matter of time. Blue Leaf knew she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t especially pretty. Her features were coarse, her figure was boyish, and as people kept reminding her, there was no way she could ever be mistaken for white. She was young, though, and rosy-cheeked, and the anger in her eyes looked, to those who wanted to see it, like a fiery flirtatiousness. But it was anger sure enough, of the kind which frequently saw her courting danger. Like when Simeon Gilson started on at her. It began playfully enough, with him winking at her as she passed him on the street, or following her down to the creek and pretending to hide as he watched her beating the piss-stains out of the family linen. But one time, he was showing off to his friends outside the saloon, and ran up to her, putting an arm around her shoulder, whispering an obscenity in her ear, and grabbing her behind. She was in a bad mood anyway, having just had a disagreement with the middle Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Halloran girl, and turned and slapped Simeonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face, then pushed him in the chest, placing her foot behind his boot so that he fell heavily to the ground, to the great amusement of his buddies. From that point on, his 15

taunting took on an uglier aspect. It wasn’t even that his intentions had ever been honorable, since he was one of the oldest O’Halloran girl’s several serious admirers, and his father was one of Frank’s longeststanding business associates. “How’s it goin’, squaw?”, he’d sneer whenever he saw her, and she would ignore him, and that would be that, until the next time. This evening, though, things were different. Blue Leaf was in a temper after a dutiful Sunday spent with her stepmother, working harder on tidying up her place than she ever did during the average day at the O’Halloran’s, her sense of grievance exacerbated by the necessity of walking the three miles there and back in the gentle but persistent autumn rain. Simeon was feeling frustrated after spending several hours in Margaret’s company -- firstly directly behind her in church, then during afternoon tea at the O’Halloran’s, then taking her for a carriage ride up in the hills -- and receiving no more than a dry peck on the cheek for his trouble. Shuffling home from the saloon, he was delighted to find Blue Leaf in his path. “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Acknowledging his existence with a grudging glance, Blue Leaf attempted to push past, but he was having none of it. “Hold up, just a minute.” He grabbed her by the elbow. “I just wanna talk to you, Blue.” The girl sighed. “What?” The belligerence of her tone irritated him. “Where the… where the hell do you get off bein’ so damn uppity, anyhow? I mean, you’re just a…” He bit his bottom lip. “I mean… you might be pretty if you wore some face paint and nice clothes.” “Well, that’s more than I can say for you, Sim Gilson. What’s the matter? Margaret O’Halloran busy with one of her other gentleman callers?” “Yeah, well, you ain’t fit to shine her shoes.” Blue Leaf smiled grimly. “As a matter of fact, I spent all Thursday shinin’ her damn shoes.” As she tossed her head and attempted to pass him again, Gilson grabbed her by the ear, and pushed her up against the window of Stone’s hardware store. “Don’t you dare disrespect her, you damn ugly Comanche bitch!” Mustering all her energy, Blue Leaf lunged forward, and spat full in Simeon’s face. Taken aback for 17

a second, he gasped. His eyes flashed red as he caught her full in the side of the head with a half-formed fist, and she stumbled to the muddy ground. She blacked out for a second or two, and by the time she began to come to, he had her by the collar of her dress, and was dragging her into the space between Stone’s and the undertakers. “What the… Simeon? What are you…?” But he slapped her again with his free hand, and let her fall to earth once more. With a snarl on his lips, he began to unbutton his trousers. “You been askin’ for this, and now you’re gonna get it!” “W-what? Simeon? No!!” “Is there a problem here?” Simeon turned in panic. He saw a slight figure in denims and a rain-soaked Stetson, an expression of concern on his unfamiliar black face. Simeon sighed in relief. “You be on your way, boy. This is white man’s business.” “Miss? You alright, Miss?” Momentarily unable to frame a coherent reply, Blue Leaf took advantage of this moment of uncertainty to lash out at Simeon’s knee with her foot, just missing it. In response, he kicked her hard in her left calf.

Immediately, the sound of a gunshot pierced the falling darkness. “Miss? I asked you if you was alright.” As her vision cleared, Blue Leaf glanced past Gilson, to where the figure of Obadiah Williams stood, poised with his smoking revolver. Simeon stood stock still, eyes wide. He placed a tentative finger in the bloody gash on the back of his good pants. “What… what you done to me?” “Just a graze, that’s all. Miss?” Still dazed, Blue Leaf clambered unsteadily to her feet. “Do I look like I’m alright?” Obadiah shrugged. “Sometimes men and women like to do rough stuff. I was just trying to make sure you weren’t in trouble.” “What the…” Simeon turned to face his attacker. “What the hell you think you’re doin’, you dumb…” He paused as Obadiah raised the gun so that it was pointed at his head. He barely registered Blue Leaf’s fury as she pushed him out of the way and made her way to salvation. “You’re a dead man, you know that?” “You was gonna rape me, you son of a bitch!”

“Yeah, well when I catch you, I’m gonna do a whole lot more.” Gilson made as if to run, then winced and fell heavily against the wall, barely remaining upright. Blue Leaf was already well on her way down the street. Obadiah stood, uncertain for a few moments, before casting a final glance at the furious would-be rapist, and turning to find the untethered Frisco minding his own business. Blinded by fury, it took Blue Leaf a while to notice that she was being followed. “Miss? Miss? Excuse me, Miss?” She turned, irritated. “What?” “Excuse me, but… I was looking for a friendly place to eat, and maybe a bed for the night?” Obadiah smiled. “For my horse, too?” “Do you know what you just done?” “I think I just shot a man in the ass.” He scanned her face. “Friend of yours?” Blue Leaf stood for a while, trying to get the measure of this stranger. “Not any more.” She considered her situation. Even though everyone knew that Simeon Gilson was a spoilt fool, she realized that there’d be little point in making a ruckus about him 20

trying to gain unlawful entry to her womanhood. It wasn’t that no-one would believe her; just that no-one would care, particularly. “Listen… you better get out of town. That guy you just… his family’s pretty important round here.” “Oh.” Obadiah scratched his chin. “So, are you gonna be in trouble?” Blue Leaf sighed. “Hey… nice horse.” Obadiah grinned. “Name’s Frisco.” He tipped his hat. “And my name’s Obadiah. Obadiah Williams.” “Blue Leaf.” She smiled. “Listen… I sure could use a ride home.” Alvah had been the O’Halloran’s housekeeper ever since the early days of their marriage, and of all the servants she’d been in charge of, Blue Leaf was amongst the more reliable, generally doing what she was told, albeit with a scowl on her face. So, when she pitched up at the back entrance of the house on the back of a horse ridden by a black cowpoke, gabbled something about Simeon Gilson being after her hide, and needing to get some things together and leave town, Alvah was surprised. Still, she managed to have a brief conversation with Obadiah while she was rustling him up some ham and eggs. She was from 21

Mississippi, and had herself been a slave until well into early middle age, so they had plenty to talk about, although their conversation was dominated by her amazement that he was going all the way to California on a horse rather than taking the train. “I like horses”, was his simple reply. Alvah had said so many goodbyes in her life that she had little trouble in being unsentimental about them. Furthermore, if there was anyone who didn’t need to be told to take care of herself and not trust anyone, it was Blue Leaf. Still, she was sorry to see the girl go -- she had spirit. By the time Simeon Gilson’s father turned up at the house, in mid-morning with a deputy in tow, Obadiah and Blue Leaf were several miles away. Alvah played dumb, suggesting that they might have gone South, but Mrs O’Halloran managed to coax the truth out of her later, and duly passed the news on to her eldest girl, who resolved to shift Simeon down her list of favored suitors.

The Reverend Beauregard Eglinton gave the behind of the large, warm woman in bed next to him a friendly slap. “Hey, Carmelita. How’s about another 22

ride?” There came no reply other than a snored halfgrunt. He reached over her to the bedside table and grabbed the bottle of authentic French-style wine. There was still a healthy mouthful left, and as he savored its vinegary goodness, he contemplated going at Carmelita as she slept – she was, after all, paid-for. His deliberations were interrupted by the door creaking slowly open, and the appearance around it of a big, beaming face. “Ain’t you ever heard of knocking?” Bo pulled the sheet demurely up above his waist. “I just wanted to see how you was doin’.” “Well, I’m doing just fine, Teddy.” Teddy peered at Carmelita, curious. “She looks scary.” The girl that he had chosen for himself was, as usual, small and blonde, probably thirteen or fourteen years of age. “Scary’s good in a woman, bad in a horse.” Teddy chuckled. “I like that. That’s funny, Bo.” He stroked the edge of the door, suddenly pensive. “Hey, Bo… do you ever think about your Mama? When you’re doin’ it?” “What the… you’re a sick man, Teddy.”

Teddy reddened. “No, Bo, no I… I didn’t mean… I meant… like… do you think your Mama’d be ashamed of you. Doin’ it. When you wasn’t married?” Bo looked at him, puzzled. He disliked this new, pensive Teddy. “Do you want me to come in there and marry you to that little girl, Teddy, is that it?” “I… I…” The big man seemed to be seriously considering this offer. “Because men of God only do marriages. We don’t do divorces. You’d have to stay married to her forever.” “I was just thinkin’, that’s all.” “Teddy – a word of advice. Don’t do so much thinkin’. You ain’t equipped for it.” Teddy smiled his crooked smile. “Now, I know that was an insult. But I know you didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Else I’d have to kick your ass.” Bo grimaced. The first time they met, Teddy had kicked his ass. It was during a poker game in Carson City. Or, more exactly, at the end of the poker game, since it was the ass-kicking which ended the game, and Bo’s cheating which prompted the ass-kicking. Afterwards, Teddy seemed truly remorseful. “I’m sorry I had to do that, Mr Eglinton. But I couldn’t just let you 24

get away with it.” They stayed up drinking all that night, and the next day Teddy introduced him to his employer, Mister Johnson. “Go back to your girl, Teddy.” Teddy sighed. “I… I don’t think she likes me, Bo.” “You’re paying her, Teddy, she doesn’t have to like you, only your money.” “I… I…” Teddy lowered his eyes. “I think maybe I hurt her.” “What?” Bo leapt to his feet and struggled into his long johns, conscious of Teddy’s baleful gaze. In the room across the way, Teddy’s girl was face down, naked on the bed, looking even younger than Bo remembered, sobbing silently, and bleeding from a place where no woman, man, child or dog deserves to bleed from. “Shee-it, Teddy!” Bo turned and shoved his large companion in the chest, a look of frustrated disgust on his face. “Now we’re gonna have to pay extra!”

Obadiah and Blue Leaf didn’t exchange many words during the first few hours of their journey. Neither of them was a renowned conversationalist to 25

begin with, and there was something about galloping across the desert with the possibility of the law being on your trail that is not conducive to small-talk. Nevertheless, as dawn broke, the combination of fatigue, close physical contact, and the slow realisation that no-one was in immediate physical pursuit eased them both into reflective frames of mind. By the time they made a rest-stop at a water-hole, they had arrived independently at the awareness that they were comfortable in one another’s company. “So – where exactly are you headed?” Blue Leaf tore into a thick beef sandwich, suddenly conscious of not having eaten for over twelve hours. Obadiah shrugged. “California.” “What’s in California?” “Plenty of wrangling work.” He gazed into the middle distance. “The ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean.” Blue Leaf realized that she too had never seen the ocean. Up until now, the idea hadn’t bothered her. But there was a longing in Obadiah’s voice which something in her responded to. “So how long you been on the road?” “A few months.”

“A few months? That horse of yours must be slower than he looks.” “I stop off every now and again. Pick up some money.” “Stealin’?” “Working.” “Oh.” She felt her face redden. “Didn’t mean to offend.” “Looks like you make a habit of riling people.” “Maybe I do. My daddy used to say I was ornery as a wildcat in a sandstorm.” She smiled, involuntarily, then sighed. “I guess I been worse since he died.” Obadiah nodded. “I know what that’s like.” Sensing a morbid turn to the conversation, Blue Leaf consciously lightened her one. “So, what kind of name is Obadiah, anyhow?” “Ain’t you never read your Bible?” Running Fox had kept a tattered King James’ version somewhere in every hovel they’d shared, and during the early days of Marta’s pursuit of him she had made a pretense of religiosity, dragging a silk-and-lace clad Blue Leaf to Holy Communion once or twice, but it didn’t really take. Nor had her father kept up with the

faith of his people, since he felt it had let him down. “Not much. You?” “When I was growing up on the plantation, it was the only book they let us have.” Blue Leaf chuckled. “Why do I get the feelin’ that for every bad thing that’s happened to me, you’ve got a trump up your sleeve?” Obadiah had several times had conversations with Indians over whether it was the black man or the red man who had the most cause for complaint -whether it was worse to have been snatched from your homeland, or to have your homeland snatched from you; to be enslaved, or to be considered untrustworthy even as workhorses; to be despised, or to be feared and despised. Such debates were usually interrupted by women, arguing that whether Black, Indian, Irish or Chinese, it was always them who ended up with the shitty end of the stick. “So, where do you wanna go?” “Go?” In her eagerness to escape, Blue Leaf hadn’t really considered an ultimate destination. “I don’t know. Maybe find some reservation. Comanche. Although…” “Although what?” 28

“I ain’t no good when it comes to… bein’ made welcome, anyplace.” Obadiah shook his head. “Seems to me like you’re one whole heap of problems.” “Maybe.” Blue Leaf drank deeply from her canteen, and exhaled, satisfied. “I kinda like myself that way.”

“Bo. Hey, Bo!” Teddy’s whisper managed to be louder than his normal speaking voice. “Bo!” Bo shot him a cold glance, then returned to looking out of the train window. “I thought I told you not to talk to me.” “I’ll talk to you if I want to. Can’t tell me not to talk.” “Well, I don’t have to listen.” Bo was angry. Teddy’s little mishap at the whorehouse had not only cost them a lot of money -- and it would be Bo Eglinton who would have to explain to Mister Johnson why he would have to cover medical expenses and a week’s lost earnings for an adolescent harlot -- but they’d also been barred from every establishment in town. It was the perfect distance from Oliviaville, too -- near enough to be convenient, but far enough away that news didn’t 29

travel easily. “I’m supposed to be getting in a holy state of mind. How’m I supposed to think Jesus thoughts, when, whenever I close my eyes, I see…” Conscious of the sensibilities of their fellow passengers, Bo trailed off. Teddy shrugged, and turned to gaze at the passing scrubland. The girl had got what was coming to her. She was a slut, after all, and had made no pretense of finding him attractive. That was the thing about older women – they knew how to lie convincingly. Trouble is he only really liked females who reminded him of Alice. She’d lived on the neighboring farm when he was a child, and she used to let him touch her. Except, one day, he touched her somewhere she didn’t want him to, and she went crying to her daddy, who came after him with a pitchfork. Even though he was only fourteen, the young Teddy was as strong and stubborn as an ox. As dumb as one too, people said. If he hadn’t beaten Alice’s daddy so badly, he wouldn’t have got sent away. “Should have gone easy on him”, he murmured to himself. “What?”

“I thought we wasn’t talkin’.” Teddy smiled in triumph, then lapsed once more into a thoughtful silence. “I helped build this railroad.” Bo said nothing. After all, having worked on a chain gang was nothing to be proud of. Still, he was aware that Teddy had enjoyed his years of incarceration. Prison was where he’d learned to read, after a fashion, and to make friends, and to use his intimidating appearance to his advantage. In their travels together, they frequently encountered old comrades from Teddy’s years of penal servitude, and, once they were sure he wasn’t fixing to kill them, they’d tell the kinds of stories that usually began something like, “Hey, Teddy – you remember that time you stove in Charley Simpson’s head with a hunk of granite?” Bo considered that his achievement of never having been to prison, despite a lifetime of cheating, lying and stealing was somewhat more laudable. Being of below average height with a nondescript face helped, as did the realisation, arrived at when young, that clothing maketh the man. Whether it be a soldier’s uniform, a businessman’s suit, or a schoolmarm’s dress and bonnet, the right costume usually enabled him to slip into advantageous situations and out of 31

tricky ones with ease. His personal favorite was, though, the garb of a man of God, what with his having been brought up the son of a Catholic priestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s housekeeper. Indeed, he was the son of said Catholic priest, although he was never meant to know this. By the time he got to twelve, though, looking into Father Perroniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face was like standing in front of the mirror from Hades. This was the age he was when his mother died. Having expected the good Father to take him in, Bo was stunned when he realized that he was to be shipped off to an orphanage in nearby Boston. He ran away the night before he was due to leave, taking fifty dollars from the padreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s secret hiding place, and had been his own man ever since. That was the way he liked it -- no dependants, no encumbrances, a life that could fit into a suitcase. Trouble is, the beating he received from Teddy the night they met was his third inside a month. Whether it was just a run of bad luck or a sign that he was getting slow, he took the invitation to meet with Mister Johnson as a sign that it was time for a change of pace. He enjoyed being an employee for the first time in his life. He even enjoyed having a partner -- Teddy suited him fine, being no competition when it came to 32

women, and no great shakes intellectually, which gave Bo the chance to make out that he was more learned than he actually was. The previous day’s events, however, had unsettled him. As much as he tried to push the enormity of this assignment to the back of his mind, the fact remained that Mister Johnson had entrusted him with a major project. And even though he’d chosen Teddy as his lieutenant, it was now impossible to ignore the fact that he was a wild card. The more he thought about it, the happier he was that he had paid a visit to the telegraph office shortly before leaving Isis. The message had read “Need To Expedite.” Eglinton looked across at the some-time deacon, who was now lost in reverie, eyes misty as he recalled fallen comrades. “You know what they did? When I finished my sentence?” “No, Teddy. What did they do.” “They asked me to stick around. Be a guard. Said they could use a big lunk like me.” “And what did you say?”

“I told ‘em where to shove it. I know you’re gonna laugh at this…” Teddy turned to face Eglinton. “But I’m a man of honor, Bo.” Bo cracked an understanding smile. “Sure thing, Teddy. Sure thing.”

The animal stood by itself, some way apart from his companions, casually sniffing the same clump of grass it had been worrying at ever since Obadiah and Blue Leaf settled down to watch the herd, over an hour earlier. “Do you reckon he’s sick?” Obadiah shrugged. “Could be.” The mustang was noticeably thinner than the others. “Or maybe his buddies won’t let him get at the good grass.” “Pickin’ on him?” Blue Leaf smiled. “Those bastards.” “Maybe he’s an orphan. No mommy, no daddy.” “Yeah, Obadiah. Horses is just like people!” She snorted, derisive. Sentimentality over animals was one female trait she despised. “I thought you Comanche were experts when it came to horses.” “I thought you Negroes was scared of ‘em.” 34

“Most things people are scared of, there’s a damn good reason.” Blue Leaf hadn’t been entirely serious when she suggested that she might like a horse of her own, as the wild herd came into view in the middle distance. Riding bareback with her arms around Obadiah’s waist wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe, she mused to herself, this was the problem. Obadiah rose slowly. The lone mustang looked up at him, then away. “Nothing wrong with his eyes, anyhow.” Blue Leaf watched as he made his way, at a steady, unthreatening pace, towards the colt. She chuckled under her breath as it turned its head in his direction, and stiffened, ready to skitter away. But Obadiah stopped dead, put his hands on his hips, and remained still for two, five, ten, thirty minutes. She could tell from the tensing of his neck muscles that he was muttering something, but was too far away to hear what this might be. Gradually, the horse seemed to relax, idly pawing at the ground, tossing his head, almost like a shy, rich girl trying to flirt. And suddenly, Obadiah was standing beside the beast, caressing its neck, breathing softly into its nostrils. 35

“Oh, you have gotta be kiddin’ me!”, mumbled Blue Leaf.

Oliviaville had come into being fifteen or so years earlier, after a gold prospector named Hector Samuels came across deposits of silver in a temporarily dried-up river-bed. Within months a small town had grown up, named after the first woman who agreed to sleep with Hector after he declared himself mayor. It wasn’t long, however, before Hector’s small seam ran dry, and, hearing news of a more substantial find twenty miles away, most of the settlement’s new inhabitants, Olivia amongst them, made tracks. Now it was a township of around two hundred souls, many of them drifters who had lost resolve on the trek westward, and settled down to scrape a living from pigfarming, some of Oliviaville’s original settlers having managed to corral some of the wild boar who roamed nearby and breed them with their own swine brought from home. Hector had died of the drink a while ago, and township life had gone on even though they neglected to elect a new mayor, or even a sheriff. A dozen or so farms, a handful of rooming houses, a

couple of saloons, Miss Kitty’s -- this, pretty much, was Oliviaville. And then there was the church. Built during the early days, it had been neglected since Parson James joined the exodus. It was little more than a large barn, having been erected by men unschooled in any other kind of architecture. No-one in Oliviaville, even though most would have classed themselves as believers, realized there was a God-shaped hole in their lives until the Reverend Beauregard Eglinton arrived, armed with an official-looking letter, and accompanied by the gentle giant, Deacon Teddy. Maybe no-one would have helped them to fix up the place if they hadn’t been able to provide fairly generous payment. Certainly no-one would have attended services had it not been for Eglinton’s soul-stirring sermons. There was something about Oliviaville’s arid isolation which gave its denizens the taste for damnation. Before Bo and Teddy’s departure, they’d arranged for Jed Jones to meet them at the railroad station and take them back to town in his buggy. Jed was already an old man when he’d arrived in Oliviaville, in those early days, with Eliza, his scandalously young wife and their twin babies. The boys, Abe and Zeke 37

were now old enough to look after the pigs, leaving him to enjoy semi-retirement. He relished his new role as unofficial junior deacon, since his heart trouble -- at least according to Doc Wheaton, who everyone knew was more of an expert in porcine than human health -was life-threatening, and he figured it was time get in good with the Lord. “So, Reverend – did you see God?” With his back to the pair, Jed missed the glance they exchanged. “Not quite, Jed. There were a couple of moments where I glimpsed the ultimate truth, but, as always, they were fleeting.” Teddy managed to convert his laugh into a cough. “How about you, Brother Teddy?” “Oh, er, the Reverend’s more spiritual than me.” He frowned as he tried to recall one of the phrases that Bo had taught him. “I am content to be a mere servant of the Lord.” Jed nodded, wondering yet again at the cataclysmic nature of the revelation that could have turned a brute like Teddy into a man of God. The big man never spoke of this, however. Eglinton, on the 38

other hand, needed little prompting to expound upon his conversion from a man of sin, a slave to gambling, drink and fornication. “It was on the dusty, sawdust floor of a saloon in New Orleans”, he would begin. “It was dawn, and I was still drunk from the night before. I had also taken a beating from a giant beast of a man, to whom I owed money.” Eglinton figured that the most effective lies had a basis in truth. “And I looked up, at what I thought was the morning sunlight pouring through the grimy window. But, through the haze, I recalled that the room had no windows. And I shook my head, and I screwed up my eyes… and I saw the face of the Lord. Now, I can’t describe it to you, ladies and gentlemen. He didn’t look like me, or you, or you, or you. He looked like me, and you, and you, and you. His countenance was the face of all humanity. But without greed, without lust, without covetousness. His face was the source of all light and the beginning of all wisdom. And I held out my hand…” Here, he would recreate the moment, blinking, reaching for the sky, a look of wonderment illuminating his leathery features. “And I felt Him touch me. And the warmth of His love entered my heart. And I was a changed man.”

Jed could not pretend even to himself that he had been converted. He had spent his whole life with the stench of pig-manure in his nostrils, and found it a struggle to contemplate higher things. Eliza had dragged him and the boys to church that first time, and he was not unimpressed with the Reverend’s passion. There was one element of the service, however, which particularly fired his enthusiasm. “So, Reverend – communion this Sunday?” “We have communion every Sunday, Jed.” “Yeah, yeah, sure.” The old man scratched his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just… I was doin’ an inspection of the church… what with you bein’ away, and all… I felt it was my duty to see if we had enough of that communion wine stored away.” Ah. The communion wine. Of which Teddy was the stern guardian. “The communion wine’s in a safe place, Brother Jones.” “Sure thing, Brother Teddy, sure thing, I was just… I just…” The old man trailed off, and concentrated on avoiding a pothole in the road ahead. “Jed…” The Reverend Eglinton adopted his soberest tone. “You do realize that it’s a sin to partake

of the communion wine when you are not in the process of celebrating the holy sacrament.” “I… I… yes, of course, Reverend.” “It is the blood of Christ, man, not Friday night firewater!” Jed lowered his head, his face glowing red with shame. “I… I never… I wouldn’t even think of doin’ such a thing.” The remainder of the journey passed in silence.

“So – what you gonna call him?” Blue Leaf shrugged. “What about Horse?” “Horse?” Obadiah looked at her incredulous. “You can’t call a horse ‘Horse’.” “That’s what it is.” “And you’re an irritating little girl, but I bet you don’t like it when people call you that.” Blue Leaf opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, when she saw that Obadiah was smiling, in expectation of a sharp riposte. They had now been riding together for three days and nights and were getting used to one another’s little ways. Having her own horse was a plus point in terms of maintaining the distance she was used to keeping from people. She 41

missed being physically close to Obadiah, however. Her father being a hopeless and unpredictable drunk had ensured that local boys never came near her while he was around, and she had seen and heard and smelled enough while spending time at Marta’s to put her off the idea of intimacy for life. Not that she hadn’t had her moments. Tommy Rainbird used to feel her up when he and his mother, a distant cousin of Running Fox’s, came to visit, but that stopped after she smashed him in the face. More recently, Bernice, one of the older girls who worked for Marta demonstrated how she used her fingers on herself, after listening to her stepmother complaining about Blue Leaf showing signs of turning into an old maid. “Men don’t know nothin’ about what’s down there, and even when they do, they don’t care.” “It’s just practical”, Obadiah continued. “It helps a build a bond between you and your animal. If he knows you like him, he’ll do what you tell him. More often than not. Not everything rich white girls do is stupid.” “And what do you know about rich white girls?” “Enough to keep my distance.” Obadiah was pleased to hear her laugh at this. After Mary he’d tended to avoid women. Or maybe they 42

avoided him. In any case, he found most of the ones he came into contact with either too silly or too mean for comfort. At least Blue Leaf wasn’t silly, and her meanness seemed more like she was protecting herself than enjoying it for its own sake. And she wasn’t pretty enough to make him forget himself. It was almost like having a little brother along for the ride. If it wasn’t for the small, firm breasts that had been pressed warmly against his back during the early part of their journey, and which bounced up and down distractingly underneath her shirt. “We need to get you a saddle.” He had improvised a bridle for her from the rope he carried with him, and while Blue Leaf was having little trouble controlling her animal, she was struggling to maintain her equilibrium. “Next town we get to.” “If you was a gentleman, you’d give me yours.” “Good thing for me I’m not.” They rode on in a comfortable silence for a while, until Blue Leaf was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Fox”, she said. “Excuse me?”

“The horse. My horse. His name is Fox.” It felt good on her tongue, and in her heart. “Unless you think it’ll confuse him, and he’ll forget he’s a horse.” Obadiah considered it for a while. “Fox. Frisco and Fox.” He grinned. “Sounds like family.”

Ida Mae Browning, when young, had entertained fantasies of becoming a nun. This was foolishness, of course, because she wasn’t a Catholic. Her father’s general store back in Omaha was opposite a convent, and she would spend the empty hours behind the counter observing as the sisters came and went in flowing black, their faces serene. When they would come into the store, always in pairs, she would be especially polite, although too shy to ask questions. When her father died, the extent of his gambling debts was such that the shop had to be sold. The new owners were kind enough to keep her on, though, at a reduced wage, and she continued to monitor the movements of the Sisters of the Indigent largely undisturbed. It was while she was watching the body of Marguerita being carried out that she had what might be termed an epiphany. She remembered Marguerita’s arrival as a novice when she herself was eight, and now, as Mother 44

Superior, thirty-five years on, the old woman was being posthumously honored for a lifetime of sacrifice. Even though Ida supposed that Marguerita had died relatively young, being, she calculated, eleven or twelve years older than herself, she was forced to face a painful truth. Never having married, worked anywhere else, or even travelled outside Nebraska, she had suffered all the disadvantages of the nun’s life, with none of the joy inherent in being a bride of Christ. She was a laughing-stock at work, she had never been able to make friends, and the only men who paid attention to her were travelling salesmen who soon lost interest when it became clear that she wasn’t the decisionmaker when it came to purchasing their wares. This was until Horace came to town. On his first visit, he called her “chickie”, and on his second, he took her out for ice-cream, to the amusement of their fellow patrons, who were unaccustomed to seeing hatchetfaced old Ida from the waist down. He called in to the store once a month, even when he had no new canned foods to try and interest them in. It was a year or so after he began calling that the Good Mother passed, and Ida brought up her feelings of frustration over tea and cakes when Horace next visited. It was he who told 45

her about the opportunities available out West, and a small town called Oliviaville which would soon be the silver capital of America. “Indeed, I’m going out there myself this summer. Looking to buy myself a little place, settle down.” He polished the depressingly thick lenses of his spectacles with a monogrammed handkerchief. “All this travelling’s not good for the nerves.” Then, patting her hand, “Maybe I’ll send for you, when I get myself organised.” Ida took his death, soon afterwards, underneath the wheels of a stagecoach, as a sign. Immediately she heard about it, she gave her notice, packed her things, and made her way to Oliviaville. Unfortunately, she arrived just as everybody else was leaving, but, thinking quickly, she seized the opportunity to take over the largest of the general stores. Finally in control of her destiny, she buried herself in work, and managed to make as much of a success of it as was possible, given the relatively few customers available to her. Now, she was finally indispensable, and, some days, was so busy that she could almost forget that the stink of loneliness was upon her and always would be.

Ida’s General Store had been the first place the Reverend Eglinton and Deacon Teddy had called in at when they arrived in town, figuring that as the hub of such community as there was, it must be the best place to start when it came to spreading the good news. “Word is you’re a devout woman.” Ida didn’t think of herself as devout. The pictures of Jesus had been on the walls of her store the day she took over, and she felt superstitious about removing them. Still, it was better to be assumed to have a heart full of religion than to be suspected of being a witch, or pitied as a spinster. She attended the first service, and found it all a little excessive. She enjoyed the sensation of being part of a crowd with a common purpose, though, and the experience of communion was somehow magical. It was faintly surprising how the congregation grew from a few lost souls to virtually the whole town within a month, but Ida supposed that all religions were born in desolate places, where there was little to do other than contemplate higher things. She was heartened to see Irish Catholics, Norwegian Lutherans and Appalachian snake-handlers worshipping side by side, but she put that down more to Eglinton’s being the most interesting 47

stranger to pass this way for a while, than any impulse towards the ecumenical. Now, Oliviaville seemed somehow empty when Eglinton and Teddy were away, as they had been for the past couple of days. Even Ida’s encrusted heart leapt a little as she saw them ride past in Jed’s buggy as she was chomping on her lunchtime bratwurst. Their reappearance reminded her of a hymn they’d been singing the previous Sunday, about bringing in the sheaves. She was still humming it towards evening when a young black man dressed like a cowpoke, and an Indian girl wearing what must have once been her good dress wandered tentatively into her store. “Howdy, folks – how can I help you?” Obadiah immediately relaxed. Despite the woman’s hard, unsmiling face, her demeanor was businesslike, suggesting that she felt neither hostile nor threatened. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but we’re looking to buy a saddle?”

The first stop Obadiah and Blue Leaf had made in Oliviaville was a small grocery store, where they had to wait until every white customer who happened to 48

walk in whilst they were present had been served, before they could buy food. The second was a saloon where they were told straight out that they wouldn’t be served at all. The two rooming houses they passed as they walked on both had big signs outside saying “All Welcome” -- at the first one, the proprietor, Clayton Farlow, closed the front door as soon as he saw them looking at it; the second already had a hand-written addendum in the window, reading “No Colored, Indians or Chinese”. Thus, Ida Browning’s neutral greeting, in which others might have discerned frigidity, was a warmer welcome than they might have expected. Ida even went outside with them to feed and water the horses. She always regretted never learning to ride as a youngster. “There’s always time to learn”, suggested Obadiah. Ida chuckled. “And get thrown to the ground? With these brittle old bones?” “I never had a horse of my own before now.” Blue Leaf smiled for the first time in several hours. “It’s good. It feels… free.” “I’ve got all the freedom I can handle, thanks all the same.”

“Don’t think I ever heard of this town before”, mused Obadiah This prompted a brief history lesson from Ida. “Yup”, she concluded, finally. “This is a place people pass through on the way to somewhere good. We ain’t got nothing here but pigs.” Obadiah and Blue Leaf exchanged a meaningful glance. “Hey, Miss Browning – do you reckon there’s anyplace round here we could spend the night?” “Anyplace friendly?” Blue Leaf added. Ida thought for a few moments. “I got a nice clean barn, if you ain’t too proud.” The idea didn’t appeal at first, but when Ida took them out back to inspect it, they were pleasantly surprised. Sacks of pig-feed and crates of tinned food were neatly stacked, alongside farming implements and rails of sundry clothing. “I’ve had to get all sorts of fancy suit-pants and bonnets in since we all started going to church on a Sunday.” She explained that she fairly often opened it up in the morning to find evidence that some drunken Oliviavillean or other, fearing the wrath of a wife abandoned for the evening, had spent the night on the dusty floor. “I got plenty of old blankets back at the house.” 50

Even though Blue Leaf and Obadiah had spent a good few nights huddled together against the nighttime cold out on the plains, something about the prospect sharing a sleeping-space which had a roof made them feel slightly awkward. Still, Ida seemed to assume they were a couple, and neither leapt in to correct her, even though they talked for hours, since she had little to go home for. She even went to the trouble of making them a supper of pork and beans, and fetching them a pitcher of beer from the saloon, although she drank more of it than both of them put together. “Yep – this is a dull old town, alright. Could do with some coloreds and Injuns and Mohammedans and Chinese. Liven the old place up a little. I did have a Jewish gentleman pass through, a while ago. Didn’t stay too long, though. Nothing much to eat round here, except pig.” “Nice lady”, remarked Obadiah, after she had stumbled off back to her cottage. “Lonely lady.” Blue Leaf and Obadiah were preparing their bedding. Instinctively, they placed their blankets a few feet apart in the middle of the floor. “I wonder if that’s how I’ll end up.”

“I doubt it. You’re a pretty girl. Pretty girls always do fine.” Blue Leaf felt her face redden, and decided to change the subject. “Still, there’s worse things. Worse than being lonely.” “You reckon?” “At least she’s got money.” “Well, I don’t know about that.” In Obadiah’s experience, store-owners were always pleading poverty. “At least she’s got a place. At least she knows how she fits round here.” “A slave’s got a place. Don’t make him happy.” Blue Leaf tutted in irritation. “That ain’t what I mean, and you know it.” The continued to prepare for bed in silence. Obadiah turned away just in time as Blue Leaf started to remove her undergarments. This made her chuckle. “Guess I ain’t got nothin’ to be modest about.” Obadiah waited until she was settled on the floor before putting out the candle, and undressing in the dark. As he settled down to sleep, he could just make out the glint in her black eyes. “So. You think I’m pretty, huh?” “Go to sleep, Blue.” 52

She chuckled again, and closed her eyes.

Obadiah awoke with a gasp. Sitting bolt up right, he looked around him, and saw nothing. Telling himself to calm down, he put a hand on his chest and tried to moderate his breathing. He looked over to where Blue Leaf was sleeping, and waited for his eyes to register her presence. The dream had been horrible. In it, Blue Leaf was being raped by a cowboy wearing a pig-mask. Nearby, other cowboys in similar masks were waiting to take their turn, egging him on, while he himself was being held down by other men, similarly disguised. Except that as he struggled, they snorted, and thick green slime dripped from their hairy snouts as they covered his mouth with their rough hooves. As she was being pounded by the man-pig, Blue Leaf was looking over at him, her face contorted in pain and something which looked like disappointment. The real Blue Leaf was snorting with every inhalation, not nearly as loudly as a pig, but it was obvious that this had fed into his dream. She was sleeping peacefully, and Obadiah could just make out the already familiar stern downturn of the corners of 53

her mouth. He sighed, relieved, clambered to his feet, and made his way to the door. After he had finished urinating against the side of the barn, he turned and, rubbing his back, strolled the few yards around to the front of Ida’s store, to the main thoroughfare. In the blackness and silence, Oliviaville looked harmless. Obadiah wondered if this was the kind of town he’d wind up in if and when he ever found himself in the position to settle down. That seemed a long way off, though. “Be your own man” was the best advice he’d ever been given, by old man Sawdon, and he was trying to follow it as best he could. The only way he could imagine making a settled life for himself without having to return to some form of servitude was as a rancher, or maybe a horse-doctor, and to get started in either of these professions required capital, which he didn’t have. Sawdon had started as a horse-thief, and the rumors were that he’d built his fortune on other kinds of lawlessness as well. Obadiah wasn’t very good at being dishonest. Still, he was young and healthy, and he enjoyed life on the road. If you met people who didn’t like the look of you, you could just move on; if you came across people who did, you could stick around and smell the roses. He 54

found himself musing upon Blue Leaf’s smell, and how there still managed to be sweetness there, underneath the sweat. He wondered why he hadn’t answered when she asked if he thought she was pretty, and why she giggled. She had a very childish giggle, which was usually a bad sign. He didn’t recall Mary giggling at all, when they were together, but then he never knew her before she got sick. She hadn’t been especially pretty, so people told him. But she was kind, and she wasn’t silly, and she didn’t play damn fool games, and she enjoyed the loving almost as much as he did, and… Obadiah managed to leap of the way only just in time. Lost in remembering, he hadn’t heard the wagon coming, and the wheels on the near side damn near crushed his foot. Watching it go, he wondered at its speed -- obviously someone was in even more of a hurry than he was to get out of Oliviaville. But now it seemed to be slowing, and it came to a stop a way away, towards the far end of the main street. He couldn’t have explained his decision to take a closer look -- it was no business of his what went on in this town of pigs. But he found himself scurrying along in the direction which the wagon had taken, instinctively hugging the walls so as not to be seen by 55

whoever was at the center of whatever activity was going on. In Obadiah’s experience, nothing good happened in the middle of the night, unless you were safely indoors with people you loved. The wagon had pulled up outside the big, barnlike church which, according to Ida, had established itself as the focal point of the community within the space of only a few months. A huge man cheerily leapt up into the back of the vehicle, disappeared inside, and emerged, carrying a large crate which, by the way it rattled, Obadiah deduced contained bottles. He placed it against the wall of the barn, where another three or four were already stacked. The crates must have been heavy, but the giant, who he supposed must be the Deacon Teddy that Ida had spoken of, handled them as though they were cotton-sacks. Another, smaller man was in conversation with the wagon-driver. “Yeah, we’ve got to get this thing done in the next couple of days.” “Mister Johnson was wonderin’ what the problem was.” “Oh, no problem, no problem. It’s just, the longer we wait…”

He broke off to instruct Teddy to start carrying the cargo indoors. Teddy nodded, picked up two crates, and took them into the church. The Reverend Eglinton indicated his momentarily absent companion with a thumb, and lowered his voice. His tone seemed suddenly impatient and agitated. Obadiah could only make out a few words: “Isis”, and “crazy bastard” and “screw things up for us.” By the time Teddy came back out, however, Eglinton and the driver were chatting casually about women. A few minutes later, their business concluded, the driver turned his wagon and sped away once more, while the Reverend and Teddy went back into the church, the smaller man slapping his companion warmly on the back. As Obadiah ambled back to Ida’s barn, he pondered what they might have been up to. This Mister Johnson they were talking about could have been virtually anyone, Johnson being such a common name. But the awe with which they intoned it suggested that he was not a man to cross. He had always thought it sad that in order to be respected in this world one had to have the power to destroy people’s lives. But what would such a man have to do with reviving a church in a one-horse town? Doing good 57

works, late in the day, in order to ensure salvation? Possible. Making a show of piety as a cover for underhandedness? More likely. Still, it was none of his business. He would be out of there within a few hours, and Oliviaville could take care of itself. Nevertheless, as he approached Ida’s store, something was nagging at him. Something to do with the man called Eglinton. He was small and lean, and Obadiah guessed he was around fifty. His stance was peculiar, as though he’d been kicked around a lot, but come back stronger and meaner. And then there was his voice, deep, rasping, from the chest. And somehow vaguely familiar. Blue Leaf stirred as he settled back underneath his blanket. “Where you been?” “Took a little walk around town.” “Trouble sleepin’?” “Anyone ever tell you you ask too many questions?” Blue Leaf giggled once more.

“So, this is it, huh? I mean, we’re really gonna do this, Bo?” 58

Eglinton was heartened by the enthusiastic note in Teddy’s voice. “Sure thing, Teddy. Mister Johnson’s express orders.” He took another sip of whiskey. “Actually, Ted – I was starting to think you were losing your nerve.” “You know how my mind works, Bo. I ain’t too good when it comes to… thinkin’ about the future. Plans and consequences and such. And thinkin’ about the past mostly makes me sad. I guess I’m what you’d call a now person. If it ain’t happenin’ now, I kinda… have trouble concentratin’.” He grinned. “Maybe I been smacked upside the head too many times.” “I’ve never seen anyone get the better of you in a fight.” Reclining on the front-most pew, Bo searched his memory. “Not in a fair fight. But there’s people out there just don’t play by the rules.” Teddy shook his head in a mockery of regret. “I been hit with chairs, rocks, iron bars… I know you think I’m dumb, Bo… but there was a time when… a time when I wasn’t so dumb.” “I don’t think you’re dumb, Teddy”, the Reverend lied, looking his friend straight in the eyes. “It’s just… bein’ a deacon…” Teddy looked up at the large painting of Christ on the cross, directly from 59

Mister Johnson’s collection, which dominated the wall behind the pulpit. “You get to speculatin’.” Eglinton sighed. “Teddy… you’ve killed people, right? You’ve killed people because Mister Johnson told you to.” “So, you mean that no matter how much speculatin’ I do, I’m still goin’ to Hell?” “Not necessarily. There’s always the possibility of a deathbed repentance.” Eglinton sucked on his cigar. “That’s what I’m counting on.” “You’re gamblin’ on havin’ a deathbed?” Teddy grinned. “I always figured you’d wind up gettin’ shot down in the street, like a dog, with no warnin’.” “Yeah – I love you, too, Teddy.”

Even though she called out before nudging open the barn door, Ida was surprised to see that the Indian girl and the Negro cowboy weren’t entwined on the floor. She liked seeing young lovers together, sad as it made her feel, seeing that she had never been and would never be one. “I brought eggs and bacon!” As Blue Leaf and Obadiah ate, gratefully, Ida chatted away as she rearranged her boxes of stock. 60

Obadiah noticed that Blue Leaf was sniffing suspiciously at her cup of milk. “Is… does this… come from a pig?” There was a moment’s silence, as Ida and Obadiah looked from her to one another. Simultaneously they burst out laughing, Ida doubling over in amusement. “I’d… I’d hate… to be the poor sap… has to… has to milk old Zeke Svensson’s Gloria.” Affronted, Blue Leaf jumped to her feet, upsetting her meal into the floor, and stomped out, leaving the young black cowboy and the old white spinster united in mirth. As she sat on the ground in the dust outside the front door of the store, Blue Leaf was too blinded by rage to notice much of what was happening on the main street. In fact, not much was happening, since it was early. Jed Jones, with triumphalism in his determined step, however, was on the move. Blue Leaf didn’t notice him until the milky spit-ball landed close to her bare foot. She looked up to see a self-satisfied scowl on a heavily-lined gray face, before Jed shuffled onwards. He seemed to be concealing something precious under his jacket. Blue Leaf was still glaring 61

after him when Obadiah came out and put an arm around her shoulder. “We didn’t mean nothing by it, Blue.” “That old fart just spit at me.” Obadiah’s arm stiffened. “You want me to kick his ass?” He frowned. “Wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight.” “Don’t bother me none. Wasn’t exactly a fair fight when him and his kind massacred my whole village.” Obadiah sighed. “Me busting some senior citizen’s head isn’t gonna bring ‘em back.” “Well we won’t know if we don’t try.” She offered him a bitter half-smile before heading back to Ida’s barn.

Jed Jones didn’t sleep much, these days. When he was young, he was a real slug-a-bed, but now, even one those occasions where Eliza allowed him to roughly pleasure her, he’d generally only be out for an hour or two, waking in time to watch the new day materialize through the slats in his windows. Thus, even though his place was a full hundred yards away from the main street, he clearly heard the wagon as it sped into Oliviaville and out again less than half an hour later. 62

This was a familiar and welcome, if annoyingly irregular sound. He knew that the day after the wagon went through, a new batch of communion wine would magically appear in the back room of the church. Following the most recent delivery, he had managed to persuade the Reverend to give him a key to the church, in order to facilitate his deputy-deaconly duties. “What’s this?” “A key. For the church. As you requested.” “Uh. Alright. Er… what about the back room?” “What about it?” “I need a key to the back-room door? So I can get Eliza to do some cleanin’ in there?” “No you don’t, Jed.” During Eglinton and Teddy’s brief sojourn in the desert, Jed had taken his friend Lars, a renowned burglar in the Old Country, to try out his set of skeleton keys on the back-room door. Having quickly found one that worked, they did a quick inspection, but found no stray bottles. Nevertheless, Jed figured it was worth his while taking permanent possession of the key, and gave Lars a juicy sow piglet in exchange. Now the day had come for him the seize the opportunity, and at first light, he set off for the church. In the back 63

room, he found the mother-lode – ten crates of that sweet, red communion nectar, one of which, saints be praised, had already been cracked open, revealing a dozen or so bottles nestled in a bed of straw. Jed plucked out one bottle, rearranged the others so that the vacated space was not immediately apparent, and swiftly made his escape. Eliza hated him being drunk in the house, fearing that it would provide a bad example for the boys. Having made it home without being spotted, except by some little redskin bitch he’d never seen before, Jed packed himself some sausage, saddled up his mule, Whitey, scrawled a note for his wife saying he had to go see a man about some business, and set off for his favorite thinking-place, a small lake a mile or so west of Oliviaville, overlooked by friendly redwoods. “Today’s gonna be a good day”, he chuckled to himself.

Ida helped Obadiah and Blue Leaf to load up Frisco and Fox, and said they might as well keep the blankets she’d lent them, as well as letting them have a whole smoked ham at half price. “Call in, if you pass this way again.” 64

Obadiah and Blue Leaf smiled and nodded although they knew that a return visit was unlikely. As they reached the town sign, Blue Leaf signalled for them to stop. She got down, crouched beside the post, and peed on the ground. “Comanche custom?”, asked an embarrassed Obadiah as they resumed their journey. “Nope. Just felt like it.” They rode on in silence for a while, Blue Leaf taking the lead, even though she had no idea where they were going. Obadiah took the opportunity to observe the pleasing roundness of her behind. “So… you’ve never lived on a reservation?” “Ain’t never had that pleasure.” “Maybe you’d like it. Maybe…” Obadiah hesitated. “Maybe you’d be a little less… I mean, if you spent more time with your own people, you might be…” “Less of a pain in the butt?” “I was trying to find a nice way of saying it, but yes.” “I kinda like bein’ a pain in the butt. Makes it less easy for people to kick you around.” Obadiah nodded. “I guess.” He mused to himself that maybe his indifference to being kicked around was 65

the reason he’d never achieved much in life. As well as the fact that he found it easier to deal with horses than people. “So, what was she like?” “What was who like?” “Mary.” “Oh.” Obadiah had briefly mentioned his relationship with Mary, and her fate, early in their trip. “What do you want to know?” “Was she cute?” This prompted a snort from Obadiah. “That’s a stupid word.” “Well, think up some words that ain’t stupid.” Obadiah pondered for a moment. “Kind. Affectionate. Smart. Beautiful.” He fell silent as he started to choke up. “All the things I ain’t.” Blue Leaf looked back at him, smiling, then looked away as she saw the emotion in his face. “I only ever lost my daddy. I mean, that I can remember. He was drunk most of the time. Never said much. Every now and again, he’d hold me close to him and call me his baby. Ticklin’ my face with the bristles on his face. Although he didn’t do that so much when he got together with my damn step-mom.” 66

“Are we doing this again?” “Doin’ what?” “Figuring out who’s had more suffering? Why don’t we just say…” He broke off, his attention caught by something new. “What? What’s up?” They were approaching a small lake, halfencircled by youngish redwoods. To the casual observer it might have looked as though someone was lounging against the roots of a tree, having enjoyed a midmorning libation. But there was something about the angle at which the man’s foot made contact with the earth that drew Obadiah’s eye. As they neared him, Blue Leaf sighed loudly. “It’s that old fart. Come on, let’s go.” Ignoring her, Obadiah pulled up, got off his horse, and walked over to where Jed Jones lay. A brown bottle was still half-clutched in his pale fingers. His mouth was wide open, as were his rheumy eyes. “Dead drunk, huh?” offered Blue Leaf, still maintaining her distance. “Something like that.” He kicked Jed’s heel, and the body rolled over onto its side. Blue Leaf gasped. “Shit!” She leapt down 67

from Fox’s back and strode over to Obadiah. For no good reason, she too kicked Jed, this time in the behind. “Yup – he’s dead, alright.” The bottle which the old man had been holding rolled away and came to rest amidst a clump of gray fungus. Obadiah picked it up, looked at it, and handed it to Blue Leaf. “Communion wine?” She almost laughed. “He drank himself to death on communion wine?” “I guess it means he’s gone straight to heaven.” “Huh. No heaven I ever wanna go to.” Nearby a white mule was lapping unconcernedly at the muddy water. Obadiah wandered over and stroked his mane and ears. “Hey, there, fella. What say we get you home, huh?” “Home?” “We can’t leave him here to rot in the sun, Blue.” “You could untie him, and let him run wild.” “I was talking about the old man, Blue.” “Oh. Him.” It took little effort for Obadiah and Blue Leaf to lift Jed’s lifeless husk onto the back of his mule. Once

he was secured, they wordlessly set off once more in the direction of Oliviaville. “You know what’s gonna happen, Obadiah.” “What’s gonna happen, Blue?” “You know they’re gonna say you killed him.” “Why would they think that?” “Big black man? Little dead old white guy? Stands to reason.” “Oh. Right. So why did I kill him?” Blue Leaf fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, you was defendin’ mah honor, kind sir.” “I ain’t no killer, Blue. But even I can think of easier ways than making a man chug down a bottle of church wine.” “They’ll find a way to get you for it, mark my words.” “Hm.” Obadiah was starting to worry. Perhaps she was right. He had known black men who’d been strung up, without the benefit of due process, for only threatening to raise a hand to a white man. Not to mention… “Maybe if we just let the mule loose, let him ride into town by himself.”

“Uh-oh.” Blue Leaf had spotted the two figures on horseback who were trotting in their direction. “Looks like it’s too late for that.” It hadn’t taken much time for Bo and Teddy to discover that a bottle of the communion wine was missing, or to deduce the identity of the guilty party. When Teddy had called round to Jed’s place, Eliza informed him that her husband had set off early, on pig business. He fancied that she gave him the glad eye, too, but he didn’t have time to pursue it. Eglinton hadn’t worked out what he was going to do when he found Jed. “We’ll play it by ear”, he told Teddy, who knew full well that Eglinton didn’t like leaving things to chance, so refrained from asking any damn fool questions. When he saw the Negro and the Indian girl riding towards them, with a readily identifiable load being carried on Jed’s old mule, Eglinton sighed in relief. “Let me do the talking.” “Excuse me, sir”, began Obadiah, when they were close enough, “Are you folks from Oliviaville?” “Sure are, son. The Reverend Beauregard Eglinton, at your service. And this is my deacon Teddy. And that…” He indicated the body. “Would appear to be our good friend Mr Jed Jones.” 70

“I’m afraid he’s dead, Reverend. I mean, I’m no doctor, or nothing.” “Well, of course you’re not,” Eglinton said, smiling. “The very idea!”, was what Obadiah heard. “We didn’t kill him”, chimed in Blue Leaf. “He was dead when we found him. Drank himself to death.” “Ah, yes. Our brother Jedediah is… was a man of simple pleasures. And which one of us can say that he, or she, has never sinned?” “We were thinking… maybe we should take him to the sheriff, or something?” “We have no sheriff in Oliviaville. I guess you might say we don’t need one.” Obadiah had never seen a shark in the flesh, but he guessed that Eglinton’s smile wasn’t too dissimilar. “We’ll take care of him, buddy. Nothin’ for you and the little lady to worry about.” Teddy smiled, half friendly, and half pleased with himself at having disobeyed Eglinton. He swung down from his horse and strolled over to Jed’s mule, unnecessarily brushing Blue Leaf’s thigh with his arm as he passed her. “So, how’d you know to come looking?” enquired Obadiah. 71

“His good lady wife was concerned. And… well, we know his little ways.” Eglinton watched as Teddy checked that Jed’s body had been well-secured. “I take it that you’re Ida Mae Browning’s visitors, from last night?” Obadiah nodded. “Small towns, huh?” “Indeed.” “Hey, Bo – I mean, Reverend.” Teddy had brought Whitey around to where his own horse was idling. “Maybe you should… you know… say a few words.” Obadiah fancied that the nature of the Reverend’s glance in Teddy’s direction was momentarily hostile. But Bo smiled, indulgently. “Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Lord – have mercy on the soul of Jed Jones, thy humble servant. And bless these kind strangers, for their respectfulness in returning his earthly remains to the bosom of his friends and family. In the name of God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost…” Obadiah mumbled an embarrassed “Amen”. Blue Leaf remained silent. “I had to say somethin’”, explained Teddy on the ride back. “I didn’t want them thinkin’ I was stupid.”

“Why the hell would you care what they think?” countered Eglinton. “The girl was a nice piece of chicken-meat.” Teddy looked back, but Obadiah and Blue Leaf were well out of sight. “You ever done it with a Indian?” “We should have killed them.” Teddy near fell off his horse. “Bo?” “They might talk. Man dies like that? People might get suspicious.” “You want me to go get ‘em?” Bo shook his head. “Things are complicated enough as it is.” His face was set in what seemed almost a parody of demonic darkness. “Just thank God this thing’ll soon be over and done.”

It was nearing nightfall as Obadiah and Blue Leaf entered the village. A group of children who were playing a ball game ran to alert their elders, and within a very few minutes, a small reception committee had formed. The old man who was at its head greeted Blue Leaf in Cherokee, but it was Obadiah who responded with an overly confident “O si yo”, continuing hurriedly in English, saying that he was a friend of Saul McPherson’s. The old man’s eyes lit up at the mention 73

of this name, and he beckoned for the pair to dismount. Obadiah had met Saul on the plantation where he shared those months with Mary. Saul was travelling the country, saying goodbye to old friends, since he knew he was dying. As a boy, he was traded to the Cherokee by his Scottish owners, but later he won his freedom and became a warrior, killing a number of whites before the Europeans achieved domination. By the time of the Civil War, he’d long since hung up his bow, but was instrumental in persuading a number of Cherokees to fight in support of the Union. One of these was Kanuna, who had greeted Obadiah and Blue Leaf, and welcomed them into his house. “I remember him saying he had family in this area.” Obadiah was reluctant to use the word “reservation” to his face. “He survived two wives, both Cherokee. He had three sons, two daughters. All spread far and wide now.” Kanuna turned his attention to Blue Leaf. “So, tell me about your family. Are there many Comanche where you come from?”

“Not many.” Blue Leaf told the story of the massacre, and of her father. Kanuna listened in silence, nodding sadly. “Terrible things have been done to our people. To all our people.” “Yeah, but that’s how humans are,” began Obadiah. “It’s not just the whites killing the Indians, or the white man killing the black man. Look at the war -white men killing each other. Look over in Europe -them nations are always at war. And it wasn’t so far back that Indians were killing Indians. ‘Cause that’s how you got your land. And I bet that if you look at Africa, there’s always been Africans killing Africans. Hell -- there was only slaves in this country ‘cause Africans sold other Africans. ” Obadiah broke off, conscious that Kanuna, Blue Leaf, and Kanuna’s wife and sister who had been serving them food, were staring at him. “That’s the longest I ever heard you speak”, marvelled Blue Leaf. “It is hard not to see Man as an evil on this earth.” Kanuna sucked hard on his pipe.

“I’m not saying it’s evil. I’m just saying…” Obadiah sighed. “That’s how humans are. That’s how humans move forward.” “Indeed. And what about those of us who simply seek to live in harmony with nature? Are we foolish?” “No, sir, you most certainly are not. That’s all I wanna do with my life is survive. And not do anybody any harm. But…” He shrugged. “In my experience, you gotta be a bastard to get anywhere. Pardon my language, ladies.”

Jed Jones was buried on his own land the evening after he passed. Most of Oliviaville attended the ceremony, not because Jed had been an especially wellliked man, but it was a break from the routine. Eliza’s tearfulness was sincere -- her marriage had been considerably happier than she might have expected it to be, being as she was won from her father in a card game. Jed had provided her with a home and a living and two handsome sons, and almost never hit her, and the pleasures of the flesh had indeed been pleasurable, not like when her father did it to her. Eglinton kept the service short, because the night was cool, and he had a bottle of whisky waiting in 76

his room. He spoke about Jed’s love of family, and alluded to the manner of his death as being in keeping with his capacity for living life to the full. Miss Kitty from the cat-house led the singing, and the Reverend closed the service by inviting everyone to celebrate a special Holy Communion with him the following day, prompting a few uncomfortable glances between mourners. Only the most observant of them would have noticed that Deacon Teddy was struggling not to smile.

Obadiah was grateful for Kanuna’s offer of a bed for a night, and even more grateful on realizing that it was a real bed -- the first he’d slept in for weeks, it seemed. Not that he did sleep, that well. He had surprised himself with his speechifying about human nature. That morning’s encounter with a dead man had obviously turned his mind to matters of moment. Still, it meant that the evening had been lively, although past experience led him to moderate his intake of moonshine. Thus, he was sober enough to notice that Blue Leaf seemed less relaxed than he was in the company of the Cherokees. He supposed that her father may have passed on the story of some ancient tribal grudge, which she felt unable to let go of. He had half 77

imagined that she might feel at home here, and make plans to stay. Strange -- it had only been a couple of days, but he was finding it hard to remember what it had been like when she wasn’t around. The sound of the door being pushed open jolted him fully awake. “It’s me”, whispered Blue Leaf. “Can’t sleep?” “He put me with a lot of silly women. Can I… can I get in with you?” Obadiah forgot to breathe for a few seconds. “I… what…?” “They all think we’re together, anyway, so what’s the difference?” “I… you know what the difference is, Blue.” “Oh.” She sighed. “You mean you don’t like me?” “Sure I like you. It’s just… it’s just…” “It’s just that I ain’t Mary.” The hurt in her voice was almost tangible. “Look… Blue Leaf… you’re a beautiful girl… but…” “But I’m dumb. And I’m mean.” “Well…” 78

“And I ain’t black.” “Blue… you don’t know me.” “Yes I do. And you know me. You know you do. I seen the way you been lookin’ at me. I been lookin’ at you too. I like you, Obadiah. You’re a good man. You’re the first man I ever met that I wanna do it with. I ain’t never done it. But I seen it plenty. Always looked kinda… ugly. But… maybe…” She had been moving closer as she spoke. Now he could feel the warmness of her breath on his face. “What are you doing to me, Blue?” She giggled nervously as she slipped underneath his blanket. “Ancient Comanche magic.”

The first time, Obadiah was trying hard not to hurt her, but forgot himself at the end. “It’s alright”, she said, wondering what all the fuss was about. Then they talked for a while about fears and hopes and memories, and he kissed her properly. Then they did it again, and this time it was more than satisfactory as far as both parties were concerned.

“Lord have mercy on the soul of Jed Jones.”

“Lord have mercy on the soul of Matthew Thomas.” It was the voice, that casual, almost complacent sincerity. And the accent – the way he said the word “Lord”, it sounded like he was from the East, not from these parts. There were no other clues, since, like all the others, the man was dressed in a full-length robe, and a pointed hood which covered his entire head. Matthew Thomas had been caught with a white woman. He was a house-servant, and she was a prostitute popular amongst the young men belonging to the plantation-owning families. What rankled was that she had given it to Matthew Thomas for free. She had already been beaten half to death and left on the side of the road twenty miles away, with instructions never to return. Matthew had also been kicked around somewhat, but his suffering wasn’t yet at an end. They’d come galloping into the compound in the middle of the night, and rounded up a number of slaves, all male. “You need to see this, boy”, said the faceless figure who grabbed the pre-pubescent Obadiah him from his bed. They were dragged to a clearing in the forest, where Matthew Thomas was being held

upright, the noose already around his neck, in front of the tree. Despite the hoods, all the blacks knew who all the whites were. Well, almost all the whites. Aware that the none of the local ministers would approve of their actions, or at least that they’d be afraid of being found out, they had drafted in a stranger to say prayers. Obadiah later heard that he was a travelling card-sharp who was prone to calling on the Lord during poker games, and that the Lord often miraculously placed extraneous aces up his coat-sleeves. But on the night that Matthew Thomas was hanged, he was the closest they could get to a bona fide man of God. The day after the lynching, he crept away, and was never seen again. “Lord have mercy on the soul of Matthew Thomas.” Two of the white-robed figures lifted Matthew Thomas onto a horse, while another secured the other end of the noose to a high branch. “I pray for all of those who do the Lord’s work. In the name of God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost.” Matthew Thomas, being barely conscious from the battering he’d been given, could hardly find the strength to kick when the horse was driven away with a 81

mighty whack on the flank. He simply hung there, his legs twitching, his eyes bulging out of their swollen sockets. Obadiah awoke, gasping for breath. Blue Leaf, her body wrapped around his, instinctively loosened her grip. “Sorry”, she mumbled. “Holdin’ too tight.” It took a few minutes for Obadiah to regain his bearings, by which time Blue Leaf had fallen asleep again. He shook her shoulders. She smiled. “You wanna go again?” “He’s not a real parson!” “Who ain’t a real person? You havin’ a bad dream?” “Eglinton! I knew I’d heard that voice before. He’s a crook.” “They’re all crooks, baby.” She gently kissed his neck. “I ain’t never felt so happy in my whole life.” Obadiah sighed deeply and stroked the scar between her breasts with a gentle finger. He too had seldom experienced such bliss. As usual, though, bad thoughts were swimming around his mind. Except that this time, the thoughts were concrete, deadly memories. 82

“We’re gonna have to go back to Oliviaville, Blue.”

Ida Mae Browning closed up the store midmorning, and joined the procession heading towards the church. She was feeling uncommonly upbeat, as was everyone else, if the cheery smiles and greetings were anything to go by. This was strange, given that they’d just lost Jed Jones -- he’d been there even longer than her, and was a highly recognisable part of the landscape. Still, as more than one person had remarked to her, he had gone the way he would have wanted to. Even though, as in any small town, everyone in Oliviaville knew everybody else’s business, there still wasn’t the sense of its being a real community, where people cared about each other. Or at least there hadn’t been until Reverend Eglinton. There were a number of places where men could get together and talk dirty, and women often gathered in her store to exchange hearsay, and children were always adept at creating their own worlds, even in the most arid of environments. But the church was the one place where everyone could get together, with the common aim of 83

praising the Lord. Ida had never been a church-goer back in Omaha, and couldn’t recall any particular enthusiasm amongst those who were – unless it was an enthusiasm for fancy hats, or for being seen to be better than their neighbors. The nuns were different – they were the very embodiment of spirituality, women who had literally given their lives to God. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t put the Reverend Eglinton in the same category as them. He was certainly a charming man when encountered in the street, and undoubtedly magnetic in the pulpit. It was just that he seemed strangely businesslike about his religion. Still, maybe that’s how truly religious men are. She imagined a rough-and-ready John the Baptist rolling his sleeves up to immerse people in the River Galilee, or Jesus Himself going about overturning the money-lenders tables with a look of stern decisiveness in his eyes. Or all those priests and cardinals in Rome walking around giving hearty handshakes, and making deals in darkened rooms. Maybe it simply was a matter of men regarding God as one of them. Up ahead, she could see Deacon Teddy at the door of the church, welcoming people in with that grin on his face. Now there was a fellow who certainly did 84

not give the impression of holiness. He had the air of a freakishly overgrown child who might spend his evenings gleefully tearing the heads off puppy-dogs. But Ida had never known him be anything other than perfectly polite, and had never heard anyone report any misbehavior on his part. It just went to show that appearances meant nothing. After all, the casual observer might mistake her for an unhappy, unattractive, rapidly ageing woman who had suddenly turned to church-going in order to fill the aching void in her insides, and maybe, possibly meet a man. “Good morning, Deacon Teddy.” “Mrs Browning.” “Miss.” “Oh, yeah. I keep forgettin’.” That grin again. If only she was thirty years younger. And somebody else entirely. Ah well -- at least some of that communion wine would calm her nerves.

“You know why I came with you, don’t you?” Obadiah looked up at Blue Leaf, who was gnawing at a hunk of bread. They hadn’t had much of a chance to talk since waking Kanuna to tell him they were going, and galloping out of the village and back 85

towards Oliviaville. Now, at a small oasis, having answered the call of nature and fed Frisco and Fox, they were breakfasting. He shrugged. “I guess I didn’t give you any choice.” “I just wanted to make sure you wasn’t runnin’ out on me.” Obadiah smiled. “I thought you didn’t know anything about men.” “I know enough. So… are you my man, now?” “Do you want me to be?” “Reckon so.” “Well, then, that’s what I am.” “Good.” She gazed over to where the sun was rising, an unaccustomed lightness in her heart. “So, what’s the plan?” “Plan?” “You got a hunch that this Reverend guy’s up to no good.” “Yup.” “So what you gonna do about it?” Obadiah pondered this for a moment. “Tell Ida Mae. Maybe she can spread the word.”

“As if them people are gonna care that he took part in a lynchin’.” She covered her mouth to mask a belch. “I bet most of them bastards ain’t so innocent.” “Blue… how did they seem to you? Eglinton and that deacon guy. When we brought the old guy back.” “Well… they didn’t seem too cut-up about it.” “Didn’t seem too surprised, either.” He frowned. “We should go back to the lake. Where we found him. That bottle… I hate to say this, baby, bearing in mind the way your daddy passed… but a man doesn’t die from drinking one bottle of wine.” “I guess not.” Blue Leaf sighed, then froze and looked at Obadiah, quizzical. “Did you… did you just call me ‘baby’?”

“Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Brethren, and sisters, you’ll be familiar with that phrase from songs of praise throughout the ages. And, indeed, you are an agricultural people, you’re constantly washed in the blood of your animals, you are constantly confronted with the unutterable, irreversible fact of death. You are constantly making sacrifices, towards a greater end. And this is what we commemorate today, 87

on this day of days, with this holy ceremony. For the Lord your God gave His only begotten son as a blood sacrifice, so that you Mr Jenkins, and you Mrs Rasmussen, and you Mr O’Brien, and you Miss Browning, and me, and Deacon Teddy there, and all of us gathered here today… that we might have life eternal. Life eternal in the glorious presence of the Lord. In a land that knows no war, that knows no hatred, that knows no sickness, no division, no loneliness, no pain, no unhappiness, no grief, none of the decrepitude of ageing. For we shall have dominion over death. We do not fear death. We welcome death, we embrace death. For it is only through death that we will truly discover God’s gift of life.” By this time, Teddy had finally reached the back of the hall. It was only now that he was really missing Jed. Handing out two hundred or so cups, then making sure they were all filled with wine – it stood to reason that with two people doing it it would have taken half as long. Not that Bo had any trouble filling the time -he could sermonise for hours although, thank God, he seldom did. “We seek salvation, Lord. In this vale of tears, in this world of sin, in this house of sorrow, we seek 88

salvation. We seek redemption. We seek peace. And we have found it in thee.” The Reverend Beauregard Eglinton raised his finger skyward, which was the sign for Teddy to quietly bolt the door. “You will be aware that we have a slightly different celebration today. The ceremony of the flesh and the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ is, for today only, simply a celebration of His life’s blood, His blood sacrifice as expiation for our sins, represented as earthly wine. And, rather than waiting in line to drink of the blood of our Redeemer, we will take this step in unison, in a gesture of fellowship, as we call upon the Lord to have mercy on our souls not as individuals, with our own personal concerns, problems, vendettas, petty grievances and self-indulgences. No, my brothers and sisters – we are as one. We are representing not ourselves, but the whole human race.” The knock on the door came like a gunshot as the echo of Eglinton’s voice slowly faded. Several people started, and turned to look. But they saw only Deacon Teddy, standing tall and firm, his arms folded, his smile serene.

“And thus… and so…” The Reverend seemed to have momentarily lost his flow, as his mind raced. Surely they can’t have forgotten anyone. He’d personally counted them all in, the men, women and children of Oliviaville. “And thus we commemorate… that is to say, we celebrate our unity in the face of all the sorrow which this world has to offer…” The knock came again, more insistent, more frantic. Teddy made as if to turn and investigate, but Eglinton shook his head. “I can almost hear the sound of that old serpent Satan, knocking at the door to my very soul. I shall not let you in, thou father of all lies. Thou shalt not pass, for my soul belongeth to the Lord.” Obadiah and Blue Leaf had arrived in Oliviaville in mid-morning, to find the main street deserted. Making straight for Ida’s store, they found it shut, with a sign in the window reading “Gone To Church”. Similar notices were displayed in the windows of several other establishments. “But… it ain’t Sunday!”, remarked Blue Leaf. They rode back up to the church. Inside they could hear the reverberations of Eglinton’s raspy baritone, without being able to make out the words. 90

Obadiah dismounted and turned the door-handle. The door did not move. “Funny. What kind of church locks the doors when there’s a service happening?” As Obadiah knocked, then listened, then knocked again, then listened again, Blue Leaf got down from her horse and went over to Frisco. She pulled a length of rope from Obadiah’s pack. “I… I can’t make out… sounds like he’s talking about… living for ever!” “That’s what they all talk about. Move out of the way.” Obadiah turned to find Blue Leaf beside him. She had made a loop in the end of the rope, and was slipping it over the door-handle. “What in hell are you doing?” “Well, do you want this door open or not?” The other end was looped around Fox’s neck. Before Obadiah could gather his thoughts, with words like “desecration” and “sacrilege” in the forefront of his consciousness, Blue Leaf had leapt onto the back of her horse. “Best get out of the way. Baby.” “But… but…” 91

Blue Leaf backed up, almost to where Obadiah was standing. Then, with a “hup!”, she spanked Fox’s flank, and dug her heels into his side, causing him to bolt down the street, taking most of the door with him. Obadiah had just made it round the corner of the building when he heard the splintering. He rushed back, all the time wondering what to say to the congregation. “Sorry to interrupt, folks”, he thought to himself, “but I have reason to believe that the Reverend Eglinton may not be a real reverend, and that, furthermore, he may not have your best interests at heart!” He got as far as “Sorr…” before Deacon Teddy’s fist crunched wetly into his face, knocking him onto his back in the dirt. The sensation when Teddy landed with both knees in his midriff was akin to being swung by the feet and slammed into a tree, in terms of both pain and disorientation. With a look on his face which managed to combine joy with regret, Teddy grabbed Obadiah’s hair in one hand, and started to steadily pound his face with the other. Eight or nine blows in, Blue Leaf, on foot once more, managed to reach them, but barely breaking his rhythm, Teddy swatted her away, knocking her into the door-jamb. 92

“What is the meaning of this!?” Beauregard Eglinton stood in the church doorway, his face a picture of righteous outrage. Blue Leaf squeezed past him, and into the body of the hall. “This man ain’t no priest!” “We ain’t Catholics, you dumb squaw bitch!” called out Clayton Farlow, to uneasy titters from his fellow worshippers. “He’s a crook!”, screamed Blue Leaf, undeterred. She searched the faces of the gathered townsfolk, looking for encouragement, but saw only confusion. Her eyes lit up as she caught sight of Ida Mae Browning. But Ida, embarrassed, looked away. “Teddy – leave him be,” came the order from Eglinton. With a final punch for luck, the deacon desisted from pummelling Obadiah, and clambered to his feet. “I ask again. What do you mean by this violation of the Lord’s house? Is this some form of heathen savagery?” His head swimming in a fug of befuddlement, Obadiah managed to raise himself onto one elbow. “I ain’t the only savage in these parts!”

Teddy kicked him in the face, and Obadiah went down again. This time the gasps of horror from the female church-goers were plainly audible, and Eglinton was wary of the possibility of losing the goodwill of his audience. “Alright, Teddy, that’s enough!” He walked over to where Obadiah lay. “You were brought up religious, I assume, as your people tend to be.” “I… I…” “Have you ever drunk the blood of Christ?” “I… you’re no… man of God.” It was at this point that everything appeared to happen at once. First off, Blue Leaf ran at Teddy and kicked him hard in the balls. The big man tottered slightly, shocked and immobilised, but remained on his feet. Meanwhile, there came a scream from the body of the church, followed by another. Ida Mae Browning, who had taken a mouthful of communion wine to calm her nerves after being singled out by Blue Leaf was lying, twitching on the floor, her eyes glazing over, and a thin white froth forming in the corners of her mouth. As her fellow Oliviavilleans gathered around her, concern in their eyes, it was only

a matter of moments before Ida ceased to twitch, and ceased to breathe. “The wine! It’s poison!” It began as a shocked, incredulous whisper, but quickly swelled until it was a roar of horror, of fury. “Eglinton – he was going to poison us! All of us!!” The reverend was waiting, with his Smith and Wesson cocked, by the time the stampede reached the church door. Seventeen year-old Abe Jones, who was slowly realizing that his father’s death had not been the kind of tragic accident it had been painted, ran at Eglinton in a blind rage. By the time he reached Bo, he too was dead, shot through the heart. “Teddy?” The big man was still winded, unable to move, speak, or think. Eglinton raised his gun and shot him twice through the head. After all, he was in no condition to make a rapid escape, and he was too stupid not to spill the truth under questioning if he was left behind. Deacon Teddy’s face was a picture of mystification as he toppled, oak-like, to the dusty earth. Even before Teddy had landed, the reverend had leapt onto the back of Blue Leaf’s horse, Fox, and was galloping into the desert.

The inhabitants of Oliviaville were not accustomed to bringing their guns to church. Thus, it was only Obadiah who was armed, and he wasn’t exactly in optimum condition. Nevertheless, through the mist of disorientation, he managed to get off three rounds before Eglinton made it beyond range and out of sight. “He… he tried to kill us all!,” muttered Doc Wheaton, still dazed. “Yeah”, replied Blue Leaf, kneeling beside Obadiah. “We saved your stinkin’ lives, you dumb bastards.”

Over the following few days, the precise nature of the Reverend Eglinton’s machinations became clear. Investigators from Carson City discovered that the wine which had come close to killing the entire population of Oliviaville was adulterated with a tasteless, odorless, synthetic poison which was previously unknown to them. Bottles of the wine which they’d been using for the previous few months were discovered back in Eglinton’s room, and were found to contain a substance similar to laudanum -- derived from wild flowers, and prone to be habit-forming. It thus became 96

clear that Oliviaville had been in the grip not of a religious revival, but a low-level narcotic addiction. “But… why?” was the question that kept newspaper columnists in the region fully occupied for a month or so, until the next big story came along. No adequate answer was ever arrived at. Nor was Beauregard Eglinton ever apprehended, at least under that name. The body of Fox, Blue Leaf’s horse, was discovered alone in the sands the day after Bo disappeared. One of Obadiah’s bullets had hit him in the rump, a fact which distressed him considerably more than it did Blue Leaf. “You killed my horse, you scoundrel!” At least for the week following the unpleasantness, Obadiah and Blue Leaf found themselves welcomed, free of charge, into an Oliviaville rooming-house, and they spent virtually every second together, with her tending to his injuries, and waiting until most of the soreness had subsided before making love to him. “So – we gonna stick around?” “This town? I don’t think so, Blue.” Obadiah was by no means alone in his reluctance to stay in Oliviaville. The eeriness of the 97

atmosphere engendered by the knowledge that a horrible fate had been only narrowly averted was one factor which drove the subsequent exodus. The stigma of being the inhabitants of a town of fools was another. Within a month of what would have been, had things gone according to plan, the most notorious religiouslyinspired mass suicide in American history, Oliviaville was a ghost town. “So, where are we gonna go, Obadiah.” “Keep heading west, I guess.” Blue Leaf smiled, and gently squeezed his arm, virtually the only part of his upper body which the sadly deceased Deacon Teddy had left undamaged. “Yeah. No point bein’ a hero in a cursed town.” “Oh, I’m not a hero.” “I was talkin’ about me, ya idiot!”

Perhaps it is a coincidence that, within six months of the averted disaster, a wildcat prospector, supervising an excavation in what had been the main street of Oliviaville, reportedly investigating the possibility that the seam of silver from which the town had originally been born might still be viable, instead discovered sizeable deposits of petroleum. Little was 98

known about this pioneer, other than that his name was Theodore Johnson, and that he was an eccentric millionaire operating out of Austin, Texas. The origins of his wealth were obscure, although this was by no means unique, and was hardly remarked upon. A little investigation, however, might have uncovered the fact that, as a young man, he had been prevented from being awarded his doctorate in pharmacy from Heidelberg University, after serious ethical questions arose in respect of his research methods. Obadiah didn’t have access to this morsel of information. He did, however, make the connection, some time later, between the name he had heard intoned with awe one autumn night, and events in Oliviaville, which once more became a boom town, although under another name, its prosperity this time built around Mister Johnson’s oil-well. But by this time, he and Blue Leaf and everyone else had moved on, both geographically and emotionally, and it seemed to him that there would have been little profit in making a big deal about it. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s white man’s business.”

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