"What's your name, son? I'd like to know who to avoid from here on out."
"David."
"At least you have a fine biblical name."
"It ain't all that good."
"It isn't all that good."
"Hell, that's what I said. You're the one that's all blazed about it."
"I'm talking about your English. ISN'T is acceptable. AIN'T is not."
'"You talk funny."
"I return the compliment."
"You look like a preacher to me, except you got that gun."
"I am a preacher, boy. Name is Jebidiah Mercer. Reverend Mercer to you. Perhaps you'll groom my horse sometime between now and tomorrow?"
The boy was about to speak when a big man wearing overalls, a leather apron, and a disagreeable expression appeared from the interior of the livery. As he approached, the Reverend saw the boy tense.
"Boy talking you to death, mister?" the man said gruffly.
"We were just making a deal on the grooming of my horse. You must be the owner?"
"That's right. Joe Bob Rhinehe charge you two bits like he was supposed to?"
"I'm satisfied."
David swallowed hard and looked at the Reverend for a long moment.
"Boy's like his mama," Joe Bob said. "A dreamer. You have to beat respect into him.
Damn sure wasn't born with it" He turned to David. "Boy, take the man's horse. Get to work."
"Yes sir," David said. Then to the Reverend. "What's her name?"
"I just call her horse. Mind you that she has a saddle rub on her back."
David smiled. "Yes sir." He started removing the saddle.
"I'd like to board her for a while also," the Reverend said to Rhine. "Is that convenient?"
"Pay when you pick her up."
David handed the Reverend his saddle bags. "Thought you might need these."
"Thanks"
David nodded, took the horse, and went away.
"Where's the best place to stay?" the Reverend asked Rhine.
"Ain't but one." Rhine pointed down the street. "The Hotel Montclaire."
The Reverend nodded, tossed the saddlebags over his shoulder, and started up the street.
III
The sign over the weathered building read: THE HOTEL MONTCLAIRE. Six sets of windows looked down at the street. Each was shaded by a dark blue curtain. All the windows were open and the curtains billowed in the light morning breeze.
Already the breeze was turning warm. It was August in East Texas, and save for the wee-morning hours, and an occasional night breeze, it was hot as a bitch dog in heat, sticky as molasses.
The Reverend took a dusty handkerchief out of his inside coat pocket and wiped his face.
He removed his hat and wiped his thick, black, oily hair with it. He put the handkerchief away, his hat on, stretched his saddle-worn back, and went inside the hotel.
A man with a belly like that of a foundered horse, snoozed behind the register desk.
Sweat balled on his face and streamed down it in dusty rivulets. A fly buzzed and tried to land on the snoozing man's nose, but could get no braking. It tried againcircled and found a perch on the fat man's forehead.
The Reverend bounced his palm on the desk bell.
The man popped out of his slumber with a start, sent the fly buzzing away with a wave of his hand. He licked his sweaty lips with his tongue.
"Jack Montclaire, at your service," he said.
"I would like a room."
"Rooms are our business." He turned the register book around. "If you'll just sign in."
As the Reverend signed. "You caught me sleeping. It's the heat.... Uh, six bits a night, clean sheets every three days.... If you stay three days."
"I'll stay at least three days. Meals extra?"
"Would be if I served them. You'll have to eat over to the cafe." Hoping against it,
"Bags?"
The Reverend patted his saddlebags, then counted out six bits into Montclaire's hand.
"Much obliged," Montclaire said. "Room thirteen, top of the stairs to the left. Enjoy your stay."
Montclaire turned the register book around, moved his lips over the Reverend's name.
"Reverend Jebidiah Mercer?"
The Reverend turned around. "Yes?"
"You're a preacher?"
"That is correct."
"Ain't never seen no preacher that carries a gun before."
"Now you have."
"I mean, a man of the Holy Word and peace and all...."
"Who ever said keeping the law of the Lord is peaceable work? The devil brings a sword, and I bring a sword back to him. It is the will of the Lord and I am his servant."
"I suppose."
"No supposing about it."
Montclaire looked into the red-rimmed, killer-blue eyes of the Reverend and trembled.
"Yes sir. I wasn't trying to tell you your business."
"You could not."
The Reverend went upstairs to leave Montclaire staring at his back.
"Sanctimonious sonofabitch," Montclaire said under his breath.
IV
Up in room thirteen, the Reverend sat on the sagging bed to test it. It would not be comfortable. He got up and went over to the washbasin, removed his hat, washed his face and then his hands. He was tedious with his hands, as if there were stains on them visible only to him. He dried meticulously, went over to the window to look out.
Pushing a curtain aside, he examined the street and the buildings across the way. He could hear hammering coming from Rhine's blacksmith shop, and below a wagon creaked by with squeaky wheels. Out in the distance, just at the edge of town, he could hear faintly the noises of chickens and cows. Just a pleasant little farming community.