A Wolf in the Fold

Two men had entered. Cowboys, wearing high-crowned hats and all the trimmings, including six-guns in holsters on their hips. If they saw me they gave no sign but walked straight over to the Butchers. The tallest, a rangy, bowlegged cuss who swaggered like he was God’s gift to creation, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and asked in a gravelly tone, “What do we have here?”

“We’re not hankering after trouble, Hank,” Sam said.

“That’s too bad, boy, because Skeeter and me have a bone to pick with you and your brother. This morning four LT cows were found with their throats slit and their tongues cut out.”

Predictably, Carson bristled. “Are you accusing us?”

“That, and then some.” Hank rested his hand on his Colt. “Your cow-killing days are over.”

Chapter 2

Carson came out of his chair as if it were on fire. He did not wear a holster but had a revolver tucked under his belt. A Prescott, unless I was mistaken, an older model with well-worn grips.

“Here now!” Calista Modine yelled. “There will be none of that! If you gentlemen insist on being foolish, do so outside.”

The mother had risen and dashed around the table to her daughter. She held the girl close, and they hastily departed.

Calista angrily stamped a foot. “Look at what you’ve done! Gone and scared off my customers!”

I was content to sit there and let them have at it, but Calista looked at me in heartfelt appeal. Since it was a rare minister who would permit blood to be shed in his presence if he could help it, I stood up and stepped between Carson Butcher and Hank. “Have a care, brothers. The lady is right. This is hardly the right time or place.”

Hank put a hand on my shoulder. “Who in hell are you to butt in, mister?” he growled.

The other cowboy, Skeeter, grabbed Hank’s wrist. “Are you plumb blind, pard? That’s a preacher you’re shoving.” He was of middling size and build and had the bushiest eyebrows I ever came across.

“What?” Hank stepped back and raked me up and down. “Damn. You’re right. Sorry, Parson. I was so mad, I didn’t notice.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said civilly. “But I must ask you to calm yourself. If you have a complaint against these gentlemen, find the marshal and charge them.”

“Whiskey Flats doesn’t have a lawdog,” Skeeter said.

“We don’t need one,” Hank declared. “A man steps out of line, we treat him to a strangulation jig.” He cast meaningful glances at Carson and Sam.

“But we didn’t kill your stupid cows!” the youngest Butcher objected.

Hank was offended. “That’s my livelihood you’re insulting, boy. But I’ll let you walk out as a favor to the reverend.”

“We’re not leaving until we’re done our meal,” Carson informed him. “And no flea-ridden cow nurses are scaring us off, neither.”

His jaw muscles twitching, Hank looked at Calista and then at me. It was plain he was in the mood for a scrape, but he swallowed his resentment and touched his hat brim. “Sorry to have barged in like this, ma’am. I trust you won’t speak ill of me to Lloyd and Gerty.” Glowering at the Butchers, he backed out. Skeeter opened the door for him and they were gone.

Calista let out a long breath. “See what I meant about ill will?” she asked me. “I shudder to think what would have happened if you weren’t here.”

“Glad I could be of help.” I reclaimed my seat and went to pour coffee, but she snatched the coffeepot and did the honors.

“Permit me, Reverend Storm. After you finish, give a yell and I will show you to your room.”

“Why not join me?” I requested, indicating an empty chair. “I would very much enjoy the pleasure of your company.” Sometimes I surprised myself at how polite I could be.

“Well, perhaps for a minute or two.” Calista fussed with her hair and smoothed her dress, and sat. “Normally I wouldn’t, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

“I’m honored.” I was also admiring the swell of her bosom, and once again had to tear my gaze away.

“I must say, Reverend, that you are not at all what I would expect,” Calista commented. “You’re different from most parsons.”

I couldn’t have that. In order to do what I was sent for, I must remain above suspicion. “In what regard?”

“You don’t look like someone who spends most of their time indoors with their nose buried in Scripture,” Calista answered. “You’re as dark as an Indian. If I didn’t know better, I would take you for a cowboy or a scout or a mountain man.”

“I travel a lot, my dear, and am often out under the sun,” I said, hoping to explain my bronzed hide.

“There’s more to it. The way you move, the way you carry yourself, the way you fill out your coat.” Calista appraised me like I was a racehorse and she was a buyer. “I’m just not used to a parson being so”—she seemed to search for the right word and came out with—“manly.”

Make of that what you will. I made it out to be that she found me attractive, which isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. My wife must have thought I was halfway handsome or she never would have married me. That our marriage did not end well is irrelevant. The thought caused me to grimace.