Edge: The Loner

Her voice, too, told of a Southern upbringing.

Joe squeezed the trigger and the rifle barked, the woman scream and the man yelled with fear as the bullet shattered the mirror, tore through the canvas of the wagon and whined to the end of its trajectory somewhere in the wilds.

“Then you’ll have to be careful you don’t spill any of that hot stew on your pure, soft body, honey child,” he said evenly, mimicking a Deep South drawl.

The woman reached hurriedly for her dress, which hung from a peg near the man’s cassock. She pulled it on without haste, unmindful of her nakedness as she stood in the center of the wagon.

“Can I get dressed too?” the man wanted to know, smiling nervously.

Joe was about to nod his assent, but then he looked at the build of the man and at the cassock, his mouth forming a slight smile.

“Take off your dog collar, Elias,” he ordered.

The man blinked, as if unsure that he had heard correctly, then took a long time removing the collar, his trembling fingers fumbling with the fastening.  The woman watched, the sneer on her face conveying contempt for her lover and hatred for the man with the gun.

“I’m naked,” the man said unnecessarily as he finished the task.

“Your sister won’t mind,” Joe said but made no complaint when the man draped the blanket around himself as he stood.

He motioned with the rifle. “Both outside.”

The woman came first, proud and defiant, the man behind, smiling ingratiatingly, stumbling over the tailgate and almost falling headlong. He recovered and handed the cleric’s collar to Joe. In the strong sunlight, despite his bulk, the man looked even more spineless and Joe found it hard to visualize him as a hot-gospeller preaching fire and damnation to the one-horse towns in this part of the country.

“Over there and get the food ready,” he ordered them. “I’ll be watching and I see anything I don’t like you get to have a personal interview with the man upstairs.”

“When my time comes, I’ll be ready, the man said, but scuttled across to the fire with a haste that erased the confidence from his words.

Joe watched the pair for a moment, then hoisted himself aboard the wagon, drew his knife and made a slit in the canvas side facing the fire. As he peered through he saw the woman called Virtue edging towards his horse while the man made a frantic beckoning mime to call her back. Joe sighed and rested the rifle barrel in the slit, loosed off a shot that glanced off the rounded side of the cooking pot, then ricocheted at a tangent to kick up dust inches from the woman’s feet.

“I think you’ve got less reason to want to see the Lord than your brother,” Joe called and grinned as she threw the profanity at him again, but turned and went to the pot, began to stir it with the speed of vengeance in turmoil.

With quick movements, interrupted for an occasional look out through the torn canvas, Joe stripped off his uniform and dressed in the cassock and reverse collar, wearing his knife belt and army issue leather belt with holstered Remington .44 below the engulfing garment. He had to make a large slit in the seams at each side to make for easy access to his weapons. But it was merely a matter of leaving the cassock unfastened at the top to give him ease of movement to the neck pouch. He found the wide brimmed, low crowned hat that matched his attire and placed it on his head, picked up a large piece of looking glass from the smashed mirror and examined his appearance. He looked the most unlikely priest he had ever seen, but he was well enough satisfied with the results to grin.

When he jumped clear of the wagon he saw the man and woman whispering together in conspiratorial motioning of their head towards the wagon as she ladled stew into bowls he held. They came guiltily upright at the sound of his approach. She looked at Joe with petulance, the man shook his head in mute disapproval.

“I don’t aim to steal your show, reverend,” Joe said. “Just your clothes.”

“It is a grave sin to impersonate a man of the cloth, sir,” came the reply. “The Lord will surely punish you for it.”

“I’ve got a feeling screwing your sister is a worse sin,” Joe came back, taking a bowl of stew from the man’s hand, relishing the great hunks of meat in the thick brown gravy.

“I ain’t his sister,” the woman snapped, squatting down with her plate, snatching a spoon from the ground and wiping it on her dress.

“Nor his wife either,” Joe put in, getting the only other spoon, retreating a few yards before he began to eat, discovering the food tasted as good as it smelled and looked. “And I’m betting he ain’t even an ordained minister of the church.”

Without a spoon, the man was squatting and picking up the meat with his fingers, raising the bowl to his lips to suck at the gravy.