THE SUN WAS SHINING. The streets were quiet. The town was back in rhythm. Brother Percival and his followers were holding forth outside of a saloon called The Silver Bullet. Virgil and I stood across the street watching. There were eight or ten of the faithful outside the saloon, and anytime someone wanted to go in or out, they had to push through the crowd of Percivalians and listen to warnings of eternal hellfire and lifelong shame. Leaning against the wall of the saloon, just behind the group, was Choctaw Brown.
“This is hell’s mouth,” Percival bellowed. “Inside this door, women give up their womanhood for money. Inside this door, men trade their manhood for whiskey. Inside this door begins the slippery, desperate slide to hell.”
The church members with him chanted, “Amen, brother.” And no one chanted it as loudly as Allie. Most of the men pushing in and out paid very little attention, looking at the ground as they eased through among the prayers of the vigilant. One man was jostled as he went through them, and, annoyed, shoved Brother Percival as he went past. Percival took hold of his shirt front and picked him up and threw him into the street.
“Do not put your hands on a man of God!” Brother Percival said.
It wasn’t a bellow. It was like the soft growl of a mountain lion. The man in the street gathered himself for a moment and then stood up and took a knife from his boot.
“You sonovabitch,” he said.
Virgil and I started across the street. Choctaw stepped away from the door and in front of Brother Percival. He didn’t draw his gun, but his hand hovered over it. He said nothing. The man with the knife looked at Choctaw, and past him at Percival.
“Choctaw,” Virgil said.
Choctaw nodded faintly.
“Hold the knife,” Virgil said.
The man with the knife stopped and looked back at Virgil.
“Aw,” the man with the knife said. “Fuck it.”
He turned and walked away down the street, with the knife still in his hand, dangling by his side as he went. Virgil was still looking at Choctaw. Choctaw had no expression as he looked back at Virgil.
“Virgil,” Allie said. “Everything’s fine now.”
She stepped away from the group and put her hands on Virgil’s chest and looked up at him.
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Please.”
Virgil was looking past her at Choctaw. Then he nodded.
“Sure,” he said.
He turned away from her and walked down the street in the same direction that the man with the knife had gone.
“Keep your hands off the civilians,” I said to Brother Percival.
“I answer to God,” Percival said. “Not to you.”
“Long as you are in this town,” I said, “you answer to me and Virgil.”
Choctaw Brown grunted.
“Don’t blaspheme,” Brother Percival said.
“Please, Everett,” Allie said. “We’re only trying to help people save their souls. I’m trying to save my soul.”
I looked down at her. She had her hands flat on my chest now, looking up at me, just as she had looked up at Virgil.
“Perhaps you should consider your own soul,” Brother Percival said.
I grinned at him.
“Too late,” I said. “Right, Choctaw?”
Choctaw made a small derisive sound. No one else said anything. I patted Allie on the cheek and left. As I walked down Arrow Street I heard Allie leading her colleagues in singing a hymn I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know whether I failed to recognize it because it was not a hymn I knew or because they sang it so badly it was unrecognizable.
I walked a little faster.