Sinner Man

Jim Alden stood at the bar and listened to the brash youth insult him. He sensed the drifting of men from the bar, until only he and the local hellion stood at the oak. Jim looked straight ahead, as if paying the other man no mind, but he was watching in the back-bar mirror. At the running down of the young tough’s words, silence held the saloon a moment. From outside, where evening shadows lay long over the Arizona mining town of Comstock Forge, a man pushed through the batwings.

He was in good humor, and laughing. The silence in the saloon caught and killed the laugh. The newcomer edged over to the group of men who had withdrawn from the bar.

“It’s Jim Alden,” somebody whispered to him, “the gunfighter. The man who killed Purvis and Johnston.”

Jim felt the weight of their eyes on him. He heard the man at the bar insult him with a laugh. You’re asking for it, Jim thought, and Purvis or Johnston would have killed you for what you’ve said already.

“Purvis and Johnston,” the local man said. “Shot in the back, most likely!”

Jim felt his temper flare. He turned and looked directly at his tormenter for the first time. Pardee was the name the bartender had used, when venturing a plea to the youth not to start trouble. Pardee was beefy, bearded, bold. And a bluffer, Jim told himself — a drunk, blustering, glory-hungry bluffer, wishing he had the nerve to draw and win himself the reputation that would go to the man who outdrew Jim Alden.

Jim was lean as a willow whip, with old blue eyes and a few flecks of premature gray at his temples. His face might have been cut from stone, as his mind went back to that other fight, the first one.

Unlike Pardee, he hadn’t wanted to fight. That other stranger had been drunk, too, and spoiling for a scrap, and Jim Alden had seemed like game meat, because he had that look about him of having ridden long trails alone. It was a look that had first come to his face after the massacre. He’d, been fifteen then, and the Indians, raiding his family’s isolated homestead, might have gotten him too. But his father had slugged him and hidden him in the cellar.

The look had deepened during the next five years. After burying his folks, Jim had walked the twenty miles to town, because the Indians had run off all the livestock. He got a job as a swamper in a saloon, where the girls had teased and flirted with him because he was so young, and the gamblers had bought him drinks for running errands.

When he was seventeen, he’d joined on for a cattle drive, riding drag, eating dust. At twenty he’d been well on his way to joining that fraternity known as saddle bums. Then came that night in Texas, when a man rotten with drink and spoiling for a fight had given him no choice but to kill or be killed.

When the smoke cleared, Jim Alden had learned that he’d killed the most feared gun-man in the territory. After that the trail was even longer and lonelier. A man who brought the shadow of death with him found few places that wanted him and few men who wished to call him friend.

Glancing at the bartender, Jim asked, “What do I owe you?”

The bartender, hovering far down the bar, did not answer.

Jim felt Pardee grab his arm. “I don’t like men cutting me off that way!” Pardee said.

Jim looked at the hand on his arm, but he held his temper in check: “Look, boy, why don’t you go home? I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t think you really want to fight.”

“Calling me yellow?” Pardee’s voice cracked on the final word.

Somebody laughed. Jim saw it happen then. Pardee was a bully and bluff, but he had liquor courage, and he smarted under the laugh. He had talked himself in deep, and Jim Alden had tried to dismiss him with the words of a man speaking to a boy.

Jim saw Pardee’s draw, and it was fast. He heard gunfire. He saw Pardee go down. He stood a moment, then walked out of the saloon. His horse was at the hitchrack. He mounted up. As he rode down Main Street, it struck him that he had not been in Com-stock Forge even long enough to locate a rooming house.

Two nights later, a stranger rode into the circle of light cast by Jim’s campfire. He was a big, black-bearded man.

“I’m Tait Tomkins,” the stranger said. “That was my brother you killed in Comstock Forge. Now I’ve come to kill you.”

Tait Tomkins had a rifle in his hands. While Jim was still on his hunkers, the first slug hit him. It broke two ribs and knocked him flat. The second ripped open the muscle in his shoulder. The third made a bright scarlet furrow in his temple.

Tait Tomkins turned and walked away. The campfire burned to embers. After a time, a coyote came crouching toward the smell of fresh blood.

There was a mist, and lost in it was a woman singing. Jim Couldn’t see her, but the faraway sound of her voice made him want to wake up.

Then thoughts began putting themselves together. Shot like an animal... shot with no chance to get on my feet... shot and left to rot. Tait Tomkins is one man I’ve got to kill.

He opened his eyes. He was in a covered wagon, feeling weaker than creek water. He groaned as he pulled around and looked over the tailgate. He saw the singing woman. She was washing clothes in the creek, beside which camp had been pitched. She was young and lovely, with light brown hair and arms that flashed in the sun as she crouched on a flat stone and rinsed shirts and petticoats.

She hung up the clothes and came toward the wagon. When she saw Jim, she smiled. “Hello. I believe you’re clearing in the head.”

“Have I been out of my head long?”

“Over three weeks. Papa and I found you. He fought a coyote away so he could give you decent burial. Then he discovered that your heart was still beating. Papa doctored you — and of course he prayed you through.”

Jim stared at her. “He did what?”

“Doctoring alone wouldn’t have done it. My name’s Elena Britt. Want to tell me yours?”

“Jim Alden.”

“I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She turned and went to the campfire, where a black iron pot bubbled. She came back with a plate of beef broth. “Take it slowly,” she said. “For three weeks you’ve had nothing stronger than warm milk, mush, and broth, spooned into you by Papa and me.”

“I’ll repay you,” Jim said.

“Oh, we didn’t do it for pay, Jim.”

She was silent a moment. Then she said, “Papa says it must have been bad trouble, to get you shot up that way. He says your gun looks like the tool of a gunfighter.”

She gazed out the rear of the wagon. “I hope Papa can convert you.”

“Convert me!”

“He’s the Reverend Buford Britt. If he can convert you, then you’ll put the gun away. Without it, you won’t be a challenge to other men, and you won’t get killed. You mustn’t get killed, Jim Alden! A girl can’t watch over a man for three whole weeks without some kind of reaction. Are you a single man?”

He stopped eating and frowned. “I am, but...”

She nodded as if that settled something in her mind, and slid from the wagon. He shook his head, finished the broth, and lay back to do some thinking. Instead he was lulled to sleep by his lack of strength, the fullness of his stomach, and the warmth of the wagon.

He woke at twilight. The first thing he saw was her face. She was sitting cross-legged near him in the wagon. She called, “Papa, he’s awake now.”

The wagon creaked under a big man’s weight. The Reverend Mr. Buford Britt was tall, broad-shouldered, square of face, his iron-gray hair neatly cut. He had a pleasant smile, and the twinkling violet eyes that Elena had inherited.

Britt touched the coolness of Jim’s forehead. When he withdrew his hand, he bowed his head. Jim started to speak. He caught Elena’s glance. She held her finger across her lips and bowed her own head. Jim remained silent until both heads were raised.

“Think I really need that, Reverend?”

“More now than ever, perhaps.”

“I owe you a debt. I’ll repay it.”

“You don’t owe me, boy. You needed-something beyond anything human to pull you through.”

“You really believe that?”

“I’m certain of it,” the reverend said.

“Then it must be intended for me to go back to Comstock Forge. As soon as I’m able to ride, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Elena and her father exchanged a glance. The reverend said, “You’ll have to forget it for awhile. You won’t be able to ride in the immediate future.”

Camp was broken next morning, after a simple devotional service in which Reverend Britt quoted a psalm and asked for aid in his endeavors.

The reverend and his daughter moved in two Conestogas, each drawn by two spans of mules. Jim was told that one wagon held the equipment, the folded yards of canvas of the big tent, the small foot pedal organ that Elena played, the banners announcing Revival, the planks and low saw horses that were seats.

“We’re going to San Marco, Jim,” Britt said. “There’s not a preacher in forty miles of the place, and so much mischief I can hear the devil chuckling clear to here.”

The first day of the trip, Jim was able to sit on the seat beside Reverend Britt for spaces of time.

“Call me Buford, Jim.”

“I’d be proud to.”

“You have folks who should be notified about you?”

“I have no folks.”

“Kind of like me. My wife died—” he glanced at the wagon trundling ahead — “when she was born.”

“That’s too bad, but you seem to have done a good job raising Elena.”

“I figure she’s about normal. Gee there, Ned, gee! These are the kind of mules that give the reputation to all of them. You still figuring to wear that gun again, Jim?”

“Still figuring.”

“There’s something bigger than any gun, Jim.”

“Save it, I’m thankful for the help you’ve given me, but I...”

“There were no strings attached to anything I was privileged to do, Jim.”

“Then I’m thankful for that, too — because the gun is big enough for me.”

Reverend Britt put his mules to graze on the flats outside of San Marco, and pitched his tent. Jim helped erect a few seats, but he tired quickly. The reverend walked into town to announce his coming, and Jim built up a cookfire for Elena.

When he had fanned the shavings to flame, Jim looked up to find Elena standing close to him. The sinking sun was at her back, etching her hair in a red glow. Jim felt a trembling pass over him, and it was not from the weakness left by his wounds.

The girl looked up at him with a light in her eyes the like of which Jim had never seen before. She was a little pale, and there was a quivering in her lips.

Jim bent his head and touched her lips with his. She put her arms around his neck and stood with her face upturned, the breath soft on her parted lips.

“You feel the same as I do, Jim Alden! You do!”

For a moment, her eyes almost held forgetfulness; then it all came back to him. He disengaged her arms. “Is this the action of a preacher’s daughter?”

“Must a preacher’s daughter be less than human? Jim, will you kiss me again?”

“You’re without shame.”

Quick tears came to her eyes. She took a step back, biting her lip. Then her face cleared. “You’re speaking now out of memory of living by the gun, Jim. Your kiss told me different.”

“You’re a child,” he said, “and a foolish one to boot.”

He turned and walked toward the wagon. She followed him, and when he had pulled himself inside, she stood looking at him over the tailgate.

“Go away,” he said.

“May I fix you something special for supper?”

“Fix anything you like.”

“Why do you fight with yourself, Jim?” A smile lighted her face. “I declare, you love me much more than you think!”

In the act of lying down, Jim sat up with a motion that was quick and savage. “Will you quit pestering me? If you were most girls, I’d make a fool of you — can you understand that? But I’m beholden to you and your father.”

“Have you made fools of many girls, Jim?”

“More than you can shake a stick at.”

She tilted her face to one side and was silent for a moment. “You’re not a braggart — so I don’t believe you. If you had made fools of so many girls, you’d be the last to talk about it.”

“Listen, and try to get one thing through your head. The yardstick you measure life with is all right, for you. I’ve been marked with a different brand. I could tell you things I’ve seen, places I’ve been that would keep you from sleeping nights. Even if I liked you, we wouldn’t mix.”

“That’s all in the past, Jim.”

“The past makes the future.”

“The future can be changed. But the medicine won’t help unless you open the bottle and take it.”

“Who says I want medicine?”

“Jim...”

“There’s just one thing I want, one thing I’m going to do,” he said bluntly. “I’m going back to Comstock Forge and kill a man named Tait Tomkins. I’m going to draw on him and gut shoot him and watch his blood run in the gutter of the street. Now leave me alone. I’m weary of your woman talk.”

He lay down with his face toward the plank siding of the wagon. After a few seconds he heard her move slowly away, as if her body were suddenly heavy.

He sat up again, the bones of his face gaunt, shadowed, melancholy. He must leave soon. She didn’t deserve hurt, and she couldn’t understand that he must satisfy his hunger and seek his own peace his own way. He reached for the gun; the oiled black holster had the feel of satin in his hands.

Crowds came out to the lantern-lighted tent on the flats. The seats were all filled, and Reverend Britt opened part of the side flaps so people could stand outside.

Jim sat cross-legged in the wagon, oiling the gun by candle light. He heard Elena play the organ, heard the people sing old hymns that brought back the dim memory of his mother’s voice singing the same songs long ago.

He listened to Reverend Britt preach. As the man warmed to his subject, he was possessed of an eloquence beyond his everyday speech, though his words remained simple everyday words and his voice rarely rose to a shout. His plea was goodness for its own sake, the giving of consideration to others so that men might live together without strife.

The next day Jim rode his horse a little. Reverend Britt had brought the horse along, tethered behind a wagon. The animal was spirited after its days of freedom from the bit. It sunfished in brief rebellion. The reverend and Elena were watching.

The first jolts felt to Jim as if his ribs had been broken over again. He felt his face blanch, felt drops of sweat pop out on his brow.

He brought the black gelding under control. He let the animal run for half a mile across the flats. The lope back gave the sweat a chance to dry on Jim’s face. He dismounted hear the campfire. A twinge caught his side.

The reverend said quietly, “Don’t be in a hurry to leave us, Jim. It’s just as well that you stay awhile. I need your help.”

“All right. I owe you a debt.”

“I’m going to town for canvas,” Reverend Britt said. “We’re going to enlarge the tent.”

That afternoon and the next day, Jim and Elena sewed canvas while the reverend cut and peeled new poles and stakes.

Later the reverend asked, “Will you come to the meeting tonight, Jim?”

“Tired,” Jim said.

“When you want to come, you’ll be more than welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“No use your just lying in the wagon with nothing to do. I’ll fetch you something to read.”

“I’ve already got it, Papa,” Elena said, coming from one of the wagons. She handed Jim a small worn book.

He put it under his arm. “Candlelight’s hard on the eyes,” he muttered.

“You might chance a little of it,” the reverend said.

Jim turned toward the wagon. He climbed inside to change shirts for supper.

He heard two horses arrive outside. A voice said loudly, “Reverend Britt?”

Britt answered quietly, “I’m the reverend.”

“My name’s Kyle McCanless,” the voice said. “This is George Broward, my general manager.”

“Won’t you step down, gentlemen? Supper is almost ready.”

“No, we’ll make it short and to the point. We’re here on business. It happens that I run a... a place in San Marco, a small place where the tables are honest. The sheriff is my friend, and I helped put the mayor in office. But there are people who insist on meddling.”

McCanless paused to laugh. It was a cold sound. “I’m afraid, Reverend Britt, that your arrival here has given these people false heart. There hasn’t been a preacher in these parts for a long time, and you can’t imagine what an effect your being here has created. I understand that a deputation of these people is coming here with the request that you permit them to build a church in return for your remaining here.”

“I’m humbly grateful that my message has reached the people.”

“They’ll expect you to speak their message too. They’ll want you to spearhead a drive against what they call the corruption of San Marco. I want you to understand how useless this would be, before you take any bread with the butter on the wrong side.”

Jim eased back the wagon flap. McCanless was tall and thin, a young, dark, handsome man astride a dun horse. George Broward, was older, perhaps in his forties. He wore two guns, low and tied to his thighs.

The reverend stood quietly looking up at the two mounted men. Elena was drifting closer to her father.

Kyle McCanless looked at the girl a moment, then shifted his gaze back to Britt’s face. “How much do you get in your collection plate, Reverend Britt?”

“Very little, I’m afraid.”

“Tomorrow, when you are on the road out of town, I’ll show you a real collection — the collection of a hundred nights, garnered in one day.”

McCanless started to turn his horse. The reverend stepped forward and touched the reins. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. McCanless. We hadn’t planned to leave tomorrow.”

McCanless rested his hands on his saddle-horn and rocked forward. “A hundred night’s collection not enough? Isn’t the hope of a big collection what brought you here? What is it you want?”

“I’d like you to attend service.”

George Broward laughed. McCanless gave him a cold glance. “I’m afraid I’ll be busy — and I hope you don’t draw off too many of my customers for this final service. I’ll meet you on the south road tomorrow.”

“I won’t be there, Mr. McCanless.”

“I think you will — unless you’d like to get burned out.”

McCanless and Broward turned their horses and rode off. The reverend watched them leave, and finally became aware of Elena standing beside him. “Will you finish supper, Elena?”

“Papa... yes, Papa.”

Jim let the wagon flap slide closed. He broke his gun and checked the load before he finished putting on his shirt.

Early the next morning, while the reverend was busy with the delegation of townspeople who wanted to build a church, Jim rode off to the river. He dismounted, let his horse graze, and drew his gun. Wrong movement. The elbow was held too close to his side.

Time slid past without his being aware of it, as he regained the feel of the gun. He began firing finally at a sliver of stone protruding in the middle of the river. Draw and fan. Two shots that sounded like one. Draw and fan.

“Nice shooting.”

Jim spun about. The reverend was astride a mule, coming out of the timber.

Reverend Britt dismounted and idly looked over the beauty of the river. “They’re determined to build a church.” He reached and took the gun from Jim’s hand. “A well-balanced weapon. Does it shoot true?”

Before Jim could answer, the reverend was fanning the gun. The sliver of stone in the river cracked. The last shot toppled it over. Smiling, the reverend handed the empty gun to Jim. “It’s never too late, Jim. It wasn’t for me. A man can close one door and open another, or pick either fork of a trail.”

“There’s no fork until I reach Tait Tomkins.”

“The fork will be behind you then. I’ll keep praying for you.”

“Better include yourself.”

“Oh, I’ll do that.”

“They’re going to burn you out.”

“They might burn the tent. They can’t burn all the people.”

“The people will run out and leave you flat.”

“Not these people, Jim. They’re weak, faltering human beings, but they’re working for something bigger than themselves. McCanless is the one who should fear desertion. The officials he’s put in office will be the first to deny and denounce when they are faced by the people.”

The reverend turned toward his mule. “Ride back with me, Jim.”

“I won’t talk about Tait Tomkins.”

“All right — though I know this is something you’ve had to talk yourself into, this going after him. Your natural instincts are against it. I’ve observed you all through your fever, and since then. I knew you well, Jim.”

“It was the manner in which Tomkins acted. I had no more chance than an animal. He deserves punishment for that... but we were not going to talk about Tomkins.”

At the service that night, the reverend showed no visible sign that a threat had ever been made against him. He led the singing in his full baritone voice, his faith lighting his eyes and face.

Jim slipped into the edge of the crowd. He watched Elena at the organ, watched the movements of her hands and trim shoulders, the play of lantern glow on her features.

The reverend prepared to deliver his message. Quiet rustled over the tent. In a matter-of-fact voice, the reverend began, “There were three men once whose faith was great enough to lead them out of a furnace of fire.”

When the service was over, Jim drifted away with the first of the crowd. From the tailgate of the Conestoga he watched the people stand in small groups before departing. He saw Elena go to the other wagon, its canopy ghostly in the moonlit night. She glanced toward him, but he was standing in the shadows.

The reverend prepared his own bedroll by the dying campfire. Jim had wanted to trade sleeping quarters as soon as his fever was gone, but the reverend had insisted on Jim’s sleeping in the wagon until he was strong again.

The reverend didn’t sleep for a long time, Jim saw. But the night remained still. McCanless was not coming. The reverend slept at last, and Jim turned in.

Then there was a quick, hard rustle of movement, a muffled cry, and the night was a smothering thing. Jim lay with his eyes open, his heart pounding against his ribs. Was it a dream?

He sat up and crept silently to the rear of the wagon. Easing the flap to one side, he glimpsed the moon, low in the sky. The light was dim and cold and silver, making the flats look like a frozen painting.

A voice said softly, “Better stand easy, Preacher.”

A masked man backed into view, holding Elena by the forearm with one hand and a gun against her ribs with the other. From the size of the man, Jim guessed that he could very well be George Broward.

Across the spectral moonlit flats, the reverend walked toward the man and girl. The man said, “We’re not going to hurt either of you — yet. Tonight there’s just a job to do in there.”

Inside the tent, something broke and crashed. There was a tongue of flame, then another. They swelled quickly. A moving silhouette showed, firing hymn books and scattering the flames.

Jim dropped out of the wagon. The man holding the gun on Elena turned. Jim swung his gun hard. The blow laid the man’s temple open. His hat flew off and he knocked Elena down as he fell.

Jim reached the tent. He ripped a drop curtain aside. Benches were fired now, and canvas was beginning to bum. The man inside had made certain that his inferno was beyond control, beyond leaving anything for salvage. Now the man was hurrying out of the tent.

Smoke stung Jim’s eyes. “McCanless!” he said.

The man across the tent stopped, turned. A bandanna covered the lower part of his face, but he had answered to his name.

“They did a lot for me,” Jim said. “I owe them a debt.”

McCanless cast one quick glance behind him. A bullet could drop him before he could cover the distance out of the tent. As he turned back he was drawing, firing.

McCanless’s tactic gave him an element of — surprise. But his first shot missed. He thumbed the hammer a second time, but his bullet went into the ground as Jim’s shot hit him in the chest.

A guy rope burned in two. Showering sparks and smoke cut off McCanless from view. Jim stumbled backward into cold pure air. He gulped it in his lungs. There was movement beside him, and for an instant he faced the raw wrath in Britt’s eyes. The anger died quickly, and was replaced by pity.

“Don’t you know that if I win the winning must not be drenched in blood, Jim? Have I showed you nothing at all?”

The reverend turned and plunged into the glare of the tent before Jim was aware of his intentions.

He lunged after Britt. Elena cut before him. He grabbed her and pulled her back. She fought silently and savagely a moment.

Then she cried, “Papa!”

The reverend was staggering out of the collapsing tent with his burden. Just as he stumbled clear, flames leaped from the top of the tent and the canvas caved in with a roar.

Britt fell to his knees. Elena dropped beside him, and they laid McCanless on the cool, dew-wet grass. The reverend’s brows and hair were singed, and his clothes still looked smoky in the cool air.

“He’s still alive,” the reverend gasped.

Jim stood apart from them. He wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t even sure he could make his voice heard across the chasm he felt between himself and these people.

He turned and walked quietly away. He had fetched his horse and saddled it before Elena and the reverend were through attending McCanless.

Jim drew rein and said, “I’ll send back money for the debt I owe. Maybe you can use it in your work. I’m thankful for the help you gave me.”

Elena stood with a soft scream forming on her lips. Jim tore his gaze from her face. The black gelding was eager to move, and Jim gave the horse its head.

Elena called his name three times, but the black could move faster than any girl. A half mile out on the flats, Jim could hear her voice no longer.

From San Marco to Comstock Forge was a four-day ride. Jim rode with the certainty that he could outdraw Tait Tomkins and win. His gun fighter’s instinct said it was absolutely so.

Yet on the morning of the second day, he admitted to himself that another instinct had won.

After breakfast, he mounted up.

Then he put the oiled black holster and its gun in his saddle bag. With its long, free stride, the gelding moved into the sun — toward San Marco.