Doc went to work on the man, shaking his head and muttering as he cut to get the bullet out. Barstow and I stood by watching, there was nothing either of us could do. Sometime during the operation, I heard someone come in the door, it was Mateo.
“Miles, you need to come with me,” he said, touching me on the shoulder. I looked at Barstow and Doc, then walked out with Mateo.
“Take a look in the wagon,” he advised me as he pulled a tarp away from some gear and boxes. One caught my attention–dynamite. I looked at Mateo, who gave a grim smile, then pulled something from the corner that I thought were rags. Instead, it was a sack with two holes in it for eyes; just like the ones that the men were wearing who attacked the Parson.
I reached out my hand for the mask, placing it in my belt behind my back. “Let’s go an’ have a talk with Mr. Barstow.”
Going back inside, I told Barstow to come out with us. He hesitated, but Doc said that he didn’t need any help, the man was out cold, and Doc had also given him some chloroform.
When we got back outside, I took him to the wagon. “You’ve got dynamite,” I stated.
“What’s so unusual about that?” he asked warily. “We use it in the diggin’s.”
“We?” questioned Mateo. “Who’s your partner?”
“Uh, well, I meant I use it. I had a partner, but he left an’ went off somewheres.”
Reaching behind my back, I pulled out the mask, “Do you normally wear a mask while workin’ your claim?”
He started to say something, but decided against it. “You’re under arrest,” I informed him matter of factly.
“For what?” he shouted.
“Right now, suspicion. When Doc’s patient comes to, I reckon we’ll have more reason to hold you. Mateo, cuff him an’ take him to jail.” I pulled his gun from the holster and checked him for other weapons while Mateo applied the handcuffs.
Rev. Chapman stood stoically behind the pulpit. I could tell he was in pain, not only from the injury, but also in spirit. “I’ll not keep you long today,” he began, “and you’ll not see my exuberant self as I have to keep my actions to a minimum, but I do want to speak to you.”
He went on to tell the congregation of his and Betty’s ordeal, of the soul-searching he had been doing. I thought his text was unique, he read from Hebrews the ninth chapter. “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment. So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation.”
“Friends, the Grim Reaper comes! None of us know the hour of our death or, as in my case, the hour in which we might take the life of someone else. I’m still not through seeking the Lord over my deed yesterday, but I am at peace knowing that my Lord knows and understands. I am at peace knowing that I protected my dear wife from un-fathomable trauma. However, the truth of the matter is that you, and I, will one day face the Lord. The man who lay dead on the floor in my home went straight to the judgment. ‘After this the judgment.'”
I got to hand it to the preacher, he didn’t let any of us off the hook. He told us that we need to search our souls to make sure that we are ready for we know not when our time may be up. We don’t know when the Lord is going to call us home or allow the Reaper to take our lives. “Be ready,” he exclaimed, “after this the judgment.”
All that Sunday afternoon the chorus of the closing hymn stuck with me. “Foot-prints of Jesus that make my pathway glow; We will follow the steps of Jesus where’er they go.” Thinking of that chorus, I decided to walk down to Doc’s. Because of his patient he wasn’t able to attend services. Molly had prepared a basket of fried chicken for me to take to him, and had even made a buttermilk pie for him and Edith to enjoy. I thought of snitching one of the biscuits, but I was already full from the fare she fed me. While I went to Doc’s, Molly was going to see Betty. She was at church, but was very demure and didn’t visit after service.
“Come in, Miles,” Doc greeted me. “What’s that you’re carrying?”
“How’s the patient?” I asked, not handing him the pie.
“Bad shape. Oh, he’ll live, but he’ll limp the rest of his life. It’ll be a couple of months before he’s able to walk.”
“He able to talk?”
“Wait until tomorrow, Miles,” advised Doc. “I will tell you this…”