Walking Wolf by Nancy A. Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

favorite beverage, a patent medicine called Mug-Wump Specific, which he guzzled at an alarming rate. I have no idea what, if anything, the potion was supposed to cure. But I soon learned that the Reverend’s erratic behavior and violent outbursts were tied to his consuming it. Whenever the Reverend hit the Mug-Wump Specific, he would wander from his usual topics and rail against “tempting devils that appear as fair women” or the unfairness of life in general.
    Gradually I came to know more and more about the Reverend. I learned that his first name was Deuteronomy and that up until six months previous, he’d been the pastor of a respectable church in one of the wealthier neighborhoods in Chicago. I was never able to discover how he ended up in a reeking shit-hole like Vermilion, but it seemed to have something to do with a young girl who had come to him to be taught her catechisms.
    When pressed, the Reverend claimed that the reason he was in Texas was to help bring the good news of the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, to the heathen Indians, and to provide spiritual guidance for the numerous cowboys, ranchers and settlers working their way West. However, his attitude toward Vermilion was hardly charitable. He seemed to have a particularly low opinion of the members of his parish, reviling them as harlots, sinners and ignorant barbarians. As it turned out, the reason for his acrimony stemmed from the town’s steadfast refusal to acknowledge him as a pillar of its community.
    I eventually became aware of Vermilion’s true opinion of the Reverend because of his habit of sending me on errands on those days where he was feeling “poorly”—which turned out to be fairly regular. On these occasions I would go to the general store to pick up his weekly supply of beans, coffee, salt pork and Mug-Wump Specific, which gave me the chance to view the town and its inhabitants free of the Reverend’s interference.
    Before I left on my first solo journey to the store, the Reverend lectured me at length on how important it was for me not to set eyes on the “palace of trollops,” for fear of my mortal soul. However, since the general store was two doors down from the saloon, it was hard for me to avoid seeing it, either coming or going. As I was leaving the general store laden with groceries, I noticed Marshal Harkin seated in a bentwood rocker outside the saloon, rocking gently back and forth. Without missing a beat, he glanced over in my direction and beckoned me to come closer.
    Although I was fearful the Reverend might be using the all-seeing eyes of God he was always talking about to keep track of me, I was curious as to what he might want. Since my arrival in Vermilion, the Reverend had kept me sequestered from its other citizens, assuring me it was for my own good, as the town was—in his own words—a “hotbed for all manner of sin and unnatural vice.” I was to speak to no one, and this included Marshal Harkin, who was not only Vermilion’s resident lawman, but also its pimp.
    â€œYou’re that White Indian boy the Reverend took in, ain’t you?” he drawled, pushing back the brim of his derby.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHe treatin’ you good?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou look like a right enough young feller to me, Billy. Whenever you get your fill of hearin’ about Jesus, you come see me. I’m looking for a boy to sweep up and empty the spittoons and slop jars. I’ll pay you a dollar a week. Good hard cash. You think about it, hear?” He leaned forward and tucked a piece of candy into my pocket, winking broadly.
    That was my first genuine interaction with Marshal Harkin, better known as “Gent” on account of his passion for fancy eastern headgear. During my brief time in Vermilion, I would come to know him far better than I would the Reverend.
    Gent was an open, straightforward cuss. He owned the Spread Eagle