Chapter 26: Man of the Cloth

Carl Lundgren paused, foot resting on his spade, eyes raised to scan the louring clouds. Apart from his half-hour noon meal break and a five-minute halt to drink a quart of water, the tall burly thirty-six year old Swedish immigrant had been hard at it since early morning, tussling with the quarter-section of Montana land he was turning into a home and livelihood for himself, his wife Karin and their ten-year old son, Tom. Lundgren had just finished the second year of the venture and it was hard going, even for a man with his exceptional strength and stamina.

Darkness was gathering early on this sultry evening and the homesteader was keen to do as much as possible before being forced indoors when the impending storm broke. Normally, Karin Lundgren almost had to beat him over the head to get him to stop, but for once he was about to call it a day himself. His decision was hastened by the movement caught with the corner of his eye.

The north-south trail ran near the edge of Lundgren’s land and it wasn’t unusual for riders to pass by. However, the one doing so now was different. Even from over a hundred yards in such bad visibility, the homesteader could see that something was amiss. The horse was plodding wearily, seemingly ever-slower, like a clockwork toy winding down. But Lundgren’s attention was fixed on the man slumped across the animal’s neck and apparently hanging on with difficulty.

In a land where people tended to avoid prying into the business of strangers, many a man might have let the matter pass. But the Swede was a compassionate fellow. He rammed his spade into the soil then set off with long rapid strides, on a diagonal path to intercept the horse and rider. It took him less than two minutes to cover the distance and confirm his first impression. The horseman was hunched forward, pitching, rolling and yawing in the saddle, like a rudderless ship in rough water. His left hand clutched shortened reins, while the right arm hung limply.

Hearing the purposeful tramp of Lundgren’s feet, the rider turned his head with an obvious effort. Poor though it was, the light allowed the settler to see that the man’s face was unnaturally pale, the eyes red-rimmed with pain, fatigue, or both. The hat was pushed back, revealing a patch of what looked like dried blood around the left temple. The left sleeve of the dust-caked coat also bore a dark stain. Gritting his teeth, the man tried to speak. “I’d ... I’d be much...” that was as far as he got, before he began to tumble from the saddle.

Lundgren jumped forwards, easing the already unconscious rider into his arms. Snaking a hand free, the homesteader caught the reins and set off for his home, carrying the man and leading the horse. At five-foot-ten and around a hundred and sixty pounds, the fellow was no feather duster, but Lundgren’s strength was equal to the task. He carried his burden four hundred yards without stopping.

Unlike some homesteaders, Lundgren had built his house to be comfortable and to last. The split-log structure had timber floorboards, a pitched roof and sound weather-proofing. There was a single room for eating and leisure time, a bedroom for the parents and a smaller one for young Tom. Lundgren called to his wife as he manoeuvred his load through the doorway. “Got an injured man here,” he said. “I think we’d better put him in Tom’s room.”

Karin Lundgren, a year younger than her husband, was a thick-set woman, stolid and accustomed to handling exigencies. She dropped the knife she had been using to peel potatoes and bustled into Tom’s room, evicting the boy. “We’ll need to get some of these clothes off him,” she said, beginning the awkward job of removing the man’s hat, coat, boots and bandanna. Suddenly she paused, gasping in surprise. “Look,” she said, pointing at the bloody dog-collar she had exposed. “This man is a preacher.”

“So he is. Well, see if you can get him cleaned up. I’ll look to his horse. Tom, run over and fetch Joe Haskill. He’s the nearest thing to a doctor we have around here. Hurry now.”

The youngster dashed off. Half an hour later he was back, accompanied by Haskill, a tall thin fellow, who did his best to deal with the ailments that affected the few homesteaders. Setting down his wicker basket full of medicines and instruments, he looked over the still insensible stranger, probing at the ragged two-inch head-gash, then turning his attention to the arm. “Hmn,” he said at length. “We’ll need hot water, Karin. The man’s been shot. Looks like a glancing wound to the head and a bullet in his upper arm. I think I can handle this.”

The stranger never stirred as Haskill cleaned and dressed the head wound, but twitched and groaned when the bullet was being dug from his arm. “Don’t try to talk,” said Haskill. “I just patched up your head and I’m taking a slug out of you. Looks okay, but you’ve lost a lot of blood. Now I’m going to clean this spot” – he pointed at the arm – “and it’ll hurt a little.” It did. The stranger passed out again.

Having packed away his equipment, Haskill closed the bedroom door and gratefully accepted a shot of whiskey from Karin. “I’m sorry you got burdened with this,” he said to the waiting family, “but I don’t think it’s safe for him to move for a few days. He’s very weak.”

Karin nodded. “It’s all right,” she said. “He can stay where he is. I’ll make up a bed for Tom in here. And thank you, Joe.”

Haskill picked up his hat and basket, making for the door. “I’ll drop by again in a couple of days,” he said. “If he gets any worse in the meantime, send for me. And try to get some food into him.”

It was a considerable inconvenience for the Lundgrens, but they were stoical people and had coped with many difficulties in the past two years. The stranger was just one more and they would do their best for him. They could not have envisaged that night that the man in Tom’s bed would solve more problems for them than he would create, nor could they have foreseen his reason for doing so, let alone his methods. The stranger slept through the night and the following morning, waking a few minutes before Lundgren appeared for his midday meal. No sooner had the family seated themselves at the table than a noise came from the small bedroom as the man got up, stumbled and fell. Carl lifted him back into the bed, while Karin appeared with beef broth, bread and coffee, a couple of words and a projected palm adjuring the man to keep quiet, eat and drink.

The guest did justice to his nourishment, then spoke in a low weak voice. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry to give you all this trouble. I seem to be in a daze. There was a man here, a doctor. I’d like to thank him, too.”

Karin brought the man up to date with what had happened. He nodded. “Well, I’m very grateful to all of you. ‘Course, I’ll compensate you for any inconvenience, then I’ll move on.”

Karin shook her head emphatically. “You will stay here for a few days, like Joe Haskill said you should. I will not turn a sick man out of my house. You’ll just have to accept that. I wonder why men are so obstinate.”

The stranger smiled, then shrugged, wincing at the movement. “I’d better do as you say,” he replied. “To tell the truth, I don’t think I could mount a horse right now anyway.”

And so it was for over a week. The stranger slept most of the time for three days, then got up and began to walk around, his efforts confirming Haskill’s assessment – he was as wobbly as a new-born calf. The amateur medico made two further calls, dressing the wounds and repeating his injunction about premature travelling.

The Lundgrens were consumed with curiosity about the stranger, but mindful of a man’s right to privacy, asked no intrusive questions. Beyond saying that his name was Richard Carlton and that he had been attacked by road agents, the man volunteered no more about himself than was necessary to hold the simplest conversations, repeatedly pleading fatigue and what he called a dizzy feeling as a reason for his needing solitude. This led the Lundgrens to think at times that the head wound might have had something more than a superficial effect. Karin also wondered how her guest’s priestly garb squared with the heavy revolver she had removed from his waistband and placed under the bed that first evening. Carl was equally puzzled, but for a different reason – he’d noticed that the weapon had no sights.

Adopting the idea that everything comes to them who wait, the Lundgrens possessed their souls in patience, assuming that more information concerning their guest would emerge one way or another. In the second week of the man’s stay, it did. Each Saturday, Carl took the buckboard into the nearest town, seven miles northeast of his land. There he would buy a few supplies, drink a couple of beers and catch up on local news. Sometimes, the outing was an uneasy one for, like the other homesteaders, the Lundgrens were frequently harassed by Irving Tyler’s cowhands. Tyler led the ranching community and was fiercely hostile to the newcomers.

With fewer than three dozen buildings, it wasn’t much of town. Still, it served the needs of the scattered community. By far the most impressive structure was a large stone-built bank. On this occasion, having run the gauntlet of jibes from three of Tyler’s men, Carl Lundgren had got what he needed in the general store. The owner, Ed Hunt, tried to maintain an even-handed stance in his dealings with ranchers and settlers, usually having a friendly word for everyone. “See they’ve had some excitement down at Roundwood,” he said, after counting out change to the homesteader.

“What happened?”

“I only know what I read in the newspaper that came in yesterday. Here, look for yourself.” He pushed the paper across the counter, pointing at a front- page article. Lundgren read:

UGLY HAPPENING AT ROUNDWOOD

A gun battle took place six miles from Roundwood last Thursday, when armed men attempted to rob the eastbound evening train shortly after it left the town. Four men, two of them security guards, the other two raiders, were wounded in the gang’s effort to steal gold bullion, said to be valued at over twenty thousand dollars. The train was forced to halt by an obstruction placed on the track. The marauders were out in strength, the fireman stating that though it was nearly dark, he was able to count a total of ten horsemen, five at either side, converging on the train. Fortunately, the consignment was well protected and the raid proved futile.

From the description given by one guard, it would seem that the raid was the work of the notorious band led by Roy Waters, sometimes known as either ‘The Reverend Waters’ or “Holy Waters’ because of his habit of wearing clerical attire during his criminal excursions. According to witnesses, the gang leader was struck by at least one bullet, possibly two, as the attackers were beaten off and dispersed hither and thither. Happily, the wounded guards are recovering well. Let us hope that this violent and fruitless occurrence will be a lesson to other desperadoes.

Lundgren pushed the paper back to Ed Hunt. “Bad business,” he said. “Say, how far away is Roundwood?”

“Fifty-odd miles south of here.”

“Pretty close. Well, I’d better be getting along.”

It was a thoughtful Carl Lundgren who drove back home that afternoon. When he arrived, he told his wife what he had learned. She wasn’t greatly surprised. “I knew there was something odd about him,” she said. “Still, it’s none of our business and if we get involved, we’ll be running around endlessly, appearing in court and such things. We can’t spare the time, Carl.” Practical as ever, Karin was probably right. Any wider social duty had to be balanced against the possibly disastrous loss of momentum in the work schedule.

The settlers were expecting an awkward time over the evening meal, for they were now convinced that they were harbouring a criminal. On the other hand, the man was hardly fit to travel. Carl was not sure what to do.

As it happened, the visitor himself raised the matter, asking the couple if they could spare him a few minutes before the meal. Young Tom was packed off to see to one of the endless chores around the place, while the adults sat at the table. As though he had sensed that the Lundgrens knew something, Waters came straight to the point.

“Well, Carl, Karin,” he said. “You’ve been very good to me. I reckon you and Joe Haskill saved my life. When I get through talking, maybe you’ll wonder whether that was wise.”

“It’s always wise to save a life,” said Karin. “Who knows what might come of it?”

“You may be right. Anyway, I had two things to say. First, I hate to be in debt. I know nobody could place a value on what you’ve done for me, but there are some costs a man can figure out, or at least estimate. If I’d been in any shape to make it to a city, I’d have had the best accommodation and doctoring available. I got that all from you and Haskill and I’ve already compensated him. I know this has been a lot of trouble to you and I know what time of year it is.” He fished in his inside coat pocket, pulled out five fifty-dollar bills and handed them across the table. “I guess this is the nearest I can get to paying you back and I want you to know that I’d be insulted if you refused it. And let me say that one thing I’m never short of is money.”

Carl was about to protest, but his wife silenced him with a sharp look. Cash was not plentiful in the Lundgren household and right then, two hundred and fifty dollars represented a fortune. It was a ridiculously large sum for the few days of board and lodgings, but the man’s attitude indicated that he would not take no for an answer. Karin picked up the money. “This is far too much for what we’ve done,” she said. “We know that, you know it and you know we know it. But I also sense that it would be useless to argue with you.”

“Yes, it would. Now, I said there were two things. The second one’s not so easy and isn’t so pleasant. When I’ve finished, I’ll leave right away. The truth is that my name isn’t Richard Carlton. I’m Roy Waters. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” Carl nodded. “We’ve heard, but it was only today that we pieced things together. Until this afternoon, we thought you were a man of the cloth.”

“I used to be. The dog collar’s genuine. Or it was. I’m afraid I got a good way from the straight and narrow a long time ago and I don’t think I’ll find the road back now. You must know the line of business I’m in.”