Cloud of Sparrows by Takashi Matsuoka

only movement was in his eyes. They slowly scanned the men seated at the tables and standing in line. His arms hung loosely at his sides, in readiness somehow, rather than inert. That’s when she noticed the bulge at his right hip under the jacket caked with dirt.
    She asked Sister Sarah to take her ladle at the soup pot and went up to the stranger.
    As she neared, he removed his hat politely and nodded to her. “Ma’am.”
    “You are most welcome to join us for supper, Brother Christian.” Emily used the mode of address followers of the True Word applied to all newcomers. Brother, because, as Zephaniah said, are not all men brothers? Christian, because, though they may not realize it, are not all men, be they sinner, saint, or heathen, Christians in the grace and forgiveness of the Lord our God?
    “Obliged, ma’am,” the stranger said, nodding again in a kind of short bow. “Grateful to you.” His words had a fluid twang to them. Texas, she guessed, or somewhere near there.
    “This place is blessed with the peace of the Lord, Brother Christian.” She held out her hand to him. “Violence shall not enter here.”
    He looked at her and blinked several times before comprehending. “No, ma’am,” he said. He undid the leather cord that held the bottom of the holster to his thigh, unbuckled it from his waist, and handed it to her with the gun still in it.
    She almost dropped it. “‘I commend you to God, and to the word of His grace.’ ” The gun was very large, and very heavy.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    “We say ‘amen’ to the words of the Gospel,” she said.
    “Don’t know the Gospel, ma’am. Don’t know what to amen.”
    “I commend you to God, and to the words of His grace. These are true words. Acts 20:32.”
    “Amen,” the stranger said.
    She smiled. His meekness was promising. No doubt he had done wrong, probably with the very weapon she now held. And perhaps with the other, whose handle she saw tucked at the left side of his belt. Yet no one was beyond the mercy and protection of the Lord. “And that,” she said, gesturing with her chin.
    He looked down at the handle of the weapon, as if surprised to see it. “Forgot about it.” For the first time, he smiled. “Haven’t had it long.” It was more of a small sword than a big knife. He put it down on top of the gun and holster Emily held in her arms.
    “Your money is better spent on instruments of peace,” Emily said.
    “Amen,” the stranger said.
    “Those were merely my own words,” she said, “not Gospel.”
    “Didn’t buy it, either.” He smiled again, an odd smile. His lips curved up and his eyes narrowed.
    “Where, then, did it come from, Brother Christian?” Won at gambling, Emily thought, or worse, stolen. She was offering the stranger an opportunity to make a small confession, and so take the first step at beginning life anew in the mercy and grace of the Lord.
    “Bowie knife with a ten-inch blade,” he said. Then, realizing he had explained nothing, added, “Was a parting gift.”
    Very well, there would be no confession for the moment. She had done her duty by opening the way for one. She said, “What is your given name?”
    “Matthew,” he said.
    “I am Sister Emily, Brother Matthew. I am pleased to welcome you to sup with us, in the protection of the Lord.”
    “Thank you, Sister Emily,” Brother Matthew said.
    The memory of those more promising times brought tears to her eyes so suddenly, she was unable to keep them from spilling onto her cheeks.

    Reaching over Cromwell, Stark gave Emily his handkerchief. She covered her face with it and wept in near silence, her shoulders trembling with barely suppressed sobs. He was surprised to see such emotion coming from her. Her demeanor with the preacher had always been distantly polite. One who didn’t know otherwise would never guess they were betrothed. It just went to show how little he knew about women. Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. Stark’s