The Eden Hunter by Skip Horack Page A

lieutenant had lost a hand to grapeshot in the defeat at Pensacola, and for this one evening with Elvy he had cut all of the silver buttons from his uniform.
    Elvy went naked to the door, and when she flipped open the wrought-iron Judas viewer, she saw a shabby and hollow-cheeked man staring back at her with sad eyes. “Whoa now,” she said to him. “Who are you?”
    The man sneezed into his sleeve and then spoke. “I’m a preacher, ma’am. A preacher in need of lodging for the night.”
    “This ain’t no inn.”
    “Have you really nothing, ma’am?”

    “I have plenty,” she said. “Backtrack to that big cabin on the road. You can share a room all night with one of my girls if you show her enough coins.”
    The preacher’s face went high pink. His frail body seemed to tremble. “You are the owner of that place?”
    “I am indeed.”
    At that the preacher slammed his fist against the thick door so hard that the one-handed lieutenant hurried to her side. “Is this man badgering you?” he whispered.
    She touched his hand. “I’ll tend to him,” she said. “But thank you.” She was moved by the young officer’s concern, his willingness to reveal his presence. In truth she had thought him to be hiding under the bed.
    The preacher had calmed himself. “Who is with you?” he asked.
    “Mind your business,” she told him.
    “I will pray for you both.”
    He turned to leave but she would not allow him the final word. “We don’t need your prayers,” she said.
    The preacher stopped and looked back at her. “Tell me,” he said, “tell me truthfully. Do you ever pray?”
    There was something about the way the question was asked, something heartbreaking that drew her in. As a child she had been religious, but of course that was long ago. “No,” she allowed. “I don’t pray.”
    “And your companion?”

    The lieutenant still had his pale body pressed against the door, listening. Elvy glanced over and he shook his head. “No,” she said again. “Him neither.”
    The preacher nodded and reached into the pocket of his patched coat. He pulled out his hand and she saw that he was holding a fistful of half dollars. She watched as he counted the coins with crooked fingers, clicking them down across the flat of his other hand. Once he had them all stacked in three equal piles he looked up. “Nine dollars,” he said.
    “That it is. Lot of money for a beggar.”
    “And it’s yours to have,” he told her. “So long as you both can make me one promise.”
    “Well?”
    “Promise me that you will never ever pray.” The preacher held the coins out to her. “Simple.”
    “Have you lost your senses?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “What kind of preacher are you?”
    “Does it matter?”
    Elvy looked over at the lieutenant and he shrugged. “All right, mister.” She reached her hand out through the Judas viewer. “I promise you.”
    The preacher smiled. “And your friend?”
    “He promises.”
    “I need to hear him say it.”
    She grabbed a handful of the lieutenant’s bare flesh and he spoke. “I promise that I will never pray,” he said, rushing the words.

    The preacher raised a wispy eyebrow. “An Englishman?”
    “Still none of your concern. Now pay me.”
    “Very well.” He let her take the coins from his outstretched hand, then made for the path that led back to the federal road.
    Elvy watched him go and felt a small measure of sorrow for taking advantage of what only could be a lunatic. She called out after him. “Head on up to my place,” she said. “Tell the girls I promised you a room till morning. They’ll leave you be.”
    The preacher had retreated down the path and into the night. She could no longer see him, but suddenly she heard his voice speak out to her in the dark. “I’ll manage,” he said, and then it was quiet again.
    Nine dollars. Elvy split the coins with the lieutenant—even sewed the buttons back onto his uniform—and in light of their bizarre windfall she came