Sanctuary Read Free Page B

Mordecai.
    â€œBlasphemy!” The word spewed from the Reverend like the rumble and hiss of a geyser erupting from the bowels of the earth. “It was the Lord who led me here today to witness this blasphemer”—his finger settled like the barrel of a pistol on Mordecai’s nose—“who offers the Lord’s holy sacrament to these miserable sinners in this place of depravity.”
    Mordecai, his hand resting on the last man’s shoulder, continued the litany, “… This is my blood of the new Covenant which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”
    Some of the men began rising from the table.
    â€œSee you next week,” Mordecai said, “and since the good gentleman has raised the question, I’ll talk about blasphemy, although I lack the expertise the Reverend apparently has.”
    Laughter rippled around the tables, peppered with “We’ll be heres,” and the Reverend Eli’s face twisted with rage.
    â€œThose who mock the Lord shall be cast down into hell to suffer damnation and eternal fire!” The words hissed from the Reverend’s mouth as though his soul were already sizzling.
    â€œAnd those who make a mockery of the Lord will have their toes warmed at that same fire,” Mordecai said.
    Another round of hoots echoed through the bar, and the Reverend shook with rage. He stalked from the bar, legs shaking, but before he stepped through the door, he turned, his eyes opaque and aimed at Mordecai’s heart.
    â€œI will see you in hell!”
    â€œCould be you’ll be waiting for me.”
    Mordecai followed the Reverend outside. The town’s good folk were gathered there wrapped in their righteousness and their Sunday go-to-meeting best.
    â€œBefore you come marching down Main Street in search of other sinners to humiliate,” Mordecai said, “might be you’ll look for the logs in your own eyes.”
    Some of the men and women on the edge of the crowd shifted, suddenly fascinated by the boardwalk under their feet. The Reverend raised his fist for the drummer, and the beat began, but it was not as measured as it had been when the group arrived, and there were more stragglers than marchers making their way back to the white frame church at the far end of Main Street.
    The saloon regulars crowded around the door to watch the final scene in the show that morning—all except for one.
    Doc stood rooted near the stool where the preacher had been sitting, his foot covering the gold double eagle he’d spotted on the floor. He wanted to move, to reach down and pick up the coin, but he was afraid that if he did, someone would spot him and claim it.
    So Doc stumbled, lurched into the bar, and fell to the floor, his hand scrabbling for the coin. Nobody would think anything odd about an old drunk falling down.

Two
    â€œWhere you headed, Doc?”
    Doc stopped midshuffle, pinioned to the floor. He had hoped to escape the saloon unseen, but he knew that wasn’t likely. He was as much a fixture of the place as the bottles lined up on the back bar and his absence just as noticeable.
    â€œOut back,” he croaked, his voice overburdened with guilt and excitement.
    â€œAlready?” Johnson asked in mock amazement. “Boys, you are seeing the eighth wonder of the world. The man with the magic bladder only lasted ’til ten-thirty.”
    Hoots followed the old man into the alley.
    He wished he could pick up his feet, but he didn’t have the energy or the balance, so it was better to keep both feet on the ground. His shuffling annoyed him, especially now when he needed to get away from the preacher, away from the preacher’s eyes.
    For the first time in years, there was something the old man needed to do away from the saloon. That was exciting, but frightening, too. The Silver Dollar and alcohol were blankets he had pulled over