Preacher's Justice Read Online Free Page A

replied.
    â€œWell, hell, that son of a bitch can’t even read, can he?”
    â€œMy dear Mr. LaBarge, whether or not any of the recipients of our mail can read is of no concern of the U.S. Post Office,” Toomey replied. “Our job is merely to see that the recipient receives the letter that is sent to him. Getting it read is his responsibility.”
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    At one time, Ben Caviness considered himself a fur trapper, and he had actually spent a few winters in the mountains. But he had never been very productive in what was actually a very difficult job. Then, when his friend Percy McDill got himself killed by the one they called Preacher, Caviness gave up the trade altogether.
    Now Caviness made his living by pulling odd jobs when they were available, and by resorting to petty thievery when necessary. It worked well that way because Caviness’s personal needs were few. He never wasted money on clothes or personal hygiene. He lived in an empty stall at the livery, paying for it by mucking out stables. And there were a handful of houses in town where the woman of the house felt disposed toward feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, so he could show up at the back door of such a place, hat in hand, and be able to count on a meal.
    With those basic needs met, any money Caviness managed to earn through the various odd jobs he performed was spent in LaBarge’s Tavern. As a result, Caviness spent every available hour there, often the first to arrive when LaBarge opened his doors in the morning and the last one to leave in the evening.
    Caviness was there now, at a table in the back of the room, drinking raw whiskey and talking to a few others whose own station in life was no higher. He had no idea an official of the U.S. Post Office was looking for him to deliver a letter. In fact, if questioned, Ben Caviness would have to answer truthfully that he had never received a letter in his life.
    â€œYou would be Ben Caviness?” Toomey asked, approaching the table.
    â€œWho’s askin’?” Caviness replied.
    â€œI am an official of the U.S. Post Office,” Toomey said. “And I have a letter for Mr. Ben Caviness.”
    Caviness looked shocked. “You have a letter for me?”
    â€œI do indeed,” Toomey replied, handing the envelope to him.
    â€œHa!” one of the other men at the table said. This was a man named Slater who, like Caviness, lived a hand-to-mouth existence, working as much for liquor as for food. “Who do you know that can actually write? Let alone send you a letter?”
    â€œYou’d be surprised at the high-tone people I know,” Caviness replied.
    Caviness opened the envelope and took out two pieces of paper. One piece of paper was obviously a letter to him, but the other looked official. He had never seen anything quite like this.
    â€œWhat is this here thing?” he asked, showing it to Toomey.
    Toomey looked at the paper.
    â€œThat’s a bank draft for fifteen dollars.”
    â€œWhat does that mean? What is a bank draft?”
    â€œThat means you can take it to the bank and they will give you fifteen dollars,” Toomey explained.
    â€œThe hell you say. They’ll just give it to me for nothin’?”
    â€œNo, not for nothing. You will have to present them with this draft.” Toomey pointed to a line on the draft. “Do you see, it is made out to you.”
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Caviness said, a big smile spreading across his face. “Who would give me fifteen dollars?”
    â€œSuppose you read the letter,” Toomey suggested. “I’m certain you will find the answer to your question there.”
    â€œYeah,” Caviness said. “Yeah, I’ll read the letter.” He began to read and, even though he was reading silently, his lips formed every word.
    â€œWhat does the letter say, Caviness?” Slater asked.
    Caviness looked up from the letter, then put his