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It was far, far too late to do anything else, now.
Thirty-Eight
Chris watched the doctor working with a tight jaw for a minute. He'd expect payment, at some point. That would be a problem. Hopefully, it would be a problem he could leave with Mick and Sheriff Roberts, but if it wasn't—well, he'd made the problem.
If things went sideways, then he'd have to be the one to deal with the consequences. He let out a long breath. His hips hurt from all the riding. It had been years since he'd spent that kind of time in the saddle, and now he was beginning to remember why he hadn't ever wanted to live that sort of life.
Sore, and here he was right back where he'd started the day, more tired and with nothing to show for it but a couple of broken men who had been fine when they went to bed the night before. The only one making out was the Doc, and even he had to be feeling the pressure, with two men in his care who, far as Chris could tell, might go at any moment.
He took a breath. There was a racket outside. People yelling, people shouting. No different than it had been on the way in, but now it was time to stop running away from it. If they wanted him, then by God, they were going to get him.
He looked down at the gun belt on his hip. The damn thing had caused more problems than it was worth. What use was it now? The only thing it would do if he wore it out into that crowd of people would be to convince folks he was every bit the killer they seemed to think he was.
Chris pulled the buckle loose and set it down.
"I'm gonna leave this here," he called into the other room. The doc didn't respond, not that he'd expected one. And then, with a breath like he was about to dip his head under the water, he stepped out through the doors.
Once the door opened, the sound of the crowd outside, riled up enough to start a war, hit him like a ton of bricks. It didn't take more than a moment for them to notice him coming through, and then near on two hundred souls all tried to come at him at once.
Chris let them grab him, let them pull him, handed from one to the next like a bucket of water during a house fire. And then he was standing, staring the priest down. The governor was still sitting, a sour expression on his face.
He didn't approach, once they'd passed him through the crowd, past the territorial soldiers. If they wanted him to come closer, they'd say so. Until then, he'd keep his distance. It was safer that way for everyone involved.
"You wanted to see me, Reverend?"
Marie was there, too. She looked fit to be tied, but she kept it bottled in. A good woman, one who knew when it might be better not to say anything. This was one of those times, he feared.
"Chris. Mr. Broadmoor. You have the nerve to come out here, and face these people, after all the trouble you've brought down on their heads?"
The bartender's shoulders slumped forward. "I ain't running away, if that's what you mean."
The preacher's expression remained unchanged, and Chris had a suspicion that it didn't much matter what he said next. Things were in motion, now, and all he could do was soften the blow.
"Your… loose morals, known throughout the community—" he paused for a moment when the crowd momentarily lost their composure, and then continued. "Are one thing, when it falls on your own head. You may corrupt the drunkards and vagrants going through your little bar."
Chris kept his mouth shut and straightened up. Whatever the man had to say, he could say. Weren't nothing that Chris could do about it in the first place, and if this was the penance he'd pay for his sins in the past, then he'd pay it.
"You might even, though it be shameful, seduce away some poor, innocent young woman whose faith has strayed." The way he looked over at Marie, like she was something on the bottom of his shoe, burned a fire in Chris's gut.
"You keep your mouth shut about Miss Bainbridge, or I'll—"
"You'll, what, shoot me with your pistol? Very civilized, Mr. Broadmoor. I suppose we all expect nothing more from a vagabond like yourself, but I'd hoped you could at least keep yourself in check for a few moments."
He clicked his teeth together and stared.
"But, in spite of all that, all we are willing to allow you—one thing that I, that my people, that the Lord God on high, cannot abide, is to spread this wickedness to children. To teach them the ways of evil."
Chris's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."
The priest spoke softly. "Oh, I do what I must do, in order to ensure that the future generations, the children that I must protect, are not harmed by vultures like you."
"What is it you want from me?"
The priest's lips pinched together, and his eyebrows raised a little. Like he was surprised at having been asked. And further, like it didn't much matter.
"You seem to have misunderstood me, Mr. Broadmoor. I don't want anything from you. I've already made up my mind."
Chris's mind raced. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, not for a moment, it would be letting that boy suffer the same fate he'd suffered himself. To be left in a jungle like that—nobody deserved it. They ought to have a home, at least the closest they could get to it. People who cared for them, who kept them safe.
