A crash brought Cort rudely to his senses and he spat out a curse. It was automatic, out of his mouth before he'd registered what he'd said but two passing women got an earful. Two pairs of accusing eyes swivelled in his direction.
"I never heard a preacher use language like that."
She said it loud enough for anybody in the vicinity to hear and Cort felt his face redden. While he was certain they'd both heard a lot worse, probably from their own husbands, the part of him that had once been a priest was embarrassed at having used those particular words. He inclined his head towards the woman who'd spoken.
"I apologise for the outburst ma'am, but I'm not a preacher anymore."
"More's the pity, young man. You should keep your manners in mind, especially when there's ladies present." She eyed him severely then grabbed her friend's sleeve and they headed towards the general store.
Cort watched them go, knowing they'd spread this unsavoury finding all over town, then glanced around for whatever had woken him from his unplanned evening siesta. It looked like somebody had thrown a heap of wood from the roof of the blown-out building opposite and he relaxed, it was nothing that needed his intervention right now. He took a reflective sip of beer from the bottle beside him on the hotel veranda and rubbed at the scabs on his wrists.
He could still remember every detail of that interminable journey, as evidenced by his recent dream, when all he wanted to do was forget. It had taken the best part of three weeks but his body had pretty much gotten over the damage inflicted by Ratsy, Foy and the ugliness associated with the shooting contest. Cort flexed his right hand, his gun hand. It still hurt a little but he could use it just fine which was fortunate. Redemption was currently a beacon to every outlaw, drunk, undesirable and opportunist for miles around. With John Herod gone they figured it was open season, but they'd reckoned without the presence of the new, able but not entirely willing Town Marshal.
Cort thought about going inside the hotel to get another beer. He'd been drinking too much lately, knew people were starting to gossip, but if they didn't like it they could shove it. It wasn't stopping him doing the job, sometimes it helped and it wasn't like he was getting paid for it anyway. He'd been promised a decent wage, eventually, but right now the town was flat broke and he was living on the charity of its people, reliant on them for food and lodging while running up sizeable tabs in the saloon and liquor store.
Cort wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to become marshal; sometimes it seemed an act of certain suicide. He was totally alone here; no backup, no deputies, not even a cell to lock up the worst offenders and more of them seemed to arrive with every passing day. He'd gotten by so far on reputation, rapidly revived and heavily exaggerated following Herod's death. Cort the Killer, John Herod's most ruthless deputy, still the fastest gun in the territory and currently acting as a lawman. It was like a rallying cry for every desperado within earshot to come try his luck. One day soon Cort knew his luck was going to run out.
The marshal's office was in the process of being rebuilt, having lain in ruins for the longest time, and Cort looked forward to the day it was done. At least then he'd have a home of sorts. Then perhaps he might stop feeling so restless, disconnected and abjectly alone. It was like everybody in Redemption was keeping him at arm's length; afraid to let him go but even more afraid to accept him into their society. He supposed he could understand it. The people of this town, the decent ones at least, had lived in terror for so long they found it difficult to trust anybody who hadn't suffered the extended reign of tyranny alongside them. While Cort had suffered too, and the whole town watched it happen, nobody had helped him then and nobody wanted to know him now, except when they were in trouble. He supposed he understood that too.
To hell with it, he was getting another beer. He brought it back outside and resumed his evening vigil. He liked to see who was coming and going and it was usually around sundown when anybody intent on causing trouble would head towards the saloon. The hotel veranda was a good vantage point, offering clear views to both ends of town and if things stayed settled he could sit out here, quietly drinking until he was sure he could sleep. Then it was only a short stagger to his room upstairs.
His peripheral vision caught movement in the street and he tensed, his hand moving instinctively to the army colt on his right hip, but it was only Foy slinking over to the bordello. When he saw Cort he lowered his head and scuttled inside. Cort glowered after him. He'd known that bastard was still in town but with his boss and best buddy in the ground, Foy had been keeping a low profile, avoiding the new marshal like his life depended on it. Seeing him again reminded Cort of something he needed to do. He'd finish this beer then maybe he'd go do it.
His mind returned to the dream: half dead in the desert with only the promise of more pain and humiliation to come. The man in the dream, that stranger with the piercing blue eyes had pretty much saved his life but Cort wasn't even sure he was real. Something about the encounter chilled him to the bone but he was convinced he hadn't imagined it. That stranger had put the fear of God into Ratsy and Foy. It over-rode John Herod's grip of iron and they began treating him better. They'd let him sleep all night, fed and watered him properly for the rest of the journey and allowed him to actually ride his horse. Of course it all went to shit as soon as they reached Redemption, but he was at least better prepared to deal with it.
The stranger had known his name and that bothered Cort, but the respect shown for his former calling bothered him more. It reinforced the guilt and self-loathing which sometimes threatened to overwhelm him completely. How had God's loyal and devout servant so quickly disregarded his faith when somebody put a gun back into his hand? Cort felt as though the past three years of his life had been a lie and, worse than that, a delusion.
He was no preacher, he knew that now, and God surely despised him for deceiving his congregation in Hermasillo. Perhaps the persistent dream was God's way of telling him something fundamental. Cort suspected he was headed for purgatory and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. He finished his beer and sighed. He'd need to get royally drunk tonight.
He made his way over to the bordello. He'd not set foot inside since Ratsy had dragged him there nearly three weeks ago and he wasn't entirely comfortable going in now. He'd been no stranger to this kind of place back in the bad old days with Herod and the gang, but afterwards there had been the three year vow of chastity. It had slipped now and then for sure, and he wasn't proud of that, but the women had always come to him first and he'd always been too weak to resist.
Eugene Dred, the original bordello owner, had been killed during Herod's shooting contest and one of the whores had stepped up swiftly to fill his shoes. She called herself Madame Rochelle and seemed pleased enough to see Cort. She greeted him with a knowing smile as he entered the parlour and poured him a glass of whisky.
"If it ain't our pretty marshal dropped by to say howdy. The girls been taking bets on how long you'd take to show up."
Cort's face burned and he lowered his head, looking through his fringe to scan the room for other occupants. Fortunately it was empty. He approached the bar and drained the whisky in one draught. Rochelle filled him up again and he eyed her nervously.
"I'm not here for the regular services, ma'am; I'm here because I need…"
She misunderstood and flashed him a wicked grin.
"Easy marshal, we all heard how it is right now. Anything you need is on the house you hear? Anything you like. Kitty's a sweet young thing and she's had her eye on you for a while."
Cort blushed again and tried to find a way out of this hole. His silence sent another errant message.
"Kitty!" Rochelle's voice almost deafened him as she yelled up the stairs. "Get down here now sweetheart, somebody to see you."
He tossed down the second glass of whisky and placed the glass on the counter.
"I didn't come here for a woman. I'm here to speak to Foy and I know for a fact he's in one of your rooms".
Her face dropped; the disappointment clear. "He's up in room four but he's busy. Might not take kindly to being interrupted."
Cort smiled. "I'm counting on that."
He made his way upstairs and the whore named Kitty was waiting for him on the landing. Rochelle was right, she was a sweet little thing but his other business was more urgent. He brushed past her with a rueful grin.
"Sorry honey, maybe some other time."
He found room four and stood outside for a while, listening to the action inside. Foy was making enough noise that Cort had no trouble following the story. He listened to the pace quicken, Foy's grunting rising in volume and just before the crucial moment he banged on the door with all his strength, shaking it in its frame.
"This is the marshal, Foy. Get out here and talk to me."
Foy's groan of utter frustration was unmistakable and Cort smiled. Perfect timing.
"For Christ's sake, marshal, I'm right in the middle of something. Come back later."
"Now Foy, or I'm coming through this door."
A minute later the door opened and Foy stood there with a sheet wrapped around his midriff, glaring at Cort like he was about to kill him.
"You sure got lousy timing. I hope nobody comes calling on you like this when you're entertaining."
"Stow it. I'm here for some answers and I figure three weeks is long enough to be waiting."
Foy's bravado evaporated and he looked ready to shit himself. Cort spotted his whore through the open door, watching the scene with wide, curious eyes and he motioned her to get out. He pushed Foy into the bedroom and closed the door. Foy obviously thought he was about to die because he started babbling.
"I'm sorry what happened but I was only doing what Mister Herod said and if I hadn't he'd have killed me for sure. I read the Bible once and it said turn the other cheek and you being a preacher should know about forgiving and since I ain't even got a gun…"
Cort had heard enough. He shoved Foy in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back onto the bed.
"Shut up, Foy. I'm not here to kill you or listen to your excuses. I want to know is who that man was, out in the desert that night."
Foy's eyes narrowed and he looked shifty.
"Don't you remember him?"
Cort shrugged. "I thought maybe I imagined him since I couldn't see or think straight. You know why that was, don't you?"
Foy at least had the grace to look ashamed.
"I can't take any of that back but you didn't imagine him. He was real enough."
"Who was he?"
Foy's brow wrinkled in confusion.
"That's Henry Usher. Don't you know him?"
Cort shook his head, he'd never heard the name, never even seen the face until three weeks ago.
"I've been out of circulation. Who is he?"
It seemed Foy still couldn't quite believe his ignorance.
"He's only the most powerful preacher in the territory, and he sure was interested in you."