Preacher by William W. Johnstone

here?”
    â€œYou sure ask a lot of questions,” Younger replied.
    â€œLast thing I remember is orderin’ my supper. But I don’t remember eating it.”
    â€œFrom the way you looked when we found you, you didn’t eat your supper. You drank it,” Younger said.
    â€œOh ...” Art groaned. He put his hand to his head. “I did. I drank beer. I drank a lot of beer.” He looked up again sharply. “What do you mean, when you found me?”
    â€œJust what I said, sonny. Me, the wife, and the girl there found you. You was lying out in the road leavin’ New Madrid. The wife thought you was dead, but soon as I got down and looked at you, I know’d you wasn’t dead.”
    â€œYou say you found me on the road leaving New Madrid?”
    â€œSure did.”
    â€œMy money!” Art said. He stuck his hands in his pockets, but they came out empty.
    â€œBoy, if you had any money on you, somebody took it offen you a’fore we come along,” Younger said. “I hope you don’t think we took it.”
    â€œNo,” Art said. “No, I don’t think you would take my money, then take care of me like this.”
    â€œGlad you know that.”
    â€œWhere are we now?” Art asked.
    â€œOh, we’re some north of New Madrid, headin’ on up to St. Louie. This here road we’re on is called the El Camino Real. That means The King’s Road.”
    â€œWe saved back a biscuit for your breakfast if you’re hungry,” Bess said.
    At first thought, the idea of eating something made Art feel even more queasy. But he was hungry, and he reasoned that, maybe if he ate, he would feel better.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “I’d like that.”
    â€œJennie, get him that biscuit.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Jennie said. She fumbled around in some cloth, then unwrapped a biscuit and handed it to Art. He thanked her, then ate it, hoping it would stay down.
    It did stay down, and before long he was feeling considerably better.
    * * *
    â€œRight after you left, the boy went out the back door to the privy,” Bellefontaine replied to Harding’s question. “He never come back in. When you find him, tell him he owes me for the supper he ordered.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œFifteen cents ought to do it.”
    Harding put fifteen cents on the counter, then pointed toward the back door. “You say he went through there?”
    â€œYep. Ain’t no use in lookin’ back there, though. I got to worryin’ some about him, seein’ as how he didn’t come back, so I went out there to have a look around myself. He wasn’t nowhere to be found.”
    Despite Bellefontaine’s assurance that there was nothing to be seen out back, Harding went outside to have a look around. Art was nowhere to be seen.
    After satisfying himself that Art wasn’t behind the Blue Star, Harding checked all the boarding houses in town. Art hadn’t stayed in any of them. Then he checked the other taverns, and even checked with all the whores on the possibility that Art might have decided to give one of them a try. Nobody had seen him. He decided it was time to talk to the sheriff.
    The sheriff was in his office, feet propped up on a table, hands laced behind his head. A visitor to the office was sitting on a stool near the cold stove, paring an apple. One long peel dangled from the apple, and from the careful way he was working it, it was obvious he was going to try and do it in one, continuous peel.
    â€œSheriff Tate, I’m Pete Harding.”
    â€œHell, Harding, I know who you are,” the sheriff answered. “After the show you put on last night, I reckon ever’one in town knows who you are.
    â€œDamn!” the apple peeler suddenly said. Looking toward him, Harding saw that the peel had broken.
    â€œHa!” Sheriff Tate said. “That’s a nickel you owe me.”
    â€œI