Preacher by William W. Johnstone Page A

could’a done it if he hadn’t come in,” the apple peeler said. “Him walkin’ on the floor like he done jarred it so’s that it broke.”
    â€œYou’re full of shit, Sanders,” the sheriff said. “It would’a broke whether Harding come in here or not. Pay your nickel.”
    Sanders took a nickel from his pocket and slapped it down on the sheriff’s desk. Then, looking at Harding with obvious disapproval, he left the office.
    â€œNow,” Sheriff Tate said, putting the nickel away. “What do you need, Harding? If it’s about last night, don’t worry about it. Enough folks have given statements about what happened that there ain’t even goin’ to be an inquiry.”
    â€œIt’s not about last night,” Harding said. “Well, yes, I guess it is, in a way. I come in here with a boy named Art. He was working on the boat with me. The thing is, I’ve lost him.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, you lost him?”
    â€œI left him at the Blue Star for a while when I left to, uh, conduct some business.”
    Sheriff Tate laughed. “Conduct business? You mean going off with one of the whores, don’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Harding admitted. “And when I came back . . . this morning . . . the boy was gone.”
    â€œWell, hell, Harding, you didn’t expect him to sit there the whole night, did you?”
    â€œNo. But I’ve checked with every place he could possibly be. I’ve checked all the boardinghouses, taverns, even the other whores. Nobody has seen him.”
    â€œYou think something happened to him?”
    â€œI’m a little worried about him, yes. He drank quite a bit of beer last night. I’m pretty sure he had never had one before. Nobody’s reported anything to you, have they?”
    â€œYou mean like a body?”
    â€œYeah,” Harding said with a sigh. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
    â€œFar as I know, we only got two bodies in this town right now,” Sheriff Tate. “Riley and Carter. And I reckon you know about them.”
    â€œWhat about the river? What if someone threw a body in the river?”
    â€œUnless they went to the trouble of weighing the body down, it’ll come back up within an hour,” Sheriff Tate said. “And what with the bend in the river, it pretty near always stays right here. You think maybe, him bein’ drunk and all, he might’a fallen in the river?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Harding replied. “I hope not.”
    â€œWell, I’ll keep my eyes open and if I see anything, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œThat’s just it, I won’t be around after today. I’ve bought myself a horse and I’m ridin’ back up to Ohio to put together another load of goods. I just thought I’d see what I could find out before I left.”
    â€œYou got ’ny reason to suspect foul play?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWas he plannin’ on goin’ back to Ohio with you?”
    â€œNo,” Harding said again. “He said he would be going on from here.”
    â€œWell, there you go then. Most likely, that’s what happened to him. We had a couple of wagons pull out of here early this morning, bound for St. Louis. Could be he went out with one of them.”
    â€œThat’s probably what happened,” Harding said. “Sorry to have been a bother to you.”
    â€œAh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s all right, but like I said, I’ll keep my eyes open.”
    â€œThanks,” Harding said.
    * * *
    It was midafternoon by the time Harding rode out of town. He headed north, intending to cross the river just above the juncture of the Ohio and Mississippi. That way, he would only have to cross once.
    â€œArt, I don’t know where you got off to, but I’d feel better if I knew for sure that you were all right,” he said, speaking aloud to