Whippoorwill by Sharon Sala Page A

Greenspan’s outrage—and not the least of it all, her father’s indignation, and rolled back into the bunk and closed his eyes; the food forgotten.
    A few minutes passed, and Randall began to doze. On the verge of a snore, a gunshot suddenly sounded at close range, followed by another.
    His eyes popped open. A woman screamed again, but this time close by.
    “This is a stick up! Don’t nobody move!” a man suddenly yelled.
    Holdup? Dear Lord! Money! His money. They would take it all.
    With shaking hands, he ripped his wallet from his coat, removing all but a few dollars, and then frantically stuffed the money between the wall and his bunk. Desperate to finish the deed before he was discovered, he shoved his wallet back in his pocket and reached for his bible, praying as he’d never prayed before.
    He could hear them now, laughing and yelling as they tore through the sleeping compartments, taking jewelry and money from the terrified passengers. A woman began to cry, begging for them not to take her wedding ring. Randall leaned against the wall of the compartment, taking comfort in the knowledge that most of his money had been secured.
    They were closer to him now—just across the aisle—then the compartment above him. He held his breath. Suddenly the curtains of his sleeping compartment were ripped open. Randall found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
    “Hand over yore stuff!”
    Randall’s hands were trembling as he began to fumble in the pocket of his coat.
    “Well, well, what we got here?” the outlaw drawled, as he grabbed up Randall’s bible and began waving it over his head. “Lookee here, boys. We got ourselves a preacher man.”
    Randall’s first impression of the outlaw was of filth—from the brown crust on his knuckles to the stains on the outlaw’s clothes. His second impression was the stench. His nostrils flared. Had the man ever bathed?
    The outlaw stared at Randall over the top of his mask and then tossed the bible aside and held out the bag.
    “Gimmee your valuables,” he growled. “And be quick about it.”
    “Take it and be gone,” Randall said, as he dropped his wallet and pocket watch into the bag. Then he took out his handkerchief and covered his nose, trying hard not to gag from the outlaw’s breath.
    The outlaw wagged his gun under Randall’s nose. “What’s ’a matter mister? Ain’t you never smelled a real man a’fore?”
    Fear disappeared as a wave of disdain reconstructed Randall’s expression. “Oh, is that what you are?”
    The man spit in Randall’s face.
    They were gone as abruptly as they’d arrived. Outside, the outlaws mounted up and rode off into the setting sun as Randall threw up in the aisle. While it was some consolation that he’d saved the bulk of his money, at that moment, he would have traded it all for a bath.
    The next day, they finally rolled into Feeney. It was to be the first place on his missionary journey where he would preach the word of God. His anticipation of the upcoming event had helped him get past the trauma of yesterday’s robbery. Here was where his new life was destined to begin.
    He stepped off the train with his head held high, the bible in one hand and his bag in the other. He walked with purpose across the platform and into the street. Seconds later, the distinct odor of manure drifted up his nostrils. He looked down and groaned. He was standing in shit—horse to be exact.
    “Reverend Howe?”
    Randall forced a smile and looked up, finding himself eye to eye with, quite possibly, the tallest, homeliest woman he’d ever seen. She was wearing a pair of men’s pants, as well as a man’s shirt and jacket. Her brown, shoulder-length hair was pulled away from her face, and tied at the back of her neck, elongating her features even more. The wide-brimmed hat she wore low on her forehead shaded her eyes, as well as most of her face—and still she squinted; more from habit than any nearby glare. By his best guess, she was