Part 4 (1/2)

”He doesn't have a dog in this fight,” Dobbs said.

The doctor flinched and Dobbs flushed. ”That didn't sound right,” the blacksmith said. ”But they know what I mean. He hasn't lost anyone. His wife lives. His daughter lives.”

”Foster daughter,” Doc Adams said, correcting him.

”It's the same thing,” Preacher said. ”While you all know how I feel about the loss of our children, I would not dare match my grief to yours. So I take and concede the point. However, my having not lost anyone means that I'm the only one who can see this clearly and-”

”Preacher?” Mayor Browning turned to him. ”I'm going to ask you to step outside. We want to hear what these gentlemen have to say.”

Preacher forced a nod. ”All right then. I will remain silent-”

”No.”The mayor met his gaze. ”I don't believe you will. I am asking you to leave. Please don't make me insist.”

Preacher looked into the mayor's face, the set of his jaw, the flint in his gaze. Dobbs rose to his feet, squaring his thick shoulders, as if he were a tender of bar, ready to throw an unruly patron through the door. Doc Adams shrank back, taking great interest in a mark on the wall.

No one here would take Preacher's side.They wanted to hear what the men had to say.They needed to. His job was to counsel them to make wise and spiritual decisions, but if their ears were stopped, he must leave them to make their own mistakes. He could hope they'd hear the lies for what they were but, at worst, they would lose only coin and pride.

”All right,” Preacher said. ”If anyone needs me, I'll be home with my wife. Good day, gentlemen.”

Browning

Preacher left without argument.Which the mayor took to mean he wasn't as strenuously opposed to the idea as he pretended. Their preacher was an odd duck. A fine enough man-he just had odd ideas. City ideas. Dobbs thought him soft, and while it was true that he wasn't like the men who'd lived out here all their lives, the preacher held his own. He just spent more time in his head than a man ought to.Worried more than a man ought to.

That was, Browning decided, what had happened here. Preacher felt obligated to object to anything that might smack of dark arts, but it was only a perfunctory objection. A strong perfunctory objection, Browning would give him that, and yes, the man had seemed genuinely upset, but . . . well, he'd left, hadn't he? If Browning wanted to see that as a sign that his protest lacked conviction, then he could and he would.

Besides, this wasn't the dark arts. It was faith. Eleazar was right-the Lord Jesus Christ had raised a man from the dead. It was right there in the Bible. That made it a miracle. A gift from G.o.d, not the Devil.

”Go on.Tell us more,” he said when Preacher had left. ”Thank you,Your Wors.h.i.+p.We can return the living, but only if they have been dead four days or less, like Lazarus. I presume there are children that meet that criterion?”

”My son,” Browning blurted.

There were others, of course, but in that moment, he did not even pause to consider them.They did not matter. His son-his only child-lay dead twenty feet away, behind the wall. What would he give to see the boy alive again? There was part of him that dared not even ask the question because the answer terrified him.

”And my granddaughter,” Doc Adams said. ”And Mr. Dobbs's son and-”