Jack McCready's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Jack rode across the desert with no horses caught and no money earned. The heat pressed down on his tired mount. By afternoon he saw a small church rise from the flats, its steeple leaning and its siding bleached by the sun. A bell hung in the tower. Jack reined up. He had chased horses all morning and caught nothing. Maybe a church held something a tired man could use. He tied his horse to a post and climbed the steps. Inside, the air was cool and still. Faded light fell through narrow windows. At the front stood a statue of Christ, robes painted blue and red, one hand raised, a bright heart on his chest. Rows of plain benches held a handful of bowed townsfolk. Jack took off his hat and sat in the back. He bowed his head like the others. For a while his worries loosened. He did not think about horses or lumber. He just breathed. Then a man in a long black robe moved down the aisle, holding a wooden plate. The priest. He was lean, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. He stopped at each bench. Coins clinked onto the plate. Some gave bills. The priest nodded and moved on, slow and certain. He reached Jack's bench and held out the plate. Jack looked at the coins piled there. He patted his pockets. Empty, same as at the store. His face went hot. He had nothing to drop. "I got no money, Father," Jack said. "Just came to sit a spell." The priest's eyes moved over Jack's dusty clothes and cracked boots. His mouth tightened. "This is a house of worship, not a resting place for drifters," he said. "Those who give, give what they can. Those who give nothing take up a seat better used." "I only wanted a minute of quiet," Jack said. "Then find it elsewhere." The priest nodded toward the door. "Go on." The townsfolk turned to look. Jack stood. His chair scraped the floorboards. He gripped his hat and walked up the aisle past the staring faces. Shame burned worse than the sun outside. He pushed through the double doors and stood on the steps. His horse waited at the post. Jack stared out at the empty flats. Twice now a door had closed in his face for the same reason. No money at the store. No money at the church. The lesson hit him hard and clean. In this country, a man with empty pockets was welcome nowhere. He swung into the saddle and sat a moment. His pride was raw, but his mind was clear. He would not come back to beg a seat or ask for credit. He would earn his coins the only way left to him. Out there, wild horses ran free across the range. He turned his mount away from the church and rode toward them.