Missionary Work

Posted on Sat Mar 6th, 2021 @ 1:35pm by Whit & The Narrator

Mission: Six Days to Santo
Location: Howson gang hideout
Timeline: Day 23 - Night

After tending to some necessary business, Whit made quick his approach to Howson. Dawn came early on Santo, and he needed to put this chapter behind him. Santo was a steppingstone on his real mission. Complications just had a way of cropping up, and man of conscience that he was, well, he just couldn't ignore them.

Especially when they derailed his transit arrangements.

The informant had told him truthfully, and the building was surprisingly clean and well-maintained sat in its place on the far western end of the beachfront curve. A shoulder high white wall formed the outer boundary with a gated entry point into a shadowy courtyard of sorts. Beyond that, two tall ornamental trees stood to either side of a lit doorway that invited anyone who wanted to take their chances to go for it. The approach from the narrow side-street gave the Shepherd a definite scent of tobacco smoke mixed with salt from an onshore wind, and he could see two figures doing the henchmen lurk.

With a spring in his step that belied the danger of the situation, Whit strolled through the gap in the wall into the courtyard. "Howdy, fellas!" he cheerfully greeted the hidden sentinels he knew had to be there. "Grace to you!"

"We don't want any," said the bald, stocky tanned guard to Whit's left.

"Whatever you got," his partner, a thin whip of an olive-skinned younger guy added. "We already got one." He sucked in a deep inhale of smoke from the roll-up in his hand and regarded the Shepherd long enough to make an assumption. "Specially if it's gods you're selling."

Whit held up a hand. "No wares, I assure you. Only tidings, and sad ones at that." His face turned somber. "Your friend Archie Turner has gone to meet his Maker." Pausing a moment, he continued. "Your employer may wish to know what else he told me. Might you take me to him?"

Two faces mixed shock and confusion as the two lackies regarded Whit now. "Huh?" Baldy said. "Archie's dead?" He looked to his buddy and drove a fist into an open palm.

Skinny guy adopted for a fierce expression from friend to visitor, but said nothing while he processed this new information.

"I'll take you to the boss," said Baldy. "Name?" A pause. "Any weapons on you?" Whatever the answer, he made a point of checking before using an intercom by the door to pass a mumbled message on ahead to his employer.

"Much obliged, son." Whit gave a friendly nod. "And y'all can call me Whit."

They passed another two guards just inside the building, their weapon belts overt and their stares dark. "Mitch..." one said, but Baldy shook his head and grunted something Whit didn't catch.

A long corridor with a couple of closed doors leading off from it, led them to a T-junction and Baldy/Mitch took Whit right, then left into a wide room with low, but pleasant lighting, tastefully sparse furnishings and a wall of windows looking out across the ocean beyond. Howson, dressed now in an expensive shirt and trousers now, turned to regard them as they entered, his olive face marked with bruising on one side.

"You were with Archie when he died?" Howson asked, skipping any other pleasantries for the moment.

"As I live, I sure was," Whit affirmed. "Even gave him his last rites, right after he unburdened his troubled heart of all its guilt and shame. Your name came up quite a bit." That was bending the truth in its most literal sense, but Whit prided himself as a good judge of character. Archie's eyes had spoken volumes to him -- right up to the point he died by Whit's hand. None of it had been exonerating for Howson. "According to the dearly departed, one Alden Loxley is innocent of the crimes of which he stands accused. Since Mr. Turner has left us to face God's own reckoning, it only seems the onus of setting the record straight falls to you." Whit's right brow arched just a smidge. "Seeing as how you were the actual accuser of record, of course, the sheriff would be required to drop charges if you went and told him Archibald Turner met his end after inappropriately touching a young lady, and not because Mr. Loxley laid so much as a finger on him."

Smiling wide with a mischievous glint in his eye, Whit came to his conclusion. "Whaddya' say, Mister Huckleberry Howson? The truth, as the Good Book says, shall set you free."

Howson's dark eyes regarded the Shepherd for a couple of seconds, his expression fluidly pensive as if he were looking for something and trying to decide if he saw it or not. At the doorway, Mitch gave a tense shoulders-up-and-down sigh and said nothing.

"So," Howson said, his tone even as he digested Whit's play and tested it for watertightness. "You expect me to believe that Archie confessed all his sins before he passed and that some of these refer to Loxley?" His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he took a step closer to Whit, and added. "And you think I care enough to speak to the Sheriff rather than leave Loxley where he sits?"

Mitch snickered.

"And, if I did feel this need to unburden Mr Turner's sins so to speak," continued Howson. "Why would I give up on my missing payment?"

If Whit noticed the surly disposition of Howson and his men, he gave no mind. "Because that is the goodness of God! 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy'." His eyes darkened behind his kindly smile. "I reckon a man such as yourself could use a piece of mercy when you finally see the pearly gates..." His brow ticked up in bemused speculation. "... if not a might sooner."

"The goodness of God," muttered Mitch. "Yeah, right."

But Howson had noticed that tiny shift in the Shepherd's gaze, a little detail like that was important, and interesting. "You came here," he said, jovially. "All by yourself to tell me I should be merciful?" He raised an eyebrow. "How did Archie die, Preacher?"

"Pulmonary embolism if memory serves." Whit shook his head and gave a rueful click of his tongue. "No man can add an hour to his life, the Good Lord says. Instead we should seek first the righteous path. There's no telling just when our lives might be required of us."

Even though he was a humble shepherd spitting out Bible verses like a sprinkler head, there was something profoundly unsettling about the tone with which he was doing it. His smile, his expression, his overall demeanor presented a picture that belied the subtle undertones of his point. It was as if Whit knew something he wasn't telling but expected the criminals to make good on it anyway.

"Can I get an Amen?" Whit let out a friendly chuckle that contrasted with the piercing gaze that he drilled directly into Howson.

At the words 'pulmonary embolism' an almost imperceptible nod passed between Howson and Mitch. Then when Whit spoke his amicable question, Mitch strode swiftly, cracking his knuckles as he crossed the space between them. He didn't give Whit the respect of seeing it coming, but delivered a hard punch to the man's lower back to drop the Shepherd to the ground. Once there, Mitch followed up with a couple of heavy boot kicks, looming over their 'guest' like a vengeful and very tangible ghost. "Mei Yong Ma Duh Tse Gu Yong!" He cursed, anger colouring his words. "Nee Tzao Se Mah?"

"Who killed him, Shepherd?" Howson demanded, coolly. There was more incredulity than accusation in his second question. "You?"

The sucker punch landed, and Whit knew he was in for a world of hurt.

"Can't... answer... hé heng... Stop!"

Whit managed to get to his hands and knees despite Mitch's savage kicking.

"What kind of Shepherd would kill a man in a hospital bed?" Whit asked, crawling away from Mitch. "Ask yourself that. And then ask yourself what kind of Shepherd would come to your house, to your very lair, and expect you to listen? What kind of Shepherd indeed!"

Getting to his feet, he flashed his wrist tattoo at Howson right before Mitch closed in on him with another haymaker. "You know what this means. I am--"

His next words were cut off by Mitch's fist. Blood spattered from his busted lip.

"I sent a wave before coming here," Whit got out between strikes that moved from his face to his ribs. "Kill me if you must, but once I'm dead I'll laugh from Glory Land as I look down on the hellfire that will avenge me."

Howson held up a flat palm, his cool stare losing just a little of its intensity at the sight of that mark on Whit's arm. Mitch allowed himself one last gut punch, calling it to the laws of momentum, then ceased pummelling their guest and rubbed bloody knuckles on his own shirt sleeve. "Sup, boss?" He asked, keeping his attention on Whit.

"Enough," Howson muttered. "It ain't worth it." Probably too late, if the Shepherd was telling the truth about the wave, but at least there was a faint chance of survival if he let Whit walk out of here. "You didn't have to kill him, preacher," he added. "But fine. What do you want, exactly, to call off the damn Hellfire?"

Resisting the urge to spit blood from his mouth, as it would leave DNA evidence of his presence behind, Whit gulped it down his throat. "I already told you," he said, his voice a little gravelly and garbled as the bloody saliva coated his vocal chords. "Weren't you listening before, son? Tell the sheriff the truth -- Archie Turner picked a fight with a young lady and lost, along with whatever else you might want to get off your chest -- and then forget you ever met Alden Loxley. Shiny?"

An incredulous expression took up temporary residence on Mitch's face as the Shepherd spoke, and a couple of pointed glances were aimed at Howson, but the hired gun didn't verbally protest. Howson had called a halt, and Howson's word would do. Mostly.

"I was listening," Howson said, sharply. He hadn't expected the level up on the matter, but it did explain why this Whit fella was crazy enough to just stroll right in here. He couldn't kill him, he knew what would follow behind. And he didn't care enough about the damn Firefly captain to risk any more lives, particularly his own.

Besides that, Archie was already dead. Might as well blame the guy who couldn't suffer for the crime. All worked out pretty nicely really. Unless you were Archie.

"Shiny," noted Howson, with a bitter edge to an already gnarly tone. His eyes were dark as he looked from Mitch to the Shepherd and back again. "Chiu Se, (go to hell) Shepherd," he added, venom coating his words. "Yi Lu Shwen Fohn. (good journey)"

Mitch grabbed Whit's arm with an unnecessarily tight grip and dealt a half-hearted kick to the man's nearest leg. "I'll see you out," he grunted.

Allowing himself to be led out by the proverbial scruff his neck, Whit tipped an invisible hat to Howson on his way back to the entrance.

"So were you there?" Whit asked Mitch. "In the barroom brawl, I mean. I bet you saw everything, didn't you?" Knowing the thug wouldn't give a response as he seemed to prefer thinking with his fists and his hands were tied by Howson's orders, Whit kept antagonizing him. "In fact, I'd wager you liked it. Maybe it was watching your buddy manhandle a young lady who turned out not to be so defenseless. Maybe it was watching her maul him something fierce. Stealing, rape, murder -- they're all the same in the end, aren't they?"

No answer. At least not a verbal one. Mitch's grasp on Whit tightened all the more, though, which made the Shepherd grin. It was always nice to be appreciated, and a little confirmation never hurt either. A man had to judge with righteous judgment.

"That's why I'm not going to kill you, son. Killin' you without justification would make me no better than you lot."

They had reached the entrance to the hideout, but Mitch stopped short. "I'd like to see you try, old--"

Pretending to trip, and nearly going through with it, Whit broke away from Mitch's grasp, stumbled forward, fell to his knees, and grasped the hidden boot-knife that Whit had detected from the way Mitch slightly favored that foot. By the time the sound of the unsheathing reached their ears, Whit had spun on his old knees and cut Mitch's hamstrings.

Crying out a blue streak of profanity as much in shock as in pain, Mitch fell to his knees, his legs no longer able to keep him standing.

"I said I wasn't gonna' kill you." Whit placed the hand with the knife over his heart and raised the other to heaven as if making a pledge. "Way I figure, a life on your knees is just what a wicked man like you needs."

The unmistakable sound of a hammer cocking resounded from somewhere behind Whit.

"Bet you can't do that twice, Shepherd," said the skinny guy who had been guarding the front along with Mitch. He had come out from behind the large wooden door with his gun drawn.

Whit spun around, picked his target from reflex as much as intent, and let Mitch's boot knife fly. It missed the gunman's flesh, but still pinned his gun hand to the door by the sleeve.

"I'd bet you're right," Whit said with a grin. "Not as young as I used to be. Still, best not to stick around and find out, son." He turned his head askance as if giving a lecture. "If you were smart, and you look to be a smart fella', you'd find a gainful employer outside of Huckleberry Howson." He looked down at Mitch who was fighting against his crippled legs to regain his footing but to no avail. "I expect his fortune ain't gonna' amount to much in the end."

With that said, Whit walked as casually and confidently away from the gang's hideout as when he'd made his approach.

It didn't take Mitch's partner in crime long to swap his pistol from one hand to the other. He aimed with the same lucid calm that his target exhibited, letting the thought of ending the Shepherd's life hang silently in the space between weapon and turned-back. Then he looked up to the dark sky above and slowly returned the gun to his holster. With a short prayer spoken under his breath, he took the knife from his sleeve and turned to help his co-worker. There was just enough fear there from his upbringing to prevent him shooting a man of God.

From the colourful language emanating at volume from Mitch as Whit stepped out of sight, it didn't seem that the wounded man felt the same.