veryone knew that Preacher Wesson kept a revolver behind his pulpit. It lay on a shelf at the back of the oak pulpit, facing the Preacher. He kept it there as a reminder of his hell-raising days of decades past. Preacher wasn't always a Preacher; he once was a drinker, a womanizer, and hell with a gun. His family were involved in the famous Castle-Wesson feud. No one knew how many had died in that long-running family feud, or how many might yet die.

Preacher took off his guns after he had killed three members of the Castle family, or more precisely, the Sunday he got religion. The murders weighed heavily on Wesson, and though the shootouts were declared a fair fight, Wesson knew that without being where he was on those days of the shootings, there would have been no fights.

It had been more than twenty years since he took off his gun belt. He had raised two sons and a daughter over those years. His girl was Jenny at sixteen years old, and his oldest boy was Clarence at twenty years old, closely followed by his younger brother by two years, Walter. Jenny turned out pretty good; she minded her manners and had the gentle nature of her mother. The boys were another matter. Clarence was the leader, but Walter was the meaner of the two. They took after their daddy's old drinking and womanizing ways, though they knew how to be polite, and were generally well liked. The boys also had inherited the family hatred for the Castle clan. Despite their father's best wishes and continued preaching at them, they had gotten into shootouts with the Castle family, wounding two boys in that clan, not seriously, but enough to stoke old hatreds.

So perhaps it was no surprise to anyone but the Preacher when service was interrupted one Sunday; a bashful fellow walked in, hat in hand, and began whispering to the Preacher. The Preacher was silent for a long while, and the messenger holding a hat backed out of the church like a sinner about to be thrown into hell fire. Preacher sighed, and closing his Bible, placed it on the pulpit. He then reached down behind the pulpit, and picked up his old gun belt, knocking dust off the weapon. Everyone was surprised when he strapped on the gun, and they held their breath while he spoke.

"My boys," he choked, "were killed a few hours ago by members of the Castle family."

There were a few of the Castle clan in the church, mostly reformed sinners, and those who could ill-afford a century old feud; such things interfered with business and could shorten a man's future right quick.

The Preacher continued, "More than twenty years back, I set aside this old gun," he said, slapping the revolver and making a few ladies in the front row jump, "and I never expected to wear it again." He shook his head as if trying to escape a buzzing fly. "But today I find myself drawn back into something I thought to be forever shed of. My boys weren't perfect, the Lord knows," he glanced up at the roof beams. "Clarence and Walter were sinners like the rest of us, but they deserved better than to be shot in the back and left for dead like a couple of worthless hounds.

"The short of it is that I can't let the Lord have vengeance, as I know I ought to, for there are three Castle boys bragging that they killed Wessons, and daring anybody to call 'em out for it. I'm the closest kin, and I can't abide anyone else paying my debts, so I'm going to call on those boys, and you should find a new Preacher, for he will have some funerals to preach." He slowly walked out of the church.

As he went out the door, he could hear Mrs. Baxter say: "We'll pray for you, Preacher."

***

t first, the Castle boys laughed when they were told Preacher Wesson was on their trail. They couldn't believe it. The boys didn't know Preacher Wesson in his less civilized days. They only knew him as the stern, but soft-spoken tall Preacher daddy of their hated enemies. It was hard to say what irked the Castle boys most. Perhaps it was because the Wesson brothers were better looking, and had every girl within five miles yearning after them. Maybe it was that the Wesson brothers were smarter, or the fact that the Preacher's sons were both quicker and more accurate with a gun--whatever the cause, they hated the Wesson boys, and it went beyond an ancient family feud.

Now, the Castle brothers heard about the reputation old Preacher used to have, but that was before their time, and they figured such stories were made up for cold winter days around the pot-bellied stove. So they were surprised to learn that the Preacher was hunting them in earnest, and also by the serious reaction from older family members and their few friends. Perhaps it was the youngest Castle brother, Luke, who said it best, when confronting their uncle about Preacher:

"How in the world can a two-bit Preacher put such a scare into you? We done killed his boys, and they was younger and more dangerous by far--"

But his uncle cut him off, and said, "My brother done raised three of the most ignorant pups I ever saw. You couldn't face the Preacher's boys--you shot them from behind, so how the hell you gonna face their sire?" The graying man shook his head. "Jake Wesson, him you call 'Preacher', he was pure hell with a gun. I ain't ashamed to tell you when I heard he was huntin' trouble, I would get myself up into the big pines until he either sobered up, or lost interest in Castle hide."

He studied the three young men. Luke, the mouth, was the runt of the bunch, and the last of the litter. Ugly as a skunk, with a mouth full of crooked teeth, and a nose that had been broke twice by his older brothers, there was a swagger in his step that made him look even more idiotic. All three of the brothers were dark of hair and eye, some wild Injun blood mixed into the line not too far back. The eldest, Joey, was a few inches shy of six foot tall, and the middle boy, Tom, was nearly the same height. Luke was a head shorter than his brothers, and even more wiry.

"Well, you may be a coward, Uncle, but we sure ain't," he said, looking for support from his older brothers, and speaking loud enough to scare the doubt from his heart.

His uncle drew back a hand to smack the boy, but instead let out a sigh, and shook his head. "There ain't no use tryin' to knock sense in yer head now, for as sure as anything, I'm looking at three dead boys, only you ain't realized it yet." He threw them a final discouraging look, then walked out of the hunting lodge where the boys were holed up.

If there was a smart brother in the bunch, and smart was too generous a word, it was probably Joey. And he voiced his first misgivings of their adventure. "If Uncle is scared, we might have reason to worry. He don't scare easy."

***

ake, formerly Preacher Wesson, was cleaning his Colt Army revolver while his wife dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Jenny tried to comfort her mother through her own tears. Yet she had a resolved look on her youthful face.

"Daddy, please let me go with you. I can shoot as..." but here she stopped, her voice catching. It was the same thing she said when she wanted to go hunting, or out target shooting. She was as good a shot as her two brothers. Jake could seldom say no to her sweet smile and those dark brown eyes--there weren't many that could. "You can't go alone, and I..." again her voice caught, "I have the right to avenge Clarence and Walter..." But tears drowned out her words, and the look her father gave her put an end to any other remonstrations.

"I'm sorry I have to do this," he said to the room at large, not looking at his wife or Jenny. He feared it would steal his resolve. "I can't let the Castle boys get away with murder, and I know those Castle boys; they are cowards at heart, but now they have a taste for blood, and neither of you are safe until I kill them."

His wife found her voice, and it pained him to hear her words. "You are doing this because you are angry, not for our sakes. You are not in your right mind; take a few days to calm down, let the law handle this."

He shook his head, and looked her in the eyes. "It would take three days for the law to get here and, despite the boasting of the Castle boys, no one saw them do it. They killed my sons while hiding in the bushes. The law won't do anything." Frustration and anger made his aging face look a decade older still. "And you are wrong, my dear. This isn't just about anger. The Castle boys would kill man or woman. They raped the Osterman girl last summer, and the law did nothing because it was their word against hers. I should have done something then, but I restrained myself, and the girl's family couldn't take on the Castle bunch. So now I will do something--now I must."

He reloaded his pistol, and picked up his hunting rifle, then shouldered a leather sack filled with supplies. Just before he left, he said, "I love you both, and I'm real sorry about things. I just hope one day you will understand."

They didn't see the tears forming in his own eyes as he left the cabin, but neither did he hear his youngest daughter say just above a whisper: "I understand, Daddy."

***

t would be said years later that the only smart thing the Castle boys did was to head high up into the hills when they learned that Jake Wesson was coming for their hides. By then, they had been warned by several relatives and friends that Wesson had blood in his eye, and no one seemed willing to give a plugged nickel for their lives. They took guns and a bit of grub and ran as fast as their worthless hides would carry them. However, Jake was not far behind.

The scent of pines tickled his nose. The ground was damp and slippery, and he wished his legs were ten years younger, for they were beginning to ache. But fire was in his blood, and he could still see a faint trail in the dimming light.

The Castle boys had not tried hard to cover their trail. Fear was coursing through their blood, because they truly were cowards at heart, and it had dawned on them that Jake Wesson could indeed be the man the stories told of. Their vivid imaginations recalled the fireside stories of the killer-turned-Preacher, now turned killer again. They could remember a tale about how their second cousin Roy had been shot right out of his saddle by Jake Wesson. And how Toby Castle had been shot through the heart when he challenged old Jake to a shootout.

Toby was so shocked when Jake shot him that he kept saying, "Can't be, just can't be...." because he thought Jake was so drunk that he would be easy to kill--nobody ever made that mistake again. Jake was drunk as a skunk, but sobered right up when Toby called him out. Then there was old Silas Castle. He went after Jake when his boy Toby got himself killed. This was two days later and by now Jake Wesson was cold sober. He nearly begged the old man to put down his rifle, said he was tired of killing Castles and didn't want the old man's blood on his soul. But Toby's daddy cocked that rifle, and instinctively Jake drew and fired, shooting the old man dead. The Castle and Wesson families had an unspoken truce from then until now. The Wessons tired of spilling blood and the Castles tired of having their blood spilled.

Jake arose the next morning of the hunt with a great deal of aches and pain. He spent a fireless night on the cold, damp ground. Perhaps if he had not been so tired and achy, he would have noticed he was being followed.

Jenny Wesson had wasted no time leaving the house once her mother had fallen asleep. She had gone to the door and watched her father the previous evening as he left, marking which way he traveled. She found his trail early the next morning, and had spotted him once in an opening on the side of a ridge. She carried Clarence's rifle cradled in her arm, and wore Walter's pants rolled up for her shorter legs and tightly cinched around her waist. She had hunted with her brothers; now it felt like they were hunting with her.

Jake Wesson was not only distracted by his aches and pains and the intensity of the hunt, there was a new concern weighing on his mind. A black couple lived in the direction the Castle boys were traveling, and as the day wore on, Jake grew convinced that the Castle brothers were headed for the cabin of Paul and Ruby Welsh. The couple had been slaves as children, but were set free after the Civil War, and made a home for themselves deep in the mountains. Jake forgot his pains, and picked up his pace, fearing for the couple whose cabin he had stayed at more than once when out on hunts. He liked to return the favor when the couple came to town for supplies, always making them welcome, even at the expense of frowns from his congregation and neighbors who still nursed prejudices and wounds left over from the old war.

Jake came upon the Castle brothers as they were dragging the couple from their home. Joey was pistol-whipping Mr. Welsh while Luke kicked Mrs. Welsh to the ground. They all turned when Jake spoke.

"You boys looking for a hotter place in hell? Ain't you got enough blood on your hands?"

Luke ran for the cabin. Joey looked for a place to hide. But Tom drew steel. The shot echoed around the mountains and seemed to freeze time for an instant. Tom looked stupefied as he studied the growing red stain on his chest, then fell to the ground. Joey tried to hide behind Mr. Welsh, but the black man had taken advantage of Jake's arrival, and was crawling toward his wife, too dazed to stand and walk. Joey, having nowhere to hide, let a fool's grin spread across his face as he pointed his pistol at Jake, but Jake fired as Joey pointed the weapon, and a crimson hole appeared in Joey's head.

A shot rang out from the cabin, and Jake staggered and fell.

Luke came out, trying to work up his courage by shooting off his mouth as usual. "I got him boys, I sure as hell got 'em. He won't be killin' no more Castles, no sir."

Now, if Luke had been paying close attention, he would have noticed two things. The first was that Jake was not wounded fatally, Luke's bullet having struck his shoulder. The second event was even more important. Jenny had stepped into the clearing, her rifle aimed at Luke's chest, and she fired right after Luke's declaration. Just like his brother, he stood amazed as a patch of blood spread over his chest, and became even more amazed when he spotted Jenny. His last words were:

"Damn, killed by a girl...."

Jenny ran to her daddy, threw her arms around him, and cried as she studied his wounded shoulder. For his part, her father had trouble registering the fact that his youngest daughter had arrived in time to shoot Luke Castle. Jake's face was a world of emotions.

He patted his daughter's arm, and nodded toward the Welsh's. Mr. Welsh's head was bleeding from goose-egg size knots, but no blood seeped from his nose or ears, which was a good sign. Mrs. Welsh was uninjured, but angry; she spat upon the body of Luke Castle. Satisfied that the Welsh's were not seriously injured, Jake allowed his daughter to examine his shoulder, and Mrs. Welsh soon joined her in tearing away the shirt to better see the wound.

Jake Wesson helped the Welsh's back into the cabin, and Mrs. Welsh cleaned and dressed his injured shoulder.

"That bullet needs to be removed," said Mrs. Welsh, "but I ain't no hand at taking out bullets."

"It'll hold till I can get back to town," said Jake.

***

he Welsh's allowed Jake to use two of their mules to bring the bodies of the Castle brothers back down the mountain. They had just reached the bottom of the mountain, and Jake stopped to tell Jenny she must get back home, for he had to take the dead men to their relatives. She was protesting as a man approached and interrupted their conversation. It was the uncle of the dead boys, the same one who had warned them of their approaching fate.

"I see they got themselves killed," he said.

"They left me no choice when they shot my boys in the back."

"Better let me take 'em home."

"See that the Welsh's get back their mules."

The boys' uncle nodded, then said, "What about this feud?"

"As far as I'm concerned, it's over," said Jake.

"Some of our kin won't see it that way," said the uncle, scratching his head as if trying to work loose some thoughts. It seemed to work. "Can I see that wound? I take it the boys gave you that?"

"Yes." Jake pulled off the bandage, and said, "Luke did that."

The man then did a strange thing. He pulled out his long hunting knife, which gave Jake pause, and caused his daughter's eyes to go wide as the stranger cut his left forearm, leaving a long stream of blood flowing down his arm. He then pressed his bloody forearm against the Preacher's wound. Jake gave the man a questioning look.

"It is an old custom, something that came into the family with the Injun blood. It causes there to be a bond between us, a blood-bond that makes us like kin." He noticed the unhappy look in Jake's eyes. "You might not want to consider yourself as our kin, but do you want to keep this feud going another hundred years?"

"No, of course not. You mean that mixing our blood will make us kin?" asked Jake doubtfully.

"In our family--it does. Like I said, it's Injun."

***

reacher Jake Wesson had not digested the rapid changes in his life. His sixteen year old daughter had grown up over night. She had become a serious young woman, now thoughtful and introspective, where once she was all smiles, giggles, and glances at the local boys. Jake had aged as well. His graying hair seemed grayer of late, and the creases in his face had deepened. His eyes had a dark, haunted look about them, and he walked as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. His gunshot wound was healing rapidly, but other wounds afflicted his heart and mind. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself he had done what he must, there still seemed no salve for his soul. He had cracked open his Bible several times, but could not bring himself to read it. Everyone still called him Preacher, but he had no inclination to ever preach again. Then one day the Welsh's came to town.

"They tell me you is feelin' sorry for yourself," said Mrs. Welsh. "That's a shameful thing for the Lord's man."

Jake threw her a curious look, then studied her husband.

"Better listen to the missus, ain't never known her to be wrong in my life," he said matter-of-factly.

"Lord knows them boys was no good and needed killin'. Now, was they some proper law in this place, you might not need to do the killin', but sure enough, if you hadn't, they would have killed others. They got a taste for blood when they killed your boys, and they would have likely killed me and my honey had you not killed them no-accounts."

He considered her words. He had said basically the same thing to his wife before going after the Castle brothers. He looked at his wife, wondering if she might have spoken with Mrs. Welsh, but no, she had not talked to the woman.

"Now it seems to me," she began again, speaking with her Southern drawl, "that the Lord done had men kill bad men in the Bible days, and you ought to know that bein' you are a Preacher."

He winced at the word Preacher. And started to speak, but soon found he had nothing to say.

Mrs. Welsh spoke once more. "It also seems to me, that not too many Sundays ago," she paused, working up a grand finale, "that I heard you speakin' about how the Lord done forgive anybody, whether they be thieves, murderers, or any other vile sinner. So, if you are so determined that you is a sinner and done some vile act, you ought to repent and get it over and done. But far as I'm concerned, you killed three wild dogs that was rabid and dangerous. Now, answer me this -- was the only reason you killed them boys to get revenge, or did you think you was doin' it 'cause it needed doin'? And if you say it didn't need doin', what is it you tell your daughter who killed to protect one she loved?"

He laughed, a small laugh, but the first laugh that had come out of his mouth since he had learned his boys were killed. "Mrs. Welsh, I think you should have been a philosopher, or a Preacher yourself." She chuckled at that, and he continued. "I know you are right, and I did indeed consider that those were three dangerous villains who needed killing for the good of the community. But my feelings are so mixed up about the event that it is hard to separate what I did for anger, and what I did for conviction of it needing doing."

"I think," said Mr. Welsh wisely, "that you are much harder on yourself than you would be on your congregation. The law has cleared you in this situation, and they are glad you dealt with them boys. And the congregation has said they want you as their Preacher, and that you are not a bad man for defendin' your own, and this community." Mr. Welsh looked over at his wife, as if looking for her approval at what he said, and she beamed at him.

"Your words are very kind," he said, taking Mrs. Welsh by the hand, and laying his other hand on Mr. Welsh's shoulder. "God knows I can't afford to spend more time feeling sorry for myself. I don't know if what I did was a good thing or not, but I did what I felt I had to do. As for preaching, I don't know...time will have to sort that out, and perhaps the Lord will let me know. But one thing is for sure, Jenny did right by coming to my aid, though I gave her what-for when we got home." Jenny too smiled for the first time since the tragedy as she looked up at her father. "And I got things that need doing." He looked at his wife, and she looked at him, tears growing in her eyes. "Friends and family are worth fighting and dying for, and I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing again, so right or wrong, I suppose it's time for me to have a long talk with the Lord."

The End