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1993-10-08
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Alien Visitor░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Franchot Lewis
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Dunno know if I ought to tell y'all this story or not. I
reckon I will, though I ought not. You might have never
known about this. Our parents tried to keep it quiet. Folks
want to keep it quiet.
Years back, when I was a kid, a stranger came to town.
Like an old-time prophet from the Bible, he came down from
the Sierra Mountains to this, Valley Town in California. He
came preaching the old-time religion too. People got to
discussing him right off.
"There ain't nothin' wrong with what he says," said the
old sodbuster who had moved to town. The old sodbuster
lounged on the front porch of the General Store. The old
man had been a miner in forty nine, had chased gold up and
down the coast and even into the ancient forest of redwood
trees. He sometimes helped out in the General Store,
and swept out the saloon for a cot and a little money to help
him get by. "This town could use a fix of religion, more
prayer, and a little better ways of actin' toward people."
His friend, an old-timer too, had served in the Civil
War, the Mexican War and a number of wars against the
Indians, and had been a sharpshooter with one of the early
Wild West shows, and now was retired and the father of the
town Marshal. This old-timer spat tobacco juice in the dirt
a few feet off the porch, and said, "Well, I reckon you're
right, but of course, what riles people about him is the
way he says it. He could say the same thing about this
place being a little hell and be accepted by folks if he
didn't yell."
"He does get a mite carried away."
"He works himself up so that he sounds loco."
"Well?"
"Hmm."
"The Marshal's not gonna run him out of town, is he?"
"No."
"I heard that rumor."
"Some of the boys want to have a little sport with him,
but I guess, they're just go on saying mean things about
him. You can't change people from yellin', not in a hundred
years."
The Marshal's wife, Trudy Hemmings, a preacher's and a
school teacher's daughter from back East in Missouri and
the mother of two small boys, sat in the kitchen of her
house in town and spoke to her husband as he drank coffee.
"One thing that's impressed me since we moved here is how
much more peaceable living is than in Kansas."
"Yelp," replied her husband. "In Kansas, every prairie
dog, varment and rascal who could cross the plains would come
bearing down on you. Here, the mountains is a barrier, and
the valley air has a calming effect. People work hard at
keeping things peaceful. Sometimes the peace gets bent, and
that's why I'm the Marshal."
"You're good too."
"Sure, the work's not bad."
"This stranger."
"Him?"
"He doesn't fit in with the life here."
"He shoots off his mouth."
"Bobby came home today and told me that this stranger
stood out side the school house shouting that the town's
parents have condemned their children to hell. This upset
the children."
"He shouted much the same outside of the saloon, and the
church."
"Our church? When?"
"About noon. Nobody was inside but the preacher. The
preacher came out and asked the stranger to move along. They
got into a fight. I had to break it up. The doctor was called
too."
"Was the preacher hurt?"
"Not really. Maybe his pride."
"Did you arrest the stranger?"
"No. The preacher admitted to throwing the first punch."
"The preacher is all of sixty years old."
"The stranger's older, probably. The preacher said he
felt he had to swing first because he might not have gotten in a
punch if he hadn't."
"The stranger is a crazy wild man."
"Yeah. He laughed when I asked him to move along. A
wild crazy laugh."
The next day the preacher sat in the doctor's office. The
doctor checked the preacher's face.
"If the stranger continues to shout that babble of his
long and loud enough, all of the good people, who naturally
prefer to let a wind blow itself out will act to stop the
annoying squeak," said the doctor as he applied new
ointment to the bruise on the preacher's face.
"He believes it."
"You are not beginning to believe it?"
"No."
"Stop tormenting yourself with questions."
"I keep wondering why he's here. Am I the cause of this
stranger's appearance?"
"When a storm comes over the mountains and blows down
trees in this valley, is your preaching responsible? Or is
the wind the result of circumstances?"
"It's not me."
"And it isn't us either, it's him."
A day later Miss Lily Fairfax, a dancer on tour from San
Francisco, came down to the jail to swear out a complaint
against the stranger. The stranger ran on stage at the Wet
Dollar Saloon, interrupted Miss Fairfax's dance and stole
her garter.
"He tore it right off my leg!"
"Yes, ma'am, did he hurt you?"
"He's a maggot, filth."
"We've got him in a cell."
"Your two deputies, why did they delay in arresting
him?"
"There was no delay once -"
"No, sir, Mr. Marshal. Your men were present watching
the show, when that - that - madman ran on stage and tore
my garters, and strutted around holding them high. Your
deputies were like the other men chirping and laughing,
when he first insulted me and them."
"What did he say?"
"He said the men there were maggots with not a dime's
worth of sense for coming to see the show."
"Oh, maybe it looked like part of the show."
"He hurt my leg, I was in tears."
"We have him now."
"Sure, you have him, but not because he hurt my leg,
but because the men in your town beat him, with your
deputies leading them."
"He assaulted you."
"Insulted their wives. I saw the madness in their
eyes."
"His eyes? Whose eyes?"
"Theirs. He says to them, yelling at the top of his
head, 'You! Maggots! Come see the naked harlot do the
can-can. She's the same as your wives, naked harlots, who
do and show everything wicked they can, can.' Then, began
yelling out the first names of women, and the men whose
wives have those names began screaming back at him."
"He is a crazy old man."
"He begins by yelling Biblical sounding epitaphs at them.
They are sons of Gomorrah, sons of Cain, whose wives are
daughters of the devil. They rush him, beat him, an old
crazy man."
"I need you to sign a statement."
"How long can you hold him?"
"We'll send him away somewhere."
"For me? For you."
"Miss Fairfax, what're you gonna do?"
"Continue my tour, elsewhere, Marshal."
"You're letting this kook run you out of town."
"When that kook ran on stage, your town, Marshal, ran
out on me. What they did, they did for themselves. I won't
press charges against him, let him press charges against
them."
"Good day, Miss Fairfax."
Reno, the drunk, was in the cell with the stranger.
Reno tried to sleep. Reno knew that when he woke, he might
have a headache, but the Marshal would always let him go.
To wake all he had to do was to sleep first. He had no doubts
that he would get no sleep while the stranger was in the
cell. The stranger, kneeling, had both hands fiercely
pressed flat together, and was loudly praying, announcing
his faith.
The stranger was too far into himself to notice Reno.
The stranger showed signs of having taken one of the worst
beatings ever administered in the valley community. His
face was bruised purple, swollen eyes. Some who saw him would
say his skin was black. Reno heard not one sound of pain,
only of pride and shouts of faith.
Reno colorfully expressed skepticism by farting and
fanning the wind toward where the stranger knelt. And as if
the fart was not plain enough, Reno made a sound with his
throat that was fashionable when he was a youngster, before
his sense of humor was neutered by the dubious maturity that
comes with the passing of years and the knowledge obtained
after spending too much time locked-up in jail for petty
offenses. Reno made the sound of some one throwing up their
supper. But, after listening to the stranger for a while, Reno
shook his head in disbelief. He would not try any more
torments. How could he? Reno could not torment the stranger
when the stranger acted as if Reno wasn't there. Reno put his
hands over his ears and tried to keep out the sound of the
stranger who shouted that he was crying to give the world
faith. The stranger was not crying. Reno said, the stranger's
voice wasn't scared but angry.
The stranger spent hours shouting without a
break before a deputy came and took him away. After, the
stranger was gone, Reno couldn't sleep. It took
hours before little by little Reno was able to fall asleep.
Valley Town was a different place. The times were
different. People spent serious time being peaceful, and
thought that harmony and community were things worth a
man's sweat and passion. Not now. The stranger was let go.
The Marshal offered to take him to the doctor's office. The
stranger refused assistance, said he could take care of his
own wounds.
Well, I don't have to go further. I am sure you've
guessed. The stranger wound up on Boot Hill. He was found
at sunup, shot down in the streets like a dog, shot in the
back. His killer or killers were never caught.
-end-
(c) Copyright 1993 by Franchot Lewis.