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(Author's Note: "This story is fiction, but based on actual events that took place in Trickham Texas in 1906.")

The Brill church was closed for business that day. A brass lock glinted in the sun as it hung on the rusty hasp of his church door. It was his church all right, built with his own hands. He was the preacher, janitor, board of elders and only male adult member. He allowed as how his wife and ten children might be considered members, though no official role was kept.

At six foot seven inches tall and slim as a youth, Brill was a fearsome sight. His hair and beard were black as the inside of a cave, without a trace of hoar to indicate his sixty and one years. His usual Sunday trappings were, a black forked tailed coat, a worn Bible, a Winchester rifle and a bottle of Kentucky Best bourbon whisky. While not the usual clergy kit, it was standard for Benjamin Brill. Around the community he was known as "Old Ben". Behind his back, he was often referred to by the sobriquet of "Crazy Ben". Ben may have been crazy, but it would take another crazy man to say it to his face.

He sat down on the highest of the three steps which guarded the door into his church. The Winchester leaned against the wall within easy reach and the Bible balanced itself on his knee. The limp black leather binding of his Bible arched across the joint. A long stream of brown bourbon burned it's way down his throat. Replacing the cork in the bottle of bourbon, he amused himself by squeaking out a gay four note jig with the damp cork in the bottle's neck.

Martha Brill, Ben's third wife, stood with her ten children beneath the shade of the elm tree growing in the church yard. She was twenty years his junior and well worn from ten children and twenty-three years with Ben Brill. The sad woman and her children stood in silence, patiently watching the giant, waiting for him to tell them what to do next. Even the smallest of the children knew not to risk the wrath of their father when he was in this kind of mood.

"I'll show the sons-a-bitches!". Ben's oath man broke the Sabbath silence and caused Martha and the children to dread the worse. They waited for more, but the oath was followed by silence. Their silence accompanied his.

A gray afternoon shadow covered the steps where Benjamin Brill sat. Setting the whisky bottle down, he picked up the Winchester and laid it tenderly across his lap. The blue finish had long since worn to a brown patina and the wood showed the nicks and scratches of hard use. Although well used, the rifle was also well cared for. His calloused hand lightly caressed the entire length of the piece. His touch could not have been more tender had it been the breast of a young woman. A thin smile worked its way across Ben's face as he thought, this rifle is truer than any human being. Friends and family had turned against him, but this rifle,his faithful friend and protector, had never failed him. His thumb pulled back the dust cover and his eyes peered into the depths of the rifle. A black hole indicated the chamber was empty, but in the magazine waiting to be levered into the waiting mouth of the carbine, was a row of brass cases filled with black powder and topped with lead. The preacher patted the stock like a faithful dog, then closed his eyes. The whisky and hot afternoon sun pulled him into the dark, warm, forgetfulness of sleep.

Martha and the children kept a quiet vigil over the dozing man. Martha understood fear, but never before had the brassy taste of complete terror filled her mouth. Silently, fearfully, she remembered how she and her children had come to this dreadful day.

She was twenty-four years old when she met Benjamin Brill. The eldest of the Jenkins girls and the only one not yet married. Martha Jenkins was plain and she knew it. Her painful plainness was matched by her awkwardness in the presence of boys and men. This matched pair of debilities hung over her like the sword of doom. Ben Brill offered her hope and a chance to beat the sentence of old maid.

When Brill came courting, he was over forty and recently a widower. His first wife had died giving him a third child. His second wife just plain died. She was barren and some folks said that she had lived all the life she could tolerate. Ben's children were grown and he was living alone again. The potential spinster was flattered and grateful for the attention of a man old enough to be her father. Her desire to be married and lack of interest of from young blades in the area, caused her to overlook the obvious flaws in Ben Brill.

In his day, Benjamin Brill had been an Indian fighter and Confederate scout. From 1857 until 1860, he had served in first one ranging company and then another on the frontier of Texas. With the outbreak of the war between the states he rode to San Antonio and joined the 1st. Texas Cavalry. Two years later he joined the 21st. Texas Cavalry and served with honor, if not with distinction, until the end of hostilities. Over eight years in the field against the Comanche, Kiowa and Yankees had made Benjamin Brill into man who was hard in body and spirit.

After Lee's surrender, he was engaged at various times in the live stock trade, cartage business and the purchase and sale of land. Although never truly prosperous, he paid his bills and supported his families.

His religious phase coincided with his whisky phase. Tangle foot whisky eased the pain of the Comanche arrow spike buried deep in his hip. A Ranger surgeon tried, but he could not extract the iron barb. Perhaps it was age, or perhaps it was the deterioration of the spike, but with each passing year, the pain mounted. Sleep was short and fitful. Brill spent many nights sitting up by the dim glow of the lantern with a bottle and a Bible. This unlikely pair sang a sweet duet easing the pain. The bottle comforted the flesh and the Bible comforted the spirit. For a time the bottle and the Bible remained in separate corners of his soul, but then, as they must, they began to mingle and mate. His confused mind could no longer tell where the Bible ended and the bottle began. Night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year, the distorted mating dance of the two whirled and glittered through the flicker of the coal oil lamp.

Benjamin Brill tried to see, to understand, to organize the nightly ballet. Then, one night, he saw with absolute clarity. He saw as no one else had ever seen. Pure undiluted truth had been revealed to him and he was to be the messenger. It was so plain, so obvious! Revelation leaped from the India paper page into his brain. The trip through the distilled corn had lubricated and mutated its passage. With one flash of inspiration, Benjamin Brill became a man with a mission, a prophet of the true faith.

The community of Jawbone Texas was born as a supply station on the Great Western trail. The half wild longhorn cattle were harried from the brush of South Texas and Mexico by cowboys astride the hurricane decks of Spanish mustangs. With their trail brands barely healed, the herd was ready for a few days rest following a month on the trail. There was water and grass aplenty along the creek banks for the cattle. Two stores and four sporting houses supplied the cowboys with chambray shirts, food for the chuck wagons, games of chance for their diversion and soiled doves for their flesh.

Now great cattle drives belonged to history, steel rails bore their bawling burden to meet the sledge hammer at the slaughter houses back east. Jawbone had become just another small community that existed to supply the needs of the farmers and stock ranchers in the area. There was a bank, several stores, a blacksmith shop, a saloon or two and a church. A "union" church where the Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians and Cambellites each held sway one Sunday of the month. There were never enough of any of them to hive off and form their own church, so the uneasy union held. The life of this hybrid church was tested by its diversity, but never had it been tested by the likes of Benjamin Brill. Each Sunday the Brill farm wagon would haul it's human cargo to Jawbone. Ben and Martha sat bolt upright on the seat with the children seated on boards across the wagon box. There was no talking, no laughter in the wagon as it creaked down the road from the Brill place. This was no time to be jocular. It was the Lord's day and His prophet had a mission. Beneath the wagon seat were Ben's Bible, bottle and Winchester. During the time they attended the Jawbone Union Church, these ever faithful friends remained beneath the seat. Ben had never been a church man, but he felt obligated to share what had been revealed to him with the good people of the Union Church. The mating of the Bible and the bottle had produced a child that Ben named truth. Ben was the evangelist of the twisted and unholy matrimony. As the great evangelist Paul first went to the synagogues of Asia Minor with his message, so must Benjamin Brill first go to the religious assembly of Jawbone.

The Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian and Cambellite circuit riding preachers that lit once a month in Jawbone were delighted to see a man, his wife and ten children come to church. Such a clan increased the attendance in a significant way, and made the quarterly report each preacher made to his respective superior a ringing victory. Each of the humble preachers assured their respective superiors that it was his dedication and preaching that brought the Brills into the fold. The bottle and the Bible, for a short time, brought glory to four preachers who were divided in theology, but unified in vanity and ambition. Short were their days of glory.

Ben shaped his course to reveal the truth during the church school hour. The adults gathered in a room of the school house next door to the church and were taught by one of the local worthies. Judge Ash had received the nod for the quarter and taught the orthodox faith with zeal and some measure of scholarship. The Judge steered clear of matters that touched on baptism, free will and predestination. A brush up against one of these topics was certain to bring disunion to the Union Church. It was understood by all, that certain things were not to be discussed. The glue of the union, was not to be put to the theological test.

The truth according to Ben Brill was not upsetting to some, it was upsetting to all! The Union Church was unified in its rejection of the "Gospel according to Brill". Judge Ash first tried diplomacy. When that failed, he reverted to type. The good judge declared Brill out of order. That didn't work, so he threatened to hold Ben in contempt of Church. Ben saw which way the stick was floating and decided to lay low and bide his time.

After each Sunday service Ben would approach the sundry preachers, correct their messages and deliver to them the true light. He was particularly careful to point out their lack of scriptural insight. While initially polite, each of the preachers yielded not to Brill's truth. Ben was unrelenting. The clergy politeness faded and they began to take on the tone of Judge Ash.

The final break came during an exposition of the 14th Chapter of John. Ben Brill rose, pointed a menacing finger at Rev. Maclaren, the Presbyterian preacher, and shouted, "That's a damn lie!". The outburst put an absolute "whoa" on the Sunday morning meeting. What had been a worship service now turned into a congregational meeting on the matter of Benjamin Brill. A vote was quickly taken and Ben Brill was ousted from the Jawbone Union Church. In this action, there was total union.

Livid with rage, Ben mounted the wagon seat and with family hanging on as best they could, whipped the team back to the Brill place. Ben placed three bottles in each saddle bag, separated them with grass to prevent breakage and on top of his saddle horse lit a shuck for the Double Mountain country, there to await further light. It was a fearsome time when Ben wrestled with the Spirit and the spirits. When the spirits were exhausted, Ben returned with the answer.

Martha was sitting on the porch when she saw her husband, bent over in the saddle, coming down the road. Close to the house she saw that he was asleep and the horse terribly neglected. The horse by instinct headed for home and fodder, bearing the prophet along in the bargain. Mrs. Brill sent two of the girls inside to begin supper and told the two oldest boys to take care of the horse. On unsteady legs, the horse was led into the barn, where it was rubbed down with half a bottle of whisky and the other half mixed with a measure of oats. Two buckets of water followed by the whisky and oats took care of the horse for the night. Would that the Brill family's problems be solved as easily.

Ben said nothing at supper, at bedtime, or at breakfast the following morning. He ate, paced the porch and sat in deadly silence. No one dared to ask him anything. Martha and the children had all felt the sting of his belt and they wanted no more. When Benjamin Brill began to whip, he would whip until the prey escaped or fainted with pain. Benjamin Brill's lash was a thing to be avoided at all cost. When the silence was broken, it would be by Benjamin Brill and no one else. The family members did not even speak to each other in his presence. The homecoming of Benjamin Brill was as quiet as a grave yard. A brooding, whisky sodden Brill sat on his rage. At last a plan was hatched.

Benjamin Brill purchased a lot in Jawbone. This new acquisition was located one block down and across the street from the Union Church. Ben sold off a section of his land, placed the proceeds in an old leather wallet and went to San Angelo. Absent for several days, no one knew the purpose or meaning of Benjamin Brill's journey. In due time, at least part of the mystery was revealed. Wagons, loaded to the side boards with lumber and building materials, began to roll down the streets of Jawbone, to be unloaded on Ben's new lot. Ben began to build. He and the boys, worked from can see to can't see, every day but Sunday. A building began to take shape. The entire community wondered what it would be. Rumors begin to fly. Folks had the building everything from a brothel to a boarding house. The mystery was solved when a freight wagon unloaded a large crate on the property.

Janice Jones, the Jawbone snoop, sent Susan her eight year old daughter, on a spy mission, to peer between the slats of the crate and report back her findings. Little Susan skipped smartly down to the Brill property. Following instructions, she looked intently between the slats of the great wooden box. Mission accomplished, Susan walked very, very slowly back to her waiting mother. She had the story of the year and wanted to bask in the glory as long as possible. Fame is fleeting, but this was her day. A small crowd of the ladies gathered in her mother's kitchen and were eagerly awaiting her return. Susan thought her trip was worth a cookie. A trip to the cookie jar produced her reward. With great care, Susan relished each crumb before recanting the finding of her investigation. So anxious for the report was Janice Jones, that she did not admonish Susan to eat the cookie over a plate so crumbs would not get on the new parlor rug. Such a break of ritual reinforced Susan's determination to extract full value for her information.

Unable to stall any longer, Susan announced the crate contained a fine oak pulpit from a furniture maker in St. Louis.

"My God!" exclaimed the Widow Jay, "The drunken old fool is building a church".

Indeed it was a church, and the best one in town. Everyone agreed it had the Union Church beat by a country mile. In addition to the fancy pulpit, there was a four hundred pound brass bell hung in a steeple which vaulted into the sky. Blue covered song books were installed in the back of every pew and a pump organ from Philadelphia was tucked into one corner. There were two cast iron stoves to keep everyone near a source of heat come the first blue norther. The wonderful church had no sign inside or out to connect it with an established denomination. Until it was burned down by a mysterious fire some years later, it was known simply as the Brill Church.

Divine worship was held at two in the afternoon each Sabbath day. Cleverly selected, the time was such that the Union Church people need not choose which church to attend. They could go to both. Benjamin Brill wanted to make the truth available to all. There on the Double Mountain, he had read where Paul the Evangelist when asked to leave the synagogues, started his own church next door to his place of rejection. As it was with the Apostle Paul, so would it be with Benjamin Brill.

The Brill church had its own rules, the rules of its founder, prophet and chief shepherd. In this holy assembly there was no need for the bottle and Winchester to stay under the wagon seat. They were the paraments and icons of the Brill church. The Bible shared the pulpit with the bottle, and the Winchester was hung on two pegs stuck in the wall behind the pulpit. Where most churches had a cross, the Brill Church had a 44/40.

Martha was the organist. She played with her hands and pumped with her feet. The six girls ranging in age from six to seventeen filled the choir loft. The boys were ushers. Each of them fulfilled their assignment, but they wore the expression of conscripts rather than converts.

The first service at the Brill church saw every pew filled. It must be said, it was curiosity and not devotion that stuffed the building that day. Preacher Brill in his new forked tail preacher's coat and fine linen shirt mounted the platform and announced the first hymn. As the people tried to follow the ragged organ playing of Martha, the preacher took several pulls on the bottle. Yes, the Brill church had its own rules. Whispering competed with the singing and it was hard to say which carried the moment.

The preacher felt obliged to respond to the congregation's looks and whispers. Prophet Brill informed one and all the bottle was medicine he took for the pain delivered to him by a Comanche arrow spike deep in his hip. He allowed he suffered the wound in defense of the good people of Texas. He and many other noble stalwarts had endured many hardships and yes, some had laid down their lives, so that they might have the peace and security they enjoyed today. The explanation ended with admonition for all young people to shun the use of strong liquor for it was ruinous to life.

Wheeling to his right, he commanded the choir, "Sing girls!". The Brill Church choir rose from their seats and gave half hearted effort to the afternoon anthem. Another hymn or two accompanied by the consumption of one-third of the bottle prepared the preacher for his message. He began at Genesis and moved through to Revelation. He paced, he pounded the pulpit, he admonished, he threatened, he pleaded, he cajoled, he begged, he shouted and he whispered. It was imperative that Jawbone respond to the truth. The truth born of Bible and bottle.

Very few tried to follow the message, and even the most dedicated gave up after fifteen minutes of disconnected, disjointed, religious rambling. Seeing his flock's attention drifting away, he again commanded the choir, "Sing girls". Unhappy Brill girls repeated the anthem for the day. The prior performance had not improved the quality. One by one, and in small groups, the flock begin to slip out the door. By three thirty and after an hour of Brill's ranting, only the few who were totally dedicated to politeness remained. Thus ended the service.

The next Sunday, there were no adults in attendance at the Brill church. However, every young person in the county between the ages of fourteen and twenty years of age was there. At least, it seemed that way. The news had spread, a great show would take place at Jawbone one Sunday next. Young people were always looking for a new form of entertainment and they showed up in bulk. As Benjamin Brill paced, pounded, admonished, threatened, pleaded, cajoled, begged, shouted and whispered, the young people shouted "Amen" and "that's right, Brother Brill". For Benjamin Brill this was like saying "sick em" to a dog. The fervor of their faith burned it's way into his soul. He knew that their young minds were open; whereas the older people's hearts were closed and hard. The sermon that day lasted two hours and thirty ounces of whisky. The young people left exhausted from clapping, shouting and stomping their feet. The preacher left exhausted from proclaiming the truth. Everyone who attended divine services that day got what they wanted.

The following Sunday, the church was once again filled with young people. Their shoutings and urgings for the preacher to "preach on", were even stronger, and more prolonged. Their laughter also filled the church that day. Martha sat on the organ bench with her back to the crowd. The girls buried their faces in their sheets of music. The boys were nowhere to be found. Everyone but Preacher Brill knew they were laughing at him.

After that, the congregation of young people begin to dwindle

as parents begin to express displeasure with their conduct. Old Ben might be crazy, but crazy people were not to be an object of ridicule. Old Ben's religion might be incoherent to anyone but him, but religion of any kind was not to be laughed at. Fun was fun, but this type of fun could not be tolerated by the community. The actions of the young people were just plain disrespectful, and that was not allowed, even if it was directed at one as twisted as Benjamin Brill.

The word got back to Preacher Brill that the parents were forbidding the young people to come to his church. The holy man fumed with anger. "What right do these hard-hearted people have to keep the children from truth's light?". It was one thing for hard and cynical elders to reject the truth, but to keep the children from the truth, was a heinous act of spiritual blindness. They shall not prevail!

The first Sunday that no one showed up at the Brill church for divine worship was the Sunday Preacher Brill adopted a new tactic. He had read that when John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, could not get a hearing in the churches, he took his preaching outdoors, to the streets, cross roads and markets of the land. "They cannot keep the children from me", swore the preacher Brill, "I'll go to them, stone hearted though they be!"

Benjamin Brill formed his family in a line. He was first, Martha was second, and then the ten children were organized by age from the oldest to the youngest. With his Winchester, bottle and Bible, Brill lead a parade from the Brill church down the main street of Jawbone. Every few steps he would fire his Winchester into the air to attract the attention of the people. Martha was instructed to hand out hard candy to the children. A woven bag over one of her shoulders was filled with candy for this purpose. Such bait was irresistible to the children and young people. They joined the parade and soon fifty or so children were marching down the streets of Jawbone. Every twenty-five yards, Preacher Brill would take a pull on the bottle, preach a little, fire the Winchester into the air and move on another twenty five yards where the circus was repeated.

This exercise in street evangelism was deemed a success. Plans were made for a repeat on the following Sunday. An announcement to that effect was made to the children of Jawbone.

The parents of Jawbone were ready when the parade was mounted the following Sunday, Not a child left a house. The sad parade could not attract a single spectator. In frustration, the preacher begin to shoot weather vanes off the roofs of houses and two hundred grains of lead rang the bell of the Union Church. Another ball from the Brill Winchester passed through an open window and lodged in the pie safe belonging to Zack Brookfield.

The good people of Jawbone were not used to dodging gunfire. In the early days of the trail drives, the cowboys had hoorayed the place a little, but those times were far behind the now civilized community. For the first time, people were truly frightened of Benjamin Brill. Long known as an eccentric, recently recognized as "Crazy Ben", now he was a direct threat to the health and welfare of the community. Mothers were frightened for the safety of their children. Father were frightened for the reputation of their town. Something must be done!

By word of mouth the message was sent, a meeting was to occur

at a certain place on Hoard's Creek. A gathering in town was certain to be noticed by one of the Brill clan. If that happened, likely as not, they would have Ben Brill to deal with . One by one the community leaders drifted from their farms, ranches and homes to the appointed place. Two score of men and older boys were in attendance. Judge Ash conducted the meeting from the seat of his buggy. Agreement was quickly reached that Crazy Ben had become more than a nuisance. He was a true danger to the community. Agreement on the remedy was not so easily reached.

A few of the truly gray heads, said that in their time, Crazy Ben would be pulling hemp before midnight. History had moved on and such rough frontier justice held little attraction for the majority of the gathered community leaders.

The voices of reason and moderation at last prevailed and a two pronged attack on the problem was devised. A committee of three would go to the county seat and plead the cause of Jawbone to the sheriff. After all, it was his job to keep the peace and protect the citizens of the entire county. Zack Brookfield was appointed to lead this group. He was still grieving over the destruction of the punch work on his pie safe, and was thought to be able to convey to the sheriff the grievous nature of the problem. A second committee of three was appointed to go and reason with Crazy Ben. It was agreed that Judge Ash would lead that effort and he could pick his seconds. The judge, while a man of letters and the law, had commanded troops in the Confederate Army. Ash was known to be fearless, when he knew he was in the right. He would employ reason, but if Crazy Ben took recourse to violence, the judge could and would acquit himself well.

Zack Brookfield and his committee left immediately for the county seat. They wanted to strike while the pie safe passion was still at fever pitch.

Sheriff Crawford greeted them politely, if not enthusiastically. A seasoned politician, he knew a committee from an outlying community usually meant problems for him. He had two deputies whose main function was to serve the papers of the courts. Keeping the wheels of county government greased was a full time job for these two men. The sheriff had grown fat in office and his main concern was the next election. There had not been an opposition candidate in many years, but the good sheriff never dropped his political guard. Such caution is how elected officials lived long and collected state pensions.

Sheriff Crawford listened long enough to get the jist of the problem and then let his mind wander to more important matters.

Zack Brookfield spurred on by the passion of his wounded pie safe continue to move his mouth and wave his hands, but the Sheriff was elsewhere. Ever the politician, the keeper of the peace was trying to figure out the political implications of this Brill affair. He wanted the Jawbone vote, but didn't want to insert himself into the matter. He didn't want to take the chance that he or one of his regular deputies would handle the situation wrong and thereby incur the wrath of the electorate.

"Let's do this", said the Sheriff, "My regular deputies and I will be occupied for several weeks, with urgent matters elsewhere in the county. From among the men of Jawbone, select one, and I will deputize him. Your choice will have full authority to deal with the situation according to the law." The Sheriff silently complemented himself on the sheer genius of his solution. He, as the chief peace officer of the county, had responded to their need. If things went well, the voters would remember that. If things did not go well, it would be because the people of Jawbone had selected the wrong man. He would get the credit if things went well, and no blame if they didn't. How could you beat a deal like that?

The Jawbone men thanked the Sheriff and said they would report his offer to the others. They were not certain what they had accomplished, but they could go back with a plan of action from the Sheriff. They would not return empty handed.

Judge Ash took a walnut case from his wardrobe shelf. A small key was inserted into the lock and the lid swung back on the long piano hinge. He lifted a .31 caliber Colt pistol from the case. The silver plate had began to flake off and the ivory grips were yellow with age. Turning it over in his hand, he read the inscription on the backstrap; "Presented to Col. James Ash by the grateful citizens of Louisiana, 1864". At age twenty-five, he had been a Colonel of Infantry in the campaign West of the Mississippi. The citizens of Louisiana were grateful, but their gratitude was purchased at a dear price. Felled by Yankee fire and dread disease, many Texas boys were buried in that damp place. It was the price they paid, for wearing the gray and following Lee.

Cap and ball revolvers were long obsolete and paper cartridges were no longer available. It was the only weapon the judge had, beside his saber, now rusting in a corner of the tack room. The judge loaded the pistol with loose power and ball. He remembered to crimp the caps between his fingers before placing them on the cones. He didn't want them to fall off, in the event of rough work. To be safe, he left one chamber empty and lowered the hammer on the vacant hole. If the pistol discharged, it would be a deliberate act. He hoped he would not need it, but it would be better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.

No one went with the Judge to see Benjamin Brill. A few made half hearted offers, but were greatly relieved when the offers were declined. The judge explained that one man alone would not put Brill on the defensive, as several were sure to do. In his own mind, the judge just did not want to have to be responsible for anyone but himself if the bugle blew.

Benjamin Brill was seated on the porch when the judge's buggy pulled into the yard. The Bible and the bottle, ever faithful companions, were on a small table beside the giant. The worn Winchester was within easy reach. Ben appeared to be dozing but was in fact watching everything through the slits of his almost closed lids. He noticed that the judge was alone and appeared to be unarmed. A close inspection would have revealed that one of the judge's coat pockets drooped lower than the other, but this fact passed unnoticed.

"Perhaps the judge was here for private instruction in the way of truth. This is truly a red letter day", thought Benjamin Brill. With James Ash as a convert, everyone would follow. Brill grinned from ear to ear. Rising from his chair he extended a work worn hand to the judge. The judge shook his hand and was motioned to a seat by the grinning man.

"Martha, bring the Judge something cool to wash down the road dust.", said Benjamin Brill. An expressionless Martha moved mechanically to obey the bidding of her man. A cool glass of water from the spring house was set before the judge. Ben flipped through the India paper of the Bible until he came to the place where he wanted to begin his instruction.

A few moments into the lesson, the judge interjected, "Ben I have come to talk to you about a serious matter".

"Judge, we are talking about a serious matter", was the reply of Brill. He then went back to his lecture.

"Ben, I am talking about a serious matter concerning the safety and welfare of the community", said the Judge. Martha standing out of sight, but within ear shot turned her head to hear it all. "Ben, the folks are concerned about your shooting that rifle in town". The judge motioned to the reclining Winchester as he spoke. "You have all the folks fearful when you come to town on Sunday. The women, children, young people and even some of them men are afraid to set foot out of their homes. The ranchers and farmers won't even come to town on Sundays anymore"

"Fear can be a good thing, Judge", replied a stern faced Brill. "Folks need to be afraid. Afraid of the coming wrath of God. Only when they fear The Almighty, can they come to Him. Fear will drive them into the waiting arms of the Lord".

A new ray of light crept across the muddled mind of Benjamin Brill. If they would not come to him, and if he could not go to them, then by heaven he would put the fear of God in them. Their own sin and fear would drive them to the light. Judge Ash, without intending to, had just poured coal oil on the sick fire of Benjamin Brill.

"Fear is pure. Fear is of God. There is healing in fear. Fear makes smooth the way to God", intoned Preacher Brill. "If fear is the way of the Lord, then let there be fear". The Preacher was rigid, his eyes fixed. He was not looking at the judge, but at some greater truth far beyond his yard, the buggy, and the two of them on the porch.

Deep in the pocket of his pants, the judge's hand fixed itself around the cool ivory handle of Col. Colt's creation. What was to be said next could be the words that blew the bugle. "Mr. Brill", intoned the judge, "You must understand that such lawless conduct and wanton disregard for the safety of the citizens of Jawbone will not be tolerated". A short pause followed to see what effect these words would have on the transfixed prophet. No effect being seen, the judge continued, "Mr. Brill if you continue on your present course of conduct, you will be stopped and there will be trouble". There, it was said, full and complete.

The dun horse hitched to the buggy snorted once breaking the spell which gripped Benjamin Brill. Lowering his gaze from some far away place to the eyes of Judge Ash, the preacher said, "The fat is in the fire, and I have no fear that God will desert me. Take heed unto yourself Judge Ash, for the will of God will not be denied". Benjamin Brill turned and entered his house, leaving Judge Ash and the dun horse alone in the sun and dust.

Lanterns lit the barn of J.C. Wallace when the men of Jawbone met that night. The time of secrecy was over, the time for action had arrived. The Brookfield bunch reported from the county seat. Judge Ash reported from the Brill place. Reason had not prevailed and so it was time for an application of the law. Who should be selected to be deputized? For a time, the mantle seemed to be falling on the Judge. But, being an officer of the court, although not currently setting on the bench, it was deemed unseemly that he take up the badge. There was little enthusiasm from anyone else at assembly for the job. The truth of the matter was, with the exception of James Ash, they were all afraid of Benjamin Brill.

Frank Reynold, the blacksmith, from the back of the barn where he had been seated on the grindstone bench said, "I'll do it". The chatter stopped and all eyes turned to the seated man. A little past thirty, he was a powerful man though short in stature. Long hours of pounding iron had left him lean and muscular. As if to answer the questions in their silent stares, Frank Reynold said; "It makes sense that I should do it because I am the only single man here. If he kills me, there is no family to worry about".

The blacksmith was the man of the hour. He was clapped on the back by all present and assured of their support and gratitude. A coffee can was passed around and all present put in for the first months wages of their new deputy. Their relief assured that they would be liberal. When the can was tipped over, it yielded seventy-six dollars in gold and paper with some silver to boot. Leaving the barn of J.C. Wallace all were relieved that the death angel had passed them by. All, save Frank Reynold.

The judge took Frank to the county seat the next day to be deputized. The dun pulled the buggy along at a lively clip. They spoke not a word to each other until they stopped at the creek to water the horse. The conversation was brief. Frank got down from the buggy to stretch his legs while the judge stayed on the seat. James Ash removed his pipe and tobacco pouch from his coat pocket and with ritual deliberation filled the briar. He did not speak until after the match was struck and the first puffs of smoke sent toward heaven. "Frank", said the judge, "Take no chances, and don't give Crazy Ben a chance. I have seen his eyes and I know there is darkness in his mind and soul. At the first sign of trouble, drop the hammer on him. There is not a man in Jawbone that will speak evil of you". Frank only said, "Yes, Judge".

Sheriff Crawford met his new Jawbone deputy and after a brief lecture on the rights and duties of a peace officer, administered the oath to Frank Reynold. A five point, german silver star was dropped into the out stretched palm of the fresh deputy. That was the end of the ritual. Jawbone now had law.

Frank had shot pistols for amusement and once won a bushel of peaches with his steady aim. The blacksmith was a fair shot, but never thought the sport would ever have a deadly use. Several years before, he had traded off his pistol as part of a deal for a new forge bellows. A trip to Baxter's hardware would cure the shortage. There was not a large selection of handguns to be had. The day when men wore such things as everyday apparel was long gone. Cowboys still carried them on the range as tools of the trade, but they were not seen in town. The selection though not large, was enough for Frank Reynold. A short barrel Colt army revolver in .45 caliber was chosen. It was the first new firearm Frank had owned. He also purchased every round of ammunition in that caliber that Baxter had. Eight boxes, four hundred rounds went with Frank. Baxter expressed surprise and asked how many times he planned to shoot Crazy Ben. The word had gotten out. "Three hundred and ninety four are for practice and six go in the gun. If I can't solve my problems with six rounds, they can't be solved", was the reply of Frank Reynold.

Frank took a room at Mrs. Wilkes boarding house at the county seat where he was deputized. After breakfast for three days, he walked a mile from town to a secluded small valley where he shot the Colt. Each evening found him cleaning the powder fouling from the pistol. Each morning found him at the deadly game once again. It was done far from Jawbone so that the people of the town or Ben Brill would not hear of this practice. The less everybody knew the better. Frank even gave the Colt a name. He called it "David's sling". He hoped that his giant killer would work as well as the Hebrew King's.

Friday found Frank back at his forge in Jawbone. Sunday was coming and each lick on the anvil brought it closer. Each lick on the anvil also brought a silent prayer from him that this cup would pass him by. Frank Reynold was resolved, but not eager.

Sunday came. After services at the Union Church, Frank Reynold pinned the five pointed star on the breast of his best and only suit. David's sling was placed in the waist band of his trousers with the loading gate open to keep it from sliding down. His "giant killer" was loaded with the six rounds left from the stock of Baxter's hardware. He sat down in a chair on the Post Office porch to await the unfolding events of this dreaded day.

Martha Brill, still remembering the events that brought her and her children to this dreadful day, was startled when the sleeping giant came to life. Again Brill said, "I'll fix the sons-a-bitches, come here boys!". The four boys ranged in age from ten to nineteen obeyed the command. Ben lined them up according to age and made each swear vengeance should he be killed. Arms were procured from the wagon. Each one of them had a rifle, even little John with his .22 rabbit gun. Thus ordered and armed, the Brill infantry was ready to march.

Ben turned from his troops to embrace his wife. The embrace was a cold and meaningless ritual. Martha felt like she was in the grip of the Death Angel himself.

Robbie, the oldest broke rank. "I'll not be a part of this foolishness any longer", the young man said, throwing his rifle into the tall weeds beside the church. With three quick steps he mounted his saddle horse tied to the back of the wagon. He sunk his heels into the horses ribs, lunged behind the church and was out of sight.

The sound of the horse's hoofs signaled Ben that Robbie was taking the road East out of town. That patch of the road was well known to the elder Brill. Between two saplings, he could see the road straighten out two hundred yards from the church. The moment the lad hit that stretch, he would be going straight away. There would be no need to shoot ahead of the running horse for the ball to strike home.

The father levered a round into the chamber, rested the Winchester across the wagon box and took careful aim. Sufficient front sight was held above the rear notch to make the ball impact dead center at two hundred yards. The son's horse rounded the curve and was going straight away from the father. Ben placed the front sight between his son's shoulder blades, held his breath and began to press the trigger.

Martha could no longer be an observer of Ben's craziness. She would not allow her son to be shot down in front of her eyes. Screaming, she lunged at her husband. Although small and frail, her weight was enough to pull the sight off its mark as the shot rang out. Robbie and the horse dropped over the hill and out of harm's way. Martha sensed the rage building up in Ben Brill even before he turned to face her.

Ben did not say a word. He simply buried the steel butt plate of the rifle into her face and mouth. Blood gushed and teeth broke as she fell at his feet. The children stood frozen with fear. Tears streamed down their cheeks, but they dared not move or say a word.

Turning to his remaining army, Benjamin Brill said in a voice that was calm and almost cheerful, "Boys, place fear in the hearts of these ungodly gentiles. Fear, so they will flee from their sin to God, for it is God's work that we are about this day". None dared break rank nor disobey their commander. They marched off with Preacher Brill in the lead. The girls rushed to give what aid they could to their mother as she lay in the dirt spitting blood and teeth.

Benjamin Brill halted his troop in front of every house and organized a firing squad. The first victim was a weather vane. The next was a churn left on a porch. A Rhode Island rooster was sent across the river with one volley.

Women began to scream, children began to cry, men began to curse, and Frank Reynold got up out of his chair. He directed his steps down the street toward the roaring gunfire. With each step, citizens fell in behind the Jawbone lawman. When the man with the star confronted Ben Brill, half the community was in the street.

Ben was a sight to see. Six foot seven with black hair and beard. His forked tail preacher's coat was fastened in front. The Winchester in his right hand, the Bible in his left and the bottle tucked securely under his right arm. Powder smoke filled the air and Benjamin Brill's eyes were set and deadly.

The part-time lawman, with deliberate steps, took his position in the center of the street, square in front of the prophet. The distance between them was a scant fifteen feet. Frank Reynold was a full foot shorter than Brill. Reynold wore no hat, but Brill sported a black one creased in a high Montana peak. The confrontation truly looked like David and Goliath.

"By whose authority do you create this disturbance?", demanded Frank Reynold. His tone was civil, but there was no doubt that his jaw was set.

"By my authority", said Benjamin Brill, "and Frank, you are a dead man".

Everything moved like cold molasses. Decades later the folks who witnessed the event could relate every detail. Benjamin Brill raised his rife, as he did, the bottle slipped from under his arm and hit the dirt street with a sharp ringing sound. The bottle did not break, but the sound of the impact caused Brill to look down.

As the bottle was falling, Frank Reynold closed the loading gate on David's sling with his fore finger, lifted the pistol from it's resting place and cocked the hammer with his thumb. Looking up from the bottle, Ben found himself staring into a loaded and cocked Colt .45.

Benjamin Brill seemed not to notice the black hole leering at him as the rifle continue it's upward arch. His eyes saw the puff of smoke and his chest felt the impact. He heard no sound and he felt no pain. He thought someone had thrown a hammer at him. He fully intended to kill Frank Reynold, but realized the Bible was sill in his left hand. Not wanting to drop God's Word in the dirt, he was attempting to level the rife with one hand when Frank fired again.

There was more than smoke this time. A deep searing pain filled the chest of Benjamin Brill. He was falling out of his body. He heard the rifle hit the street. He saw the Bible float out of his hand. The good book hung suspended in mid-air. Then there were shoes, rocks and dirt. Voices shouted, but they were far away. He did hear his little Jenny cry, "Daddy, Daddy". One small reddish brown rock was all he could see. It called to him. Jawbone's prophet reached for the beckoning pebble. The death rattle filled his throat.

Martha Brill, blood still dripping from her chin, motioned the remaining boys back. She told them to put their rifles in the wagons and wait at the church. Kneeling beside her husband, she looked at him. She didn't touch him, only looked at him. Their blood joined in a puddle on the street. Her face wore neither joy nor sorrow, only relief that it was over. Martha's suffering, the children's suffering, Jawbone's suffering and yes, even Ben's suffering, was over at last.

A thin layer of Jawbone dust settled on the open dead eyes of Benjamin Brill.

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