 
 Alien Visitorby Franchot Lewis
 

	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.

     
