“No, I did not know him, friend.”
“I didn’t reckon yuh did, parson. We did. I believe in sayin’ everythin’ good yuh can fer a dead man, but there ain’t no use of yuh lyin’ to us about Preacher Bill.”
The old man glanced down at the coffin, lifted his head slowly and nodded.
“If the Lord is willing, I will take back what I said about him, and start all over again. Wasn’t he your minister? Did he not labor among you?”
“He preached,” admitted a bearded miner seriously, and added, “when he was sober enough. He owed everybody in Calico, and if he left any good works he sure had ’em cached where nobody’ll ever find ’em.”
The bearded man nodded slowly and cleared his throat.
“Under those conditions, friends, I suppose I might as well keep away from personalities, and stick to the ordinary burial service. Has anyone a Bible?”
The assemblage looked at each other and back at the bearded one.
“Preacher Bill had one—once,” stated a frock-coated gambler. “I dunno what he done with it. If you’re a preacher where is your Bible?”