Roger,

I hope you’re well. I know we were split over the Negro last month, but know that I won’t hold your actions against you. The town needs a doctor and, despite his inherent risk, Freestone fills the role. You were within your rights to vouch for him to the rest of the townsfolk. If it is some kind of trap, better we don’t sacrifice our own people just to prevent it. Just know that, if I’m right and he does turn this town upside-down in the name of vengeance, I will take some time to chastise you in the middle of cleaning up your mess.

I just wanted to say a word about this glorified minstrel show that’s taken refuge outside of town. I was hoping to avoid the affair altogether, but Charles wanted to see the puppets and - well, I owed some kindness to him. It’s a sorry assortment of lowbrow geeks and ratbags; the singer is the only true performer among them. But there’s one who caught my eye. There’s a massive man called ‘Benton Bitters’ among them, who looks like a railway worker out West who’s just returned to civilization. Heavy sweater, heavy trousers, heavy workman’s boots. Eyes like glinting pebbles, hair like a waterfall, and a beard like a wildfire. His act, as far as I’ve been able to discern, is enduring blunt trauma for about ten minutes straight, unmoving, motionless, arms crossed behind his back and scowling at the audience. Glass bottles across the back of his head, planks of wood against his back. The finale involves a cannonball, Rocky. A cannonball. Barbaric, is it not, for an audience to take such pleasure in pain? At least executions impart some moral instruction.

Never mind the act for a moment; consider the man. I saw him briefly after the show while Charlie watched the marionette operator pack up his hideous effigies. He knows me somehow. He was having an argument with the mule speaker (worst act in the ensemble by far) about the ribald comedienne in the troupe, the so-called ‘Blue Wench’; he shares my opinion that her act is more obscenity than actual skill. He asked me to weigh in and, when I agreed that she lacked talent, he boasted about a holy man being on his side. I didn’t recognize the significance of that until after I’d dragged Charlie back home. How could he have known? I made great pains to not look like a man of the cloth, lest I implicitly condone this farce.

You’ll assume paranoia on my part, but think about it. This circus isn’t even supposed to be here, and yet one of their number knows enough about Henshaw to recognize me personally. One whose abilities don’t line up with any of the established lineages of the theological or supernatural; if the Union or the Confederacy could make men invincible, you’d still have two arms. I’m not saying that this is Freestone’s doing but you remember the last time two unusual individuals ran into each other in Henshaw. Mark my words, in a week or two, the circus will find some reason to take special interest in our town - not Centralia or Sturgeon or any of the other small towns nearby, but only Henshaw. Keep an eye on them, and be ready to summon the US Marshal if they’re aiming to start something.

Until then, I watch and pray. Maybe the Holy Spirit will guide me to a satisfactory resolution. Stay well, Rocky, old friend. Best of blessings regarding your arm; you’ve not been at church and I know you avoid it when the sore aches you. Give my regards to Bob, Shell and Gigi, and your lovely Josephine.