“It’s the little Jones girl,” someone said.
“Did this man hurt you,” a woman asked.
Berglund chose that moment to appear at the door at that moment with his clothing restored. His eyes went wide when he saw the group standing there.
The child shook her head and pointed at the preacher. “He did. He hurt me!”
Not a sound came from the group as they turned to stare at Berglund. He stammered a couple of times and then began protesting. He tried to claim I’d done it. No, the couple from across the street said. They’d seen me enter the church just minutes before.
Berglund resorted to what had always served him best. Oratory. “It’s a conspiracy,” he bellowed in his best church tones. “Red men hate me because I call them out for what they are…sinners, apostates, drunkards! You can’t believe this child.”
The girl clutched the woman who’d called her name and began sobbing. And just like that, Berglund failed.
“Fornicator!” a bluff, red-faced man yelled.