Dead Reckoning (10 page)

Hassard had made his eyes moist and used them now to catch the moonlight as he stared up at the elder. “I was meditating on Pastor Wyckoff's book,” he said, his voice shaking. “I sank into a deep state, like nothing I ever felt before. And
she came to me
!”

“Who?” someone said, pushing into the circle that had formed around Hassard.

“Just like the book said. It was the Weeping Virgin! She told me where to lead the faithful!”

Clarence put the butt of the rifle on the ground and searched for May, finding her approaching the ring of pilgrims to his left.

“Are you sure you weren't just dreaming?” Elder Hopewell said.

“Dreamin'!” Hassard said, glaring up at the tall man. “No dream feels like that. I'm tellin' you, the Virgin spoke to me! She told me where to lead this church!”

“Well, where?” asked a man in the crowd. “Where are we going?”

Hassard wheeled slowly and looked at his listeners, raising his hands slowly. “There's a peak high up in the Sawatch,” he said. “I've heard of it before. Thought it was only a legend. But the Virgin Mary told me for sure, and now I know. It's there, and that's where she wants us to go.”

“What peak?” Clarence asked.

“I've heard of mountain men and prospectors seein' it,” Hassard said, building on the curiosity around him. “Never met anybody who actually found it. It lies against the wall of a high basin above the timberline. The basin is small—just a few miles across, I guess. You can only see it from a few places along the north rim.”

“See
what
?” Clarence demanded.

The swindler imagined the lucre he would win as Pastor Dee Hassard, and let the light of wonder fill his eyes. “The cross,” he whispered. “A giant cross of pure snow driven into the crevices of the mountainside. I've heard it's a thousand feet tall, three hundred wide, with arms lifting toward heaven.” He flattened his palms and spread his arms, turning in the circle of pilgrims, relishing the looks of stupor on their faces. Then his eyes crossed the skeptical glare of that damned Vermonter. “It's the Mount of the Snowy Cross.”

“If you've never seen it, how do you know what it looks like?” Clarence asked.

“The revelation, boy! The Weeping Virgin! She's seen it!” He stepped toward the west curve of the circle around him and walked a few steps into the congregation, the pilgrims making way for him. Suddenly he pointed over their heads. “It's that way!” he cried. “That's the way we're to go.”

Clarence smirked. “That's the way we've
been
going.”

Hassard wheeled, spread his arms, smiled. “Now we know why.”

The pilgrims began to mumble, and Elder Hopewell spoke above them. “All right, let's go back to bed,” he said, calming the people with strokes of his long fingers over their heads. “We've got to rise early.”

“As Elder Hopewell says,” Hassard agreed. “We've got another long day's march ahead of us.” He picked up his blanket and his book and went back to his packsaddle, lying back against it as the pilgrims dispersed.

He could tell by the looks on their faces that he had hooked them. Elder Hopewell was a little skeptical yet, but he would come around. The problem, if there was going to be one, would come from Clarence what's-his-name.

He rolled onto his side as he pulled the blanket up to his chin. Looking across the campground, he watched the pilgrims shuffling back toward their beds. And there was Clarence—talking with Sister May. He was swaying her, too. Look at her, peering up at him, hanging on his every word. What a form she cut in the moonlight! Young Clarence was going to require special treatment. And so was Sister May.

Twelve

It was an ugly hump in the ground—fresh dirt sculpted by a recent rainfall. Carrol Moncrief compared it to the surrounding plots in the young Fairplay cemetery. Most of them were grass covered, and flat or concave. Frank's was mounded high, bare of vegetation, sun cracked.

He had never thought about the life of a grave before, but it was suddenly obvious. The pine box buried below him would someday rot and collapse. This mound of dirt would fall in on his brother. The ground would sink, collect water instead of shed it, and grass would sprout.

The marker at the head of the mound was just a wooden cross with Frank's name carved on it. Carrol figured the county would put up a good stone one, seeing as how Frank had been sheriff.

His horse, tied behind him at the fence of pine pickets, jingled the bridle and stomped a foot, fighting off flies.

Carrol sank to his knees. Thank God Frank was underground where the flies couldn't get him, instead of lying out there in South Park. A hot coal in his chest rose and tears burst from his eyes. He sobbed alone, watching the blurry road to Fairplay for riders. No one was going to catch Carrol Moncrief blubbering.

“God, I'm a wicked, selfish sinner,” he moaned. “I want my brother back. I'd drag him out of the ground to have him back. I'd deprive him his reward, God. Forgive me.”

His eyes ran dry, but he still felt the sick, hollow heat in his chest. He tore his hat off and threw it to the ground. Shifting his weight, he rolled to the ground and straightened his legs. He lay on his side, watching the road to Fairplay over the mound of Frank's grave.

“He was a better man than me.”

How could this have happened? Frank was careful, professional. The convict who did this must have been some kind of cowardly sneak. Oh, when he found out … When he caught up to the bastard …

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” he muttered. He had to get on top of that kind of thinking, or he would sin for sure. What would Frank do? Bring him in alive. Let the courts have him. Let God judge him. Oh, the Lord knew how to test a man.

A glint down the road caught his eye, and he pulled himself up quickly and began dusting himself off. By the time the buckboard came into view, he felt as presentable as his hard trip from Denver would allow.

A large cream-colored horse and a small black mule pulled the wagon. The sideboards bore the faded remnants of a painted sign that said
SOUTH PARK SALT WORKS
. Carrol knew the driver.

“Hello, Vernon,” he said.

The driver flinched and peered through the tiny glass circles of his spectacles. The lenses must have caused the glint Carrol had seen down the road, for nothing else on the outfit shone. “Who's that?” he demanded.

“It's Carrol.”

The scowl left Vernon's face, a look of sympathy taking its place. “Good Lord. Didn't expect you so soon.” He set the brake on the wagon and felt his way down, reaching over the sideboards for a spade, a shovel, and a pickax as he lit.

“How's the salt of the earth business?” Carrol asked.

Vernon had come to South Park as a prospector, but settled for a claim with a salt spring on it and started evaporating brine in a cast-iron kettle. His salt was used in gold refining, and on dinner tables. For extra income, he contracted his grave-digging services to the county. “Dryin' up,” he said. “Freighters startin' to haul salt in cheaper than I can make it.”

“What do you figure to do about it?”

“Never mind,” Vernon said, passing the graveyard gate. “I'm worried more for you than myself. Terrible thing that happened to Frank, but he's gone to his reward, and you don't need to worry about him.”

“I know,” Carrol said. “All I need to worry about is who did it.”

“It was a fellow by the name of Dee Hassard. Said that was his name, anyway.”

“Where was he from?”

Vernon squinted through his grimy lenses, found the place where he was supposed to dig. “Who knows?”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn't never see him close up, and my eyes is poorly, anyway. But there's a picture of him in the sheriff's office. A photograph.”

“Photograph? There ain't no photographer in Fairplay, is there?”

“No, but you remember that government survey team that passed through the territory last summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that photographer among 'em?”

“Yeah. Fellow named Jackson.”

Vernon threw his spade and shovel down and tested the handle of his pickax. “Well, he passed through town with his photographic party the other day, headin' down to the San Juans this year. Happened to be here the day we brought Frank's body in. When he heard the name of Dee Hassard, he says, ‘Wait just a darned minute! I made a picture of a fellow called Dee Hassard up at Denver 'while back.' Sure 'nough, he pulled the picture out, and it was the same little crook Frank was takin' to Cañon City when he got kilt.”

Carrol nodded ominously. “What was Frank takin' him to prison for?”

“He swindled a bunch of gold dust from Sam Cornelius. Convinced Sam that he had discovered a diamond field in South Park, and Sam bought his claim.” He spat on his hands, getting ready to dig.

“Diamonds?” Carrol said. “Sam fell for that?”

“This Dee Hassard was pretty slick. He almost got away with it, but they caught him in Denver and brought him back for trial.” Vernon snickered and took his first swing at the ground. “He had already lost all Sam's money in a poker game.”

The second thud of the steel point in the ground made Carrol shiver. “Whose hole you diggin' there?”

“Sam Cornelius's.”

Carrol gawked at the grave-digger. “That flimflam artist got him, too?”

“No, a mountain lion kilt him over on the Tarryall.”

“Mountain lion!” Carrol blurted. “What was Sam doin' over on the Tarryall, anyway?”

“Chousin' Dee Hassard. He got madder than get-out when he heard Hassard killed Frank and escaped. Took off trailin' Hassard and got et by that lion. Funny how the Lord works, ain't it?”

Carrol snorted. “Sometimes. Sometimes it ain't funny at all.” He pressed his hat down on his head. “Take care, Vernon.”

“You too, Carrol.”

The preacher mounted his horse and rode at a trot into Fairplay. He hitched his mount in front of the sheriff's office and walked in to find a deputy he did not know. “Howdy,” he said. “You in charge here?”

The young man looked up from the load of paperwork he was shuffling through. “Yes, sir.” He put his pencil down. “I'll bet you're the Reverend Carrol Moncrief.”

Carrol smiled, touched by the recognition. “Wouldn't pay me to take that bet.”

“You favor Frank a great deal.”

“Only in appearance, I'm afraid. I've got some catchin' up to do in character.”

“We all do, Reverend.” The deputy stood and reached across the desk to shake Carrol's hand. “We didn't expect you this soon. We didn't know where to contact you. How did you find out?”

“A stranger in Denver told me. He had just come from here.”

The deputy nodded and made a gesture inviting Carrol to sit. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Carrol rattled the polished oak chair across the rough-sawn floor and sat down. “I was wonderin' about the headstone.”

“The county's gonna pay for a big marble marker. We've been waitin' on you to approve the inscription.” He reached into a desk drawer and removed a sheet of paper, which he handed to the reverend.

Carrol checked the name and dates, read aloud the part that said
KILLED IN SERVICE TO PARK COUNTY
. He nodded approvingly. “His favorite psalm was one hundred eighteen, verse six. I want you to put that on there, too.”

“All right,” the deputy said, reaching for a pencil and a piece of paper. “You'll have to refresh my memory, though. What does that verse say?”

“It says, ‘With the Lord on my side, I do not fear.' But don't put the verse itself. Just put ‘Psalms, One-eighteen: six.'” He stroked his fingertips across thin air, as if the polished marble stood between him and the deputy. “That way some curious soul might look it up every now and then, and Frank will draw somebody new into the Good Book.”

The deputy shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

“That's what Frank would want. Now, I understand you've got a photograph of the man who murdered my brother.”

The deputy opened another desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. “It's in here somewhere.” He began thumbing through the large photographs in the file. “That photographer, Jackson, brought us a whole mess of pictures he made of Fairplay last year.” He removed one print and flipped it across the desk to Carrol. “Here's one of the Snowy Cross,” he said. “Figured you might want to see it, you bein' a preacher and all.”

Carrol glanced at the picture once, then felt his eyes pull harder toward it the second time. He had thought Jackson some kind of fool for chasing after the legend last year, wasting taxpayers' money. But here was proof of Jackson's instincts and abilities.

And what proof! Where did such a mountain stand? Such a scene! It stirred the parson, accustomed though he was to mountain views. Those pure lines of white in that stark wilderness seemed to tell him something. Seemed to call his name!

“Here he is,” the deputy growled. He handed the photograph of Hassard across the desk.

When Carrol pulled his eyes away from the Snowy Cross, the face of Dee Hassard all but shouted at him, and his brain raced to place the features. He knew this man. But … Where?

“The name he used here was Dee Hassard,” the deputy was saying. “No tellin' what he's goin' by now…”

The moment rushed back at Carrol like a gunshot. He saw Dee Hassard outside the Denver saloon, kneeling, pretending his rebirth. A moment later, breaking the news of Frank's death. Fool! You stupid, trusting fool!

“Reverend?” the deputy said. “You all right?” The big man had begun to tremble in front of him, his brown face darkening, one hand on the Snowy Cross, the other on Hassard.