Dead Reckoning (17 page)

“Slack. We need a fresh strike around here. All the diggin's are dwindlin', dagnabbit. What brings you around? Didn't expect to see you till next month.”

“Some little redheaded flimflam artist stole a church from me.”

Dreyer's eyes shifted. He had seen the redhead lead the strange congregation hastily through town a few days ago. “You don't mean them pilgrims, do you? The fanatics?”

“That's them. I was supposed to guide 'em into the mountains, but a fellow named Dee Hassard jumped my claim and took over the whole congregation. How long since they been through here?”

“Just three or four days. We was all hopin' they'd settle near here, maybe pick business up some, but they didn't even stop for a day. Didn't buy no supplies or nothin'. Just plowed right on through town like they was in a big hurry. I see why now, if you was after the leader.”

“He was still with 'em when they came through here?”

“Yeah, a little redheaded feller.”

Carrol nodded grimly. “Well, he'll probably be long gone by the time I catch up to the pilgrims, and I'm sure he'll get away with every penny they've got, too. I'll keep after him, though. He did more than cheat me out of that five hundred, Edgar. He killed my brother, Frank, down in South Park.”

Dreyer's mouth dropped open, then he scowled. He snatched up his piece of chalk rock and made an angry swipe at the side of the slate designated for enumerating profanities. “Why, that son of a bitch!” he said.

Carrol looked back toward the pine boxes. “I'll allow you that one, Edgar. Got any work for me?”

“Got a feller needs buryin' back here, but I doubt anybody'll turn out to pay for you prayin' over his grave.”

Carrol shuffled curiously toward the coffins, feeling drawn to one in particular with the lid on, but not nailed down yet. “Who is it?”

“Old Jules Billings. Got hisself killed last night. Somebody beat his head in.”

Carrol lifted the lid, squinted his eyes a little at the shape of the dead man's head. “Any idea who?”

“He left through the back door of the Eagle Saloon last night with some stranger. Somebody found him out behind the saloon this mornin'.”

“Where's the stranger?” Carrol asked, quietly lowering the lid on the coffin, as if he didn't want to disturb the man who rested within.

Dreyer shrugged. “Some of the boys looked around. We figured he hightailed it back toward Georgetown. Did you see anybody suspicious on your way up this mornin'?”

Carrol shook his head. “Didn't see anybody at all. He must have headed south for Buena Vista.”

“The funny thing is, we can't figure out why this stranger killed poor ol' Jules. He wasn't robbed. Still had his watch in his pocket. He never had no money or gold, anyway. He was buyin' drinks on credit last night, just like always.”

“No family?”

“Story he used to tell was that he run away from an orphanage in Alabama when he was just a kid. Claimed he stowed away around the Horn to California and got rich in forty-nine. Been prospectin' in these mountains for years. Everybody liked him, but he was sort of a crank. Did you ever hear his story about the cross?”

“What cross?” Carrol said.

“Ol' Jules claimed he got lost up in the Sawatch years ago. Wandered above the timberline and found a huge cross made out of snow on the side of a mountain. Said that's when he took religion, and found his way out of the mountains like he'd growed up there.” Dreyer shook his head, chuckled, and rolled his eyes. “He was a crazy old codger.”

“Don't laugh too hard, Edgar. That cross is up there. The photographer for the Hayden party made a picture of it last year. I've seen the picture myself.”

Dreyer looked at the pine box and smirked. “Well, I'll be switched. I just figured Ol' Jules was stretchin' the blanket, like all them stories he told about the claims he's filed on. He was always hittin' these big mother lodes that'd play out on him. Owed everybody in town.”

Carrol grunted. It wasn't much to work with, but it was something. “And everybody in town owes
him,
Edgar. If the old man was well liked, his friends ought to turn out to see him buried. Is the grave dug?”

Dreyer looked at his watch. “Should be by now, I'd say.”

“Nail that coffin shut and get ready for the funeral. I expect you to sing loudest.”

The preacher left the store and angled across the street toward the Eagle Saloon. Stepping in, he waited until the eyes of the seven or eight occupants were on him. “I need six men,” he announced.

Boggs frowned from behind the bar when he recognized the preacher. “I've warned you about harassin' my customers, Moncrief. You leave these men alone.”

Carrol ignored the bar owner. “Six men with strong backs,” he said.

“What for?” a customer said.

“Pallbearers for Jules Billings.”

“That's enough,” Boggs said, reaching under the bar for his shotgun. “Get out while you can, or I'll fill your hind end with pellets.”

Carrol Moncrief put his grip around his pistol butt, drew the weapon calmly but quickly from the holster, all the while keeping his eye on the bartender. He leveled the barrel as Boggs lifted the shotgun, let a round go into the wall before the bartender could get a thumb hooked over a hammer. “Drop it!” he ordered.

Boggs tossed the scatter gun onto the bar. “Whoa, Preacher,” he said.

Carrol smiled wickedly through the smoke, turned his muzzle upward, and let another two shots fly, causing dust to rain from the ceiling. “You sinners have been neglecting your Christian duty! A good man's been killed. Murdered by one of your customers, Boggs. Everybody get up now, we're gonna have a funeral!”

The customers rose and shuffled toward the door.

“You boys go get the coffin,” Carrol said.

“Yes, sir,” a man replied, grinning and tipping his hat.

Boggs came around the bar, a scowl on his face. “Damn you, Moncrief, you've gone too far this time!”

Carrol clicked the cylinder of his revolver, punching out empty shells. “Where's your business sense, Boggs? We'll get half the town down to the graveyard, say a few words for Old Jules, sing a hymn, then you announce first round on the house at the Eagle Saloon. You'll have the Thursday of your career.”

Boggs contemplated a moment, then smirked. “Maybe I'll even pay off Jules's bar tab. All right, Moncrief, I'll go along this once.” He shook his head as he walked out of the bar. “You're the damnedest man of the cloth I ever laid eyes on.”

Carrol marched down the street in advance of the funeral procession, shouting into open doors, knocking on closed ones. It was a beautiful, warm mountain day, and for that he gave thanks. It would have been difficult herding these mourners into a muddy street. He limbered up his vocal chords as he made his way through town, railing by the time he had reached the outskirts.

Behind him, Edgar Dreyer had started a verse of “Shall We Gather at the River,” which seemed appropriate, for the young Frisco cemetery lay hard by the banks of the Blue. By the time they reached the narrow hole in the ground—the grave-diggers still on hand with their picks and shovels—the procession had taken on a long trail of curious townsmen, friends of the late Jules Billings, bored merchants relishing the change in routine, busted miners anxious to forget their troubles long enough to celebrate life over the grave of one less fortunate, even a couple of weeping harlots who had known and liked old Jules.

Carrol read the Scripture loud and fast as the frothing Blue rushed by in kind. He wished the soul of poor Jules godspeed on its journey to the reward. “… and, God most merciful and wise,” he prayed at last, his eyes welling up with real tears, “help us find it in our hearts to forgive even that cruel and wicked servant of the devil who so viciously murdered our friend. Oh, this is the greatest task you give us, Lord, for we loved Jules and will miss him. But yours is to judge, and ours is to trust in your wisdom. So be it. Amen.”

Carrol Moncrief saw a tear drop on the clod of dirt he held in his hand. As the pallbearers lowered the box into the hole, he tossed the clod in, hearing it drop loudly on the planks. “Amazing Grace” was sung as the preacher stared into the grave and wept, but a few of the mourners able to blink back their tears.

It was so hard. So very hard to forgive. Carrol tried to find the forgiveness his heart. He searched and prayed for it, but it wasn't there. He hated Dee Hassard. Hated him with the ire of the devil.

Edgar Dreyer passed his hat, seeing that Carrol had forgotten, and it swelled with contributions as the last chorus was sung. Even the grave-diggers pitched in their wages.

“First round on the house at the Eagle!” Boggs shouted. “In honor of Jules Billings!”

It was later, in the store of Edgar Dreyer, that Carrol Moncrief counted the money and weighed the dust, giving most of it back to Dreyer in exchange for the supplies he needed to stay on the trail of Dee Hassard.

“You might as well have this, too,” Dreyer said, handing a certificate to the preacher.

“What is it?” Carrol asked.

“A new claim Jules filed just yesterday.”

“Is it worth anything?” Carrol asked.

Dreyer began to chuckle. “I wouldn't piss in the rain with a slicker on for half a dozen of Old Jules's claims. He didn't know squat about prospectin' these mountains.”

Carrol put the certificate in his pocket. “There goes your language again, Edgar. You've got to try harder.”

Dreyer bunched his eyebrows together and ran through what he had last said. “‘Piss' is profane?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” the preacher answered. “And offensive, too.”

“I didn't know that,” the store owner admitted, and apologetically made another hash mark on his slate.

Twenty-two

Dee Hassard was fighting a familiar compulsion. Every time a big job got this close to the final thrust, he took an urge to grab the money and run. Somebody would be getting suspicious by this point, even if nobody showed it. Some detective or former victim might be catching up to him, for he had used the same alias too long, worked the same mark. The temptation was to take part of the loot—enough to carry him for a while—and clear out of the territory.

In this particular case, Hassard knew Elder Hopewell harbored doubts. He knew Clarence Philbrick was downright suspicious. He could feel Carrol Moncrief sniffing his ever fresher trail. But Hassard was a professional. He would plan this thing to the last beat, stick to the plan, and escape unscathed as he always did. That was what separated him from the common sneak thief.

Sure, he was nervous. A little worried, too. Nothing wrong with that. That was what made it interesting. If anything went wrong, he could always sneak out or change the plan. He had learned to think quickly over the years. It was second nature to him by now to constantly calculate.

He had made up his mind. He was going to pull this thing off, then use Wyckoff's scam in Australia—start his own church there, rake in tens of thousands.

He had badgered enough information out of these pilgrims now that he even understood the three-day initiation. Just a bunch of preaching by the congregation members, working in relays, spelling each other in order to harangue the recruit nonstop with Christian propaganda. The key was to get the recruit to dredge up a bunch of past failures and humiliations, and then to keep repeating them as a reminder of how awful life is outside of the Church of the Weeping Virgin. It's different inside the church, of course. Give yourself to the church and you will be cared for the rest of your life, in spite of failure or humiliation.

The odd twist was that getting initiated like this automatically trained the new member in how to initiate the next recruit. And they believed it! These fanatics actually thought that this scam in the guise of a church could manufacture some kind of emotion akin to a mama's love or something.

This was really nothing new in the ancient art of the swindle. One of the easiest ways to win trust was to listen to a victim's worst experiences and act as if you gave a damn. That's all the Church of the Weeping Virgin was doing, only its members didn't even know it.

Australia was prime territory for a Weeping Virgin–style sect, and there Hassard would set up shop. It took money to get to Australia, though, and the swindler was determined to travel in style after this wilderness ordeal. He had earned it.

It was all going to have to fall into place within a couple of days, for Carrol Moncrief could not be far behind by this time. The thing Hassard needed most was something to occupy the pilgrims—a town site for the Church of the Weeping Virgin. And as he trudged around a bend in the trail, he found it.

The forest opened up to reveal a sloped clearing of about fifty acres. Near the bottom of the slope, the Eagle River shushed the wind in the mountain peaks. Around the rest of the grassy meadow grew firs, spruces, and pines. A cluster of aspens stood at the high end, their straight white trunks spaced regularly, like the teeth of an ivory comb.

It was a sight to take one's breath: the rocky, snow-streaked mountain rising above timberline in the distance. A huge bluff stood not far up the valley of the Eagle, looking like a lost precipice from some red desert canyon. High above, a hawk called, its piercing voice pricking Hassard's ears like a call to action.

A movement caught his eye across the meadow, and he made out a lone prospector striking camp along the tree line. Hassard broke into a trot, hailing the prospector as he approached.

“Howdy,” he said, out of breath as he drew within earshot. This high altitude taxed his lungs. He reckoned he was close to nine thousand feet here, judging from the proximity of the timberline.

“Stop there,” the miner said, swinging his rifle up.

Hassard showed his palms. “Don't want any trouble. Just wanted to talk to you before you broke camp.”