Dead Reckoning (18 page)

The white-bearded miner spat a brown stream out of the left side of his mouth. “Well, talk, then.”

“You have a claim here?”

The old man cackled. “Ain't no gold here. I'm on my way higher up.”

“This place have a name?” Hassard removed his hat and slicked a sweaty strand of red hair back alongside his head.

“Utes call it Tigiwon. One of their campgrounds.”

“Seen any of 'em around?”

The miner hissed, as if disgusted at the ignorance of this greenhorn. “They all went down to the Los Piños agency for their annuities. You won't see any of 'em around here for a spell.”

“You know this area pretty good?”

The prospector nodded once.

“Have you heard of the Mount of the Snowy Cross?”

“Heard of it? Hell, I seen it! I seen it before them government surveyors come through here last year to photograph it. I was the first white man to lay eyes on it.”

Hassard began to feel excited. This was a pilgrimage of sorts, even for him. This grueling trek was a tribute to his profession, his power over ordinary human beings, his supremacy over their silly codes and statutes. “How do you get to it?” he asked, sensing that the old prospector was anxious to leave.

The miner picked up his pack, pointed his rifle toward the snowy summit that rose behind him. “See that peak above the timber? That's called Notch Mountain. You see that notch in it, don't you? Well, you claw your way up that mountain—through the timber and across the creeks—till you get above the timberline. Then you keep goin', over the boulders and the snow fields, and you cross the divide to the south of the peak there. That's where you'll see the cross. It's a sight, son. It'll make your skin crawl.” He turned his eyes back to the stranger, then squinted at something across the meadow.

Hassard looked over his shoulder and saw the ragged party of sojourners emerging from the woods. “That's my congregation,” he explained. “We've come to see the cross, and to establish a town here.”

The prospector sneered. “You won't see none of me no more. I'm goin' higher up.” He turned his back and trudged up the trail.

“Hey!” Hassard called. He was curious now. Just curious. “How'd you ever come to find that cross in the first place?”

The old man stopped and turned to look at the stranger. “Like the song says: ‘I once was lost, but now am found.' It's never too late, son.” And he paced into the shadows, vanishing among shafts of sunlight.

Dee Hassard shrugged and walked back toward the center of the meadow. He stood there, cultivating an expression of reverence to wear for the pilgrims. It wasn't hard at this moment. He had found almost everything he needed. The town site was here, the fabled cross just a day's hike over the ridge, the gold in one lump on Elder Hopewell's burro. He needed only two things now: an escape route and a way to get rid of Clarence Philbrick.

He didn't want to have to kill that rich boy from back east. That would make things messy. But Philbrick was getting suspicious. The arrogant little snot thought he knew something, thought he was too smart, too educated. Well, there was only one way to handle a fool like that. Put him in your hip pocket. Keep him so close to you that he couldn't draw a breath to shout thief without you hearing him. And if he did draw that breath, you'd better be prepared to prevent him from ever using it.

“Are we gonna stop here for lunch?” asked a young black man who always walked near the head of the party.

“Yes,” Hassard said. “We'll have lunch here tomorrow, too. And the day after, and every day of your life.”

A red-faced woman dropped her pack. “You mean this is where we're to build?” She looked around her, mindful for the first time today of the grandeur of the Eagle River valley.

“We'll call the town Tigiwon,” Hassard announced, sweeping his arms. “It's a Ute word that means ‘sacred place.'” He didn't know what the word meant at all, of course. “This is where the New Order of Christianity will begin, and from here, spread throughout the world!”

Elder Hopewell approached, uncertain. Sure, he liked the looks of this place. Who wouldn't relish beauty like this? But wouldn't it get cold here in the winter? Wouldn't the snow last for months up here? “You sure?” he said. “How come this place?”

Hassard pointed at the notch in the summit to the southwest—a groove filed in a huge rifle sight, drawing aim on the Snowy Cross. “We're just a day's hike to the cross from here. I can sense it. We're going to be free here, Elder Hopewell. Free of everything unholy!”

The young Vermonter had stopped at Hopewell's side, joining him in his reservations. “Isn't it a little high here for a permanent settlement?” he asked.

“Nearer to God,” Deacon Dee replied. “Besides, I've lived in a dozen mining towns higher than this.”

“But there's nothing to mine here,” Clarence said. “How do you expect people to make a living here?”

Hassard looked at the Vermonter as if the boy had lost his mind. “The Utes have made their living here for a thousand years. We'll learn from the red man. Don't we have red-skinned brothers and sisters in our own congregation? We'll hunt, gather the fruits of the wilderness, cultivate our own crops for our own consumption. We need only enough to exist, brother Clarence. we don't need to produce anything for sale.
The Wisdom of the Ages
and the dreams I have had make that clear.”

Looking down on them, Hassard saw that he had most of them with him in this. But there was a clutch of doubtful minds clustered around Elder Hopewell, Sister May, and the Vermonter. It was time to address the problem. Meet it head-on.

“I know that some of you doubt me,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. But the Weeping Virgin has guided me here to this spot. In my dreams I have seen a cross of pure white snow on the face of a mountain over this ridge.” He thrust his finger angrily at Notch Mountain. “Tomorrow I will take a party to find it, and when you see it, then you will surely believe, and we shall wash our hands of our filthy lucre! We'll leave it in sight of the Holy Cross and begin anew! If the cross is there, you'll know!”

“Amen!” shouted one of Hassard's believers.

“Now, what does
The Wisdom of the Ages
say?” Hassard continued. “We don't have a moment to waste in this life. Let's sustain ourselves with a meal, then get to work. We'll build the church first, up there on the highest point of the meadow!”

“Hallelujah!” a woman answered.

Hassard felt a tingle travel up his spine. This preaching business agreed with him. He was going to enjoy the hell out of this once he got to Australia.

Twenty-three

The sun had dropped behind Notch Mountain when Dee Hassard approached the place called Tigiwon. There were still hours of daylight left but it was cool, shadowy, like the brink of nightfall in flatter regions—a high-country phenomenon he had never gotten used to. It made him feel that time was growing short, like daylight slipping away.

Maybe it wasn't the mountain's shadow making him feel that way. Maybe it was the fact that Carrol Moncrief had to be getting closer to him by the minute.

The confidence man had ridden a big red mule a few miles up the valley, hobbled the beast there, and walked back. He had hoped to overtake that white-haired prospector he had met in the meadow, get some more details about the climb to the cross. But the old man hadn't even left any tracks. No matter. He would find the way.

It was almost as good as done now. Hassard had his escape route planned: up the trail to Tennessee Pass on the big red mule, down into the valley of the Arkansas, to Buena Vista and points beyond. Everything was in place.

Everything but Clarence Philbrick. Hassard knew one thing for certain. Tomorrow, when he announced that he would take the gold up to the Snowy Cross for the dedication, Philbrick was going to insist on going along. The Vermonter had appointed himself watchdog of the church coffers.

What was he going to do about Philbrick? An accident tonight? Too obvious. That would only arouse more suspicion. He didn't want to have to sacrifice Brother Clarence to the Snowy Cross tomorrow. He hated that sort of thing. Killing always made somebody hound him harder. And besides, it was sloppy—unprofessional.

He thought back to his education under the East Coast masters. They would say to keep Clarence in view. Know at all times where he was, what he was doing. Yes, the thing to do at dawn tomorrow was to
invite
Clarence to come along before he could insist on it. That might lower the young fool's suspicions.

Then, maybe … Just maybe the best plan was to leave all that money up there on the divide, like he had been promising to do all along. Yes,
dedicate
it! Really leave it there and come back to the town site. That would probably convince even Clarence. Nobody was going to bother the money up there.

Then, in the middle of the night, when Clarence and all the other doubters were asleep, Hassard would sneak back up to retrieve his wages. It just might work. He would have several hours' head start on them. He would come down the mountain where he had left the big red mule, and ride for Buena Vista. What a slick haul that would be!

“That you, Deacon?” The voice came from the trail to Tigiwon.

“Yes,” Hassard said. “Just me.”

The guard stepped into the open path, a burly youth with a single-shot squirrel gun.

“Good job,” Hassard said, grasping the guard by the shoulder. “We must all stay alert, even in this wilderness, Brother…”

“James. James O'Rourke.”

He patted the muscled shoulder. “I don't expect we'll have anybody bothering us a way out here, but you know what Pastor Wyckoff used to say: ‘Prepare! For the devil lurks in the guise of Godliness!'”

“Yes,” Brother James said. “What happened to your mule?”

Hassard began to laugh. “I was trotting up the trail, beholding the beauty of God's creations all around me, when that blessed creature ran me right under a tree limb. I landed on my rear end, and Ol' Red just kept trotting away. But, what did God give me legs for?”

“You want me to go catch the mule?”

“You have a more important job here. Don't worry about Ol' Red. He'll wander back to Tigiwon in a day or two.” He smiled at the young guard and strode on toward the town site. “Hone your eyesight,” he said. “I'll see you tonight in Tigiwon.”

He loved that name. He loved the way these people looked up to him. This could be infectious. When he thought about it, Wyckoff's scam seemed to be one that actually benefited the victims. These people were like sheep. Hell, they begged to be swindled. He hoped he would find plenty just like them in Australia. But then, there was no need to worry about that. There were fools like this everywhere.

*   *   *

“You should have known Pastor Wyckoff in the old days,” Hopewell said. He paused just long enough to straighten, sop the sweat from his eyebrows, and to glance at the beauty of the long-shadowed mountain slope.

Clarence and May helped him roll the log they were peeling for the new church.

“That character sure had a way with words,” Clarence said, “judging from his book.” The construction of this church was a ridiculous thing to him, but he was helping in order to stay close to May. Hunting had gone well since he killed that first buck, and he had some time to burn before the evening hunt.

“Oh, you should have heard Pastor Wyckoff preach,” Hopewell replied. “He could hold a group breathless—I mean really breathless, to where they wouldn't even risk making a sound to breathe for fear they might miss him whisper. Then he'd roar something at them, and they'd bolt up like lightning struck them.”

“Fast talk and leadership don't always amount to the same thing.”

“You're skeptical,” Hopewell said. “That's understandable. I was, too, even after I heard Pastor Wyckoff speak. Then I went through the initiation. That's when I realized that the Church of the Weeping Virgin was going to be God's salvation to the world. Give us a fair chance, Clarence. Consider joining the church.”

Clarence snorted. “I'm not interested.”

“Why not?”

“This initiation. Nobody in your congregation will tell me anything about it. They all act as if they know something I don't. Like they're flaunting it; proud of it; selfish with it. It's all too secretive and elitist for me. Everything I ever learned about faith is based on truth, light. Not darkness.”

Hopewell shook his head. “I know it's hard to understand if you haven't experienced it. I wish you could talk to Pastor Wyckoff. He could convince you. We had true leadership when he was alive.”

“What about you?” May said quickly. She could feel the religious conflict deepening between Hopewell and Clarence and didn't like the thought of them being at odds with each other. “You got the church from Arkansas to Denver after Wyckoff was lynched.” She flaked a large piece of bark off with her draw knife and moved on down the log. “You could lead them as well as anybody.”

The tall man straightened again, rising to his full height. He was standing above them on the slope, and he looked like one of the straight trees the pilgrims were felling in the forest, tall and slender, his white hair and whiskers like bundles of moss. “I'm no match for the likes of Pastor Wyckoff. I don't have his use of words.”

“This rabble would be better off with you leading them than Dee Hassard,” Clarence said.

“He's got a way of whipping people in behind him,” Hopewell replied. “He's not as good with speech as Pastor Wyckoff was, but he's handy at it. He's got me worried. I can't say just why, but I think it has something to do with the money.”

“You mean throwin' it away up on that mountain?” May said.