Dead Reckoning (19 page)

The elder nodded. “Pastor Wyckoff never had any objection to the church making or keeping money. To him, money was like this ax.” He held the broad iron blade in front of him, a long arm's length away. “It can be a good tool, if you use it properly, the way it is intended. It can also be used to crush somebody's skull. It has nothing to do with any amount of holiness or evil in the instrument itself, but in the user. Same with money.”

Clarence nodded. “I agree.” He looked toward his jacket, which was lying within his grasp under his Remington rifle. “Same with guns. They can be used for protection or aggression. But if the aggressor's got one, the protector had better have one, too.”

“A sad truth,” Hopewell said. “One we have learned.”

They worked the log in silence for a few moments, hearing the cadence of axes in the forest above them.

“What about Hassard's guns?” May said. “Have you noticed? That little pistol he wears tucked under his belt looks like it's been lying out somewhere in the weather. Then he's got that big pistol in that holster, all shiny and polished, and the gun belt has a new hole poked in it because whoever owned it before Hassard was bigger around than him.”

Clarence contemplated, impressed by what she had said. He didn't know what it meant any more than May did, but there was something wrong with the deacon's whole getup. “Everything about him is suspect. Who is he, anyway? He says Reverend Moncrief sent him, but how are we to know?” He paused, looked up toward Notch Mountain. “I'm going with him when he takes the party to find the cross.”

“I intend to go, too,” Hopewell said. “But we'd better be careful. We'd better watch him every second.”

“Clarence,” May said. “What if there really is a cross up there?”

The Vermonter smiled. “The cross exists.”

Elder Hopewell stopped with his ax above one shoulder and looked at the hunter.

Clarence nodded. “I've seen a photograph of it, taken last summer by a photographer for the U.S. geological survey. I don't know how Hassard found out about it, but it is just as he described it.”

Hopewell lowered the ax. “Why didn't you say something?”

Clarence searched the ground, as if for reason. “I'm not sure. I felt there was some kind of advantage to my keeping quiet about it.

“There's something strange about all this. From the moment I saw that photograph, I knew I would climb Notch Mountain someday to see that cross. It was one of the final things that made me know I had to come west. I had planned to get situated in New Mexico first. It was only by chance that I met May, and we fell in with the Church of the Weeping Virgin. It's almost as if I were destined to come here—drawn here like some beast on a migratory journey.” The Vermonter was virtually reciting the entry he would make in his diary that night.

A rifle blast suddenly ripped the wide-open air above the meadow. Axes fell silent, the rush of the river and the echo of the gunshot the only remaining strains. Clarence picked up his Remington, swung an arm into his jacket sleeve, and trotted toward the sound of the shot, on the trail that led north down the river valley. He ran into the timber flanking the trail below Tigiwon and soon saw a guard matching toward the town site—a lanky, rawboned man stalking angrily in front of him, his hands in the air.

“What's this?” Clarence asked.

The guard was named Dan Feather, a Kickapoo who had joined the church in Indian Territory. He had the stranger's gun belt slung across one shoulder. “He no stop,” Dan said, “so I shoot.”

“Who are you?” Clarence said to the man.

“Charlie Holt. I come for my wife.”

“Your wife?”

Dan Feather scowled. “He want Sister May.”

Twenty-four

May waited with Elder Hopewell, watching the open slope, trying to eke some sound out of the air. Below, to her right, she saw Dee Hassard trot into the opening. Seconds later, along the left side, a sight emerged from the forest that struck her with sudden terror.

“What is it?” Hopewell said, hearing her gasp.

She saw Clarence appear behind her husband. The Vermonter's eyes found hers immediately, even across the distance up the slope. They questioned her, and she knew she should have told him. Charlie Holt's eyes found her next, and he pointed accusingly. She put her hand over her mouth and felt choked with fear. She was his wife. They were going to make her go back with him.

“Sister May,” Hopewell said. “Who is that?”

“My husband,” she said.

“May!” Charlie Holt's voice rattled up the slope. “You come on down here. I'm takin' you home!”

The elder put his long flat hand across May's shoulders. “You stay here. I'll go see into this. Don't you worry, I won't let any harm come to you.”

May took some comfort from his words, but good Elder Hopewell didn't know Charlie. She turned her eyes away from her husband and sat on the log she had been peeling, dread coursing through her like a fever.

Dee Hassard met the three men in the meadow and motioned for Dan Feather to lower his weapon. This was a relief. He had thought, when he heard the shot, that Carrol Moncrief might have caught up. He didn't see how that was possible. He had calculated the distances over and over. Moncrief would come hard, but couldn't possibly get here for a couple of days yet. For all he knew, though, this character might be some detective hired by a former victim, some bounty hunter, or a friend of Frank Moncrief's. He would have to be ready and stay alert.

“State your business,” he said to the stranger as he strode to the group.

“I come after my wife,” Holt said, and he pointed at May again.

Hassard's eyes flashed, and he glanced at Clarence, relishing the tortured look on the hunter's face. His mind raced. May was a runaway. There was opportunity here somewhere. This was some way to get rid of Philbrick and yet build himself in the eyes of the congregation. But how? “Would you like to join our congregation?” he asked, buying time to think, knowing well that this enraged husband harbored no spiritual bent.

“Hell, no,” Charlie said, the taste of whiskey thickening his tongue. “I come to take her home, damn it.” He glared at the gangling black man striding down the slope.

Hassard was racing back through the gospel according to Wyckoff. He wanted more than anything to give Sister May to this stranger. Clarence would follow, and he would be rid of him. But he had to consider what
The Wisdom of Ages
would say on the matter. This was no time to lose the confidence of the pilgrims. It took him only a moment to form the policy. “Sister May is a member of our family now. You can't take her from us against her will.”

Holt fumed. “She's my wife, goddammit!”

“By the laws of an unholy government that we don't recognize. Now leave, and take your foul language and your blasphemies elsewhere.”

“The hell I will,” Holt said, and he started up the slope, pushing Hopewell aside. “I'm takin' my wife home.”

Hassard flung his coattail aside, pressed his palm against the butt of the big Colt, and drew the weapon smoothly from the belt scabbard. He cocked and aimed, flexing his trigger finger as the irons settled on the crown of Holt's hat.

The outlaw Charlie Holt shrank to the ground like a quail when he heard the report and felt the bullet rip through his hat. “Damn you!” he said.

“Brother Clarence, you can let Sister May know that everything's all right now. This man won't come back if he knows what's good for him.”

Clarence hesitated. “You want help with him?”

Hassard shook his head. “Don't need it.” He looked at Dan Feather. “Was he mounted?”

The Kickapoo nodded and pointed his chin down the valley. “His horse down yonder.”

“I'll escort him back to his horse alone. I want to have a word with him as he leaves.” Hassard waved his pistol toward the trail the stranger had arrived on. “Come on,” he said.

Holt scowled but obeyed and paced long into the forest. As he passed, Hassard took Holt's gun belt from Dan Feather's shoulder.

Clarence watched them disappear, then walked slowly up the slope toward May. Facing her was going to be awkward. He had thought he was beginning to know her well until her husband showed up. Now she seemed a complete stranger. She had kept secrets from him. This wasn't some trifling thing, either. It could have gotten him killed, judging from the look on Charlie Holt's face down there.

As he came to the place where she sat, she avoided looking at him and fidgeted in her embarrassment.

“He's gone,” Clarence said. He waited for a reply, but she gave none. “He said you were his wife.” His tone was rather accusing.

She nodded. “I don't want to go back with him.” She looked at him, her eyes full. “I know I should have told you about him, but I didn't know how.” Tears poured down from her eyes, streaked her cheeks. “Please don't let him take me back.”

Clarence felt suddenly ashamed. Secrets? Wasn't he carrying a few up his own sleeves? She had been no less honest with him than he had been with her. He sat down beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to,” he promised. “I'll see to that.”

The axes began to chop again as they sat there.

Clarence didn't know anymore if he would ever get to the Ojo de los Brazos. Could it possibly possess more beauty than the Eagle River valley of Colorado? How long could he carry this money around in his jacket? Why had this Mount of the Snowy Cross interfered with his plans? Why did he feel this way for this woman?

I once heard of two fishermen—he thought this, thinking again of the night's journal entry—who entangled their flies just as a fish struck, and both anglers hooked the selfsame trout. As one would not yield to the other, neither was able to properly play the fish, who threw both hooks and swam free.

I am that trout. The Ojo de los Brazos pulls me one way; May Tremaine another. The lures they use are diabolical. Perhaps neither shall keep me in her creel.

Twenty-five

“I wonder what he wants,” May said. She stood beside an ancient fir, wringing her hands nervously.

Clarence shrugged. “Curious, isn't it? I mean, that he would ask both of us to meet him here.”

She nodded.

The Vermonter looked up the huge trunk of the tree and decided to change the subject. “How old do you think this tree is?”

May noticed the old valley monarch beside her for the first time, its trunk rising in tons of timber. “I don't know,” she said.

“I'll bet it's seen a dozen generations come and go.”

She smiled a little and wondered what made a man think such thoughts. He was different from anybody she had ever known. She wanted her own mind to work the way his did. She wanted to question things, study them. She had always been too occupied with survival to think of such things. But Clarence made her feel safe and let her mind run.

“Did you ever finish that book?
The Wisdom of the Ages
?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I think that old Pastor Wyckoff was a little touched.”

Clarence chuckled and nodded at her in approval. It was good that she was able to question those religious ramblings. “What about joining the Church of the Weeping Virgin?”

“They keep pestering me about it, but I don't want to go off in the woods for three days with a bunch of strangers.”

“Then don't.”

“They keep putting the pressure on me heavier all the time. I don't think they'll let me stay on with them if I don't join up. I don't have much choice.”

“You can come with me to New Mexico. I'll see that you get situated.”

May felt almost embarrassed, almost as if she had maneuvered him into saying what she wanted to hear. “Thank you, Clarence. But Charlie will be out there looking for me, and he's some put out.”

“You must have had a good reason for leaving him. I've got an idea what it was, and I don't blame you. If a man hurts a woman, he doesn't deserve to be called a husband. Don't you worry about anything. If you want to go, we'll go.”

They heard boots scraping a gravelly stretch of trail and turned to see Dee Hassard coming from the town site.

“Good evening,” he said, “thanks for meeting me here. Let's walk up the trail a little way. I want to talk to the two of you.”

It was near dusk now, the valley darkening into shades of deep blue and purple. Clarence shrugged at May, and they followed Hassard up the trail at a stroll.

“I wanted to talk to the two of you about your future with the church. You joined this party together, and you've spent much time together since you've been with us.” He grinned coyly at them. “I was wondering what your plans are now.”

Clarence wrinkled his brow, wondering what the deacon was up to. He propped his rifle barrel on his shoulder. “I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do.”

“Me neither,” May added quickly. She was making sure to keep Clarence between her and Hassard.

They came to the picket line, and James O'Rourke stepped into the trail ahead of them. “Evenin', Deacon,” the guard said.

“Are you still on guard duty, Brother James?” Hassard replied. “I'm going to send somebody to relieve you as soon as I get back to Tigiwon.”

“I don't mind,” the youth replied.

“We're going to walk up the trail a way, but we'll be back directly.”

James nodded, and the three continued their stroll.

“I was hopin' to help you both make up your minds,” Hassard said. “Brother Clarence, we'll need a hunter with a good rifle until we get crops and herds established. I owe you an apology for doubting your hunting ability before. You were right; there just wasn't any game back among the mining settlements. Here you've kept plenty of meat hanging.