Hallowed Ground (2 page)

Sanchez knelt in the shadows beside the wagon and watched as The Deacon passed and began to climb the side of the ridge, winding up and away from the encampment without a backward glance.
 
When the tall
 
man was out of sight, Sanchez rose.
 
His own belongings were heaped beneath a small tree a few yards away.
 
There wasn't much, a canvas bag and a bundled lean-to he could erect in a few moments, or take down just as quickly.

He moved to the back of The Deacon's wagon and screwed two tall metal supports down until they rested on the ground and held the rear upright.
 
He did the same at the front.
 
He placed a mason jar half full of whiskey on the wagon rail and watched as the liquid straightened into as flat a line as he could get it.
 
He locked the supports in place and unhitched the horses.
 
He knew he'd have to groom them and feed them, but it had to wait.
 
When The Deacon came back off that cliff, he'd expect his quarters to be ready, and Sanchez had no intention of disappointing his master.

He whistled once sharply, and a slender, dirty boy materialized out of the milling workers erecting the big tent and finalizing the rest of the camp.
 
Without speaking, the two of them hurried to the back end of the wagon.
 
When the tarps that covered the bed were unbound, they grabbed handles at the rear and slid wooden slats out until they locked.
 
At the end of this, they dropped a set of folding stairs to the ground, then unscrewed and locked the rear supports, effectively doubling the wagon's length.
 
A series of pulleys and ropes allowed them to quickly pull the tarps up and over the top – not patchy or rotted canvas, like so many of the other tents, but white and thick, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back at the sky.

Once the tarps were in place, the boy disappeared back into the shadows, and Sanchez mounted the stairs.
 
He hated these moments more than any others.
 
The space within the tent had taken on the aspect of The Deacon himself.
 
He flipped the cot down from the side of the wagon, and the heavy wooden desk on the opposite side.
 
There was a small fold out table at the very front, right up against the wagon's bed.
 
Sanchez lowered it into place, and glanced around.
 
Everything had remained in place during the trip.
 
He was particularly happy to see that the books had not tipped from their shelves.
 
On several occasions he'd had to straighten them and return them to their places, and he'd found the touch of the leather
 
repulsive.
 
He studiously avoided reading the titles burned into their spines.

He unrolled The Deacon's bedroll onto the cot and took a final glance around to be certain he'd forgotten nothing, and then stepped back down to the dusty earth.
 
He let the flap of the tent fall into place behind him, and moved to the shadows, seating himself cross-legged beside his bags.
 
He would find a place to erect his own camp only after The Deacon had returned and settled in.
 
He risked a glance up at the cliff, but saw only shadows.
 
He settled against the gnarled base of a tree and closed his eyes – but he did not sleep.

‡‡‡

The Deacon stood far above the camp at the tip of an outcropping, facing the town of Rookwood.
 
Too many trees and obstacles stood between his perch and town for him to catch any glimmer of firelight, but he knew they were there.
 
He felt them.

As he stood, he tugged a rawhide thong that hung about his neck until a long, thin pouch came free of his shirt collar.
 
He held it in his hands, but he didn't glance down at it.
 
The soft, supple leather rippled between his fingers, as though something inside sought a weakness.
 
The Deacon raised his gaze to the moon and gripped the pouch more tightly.
 
His hand shook, and glimmers of light leaked between his fingers, though he took no notice.
 
The pouch had begun to glow, and trails of wispy vapor slid out, wound about him, and constricted.

Miles away he sensed their heartbeats.
 
He heard murmured whispers.
 
He felt the heat of their couplings and the pain of their illness.
 
He sensed the life around him, and hungered for it.
 
It gnawed at him and teased the corners of his sanity.
 
The trembling in his hand spread until he stood, weak and shaking.
 
He staggered half a step forward, and only caught himself at the brink of the cliff. Below, his followers scurried like busy ants, constructing their nests and erecting the great tent.
 
Another step and he'd have planted himself in their center like a dark, rotten seed.

He stuffed the pouch back into his shirt, and shuddered as it touched his flesh.
 
For a moment, a sickening greenish light seeped out near his chin, and then faded.
 
He stepped back from the edge of the rock, and turned away.
 
Without a backward glance, he began the arduous climb back down from the rocks.
 
The tremor had left his hands, and his steps were strong and even, but his face was even paler than usual, and his expression was strained.

He reached the bottom, passed by Sanchez without a word or a glance, and disappeared into his tent.
 
Sanchez waited a while longer, until the lantern flickered to life inside, and then slipped into the shadows to find a small corner to stake off as his own.
 
It was late, and the morning would come far too soon.

Near The Deacon's tent, all eyes were averted.
 
None took notice of the strange shadows dancing across the back-lit canvas, or questioned why - at times, there seemed to be more than one.

It had begun.

Provender Creed picked at the scraggly whiskers that had grown in since dawn.
 
He was tired; every one of his thirty-six years weighed heavily on his narrow shoulders.
 
He hadn't slept in three days.
 
Sleep, as he was fond of saying, was for honest men.

He hawked and spat a wad of tobacco juice over the balcony railing.

The moon sat fat and low in the bruise-purple sky, turning the rooftops of Rookwood silver with its lambent glow.
 
The noise McGraw called music floated out to him from the saloon at his back and filled in the lulls in the hubbub.
 
The melody was warped and pock-marked.
 
It wasn't that the notes were wrong, but rather that some were missing.
 
No surprise, really. McGraw only had eight fingers, but he claimed he felt them all.
 
The ghost fingers made no sound, though if you watched the man's hands on the keys you'd swear you could see all ten digits smack ivory.

Creed leaned on the rail and watched Mae and Colleen saunter down Main Street, arm in arm.
 
The two moved together with a subtle, rhythmic gait that gave the impression they might be joined at the hip.
 
The pair of them were easy on the eye, and even easier on the purse at a dollar a poke.
 
As they approached, he smelled their cheap perfume.
 
The sickeningly sweet reek stuck in his craw, but it was better than the alternative, horse manure, men, and sweat.
 
Mae and Colleen worked for Silas Boone, and he kept a cheap house, preferring lots of custom over bored girls and empty rooms. 'Keep the boys
coming
back and the girls
on
their backs' was his motto.
 
As a philosophy, it wasn't as spiritual as it was practical.
 
Still, it served.

The hint of a coming chill was in the air.
 
Creed felt it creep up the back of his neck. The air stirred, and a shadow dropped beside his on the ground, but Creed didn't turn.
 
He heard something, a voice calling from what seemed a long distance, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
 
He turned his attention from the whores to the man who now stood beside him.

"What?" he said.

"I said it's a bad business, Creed," Silas Boone said again.

"What is?"

"Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Provender Creed shook his head.
 
"Can't say as I have," he said.
 
A movement in the bruised sky caught his eye.
 
It was too far away to focus on at first, but as the murder of crows spread out across the shadowy clouds, he found himself trying to count them like that silly nursery rhyme.
 
After sorrow and joy, girls, boys, gold and secrets the trader was lost and there were still hundreds of birds taking wing to fill the sky.
 
They wheeled and screamed, and followed a long, sweeping arc toward town.

"What the hell?" Creed muttered, as the first bird settled on the shingle of Ed Harmon's shack.
 
The bird pecked away at the roof for a full minute before it turned to preening its feathers.
 
In that minute more birds settled.
 
One roosted on Rufus Cruller's hotel, another on Felix
Ruckley's
supply store, one on the roof of the Sheriff's Office, one on the print shop and another on the foreman's hut along toward the road to the mine.

While Creed watched black feathered birds settled on each of the tar-paper roofs of the shanties down by Slaughter Alley.
 
What he marked as peculiar about their behavior was that not once did two birds settle on the same roof.
 
Within minutes the carrion eaters rested on the rooftops of every building in Rookwood, one bird to each.

The last of the murder came to rest on the balcony rail less than a yard from where Creed stood.
 
It regarded him with jaundiced eyes.

"Can't say as I like the look of this," Silas mumbled, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.
 
The fool still had breadcrumbs in his beard.

"Perhaps they've come for us," Creed said. "They do say that the crows reap the souls of the living and carry them back to the land of the dead.
 
Maybe that's what this is.
 
Maybe the birds have come to carry us all away," he reached out quickly and caught the crow's soft body in his hands.
 
With a quick, deadly twist he wrung its neck.

He looked up at Silas, tossed the crow aside, and laughed.

"Or maybe not.
 
Now, what were you saying about bad business?"

Silas wasn't listening.
 
He was standing very still, staring past the rail and down the street.
 
Creed followed the direction of Silas Boone's gaze.
 
The tavern keeper had locked onto the small black form nested on his own roof.

"I could kill that one as well, if it would help you concentrate?"

Silas shook his head. "No, no.
 
What was I saying?
 
Bad business.
 
Yes.
 
Messengers rode through town this morning.
 
They said they'd witnessed some mighty peculiar goings on out toward Scar Crag."

"How so?"

"They came across a trapper's enclave, only there was no sign of the trappers.
 
Neither hide nor hair of them to be found.
 
The camp appeared to be abandoned, and they left everything behind.
 
They didn't stop to investigate, but they kept their eyes open.
 
No sign of anyone on or around the road."

"You thinking Indians?
 
Coyotes?"

"I ain't thinking a thing," Silas Boone said. "That the camp was empty was just one strange thing, and it wasn't the strangest."

"No?"

"No."

"Then what was?"

Silas Boone told him.

Ma Kutter heard scratching on the roof.

It was a small insistent sound, like rats picking away at the shingles.

"Get away!" she shouted, pushing herself out of her chair.
 
The fire was warm, the light from the oil lamp low, casting shadows across the gable.
 
She grunted.
 
Her back ached when she straightened up.
 
It was always worse at night.
 
Her joints froze as the burden of dragging her old bag of bones around wore them down.
 
She sank back into the chair, exhausted from even that small exertion.

Such were the joys of age.
 
She was getting shorter by the year and sprouting ugly grey whiskers from her chin like a crone in stories told to frighten children.
 
There had been a time when she'd turned heads, but all that remained was a shriveled up hag barely able to stand for a minute or more without someone to lean on.