Pale Rider

  “There now.” Stockburn’s voice was as soft as ever. “I knew you must’ve picked up a step or two along the way. See how easy it is? You just move your feet to the rhythm.”

  The gun fired again, twice this time, the shots so close upon each other they sounded like one. Again Conway hopped wildly. This time the bullets struck closer to his feet.

  Alarmed by the gunfire, Blankenship and the old man’s sons had rushed to the boardwalk outside the store.

  “God—no,” the merchant whispered in horror, grasping the situation at a glance.

  “Daddy!” Eddy screamed. He took a step toward the street. Alertly, Blankenship grabbed him and his brother by their collars and struggled to hold them back.

  The last vestiges of drunkenness had vanished from Spider Conway’s mind. He was stone-cold sober, sober enough to remember that he wasn’t quite alone. He saw the movement outside the store out of the corner of his eye, and spoke without taking his gaze from Stockburn’s face.

  “Stay where you are, boys! No matter what happens, you stay where you are, y’hear?”

  “Listen to your daddy,” Blankenship urged them. He didn’t release his grasp on either of them.

  Stockburn idly addressed his deputies. “Some music would be appropriate, gentlemen. The show’s just getting started and my hand’s tired already.”

  Six pistols cleared leather with nary a pause between them, and began firing at one-second intervals. Under Stockburn’s direction the men functioned as a single organism. One shell after another tore into the street dangerously close to Conway’s boots. He tried weakly to dodge, hopping and whirling, spinning and twisting madly.

  The dentist overheard the fusillade of shots and pushed his window curtains aside to peer out into the street. So did the postmistress. Slightly braver than his neighbors, the mortician cautiously poked his head out his door. He had more than a passing interest in the proceedings, which provided an excuse for his mock bravery. The majority of the citizens of Lahood, California, however, were afflicted with a sudden deafness. They remained hidden within their places of business or homes, not daring even to look outside to see what was going on.

  High above, like an emperor bored with the games but conscious of their necessity, Coy Lahood sighed resignedly as he turned away from the window. What was happening below was of no more importance than a letter that needed to be answered or a repair that needed to be made to the monitor. He had better things to occupy his time with. He sat back down at his desk and began to check over the report on number-five shaft.

  By now Spider was almost completely obscured by the swirling dust and the cloud of gunsmoke that enveloped him. Huffing and gasping for breath, he jerked about in a grotesque parody of his recenty victory dance in Carbon Canyon. His arms pumped wildly. Somehow he managed to hang onto both the bottle and the lump of aggregate.

  Stockburn took aim through the cloud and fired twice. First the bottle disintegrated, then the lump, throwing flecks of real gold in all directions while the golden liquid splashed over Spider’s pants and boots.

  “Pick up the tempo, gentlemen!” Stockburn ordered his men. Wooden visaged, the line of deputies complied.

  Conway was on the edge of exhaustion. His limited reserves were drained, and he’d pushed his aged frame to its limit. He could stop and risk losing a foot. He could turn and try to flee in hopes of avoiding a bullet to the back of a knee, in fact he did neither of these things because he was too tired and frightened to seriously consider them. What he did was respond in the only way a long-time survivor of the gold fields knew how: he reached for his gun.

  The dust and smoke formed a wholly inadequate screen. The gesture was seen, the response as automatic and methodical as it was predictable. All seven pistols fired simultaneously.

  The slugs ripped through the lean, elderly frame from head to toe, sending blood, flesh, and fabric flying in all directions. Conway’s body spun backward like a discarded rag doll and crumpled to the ground. Stockburn lifted a hand. His tone was calm as ever.

  “That’s enough. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  Blankenship could no longer restrain the two boys. They tore themselves from his restraining grasp and raced toward the motionless form lying amidst the settling dust.

  The only sound was the clatter of spent shells striking the boardwalk as the deputies discarded their empty casings and calmly reloaded their weapons. Stockburn wiped his hands on his shirt, more to still their twisting than to cleanse them. He eyed the two mentally deficient youths with obvious distaste as they fell on their father’s body, weeping and moaning.

  Eddy’s fingers touched the pool of dark blood that was seeping out from beneath the crooked, contorted frame, and lifted the stained hand mutely toward Stockburn. The Marshal recoiled as if from something vulgar.

  “Take him back to Carbon Canyon,” he instructed the distraught boys. “Tell this Preacher to meet me here tomorrow morning. If he doesn’t, we’ll come up there and find him, and while we’re looking for him a few more tin-pans might get in the way.”

  He spun on his heel to reenter Lahood’s building. The deputies filed in silently behind him, leaving the two slow-witted youths kneeling in the street, rocking and keening over their father’s corpse.

  Twilight was already creeping over the floor of Carbon Canyon. The nearly-dry stream glistened in the fading light. A few chipmunks scampered over the rocks. Squirrels gamboled in the nearby brush.

  Normally none of them would have chanced a visit to the water while the sun was still up, for fear of encountering a child’s rock or a miner’s pistol. Squirrel stew was a popular dish among the human inhabitants of the canyon, a disquieting reality to which the small slate-gray animals had quickly become attuned. But there was no danger now. No one panned the remaining pools of shallow water or hauled buckets full to dump down quiescent Long Toms. No children stood and watched or played hide-and-seek among the boulders. The creek bottom had been abandoned to the creatures of the forest.

  Smoke rose from a few rock chimneys. Up on the slope where the cabins and shanties squatted there were still hidden, furtive signs of life. But none below. No one dared to chance a trip down to the creek. The claims lay idle as their owners huddled within their pitiful shelters and tried to decide what to do next.

  One man stood guard over the equipment. It was more an act of emotional than practical defiance. Ev Gossage clutched his carbine nervously, seeing a gunman behind every tree as he waited for another brace of Lahood’s men to come riding into the canyon to vandalize and destroy.

  A noise behind him. Something making its way through the underbrush, something much bigger than a squirrel. He whirled nervously.

  A horseman was coming out of the woods on the far side of the creek, his features indistinguishable in the weak light of evening. Fearfully Gossage brought the carbine up to bear on the approaching figure, trying to keep an eye on the stranger’s gun hand as well as on his face.

  “S-stop! Who are you?”

  The man did not respond to the warning. Gossage’s trigger finger tensed. If the horseman didn’t identify himself quickly, Ev knew he would have to shoot. Otherwise the man would soon be within pistol range—if he wasn’t already.

  Then he heard a half-remembered voice, unmistakeable in origin and tinged with amusement.

  “Evening, Ev. How’re the kids and the missus? You sure you know which end of that thing the bullet comes out of?”

  The miner was so relieved he almost let the muzzle of the carbine drop into the mud at his feet. The tension drained out of him. On its heels came a flood of words.

  “Preacher! Man, am I glad to see you! You won’t believe what’s happened since you’ve been away. Lahood set off a helluva blast at the head of the canyon and damned up the creek . . .”

  The tall man’s eyes flicked briefly to the nearly dried-up stream. “I guessed it was something like that.”

  “. . . and old Spider found a peck o’nuggets in a chunk o’quartz
and lit out for town with his boys. The Wheeler girl’s horse come back without her, and everyone’s out looking for her and her mama’s goin’ plumb out o’ her mind with worry and we don’t know the next place to look, and . . .”

  The Preacher had continued to approach, crossing the tiny rivulet that was all that remained of Carbon Creek, while the words continued to pour out of the miner. Now he was near enough for Gossage to make out details. The first thing he noticed was the pistol slung at the tall man’s hip. The sight of the six-gun shut him up faster than any words could have. His gaze rose from the holster to the face beneath the broad-brimmed hat.

  It wasn’t just the presence of the gun and the corresponding absence of the starched white collar. There was something different about the man himself, Gossage decided right away. Something that had nothing to do with clothing or death-dealing appurtenances or words. It took him a moment to settle on what it was.

  His manner. It was sharp and unmistakeable and apparent in the tall man’s very posture. It was particularly visible in his face, though if pressed to tell, Ev Gossage couldn’t have said just what it was that was so different. But it was there.

  The Preacher leaned toward him as he rode past. “Pass the word that Megan’s fine and that those still out looking for her can come back in. She just took a little spill is all.”

  He continued on past the gaping miner, heading for the cabins that occupied the far side of the hill. Seated behind him and until now concealed by his bulk was the slim shape of Megan Wheeler. Her hair and clothing were disheveled and she had her hands locked tightly around his waist. Gossage pushed his hat back off his forehead and stared in wonder as the pair continued on by.

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  Now what was anyone supposed to make of that?

  A couple of oil lamps pushed back the night, keeping it at bay beyond the windows of the Wheeler cabin. Bess Gossage removed the flannel cozy from the bubbling teapot, then lifted the hot iron off the stove.

  “Here, Sarah. Have a little of this. It’s got some sassafras in it and it’ll help settle your insides.”

  Sarah Wheeler sat despondently at the table, staring into the flickering light of one of the lamps. Her face was drawn and her eyes were bloodshot from crying. She’d been weeping on and off all day, ever since it had been determined that her daughter was nowhere to be found in Carbon Canyon and that she had indeed gone off on Hull’s mare.

  She had good reason to be despondent. The number and variety of perils that existed in the wild, unforgiving mountains were uncountable. Any one of them would be sufficient to put an end to the life of a headstrong, sometimes reckless young girl.

  While the sun had been out and the men had light to search by, she’d succeeded in keeping her composure. That had gone to pieces with the coming of night. Darkness would bring a forced halt to the search as well as multiplying the dangers a lone, lost girl would have to contend with. All day long Sarah had sat in the cabin, waiting for someone to cry outside, “Here she is!” Those blessed words had yet to be heard.

  Now the day was all but gone, and the searchers who’d begun to trickle back to their homes before the onset of night had been unable to meet her questioning stare.

  Bess Gossage would not allow herself to cry alongside her friend. That was not what Sarah needed now. She needed someone to help stiffen her resolve and relate to her fears. Bess was trying, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Drink up,” she urged her friend and neighbor. “Ain’t no good to fret. The Lord’ll protect her. She’s probably wanderin’ around up somewheres near where she buried that pup. Gone and got herself good and turned around. Or maybe something spooked that old mare o’ Hull’s and it took off up a side canyon and got the both of ’em stuck. You know how Megan is about that sort o’ thing. She wouldn’t go and leave somebody else’s property that she’d gone and borrowed.

  “Probably she’s sittin’ around right now mutterin’ and cussin’ about how Hull and the rest o’ the menfolk are takin’ their own good time gettin’ to her.” She put a comforting hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Now you drink up.” She put some sugar in the cup of tea. “You got to drink somethin’, even if you won’t eat.”

  A loud crash filled the cabin and both women spun around to face the front door. It had been kicked open. The Preacher stood in the entrance, filling it for a moment before he entered. He held Megan easily in his arms.

  Sarah instantly took in the filthy skirt, the torn blouse, and her eyes went to the Preacher’s face. He saw the question half-hidden by the shock.

  “She’s all right,” he told her reassuringly. “No harm done. She just needs a little rest.”

  He crossed to the small back bedroom and disappeared within. The movement broke Sarah’s paralysis. With an inarticulate cry she bolted to catch up to him, stroking her daughter’s cheek as he moved to the side of the bed, the same bed that Sarah had begun to fear would stay empty for the rest of the night and perhaps forever.

  While she hovered close by, he set Megan down on the clean covers. Gently he raised the girl’s head to slide the pillow beneath the long tresses. All the while she was staring up at him, at her mother, past them both at the ceiling. She did not speak. It was as if her mind were somewhere else, her thoughts borne on wings of terror and confusion to a different moment and place in time.

  Discreetly, the Preacher arranged her torn blouse.

  “What happened?” Sarah whispered at him, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s face.

  “It was Josh Lahood.” The big hands moved again to adjust a bit of torn cotton. “He tried to—he tried to, but he didn’t.”

  Megan’s eyelids fluttered and her mind came back from wherever it had been. She was looking at him again, and this time she saw him.

  “You’re home, Megan. Everything’s all right. You’re back in your own room and your mother’s here.”

  A single sob, a wrenching sound at once full of gratitude and longing, was torn from her throat. Reflexively she reached up to encircle his neck with both arms.

  Sarah saw the gratitude in her daughter’s eyes, but she saw the other thing that was there, too. Something as startling as it was unexpected. It made her think back to Megan’s long silences of the past few days, to the distance she’d seemed to be placing between herself and her mother. Sarah had dismissed it as mere youthful, girlish moodiness. Now the real reason was revealed, and it stunned her into silence.

  Stunned her, because in her daughter’s face she saw mirrored her own secret hopes and longings.

  She wanted to speak, to say something, but the realization of Megan’s feelings numbed her. Nor was that the final shock of the evening. Now that her daughter’s safety was assured, she had time to take in the collarless shirt the Preacher was wearing, and the holstered pistol slung at his side. Her eyes moved from the sobbing Megan to the tall man’s face. It was a new face and yet the same, the face of a familiar stranger if such a thing were possible. Surely it was possible, for suddenly the Preacher seemed a man in which all possibilities emerged.

  Hurried steps on the porch outside. They halted and were followed by Hull Barret’s urgent call.

  “Preacher? You in there?”

  The tall man straightened and turned toward the door. As he spun his eyes locked with Sarah’s for the briefest instant. In that moment he saw within the stormy conflicts, the doubts and confused desires that were playing upon her soul. Caught off guard with her innermost thoughts and feelings revealed, she turned away quickly to hide her face and the flush of embarrassment that stained her cheeks. Mercifully he said nothing, merely pushed past her to the big room beyond.

  He stepped into the kitchen just as Hull came in from outside. Seeing the man he sought standing there without his turned-around collar and with a gunbelt around his waist, the miner froze. What he’d come to say came tumbling out almost absently.

  “I, uh—Ev’s goin’ around the camp sayin’ you’d brought Me
gan back. Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, Hull. A little tired, a little scared, a little mussed up, but nothing a good night’s sleep in her own bed won’t cure.”

  The miner hesitated, still trying to make sense of the Preacher’s transformation and fit it to what he had to say. Everything had happened so fast. In one day everything had changed. And now this, the most unexpected change of all.

  But at least he was back. “You’d better come outside.”

  The tall man looked past him. “Trouble?”

  Hull nodded. Together they exited the cabin, heading for the creekbed. Bess Gossage watched them leave and wondered.

  The wagon had been pulled up away from the bank. The Preacher stared a long time at the torn body that lay in the buckboard’s bed. His expression did not change. When he’d looked long enough, he reached out and pulled the bloodstained tarpaulin back down to cover the motionless form.

  Eddy Conway forced back his tears as best he was able while he tried to explain. “Then him and his men, they shot him. They kept shooting him, it seemed like. Over and over. The bullets kept hitting him forever.” His voice trailed off into the night.

  “Why’d they do that?” His brother was mumbling to himself more than to the assembled group of miners. He was staring brokenly at the tarp. “Why’d they have to do that? He wasn’t hurtin’ nothin’. Daddy never hurt nobody in his life. Why? Why why why?”

  The silent men had no answer for the simple Teddy. The search for Sarah Wheeler’s missing daughter had exhausted them. This new tragedy had numbed them into silence.

  Up until now Lahood had done no more than harry and bedevil them, killing chickens, dirtying laundry, and breaking up their equipment. Many times it had seemed no worse than a wearying, burdensome game. Spider’s corpse was indication enough that their nemesis was through playing. There would be no more games.

  Conway had been in Carbon Canyon longer than any of them. He was the one who’d found the first color, who’d determined that the creek had more to offer the persistent than just dust, who’d welcomed each newcomer with a gruff greeting, inviting them to try their luck. He hadn’t begrudged the new arrivals their claims or their occasional discoveries, seeming to take as much pleasure in another man’s find as he did in his own. Conway had been indestructible, as solid as the surrounding mountains.