Pale Rider

The sledge seemed to hang in the air for a moment, the iron head suddenly weightless against the sun. Then it descended. The resultant clang reverberated the length of the canyon.

  Two cousins, prospectors since the first strike back in ’49, heard the sound and looked curiously toward its source. Jake and Hilda Henderson paused in the process of strapping a washtub and rocking chair onto the back of their rickety wagon to look down at Hull Barret’s claim. Up the hillside a young recently married couple turned away from the open steamer trunk they’d been filling with clothes to peer curiously out their wax-paper window.

  Hull watched the Preacher work, admiring the smooth, apparently effortless swings of his long arms. Then he turned to study the wreckage of his placer cradle. Legs needed to be straightened and one would have to be replaced. He could get down to the dull but necessary work of repairing the rocker as he’d intended, or . . .

  Maybe it was the Preacher’s quiet enthusiasm, the energy he was putting into his efforts. Or maybe it was the thought of him challenging the impossible. Whatever it was, it infected Hull as well. There was a second sledge lying amidst the splintered wood of the sluice. Hull picked it up and checked the handle. It was older than the one the Preacher was wielding, but still serviceable. Hard to break a good sledge. Or a good man.

  Taking up a stance opposite the Preacher, he waited for an opening and then swung. Now the sounds of steel on rock rang out across the canyon in ragged syncopation at twice the rate, the two men driving the metal against the rock like a pair of Irishmen driving spikes into rails.

  Megan had turned back and now gazed at them admiringly, until something further downstream caught her attention. It took a moment before she recognized the approaching riders. Then she ran toward the two men.

  “Hull! Mr—Mr. Preacher!”

  The steady hammering of the sledges ceased, and they both looked up at her, then turned their gazes in the direction she was pointing.

  Josh Lahood was less than twenty yards away and coming straight toward them. He was not alone. Riding alongside him was a man whose legs nearly touched the ground on either side of his laboring mount.

  Megan moved to stand close to the Preacher, clutching his arm as if for protection. Leaning on his sledge, the tall man spoke to Hull without taking his eyes from the approaching riders.

  “Anyone you know?”

  Hull wiped the sweat from his forehead. His expression was grim. “ ’Fraid so. The one on the left is Lahood’s boy, Josh. The other one,” and he shook his head, his voice hushed. “I’ve never seen him before. I can swear to that. Must be new with Lahood’s operation. If I’d seen him before I’m damn sure I wouldn’t have forgotten him.”

  The horses slowed and came to a halt nearby. Josh Lahood leaned forward, his crossed arms resting on his mount’s neck, and favored them with a thin smile.

  “Afternoon, Barret—Megan.”

  His smile widened when he turned it on her. An indifferent fate had blessed Josh Lahood with an inordinate share of immature good looks, when better men than he went begging among the ladies. To make matters worse, he was well aware of the fact. At once attracted and repelled, Megan responded to his ingratiating grin with a curt nod.

  Having concluded the amenities as quickly as possible, Lahood now turned his attention to the tall stranger standing next to the girl. “Friend of yours, Barret? Don’t think I’ve seen him around town before.”

  “No, he just came in,” Hull explained. He hesitated long enough to cast a glance in his friend’s direction before plunging on. “He’s our new Preacher.”

  An undecipherable noise emerged from between the giant’s lips, an eloquent hiss that effectively conveyed his feelings.

  “Preacher, huh?” Lahood gazed speculatively at the tall man. The subject of his attention did not reply, save to favor the younger Lahood with a benign smile.

  A fair number of the canyon’s inhabitants were witness to this confrontation. No one thought to intervene. None were really capable of it, frozen as they were by the very idea. You didn’t stand up to Josh Lahood. You just tried to stay out of his way. The miners and their kind couldn’t have been more astonished by what they were seeing than if the sun had chosen to rise that morning in the west.

  After a moment, Jake Henderson shushed his wife and resumed the work of securing the old rocker to the wagon. A few of his neighbors echoed his action, but not all. Some found themselves unable to turn away from the little drama that was taking place over at the Barret claim. It was not unlike watching a rattler preparing to strike: the outcome was preordained, but the movements were fascinating.

  “Hear you messed up some of my men yesterday, Preach,” Lahood said flatly.

  “Nothing personal. And I didn’t know they were your men. I thought they were your daddy’s men.”

  Lahood flushed angrily while Club merely allowed himself a second grunt of contempt.

  “Nothing personal, eh? Then maybe you won’t take it personal if we tell you to leave Carbon Canyon.”

  The Preacher scuffed at the gravel with one foot before gazing thoughtfully up at Lahood. “There’s a lot of sinners hereabouts. You wouldn’t want me to leave before I was done with my work, would you?”

  Club looked toward his employer for instructions. Lahood considered the situation a moment longer, then sighed with exaggerated reluctance and nodded once. The giant grinned as he slid down off his mount.

  By now nearly everyone in the canyon had put aside their work to gaze in fascination at what was happening down on the creek. Sarah Wheeler was among them. She was unable to follow the distant conversation, but when Club dismounted the color drained from her face.

  Spider Conway was standing on the porch of his shanty, watching. Now he let go a squirt of tobacco juice at a beetle sunning itself on a nearby rock and shook his head sadly.

  Anchored by the Preacher. Hull held his ground as the giant came toward them. He stopped less than a yard away, forcing the two men to tilt their heads back in order to meet his gaze. It was dead quiet save for the musical warbling of the creek.

  When it became clear neither the tin-pan nor his friend were about to retreat, the giant decided a more active demonstration was required. With a single sweep of one massive arm he reached out to snatch Hull’s sledge from his grasp. In the same motion he lifted it over his head.

  Hull tensed, ready to make a run for it, but it was immediately apparent the blow wasn’t aimed in his direction. The Preacher simply smiled and watched. Club turned and brought the sledge down with incalculable force right in the depression the miner had chipped out of the boulder.

  There was an explosive c r a c k! The mammoth stone shuddered once. Then it split in two, dust rising from the gap. The two halves rocked back and forth as they settled into place.

  The recoil from the blow stunned the man who’d delivered it, and Club needed a minute to recover his balance. Gripping the sledge firmly in both hands, he turned a disdainful glare on the Preacher.

  Lolling in his saddle, Lahood made use of the same dry, casual tone he’d employed previously. “Your work about done now, Preach?”

  The tall man eyed the cloven rock with apparent indifference. “Part of it, leastways.”

  Stubborn, Lahood mused. Too bad. He nodded to the giant. Club’s fingers tightened on the sledge. With a gesture as casual as a caress, the Preacher pushed Megan away from him. Hull retreated cautiously, uncertain what to do next and fearful of what was coming. If the Preacher asked him, he’d make a dash for his shovel, or the old rifle up in his cabin. But the tall man said nothing, just stood and watched his oversized opponent.

  Up on his porch Spider Conway’s jaw dropped as he sensed what was coming. “Jessuusss,” he mumbled.

  The two men took each other’s measure for a long moment. Then Club let out a roar that echoed down the canyon, raised the sledge over his head like a shillelagh, and charged . . .

  . . . straight into the outstretched end of the Preacher’s hammer, whi
ch flattened the giant’s nose like a boot heel flattening a horse apple.

  Club straightened up and staggered backward. Blood oozed from his nose as the Preacher casually brought his weapon around and up lightly, to catch the giant square between his legs. Club immediately bent double, letting go of his own hammer and suddenly unconcerned with any threat a theological invasion might pose to his employer’s interests. He was entirely concerned about his own interests.

  The Preacher tossed the sledge aside and stepped forward, not to strike again but to hook an arm beneath the giant’s and help him stagger toward his horse. As they walked he whispered to his erstwhile assailant. There was no malice in his voice, not any hint of gloating. Only concern for another man’s well-being.

  “A little ice’ll help ease the pain. You’ll be fine by morning. Here we go, foot in the stirrup, that’s right. Now right leg up and over, push there, attaboy.”

  With a heave he helped deposit the giant on his horse side-saddle. Then he turned and bestowed upon the gaping Josh Lahood a properly ecclesiastical gesture of farewell.

  “Thanks for stopping by, son. Always willing to have a chat.”

  Just then Lahood didn’t look quite as handsome as usual. His face was twisted into a florid mask of hate. His hand started to descend toward the gun that rode on his hip.

  His fingers froze as the Preacher’s gaze suddenly narrowed. His expression, no longer benign, had unexpectedly metamorphosed into something quite different. No one else saw it, not Hull, not Megan. It was intended for and noticed only by Josh Lahood.

  There was no reason for the younger man not to draw. No reason at all. And yet—there was something in the tall man’s eyes, something long buried and well hidden that hadn’t shown itself until this moment. Whatever it was, it caused Lahood’s hand to halt an inch above the pistol grip. It hung there for a long moment, suspended by something powerful and undefinable.

  Then Lahood blinked like a man who’d been lulled to sleep. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes and glanced at the Preacher one more time. With a yelp of confusion and frustration, he wrenched his animal around and started back the way he’d come. Club’s horse turned to follow instinctively, the giant’s massive but inert form slumped in the saddle.

  Up on her porch Sarah Wheeler suddenly remembered to breathe as she steadied herself against a post. She hadn’t moved a muscle from the time Club had climbed down off his horse until he and Josh Lahood had turned to ride out of the canyon.

  As soon as Lahood was out of pistol range, the Preacher bent to retrieve his discarded sledge. Hull and Megan stared at him as if transfixed. He ignored them as he walked over to examine the broken halves of the giant boulder. Hull had been right about the fracture.

  “Well now,” he murmured as he examined the by-product of Club’s demonstration, “the Lord does work in mysterious ways.”

  Clang! The sledge described a sweeping arc through the clear morning air and struck one half of the split rock. The half trembled, then fell into two pieces. Grinning, Hull hurried to pick up his own sledge, the one the giant had taken away from him. For the second time that morning the double echo of iron on granite rang throughout the canyon.

  Spider Conway let loose with another burst of dark juice, grinning around the chaw tucked in his left cheek. “Preacher my ass,” he said aloud, looking thoughtful. “But then, Christ didn’t look like no carpenter, neither.”

  There was a pile of old tools stacked neatly outside the door. On impulse he reached down and picked up his own, slightly smaller sledgehammer. Then he loped down the steps, heading for the creekbed.

  He was the first, but not the last. From cabins and shanties, from behind wagons and sheds, singly at first and then in pairs and trios, the other miners put aside their fears, ceased preparing to abandon their homes and claims, and hurried to join the two men who were battering the recalcitrant granite with steady blows of their sledges. Henderson was the last, the rocker and wagon forgotten along with any thoughts of flight. There was new hope in Carbon Canyon. It showed itself in the joyful faces of the men as they pounded away at the shrinking sections of the boulder and threw the smaller fragments aside. Of course it wasn’t just stone they were destroying and tossing aside: it was their own fears and despair. They all but sang as they worked.

  Megan moved clear of the busy men and the flying shards of stone, and found a place close to the water where she could sit and watch. Her face was alive with pleasure and contentment, and never more so than when it focused on the tall man who was working hardest of all. The sunlight gleamed on the white collar that ringed his neck.

  V

  The train’s whistle rose to a shriek as it rounded the curve that had been laboriously hacked out of the mountainside. White smoke stained the air above its funnel, then quickly turned black as it fell behind the engine. Soot marred the cars it pulled, impairing the clarity of the thick glass windows.

  It was slowing rapidly as it approached the tiny wooden building that served as a station. Above this unimpressive structure was a neatly painted sign that proclaimed to anyone with a view (who was also capable of reading) that they had just arrived at

  LAHOOD, CALIFORNIA—POP. 189

  The platform in front of the station was deserted, but there was a greeting committee of sorts waiting nearby. Three horses and two men stood in the shade of the big oak that grew just to the north of the station. The saddled horse that stood patiently between Josh Lahood and McGill’s mounts was intended for one of the train’s passengers. Its only important passenger, as far as anyone in Lahood, California, was concerned. Josh held the reins of the riderless mount and tried to pick out a certain face from the many visible through the dusty windows.

  The riderless animal was a gleaming black Arabian, an aristocrat among the four-legged serfs who dominated this part of the equine world. The saddle blanket that protected its expensive back was fashioned of the finest crimson-dyed wool, while the saddle itself was an exquisitely tooled curve of fine leather chased with silver. Once it had cushioned the pampered backside of a Mexican don. American squatters and American law had devastated his hacienda. Eventually he had also lost his saddle, to an equally wealthy if considerably more ruthless and less cultured rider.

  The stationmaster emerged from the stationhouse. He was a feisty, independent character who’d given up mining for a steady job, something that becomes particularly attractive to a man when he passes fifty. The trainman tossed him a small canvas mailbag and squinted at his colleague.

  “Mornin’, Whitey. Any mail goin’ south?”

  “Not today, Jake. Had a couple letters for a fella down in Mariposa, but a friend came through and offered to take them to his mate personal. Nothin’ else—unless you want to tell the President what I think of him.”

  While the two men chatted, a black porter stepped off the first car behind the mailcar. One hand held a valise while the other reached up to aid a departing passenger.

  “Watch de step, Mr. Lahood.”

  “Why?” a sharp, no-nonsense voice wanted to know. “Has the damned thing moved since we left Sacramento?”

  Coy Lahood ignored the preferred hand and hopped off the train. Retrieving his bag from the porter, he pressed a folded bill into the man’s hand. Sixty-two, with swept-back silver hair, square jaw, and a spine as straight as a clipper ship’s mainmast, he looked quite out of place in his neatly pressed three-piece suit, complete to pearl buttons and gold watch fob.

  “Thanks, Mr. Lahood, suh.” The porter mounted the first step and leaned out to wave up the line. The engineer responded with a wave of his own and a blast from the engine’s whistle.

  Josh Lahood dismounted and hurried to greet his father.

  “I’ll take your bag, Papa.” The elder Lahood handed over the valise, acknowledging his offspring with a perfunctory nod.

  “Morning, son. McGill.”

  The foreman touched the brim of his hat with an index finger. “Morning, Boss. Good to have y
ou back. How was Sacramento?”

  Lahood’s reply sounded wistful. “Paradise. Would’ve stayed another week if I thought I could’ve spared the time. Two politicians for every Chinese laundry, two whores for every politician. Some of the whores as sweet smelling and clean as the laundry.” McGill and the younger Lahood chuckled dutifully at the old man’s joke. “Good food, smart talk about gold and politics and anything else a man might care to discourse on. Civilization.”

  “Sounds like fun, Boss.”

  Lahood eyed his foreman and shook his head sadly. “It’s more than that, McGill, but I don’t expect you to understand what I’m talking about. I’ll say this about Sacramento: if there was gold in the Delta, I’d move there permanently. That, and if they’d figure out a way to get rid of the damn mosquitoes.”

  A second whistle, then the train behind them began to move, inching its way toward the next whistle-stop. Lahood patted his mount affectionately on its neck, then swung himself up into the saddle. He moved with the suppleness of a man half his age.

  “How was business in Sacramento, Papa?”

  “Well, I didn’t do us any harm and I might’ve done us some good. We’ll know when this session of the Legislature finishes its work. How’s business here?” He slapped the reins gently against the horse’s neck. Flanked by his son and foreman, Lahood headed toward his town.

  “Still pulling low-grade ore out of number-five shaft, but the vein’s about played out.”

  Lahood nodded; he didn’t seem surprised. “Uh-huh. I figured as much before I left. What else?”

  “We went another twenty feet in the twelve-shaft, pulled out nothing but magnetite, and shut her down. McKenzie came runnin’ out of ten this morning screaming he’d found the mother lode and waving what looked like the biggest nugget of all time.” The foreman spat into dust. “Pyrite. That’s what comes of hirin’ so many new men. Don’t know a damn thing about mining.

  “Anyways, I kicked his worthless ass all the way down the river. Gettin’ everyone all excited like that. Main problem is that the placer vein in Cobalt Canyon’s wearin’ thin, too. We’re washing out three times as much dirt and rock for half the gold we were gettin’ when we set up in there.”