A Congregation of Jackals (27 page)

“That shot came from over there,” Oswell pointed.

Each Danford fired a round, threw the lever and fired a second round. A weak moan sounded from the other side of the veil.

The wind turned; a pocket of clear air opened up. Oswell saw the haunches of a horse and the edge of a saddle. He pointed where the rider ought to be (if someone was atop the horse—he could not tell) and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle cracked; the bullet whistled, scoring a groove across the dust. He threw the lever on his rifle and fired a second shot before he knew if the first one had hit its mark.

A man clasping his bleeding neck fell backward into the pocket of clear air, gurgling.

Oswell raised his binoculars and looked at the fallen rider.

“Do you recognize him?” Godfrey asked.

“No.”

Godfrey snatched the binoculars and caught a glimpse of the dying man before swirling motes filled the gap.

He said, “Looks like a rough or a mule skinner.”

“Quinlan’s throwing cheap guns at us first. Each of these we put down is one less he has to pay when it’s over.”

Godfrey set the binoculars down, wiped grit from his aiming eye and nodded.

The dust swirled in a strong crosscurrent; the Danfords waited for other gaps of clarity to appear in the
dingy maelstrom, but instead found themselves in an exposed pocket. Six whistling gunshots lanced through the haze at them, one of which cracked and spun the wheel beside Godfrey’s head. The Danfords returned fire until their rifles were empty, at which point they ducked behind the carriage. The duo plucked magazines from their stocks, rammed new ones in and flung the trigger guards forward to draw bullets into the chambers.

Oswell laid upon his stomach, inched across the dirt to the edge of his cover and pointed his muzzle up. At the other side of the carriage, he saw Godfrey kneel and aim his weapon out.

A gap opened up in the dust immediately before Oswell. A boot came down and stomped upon the barrel of his gun, pressing the muzzle into the dirt. A stillborn round caused the weapon to lurch in his hands. He looked up.

“Hello, Oswell,” one of the twins said, the grin on his cracked bronze face framed by a prickly beard and tangled black hair. He drew his gun and pointed it at the rancher’s face more quickly than the pinned man could even pull a trigger, much less draw.

Oswell turned and yelled, “Godfrey, they’re at us!”

The rancher finished his sentence an instant before a boot kicked the rifle from his brother’s hands; the weapon spun into the air and struck the church behind them. The other twin drew two revolvers and pressed their barrels to Godfrey’s skull.

The one standing over Oswell said, “I hope there’s room for all of us at the service. I love weddings, and so does Arthur—though he gets weepy sometimes.”

Oswell glanced at the other twin’s face; the swarthy, thorny visage was an inscrutable mask.

“He don’t talk no more. After you left us to those Appanuqis we got into a predicament where the toddler got killed and my brother lost his tongue.”

The talkative twin kicked the pinned rifle from Oswell’s grip; it spun across the dirt until it struck a rock five yards off.

“Both of you get up,” the talker said.

Oswell pressed his palms to the dirt and began to rise. The talker kicked out his left hand; he thudded back to the ground.

“Up, I said.”

Oswell put his palms to the ground, waited for a boot that did not come, and stood up; the top of his head came to the talker’s eyes.

“Put your hands behind your backs.”

Godfrey reached behind his back; Arthur swept his legs out from under him, sending him to the dirt. The silent twin stabbed a knee into the plump man’s spine, holstered one of his own guns and plucked the hidden revolver from Godfrey’s belt.

“You don’t have a gun back there, do you?” The talker spun Oswell around and felt his lower back for a weapon that was not there. He did not check the rancher’s boot.

Arthur wove a burlap cord around Godfrey’s wrists in the shape of an eight; he pulled the binding tight; the twines creaked. He sheathed his gun and tied an adamantine knot with both hands. The silent twin stood up and pointed his weapon at Oswell.

The talker said, “I’m trussin’ you like your brother—if that’s actually him neath all that whale blubber.”

Oswell felt a piece of cord encircle his left wrist and then wind around the other. The talker yanked the binding; the twines creaked; the rancher’s wrists throbbed
and his fingertips became cold, yet he remained silent—he knew that an admission of pain would add to the twin’s enjoyment of this act.

“Don’t blame me—Arthur’s the one who wants it tight. He likes it when the hands turn purple.” The captor sheathed his gun and then tied a firm knot; Oswell’s middle and ring fingers twitched from the constrictive binding. Arthur grabbed Godfrey by the collar and pulled him to his feet.

Oswell saw the talker turn east and wave; the rancher looked over his shoulder. The tops of four horses and the riders they carried glided across the settling dust toward him like swans on water. Slung like a rice sack over the rear of one of the steeds was Dicky, covered with grit. Oswell had presumed that the man had died at the gazebo, but seeing him captured—and neutralized for certain—dashed his last reasonable hope of regaining his freedom.

“There’s only one more of you—that dumb giant—and I’m certain Orton’s got him cowed with the rest of the congregation by now.”

Oswell and Godfrey exchanged a morbid glance.

“Fooled you, didn’t he?”

The Tall Boxer Gang’s efforts as sentries had safeguarded the guests from nothing more dangerous than that idiot turkey farmer. They had trusted in Sheriff Jeffries’s assessment of the minister, but the lawman had not known how cunning and dangerous the enemy was. Oswell would have wagered that Minister Orton was a real holy man (albeit one who had fallen from His graces) who could have talked at length about any section of the Bible and also performed the ceremony believably. Quinlan was a man of minutiae.

“You ain’t got somethin’ to say about all this?” the talker asked Oswell.

He did not respond. He knew from experience that anything he said to the misanthrope would encourage more violence.

“Look over there,” the talker said.

Oswell looked east to where the man pointed. A small black square appeared in the swirling motes, though at this distance he could not identify what he was looking at.

The four men on horses, including the Indian who carried Dicky, rode up alongside the twins and the Danfords. Oswell looked at the New Yorker’s face; blood ran from cuts on his bruised brow and cheek up his forehead and into his black hair, the result of being slung head down over the horse’s hindquarters. Dicky was conscious, though beaten and dazed.

“Tie those horses up,” the talker said to the four men.

The Indian, clothed in moccasins, trousers and a vest made from wolf skins, climbed off of his brown mare and pointed to the New Yorker slung over its haunches.

“We’re taking him in,” the talker clarified.

The Indian grabbed Dicky by the hair and yanked him to the ground, where he thudded like a dropped bag of laundry. The bloodied man raised his head from the dirt and looked at the Danfords; none of them said anything.

Oswell looked back at the dark square and found that it had resolved itself into the front view of a beige and green stagecoach pulled by a team of six horses at a steady canter. Godfrey looked over at the vehicle. Dicky raised his head and stared at it through bleary eyes.

They all knew who was inside.

Beatrice could not feel her face. A dagger of fire throbbed where her nose once sat, but the remainder of her visage was numb, as if emptied of blood or frozen. The taste in her mouth was of mucus, copper and the chalky grit of a broken tooth. Minister Orton’s elbow lifted from her nape.

He pressed his revolver barrel to her neck, and said “Stand up. Show ’em how pretty you are.”

For the first time since the minister had usurped the wedding, Beatrice raised her head from the lectern and faced the guests. Mouths opened and eyes widened; gasps and several cries issued from the assemblage. Most of the assembly looked away from her. Blood pounded through the tissue beneath her clay skin.

She looked at her father, seated in the first pew; tears poured down his face. He did not make a sound, but simply stared into her eyes. Meredith held and patted his left hand with both of hers. Beatrice turned her watery gaze to her groom. Jim sat on the far edge of the dais, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he said. He looked at Minister Orton and pleaded, “Please don’t. Please don’t hurt her no more.”

“We’re just playing.”

Something cracked against the back of her skull and the entire church tilted as if it were a canoe about to capsize.

Unable to control himself, Jim ran the minister. The holy man thumbed the hammer of his revolver and jammed it to her temple.

Her father cried, “No, no, no,” lunged from the pews and slammed into James, knocking the titan sideways, off of his feet, farther back on the dais. The groom lay upon the floor; the sheriff doubled over and pressed his hands to his hurt hip.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said to Jim. “He’ll shoot.”

“I can’t watch him hurt her.”

“This isn’t any easier for me!”

Beatrice had never heard him speak with that much vitriol in her entire life. She spat a fragment of a tooth into her palm and set it upon the lectern. It was the tip of her lower right canine.

There was a knock at the door; the congregation turned to look at the entrance.

“Everybody stay put,” Minister Orton ordered. “Sheriff Jeffries?”

Her father looked at the bearded man who stood beside her and said, “Yes.”

“Walk up to that door and knock on it four times. Do it slow so they can count it out clear.”

Her father nodded; he looked at Jim and said, “Stay calm.”

“Okay.”

“Get to it,” the minister prompted.

Her father limped across the dais, down two steps and up the aisle; he gritted his teeth in pain.

“Sheriff,” the minister said. “Looks like you’ve got some discomfort.”

Her father ignored the remark, reached the door, stumbled forward and placed his palm to the wood to steady himself.

Big Abe stood up from his seat to help him.

“Sit down big man or things’ll get rough,” the minister warned. Big Abe glared at the holy man but wordlessly returned to the large gap his absence from the pew had created. Beatrice looked over at her father. He leaned heavily on the hand he had pressed to the door, panting.

“You’ve gotta make a fist to knock correctly,” the minister said.

The sheriff stood upright, clenched his left hand and rapped upon the door. His shifting, unsteady posture told Beatrice how much pain he was in. He waited for a moment and knocked again upon the wood; he paused and repeated the action two more times as instructed.

“Go on back to your seat now.” Her father limped back toward the front of the church, holding his hip; his face was bright red with agony; he ground his teeth.

Beatrice wiped the fluid that dripped from her chin; she delicately touched her fingertips to her nose; the throbbing pain flared into a searing fire that squeezed tears from her eyes and a yell from her mouth. The congregation looked at her.

“Don’t fiddle with it—it’ll get worse,” the minister said.

The doors to the church swung open. In the portal stood Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky, all with their hands behind their backs. The three men were covered with dust and battered.

A voice from behind the bound men said, “Get inside, you heroes.”

Jim’s beaten friends walked the blue aisle, where only twenty minutes ago her father had escorted her on what was to be the happiest day of her life.

Behind the captives stood two men who looked like identical twins.

“Not them,” Jim muttered. “Not them.”

Each twin wore a dust-covered black coat and a matching hat from which their long dusty hair hung like worms. They pointed four large revolvers at the captives.

Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky neared the dais steps, followed by the twins. The captor on the right planted the heel of his boot into Oswell’s back and shoved him. The rancher stumbled forward, struck his shins on the dais stairs and landed on his chest and chin.

“Be careful,” the assailant said. Oswell rolled onto his side, rose to his knees and then stood up. “I s’pose Jesus ain’t watchin out for you. Or maybe he just isn’t so powerful.”

“No need to blaspheme,” Minister Orton said.

“Sorry, Uncle.”

Godfrey and Dicky joined Oswell on the dais. They glanced at Beatrice and looked away guiltily the moment they recognized her.

The other twin pointed a gun at Jim; Beatrice’s stomach dropped.

“I seen him, Arthur.” To Jim, the talkative twin said, “Get up here with the rest of your posse.” The groom walked up and stood next to Oswell.

“Put your hands behind your back.” Her titan put his huge hands behind his back.

Arthur holstered his guns, pulled a cord from beneath his coat and wound it tightly around Jim’s wrists.

“Now we got four of a kind,” the talker remarked. “That’s a pretty good hand in poker.”

The minister grabbed Beatrice’s left arm and walked her to the side of the dais where Wilfreda sat at her piano, staring at the keys as if in quiet conspiracy.

The minister tapped the ancient woman’s ear with the barrel of his gun and said, “Sit somewhere else.”

“I play the piano,” Wilfreda said.

With his free hand, Orton grabbed the lid that overhung the keys and said, “Play something pretty.”

Beatrice said to Wilfreda, “Go before he hurts you.”

The ancient woman nodded, eyed the minister evilly, rose from the bench and descended from the dais. She stopped, turned around and folded her arms, monitoring the piano as if any moment she would reclaim it.

Minister Orton shoved Beatrice onto the bench and then sat beside her.

The talkative twin said, “Mule, Ralphy. Show these people your shotguns.”