Bloodstone (11 page)

“Unlucky?” queried Nestor.

Steiner nodded. “In most cases the dream is better than the reality. Pity the man who fulfills all his dreams, Nestor.”

“Did you do that, sir?”

“Certainly did.” Steiner’s face looked suddenly solemn, and Nestor switched the subject.

“You ever been a Crusader, Mr. Steiner?” he asked. “I never seen anybody shoot that good.”

“No, not a Crusader.”

“Not … a brigand?”

Steiner laughed aloud. “I could have been, Son, but I wasn’t. I was lucky. I had me a curious ambition, though. I wanted to be the man who killed the Jerusalem Man.”

Nestor’s mouth dropped open. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It is now. But back then he was just a man with a big, big name. I was working for Edric Scayse, and he warned me to change that ambition. I said, ‘There’s no way he can beat me, Mr. Scayse.’ You know what he said? He told me, ‘He wouldn’t beat you, Clem, he’d kill you.’ He was right. They broke the mold when they made Shannow. Deadliest man I ever knew.”

“You knew him? Lord, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Steiner.”

“Luck certainly has played a part in my life,” said Steiner. “Now I’d best be on my way.”

“You’re going to look for the Preacher?”

“I’ll find him, Son,” said Clem, easing himself to his feet. In that moment Nestor knew what he wanted to do, knew it with a certainty he had never before experienced.

“Could I come with you, Mr. Steiner? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“You’ve got a job here, boy, and a settled life. This could take some time.”

“I don’t care. Since my folks died I’ve been working for my uncle. But I think I could learn more from you, Mr. Steiner, than I ever could from him. And I’m sick of counting out Barta coin and docking wages for lost hours. I’m tired of counting timber and writing out orders. Will you let me ride with you?”

“I’ll be riding into town to buy supplies, Nestor. You’ll need a blanket roll and a heavy coat. A rifle would be handy.”

“Yes, sir,” said Nestor happily. “I’ve got a rifle. I’ll get the other gear from Mr. Broome.”

“How old are you, Son?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

Clem Steiner smiled. “I can just remember what it was like to be seventeen. Let’s go.”

Josiah Broome pushed out his bare feet toward the hearth, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the flames while ignoring the constant stream of words coming from the kitchen. It was
not easy: Else Broome was not a woman to be ignored. Broome stared into the fire, his thoughts gloomy. He had helped build Pilgrim’s Valley back in the old days and then had been one of the leaders when the town had been rebuilt after the invasion from Atlantis. Josiah Broome had survived the assault by the scaled lizard warriors known as Daggers and had tried in his own small way to make Pilgrim’s Valley a decent place for the families that settled there.

He abhorred men of violence, the hard-drinking, brawling warriors who had once peopled this land. And he loathed men like Jon Shannow, whose idea of justice was to slaughter any who crossed their path. Now, in these enlightened days, Jon Shannow was considered a saint, a holy man of God. Else’s voice droned on, and he noticed a lilt at the end of the sentence. “I am sorry, my dear, I didn’t catch that,” he said.

Else Broome eased her vast bulk through the doorway. “I asked if you agreed that we should invite the Apostle Saul to the barbecue.”

“Yes, dear. Whatever you think best.”

“I was only saying to the widow Scayse the other day …”

The words rolled on as she retreated to the kitchen, and Broome blanked them from his mind.

Jon Shannow, the saint.

The Preacher had laughed at it. Broome remembered their last evening together in the small vestry behind the church.

“It is not important, Josiah,” said Jon Cade. “What I used to be is irrelevant now. What is important is that God’s word should not be corrupted. The Book speaks of love as well as judgment. And I’ll not be persuaded that the Wolvers are denied that love.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Preacher. In fact, of all men I hold you in the highest regard. You turned your back on the ways of violence and have shown great courage during these last years. You are an inspiration to me. But the people of Pilgrim’s Valley are being seduced by the Deacon’s new teachings. And I fear for you and the church. Could you not
minister to the Wolvers outside town? Would that not allow the anger to die down?”

“I expect that it would,” agreed Cade. “But to do so would be like admitting to the ignorant and the prejudiced that they have a right to deny my congregation a service within my church. I cannot allow that. Why is it so hard for them to see the truth? The Wolvers did not seek to be the way they are; even the Deacon admits to that. And there is no more evil in them than in any race.”

“I don’t know what the Deacon thinks. But I have read the words of his Apostle Saul, and he claims they are not of God and are therefore of the Devil. A pure land, he says, needs pure people.”

Cade nodded. “I don’t disagree with that, and there is much good in what the Deacon has said in the past. I respect the man. He came from a world gone mad, depravity and lust, corruption and disease of the body and the spirit. And he seeks to make this world a better place. But no one knows better than I the dangers of living by iron rules.”

“Come, come, my friend, are you not still living by those rules? This is but a building. If God—if there is a God—does care about the Wolvers, he will care about them in the mountains just as well as here. I fear there will be violence.”

“Then we shall turn the other cheek, Josiah. A soft answer turneth away wrath. Have you seen Beth lately?”

“She came into the store with Bull Kovac and two of her riders. She looked well, Jon. It’s a shame the two of you couldn’t make a go of it. You were so well suited.”

Cade smiled ruefully. “She was in love with the Jerusalem Man, not with the Preacher. It was hard for her, especially when the brigands raided and I did nothing to stop them. She told me I was no longer a man.”

“That must have hurt.”

Cade nodded. “I’ve known worse pain, Josiah. A long time ago I killed a child. I was being attacked; there were armed men all around me. I killed four of them, then heard a noise behind me, and I swung and fired. It was a boy, out playing. He haunts me still. What might he have been? A surgeon? A
minister? A loving father and husband? But yes, losing Beth was a deep blow.”

“You must have been tempted to take up your pistols during the raid.”

“Not once. I sometimes dream that I am riding again, pistols by my side. Then I wake in a cold sweat.” Cade stood and moved to a chest at the far end of the room. Flipping it open, he lifted clear a gun belt. “The weapons of Thundermaker.” Broome stood and walked across to stand beside the Preacher.

“They look as they always did.”

“Aye. Sometimes at night I sit here and clean them. It helps remind me of what once I was. And what, God willing, I will never become again.”

“You’re not listening to a word I say,” said Else Broome, stalking back into the living room.

“What’s that, my love?”

“What is the matter with you? I was asking if you would stand Oath for that McAdam woman.”

“Of course. Beth is an old friend.”

“Pah! She’s a troublemaker, and we’d all be better off if she were sent from the valley.”

“In which way does she cause trouble, my dear?”

“Are you soft in the head?” she stormed. “She shot at men hunting Wolvers. She speaks against the Deacon, and even her own son says she’s been seduced by Satan. The woman is a disgrace.”

“She’s a good Christian woman, Else. Just like you.”

“I take that as an insult,” Else Broome snapped, her multiple chins quivering. “You have a store to run, and I don’t think people will take it kindly if you are seen to support a woman of her kind. You’ll lose business to Ezra Feard, you’ll see. And I don’t see why it should be you who gives Oath for her. Let her find someone else who doesn’t mind being a laughingstock.”

Broome turned his attention back to the fire.

“And another thing …” began Else Broome.

But her husband was not listening. He was thinking of five dead raiders on the road and the tortured spirit of the man who had killed them.

4

S
ETH
W
HEELER
PULLED
the blanket up tight around his ears and settled his head against his saddle. The night air was cold, and it had been two years since he had slept out in the open. The blanket was thin. Either that or I’m getting old, he thought. No, it’s the damn blanket. Sitting up, Seth held the blanket close to him as he moved to the fire. It was burning low, just a tiny flicker of flame above the coals. There were four sticks left, and they normally would have been left for the morning. Casting a nervous glance at his four sleeping comrades, he added the wood to the fire. It blazed instantly to life, and Seth shivered as the warmth touched him. God, he had almost forgotten just how good it felt to be warm.

There were no clouds in the night sky, and a ground frost was sprinkling the grass with specks of silvered white. The wind gusted, scattering ash across Seth’s boots. He stared down at the sticks. Why did they have to burn so damned fast?

This high in the mountains there was little dead wood, and his men had gathered what there was close by. Seth had two choices: return to his cold bedroll or gather more wood. Rising with a softly whispered curse, he stepped across one sleeping body and walked to the thin line of trees.

It had been a long ride in search of the killer. They had
found his tracks soon enough and had followed him up into the mountains. But the pursuers had lost his trail twice after that, and four fruitless days had followed. Then they had picked up the wrong trail and come upon an old man and a mule. Strange old coot, thought Seth. Odd eyes; looked as if they could see right through you.

“We’re hunting a man,” Seth had told him. “We’re Crusaders from Purity.”

“I know that,” the oldster had replied. “Spent the night in a cave yonder with the man you’re looking for.”

“Which way was he heading?”

“North. Into the wild lands.”

“We’ll find him,” Seth had said.

“Hope you don’t, Son. Strikes me you’re good men. Shame to see such men die.”

“Is he a friend of yours, this man?” Seth had asked.

The old man had shaken his head. “He only met me last night. But I’d say I like him. You best be careful, Crusader. Men like him don’t offer second chances.” The old man had grinned at them and without another word had ridden off.

Short on food and getting colder by the day, the Crusaders had finally found the killer’s trail. The next day they would have him.

Seth gathered an armful of sticks and a thick broken branch and started back toward the fire. Something cold touched the back of his neck, and an even colder voice spoke. “You are making a mistake that will lead you to your death.”

The Crusader swallowed hard. His legs felt shaky, and the gun barrel felt icy against his skin. But Seth was no coward, and he gathered himself.

“You are a blasphemer and a killer,” he said.

“Take your men back to Purity,” said the cold voice. “I do not wish to kill any of you. But if you are on my trail come daylight, none of you will ever see your families again. Had I so chosen, I could have walked into your camp tonight and slain you all. Now go.”

The gun barrel withdrew. Seth blinked back the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. Strangely, he did not feel cold at
all. He took a step, then another. Then he dropped the wood, threw aside the blanket, drew his pistol, and swiveled.

There was no one there.

For a minute or more he remained where he was. The cold came back into his bones. Sheathing the pistol, he gathered the fallen sticks and returned to the fire, banking it up until the flames were too hot to sit alongside. Returning to his bedroll, he thought of Elizabeth and his sons, Josh and Pad.