Dead Reckoning (7 page)

White Fox heard Jett sigh.

“Well, they aren’t zombies,” she said grudgingly. “And after what I saw last night, I don’t think the zombies would leave anyone alive wherever they went. But they came here,” she finished, a faint questioning note in her voice.

“Whatever attacked Alsop came here,” White Fox agreed. “It would have taken them perhaps six hours to cover the distance.”

“Meaning they got here around midnight,” Jett said. “And they
could
have just walked straight across and out the other side. But they’d need to be under cover by daylight.” She sighed again. “So somebody needs to go down and have a look around. And that means me.”

White Fox regarded her quizzically. He’d seen her terror last night, and knew she still believed she’d narrowly escaped being slain by the undead. And one or two
living
people—or even a dozen—was no surety that more of the creatures she feared did not await her.

“I know you aren’t a hostile, White Fox, but some folks wouldn’t see that. And they might just take you for a blue—for a soldier, and that’d be just as like to spook them. So I’ll go and scout around while you see if those critters really did just sashay right on through.”

“Will you be all right going by yourself?” he asked.

In answer she drew one of her pistols and spun it before dropping it fluidly back into its holster again. “Been alone for a while and haven’t had any trouble yet.”

* * *

Jett backtracked to the ranch road and then set Nightingale ambling along it. She’d been about to take offense at White Fox’s question when she realized he’d have asked the same question of a man. The thought warmed her. He was the first man in the last two years to know her secret, and he hadn’t lectured her about wearing trousers once.

A few hundred yards along, she passed under the archway that was a common feature of ranches. Usually there was a clapboard sign with the name of the spread and a copy of its brand hanging from the crossbar, but there wasn’t one here. As she neared the house, she saw something she hadn’t been able to see from the
trees. There was a cross cut out of sheet brass covering most of the door. It was polished so bright it was nearly painful to look at.

The door opened as she approached, and the same woman she’d seen earlier stepped out, regarding Jett curiously.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Jett said, touching her hat brim in greeting. “Don’t mean to startle you. Name’s Gallatin. I’m looking for an outfit that might need a few extra hands.”

The woman smiled up at her. “I’m sorry, Mister Gallatin, but I’m afraid this isn’t a ranch anymore. It’s Jerusalem’s Wall. My name is Sister Agatha, and we are The Fellowship of the Divine Resurrection.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Reckon I’ll keep looking. Mind if I water my horse before I push on?”

“Oh, but you must at least stay for dinner, Mister Gallatin. Charity is the first duty of our Fellowship.”

“Much obliged, Miss Agatha,” Jett said, swinging down from the saddle.

“It is Sister Agatha, Mister Gallatin. We leave worldly names behind us when we join the Fellowship. Come inside when you’ve seen to your animal.”

Jett nodded and led Nightingale over to the watering trough that stood beside the pump. Being invited to stay was a good excuse to find out about this
Fellowship. She wasn’t particularly surprised to find a place out in the middle of nowhere calling itself “The Fellowship of the Divine Resurrection.” This wouldn’t be the first such she’d come across, and she doubted it would be the last. Most of them were harmless enough, and few of them insisted their guests abide by their ways. The West was a place where you could come to shed your past, and plenty of folks took the opportunity to shed a lot more than that. Places like the Fellowship were usually heavy on the idea of everyone holding their worldly goods in common and light on Bible preaching, though most of them could claim someone, man or woman, who’d had a “Divine Revelation” or two. Those “Revelations” could be about something as innocent as not eating meat or as outlandish as not wearing clothes and nobody getting married. She’d actually found some of them to be a comfort, since one of their prayer meetings was as close as she was likely to get to the inside of a church for the foreseeable future. She knew God would forgive what she had to do to find her brother, but that didn’t mean His priests would.

She gave Nightingale a good long drink and then led him back to the hitching rail beside the door. She flipped his reins up over the saddle-horn just as she always did. “Behave,” she told him, patting his shoulder. He turned his head and blew a fine spray of water against her cheek.

Sister Agatha opened the door as Jett approached and beckoned her inside. Jett removed her hat—one of the many things a man would do and a woman wouldn’t; there’d been so many things she’d had to learn—and followed Sister Agatha. This close to the border, there was as much “rancho” as “ranch” in the buildings. Her boot-heels made sharp clicking sounds on the red tile floor.

“Come into the parlor and rest. It’s nice and cool there. Isn’t the sun dreadful?” Sister Agatha said.

“Sun gets pretty hot,” Jett agreed neutrally. She was willing to bet hard cash on Sister Agatha having come from somewhere back east—and not too long ago, either.

“Now, you just make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring you something nice and cool to drink.”

Before Jett could protest that Sister Agatha wasn’t to go to all that trouble, the woman had scurried off. At least it gave her a chance to look around. The house was built in a typical Mexican style: the main part of it balanced by two wings, giving the whole the shape of a squared-off C. There was a deep porch running across the back of the house between the wings, and a roof built out over to the edge of it, ensuring that the main part of the house would be in shade for most of the day. Whoever’d been the original owner of Jerusalem’s Wall had done well for themselves—there
were French doors opening out onto the porch, and every pane of glass in them would have had to come by freight wagon and flatboat from the East.

But the French doors were the only sign of gracious living left here. The parlor furniture was sparse, stark, and all bare wood. The half-dozen chairs, benches, and small low table did little to fill a space that had probably once contained velvet-upholstered mahogany furniture, a Regulator clock, and even a pianoforte. She could see faint shadows on the lime-washed walls where paintings and trophies might once have hung, but now there wasn’t even a mirror over the fireplace.

Just as well you don’t go getting too comfortable here. Those zombies might not have come from here in the first place, but Jerusalem’s Wall was sure where they headed after they left Alsop.

Her musings were cut short by Sister Agatha’s return. She carried a clay pitcher in one hand and a tin mug in the other. She filled the mug and handed it to Jett, then set the pitcher down on the bare wood of the room’s only table. Jett managed to keep from wincing, although it was clear there wasn’t any need to protect the wood. If the Fellowship got tired of water-marks, they could just sand the surface down and it would be as good as new.

“Drink up!” Sister Agatha urged.

Jett sipped cautiously. The liquid was cool, but it
was also bitter and almost foul-tasting. After a moment she identified it—tentatively—as the worst herb tea she’d ever drunk in her life.

“It is one of Brother Shepherd’s own recipes,” Sister Agatha said. “It came from a
Revelation.
”

“I imagine it’d have to,” Jett muttered under her breath. “You aren’t alone here, are you, Sister Agatha? I imagine it’d get pretty lonely.”

“Oh, not at all! We are seventy souls here at Jerusalem’s Wall. Most of the menfolk are tending to the cattle and horses, but some are at work in the forge, and you will meet them when we gather for supper. I am so grateful I am not a man—it would be a great burden to me if I was not able to hear Brother Shepherd’s preaching every day.”

That’s odd. I never heard of a forge that didn’t make more noise than a tinker’s cart falling off a cliff. And sound carries out here.

“So, most of the menfolks don’t come back to the house every day?” No matter what Sister Agatha said, Jett was pretty sure she was lonely and looking for someone to talk to … and that would make her an excellent source of information.

“Oh, no! They—”

“Sister Agatha, it grieves me to find you here in idleness,” a new—male—voice said. “Has not our own Blessed Founder said it is the woman’s place to labor,
for her labors are as sweet devotion and honest prayer?”

Sister Agatha gave a startled gasp. “Oh forgive me, Brother Raymond! I was only—we have a guest—” She didn’t wait for Brother Raymond to reply but scurried out of the room with a good deal more speed than she’d shown entering it. Jett clenched her teeth and pasted on a cheerful—and utterly false—smile. It was amazing how much Divine Revelation always seemed to involve women doing all the work and keeping their mouths shut.

“Jett Gallatin,” she said, holding out her hand (and taking the opportunity to set the tin mug aside). “Hope I didn’t get the lady into any trouble.”

“She will scourge her soul with prayer and hope to hear the Revelation more clearly,” Brother Raymond said darkly. He was a stocky man about a decade younger than Finlay Maxwell. His face and neck were burnt red by the sun, and he wore a collarless muslin shirt, baggy homespun pants, suspenders, and work boots.
Good thing this isn’t still a ranch
, Jett thought to herself.
Brother Raymond looks like a sodbuster born and bred. And I can make a durned good guess where he was born, too.

“What brings you to Jerusalem’s Wall, Mister Gallatin?” Brother Raymond asked, ignoring Jett’s outstretched hand.

“Looking for work,” Jett said blandly. “Sister Agatha invited me to stay for supper, but if I’d be any trouble …”

“Charity is the first duty of our Fellowship,” Brother Raymond said, echoing Sister Agatha’s words. Innocent enough. Charity was one of the virtues, and most Churchly folks Jett had met on her travels practiced it, whether they were Methodists or Mormons, Quakers or Catholics.

“Well, that’s real neighborly of you,” Jett said. “’Preciate it. Wouldn’t mind the chance to ask a few questions.”

“Questions?” Brother Raymond’s voice was suddenly hard with suspicion.

“Looking to catch up with my brother. He, ah, he lit out for the Territories when we lost the war, and last I heard from him was a while back. Wondering if you folks might’ve seen him.” She knew she wouldn’t need to make it any plainer. If Brother Raymond hadn’t been wearing a gray uniform three years ago, she’d eat her hat.

Brother Raymond relaxed immediately. “You will find we of The Fellowship of the Divine Resurrection have renounced all Earthly quarrels and allegiances, Mister Gallatin. It is God’s Law that will rule over God’s Kingdom, and the time of that Kingdom is fast
approaching. I must ask you to set aside your hatred while you abide among us.”

“Just looking for my brother,” Jett said mildly. “Only kin I’ve got left.” She’d learned a long time ago that if people thought they knew all about you, they stopped wondering. And her story was a plausible one. After all, it was the truth.

“When God’s Kingdom comes,
all
the Saved will be as brothers,” Brother Raymond said. “Our Blessed Founder has told us so, and should you doubt my words, I must tell you that once Brother Shepherd was a man like you, a man consumed by hatred and the love of violence. Then one day seven years ago he was vouchsafed God’s Seal of Divine Grace—but he found to his sorrow his words fell upon ears not ready to hear them. And so he came West, into the wilderness which God in His Infinite Providence appointed to our use. Here he has gathered about himself pure souls who will become the cornerstone of the Great Temple that God will raise up from our humble faith.”

There ain’t one blessed thing humble about you,
“Brother”
Raymond,
Jett thought to herself.
And I guess if I was a yellow-bellied coward, I’d’ve had a Revelation that meant I had to light out before the War, too.

But she’d never have been a successful gambler if the men across the card table could tell what she
was thinking. She made herself look interested and impressed, and Brother Raymond seemed to take this as an invitation to do some preaching of his own. Except for those few facts about Brother Shepherd, his speechifying was long on vague promises and short on hard information. She didn’t bother to try to work the conversation around to the walking dead. She suspected it would hurt his feelings.

There didn’t seem to be any place for her to jump into the conversation anyway, and she began to think Brother Raymond had enough words stored up to be able to go right on preaching at her until sunset, mostly about her violent and unChristian ways. She was finally rescued by the familiar clatter of an iron triangle signaling dinnertime.

“Come, Mister Gallatin,” Brother Raymond said grandly.

Jett picked up her hat and followed him.

They walked through a second room—this one completely empty of furniture—and then into what was obviously the dining room. It held benches and long trestle tables, but the tables weren’t set, and the room was empty. It was clearly not their destination.

“Prayer before food, Mister Gallatin. I trust you agree it is far more important to feed the spirit than the body?” Out of the corner of her eye Jett caught Brother Raymond smirking, and wondered how many “guests”
at Jerusalem’s Wall had beat a hasty retreat when they realized they’d been offered a meal and were getting a sermon instead.

“Ain’t ever had trouble feeding both,” she answered mildly, and was rewarded by seeing Brother Raymond’s mouth settle into a thin line of discontent.

The chapel doors stood open and the hallway was filled with people moving toward them. The ranch chapel had probably been part of the original building, and not something The Fellowship of the Divine Resurrection had gotten up itself. A lot of spreads were so isolated that if they wanted to do any God-bothering, they needed to make local arrangements. There were circuit preachers who rode among places without a minister in residence, staying a few days to marry and bury (or at least say a funeral), baptize any new young’uns, and offer up a good serving of hellfire. In between, a rancho’s chapel would be used for prayers and Bible readings.