Neal Barrett Jr. (6 page)

Jones tipped his hat and looked solemnly at Howie. “It appears to me you’ve been having a troublesome morning, son. Troublesome, indeed. You give any thought to what I said, how a man ought to find proper food for the soul? That’s mighty sound advice, I’ll tell you true.”

“I’m sure obliged for the help,” Howie said. It didn’t seem like the time for a sermon, but maybe preachers went on like that all the time. He walked over and took a look at the dead men, favoring his bad foot. Even from a distance, with no time to stop and study features, Howie had felt he knew the pair. The man with the hole between his eyes had tried to push him into a fight, his first night in Tallahassee. He didn’t know his name, and couldn’t remember what the fellow had called his friend.

“If a man bears hatred in his heart,” Jones said behind him, “so shall that hatred turn and quickly smite him down. Vengeance is the Lord’s, and this is as fine an example as you’ll see.”

Jones squatted down and studied the man with the ruined eye. “I surely didn’t mean to do that.” He shook his head and frowned. “Low, and a half inch off to the right. I abhor the sin of pride, but a man likes to do a thing right, even if it’s something he didn’t want to have to do. You better sit, boy. I’ll see these sinners off, then take a good look at your foot.”

Ritcher Jones grabbed the first man’s legs and dragged him down the bank, then out into the shallows. Then he went back and got the other. The slow current caught the two bodies and drew them toward the center of the river.

Jones watched them go, then closed his eyes and clasped his hands. “Lord, have mercy on these thy children, for it’s clear they were ignorant of your ways. Forgive me if you will, as I don’t see burial as prudent at the time. Gunfire tends to draw a crowd, and there might be other unbelievers near about. I sure don’t want more violence to mar this lovely day which thou has fashioned for our benefit and joy. Amen.”

The preacher stepped gingerly back to shore, then drew a large kerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his boots. He picked up the weapons the men had left behind and carried them to his horse.

“Get up in that saddle if you can,” he told Howie. “We’ll go a little ways in the woods. It’s feeling mighty open out here.”

Howie started to protest, but he could feel something wet inside his boot; he wouldn’t get far unless he patched himself up, and there wasn’t any reason not to ride. Besides, arguing with Jones was a good way to tire yourself out, even if you weren’t flat worn down to start.

T
he foot wasn’t bad. A bullet had gone through the boot and gouged some flesh from Howie’s heel, but there was more blood than anything else. Howie limped down to a creek that fed the river and eased down on the moss-covered bank. He cleaned the wound and the scrape on his leg, then washed all the blood from his boot. Jones had a strip of clean cloth in his pack, and Howie used it to bind his foot tight. Then he leaned back and watched Ritcher Jones prepare lunch.

It was an awesome thing to see. Jones had more in his pack than a good-sized tavern might supply—and better than you’d likely get, too. There were jars full of powders and spices, peppers and pickled fruits. Things in paper packets Howie couldn’t identify. Jones found some strips of fish that looked dried and shriveled-up. Then he dropped them in a skillet of hot oil, sprinkled peppers and odd powders all about; the withered strips began to swell up fine, releasing an aroma that made Howie want to cry. From somewhere in the miraculous pack, Jones found a loaf of bread that resembled a club. There were tin plates and cups, knives and even forks. Wine in a pretty green bottle with a cork. Howie tasted some, and thought it left his mouth dry. Jones smiled when he told him that.

“Now that’s what a good wine’s supposed to do,” Jones said. When the meal was all over, Jones washed everything clean, then put his goods back where they belonged’. There were soft leather pockets in his pack, each one the shape of a certain jar or sack, an eating utensil or a plate. Once Howie saw how it was done, it was easy to see how so much could emerge from an ordinary pack. Still, Howie shook his head in wonder. There were tastes in his mouth he’d never thought about before. He had never eaten finer in his life—and here they were out in the middle of the woods. Ritcher Jones clearly wasn’t a man to let the famine and hardship of the land get in his way. He had fine clothes and food, a good weapon and a horse. The horse—now that was something Howie found hard to believe. He hadn’t even
seen
a horse since he’d left the war in the West. Jones hadn’t kept the mount close to Tallahassee, Howie was certain of that. He’d stashed it out of town somewhere for sure. The preacher might be good with a gun, but they’d have killed him real quick if they knew he had a horse.

Howie watched as Jones cleaned his weapon, wiping it with oil and running patches down the overlong barrel. Light filtered through the trees and made a hundred tiny suns on the bright silver surface. The grips were something white like bone, and there were squiggly lines etched into the metal.

Jones caught Howie’s eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you? Here, see how she feels.”

Howie was astonished. Pleased that he could hold such a weapon in his hand, and surprised that Ritcher Jones would let him do it. Even if a weapon wasn’t loaded, you didn’t hand it over to a man you hardly knew. Not if you had good sense.

“I never seen anything like it,” Howie said, hefting the gun in his hand. In spite of the length of the barrel, the weight was centered firmly in his palm, the way it ought to be.

“It looks to be brand-new,” Howie said. “It sure ain’t from long ago. Not still lookin’ like this.”

“It’s new, all right,” Jones said. “Your standard .45 caliber revolver, but it’s stronger and lighter than the poor weapons folks are making now. And maybe better than the ones from ancient times.”

The gun was fine-looking, but Howie doubted that. “You mind me asking where you get a gun like this? If you don’t want to say …”

“California,” Jones said. He showed Howie a broad grin. “And I don’t mind saying, because it’s my Order makes ’em, and I’m proud to tell you that.”

Jones caught Howie’s look. “I can tell what you’re thinking. That men of God don’t have any business making instruments of death. Some might see it that way, folks that won’t think a thing through. A rock or a branch off a tree can kill a man as well as a gun, and those are God’s creations, not the devil’s. A man with a weapon might do foul murder, or defend his wife and child—it’s his heart tells him which he’s going to do. The heart and the mind perform good or evil deeds, not the weapon you hold in your hand.”

“Yes, sir. I guess so,” Howie said. If you asked Jones which way was east, Howie thought, you’d likely get some preaching in return. He studied the etched design on the gun. There were oak leaves and acorns, and even flying birds. Just above the grip, he found a picture different from the rest, a thick-boled tree, its roots growing out of a stylized heart,

“Does this mean something?” Howie asked, pointing at the curious design.

“Why, it surely does,” Jones said, He took the pistol from Howie. “That’s the symbol of our Order and what it is. The Tree of Life ascends straight up from the heart of Man, where God Himself dwells. And that, son, is the meaning of life itself; the whole story’s right there. At High Sequoia there’s a verse we like to quote that makes it clear. ‘If a man’s heart is—’ ” Jones stopped, and looked at Howie with concern. “Something troubling you? The color’s plain gone from your face.”

“Nothing,” Howie said. He tried to look somewhere else. “I—guess my foot’s actin’ up.”

“No, sir. That’s not it at all.” The preacher leaned in close, and squeezed one eye nearly shut. “I don’t think I’ve got to ask. I figure I can tell you what it is. You’re thinking that you’ve heard some bad things about this High Sequoia place. That’s it for sure. I’ve seen that look of yours once or twice before.”

Howie looked at his hands. “I guess I might’ve heard a couple of things.”

“You know anybody who’s ever
been
to High Sequoia?”

“No,” Howie lied. “I just heard, that’s all.”

Ritcher Jones straightened up with a sigh. “Well, you heard right, then. And likely all you heard was true.” Howie looked surprised.

“Was,”
Jones said, and held up a finger to make his point. “Satan prevailed at High Sequoia, that’s a fact. It wasn’t a Holy Order then at all. Far from it, I’d say. It was a place where evil men of all sorts practiced thievery and lust. A den of larceny and greed. That was all before Lawrence came along.”

Who’s that?”

Jones smiled and half closed his eyes, as if his thoughts were off somewhere else. “Lawrence is Lawrence,” he said.

Howie frowned. “That don’t say a whole lot.”

“Son, I don’t mean to hide my words behind mystery and that kind of thing, the way some of your religions are wont to do. But there’s nothing I can say to help you see. Lawrence is Lawrence, and High Sequoia’s where God-fearing people work to see peace restored to this sorely troubled country of ours. Brothers and Sisters who follow the Light.”

Jones tapped the long-barreled gun. “It isn’t this weapon keeps me safe in this wilderness of sin. Yes, sir, I know you’ve been thinking on that. It’s the Light that watches over Ritcher Jones. The same Light that watches over you.”

Jones laid the weapon on his pack. “If you don’t mind, boy, I’m accustomed to taking a little rest at this time. You might do the same. Sleep heals a man’s wounds and mends his troubled soul.” He smiled and gave Howie a wink. “I reckon you’ve heard me say
that
before.”

Ritcher Jones turned over and settled into the grass. In a moment, Howie knew he was asleep. He kept looking at the preacher’s sleeping form, at the bright silver gun. Lord God, Jones bringing up High Sequoia had taken him by surprise. A man would be a fool if he didn’t see that, and whatever Jones was, he sure wasn’t any fool.

High Sequoia.
The name brought a vivid, painful picture to Howie’s mind. Kari Ann, tall and lean as a sapling, skin fine as silk, and perfect little breasts tipped with amber. He could see her sitting right there now, cross-legged on his bed, filing a piece of metal, working in quick short strokes. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and she likely knew more about guns than anyone alive. She could take a weapon apart, fix it, and put it back together again. Why, she might’ve made the weapon he was looking at now.

Howie realized he’d been holding his breath and let it out. Just thinking about Kari did that. He had ached so much to have her he’d wanted to die, but there wasn’t a man alive could touch Kari. Something had happened— and whatever that was, it had happened at High Sequoia. That’s where Kari had been before he knew her. They had taken something away from Kari there, something that left her cold and empty inside. She was everything a man could dream about, but dreaming was all you’d ever do.

Howie looked at Ritcher Jones again. The man had to be a preacher like he said. Nobody else would leave a gun and a horse and a pack of good food out loose and go to sleep. Howie leaned back and looked at the sky through the trees. Whoever this Lawrence fellow was, he must’ve worked a fair-sized miracle out West. High Sequoia sure didn’t sound like the place Kari was, not anything like it at all.

CHAPTER SIX

H
owie tried to follow Jones’s advice, but sleep wouldn’t come. His foot was aching bad, and there was too much going through his head. Kari was part of that; his memories of her now were both as vivid and as elusive as Kari herself. It pained him to remember how she was, to think of her at all, yet she wouldn’t go away. She was there, all mixed up with things he liked to recall, and a lot more he’d just as soon forget.

There were sounds in the forest, but nothing that didn’t belong. Birds flew overhead now and then, and a light swept through the trees. Still, Howie found it hard to rest easy. Shots brought trouble; as sure as something dead brought buzzards to the scene, men would come too if they heard. Someone had to win every fight, and someone else had to lose. There might be good pickings left, you couldn’t tell—a hat or a fine pair of boots. Or if a man was quiet and smart, he might trail the winner and take away his prize.

None of this seemed to bother Ritcher Jones, but Howie couldn’t get it off his mind. They’d left the river far behind, but that wouldn’t stop a good tracker—not if he knew there was a horse up ahead. A man would follow that trail till hell froze over.

R
itcher Jones woke, sat up and scratched. “Well now, that was a fine nap indeed,” he told Howie. “It’s God Himself grants a man rest, and watches over him while he sleeps. That’s a fact.”

“I reckon so,” Howie muttered to himself.

Damn, the man was a pure aggravation! Howie was worn to a nub, and Jones looked fresh as new grass. Howie couldn’t say how God had been spending the afternoon, but
he’d
been awake keeping watch, for sure. Jones hadn’t bothered to mention that.

The preacher stood and ran his hands through his thinning hair, squinted at the woods as if he weren’t sure they’d been there before, then bent down again and started gathering up his things.

“Still some good afternoon light,” Jones said, folding up his pack. “Time to make a few miles before dark.” He turned and looked at Howie. “Which way you headed, son?”

“Uh, north,” Howie said, the first direction that came into his head. “I got a bunch of things to do.” He hadn’t thought about where he’d go next, or what exactly lay ahead. All he was doing was going away from where he’d been.

“I sure wish you well,” Jones said. “I’ll pray that you walk in the Light.” Something seemed to occur to the preacher, and he laughed. “We’ve known each other for a spell and I never got your name. He stuck his hand out to Howie. “I clean forgot to ask.”

“Cory,” Howie said, remembering the name of a friend who was dead. “Well then, Cory,” Jones grasped Howie’s hand. “We didn’t get to know each other well, but I figure men who’ve fought Satan’s minions and shared a meal, why that’s a good enough start to being friends.”