Pale Rider (24 page)

He slid the pistol into the holster that rested on the table. “Is that what they’re saying?”

“Is it true?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t. Please.”

He shrugged. “It’s an old score. There’s more to it than the problems of the folks in Carbon Canyon. Time’s come to settle things. Could’ve come some time before now, could’ve come later. Could’ve been some other place. It just happens to be here and now. That’s the way it’s got to be. I can’t help that.”

“Isn’t there anything I could say, or do, to change your mind?”

Something in the way she said it made him look sharply up at her. He rose from the table, went to the stove, and poured two cups of coffee. She kept her back to him, unable to look him in the face as she spoke. The words she’d been trying to say every day since he’d arrived came pouring out.

“When you left the other day without saying anything, without telling anyone, it reminded me of the other time someone left me. Left me in the same way. After that I swore I’d never let myself be hurt again because I’d never love again.

“Then you rode into Carbon Canyon, and into our lives, and I couldn’t help the way I felt.” Her hands balled into tiny fists. “God, if only I could control the way I feel!” She inhaled deeply.

“When you left like that I thought sure you’d gone forever. It forced me to reassess what I’d been thinking, to look at things in a new light. Sometimes you need something like that to make you appreciate what you have instead of mooning over what you want but can never have. I need a man who’ll never leave me again, who’ll stay at my side for the rest of my days. If I married again and he ran out on me it would kill me as sure as one of Stockburn’s bullets. Can you understand that?”

He set the coffee pot back on the stove. “Yes. It’s not so very complicated, you know.”

She nodded. “And you’d have left again one day, wouldn’t you?”

A long pause, then, “Yes.”

She shut her eyes tight, then opened them again. She sounded almost grateful. “I thought as much. Then this way is best. Best all around. I’m going to marry Hull.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” he said evenly. “Hull’s a good man. He’ll make a fine husband.”

“I never doubted it. I just was never completely certain before—before now. Now I’m sure.” She turned and walked over to him. He turned to face her. She could handle that now, she was pleased to discover. It wasn’t so difficult, now that she was ready to face everything else.

But there was one more thing she had to do to make sure within herself, to make it final.

“This is just so I won’t have to wake up at night for the rest of my life, wondering . . .”

Rising on tiptoes, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He did not resist, but neither was there the response she both hoped for and feared. She released him, turned, and headed for the door.

“Goodbye,” she said softly as she opened it.

“Goodbye, Sarah.”

She stepped outside—and froze. It was the sound that stopped her cold, not the chill of night. It came floating down the canyon, echoing off the granite walls, a faint but comprehensible wail. A single word, long and drawn out. It did not sound entirely human.

“
Preeeaccchherrrr
!”

Sarah stood staring fearfully out into the darkness as the eerie, ephemeral call faded away.

“Close the door,” the Preacher told her. “Mosquitoes’ll get in.”

“It’s too cold for mosquitoes.” But she retreated and shut the heavy oak barrier behind her. “Who is it?”

They heard it again, a high, keening moan that cried out for a response.

“Preeeacchherrrr!”

The wick in the lamp had been burning high. The oil had been exhausted. Now the light sputtered and died. The tall man and Sarah stood close to each other in the darkened room. Moonlight flooded in through the windows.

She stared at his half-hidden face, trying to penetrate the veil of mystery in which he’d cloaked himself ever since he’d come among them. In some ways the moonlight was more revealing than the bright light of day. It threw everything into sharp relief: his features, his expression, that unblinking stare.

What did they know about him, really? Not where he came from, not where he’d been going when he’d stumbled by accident into their tense little community. What did he really want with them? Was there some deeper purpose behind his actions, or was he truly just responding to events as they developed?

“Who are you?” she murmured. “Who are you, really?”

He smiled gently down at her. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? Not now.”

He was right. It didn’t. Events had been set in motion. They would move to a conclusion of their own momentum. Whatever happened now was out of their hands. They could no more change what was going to happen tomorrow than they could alter the inclination of the Earth.

“
Prreeaccheerrrr
!”

That inhuman howl again, hopefully for the last time, Sarah thought. This time there was an undercurrent of frustration and uncertainty to it. She moved a little closer to the tall man.

One by one, as if to ward off the spell the cry cast over them, the inhabitants of Carbon Canyon extinguished their fires and their lamps. Within their shacks and shanties they huddled together for warmth and reassurance. Death stalked the morrow, and each man prayed that it would not visit him or his family. And as they prayed, they tried hard to convince themselves it was common sense that ruled their actions rather than cowardice.

The Preacher rose with the sun. There was much to do and no time to waste in getting it done, but he still took the time to observe the civilized amenities. Wash and shave, then a brief breakfast of hard bread and a little bacon. A final check of gun and shells, then one last task to perform before he set out.

He’d checked the heavy wooden box earlier and was familiar with its contents. Now he carried it outside onto the porch and broke the seal with his knife, kicking the lid aside. The half-foot-long red cylinders the box contained were stacked neatly within the inner padding.

His horse waited patiently as he began filling one saddlebag with the dynamite. Then he added coils of fuse, more than he was likely to need. Each fuse would have to be short and burn fast. When the box was half empty, he slung the saddlebags over the gelding’s withers, took a last look at the empty cabin, and climbed into the saddle. Mackinaw and bedroll formed a tightly wrapped bundle behind the cantle.

A fine, warm day. The Sierras’ farewell to summer, a salutary prelude to the onrushing November. But he wouldn’t need the mackinaw today. He would not have had it on if it had been twenty degrees colder. He was going to have to be able to move as quickly as possible.

He started away from the cabin and had gone no more than a few yards when the flash of light on metal made him halt. His fingers dipped toward the holstered .44, then relaxed.

Hull came out from behind the cabin on his well-rested mare and grinned at him. It was apparent he’d been waiting back there for some time. An old Sharps .59-90 lay across his legs.

The Preacher eyed him quizzically. “Morning, Barret. Little early for you, isn’t it?”

“A little,” Hull agreed. He looked heavenward. “Nice day to be out, though. Too nice for sleepin’ in. I see you’re of the same mind.”

“Affairs that need attending to.” The tall man nodded at the oversized rifle. “Quite a hunk of iron. Good for driving nails or hunting buffalo. Problem is, there ain’t any hereabouts. You plan on using that thing for what it was designed for, you need to be about a thousand miles east of here.”

“Depends on what you’re hunting. Besides, it’s too nice a day to be out ridin’ alone. I’m goin’ with you.”

The Preacher stared hard at his friend. Hull was nervous, that was clear enough for anyone to see. He was also determined.

“No buffalo where I’m going, neither.”

“I know.” The miner shifted the position of the huge rifle so that the barrel pointed, as if coincidentally, at his companion. It was an impressive old weapon, but bulky. Hard to bring to bear in a hurry, and a single-shot to boot.

“Even with that cannon, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

The other man showed no indication of being ready to back down. “That’s for me to decide, ain’t it?”

There was a long pause. The Preacher’s eyes burned into Hull’s. The miner met that unsparing gaze without flinching or turning away. Eventually the tall man shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

He flicked the reins, and his horse started forward at a canter. Hull’s mare fell in alongside. Neither man spoke. There was no need. Everything that had to be said had been said.

The sun was still rising over the walls of Cobalt Canyon. The bunkhouse door was still closed against the cold night air. From the cookhouse smoke was rising, along with the sharp odors of frying bacon and fresh bread. Soon the men would come staggering out. In less than an hour, every one of them would be hard at work.

The machinery slept along with the men. The monitor hung slack in its gymbal, its power held in check, waiting for men to lift its nozzle to the still unblemished hillside across the creekbed, waiting for others to fill it with the power of Cobalt Creek.

Somewhere a Stellar jay chirped, heralding the arrival of the sun. It let out a startled squawk and flew off as a red and orange flower erupted from the base of the monitor platform, to be followed instantly by a numbing earth-shaking blast. The platform exploded in a geyser of splinters. The monitor teetered drunkenly atop it for a moment before tumbling heavily to the ground. Metal bent and rivets popped free as the water cannon smashed against the boulders below.

Moving as fast as possible over the slippery, uneven terrain, the Preacher’s gelding came flying through the dust of the explosion. A long cigar was clamped tightly between the horseman’s teeth. A pair of red tubes in his right hand, he galloped straight for the forty-foot-long iron sluice that was used to divert the creek’s flow. Each tube flicked the tip of the burning cigar and began to hiss and sputter. He dropped them as he rode on beneath the sluice.

Two more explosions followed his passage, each close upon the other, lifting the body of the sluice off the ground. Fragments of it flew into the dry streambed and
whanged
off rocks, sending sparks flying.

At the same time Hull Barret was circling the main tool-shed. He tossed a stick of dynamite against the base of the building, then put one hand on his hat to hold it in place as he rode like hell for somewheres else. The Preacher had cut the fuses breathtakingly short and there was no time to hang around and enjoy the show.

The echo of the explosion mixed with those the Preacher had already set off. Multiple reverberations caromed through one another as they bounced off the flanks of the canyon. The toolshed came apart like a matchbox, sending nails and picks and bits of shattered lumber flying in all directions.

The bunkhouse door was slammed open. Club stood there, clad in mangy oversized longjohns. He had barely enough time to take in the ruined monitor platform, the devastated sluice, and the concrete slab that had once formed a foundation for the toolshed before his eyes widened in horror at the specter that stood not ten yards in front of him.

It was the Preacher. He sat easily astride his horse, holding a fulminating stick of dynamite in one hand. He did not move to throw it. Instead he just held it firmly, as though the fast-shrinking fuse was of no concern to him, and stared significantly back at the giant.

Club was neither an intellectual nor an idiot, and he grasped the import of the Preacher’s position instantly. He ducked back inside the bunkhouse to shout a warning. In seconds the door was filled with half-naked, half-asleep roughnecks scrambling for cover.

As soon as the last man was out the Preacher tossed the dynamite inside. There was less than half an inch of fuse left. Turning his mount quickly, he sent it sprinting down the canyon. As he rode past Club’s position he found time to proffer a casual salute. The giant grinned back at him and returned the gesture. Then he joined the rest of the miners in an exercise known as digging for gold without pick or shovel.

Seconds later there was dirt in his mouth and heat on his back as the bunkhouse erupted, throwing skyward a mass of wood, clothing, and assorted personal possessions. Something bounced off the giant’s back and came to rest in front of his face. A broken shaving mug. He eyed it thoughtfully from his prone position. Somehow he didn’t think it would be prudent to rise and expose himself just yet.

In this Club demonstrated unsuspected wisdom, because Hull and the Preacher had not yet concluded their visit. They continued to ride through the camp, seeking out suitable subjects for attention until they had expended the last of the dynamite. Explosion upon explosion rent the air, until not a single structure remained standing. The canyon was filled with dust that would be a long time in settling.

Under this cover the two men made their escape, climbing an old trail into the woods that lined the south ridge. There they paused to survey their handiwork. Flames danced within the ruins of the bunkhouse, and there would be no breakfast served in the cookhouse this morning, or any morning soon after. They could make out the more intrepid among the roughnecks beginning to pick their way through the camp, trying to salvage what they could. There was no sign of anyone attempting to mount a counterattack. Nor was there likely to be any. Among the casualties of the ride-through was the camp’s corral, whose four-legged occupants, spurred to ragged flight by the repeated explosions, should be halfway to Sacramento by now.

Still, there was one stick of dynamite left. The Preacher lit it, watched it sputter, and drew back his hand to let fly this final farewell in the direction of the camp below—only to have the hissing charge slip from his grasp. It rolled right under Hull’s mare.

“Uh-oh,” the tall man murmured.

Eyes wide, Hull vaulted from his saddle, picked up the stick, and hurled it over the side of the ridge. The resultant explosion sent the shell-shocked miners below racing frantically for their cover as dirt and brush fountained skyward.