Dead Reckoning (20 page)

“And, May, about the other day, you understand that I was suspicious about your past and just tryin' to coax some information out of you. I had the feelin' you were on the run from something. I thought maybe it was the law. But I understand, now that I've met Charlie Holt.”

Clarence glanced at May, for she had said nothing about that of which Hassard now spoke.

“By the way, I warned him about ever returning for you, Sister May. I believe I put a righteous fear into him.”

“He's gonna come back,” May said, a grim certainty in her voice. “If he followed me this far, I know he'll keep tryin'. He's gone downright wild. I could see it in his eyes.”

Hassard shrugged. “I've doubled the guard below Tigiwon, just in case.”

Clarence noticed movement on the trail ahead and saw Charlie Holt step from the trees with a drawn revolver. His rifle barrel was over his shoulder, and he knew better than to swing it into action, for Holt had murder in his drunken eyes. All he could do was step in front of May.

Hassard gasped when he saw Holt. He was truly surprised. Holt was supposed to fire in ambush a good half mile up the trail. He wasn't supposed to show himself. He wasn't supposed to be this close to the guards. Already the fool had botched the plan, and Hassard knew he would have to make drastic changes. “Holt!” he said, stopping in his tracks. “You're making a big mistake.”

“She's the one made it,” Holt said. “You never should have run from me, woman. Never should have laid me out for good with that poker.”

“It was the fryin' pan,” May said, her voice less timid than even she could explain.

“Shut up and step out from behind that boy, or I'll kill you all.”

Clarence used his free arm to hold May behind him. “Put your gun away,” he ordered. He could think of only one thing. He had to take control. This helplessness was death. His trigger finger slipped inside the guard, his thumb found the hammer. Now, quickly, he thought, before your fear overcomes you.

May had never seen Charlie like this, and she instinctively knew it meant the worst. This was her fault. She had led him here. She was going to make something happen. She wasn't going to watch him shoot Clarence Philbrick down. No time to think. Just act!

Clarence felt May bolt to the right side of the trail, saw Charlie Holt's eyes and gun muzzle follow her. He slung the long, heavy barrel of the Remington over his shoulder without thinking, and Charlie Holt reacted, covering him with the pistol. The hammer latched as the forestock hit his left palm, and he tensed, seeing the pistol barrel swinging toward him. Dee Hassard was diving for the trees to the left as Clarence jerked the trigger, knowing he had fired too soon, over Holt's head.

He scrambled to his left, and his boot slipped. The Colt pistol fired, only shattering a dead tree limb on the ground six feet away. Clarence took cover, thought about reloading the single-shot hunting rifle. Why wasn't Hassard firing, protecting May? Holt had missed him badly. The man was no
pistolero.
No time to reload the rifle. It was going to happen too fast. Holt would have May in seconds.

He stepped back into the trail, saw Holt peering into the forest for May. He ran at the outlaw, his rifle gripped tight in both hands. The Colt pistol swung on him again, but he pushed the heavy hunting piece ahead of him—hurled it sidewise at Holt with all the force his solid arms could gather.

The rifle hit Charlie Holt's forearm, spoiled his aim as he fired. Clarence collided with him as Holt cocked the weapon for another shot. He grabbed the outlaw's wrist as they slammed against the rocky trail. The heavy jacket constricted him, and Holt was stronger than he had expected, but he held his own, and now he knew Hassard would have to do something. Or would he? Who was this Dee Hassard? Where was he now?

Hassard cursed Charlie Holt from the deepest center of his guts. This should have been so simple that he figured even an amateur like Holt could pull it off. Hassard had done everything he was supposed to do. He had come up the trail at the right moment, stood far enough away from Clarence. Holt was supposed to kill the Vermonter, grab the girl, and ride like hell before the guards could come. But he had shown his face, and he had set his ambush too close to the guards, and now they were coming. Holt might talk.

Hassard drew his Colt and ran for the two men on the ground. They made a good match—about the same size, and both of them strong: Holt from farm labor, Philbrick from a rich boy's calisthenics. He was hoping this wouldn't look too obvious. Thank goodness he had raised all that talk about their future with the church—just in case something like this went wrong.

He could hear James O'Rourke's footsteps coming up the dim trail as he landed on the two men. His left hand grabbed Holt's gun, as if to aid Clarence. The muzzle of his own pistol pressed against Holt's chest. He saw Holt release Clarence's jacket—a strange look of fear and curiosity in his bloodshot eyes. Hassard listened to three of O'Rourke's foot beats, then fired.

May Tremaine screamed and sprang from the trees. She saw Clarence roll away from her husband as the bloody outlaw's eyes rolled toward her and locked onto her, staring forever.

Hassard sprang to his feet and dropped his revolver as if it were hot. “I had to shoot him,” he said. “He was reachin' for my gun. He could have killed Clarence. He could have killed me.” He was explaining this to James O'Rourke, who would take the news back to Tigiwon—James O'Rourke, who was posturing excitedly over the dead man with his weapon.

Clarence stepped over the outlaw Charlie Holt, breaking the death stare that held May. He glanced sideways at Hassard, who had handled everything poorly. Today in the meadow called Tigiwon, Hassard had acted swiftly and effectively, firing through Holt's hat. Here he had waited too long, then acted too rashly. Clarence had pinned Holt. The guard was coming. There was no need to kill the man.

He grabbed May's arm to lead her away, when, unexpectedly, she pulled her arm from his grasp and gripped his wrist instead. He found her looking at him as no woman ever had, and something indomitable came clear between them. She was tired of being weak, and he was making her strong.

“Wait,” she said. “His things are mine. I'm his next of kin.”

Clarence watched, amazed, as she knelt to unbuckle the gun belt from Charlie Holt's hips. She dragged the leather out from under the body, then took the pistol from the limp hand. She holstered the Colt, handed it to Clarence, then looked back at James O'Rourke. “Anything else he has, the church can own.”

There was no Charlie Holt behind her now, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this place with the tall Vermonter. Yet it wasn't that simple with Clarence, and she knew it. He had arrived at a personal struggle with the man who claimed to be a deacon. It was as if they were arm-wrestling or something, and now they were growing weary of the contest and both desirous of an end.

She looked at them both, and they knew—they all three knew. They couldn't speak it, or even speak of it, yet it was there to resolve. Someone would have to prove something tomorrow.

*   *   *

Ramon looked at Sister Petra's face, her features aglow in the soft firelight. How could she sleep? He was too excited to even lie down, let alone sleep. They had met an old prospector who had seen the Mount of the Snowy Cross. Seen it with his own eyes! Ramon hadn't understood a word of his speech, but Petra had translated. This was the old prospector who had been spoken of in Buena Vista. That they should even cross his path was a miracle in itself.

He pulled his wool blanket tighter against his neck and it scratched his skin. It was cold here at night and always a bit musty smelling. He tried to imagine how warm it was in Guajolote right now. That was a wonderful place to sleep in the summertime—sleep with the windows open and the mountain breezes flowing down clean and dry from the pine forests. Maybe that little village was worth saving. Maybe the money to buy the Ojo de los Brazos grant would drop from heaven tomorrow.

He shook his head to rid it of such ridiculous thoughts. And yet, hadn't that old prospector told them of a ragged band of pilgrims camped several miles down the valley? A party of religious fanatics come to see the cross. It was fantastic. Sister Petra was not alone in her quest for this cross. There was something to it all, and he could not fight back the feeling that something wonderful was going to happen tomorrow.

Once he had been a normal boy, unconcerned with the prospect of anything happening to his village. It seemed like such a long time ago that he had been swept up by these wild happenings and carried along on this journey almost like a twig in a river. It had been only a matter of weeks, but he had changed so much and so rapidly that he didn't know how to measure it.

He was a small boy in a land of huge mountains, and he felt helplessly insignificant sitting by the campfire tonight. That he was here seemed almost an accident. This was a journey for more important souls than his own. He had contributed nothing, and in fact had burdened Petra as much as he had aided her.

Perhaps tomorrow he could atone for it. It was to be his last chance. The old Anglo prospector had assured them that the view of the cross was only a half day's climb up the mountain. Tomorrow he was going to climb as he never had before. And if he had to carry Sister Petra on his back to see that cross, he was going to do it.

He forced himself to lie back on his bed of spruce boughs. Sleep, Ramon, he said to himself. Sleep, you idiot. You must show your strength tomorrow. It is your last chance.

Twenty-six

Hassard rose from the log where he had eaten his breakfast of venison steak and saw the eyes of several hopeful pilgrims following him as he reached for the coffeepot over the fire. They had risen to breakfast with him under the stars, in hopes that he might choose them to accompany him up the mountain.

He was getting anxious now. The time was near when he would have to deal with Brother Clarence.

He had Philbrick figured: Over educated and over confident. Morally responsible and physically formidable. A simpleton in terms of practical experience. His ideas of fair play would prove his downfall. He really had no inkling how far Dee Hassard would go. It might have been possible to dupe young Clarence before last night. But the Charlie Holt affair had taught him something. The boy had instincts that he was just too educated to know how to use yet. He would probably never get the chance.

Less than twenty-four hours from now, Hassard was going to leave this camp and head back up the mountain to retrieve the loot that he would leave there today. Philbrick would probably be watching him, waiting for him, and he would have to make silent work of the young Vermonter. This was the reason that Hassard now carried Charlie Holt's dagger. He disliked using knives, but it would have to be done. He would kill Clarence if he had to, get the money from the divide, locate the hobbled mule he had left up the valley, and ride for Buena Vista a half day ahead of Carrol Moncrief.

Carrol Moncrief: Dangerous. Vengeful. Possessed with affecting the capture or death of Dee Hassard. Weakness: Religious scruples. Yet, Moncrief had seen this side of the law. He might easily revert. It was imperative to stay beyond the big preacher's reach. The man was already mounted and riding by this time in the morning and would be at Tigiwon by noon tomorrow, no sooner. It was time to wrap this thing up.

He looked across the camp at the faces of the congregation. They were watching him so expectantly. Oh, glory, what a life to lead! To think that these wretched pilgrims would resign themselves to hard labor and prayer. He hated them. They were small, stupid, and gullible. They would only get what they deserved.

“I had another dream last night,” he said, low and thoughtfully, warming his cup of coffee with a splash from the pot. “A visitation.”

“From the Weeping Virgin?” someone asked.

Hassard nodded. “She gave me specific instructions to follow today, and I am afraid they will disappoint many of you. I don't understand why I am to do this, I only know I must.”

“Do what?” Clarence asked. He was wearing the Colt revolver of the late Charlie Holt.

“I am forbidden to touch the money that we are to dedicate to the Snowy Cross today. Instead, I am to take a small party of faithful with me to carry the stuff and accompany me to the cross.”

A murmur swept around the fire as the pilgrims shuffled uncomfortably.

“In days to come, you will all see it,” Hassard insisted reassuringly. “I'm sure we'll make regular pilgrimages to it. It's the personal experience for each of you that counts, not who gets to go first. But today, I am to take only a few.”

“How many?” James O'Rourke asked. He was certain that Hassard would include him, now that they were personally acquainted after yesterday's trouble.

“Three. The first is Elder Hopewell. The second is Sister Mary Whitepath. The third, Brother Clarence.”

O'Rourke sprang to his feet. “What about me? I joined the church in Baltimore, before any of them, except Elder Hopewell!”

“I can't explain why these have been chosen,” Hassard said. “I can't even explain why I have been chosen. I, too, joined the church after you, Brother James, only as recently as Denver. I only know what the Weeping Virgin has told me.” He shrugged apologetically. “Try to remember what Pastor Wyckoff has written about personal sacrifice. Perhaps this is yours.”

O'Rourke sat sullenly down against a tree trunk.

Dee Hassard picked up a hatchet and felt its edge with his thumb. “Elder Hopewell. The money.”

“It's here,” the elder said, lifting a heavily laden saddlebag. In it were all the monies Pastor Wyckoff had collected since the pilgrimage began, plus Dee Hassard's take from the diamond field fraud, and even a bag of gold dust recovered from the body of the outlaw Charlie Holt. No one had bothered to add it all up.