Pale Rider (12 page)

Hull was no less realistic that Sarah. It was one of many things they shared in common. “How about it, Preacher?”

“I expect we’ve got as much right to go into town as anybody else.”

Sarah’s remaining concerns were alleviated by his choice of pronouns. “Then—you’ll be coming in with us?”

The tall stranger rubbed at his right shoulder. “I don’t imagine that sledge will get lonely if I let it set by itself for awhile, and I sure won’t miss paying attention to
it.”

All three of them chuckled, Sarah loudest of all.

Sarah and Megan were already dressed, and it didn’t take Hull long to change into a clean shirt and his spare pair of pants. Soon they were all piled into the buckboard and rattling along the creek, following the well-worn trail that led out of the canyon toward town.

Having grown bored with panning, an activity to which their limited attention spans were not naturally suited, the two Conway boys were lolling on a nearby bank. Each was whittling on a piece of white spruce, and each was trying to whittle the same thing. They looked up as the wagon jounced past.

“Goin’ into town again, Mr. Barret?” Teddy called over to them.

“That’s right,” Hull replied. “You want to join us? Plenty of room in the back.”

Eddy looked tempted and set his whittling aside. “Our daddy wouldn’t let us, Mr. Barret. Says we’re not to go into town without him. Says we’d like as not get ourselves into trouble.” He grinned happily, a grin of utter innocence that Hull sometimes envied. “Sure is a nice day for it, though.”

“Hi, Megan,” Teddy called out as he spotted the younger Wheeler.

“Hello, Teddy.” She sat very straight and ladylike as the buckboard passed the twins, acutely conscious of her appearance and posture. “I
do
hope you boys have a nice day.”

As the wagon rattled around the next bend in the creek, Teddy Conway turned a mystified gaze on his brother. “Now what do you suppose has got into her?”

VI

The buckboard trundled down the sparsely populated main street. Most of the visitors in town were from other mining sites and did not recognize the new arrivals, but a few permanent residents did. Then they would turn their gaze down the street, staring at some unvoiced location, and increase their pace.

The two women rode in the back while the Preacher sat next to Hull on the single high bench seat. Their progress continued to draw stares from those familiar with their situation.

Among the citizens who happened to be watching the street as the buckboard pulled up outside Blankenship’s emporium was Josh Lahood. He stared at the wagon only long enough to make sure of what he was seeing before turning to vanish back inside the big warehouse that bore his name.

Hull tied the reins to the hitching rail. “I’ll square things up with Blankenship. Might take a minute or two. He’s liable to faint twice: once when I show him the nugget and again when I tell him it’s to pay off our debts in full. When he gets over the shock maybe we’ll get you an ice cream, Meg.” He smiled at his tall friend. “I’ll try not to be too long, Preacher. You’ll keep an eye on the ladies?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said agreeably.

Hull grinned at him. “I’ll hurry.”

Buoyed by his discovery, he cleared two steps at a time in bounding up to the entrance. Meanwhile Megan’s attention had been caught by movement across the street. Now she prodded the Preacher anxiously.

“Look!”

Half a dozen roughnecks had emerged from the warehouse. They paused on the porch to chat among themselves. Occasionally they would stare across the street and point. Josh Lahood followed them out but didn’t stop on the boardwalk. His gun shining at his side, he strode across the street toward the wagon.

Megan’s eyes darted back and forth between the approaching younger man and the Preacher. She half rose from her seat.

“I’ll get Hull.”

Casually, the Preacher stared her back down. “No need. He’s got important business. Whether or not Mr. Blankenship keels over at the sight of the nugget, it’s likely going to take them some time to square accounts. Hull’s trusting, but he’s nobody’s fool either. Blankenship’s middlin’ honest, but that doesn’t mean he might not try to collect extra interest on a debt long owed. Best to leave them to their figurin’ and not disturb them. Reckon I may as well double-check the hitch. Appears we may be here awhile.”

Moving easily and unhurriedly, he climbed down from the seat.

Which movement prompted the roughnecks across the street to variously bend, crouch, duck, and otherwise halfway go for their guns.

If he noticed the reaction his descent provoked, the Preacher gave no sign of it. He contented himself with checking the double hitch that secured horse to rail, then turned in time to interpose himself between the buckboard and the oncoming Lahood. The younger man immediately halted a discreet ten feet away.

He glanced back toward the warehouse as if to reassure himself of his reinforcements before addressing himself stiffly to the occupants of the wagon.

“Mrs. Wheeler. Megan.” His attention lingered a bit long on Megan, perhaps enjoying her Sunday dress, perhaps something else. Megan managed to ignore him.

He paid no attention to her now, having rapidly shifted his attention to the tall man silently confronting him. “My father wants to see you.” He hesitated slightly before adding, “Now.” His eyes locked with the Preacher, and he indicated the building across the street. There followed a very long silence, or so it seemed to Josh Lahood, anyway.

He was greatly relieved, though he never would have admitted to it, when the Preacher smiled back at him. “I’ve looked forward to meeting your father.” He glanced back at the two women. “Hope you ladies’ll pardon me for a minute or so. Hull should be out soon enough and it’s not polite to refuse an invitation.”

“Don’t!” Sarah urged him in hushed tones. “It’s a trick. They just want to get you inside, away from witnesses!”

“Maybe they do, but I think it’s just to talk.” He gave her hand a reassuring pat, then started across toward the Lahood building. Josh fell in alongside, though still taking care to stay out of reach while simultaneously keeping a watch on the tall man’s hands. He frowned as they walked, unable to reconcile the absence of visible weapons or the presence of the white collar with the story McGill and his men had told.

Both Wheeler women watched their progress.

“What if they hurt him?” Megan’s voice was full of apprehension. “What if they—?”

“Shut up, Megan,”
her mother said tightly.

Something in her mother’s tone made Megan turn sharply to stare at her. Again she took note of the carefully coiffed upswept hair that was so rarely attended to these days, of the clean, freshly-pressed dress that her mother had labored over so frantically with the heavy sad iron, of the attentiveness with which she followed the progress of the two men across the street. An attentiveness born perhaps of something stronger than mere friendly concern.

An attentiveness that sprang from precisely the same kind of emotions that were unsettling
her.

Such realizations strike in an instant, for it seemed that no time at all had passed before Sarah Wheeler realized how she’d spoken to her daughter. She hastened to correct any false impressions her words might have given.

“I’m sorry, Megan,” she said much too quickly “I—”

“It’s all right.” Megan sounded small and lost. Hurriedly she turned away, ostensibly to gaze across the street but in reality so that her mother would not be able to see the truth written in her face. A disconcerting, uncomfortable truth, which thus far Megan was the only one to realize.

She and her mother were now rivals.

Both women gazed intently across the street. What they saw was not reassuring. The instant that Josh and the Preacher disappeared inside the Lahood building, the swarm of roughnecks rushed in behind them like so many coyotes closing in on a kill.

Josh Lahood led the Preacher upstairs, away from the dirt and grime of commerce into a rarified realm where the roughnecks were not allowed to follow. They were reduced to milling about the base of the stairway, to mutter expectantly among themselves.

It was quiet upstairs, heavy timber muffling the sounds from the street outside and the warehouse below. The Preacher followed the younger Lahood down a wide hall, then through a door decorated with beaded glass.

Inside, Coy Lahood rose from the chair behind his desk to beam at his guest. He was all conviviality and good humor but for all that he did not extend a welcoming hand. The fact of the matter was, Coy Lahood disliked physical contact. It didn’t matter. His visitor was not offended.

“Morning, Reverend! Beautiful day. Beautiful country, this, and a fine place for a man to make his fortune. I’m Coy Lahood.”

Unlike the drab exterior of the building, Lahood’s sumptuous office might have been transported intact from some substantial San Francisco bank. Dark walnut paneling sealed the walls while a vast Persian carpet blanketed the floor. The desk was fashioned of fine mahogany. Burgundy velvet drapes framed the windows and brass Rochester lamps shone atop the desk.

A few of the roughnecks, unable to stand the suspense, had decided to chance their luck. Now they crowded in behind Josh and the tall stranger, unnaturally subdued in the presence of so much wealth and class. Within the Boss’s inner sanctum one spoke only in whispers. They were not much interested in talking anyway. They waited to see what would transpire, hoping they would be permitted to remain.

The Preacher took it all in with a casual glance, then nodded slightly in response to the jovial introduction. “I know.”

Lahood had a twinkle in his eye. It had charmed politicians and women, but it was wasted on the Preacher. Lahood had suspected as much, but he was not the man to fail to try every weapon at his disposal, charm included.

“Do you imbibe, Reverend?”

The Preacher smiled at him. “Only after nine in the morning.”

He’s got a sense of humor.
Lahood allowed himself a pleased chuckle. He had expected many things, but not a sense of humor. It was an encouraging sign. Some of the tension that had been building in him prior to the stranger’s arrival went away. Could it be he’d been worrying himself over nothing?

Digging in his desk, he produced a bottle and two crystal glasses. He poured two stiff drinks. Uncouth and ignorant of manners, a couple of the roustabouts eyed the golden liquid and licked their lips. Scotch of such quality was as alien to their palates as kind words for the downtrodden. They knew none of their number would ever have the chance to taste of such nectar, but that didn’t keep them from dreaming.

Lahood was feeling much better about the forthcoming discussion. As usual, his fool of a boy had exaggerated, just as he was likely to exaggerate any problem he proved incapable of handling.

“When I heard that a parson had arrived in town, I naturally had an image of a pale, scrawny, bible-thumping Easterner complete with linen handkerchief and bad lungs.”

“That’s me,” the Preacher allowed.

Lahood chuckled again. “Hardly.” He extended a hand holding a glass, in which reposed six full ounces of the finest Scotch whiskey available anywhere west of the Mississippi. “Your health, sir.”

The Preacher took the glass and eyed the contents appreciatively.

Lahood picked up the other glass. “It has occurred to me, sir, that it must be difficult for a man of the faith to carry the message on an empty stomach, so to speak. I take it you have no formal parsonage elsewhere?”

“Mine is a traveling ministry,” came the soft reply.

“I see, and a difficult life it must be in this unforgiving country. So I thought to myself; why not invite this devout and humble man to preach right here in town? Why not let this community be his parish? In fact, why not build him a brand new church! We’ve plenty of sinners hereabouts, Parson. Both local and passing through, with more of ’em coming in every day now that the train stops in Lahood. We’ve got just about everything we need to make a real town here except a full-time school and a church.

“Think what a permanent church here would mean, Reverend. Families would come to settle down. Hardscrabble miners down on their luck would have a place to turn to. Why, a man like yourself would have so much work to do he’d hardly have a chance to rest.” He put on his broadest smile.

“What would you say to taking up your work here, Parson? Full time, in a brand new church of your own design, with a parsonage next door big enough and spacious enough to impress the needy?”

The Preacher continued to regard his own drink, finding something only he could see in the depths of the glass. Lahood hoped it was wisdom. He sipped at his drink, hoping it would inspire his guest to indulge in his own. But the tall man continued to refrain from sampling the liquor as he gazed across the desk at his host.

“I can see how a Preacher could be mighty tempted by an offer like that.”

“Indeed. It’s a chance for a man of the cloth like yourself to do the work that needs to be done in, shall we say, an appropriate style?”

“Style.” The tall man nodded slowly, clearly contemplating Lahood’s offer. “Yeah. First thing you know, he’d set his mind on a batch of new clothes. Couldn’t go preaching to a real congregation in rags.”