Sanctuary (20 page)

Laughter bounced against the back bar, and Benson stiffened. “Wasn't anything wrong with Gladys. She'd just had some tough times and—”

“SHUT UP!”

Newcombe's shout halted motion, brought absolute silence to the Silver Dollar. Arms were poised halfway to lips, conversations cut off as cleanly as with a scalpel. Not even the creak of chairs broke the silence as the uneasy men shifted their seats.

“When I first rode into this valley,” Newcombe said, commanding everyone's attention, “the only justice a man had was what he could enforce himself. Well, I enforced the law—my law—on every damn Indian I saw. If they weren't stealing your cattle or murdering … your women, they were planning to.

“And I enforced the law on rustlers, every son of a bitch I caught and everyone I suspected. I rode with Stuart's Stranglers and I was on that train with Granville, too. We made stops through Montana and clear into Dakota.”

“More than sixty rustlers saw the light o' day when we rode up and never saw nothing but the doors to hell after that. We left 'em strung up to telegraph poles and cottonwood trees and whatever else was handy. Caught one man out on the prairie, nothing proper for hanging in sight. One of the cattlemen dropped a noose over his neck, dallied the end of a long rope around his saddle horn, and lit out at a gallop across the prairie. All that time the rustler was protesting his innocence, saying he was just riding through the country.”

Newcombe's eyes burned through the crowd.

“Well, he protested until that horse came to the end of the rope. You could hear that man's neck break a hundred feet away, and he sailed through the air like his soul was trying to get a head start to hell. Damn near ruined Turk's saddle, and he still cusses about that today.”

“Thing of it was that when there was no law in this country, there was more justice than there is now.”

Jasper cut in. “Mr Newcombe's right. Hanging's the only thing fit for that son of a bitch. Let's fit him for a rope right now.”

A roar went through the bar, and the crowd turned mob surged toward the door with Jasper in the lead. No one heard Ben Johnson's protests, no one except Dirk Newcombe, who fixed the bartender with a look that left him flopping helplessly behind the bar like a fish on a hook.

The Reverend Eli stood on the courthouse steps, ringed by his Christian soldiers. The soldiers were his instrument, and he was playing them as an artist plays a violin.

At the beginning, his voice had been low, little more than a whisper. They had strained to hear him, edging closer to the top of the steps. And when he had their attention, when his voice held them mesmerized, he raised the volume a little at a time until the vowels and consonants and syllables bumped against their ears like the beat of ancient drums.

The Christian soldiers began swaying then, in time to the beat. Hallelujahs were popping out of the crowd like the first kernels in a pan of corn heating on a stove.

The Reverend was the heat in that stove, changing the character of the crowd, chasing away reason, pulling them in until they were raw nerves and sinews and bones and muscle serving the Reverend's will.

And then the mob from the Silver Dollar saloon rounded the corner of the courthouse, and the Reverend stood before his soldiers, telling them his prophecy had been proven true.

His voice thundered into their ears. “Have not the good people of Sanctuary come to join us in our battle against Satan?”

The resounding “YES!” pushed the Reverend back on the steps as though carried by a flood.

The Reverend Eli stood there, the sky darkening behind him and the wind rising, threatening to take his voice away.

“Then let us march, Christian soldiers. Let us battle the Evil One. Let us deliver Earth of sin and stand shining in the face of the Lord.”

The two mobs flowed together, one fueled with alcohol and the other with hate, both aimed like arrows at Mordecai's heart.

Judd sat uneasy at the table in the judge's chambers. The room was grand, walls finished in dark mahogany and lined with more books than Judd had ever seen. The table-desk was dark oak with heavy, curved legs and clawed feet.

Chairs, carved of the finest woods, were curved to fit the backs of men, but not twelve-year-olds. Judd sat straight-backed on the edge of his seat, out of place in the midst of such finery—and rancor.

Judge William Tecumseh Harding had stomped into the room, fuming still over the Reverend Eli's outburst and the Christian soldiers' exodus from the courtroom.

But the judge's curiosity about this strange man who seemed an odd mix of preacher, lawyer, and rustler poked through the judge's anger, and he had invited the defendant to join him for dinner in the judge's chamber—provided that no words were spoken about the case.

Mordecai would be pleased to join the judge under those circumstances, he said. Could a few of his friends join him? The judge had considered the preacher's request for a moment and decided that Mordecai's friends could corroborate his and Sheriff Timothy's statements that the case had not been discussed if the issue were raised.

But the judge sensed little danger there. Any objections would have to come from the prosecuting attorney, and County Attorney Thomas Driscoll seemed anxious to be shut of the case as soon as possible.

The judge sat down at the table, his eyes moving over Mordecai, Sheriff Timothy, Deputy Whimple, a woman Mordecai called Mary, one of Sanctuary's doctors, and the Indian boy Judd who had testified against the preacher.

An odd mix of friends, the judge thought.

He asked Mordecai to bless the food, and as the preacher spoke, the judge's rancor drained from him. He felt refreshed, eager to learn more about this strange man, this accused rustler. The two talked in hushed tones, broken by grins and chuckles.

Only after the meal was complete did Mordecai turn his attention to the others.

“Not long before you'll be leaving Sanctuary,” he said to Mary, the question plain in his voice.

“No, not long.” Mary's reply was tinged with regret. She had enjoyed her summer at the river rocks school, teaching the Indian children the mysteries of the white man's speech and paper scratching. She would miss “her children,” Indian and white. And more.

The wilds of Montana had wrapped their web around her. She had been captivated by that first fall, cottonwoods transformed by the first frost to gold so pure and bright it seemed the sun had broken into shards and fallen to earth.

Winter came fierce as a warrior, challenging those it met to stand before its fury if they dared, or retreat.

In spring, the sun flirted with Montana like a young lover, showering the earth with a smile, only to skip away and then return, coquettish yet demanding. It was not until June, the month of the Sun Dance of most of the plains tribes, that the marriage was consummated and then Sanctuary languished with warmth and life.

The time Mary had spent in Sanctuary had made her more aware, more sensitive to the world about her. In her walks along the river, she had felt at one with the land, as much a part of nature as the deer she occasionally frightened on the river bottom, her presence sending them crashing into a stand of willows or wild roses.

“No, not long,” she repeated to Mordecai, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Don't rush off,” the preacher said. “I've heard that the school board is having a hard time finding a replacement for you. Seems that word has spread about the little dance the Christian soldiers performed at the teacherage. Not many want to be subjected to that.”

The preacher's voice dropped. “I don't think anything like that will happen again.”

“Since you'd be in a strong position for bargaining, you could likely insist that Judd and the others from the garden school be allowed to study with the other children.”

Mary felt warmed by the preacher's beatific smile. At that moment, all her cares and worries and regrets seemed to be stripped away. She felt alive and full of hope and love.

“Yes, I could do that,” she said. “There's no need to rush off.”

“And Doc,” the preacher asked, turning his attention to the old man. “Have you found where the wild crocus grows?”

Doc looked at the preacher, and when he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “Yes, preacher, I've found where the wild crocus grows.”

Mordecai smiled.

“You had better go, now. I'll talk to Judd a little later. Know that I will always love you.”

“It sounds as though you're saying good-bye,” Mary said.

Mordecai shook his head. “I'll always be with you. But you had better go now. Judd, you go, too. Take the extra plate to your grandmother.”

“Go out the back now, and no one will see you.”

And the three stepped out of the room and down the hall, heels clicking across the polished hardwood, none of them wondering why it was important they were not seen.

Clouds were rising in the west and the sky was darkening. A storm seemed to be brewing, and the three leaned into the wind as they left the building. It seemed even then, even against the blasts of wind that popped in their ears, they could hear the rumble of thunder, still distant, but nearing.

Jasper and the Reverend Eli were side by side as they popped through the double doors at the front of the courthouse. The doors slammed against the walls, a hairline crack chasing across the glass in one. The doors tried to swing closed, only to be thrown once more against the wall by the crush of the mob.

The cracked pane crashed against the floor, shards skittering across the polished hardwood ahead of the mob, but the glass came to rest, momentum spent, and the mob moved on, carried by common purpose.

The door of the courtroom crashed open. Clerk of Court Melvin Jacobs was sitting at the evidence table, preferring solitude to the company of those less worthy than he. He looked up as the mob surged through the doors, eyes widening as he read intent on twisted faces. Jacobs tried to rise, only to step into Jasper's backhand as the big man reached the table.

A roar went up from the crowd as Jacobs tumbled back to crash against the railing. They left him there like an irrigation dam washed out by a flood, while they raged through the courtroom and up to the door of the judge's chambers.

The little knot of men there was more formidable than the clerk, and the mob slowed as though the flood had washed against a boulder in its path.

The boulder was Sheriff Timothy. Deputy Whimpie hovered behind, but his eyes were darting from the men to the back door. The mob was aching to kill, and Whimple knew it didn't matter much who.

A pistol appeared in Timothy's hand, the bore opening like the door to hell for those at the front of the mob, but they were being shoved toward the sheriff by the crush of those behind and couldn't stop.

Judge Harding was on his feet, eyes wild. “Get the hell out of my chambers, or I'll have you all in jail.”

The judge didn't see Jasper's fist, swung low from his belt. He didn't feel it either, when it landed on his chin. The mob roared and surged forward another step.

Snick!
The hammer clicked back on Timothy's pistol. When his voice came, it was even more menacing than the weapon he held in his hand.

“One step, and I'll go down shooting. Packed like you are, I figure I can take two of you at a shot as often as not.”

“That means nine or ten of you will be in hell to welcome me. You're going to be first, Jasper. You'll get a slug all to yourself, right between your beady little eyes.”

“Think, now! Nine or ten of you dying before I go down, and that's not counting how many Whimple takes before you step over him.”

Whimple's eyes were wide, and he belatedly hauled his revolver out of his holster. He knew what the sheriff said was true. He knew too that the mob would kill them both if the sheriff squeezed his pistol's trigger.

Whimple swung the pistol as hard as he could, the barrel thumping behind the sheriff's ear. As Timothy sank to the floor, the mob surged forward. Whimple was shouting “Remember what I did when you vote for sheriff,” but his voice was lost to the roar as the mob laid hands on Mordecai.

Outside, black clouds rolled in from the west, turning day to night. Lightning flashed through the clouds. Thunder rumbled, and the wind howled.

Judd huddled, hidden behind a lilac bush on the courthouse lawn, wishing he could help the preacher, afraid of what would happen if he tried.

The back door of the courthouse burst open, and the mob streamed through. Mordecai was at the front, hands bound behind his back, shoved along by the crowd. A wagon and horses waited at the door, and the preacher was thrown on the wagon bed, sprawling from the force of the fall.

For a moment, Judd couldn't see, the sting of tears stealing his vision. He wiped the tears from his eyes and saw that Mordecai had managed to push himself into a half-sitting position. Blood cut black lines from the preacher's mouth and nose in the dim light, and for a moment, he looked across the yard to the lilac bush.

Mordecai seemed to have smiled for a moment, but Judd couldn't be sure, his vision blurred by tears.

The wagon jolted across the courthouse lawn, dropped into the street, and turned east toward the cottonwoods lining the banks of the Milk River.

A steady roar rose from the crowd, the heat of their hatred driving away the chill from the storm winds from the west.

Judd crawled from the bush in growing darkness, jerking when a crack of lightning caught him midstep.

He followed the wagon, darting from picket fence to shrub to the corners of backyard sheds, not noticing pale faces outlined in windows and staring after the mob.

The wagon had reached the edge of town, wheels jolting over clumps of sagebrush, Mordecai twisting to maintain his balance on the wagon bed.

Then Judd saw Jasper reach into the wagon—a whip! Jasper uncoiled it and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the tip speeding toward Mordecai's face. Mordecai tried to twist free, but his bound hands handicapped him.