Read Dead Reckoning Online

Authors: Mike Blakely

Dead Reckoning (7 page)

Hassard smiled. “Consider it done, Carrol.” He watched the reverend walk away down the street and wondered at the gullibility of man. Imagine, the likes of Dee Hassard falling for that old line of Christian nonsense. Give your life to Jesus? What in the hell did it even mean?

He was beginning to think these Moncrief brothers would fall for anything. They had gun savvy, all right. They had guts. But, for the love of God, did they trust every snake that didn't rattle?

“If there is a god,” Dee Hassard said to himself, “he's smilin' on you today, boy.”

Eight

The runabout lurched over obstacles in the moonlit road, jostling May against Clarence from time to time on the seat. She was relieved that the Vermonter possessed the gift of conversation, or the ride up Clear Creek would have felt awkward.

They passed around a camp of men with pack saddles and strange black boxes stacked everywhere. A fine white mule caught Clarence's eye, but as the men there didn't look like pilgrims, he drove on.

When finally the campfires of the pilgrims came into view, Clarence began to feel a little uneasy. He realized that he was going to have to leave May's company here if she found the group agreeable, and he began to sense complications in his adventure. “That looks like them,” he said, pointing ahead.

“My, there's a good bunch of them,” May replied. She saw some children chasing one another among the wagons.

As he drove the runabout near the camp, a man with a rifle stepped from the shadows and blocked the road.

“Whoa,” Clarence said, reining in the livery horse.

“Who are you?” the guard demanded, holding his weapon ready in front of him.

“I'm Clarence Philbrick. This is Miss May Tremaine. We'd like to speak with the leader of your group.”

“You want to join us?”

“We just want to ask some questions right now.”

“You got guns?” the man said.

“Not on me,” Clarence answered.

“Get out of the buggy and walk up,” the guard ordered.

Clarence looked at May. Neither felt eager to get out of the vehicle under the circumstances.

“Ain't no harm gonna come to you,” the guard said. “We got to be careful, that's all. Been attacked in some places.”

Clarence looked for May's approval.

She shrugged. “We came this far. We might as well talk to them.”

As the guard escorted them toward the camp, May noticed something odd about the circle of people around the nearest fire. It first struck her as a writhing. Every hand was busy working on something. One man was oiling harnesses. Another was braiding a bullwhacker's whip. A woman bounced a baby on her knee as she mended a quilt. There were faces of all colors, some ruddy, some pale, some dark.

Clarence noticed an Indian woman, her hair long and straight, parted in the middle. A necklace of teeth and claws lay across the bodice of her faded print dress.

Next to her sat a black man who was whittling a walking stick. He had to be six-foot-six and couldn't weigh more than a hundred fifty. The man sat on a stool with his legs crossed, yet both feet lay flat on the ground. He looked up as the arrivals came near, and Clarence found a full head of gray hair and a large white mustache contrasting with his dark brown skin, a twinkle in his eyes struggling through reflections on his spectacles. He stood. “Is this him?” he said to the guard.

“Nope,” the guard answered.

“You were expecting somebody else?” Clarence said.

“A Reverend Moncrief was supposed to meet us here tonight. He's to guide us over the mountains. But that's not for you to worry about. I'm Elder Hopewell. What can we do for you?”

Clarence saw a bunch of children spying on him from under a wagon. “Miss Tremaine would like to know a little about your group. She's all alone and looking for a place to settle out here.”

“What would you like to know?” Hopewell said.

May swept her eyes across the faces peering up at her. “This is a Christian church, isn't it?”

The group around the fire raised a round of low laughter.

“We are
the
Christian church,” Elder Hopewell replied, his teeth showing under the full white mustache. “All others have fallen into disfavor with the Maker and will have to be reconciled.”

“According to what authority?” Clarence said.

“According to the Holy Virgin.”

“Has she told you so?”

“Not me,” Elder Hopewell explained. “The late Pastor Wyckoff received the visitations. It started seven years ago in Philadelphia. The Angel of Mary came to him in the night as he prayed. She was crying over the sad state of humanity, especially those who call themselves Christians yet obey the wicked laws of government and materialism over the laws of God. The Weeping Virgin told Pastor Wyckoff to gather the downtrodden faithful among the many races and repair to a new promised land. We are the New Order that will bring all the peoples of the world together.”

“Amen,” someone in the circle said. They had all nodded as Elder Hopewell told the story, their hands remaining busy with their tasks.

“Now, if you want to travel with us,” Hopewell said, “we'd be happy to take you in. But if you want to truly join us, you have to give all your material possessions to the church.”

“I don't have any material possessions,” May said.

“Will you give your service to the church?”

May's eyes shifted. “What kind of service?”

The elder pointed to the people around the fire. “Like these folks are doing. Fix what needs to be fixed. Build what needs building. Everything we do is for the good of the church, and no time is spent idle.”

“I don't mind work,” May said.

“You'll have to read Pastor Wyckoff's book,” Hopewell said. “And when you're ready, you will renounce all other authority and become a vested member of the Church of the Weeping Virgin. Until that time, you are welcome to share our company, our food, and our friendship.” He looked at Clarence. “What about you, young man? Will you come with us, too?”

Clarence shook his head. “I have business in New Mexico.” He took May by the arm. “Will you excuse us a minute?” He pulled her a few yards away from the circle of pilgrims. “I don't know if this is such a good idea,” he said.

“They seem like nice folks,” she replied.

“What about this business of the visitations and all? Sounds a little strange to me.”

“Yes, but that was their pastor, and he's dead. These people look all right.”

Clarence glanced over May's shoulder at the congregation, then looked back down at her face. She was looking up at him, as if waiting for his approval. He could see that she was going to go with them. She had nowhere else to turn. She couldn't go with him to New Mexico, could she? No, of course not. What choice did she have? She was going to join these pilgrims. He could leave her with doubts and misgivings, or he could bolster her confidence.

“I believe you're right,” he said. “They seem like nice people, and there are enough of them to offer protection. You'll be all right with them.”

May smiled again, her eyes twinkling gratefully. “Thank you for everything you've done. I won't forget you.”

Clarence shuffled his feet. “When you get settled, I want you to write me a letter. Send it general delivery to Santa Fe. Let me know where you've settled so I can come check up on you someday.”

She looked away, her face flushing. She began to speak, but a rattle of rocks across the creek interrupted her.

A mule splashed through the shallow stream and into the firelight as the guard stepped forward to challenge the rider.

“Howdy, brothers and sisters in Christ!” a red-haired man shouted from the back of the mule.

“Who are you?” the guard demanded.

“Put your weapon away, friend. I'm your guide. I'm to take you over the mountains.”

Elder Hopewell approached the stranger and stood beside the camp guard. “You're Reverend Moncrief?”

“The good reverend couldn't make it. His brother's been murdered in South Park. He sent me in his stead. I'm Deacon Dee Hassard.” He got down from the mule and held a hand out to the elder.

“When will Reverend Moncrief join us?” Hopewell asked.

“I have a feelin' he'll be huntin' his brother's murderer for a spell. You'll have to make do with me. He had to go to Fairplay while the trail was still hot.” He looked past Hopewell at the crowd around the nearest campfire. “Carrol didn't have much time to fill me in. How many people have you got here?”

“Almost two hundred, counting the children.”

“And about the money. Five hundred?”

“We have it, as we promised.”

“No offense, but I'd like to see it.”

Elder Hopewell motioned for Hassard to follow and led the new arrival to the tailgate of a broken-down wagon. He pulled a pair of saddlebags out and opened one flap.

Hassard craned his neck to see by the light of a lantern hanging from a cottonwood limb above. When the elder pulled a roll of bills out and handed it over, Hassard glimpsed more currency deeper in the pouch. He saw the glint of gold and silver coins, heard them chink. Glorious thoughts of larceny rushed by like ripples in the nearby creek.

“Carrol said you'd be ready to go.” Hassard slipped the roll of bills into his pocket.

“We are,” the elder replied.

Hassard snorted. “Not with these wagons.” He approached the pilgrims around the nearest fire. “Friends, we've got work to do, and we'd best get started right now if we want to leave tomorrow. First thing we do is load the wagons with anything that won't travel on a pack mule. We'll drive into Denver at daybreak and sell the wagons and everything in 'em.”

“Now hold on there, Deacon,” the elder said. “We've got household items in there. Tables, chairs, beds. Things of necessity.”

Hassard twisted his face. “I thought you folks wanted to go across the divide to the Promised Land.”

“And we will,” the tall man said.

“Elder Hopewell, there are no roads where we're goin'. Wagons won't make it. It's best to convert all those material possessions to cash. Better yet—gold. Your church can use it to pay homestead fees or buy government land. Besides, it's a land of milk and honey over there, brothers and sisters.” He turned to the people in the camp, speaking loudly. “You can build your own household goods from the bounty of God's green earth!”

“You've been to the Western slopes?” Elder Hopewell asked.

“I have, brother, and it is the most beautiful spot in the world. But gettin' there's gonna test your faith, and we've got to get started as soon as practical.”

The elder caught some of Dee Hassard's false enthusiasm and smiled back at the congregation. “What do we do?” he asked.

“Get those wagons loaded with everything we don't need,” Hassard cried. “Keep only your clothes, your weapons, and your tools. We'll sell everything else in Denver tomorrow and start west.”

Elder Hopewell raised his hands, reaching high in the air. “It's time,” he said. This was a relief. They had been waiting here too long, and everyone had looked to him since Pastor Wyckoff's murder. Now there was someone here who knew where to go. “Let's get ready!”

The people rose as if bolting from Sunday services.

“One more thing,” Hassard shouted. “Remember Reverend Moncrief in your prayers tonight! His brother's been murdered.”

“Amen!” someone shouted, and the camp surged for the wagons to separate everything that wouldn't fit a pack saddle.

“I think I better go help them,” May said. She and Clarence had watched the arrival of Deacon Hassard in silence.

“Good luck,” Clarence said, taking her hand, releasing it reluctantly.

She joined the pilgrims, and he turned to the rented buggy. It didn't feel right leaving her there. It wasn't that she was in any danger. No, it was something else. He was going to miss her. He had only known her a couple of hours, yet he already regretted parting ways with her.

As Clarence Philbrick drove through the night back to Denver, he began to wonder what lay waiting for him in New Mexico. Was the Ojo de los Brazos as easy to look at as May Tremaine? Would it be worth the journey?

He began to compose his nightly journal entry:

I once went hunting for ducks and killed the largest brace of grouse I had ever bagged. I arrived at my duck blind very late, yet found fine sport there as well.

Is May Tremaine a bird of serendipity—a pleasant diversion along my way to fortune? Or is she a siren who tempts me to stray from my course, onto the rocks of ruin?

Nine

It was an embarrassment. Ramon del Bosque could still hear the jeers of his friends, even though he was a long day's journey from Guajolote.

“Adios, Padre Ramon,” they had said, taunting him as he left the village, leading Sister Petra's burro. One of them had run into the street to give Ramon a whip made of yucca fibers so he could flagellate himself like the
penitentes.

“What do you have that
disciplina
for?” Petra had asked.

“For the burro,” Ramon had said, striking the animal a light blow across the rump with the whip.

It was bad enough that Ramon's father was always saying he was going to send Ramon to the school in Santa Fe to become a priest. That claim had caused Ramon no end of consternation: his friends constantly coming to him for confessions and calling him “Padre Ramon.” But this was a humiliation almost too severe to endure.

God had spoken to Sister Petra. At least, that was what Sister Petra claimed. She had been praying nine days, not getting enough food or rest. She had fainted in her room and had had a dream. That was all. It was her own mind, not God, that had said, “The cross awaits you on the mountainside.”

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