Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

  The Preacher looked down at his glass again and sighed. “I’m afraid that’s why it wouldn’t work. Not with me, anyways. As the saying goes, you can’t serve God and Mammon both. Might be some preachers who can, but I’m not one of them.”

  Lahood’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s this Mammon?” He threw his son a sharp look. “Somebody else setting up a company around here that I haven’t heard about?” The younger Lahood shook his head quickly.

  “Mammon,” the Preacher quietly informed him, “represents money. If you’d read your bible a little more often you’d’ve known that.”

  The expression that came over Coy Lahood’s face was not pleasant to look upon. All hints of his earlier joviality and friendliness had vanished. He was more than a little upset.

  Not only had his kind—no, generous offer—been refused, but he’d been made to appear the fool in the bargain. At the back of the room the roughnecks stirred uneasily, not sure how to react or what to do next. They were confused and nervous.

  Nobody stood up to Coy Lahood.

  For his part the magnate said nothing, somehow managing to hold his temper. Maybe the first round was finished, but the fight went on. When Lahood got an idea into his head, he clung to it as tenaciously as a pit bull.

  So the Preacher wanted to lecture him? All right. He could do a little lecturing of his own. He downed the rest of his drink straight and ostentatiously refilled the glass. The fine Scotch helped to mute his fury. When he addressed his guest again it was with an air of outraged melancholy.

  “Let me tell you a thing or two, Reverend. You’re new here, and maybe you don’t realize how we do things in this part of the world. I opened this country up. When I came in here, there wasn’t anything in this part of the Sierras except a few wandering sourdoughs and a lot of grizzlies. Both of ’em are pretty much gone, but not me. I’m still here. I plan to be here for the rest of my life.

  “I expect you will be,” said the Preacher cryptically. Lahood stared at him for a moment, then went on. He’d told his story many times and never tired of telling it. It flowed from his lips as smoothly as the spiel of any snake-oil salesman.

  “I made this town. Hell, when I came here there wasn’t any town! The town followed me, not the other way around. You think they call it Lahood because of a lack of imagination? It deserves to be called Lahood. The folks who live in this county, they know who’s responsible for it, and for the post office being here, and the train depot, and all the other civilized services they’ve gotten used to.” He walked over to the window and gazed out over his fiefdom.

  “I brought jobs here, and industry. The sawmill on Adams Creek makes a profit because of the lumber I buy. Blankenship is here because there are enough permanent residents in the area now to support another store besides mine. I’ve built an empire here with my own two hands, and I never asked for anyone’s help. All I ever asked for was a fair chance to build. And ain’t nobody taking what I’ve sweated and bled for away from me the way they ruined John Sutter.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough,” said the Preacher understandingly. “What’s that got to do with the folks up in Carbon Canyon?”

  “Those squatters, Reverend, lie around there and play at gold-mining with their pans and Long Toms. Toys! Mining’s changed from the days when a man could stake himself a claim and get rich with a pick and shovel. It’s a business now, a big business. Companies moving in from back East with their engineers and geologists and their fancy consultants. Me, I hire local folks, miners who can’t make it anymore on their own and men who don’t belong in a store. I provide jobs for ten times as many men as are scrabbling through the dirt up in Carbon.” He turned from the window, put both hands on his desk, and leaned forward.

  “Times are changing, Preacher. Those squatters are standing in the way of progress.”

  “Whose progress?” was the even reply. “Yours—or theirs?”

  The older man shook his head sadly. “You aren’t listening to me, Parson. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “I heard. What you say about the big companies moving in makes sense, but that doesn’t make it right. I know that a man’s got a right to the kind of life he chooses for himself, and if that means he wants to pan for gold and be the poorer for it, that’s his choice. That’s a lot of what this country’s all about. Maybe he’ll end up poorer in the pocket, but not in spirit.”

  Lahood’s lips tightened. Reaching into an inside coat pocket, he removed an official-looking document and tossed it on the desk.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m trying to be fair with you, Reverend, but I don’t have to be. Look at that! That’s a writ. Comes straight from Sacramento. I didn’t leave my business here for three weeks because I needed a vacation. I know a lot of the right people to know in this state, Reverend. I like them, and they like me.” He nodded at the sheaf of papers. “That tells me I’ve got mineral rights to the whole damn canyon!”

  Except for a single brief glance the Preacher ignored the document. It teetered for a moment on the edge of the desk and then wafted to the floor.

  “Hardly seems likely. If you really had those rights, you’d have started exercising them long before now.”

  “Now how could I do that? I just got back.”

  The Preacher shook his head slowly. “You’re an impatient man, Lahood. You’ve got telegraph wires running to the depot. You would’ve wired through to your son as soon as you had the proper signatures on any writ and you’d be working Carbon Creek right now. The fact that you aren’t tells me that you know that you can’t. Those folks have legally registered claims. You can’t touch the canyon unless they resign them or abandon their sites.”

  “Damn it,” Lahood raged, “pick up that writ. Read it!”

  If anything, the Preacher’s voice grew softer as he replied. “If it was worth the paper it’s printed on you wouldn’t have tried to bribe me first. Maybe Lahood, California, is in need of a church, but you’re not, and you wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to build one if your writ was legal.”

  The two men locked eyes for a moment longer. Then Lahood slumped back into his chair. He shoved his newly refilled glass aside. His bluff had been called. The game was over.

  The first game. The polite one.

  When he spoke again his voice had a different quality, of curiosity and detachment. It was as though he was continuing the conversation solely for appearance’s sake, as if he’d already made the necessary decisions. He was still talking, but he was no longer listening.

  “You puzzle me, Reverend. Yes you do. Tell me, what’s your business with those tin-pans?”

  “No business. Leastwise, not the kind you mean. They’re my friends. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Is there? Well, no matter. I’ve tried to be square with you, Reverend. I’ve done my best to play straight, and you’ve thrown it back in my face. There are some who might call that kind of an attitude un-Christian. But I still remember my manners, and I like to show I can be reasonable even when I’ve been treated badly.

  “So I’m giving you and your ‘friends’ twenty-four hours to pack up and leave, or my men’ll ride through the canyon and run you out. I’ve been a law-abiding man up ’til now. Hasn’t been easy, either, when you consider the appetites of some of the critters I’m forced to hire for want of better material.

  “But time is precious and I’m not getting any younger. Those squatters have worn out my patience, Reverend. Any blood gets spilt will be on your hands. If they’re your friends, you’ll tell ’em to get out before somebody gets hurt.”

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t reply, just stared at the mining magnate as he’d once stared at his spoiled, imperious offspring not so very long ago. Whatever there was in that stare gave even a man like Coy Lahood reason to pause.

  “You’re a troublemaker, stranger,” he finally declared softly. “You spell Bad Ass in letters that stretch from here to Seattle. We don’t want your kind hanging a
round our town.”

  The Preacher still held the glass of golden liquor in one hand. Now he knocked back half the contents in a single swallow, smacked his lips, then downed the remainder with equal swiftness and precision. Carefully he placed the fine Austrian crystal back on the burnished surface of the desk.

  “Thanks for the drink.” Turning on his heel, he moved purposefully toward the door. The roughnecks made way for him like jackels leaving a path for a lion.

  “Preacher,” Lahood snapped. The tall stranger halted and glanced back. His expression had not changed. “I’ve reasoned with you and I’ve bargained with you and both times I’ve come up short. But what’s mine is mine, and if you make me fight for it, I will.” He hesitated, then continued as though lecturing a particularly bright but exceedingly stubborn child.

  “I didn’t want to have to say this, but you’ve forced me to it. You and those damn dumb tin-pans. There’s a man—a U.S. Marshal. He keeps the peace, if you take my meaning. Some folks say his methods are . . . unorthodox. But we’re a long ways from Washington out here, and sometimes men choose not to work by the book. His name is Stockburn, and he won’t be as patient as me.”

  A heavy silence hung over the office. To a few of Lahood’s more widely traveled hooligans the name Stockburn had meaning. To the rest it did not, though they were bursting to ask their more knowledgeable colleagues about it. But no one dared speak.

  Until the Preacher, in a tone different from any he’d employed thus far, asked quietly, “Those people in Carbon Canyon: would you be willing to offer them cash for their claims? Buy them out fair and legal?”

  Trying hard not to show his surprise at this sudden turnabout and sensing he’d somehow gained the upper hand, Lahood gestured expansively. “Why, I’d do anything to avoid bloodshed. You think it pleases me to talk about building a church one minute and riding down squatters the next?” Aware he might be overdoing the false piety just a trifle, he hastened to add, “How about one hundred dollars a head?”

  “I said legal and fair. How about a thousand?”

  Lahood couldn’t contain himself. He burst out laughing. Taking their Boss’s cue, the cluster of roughnecks joined in the outburst of unexpected hilarity.

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, Lahood finally regained control of himself. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he replied condescendingly. “I’ll come up to a hundred twenty-five. That’s more money than most of those tin-pans will see in a year, and they don’t have to do a lick of work for it. All they have to do is walk out.”

  The Preacher’s eyes bored into him. “Stockburn—and his ‘deputies’—will cost you a lot more than that.”

  The humor drained instantly from Lahood’s face, to be replaced by a look of total surprise. His voice was hushed and he gaped at the Preacher in disbelief.

  “Now, how would you know that?”

  His guest ignored the query. “How much is a clear conscience worth to you, Lahood?”

  Behind the two men Josh, McGill, and the others exchanged confused whispers. Something had changed. The atmosphere in the office was different somehow, and they did not understand the reason for the change. The elder Lahood and the Preacher possessed a piece of knowledge that was denied to everyone else.

  The whispers were fading by the time Lahood spoke again, his voice flat and unemotional. “A thousand dollars per claim, then. For all of ’em or none. I can’t mine properly unless I can work the whole canyon.”

  Murmurs of disbelief ran through the assembled roughnecks. Any talk of amounts of more than three figures was beyond their comprehension.

  “But I want them all out of there in twenty-four hours,” Lahood growled, “or the deal’s off.”

  The Preacher nodded his understanding. “I’ll tell them.” He turned and strode through the door. For an instant his footsteps could be heard in the hall beyond, then on the stairway, and then they too had disappeared.

  At which point Josh Lahood and McGill rushed the desk, voicing their disbelief and giving vent at last to their pent-up curiosity.

  “A thousand a claim! Papa, have you lost your mind?”

  “Hell, Mr. Lahood, sir,” said an incredulous McGill, “me and the boys would’ve chased them dirt-scrabblers all the way to the Mexican border for half that!”

  “Would you now?” replied Lahood quietly. “It’s done.”

  “But Papa—a thousand dollars a claim!” Josh still couldn’t believe it. “There must be thirty or forty families up there.”

  “I said it’s done.” Lahood stared at his son until the younger man retreated. “I know what I’m doing, boy. McGill, you tend to your mining and leave the confrontations to me.”

  “Yes, boss,” said the subdued foreman.

  “In twenty-four hours I want the monitor and its support team ready to move. I want to be washing gravel in Carbon by the end of the week. Then we’ll see who’s lost his mind.” He glared up at his son, who looked abashed if not convinced.

  “Now get out. All of you. I’ve got work to do and so do the rest of you. Those of you who still like your jobs, that is.” The room cleared instantly, Josh retreating more slowly than the rest and pausing just long enough to cast a last querulous glance in his father’s direction.

  Alone among the fruits of his labors, Lahood sat and pondered the conversation with the peculiar Preacher. It hadn’t gone quite as he’d expected, or as he’d hoped, but he could live with the outcome. An intriguing individual, that Preacher. Intriguing and puzzling. He sighed, then reached for his pen and blank paper.

  If only so many of the fools weren’t on his side.

  Hull couldn’t see the buckboard clearly as he emerged from Blankenship’s because his arms were piled high with goods.

  “. . . Paid off both accounts in full, Sarah,” he was saying as he picked his way down the steps, “and had enough left over to pay up Spider’s! He’ll pay me back when he can. He’s a funny old coot but he’s honest.

  “You should’ve been in there to see Blankenship’s face.” He stepped off the last step onto the street. “He couldn’t believe it when I showed him the nugget. Had to weigh it out three times, and he still wanted to melt it down to make sure I hadn’t gone and wrapped some gold around a lead ingot, but he finally—” He broke off in midsentence when he saw that both women were sitting rigidly upright in the back of the wagon and staring across the street.

  Of their protector there was no sign.

  “Where is he?” Hull asked sharply.

  “In there. Josh Lahood came and asked him to go with him and they went in there.” Sarah nodded at the Lahood building.

  Hull took a deep breath, then carefully deposited the supplies in the rear of the wagon—except for the brand-new axe handle. This he hefted in both hands as he came back around to the front of the wagon. What he’d do once inside the warehouse he didn’t know for sure, only that it was incumbent on him to do something.

  As it turned out, events saved him from himself.

  “Look,” Megan whispered, “they’re coming out.”

  Sure enough, the porch was filling up with Lahood’s men as they slowly filed out the front door. Hull hitched up his jeans and started toward them, utterly terrified but equally unwilling to abandon his newfound friend, no matter how foolish it had been of him to go with Josh Lahood. Maybe if he raised enough of a ruckus it would . . .

  He stopped. The Preacher appeared, pushing easily past the roughnecks. He started to cross the street. No one moved to challenge him. As soon as he saw Hull advancing to meet him he raised a hand in a reassuring wave. Rescued from his own bravery, the miner let the axe handle drop to his side. Behind him Sarah sagged visibly with relief while Megan could barely suppress a triumphant smile.

  The two men met in the middle of the street, and Hull joined the Preacher in walking back to the wagon.

  “What were you doing in there?” Hull didn’t try to hide the concern in his voice. “You might never have come out.”

  “
Unlikely,” the Preacher told him calmly. “Lahood invited me in for a drink.” He glanced down at the axe handle dangling from the miner’s hand and smiled. “Thanks for the thought.”

  Hull looked from his companion back to the Lahood building. “You were in there all the time I was in Blankenship’s?”

  “Yep. Lahood and I, we had us a talk.”

  “About what?” Hull asked curiously.

  They had almost reached the buckboard. “It concerns everyone working in the canyon, not just me and you and the Wheelers. Best thing to do is tell everyone about it at the same time. Tonight.”

  “If you think that’s best, Preacher, then it’s all right with me. But don’t expect me to take it easy on the ride back.”

  The tall man just grinned.

  VII

  The bonfire fed on summer-dried juniper. It pushed back the chill of the Sierra night and illuminated the faces of the men who sat or stood on its perimeter. Young and old, they represented all the families who had chosen to settle in the canyon as well as those solitary men who sought similar riches there.

  At the moment they were silent, listening intently to the stranger who’d appeared so suddenly among them. Only when he’d concluded his talk, which primarily involved the conveying of Lahood’s buy-out offer to them, was there a rush of hands skyward.

  “Aye—aye!” The chorus of affirmation rang out around the circle. Hull Barret performed a quick count.

  “All those opposed,” he asked when he’d totaled the number of upthrust hands.

  “Me, dang it!” The solitary voice was touched by time but still rang out clear and unmistakeable.

  Everyone turned to face the man who’d sung out against the majority. Rising from where he’d been sitting, Spider Conway moved closer to the fire so that his neighbors could see him clearly. He tried to sting every one of them with his eyes. Hull watched him too, as did the Preacher, who sat on a nearby log.