Standing directly in front of the butte to avoid being outlined against the paling sky, he closed his eyes and tried to picture the all-important thirteenth stanza, but for once his memory failed him and he couldn’t even bring to mind the opening line. In times of stress Testament turned either to his Bible or to his gun, and since the glimpse he had received of Fred Dieterle at the Cheyenne station had been too fleeting to make use of the latter, he had pored through the book many times over the past couple of days in a vain search for words to quell the panic growing within his breast. He had only just now thought of the Fifty-ninth Psalm, when it was too dark to read.
The more he thought about it the greater grew his obsession. Finally, against all St. John’s orders, he tucked his rifle under one arm, opened the Bible and struck a match, holding the book in front of the flame to shield it from the wash as he turned the pages. He found it just as the match burned down to his fingers, shook it out, dropped it, struck another.
Consume them in wrath, consume them, that they may not be; and let them know that God ruleth in Jacob unto the ends of the earth…
Then he heard the distant shot.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dawn
The night clerk eyed the stranger on the settee over his copy of Collier’s while pretending interest in Jack London’s account of the San Francisco earthquake. He was to be relieved in an hour and wanted only to be out of the hotel and sleeping in his own bed before trouble started. The house detective, an untidy stout man with rumpled gray hair who always smelled of cigars though he had given them up months ago, had just left after stopping in again to check on the stranger; he too feared a disturbance but was unwilling to risk causing one by attempting to eject him. He was a year away from retirement and supporting a wife, a married daughter, and her husband, a law student at the University of Denver.
The east window glowed a diluted rose color, silhouetting the stranger’s bony face and stiff leg resting on the low library table in front of him. Indicating that he had been in before, he had asked after a party led by a man named St. John, in particular a man named Pierce. After checking, the clerk had reported that both men were still registered but that they seemed to be out as their keys were hanging on the board behind the desk. The stranger then asked if he could wait. The clerk, suspicious of his lean, feverish look and unnerved by his eerie whisper, had been on the point of refusing him when the detective appeared and said that the lobby was open to everyone but vagrants and prostitutes.
He wished fervently that the detective had stayed out of it. A recent arrival from the East, the clerk was familiar with Western lore only where it pertained to violence, and though he had never heard of Irons St. John or Midian Pierce, he detected hostility in the stranger’s request. It was all very well for the old man to take a chance, as it would be the clerk who took the blame for whatever happened on his shift.
Fred Dieterle was aware of the clerk’s scrutiny but gave it no thought. By now he was used to being stared at, and in any case the people and events outside his own orbit were but shadows. Before Pierce, he had never truly hated, and he was surprised by the calmness of the emotion, by the matter-of-fact manner in which he could contemplate another’s destruction. Like a bride planning her wedding he had not thought of what lay beyond the actual event; now that it was a certainty his rage became a dim memory of pain experienced and his mind turned to the prospect of life after Pierce.
Abruptly he stopped dreaming. The picture he saw was of blank black nothing, like the stuff beyond the edge of the universe.
“What the hellâ”
The words came out slurred and tongueless, like a cry for help in a nightmare. As in a nightmare, St. John’s joints locked and he was unable to move. Then he was able, the cold gray pain awakening vindictively in his hips and knees and elbows as he scrambled out of his bedroll reaching for his rifle. Dawn was still a pinking aureole below the horizon. George stood against it, hair disheveled from sleep. He was clutching his Starr revolver.
“Shot!” Pierce’s pulpit-trained voice was bell clear. “It came from the wash.”
“Damn Pinkerton,” breathed St. John. “Saddle up!”
The Mexicans were way ahead of him, Diego setting his cinch even as Paco slipped his hair bridle on over his own horse’s nose. They were early risers by necessity and their movements were the impulses of instinct. Dawn raids by the rurales on the camps of bandits were common in Mexico. Wild Bill Edwards, on the other hand, fumbled his glasses onto his nose and groped for his hat.
“What about me?” Bitsko remained on the ground, his blanket held up to his chin. His voice shook. It was the furniture business for him from now on.
St. John’s brain was working now. “Bill, stay here and watch Bitsko. The rest of you come with me.” His dun, disgruntled by the early hour and the prospect of work before breakfast, distended its belly as the old lawman buckled the cinch. He kicked it and drew the strap tight,
Edwards found his hat and put it on. He couldn’t see the prisoner, much less guard him, and he knew that St. John knew. He wouldn’t be able to mount his horse for another half hour unless someone led him to it. Bitsko wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’ll watch him,” he said.
The blankets crackled when they were slung over the animals’ squirming backs, the saddles stiff and slippery cold to the touch. The horses stamped and snorted gray clouds. The men mounted, and without having to be told they spread out and circled east to put the sun at their backs and in their opponents’ eyes. Snow creaked under the horses’ pistoning hoofs.
One of the properties of a .45-caliber revolver is its ability to knock a man down no matter where the slug hits him. Moments after the blast from Jim Shirley’s Colt kicked him off his feet, Rawlings lay staring up at the murky sky and wondering if he were dead or just dying. Then he felt his right hand filling with something warm and wet, and then his arm began to throb from fingers to shoulder. Someone bent over him and tugged his gun out of his holster. The Pinkerton hadn’t even gotten it free when the Colt roared.
“I think you killed him, Jim.” This was Race Buckner speaking. His tone was more dead than dead calm
“I sure as hell tried.”
Merle said, “He ain’t dead. Not from no hole in the wrist.” Rawlings’ revolver dangled at his side.
Race asked, “Who are you, mister?”
The detective worked his mouth, but the fall had emptied his lungs and no sound emerged. A hammer crunched back. He was looking up the bore of his own gun in Merle’s hand. He braced himself for eternity.
“Rider they come.”
The Cherokee woman blurted out the warning between gasps for air. She had come running from the entrance to the wash.
Race cursed. “How many? How far off?”
“Six, eight. Sun behind. Mile. Less, maybe. Come fast.” Her breath whistled.
“Grab leather.” Race was already sprinting toward the horses. “Leave the camp stuff. Move, damn it!” He retraced his steps and shoved Merle, nearly pushing him down. The older Buckner had to dance to catch his balance.
Rawlings lay listening to his heartbeat, blood trickling slippery and warm between his fingers and puddling around his hand. Merle started to turn away. Then he said something the Pinkerton didn’t catch, turned back, and slammed a bullet into the wounded man’s chest. Rawlings jerked and lay very still.
St. John spotted the first rider emerging from the gully just as the man fired at him, the revolver shot dropping far short. The old lawman leaned back on his reins with all his might, actually lifting the horse off its forefeet, and while they were still clawing the air he squeaked his Winchester out of the scabbard. The animal was well trained and responded to the steadying pressure of his knees as he took aim and squeezed the trigger. Snow splatted just behind his galloping target. He levered in a fresh round and fired again. This time he didn’t see where the bullet landed. One of the mounted Mexicans outran him, moving into his sights.
More horsemen appeared. The two parties were so close now St. John had to look twice in the gray light before shooting to avoid hitting one of his own men. Testament and the Menéndezes hammered away with their repeaters, the cottony smoke scudding across the scene like ground fog. George American Horse exhibited his usual poise. Dismounting calmly amid swarming lead, he wrapped his reins around one wrist to hold his horse steady and rested the barrel of his rifle across his saddle, pivoting slowly to lead each target before firing. Morning wind caught and flattened the reports. They sounded like dry paper.
And then it was over.
Silence wobbled in and sat down with a thud, smothering the lonely last shots. The riders from the wash were out of range and heading west. They made an untidy cluster on the brightening plain. Spent powder stung St. John’s nostrils. Forty seconds had elapsed since the opening report.
A drawn-out grunt broke the stillness and Pierce’s horse keeled over, sighing mightily when it struck the ground. The Sunday school teacher had his foot out of the stirrup in time and stepped free in one graceful movement. He leaned down to inspect the animal, then drew his Navy Colt and blew out its brains. The explosion seemed three times as loud as any that had gone before. Its echo rattled behind the horizon.
The posse gathered around Testament. St. John urged his horse forward and joined them. “Who’s hit?”
There was a general inspection of limbs and abdomens. George laughed shortly and swung open one side of his coat. Daylight showed through a hole the size of a man’s thumb. “I guess there’s something to be said for buying them too big,” he commented.
The old lawman grunted. “Well, I’ve planned ‘em better.”
“There wasn’t time to plan, Ike,” said Edwards. “You knew they was going to rabbit.”
Paco Menéndez had wandered into the wash leading his horse. He called out something in Spanish.
“Rawlings,” George said quietly.
St. John cantered into the opening in the hillside and swung down in front of the Mexican who was-standing__ over a prostrate figure. He knew instantly that the Pinkerton was dead. A grease of blood covered the front of his shirt and his right arm lay in a coagulating pool. His eyes gleamed dully behind his lashes.
“Damn,” said St. John.
Rawlings’ mouth twitched. St. John felt a surge of hope, then remembered that a body dies from the inside out, a long, disorderly process, and then the real emptiness opened inside him.
“Damn me later,” Rawlings whispered, “when I’m dead.” His lips were still moving when he lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Testament
The bullet was lodged in the web of muscle under Rawlings’ sternum on the left side, two inches above the heart. St. John made no attempt to remove it, but with George’s help cleaned and dressed the wound from the medical kit in his saddlebags. The injury to the Pinkerton’s arm turned out to be nothing more than a deep crease on the inside of the wrist, missing the artery, and was repaired in short order with alcohol and a bandage.
“We’ve got a chance in ten of getting him to a doctor,” George pointed out, as the old lawman was covering Rawlings with his blanket. “Bullet’s too close to the heart. One good bump and all we’ll need’s a shovel.”
“That’s why he’s not going to the doctor. The doctor’s coming here. Go back and fetch Wild Bill.”
“He’s fetched already.”
At Edwards’ call St. John looked up. The sharpshooter was just entering the wash, leading his horse. It was light out now.
“Where’s Bitsko?”
“By now? Halfway back to Denver.” Edwards produced a clean handkerchief and mopped the lenses of his spectacles. Without them his eyes were a sharp naked blue. “I figured you was done with him. How close to dead is he?” He nodded toward the unconscious man.
“That’s up to you.” St. John rose. “Go to town and bring back a doc. Hogtie him if you have to. Tell him to bring a wagon.”
“What about the Buckners?”
“I’m sending George and the rest after them. I’ll stay here with Rawlings.”
“Don’t, Cap’n. Don’t make me an errand boy.”
Opposition was not new to the former deputy marshal, who had shot a man in Guthrie for refusing to obey a direct order. For an electric moment he hovered between words and action. Then he let out his breath and turned to Pierce.
“Testament, you’re the best persuader. That doc might not want to come. Change his mind.”
“What’ll I do for a horse?” Pierce appeared disappointed at the prospect of saving a life rather than claiming one.
“Use mine. I won’t be needing it right off. Get one for yourself in town and bring back mine.”
“What about money?”
St. John flared, “Sell that goddamn derringer if you’re busted. You think I’d be out here if I had any? Quit burning daylight and go.”
The preacher fixed him with a long look that made him feel like the lowest sinner in the tent, then accepted the reins to St. John’s dun from one of the Mexicans and mounted. Wheeling, he kicked snow and dirt over the old lawman’s pant legs.
George, who had left for a few minutes, barely avoided being run down by the galloping Pierce on his way back in. He showed St. John a smear of blood on his fingers. “I thought I saw one of them jump out there,” the Indian said. “I was shooting, but I can’t say who it was hit him.”
St. John nodded. “You’re in charge, George. Tree ‘em.”
“Thought you didn’t favor splitting up.”
“If I went around doing things I favored all the time instead of the ones I didn’t, I’d still be in Kansas City.” He laid his arm across George’s shoulders and walked him away from the others. “Watch your back. These kids are smart, and now they’ve tasted blood they’ll be as bad as Ned Christie. Don’t give them any slack, but don’t push them so hard they turn and bite when you’re not ready.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore, Ike. I button my own pants and everything.”
“Doesn’t hurt to be reminded now and then.”
The Crow wasn’t sure how to react. St. John had never touched him before; he wasn’t that kind. They swung back in the other direction and the old lawman withdrew his arm.
“Thanks, Cap’n.” Edwards was looking down at him from his saddle.
St. John stepped up close to him. His voice dropped to a murmur. “You’re young enough to go on to better things. Don’t make the mistake of liking someone so much you go against the odds.”
“Cap’n, you and me been going against the odds since the day the midwife slapped us on the ass.”
George swung into leather. The Mexicans were already mounted. He glanced at St. John, down on one knee beside Rawlings, adjusting the blanket. The sun was shooting knife-edge rays above the flats to the east and a bar of yellow light lay across St. John’s shoulders. Despite the spreading warmth a cold hand closed itself around the Indian’s heart. He couldn’t shake the conviction that he was looking at him for the last time.
The sunlight threw a grid over Dieterle’s sleeping form, warming him into wakefulness. As he glanced around at the empty lobby his first thought was the last one he had had before dozing off, and indeed his only one since his crippling. His clothes felt greasy against his flesh and when he looked down at the watch in his hand his chin scratched his chest through his open collar. His leg ached, but he was used to that.
Pierce may have walked past him while he was asleep; the ex-sheriff levered himself up off the settee, fumbled his cane under him, and approached the desk. Pierce’s key was still in place. He reached over, and lifted it off its peg.
On the second floor he unlocked the door to the room and stepped inside. The bed was neat and there was no sign that anyone had been in recently other than the maid. Leaving the door open, he went back down to the lobby, replaced the key, and returned to the room. He locked the door from inside and sat down to wait, resti
ng his gun on his thigh.
Pierce found the doctor more cooperative than expected, especially after producing his Colt and threatening to shoot all the patients in his waiting room. The room was soon empty and the physician started dumping equipment into his bag. Pierce accompanied him to the livery stable, hired a serviceable mount, and left while a wagon and team were being readied to go back to the hotel for ammunition. He had expended much of his at the wash.
The day clerk greeted the guest brightly and handed him his key, reporting that there were no messages. He had come on duty while Dieterle was asleep in the lobby and had been in the bathroom when the ex-sheriff awoke and went upstairs. The night clerk had said nothing about him and the hotel detective was sleeping in his room on the ground floor.
When Pierce reached the second-floor landing he halted. A shaft of morning sunlight lay at his feet, illuminating a circular depression the size of a quarter in the maroon carpet. Canes with rubber tips made such marks.
For a wild moment the old panic seized him. He had felt it only twice before, the night he was captured following Lee’s surrender and when he saw Dieterle at the depot in Cheyenne. He wanted to cut and run, and he actually did turn. Then the hysteria drained away. He felt his face grow warm as the blood returned, and with it his confidence. He took a deep breath, released it slowly. The last vestiges of panic fled. Grasping the butt of his gun, he crept forward on the balls of his feet until he reached his door.
Dieterle heard the floorboards shifting under Pierce’s weight and stood up, his heart crashing. Others had passed the door since he had taken up his vigil; each time he had risen with revolver in hand, only to sink back down into a morass of perspiration as the footsteps continued down the hall. But this time the footsteps paused and he knew they belonged to Midian Pierce. He thrust the gun under one arm, mopped his palm off on his pant leg, and took up the gun again. The butt grew slippery almost immediately. Only dimly did he realize that he was standing without the aid of his cane. The pain in his leg belonged to someone else. His heart hurled itself against his breastbone.
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