Caylin’s knife flew backward from his hand and bounced off the wall, landing at Hiram’s feet. Sam jammed the spoon deeper into the bleeding eye socket before turning it loose. The big man staggered in place, shaking. His screams resounded long and loud.
As Caylin screamed in agony, Sam grabbed the handle of an empty waste bucket sitting on the floor. He made a long, vicious swing, both bound hands on the handle, and shattered it to bits alongside Brother Caylin’s thick jaw. The big man crashed down face-first. Luckily he landed on the right side of his face, the spoon handle sticking from his left bleeding eye.
Hiram’s first move was to throw his rifle up to his shoulder. Yet, seeing how things were going, instead of firing he hurriedly backed out the door and slammed it shut before Sam could cross the room to get his hands on him. Outside, Lyndel latched the door quickly as more churchmen came running from every direction.
Inside the building, in the darkness, Sam snatched up the skinning knife and dropped onto his knees beside the downed man. Searching the man’s pockets and along his waist belt, he found no gun.
“Ranger, give it up,” Uncle Henry Jumpe’s voice called out as his big fist pounded on the thick door. “You’re not going anywhere. We’ve got more rifles trained on this building than you can count.”
“Your good brethren here will lose his eye if he doesn’t get some help,” Sam called out. “He could die from it.”
Sam heard voices speaking back and forth. Then he heard Jumpe say angrily, “A rusty spoon? How in the world did he get his hands on a rusty spoon?”
“I’ve got his knife,” Sam said. “I’ll gut him if you try rushing in here.”
“Good, you do that, Ranger,” said Jumpe. “Before you do, I’ve got somebody who wants to talk to him before you kill him.”
“Anybody you send through that door is dead,” Sam called out. He was bluffing, trying to stall, buy some time until DeShay and Fletcher showed up—if they’d been behind the gunfire he’d heard to begin with. All right, he admitted to himself, getting out of here alive looked pretty slim. . . . He backed to the wall and slid down into a crouch. He reversed the big knife in his hand and cut the rope off his wrists.
A moment passed; he stared at the front door as it opened slowly and a frightened-looking woman slipped inside holding a glowing lantern. She clutched a small boy to her side, his arms around her waist.
“Mr. Ranger, don’t murder us, I’m begging you,” the woman said in a trembling voice. “I’m Iris, one of Brother Caylin’s wives. This is his oldest boy, Young Caylin. You’ve got to let us drag poor Caylin out of here.” She nudged the boy as if giving him his cue.
“Mr. Ranger,” he said, “please don’t kill my pa.”
Sam just looked at them, realizing that these churchmen of Dad Orwick’s had found far more uses for their wives and children than fieldwork and carrying firewood.
“All right, out there,” Sam called out past the door, “you win. Come get him out of here.” He sat back and let the knife fall from his hands.
As the building filled with armed churchmen, their rifles and shotguns pointed at the Ranger, Sam rose to his feet and held his hands chest high. Three men hurriedly dragged Brother Caylin out the door, his wife and son right behind him, the spoon handle sticking straight up from his bleeding eye.
Barcinder stood in front of Sam, flanked by two riflemen and Uncle Henry Jumpe.
“I had hoped we could make it through this night without incident, Ranger,” Barcinder said. “But all this disturbance has interrupted Dad’s evening.” He glanced at Uncle Henry and the two riflemen. “Take him up the hill. Dad wants to see him tonight.”
Jumpe gave a dark chuckle.
“Somebody bring a rope,” he said. “We’ll be needing one as soon as Dad’s finished with him.”
—
With a lasso tightened around him, pinning his arms to his sides, the Ranger was marched up the pathway leading to Dad Orwick’s, a rifleman flanking him on either side. Uncle Henry Jumpe walked in front of him, leading him by the rope. A dozen armed churchmen followed, as did Frank Bannis, Morton Kerr and Riley Dart. The three outlaws lagged back a few feet.
“We get inside, fade off to the right. There’s a side door there. When Barcinder gives a sign, we bust in, kill Dad and anybody standing close to him.”
“Whoooiee,” said Dart, excited, “this is the kind of stuff I was born to do.”
“This is what Barcinder said to do?” Kerr asked.
“Are you going to start questioning what I say, Morton?” said Bannis.
“No,” said Kerr, “it’s just that we’re taking an awful big chance with all these armed churchmen—”
“Forget it, Morton,” said Bannis, cutting him off. “The ones who don’t run will likely shoot one another once we make our move.” He looked at Kerr as they walked along and added, “And, yes, it is what Barcinder said to do, except he figured on us doing this tomorrow. The Ranger fouled things up spooning the big fellow’s eye. So now we do it tonight instead.”
They walked on behind the churchmen until they reached a stone-lined path leading around the right side of the large house. There they split away from the others without being seen and stopped at a large side door. Kerr and Dart’s eyes widened as they saw Bannis pull out a large key and slide it into the door lock.
“Where’d you get that?” Kerr asked in a whisper.
“Take a wild guess,” said Bannis.
“Elder Barcinder is slick enough he thinks of everything, I reckon,” Kerr whispered.
“You reckoned right,” Bannis whispered.
He turned the key and shoved the door open slowly into a pitch-blackness broken only by a slanted intake of purple moonlight.
Dart started to close the door behind them, but Bannis stopped him.
“Leave it open some,” he said to him over his shoulder, “else we might crack our heads if we have to get out of here in a hurry.”
“Good thinking,” Kerr whispered.
—
As the three walked deeper into the large, dark house, Mattie Rourke slipped from the nearby brush up to the opened door and eased inside, the rifle she’d taken from her saddle boot in the common barn pressed to her bosom.
Hearing the footsteps of the three men moving stealthily through the house ahead of her, Mattie turned into a dark hallway where she noticed a thin line of lamplight seeping beneath a closed door.
Dad’s bedroom? Could she be that lucky—catch him here on his way to meet with Barcinder and the men all the way on the other side of the large house?
She eased down the hallway to the door and turned the knob silently. Inside the room, she closed the door just as silently and stepped over to the foot of the large feather bed. Seeing someone under the covers, she raised the rifle to her shoulder and cocked it.
“Who’s—who’s there?” asked a frightened young woman who sat up in the bed, pulling a blanket up across her bare breasts. “Dad, is that you?” she said sleepily, her eyes not yet registering who stood there in the grainy flicker of lamplight.
Mattie let out a tight breath and lowered the rifle.
“No, it’s not Dad,” she said, moving around to the side of the bed. She realized this was one of Dad’s new wives—children, victims, she thought, correcting herself. “You keep quiet, dear,” she said. As she spoke, she felt moved to reach out and cup a hand to the young girl’s cheek. The girl was barely in her teens, hair the color of fresh cream, eyes the palest of blues, even in the dim light.
Feeling Mattie’s hand on her cheek, the young girl dutifully held the blanket open a little for her and said, “Are we supposed to . . . you know?”
Mattie took her hand from the girl’s cheek and eased the blanket back in place.
“No, dear, we’re not supposed to do anythi
ng,” Mattie whispered.
“Then what?” the girl asked.
“You get yourself dressed, child,” Mattie said. “When you hear a commotion across the house, you slip out of here and go.”
“Go where?” the girl asked in a whisper.
“Anywhere,” Mattie said. “You’ll be free to do whatever suits you.”
“In that case, can I stay?” the girl asked.
“Stay?” Mattie just looked at her. “You want to stay here?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “I’m bound to Dad as of tonight. I’m now one of his wives. I don’t want to leave.”
“What about your freedom?” Mattie asked. “Do you want to give that up?”
“Oh, goodness, yes,” the girl said. “Dad’s scouts found me and bought me from an orphan train four months ago. I’ve been fed and groomed and given clothes, and even shoes!” Her eyes glistened; she shook her head. “So, no, ma’am, I’ve seen all the freedom I ever want to see.”
Mattie felt her eyes well up a little at the girl’s words.
“You can’t mean that, child,” she whispered. “Look what he’s done to you.” She thought of the whip scars on her back, and what she would have given for this same opportunity had someone offered it to her years ago.
“Oh, but I do mean it,” the girl said, childlike. “Dad has done nothing new to me. I’ve had men, both heathen and religious, do the same thing to me since I was ten. It always hurt, and I was always sick afterward. With Dad it’s different.” Her expression softened.
Mattie only stared and shook her head slowly. She felt a tightness crawl in the scar tissue on her back.
“It still hurts some,” said the girl, “but at least Dad has bound me to his spirit, for eternity, in heaven. Think about that. . . .” She appeared to drift off to a peaceful place for a moment. “I’m bound not only to him, but to all of his wives—a nice big family, all my own. Don’t you see?”
Mattie felt herself start to raise the rifle slowly, with the same dread of purpose she’d sensed in the Ranger when she’d watched him put the lame horse out of its suffering. Yet she stopped herself and took her right hand off the stock, lest she carry out some misplaced act of self-determined pity before she could stop herself.
“Yes, I see,” she said. She let the rifle slump in her hand and backed away toward the door. “Lie there quietly awhile, dear. Somebody will come and look after you.”
Chapter 23
A guard ushered the two riflemen, Uncle Henry Jumpe and the Ranger into the large house and closed the front door behind them, shutting out the other armed churchmen. Standing in a candlelit foyer, Sam looked all around while the riflemen flanked him. Jumpe pulled a gold watch from his pocket, checked the time and put the watch away.
“Interrupting a man who’s bonding himself a new wife this time of night, Ranger, you’ll be lucky if hanging is all you get.” Uncle Henry ended his words with a cruel smirk.
“Bonding is not something to make jokes about, Uncle Henry,” one of the rifle guards reprimanded.
Jumpe’s dark grin vanished, replaced by an ugly scowl.
“For your information, Brother Shelby, that was no joke. I take this religion as serious as the rest of you.” He lifted his chin. “As a matter of fact, I’m becoming a bound brother myself. My spirit will be as bound as the rest of you.”
“Oh, really?” said the other rifleman.
“Yes, really,” said Jumpe. “So you might want to start watching your mouth regarding me. I don’t plan on remaining one of you knotheads at the low end of the trough.”
“You’ll be a convert,” Brother Shelby said, “whereas I was born to it.”
“So?” said Jumpe. “All that means is you’re more apt to be an inbreed. Us converts bring in new blood to this bunch.”
Shelby withered under Jumpe’s fierce stare. Sam looked down at the floor, noting the round indentation Jumpe’s peg leg left in the plush red carpet.
“Look sharp now, Brethren,” Jumpe said at the sound of a door opening and closing at the end of a deep stone-tiled hallway. Sam looked down the hallway, seeing how it stepped down, one terraced level to the next, into the steep hillside wed to the rear of the house.
“Where’s the woman who rode here ahead of me?” Sam asked, hoping someone would answer without thinking first.
“You mean Isabelle?” said Brother Shelby, doing just as Sam hoped he would. “She went to stay with Barcinder’s wives, last I heard—”
“Shut up, Brother Shelby,” Jumpe said, cutting him off. “Now you’re even sounding like one of the inbreeds we’re trying to weed out.”
“I am not one of the inbreeds, Uncle Henry,” Brother Shelby said with a sullen look. “And if I were I’d be proud of it. God has a plan and purpose for in-breeds too.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all that everybody’s-good-for-something malarkey before,” Jumpe said. Under his breath he murmured, “Good for panther food and sandbagging a dam.” He dismissed the matter as the echo of Barcinder’s footsteps barked along the stone hallway tiles.
Sam had heard what he’d wanted to hear. Somewhere around the compound Mattie Rourke was still on her mission. Between her and DeShay, there was a chance he might yet ride out of here alive. A slim chance, he thought, but slim was better than none at all.
“I hope that’s not arguing I hear,” Elder Barcinder said, walking up and stopping, his hands on his hips. He carried a long-barreled Remington revolver stuck down in a red waist sash.
“Not really, Elder,” said Jumpe, “just the good Brother Shelby here trying to convince me he has as much purpose in life as an inbreed as anybody else does.”
“I did not say that,” Shelby cut in with a harsh snap. “I am not an inbreed.”
“Words to that effect,” Jumpe said gruffly, with a shrug.
“No, they weren’t,” Shelby insisted, not letting it go. “Dad knows I’m not an inbreed. He knows who fathered me.”
“Quiet, Brother.” Barcinder settled the unstrung rifleman with a raised hand. “Dad has quite enough on his mind this night without us adding to his aggravation.”
Peculiar, Sam thought, recounting the conversation he’d just heard. He studied the floor and shook his head slowly.
“You there, Ranger. Look at me,” Barcinder demanded, staring at Sam coldly. “I hope you’re prepared to meet the very saint whose righteous kingdom you’ve sought to destroy.”
Righteous kingdom?
Sam only returned Barcinder’s scorching stare. There was no arguing or reasoning with these people. He wasn’t going to waste his breath—he would need it to get away from them, and get away from them he would, he assured himself, eyeing the big Remington at Barcinder’s waist.
Odds were against him right now, but once they were all inside the room at the end of the hall where Dad Orwick would be within his reach, he would find a way to turn this into his game. In a room of men where gun handles stuck up from waist sashes and holsters, and rifles were as plentiful as walking canes among the infirmed, if he couldn’t get his hands on some kind of shooting gear, well . . . that would be his own fault.
Seeing that the Ranger was not going to offer a reply to Barcinder, Uncle Henry Jumpe let out a dark little chuckle and gave a tug on the rope looped around Sam’s abdomen.
“Let’s go, Ranger,” he said.
Leading Sam on the rope, Jumpe and the two riflemen followed Elder Barcinder down the long terraced hallway to a thick wooden door. On either side of the door, the hallway split and moved away in opposite directions deeper into the hillside. Flickering torches lined the chiseled stone walls.
When the door opened, the Ranger followed Jumpe across a room with walls of chiseled stone. Facing a smaller black-shadowed grotto, Jumpe pressed the Ranger down into a tall wooden chair.
“Mind your manners, Ranger,” he warned. As he spoke, the two guards took position, one on either side of the tall wooden chair.
“I’ll try,” Sam said. He glanced back and forth at the two riflemen. Then he turned straight ahead.
Looking into the black chiseled-out cavern facing him like the locked jaw of some yawning giant, Sam saw Barcinder step into the blackness with a burning candle and set the candle tin on a wide table. Only as the candle flame sliced into the darkness did Sam see the shadowed figure standing in a hooded robe, looking out at him. On the edge of the table sat a large canvas bank bag. The money stolen from Goble’s bank, Sam deduced.
“Ranger Burrack, I won’t waste words,” said the hooded figure. “You killed my son. Now it’s time I wield the wrath of the Lord upon you.”
“I didn’t kill your son, Dad,” Sam said. “If you’re talking about the boy lying dead above the water hole, you killed him when you sent him off robbing and murdering with your outlaw mercenaries. You should have kept him home, where he could have learned to hide behind all the women and children, like the rest of your saints.”
Dad Orwick ignored the insult. Sam felt the riflemen on either side of him stiffen at his remark.
“I sent him off, only for a while, to learn the ways of the heathen’s world, and how to support the Lord’s work here in our world. Before I could bring him back to me, you slew him, shot him down as if he were a maddened dog.”
“No, I didn’t shoot him, Dad,” Sam said coolly. “I found him dead and dragged him off the trail into the rocks. I thought for a while that the person riding with me shot him.” He paused and looked around at Barcinder, then Jumpe, and continued. “But now I know I was wrong. I can prove who killed your son. It was someone right here in this room.”
“He’s lying, Dad,” Jumpe cut in. “Say the word, we’ll hang him tonight, this minute! Or I can put a bullet in his head!”
Orwick stared out at Jumpe, his face shadowed by the hood.
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