The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  “Well…I didn’t feel quite comfortable with it, being a stranger. Just what’s going on in there, anyway?”

  “Kind of a revival service. Folks here have really got revived in their religion all at once. Because of that up yonder.” The boy looked past Gunnison toward the burning mountain. “You can still see it a-burning. The fire fell, then went out, and now it’s back again. Goes to show you can’t quench the fire of God, my pap says.”

  “Well, something’s certainly sparked the fire up again.” Gunnison thought about telling the boy that he’d actually been up on Gomorrah Mountain not long before. It would surely impress him. But Kenton had taught Gunnison that more was to be learned from letting others speak than from speaking oneself, so he kept quiet.

  “It was the fire starting back again that got everybody to gather and pray here tonight. They figured the wrath had come down on Gomorrah another time.”

  “The wrath?”

  “Why, sure! The wrath of God! Gomorrah was a wicked town, and God has smit it for its sins. That’s what my pap believes.”

  “Is he the one leading the meeting in there?”

  “No. That’s Jim Spradley, who owns this here ranch. We got a spread of our own, starting on the other side of the creek yonder way. Our house—it ain’t as big as Mr. Spradley’s over there, but it will be once Pap expands it—stands about two mile away from here.”

  “Does Mr. Spradley sell horses?”

  “When he’s got them to sell. He’s got some now. But you won’t get him out of that prayer meeting for a good while. The first prayer meeting he had like this lasted a good four hours straight.”

  “When did he have that meeting?”

  “Right after the fire fell.”

  “What do you know about that firefall?”

  The boy straightened his shoulders and looked proud. “I seen it happen. From a long ways off, like we are now, but I seen it.”

  “So you’re an eyewitness.”

  “Yep. I was outside when it happened, turned in the direction I am now, so I could see the line of the mountains against the sky. There was a big light in the sky, like a flame shooting across, heading toward the mountain. Then it just burst, all flaming and bright, and after that, Gomorrah and all the mountaintop was burning. You could see it just like you can now, but brighter.”

  “Lightning, you think?”

  “Oh, Lord no. Not lightning. There ain’t never been no lightning like what I saw.”

  “So what do you think it was?”

  “Fire and brimstone! What else? Fire and brimstone from heaven. When you name a town after a wicked city like Gomorrah, you see, a city that was destroyed by God, well, you’re what they call tempting God. Like double-daring Him to do it again.”

  “Why do you think the mountain is burning now, considering that the fire went out before?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe God decided to smite it one more time.”

  Gunnison scanned the sky, so vast in Montana, and felt very small. The stars twinkled in the blackness, looking very far away. “You really do believe that God struck that town with His own hand?”

  “That’s what my pap says. He’s generally right about things. Besides, what else would it have been?”

  Gunnison continued to examine the sky. “I think something fell from up there and caught the town afire.”

  Rory snorted. “Just fell, all by itself? You’re a disbeliever, then. You ain’t giving God credit for what He done. Besides, what just falls from the sky?”

  In one of those rare moments in life when an unplannable event happens at just the right time, Gunnison saw a streak of light fire across the sky to the north. The quick turning of Rory’s head told Gunnison that the boy had seen it, too. “Those fall from the sky.”

  “Shooting stars? Well, sure they do, but you don’t never see one strike. They just glow and go out.”

  “Sometimes they do strike. Or come very close to the ground before they burn out…or explode from their own heat.”

  “You’re a disbeliever! You’re trying to say it ain’t God who caused the fire to fall!”

  “Why would you say that? If God wanted to smite a town, He could use a shooting star as easily as anything else, couldn’t He?”

  The boy mulled that over. “Reckon He could. I never thought of it like that.”

  “But I won’t lie to you: I’m not yet persuaded that what happened at Gomorrah was an outright divine punishment. I know it was a wicked town, but surely no more so than many other mining towns. And Gomorrah was small as mining towns go.”

  “Well, I know it was God’s punishment. The prophet himself told us so.”

  The significance of that comment took a moment to settle on Gunnison. “The prophet? The man who predicted the firefall?”

  “You’ve heard of him, I see! Yep, the same one. He came down from Gomorrah Mountain and preached to us all, right there in this same barn. His name’s Peabody. Parson Peabody.”

  “Is he still here?” Gunnison asked.

  “No. He’s moved on.”

  “Tell me all you can about him: who was with him. What he said, where they went. It’s important.”

  “Well, he and them with him just sort of showed up here. He had another couple of men with him, and there was a woman. One of the two men, a fellow named Gib Rankin, did most of the talking. He’s a gambler who got converted up in Gomorrah after the fire came down. Mr. Rankin asked my pap to call all the folks together from hereabouts that he could, said the prophet had something to say to them. Pap already knew about the fire falling—he’d seen it happen, like I did. And even before the prophet got here, we knew about him. We’d heard about him from a man who came down from Gomorrah right after the firefall. He was burned and scared half to death, talking about the fire and the preacher who’d predicted it.”

  “What did Peabody say in his sermon?”

  “He said that what happened up at Gomorrah was just the start of God judging wicked folks across this nation. He said that the fire would fall on us, too, just like on Gomorrah, if we didn’t repent from our sins.”

  “And let me guess: Rankin then took up an offering.”

  “Yes. He told them that giving was a sign of their repentance, and that if they gave, maybe God would spare them from having the fire and brimstone fall on them.”

  Gunnison nodded. This was beginning to make sense. “Tell me something, Rory. When Peabody preached, what was his manner? Did he seem forceful, bold, that kind of thing?”

  Rory thought that one through before he answered. “No…he seemed serious about it, but kind of timid and nervous…kind of hollow and scared. He talked real soft. It made him hard to hear. But it made what he said seem more real and scary, too.”

  “What about Gib Rankin’s manner?”

  “Oh, he was different. He was kind of in charge of things. He talked loud and pretty much ran the show.”

  “I see. Any chance, you think, that he’d told Peabody what he should say?”

  The boy stared coldly at him. “I think you are a disbeliever.”

  “Not a disbeliever in God, or even in judgment, Rory. But maybe a disbeliever in Gib Rankin.”

  “You’d believe if you heard Parson Peabody speak.”

  “Maybe I would. I hope I can hear him speak. I’m trying to find him, as a matter of fact, and Mr. Rankin, too.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m a writer. A journalist for Gunnison’s Illustrated American. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course I have! That’s Brady Kenton’s magazine, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Brady Kenton?” The boy spoke excitedly, and Gunnison was struck anew by the extent of Kenton’s celebrity. Here was a mere boy, maybe not even literate, out on a ranch in the wilds of the Montana Territory, yet who knew the name and reputation of Brady Kenton.

  “I do know Brady Kenton,” Gunnison said, smiling to try to stave off the gush of sadness that rose inside him.
“He’s my partner, in fact.” He realized he was speaking in the present tense, but didn’t have the will to correct it. It was going to take a long time to get used to thinking of Brady Kenton as part of the past.

  “Is he coming here?”

  “No…no.” Deciding to spare the sad details, Gunnison said, “But I’m looking for Rankin and Parson Peabody on his behalf. Can you or anyone else here tell me where they went after they left here?”

  “My pap knows, I think.”

  The sound of the prayer meeting was still coming through the barn wall; there was no sign the gathering was going to break up anytime soon. “I’ll ask him when he’s through. In the meantime, maybe I can look at his horses for sale. Can you show me where they are?”

  Rory nodded. “Follow me.”

  Chapter 19

  When Kenton rejoined the sentient world, he was glad to find himself alive but dismayed to see that he was back inside the same cabin he’d escaped. He remembered rolling down that bluff, being picked up and carried away by someone. Obviously it had been some of the soldiers.

  But as he sat up and looked around, he realized abruptly that he wasn’t in the same cabin at all. This one was larger, better-built, an entirely new place to him. It had walls of hewn logs and a ceiling that sloped down from back to front.

  The door opened and a man he’d never seen before entered. The fellow was about Kenton’s own age, burly, gray-bearded. He stopped abruptly when he saw Kenton sitting up.

  “Well, howdy!” he said, breaking into a warm grin. “I was just coming in to see if you might have broke out of that daze you was in.”

  “Hello,” Kenton said, standing, looking warily at this newcomer, whose most distinctive garment was a gray coat with the sleeves cut off.

  “You rolled down a mighty sheer bluff, Mr. Kenton. As best I can tell, though, you broke no bones. You could have been hurt bad. If Ottinger’s soldiers had caught you, I think they’d have killed you.”

  He knows my name, Kenton thought. This, however, was not particularly surprising. Kenton was often recognized.

  The stranger went on: “When I saw them chasing you, we thought to ourselves: ‘That man there is in need of some help.’ So we gave it to you. Any man being chased by soldiers under the likes of that massacring Ottinger is bound to be a man I’d consider a friend. Well, you can imagine our surprise when we got you back here and discovered who you are!”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Welcome. Hey, hell of a thing that’s happened at Gomorrah. I never seen such a thing before.”

  “Unusual, certainly. Tell me something: Am I at Confederate Ridge?”

  “So you are, Mr. Kenton. I hope you don’t mind it, having been a Union man and all.”

  “Believe me, I don’t mind it. I’m glad to be away from Ottinger.”

  “You’re lucky to be away. He’s already murdered one fellow in cold blood.”

  “Murdered? Who?”

  “Some young fellow who he was trying to get to write a story for him. I was close enough to hear some of it, but not all. Your name was called, though.”

  Kenton felt weak. He sat down again.

  Callon! “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “Don’t know, really. This fellow and Ottinger were arguing. He wouldn’t do what Ottinger wanted, I reckon. Ottinger even tried to bribe him and he turned that down, too. So Ottinger up and shot him. I could hardly believe I saw it happen. I thought about gunning Ottinger down myself, right there, but we got a policy against that here. No engaging any official representative of the United States in battle or doing any harm to such except in clear self-defense. In other words, we ain’t here to fight, but to mind our own business.” He paused. “But I swear, I think it would have been right to shoot Ottinger. It was hard not to do it.”

  “Poor Callon,” Kenton whispered. “Dear God, I feel partly responsible.”

  “Can’t be your fault. You weren’t even there.”

  “No, but I’d earlier turned down the same offer Ottinger made to Paul Callon—the man you saw shot—and if I’d handled it differently, maybe Paul would have never been put in that situation.”

  “He got wordy with Ottinger, losing his temper and so on. I think that’s really what got him in trouble.”

  “Paul could be that way at times.”

  “I can tell you’re grieved by this. I’m sorry to have had to tell you.”

  “Tell me: Does Ottinger know you saw the murder?”

  “I think he suspects that somebody saw it. He heard me, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Would you testify in court to what you saw?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Kenton. None of us here recognize the courts of the United States. We’re free citizens, not Americans.”

  “And still at war with the U.S., as you see it.”

  “No, not at war. The war is done, and sorry to say, the war was lost. We accept that. Like I said before, all we want is to live in peace. We have a firm policy against any kind of confrontation with the forces of the United States.”

  “But you exchanged fire with the soldiers who chased me.”

  “Yes,” the man said, now turning very solemn. “We did. In pure, outright violation of our own policy. And though it may have saved your skin, I’m afraid it was a mistake in every other way. That’s what Pernell says, anyway. He says that we’ve given Ottinger a truly good reason to send his soldiers against us. I think he’s right.”

  “Are you talking about Pernell Jones?”

  “Yep. You know his name well, I’m sure.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You may even known mine.” The man advanced and put out his hand. “Milo Buckner.”

  “Buckner!” Kenton repeated, shaking the hand. “I do know you. You were the chief lieutenant of Jones through all the war years. His right hand.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Is Jones still the leader of your group?”

  “The closest thing to one that we’ve got. The honest truth is that we’ve found a way to live that don’t really need a lot of leadership in terms of one man being the strutting rooster over everybody else. We kind of just take things as they come, and when we got to, vote amongst ourselves. Majority wins.”

  “That’s a simple system.”

  “We’re a simple people.”

  “How’d you come to be all the way out here?

  “We never patched things up with the Lincolnites. Just said hell with them, that’s all. Never wanted to be part of their country after the war. After the war was done, we turned our horses west and kept riding, going wherever we had to stay out of the bluebellies’ hands. We’ve had a lot of different refuges through the years, always in the wilderness, out of the way. But we’ve always been detected. I’ve been amazed many a time at how hard it is to mind your own business and let everybody else mind their own. We ain’t lived nowhere that everybody and his brother ain’t learned real fast who we are. Hell, we’ve had reporter folks, like yourself, come riding up to our gates wanting to talk to Pernell for some story or another.”

  “So finally you drifted this far.”

  “Yep. And it’s been good here. We’ve had this mountain to ourselves, mostly, apart from a few redskins and hunters and so on, for several years. But since the mines came in, and the ranchers, well, there’s no place you can go, it don’t seem, that you can escape the growing of the cussed United States.”

  “The cussed United States is going to be on us again, far too soon,” a voice said. Kenton looked up and Milo turned. The door had quietly opened and a man had entered from the darkness outside, unnoticed, while Milo and Kenton conversed. The newcomer strode across and put out his hand to Kenton, who knew as he shook the hand that he has just made the aquaintance of the famed old Rebel renegade Pernell Jones.

  “Hello, Mr. Kenton,” Jones said. “You are Brady Kenton, I believe?”

  “I am,” Kenton replied.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. It’s an honor to
meet the man who told the truth to the world about J.B. Ottinger,” Jones said. For a former Rebel rural insurgent who had spent most of his life since living among roughcut folk on the edges of society, he spoke in a surprisingly urbane manner. Kenton abruptly remembered something he’d been told about Jones once, but had forgotten: Jones had studied briefly at Harvard, but had been forced to cut his education short after his aging parents fell ill back in Virginia. He’d returned there and taken over the family’s farm.

  “My ‘Lincolnite’ past doesn’t stifle my welcome?” Kenton asked.

  “The war is over,” Jones replied. “And your exposure of Ottinger covered a multitude of sins, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “But yet it never brought down Ottinger himself. He was never charged, much less tried.”

  “And now he threatens our safety,” Jones said. “Milo was privileged to overhear an extended private conversation of Ottinger’s. It’s his scheme to blame the fire at Gomorrah on us, and use that as a pretext to overrun us.” Jones looked coldly at Milo. “Of course, that’s perhaps a moot point now. He has new grounds for coming after us now.”

  Kenton nodded. “Yes. Because his soldiers were fired upon while carrying out their assigned duty of chasing me down.”

  “That’s correct. Glad as I am you were saved—and even though I admit I’d have done the same as Milo if I’d been the one who saw them chasing you—the truth is, we’ve put ourselves in a truly fine fix.”

  “I feel responsible,” Kenton said. “But let me suggest something. Milo has witnessed Ottinger committing a murder—a murder of a friend of mine. If he would testify to what he’s seen, Ottinger could be prosecuted for that murder.”

  Jones was already shaking his head. “No, Mr. Kenton. It’s no good. We don’t recognize nor participate in the United States judicial system. Even more importantly, Milo’s testimony would never be believed. The right hand of Pernell Jones, giving unsupported testimony against the same man Pernell Jones once mangled with a shotgun blast? No. It would be a waste of time.”

  Kenton thought about it, and nodded.

  “What will you do, then?” Kenton asked. “Try to resist them?”