Surely he had to be imagining this. For one thing, Brenda was too young to be the owner of such a corporation . . .
"The lady's tellin' you the truth, Jeremiah," Casebolt said. "Reckon it comes as a pretty big surprise, don't it?"
"I. . . I can't believe it."
Margaret Palmer opened her bag and took out a piece of paper. "We've taken the liberty of preparing this deed to the property, Mr. Newton. As you can see, the price we've specified is somewhat different from the offer you made us in the letter you wrote."
Jeremiah forced his hand to reach out for the document. His big, work-roughened fingers closed over the paper. He looked at it for a second, then glanced up at the women. "But this is only half of what I offered for the land!"
"Consider the other half a donation to your church," Brenda said. "You'll be putting the property to good use."
"Yes, ma'am, I intend to, but you ought to make a fair profit . . . Why, Hank Parker might be willing to pay you three times this much!"
"From everything we've heard about him," Margaret said, "we would prefer not to do business with a man like Mr. Parker. You, on the other hand, are well known as one of Wind River's finest citizens, Mr. Newton. And since Brenda and I intend to make our home here, we want to do something for the community."
"You sure have," Jeremiah said as he looked at the deed, still hardly able to believe what he was seeing. "And you'll be welcome in the church anytime, ladies, anytime."
Casebolt slapped a hand on Jeremiah's broad shoulders. "Looks like we're goin' to have a real church around here after all, don't it?"
"The Lord provides, Brother Casebolt," Jeremiah said fervently. "Never doubt that. The Lord provides."
* * *
Even Jeremiah was surprised at how quickly things moved after that. Since the price Brenda Durand wanted for the land was only half of what Jeremiah had intended to pay, there was plenty of money left in the church's account at the bank to buy lumber. He had more than enough volunteers willing to lend their time and abilities to the task of building. Just as people had pitched in to help him repair the damage to his blacksmith shop, they were eager to be part of the church's construction.
Not wanting to be outdone in generosity by Brenda, Simone donated enough kegs of nails from the general store to build two churches.
Two days after Brenda's first visit to the blacksmith shop, about half the men in town descended on the knoll and spent the day working under Jeremiah's direction. Their women came along, too, spreading blankets on the ground and filling them with picnic baskets. Wagons full of materials rolled up the slope and were cheerfully unloaded. By midmorning, the air in Wind River rang with the sound of hammering.
Hank Parker stood just inside the doorway of the Pronghorn Saloon, listened to the sound, and scowled darkly. When he had first heard that Jeremiah Newton was going to get his hands on that knoll after all, Parker had hurried to the hotel in an attempt to change the minds of Brenda Durand and her grandmother. The women had refused to see him, wouldn't even give him a chance to argue the matter.
Parker didn't like being beaten in anything, didn't like it one little bit. Jeremiah might have won this hand, he told himself, but the game wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. He had already decided how to take care of Newton.
Besides, Parker had other, more important things on his mind these days, and the thought of that put a grim smile on his lips. His plan to deal with Simone McKay would soon be in motion.
And then he would have taken the first step in utterly destroying Simone's ambitions and putting this town firmly in his own iron grip . . .
* * *
That evening Jeremiah stood alone in the fading light of dusk and looked up at what God—and the people of Wind River—had wrought in a single day.
The framework of the church was nearly complete. The flat land on top of the knoll had been cleared, a foundation of stones and heavy beams had been laid, and the walls had gone up steadily as the sun moved from east to west. The ceiling joists were in place, and some of the roof beams had even been erected. It was amazing how much had been accomplished in such a short time.
The people had thrown themselves into the work heart and soul. Michael Hatfield, Judson Kent, and Nathan Smollett had volunteered, and hands that usually wielded a pen, healed the sick, and counted money occupied themselves for long hours instead with hammering nails.
Cole Tyler and Billy Casebolt had been there, and some of the cowhands from Kermit Sawyer's Diamond S spread had shown up, led by Sawyer's segundo Frenchy LeDoux and young Lon Rogers. Rose Foster had provided basket after basket of food, and the other women of the town were equally generous.
Simone had surprised Jeremiah by arriving in a plain dress and sunbonnet, and she had spent the day pouring lemonade and coffee for the workers. Brenda and Margaret had joined her, and although Jeremiah sensed there were some hard feelings between Simone and Brenda, they cooperated cheerfully in this effort. Truly, the day had been blessed, Jeremiah thought as he stood there.
Everyone else had gone back to town when the light began to fade, but Jeremiah hadn't been able to bring himself to leave. He stepped up onto the bare flooring of the church and walked along the row of wall studs, surrounded by the sharp, clean smell of fresh-cut wood. A warm evening breeze sprang up. He breathed deeply of it.
In another week or two, the church would be ready for services to be held in it, he knew. He went to the center of the building and turned around, seeing the lights of the town clustered not far off. When he tilted his head back, he saw pinpoints of light in the darkening sky above as stars began to pop out.
He had never been happier or more fulfilled in his life.
That was when he heard the quick rush of feet behind him.
Turning, Jeremiah spotted several shadowy shapes lunging toward him. He let out a surprised exclamation, then heard the hiss of something moving quickly through the air. He threw an arm up just in time to block the blow as one of the men attacking him swung a heavy piece of lumber at his head.
The board cracked from the impact but didn't break. Jeremiah wasn't sure if the same thing could be said of his arm. Pain shot along it to his shoulder, blinding pain that was replaced a second later by utter numbness. He staggered back, trying to catch his balance.
A roar of rage burst from his throat. He was being attacked again, this time in the confines of what should have been a holy place. He lowered his head and threw himself forward to meet the attack.
His powerful body bowled over a couple of the shadowy figures. "Watch it!" one of the other men called harshly. "He's like a damn bull!"
Jeremiah swung his good right arm in a sweeping backhand that knocked another man off his feet. But there were at least half a dozen of them—probably the same men who had wrecked his shop, he thought fleetingly— and three of them were still on their feet.
They had all grabbed up boards from the piles of lumber stacked here and there throughout the structure and were using them as weapons.
Jeremiah felt one of the boards jab into his midsection. He slapped it aside, but pain and sudden sickness made him bend forward. Another length of lumber came crashing down across his bowed shoulders, the board splitting in two from the force of the blow. Jeremiah stumbled forward. His left arm still dangled uselessly from his pain-numbed shoulder, but he put up his right hand and more by accident than design caught one of the boards as it was swung at him. He wrenched it out of the grip of the man wielding it and swung around in a circle, lashing out with the lumber. His assailants had to fling themselves backward to avoid having their skulls cracked by the board.
He couldn't defend himself in all directions at once, however, and the three men he had knocked down when the fight began were on their feet again. One of them leaped onto Jeremiah's back and locked an arm around his neck. With his other hand, the man palmed out a revolver and chopped at Jeremiah's head with the barrel of the gun. The blow sent stars pinwheeling through Jeremiah's head that
were a hundred times brighter than any of the real stars in the sky above.
He shook off the man who had just hit him, but more blows fell from the boards. Jeremiah's feet went out from under him, and he slumped to his knees. One of the makeshift clubs slammed into the back of his head.
He was vaguely aware of pitching forward onto his face. Splinters from the rough plank flooring dug painfully into his cheek, but they were a minor annoyance compared to the other pains that washed over him. For the second time in less than a week, he was kicked and stomped to the edge of senselessness.
"That's enough," one of the men ordered after a couple of savage minutes. Jeremiah could barely hear the words. They seemed to be coming from far, far away. "Leave him there and get on with the rest of it."
What else could they do? Jeremiah wondered fuzzily. They had already beaten him within an inch of his life— again.
The answer came a few seconds later as the sharp, unmistakable reek of kerosene stabbed into his nostrils. It was enough to bring him back from the brink of unconsciousness. He let out a groan and tried to push himself onto his hands and knees.
"Look out!" one of the men said. "He's gettin' up!"
Jeremiah's strength gave out. He slid back down, once again scraping his face as it hit the floor.
Another man laughed. "No, he's not. And he'll never get up once we're through here. Splash plenty of that stuff around. I've got a lucifer right here."
Lucifer, Jeremiah thought, misunderstanding in his agony. So Satan was behind this. He should have known. The Devil didn't want the Lord's word spread in Wind River. He had to get up, Jeremiah told himself. He had to get up and smite Satan . . .
Suddenly there was a whooshing sound, and Jeremiah felt waves of heat batter him. The crackling of flames filled the air around him. He heard laughter . . . the laughter of Lucifer and all the imps of hell. The evil sound faded, drowned out by the roar of the fire.
This was all wrong, Jeremiah thought. He was a good man, a man of God. He shouldn't be in Hades.
But there was no mistaking the flames and the heat and the sound of a soul screaming in eternal torment. Screaming and screaming and screaming . . .
His throat was raw from the screams and the smoke that filled the air as he burst through the wall of flame that had only shortly before been the framework of the church.
Where he had found the strength to get up and move, he never knew. All he could guess was that the hand of the Lord had reached into the inferno and touched him, leading him through the fire to safety. His clothes were ablaze, so when he felt himself falling, he let himself go, rolling over and over on the ground until the flames were out.
Then he lay there, shuddering, as the church was consumed and the hellish glare from its destruction filled the night sky over Wind River.
* * *
Cole was on his way to the Wind River Cafe for some supper when he saw the red glow in the sky to the southwest of town. Instantly a tingle of apprehension shot through him. Fire was one of the greatest enemies of people who lived on the frontier, and judging from the way the sky was lit up, this was a big blaze.
And it was coming from the direction of the partially completed church, he realized with a shock.
Cole was almost at the cafe, so he burst into a run toward it, the aches in his muscles from the long day's work forgotten in the face of this threat. Knowing there would be quite a few men in Rose's place, he slapped the door of the cafe open and shouted, "Fire! Fire at the new church!"
That brought a few shouted questions, but most of the cafe's patrons leaped to their feet and ran out, right behind Cole. He was hurrying back down the street toward the marshal's office, yelling a warning along the way. Men, women, and children spilled out of the buildings along Grenville Avenue in his wake. The commotion gripped the entire town in a matter of moments.
Cole paused as he reached a spot where he could look between two buildings and see the gentle knoll rising to the southwest of the settlement. His fears were confirmed by what he saw. The huge blaze was on top of the knoll, right where the church was being built. He could even see some of the framework silhouetted against the flames, like the skeleton of a corpse that was being burned.
"Jeremiah," Cole breathed.
He raced across the street to the blacksmith shop, urgently calling Jeremiah's name. Cole didn't remember seeing Jeremiah since everyone had come back to town.
In fact, Cole didn't remember him leaving the knoll. Jeremiah might still be up there, trying to fight the fire by himself or maybe even trapped in that inferno.
There was no time to waste in wondering how the fire had gotten started. Once Cole was satisfied that Jeremiah wasn't at the blacksmith shop, he hurried even more. Billy Casebolt met him at the door of the marshal's office and asked anxiously, "What in tarnation is goin' on?"
"The new church is on fire," Cole told him curtly, "and I can't find Jeremiah. He may still be up there."
"Lordy!" exclaimed Casebolt. "Let's go!"
"You fetch Doc Kent!" Cole ordered. "I'm getting up there as fast as I can."
Casebolt nodded and loped off toward the doctor's office.
People were already streaming out of the settlement toward the burning church. Many of them were carrying buckets, Cole saw as he ran down to the livery stable where he kept his big golden sorrel, Ulysses. To save time, Cole just slapped a harness on the horse and led it out of the barn, then swung up bareback. Ulysses responded instantly to the pressure of Cole's heels and the shouted command from the marshal.
The sorrel launched into a gallop that sent it racing along Grenville Avenue and then up the slope toward the blaze, passing the running townspeople along the way.
Ulysses had more sand than any horse Cole had ever known. The big sorrel had stood fast through countless gunfights and battles, had outraced Indian ponies to carry Cole to safety, had been as staunch a friend and companion as any frontiersman could want. But even Ulysses shied away from the pillar of flame as Cole rode closer and closer to the fire.
Waves of heat swept over man and horse, and choking clouds of smoke and cinders clogged Cole's throat. Finally, as Ulysses fought him more and more, he gave up and slid down from the horse's back.
He slapped Ulysses on the rump and called, "Go home, boy!" knowing the sorrel would return to the stable. Then he turned and approached the burning church on foot, holding his left arm up over his face in an attempt to shield his features from the heat. That didn't help much. Cole was forced to stop and tie his bandanna over his nose and mouth to block the cinders and ash that threatened to gag him.
He stumbled ahead, bellowing, "Jeremiah! Jeremiah, where are you?"
There was no answer, at least none that Cole could hear over the crackling tumult of the conflagration. Saving what had been built of the church was impossible, he saw. The fire was too well established. Much of the framework that had been erected during the day was already destroyed. Cole squinted against the stinging smoke that hung in the air and searched for the body of his friend. He didn't see Jeremiah anywhere around the church.
And if Jeremiah was inside, there was no hope for him. Cole knew that. All that he and the people of Wind River could do now was try to stop the fire from spreading.
There was a small creek at the bottom of the slope. Cole turned away from the blaze and ran to meet the first of the people from the settlement. He called out orders, setting up a bucket brigade. Soon a double line of men and women stretched from the creek to the top of the knoll.
Cole took the position closest to the fire, since it was the most dangerous. After a couple of moments that seemed longer, a sloshing bucket that was three quarters full of water was thrust into his hands. He turned and flung the bucket's contents onto the flames. The water didn't seem to make a bit of difference.
But Cole turned and handed the empty bucket to the man at the head of the other line. It would be passed back to the creek, refilled, and started up the knoll again. Cole already had a
second bucket in his hands, and he dashed that water onto the fire, too. Then another and another and another . . .
Eventually the blaze would be under control. And when it was . . . when the ashes had cooled enough . . . Cole knew he would have to go in there.
He was afraid he already knew what he was going to find.
Hank Parker chuckled as he heard the shouting in the street outside the Pronghorn. As a man stuck his head into the saloon and yelled, "The new church is on fire! Come on, boys!" Parker turned to the bar and motioned for his bartender to hand him a glass and a bottle of the good stuff.
The bartender complied, saying, "What do you think, boss? Should we go fight that fire?"
Parker glanced over his shoulder. Most of the saloon's customers were rushing out to join the crowd heading up to the knoll . . . the knoll that should have belonged to him, Parker thought. He shook his head. "They'll have plenty of people for their bucket brigade. They don't need our help."
The bartender looked uneasy about that decision, but he nodded and stayed where he was behind the bar. Parker splashed whiskey into the glass, lifted it to his mouth, and tossed back the drink, savoring its warmth in his belly.
Whiskey might be warm, but he was willing to wager it was a lot hotter where Jeremiah Newton was right about now.
Hank Parker had not killed anyone since the war except some outlaws when he was riding with one of Cole Tyler's posses. He had been ruthless about getting what he wanted, but he had always stopped short of murder—until now.
Threats and intimidation had been more his style. But he was tired of people getting in his way. He wanted Jeremiah Newton disposed of, and it had been surprisingly easy to pay those hardcase drifters to see to it. In the process, the church would be destroyed, so that Parker wouldn't have to go to the trouble of tearing it down later so that he could build his stockyards and slaughterhouse out there.
Everything was going to work out just fine. He roused himself from his reverie, realized that quite some time had passed, and poured himself another drink.
Judgement Day (Wind River Book 6) Page 8