This brave and some of the other Indians laughed too loudly at the minister’s joke. Most, in common with Norah Loring, remained unsettled by the approach of the strangers and had no inclination to try to conceal this as they went to clean up ready for eating. Austin Loring could not fail to be conscious of the apprehension that was heavy in the hot air normally filled with the babble of voices as he shared in the communal washing facilities. And when he and the Indians were clean of dirt from their hands and faces, but not of the sweat of tension instead of exertion, he captured their attention away from the approaching riders by announcing:
“Remember, my friends . . .” He glanced toward Norah. “. . . and my wife. The good Lord takes care of his own.”
‘‘There is another saying of the white-eyes, Mr. Loring,” one of the Comanches countered in a funereal tone that made him the center of attention. Most gazes sought to focus on the riders again after the brave explained: “It is that the good die young.”
Chapter Two
THE four men who reined their mounts to a halt in an uneven line between the rear of the wagon and the railroad track did nothing to dispel the consternation that was so clearly seen on the faces of the ten Indian braves. Norah Loring was able to hide her nervousness behind a fragile smile because one arm of her broadly grinning husband was curled around the back of her waist.
One of the strangers was past forty and the others were all about thirty. The oldest man was broad across the shoulders, barrel-chested and thick-waisted. He was half a head shorter than the others, who were all in the region of six feet tall and built on lean lines. All of them were unshaven and unwashed for many days and their clothes looked and smelled to have been slept in for a number of nights. The man with light-blue eyes and iron-gray hair was handsome despite the grime and bristles on his face. The oldest of the four looked positively ugly while the other two perhaps would be quite good-looking when turned out at their best. One of these was chewing on a soggy wad of tobacco and the other was halfway through smoking a fat cigar.
The eyes of all of them were red-rimmed and each was slumped in an attitude of weariness in his saddle. Each had a revolver in a holster hung from the right side of his gunbelt and a rifle in a forward-slung boot on his saddle. The horses they rode were all chestnut geldings, the animals showing as many signs of travel weariness as the riders.
“Welcome to the site of the Chapel of the Rock of Jesus, friends,” Loring greeted expansively, after the quartet had taken perhaps two seconds to make an uncommunicative survey of the white couple standing to one side of the cooking fire, the huddle of Indians on the other side and the part-built chapel. “We would all be most pleased if you will join Mrs. Loring and myself and our Indian brothers for a meal.”
“The Chapel of what rock?” the dark-haired, dark-eyed, tobacco chewer asked in a monotone as he spared a disinterested glance for the outcrop, then immediately looked back at the woman with his former expression of arrogant appraisal.
Loring felt his wife quiver in the arc of his arm and took a firmer grip around her waist, trying to hide his own nervousness as he raked his gaze back and forth along the line of four unsmiling faces. He sounded and looked pathetically obsequious when he explained: “It is not the right time of the day. Much better during the second hour after sunup. And it is best viewed from the southeast, friends. But if you will look up toward the top of the rock, not right to the top . . He gestured with his free hand and the cigar smoker, the handsome man and the oldest one all looked with no sign of interest in the direction he indicated. “. . . I think you will be able to see more than a mere suggestion of the facial features of a man as they have been shaped on the rock by the elements. Seen at the ideal time, my friends, the face is plainly that of the Lord Jesus Christ, and it is my belief that I was chosen—”
Norah trembled again, and a muffled sound of fear escaped her throat. Her husband dragged his gaze away from the high rock face and saw that the tobacco-chewing man was working his jaw at a frenetic pace, and spilling juice down his bristled, dirt-grimed chin as he moved a hand rhythmically at his crotch.
“I don’t see no face, Red, do you?” the man with iron-gray hair asked dully.
“Sure don’t, Frank,” the oldest and ugliest of the four answered in the same tone. Then he sniffed noisily and showed crooked teeth in a grin of relish as he added: “But I sure smell somethin.’ Only trouble is, I don’t eat . . .”
“Aw shit, Ben,” the man smoking the cigar growled with a sneer of contempt as Red’s voice trailed away. “Can’t you wait until after we’ve eaten, frig it?”
Ben abruptly froze into immobility—except for his coal-black eyes that lost their glitter of lust and became dull with self-reproach as he shifted his gaze from the tremulous Norah Loring to peer at his partners.
“Gee, Red, it’s been so long I didn’t even know I was doin’ it,” Ben excused, snatched his hand away from himself and spat out the wad of tobacco.
"I don’t fancy eatin’ my food with the stink of Injuns up my nose,” Red went on, as if there had been no interruption. But then, against an apprehensive gabble and an anxious stirring of movement among the Indians, he revealed he was aware of what the sexually aroused man had been doing. “And Barr’s right, Ben, you homy sonofa-bitch. The dessert comes last. And it ain’t a matter of help yourself today.” The grin returned to his heavy-featured face as his small, green eyes became fixed on the pulsating-with-fear bosom of Norah Loring. “Not when we got us such a pretty little lady to serve us with whatever we find appealin’.”
Now all four men were grinning lasciviously as for stretched seconds they fastened their brighteyed gazes on the woman, who suddenly felt terror turn the sweat ice-cold on her flesh as their gazes seemed with palpable force to penetrate her gown, then shifted to convey approval to her petrified face of what they had seen.
“Gentlemen, I beg of you . . .” her husband started to plead, his voice thick with stupefying shock, as Norah tore her eyes free of the strangers’ leering faces and swung her head to look at the twitching cheek of the man at her side. And now she extended an arm around his narrow waist, but to clasp him in the manner of one giving rather than seeking reassurance. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed and he hurried on: “Take our food, our wagon, our animals—everything we possess that you covet. But please do not harm my wife or our fellow toilers who are here to do God’s will.”
The braves had curtailed their fearful whisperings and apprehensive stirrings while the preacher made his entreaty. But as soon as he was through, the noise and movement began once more. And there was suddenly panic in the hot, sunlit air that caused Norah Loring to wrench her head around again. Her intention was to look away from the death-mask profile of Austin, ignore the lecherous strangers, and attempt by word, expression or deed to offer some brand of comfort to the Indians. But then she saw what had triggered her husband’s dread and erupted terror in the minds of the braves.
“Oh, no!” she tried to shriek, but the appeal emerged from her constricted throat as a hoarse whisper. While, for a stretched second, she was utterly immobile; rooted to the spot and locked against the side of Austin as if by some invisible claw. This as the ugly Red slid the rifle from the boot on his saddle and the three younger men raked their gazes away from her to look at him and then imitate his move.
“One thing I just can’t abide is the stink of Injuns,” Red growled. “And I reckon that if I was to try to eat the food you’ve so kindly offered me and the boys, reverend . . . well, there’s a good chance their stink would cause me to sick it right up again.”
Some of the braves whirled and lunged across the campsite, a few intent upon reaching the cluster of wickiups and laying their hands on guns and the more traditional Indian weapons; while others angled toward the cover of the unfinished chapel and nearby heaps of building supplies. One stood in abject terror and two more powered forward, hysterical hatred supplanting their earlier panic as they reached out with bare, clawed
hands. Austin Henry Loring snatched his arm from around the waist of his wife and turned to face the outcrop in back of the chapel in the making, before he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in front of his chest, his lips working to silently mouth the words of a prayer. This as his wife, turned from the waist, brought up both hands to press the palms tight to her ears while her eyes darted back and forth along the shock-widened sockets. And the Henry repeater of Red and the Spencers of the other three horsemen exploded shot after shot into the flesh of the helpless Apaches, Comanches and the lone Cheyenne.
The white men laughed in sadistic enjoyment of the merciless killing. The raucous sounds venting from their gaping mouths rang louder in the blocked ears of the woman than did the crack of bullets from the rifle muzzles. The puffs of smoke that accompanied the firing of each shot looked very white to her. The blood that gushed from wounds was vividly crimson. The smell of the gunsmoke was so pungent she thought she might vomit when she sucked it down her throat.
Abruptly, all the braves fell on the rough, arid, much-trampled ground, most of them sprawled in attitudes of utter immobility that told unequivocally of their death. While, here and there in the sudden silence that existed under the pressing palms of Norah Loring, her never-still eyes saw an arm twitch, a leg jerk, a head roll or an entire body spasm. She gaped her mouth wide then, to vent a scream that was so loud within her own mind she failed to hear the fusillade of revolver shots. But, try as she might, she was unable to force herself to close her eyes or avert them from the scene of the continuing carnage. Thus she saw more blood-gout-ing wounds blasted into vulnerable flesh—and witnessed the final dust-raising movements of the dead braves as their nervous systems enacted a final response.
She moved her hands from her ears to her throat to augment the effort of will to keep the fluid nausea out of her throat. And as she did so she heard the final growls of laughter trickle from the throats of the callous killers as they sat astride their unconcerned mounts, while the team horses and Indian ponies in the remuda began to calm after being spooked by the gunfire.
“Well, that’s fine, just fine,” Red announced with a sigh.” Again he set the pattern for the others by ejecting the spent cartridge cases from his Remington six-shooter and pushing fresh rounds into the empty chambers. “About ready to eat now. Ain’t nothin’ like completin’ a worthwhile chore for sharpenin’ a man’s appetite, is my opinion.” “Hey, preacherman!” the man named Barr said irritably, and struck a match on the butt of his revolver as he slid it into the holster. He relit his cigar which had gone out while he was taking part in the slaughter of the Indians. “I don’t reckon you need say no grace on account of us boys. We ain’t of a religious disposition.”
They all laughed again, as they swung down from their saddles and the reins of all the mounts were given to Ben, who moved to hitch them to the tailgate of the wagon. But, although he was still down on his knees, Loring was no longer praying: as the rifles were booted and the revolvers were drawn he had allowed his hands to drop limply to the ground at his sides while he stared in grimacing horror at the concluding acts of the slaughter.
“Norah, my dear, I’m so sorry,” he said in a hushed whisper as Red, Barr and Frank advanced on them. “I and my God have failed you.”
“No, Austin,” the woman countered in a dull tone that matched the look in her gray eyes that had begun to spill silent tears. “He is not just your God, my good and fine husband. He is our God. And if this be His will, I do not question it.”
The danger of her being sick to her stomach was gone, and she was able to release the strangle-like hold on her own throat and extend a hand toward the kneeling man. But he felt a compelling need to get to his feet unaided. Struggling to come unsteadily erect, he stared fixedly at the scattering of bullet-riddled corpses and attempted to find hatred for the killers while he tried to make himself deaf to what they were saying.
“Vegetable slop is all, Red,” Barr said grouchily after stirring the contents of the cooking pot, then took up a ladleful and scowled his distaste as he emptied it back again.
“Thought I didn’t smell no meat,” the good-looking Frank complained.
“I got some meat,” Ben put in as he joined the others at the fire, but ignored the bubbling stew to look salaciously at the woman. “But it ain’t to be shared with you guys. It’s the kind that’s only for feedin’ to pussies.”
He vented a shrill laugh and once more both his hands went to his crotch; his eyes glittering while he seemed to be unaware of what he was doing to himself.
“You keep on like that, buddy,” Red said contemptuously, “and you’ll squeeze all the juice outta the meat before—”
“Frig it!” Ben snarled in self-anger, and wrenched his hands away as if they had suddenly been burned.
“Course, it’s all a matter of personal preference,” Red said, now as disinterested in the food as the younger men. “But me, I’d rather have the pretty little lady chew the fat.”
Frank and Barr vented giggling laughter in response to this. But both Red and Ben were too absorbed in the vivid imagery of sexual anticipation to be sidetracked. This as the skinny, frail-looking, gaunt-faced Loring at last experienced the fires of malevolence burning deep inside of him. But he knew, at the same time—as Norah took a firm hold on his upper arm and kept him from stumbling—the bitter shame of being helpless to strike a blow against the loathsome enemy.
“Guess you wanna be first, Red?” Ben asked huskily.
“No, Ben,” the older, uglier, more heavy-set, less outwardly aroused man answered. “I doubt you’d be able to wait for me. You go ahead and enjoy her. Don’t reckon I’ll have to wait long.” Ben expelled a whistling breath and stepped around the fire, a strange expression of almost childish joy on his filthy and bristled face. And, in keeping with this look, there was a kind of overexcited self-consciousness in his tone when he said: “I don’t know about you, girl, but I ain’t so keen to be bare ass ballin’ out in the open. In the back of the wagon, okay?”
“You will not put a finger on my wife, you murdering, lusting brutes!” Loring thundered. And made to take a forward step.
“No, Austin,” Norah said, her tone icy-calm and her grip on his arm suddenly much more firm. And when he checked the move and swung his head to look at her, he found it almost unreal that the expression on her beautiful, pale, tear-stained face was a match for the cold serenity which had sounded in her voice. “Please don’t allow them to blemish your blameless life. If such a man as you is not able to obey His Commandments in the face of provocation—”
“Frig that, God talk spooks me!” Ben snarled. And he closed with Norah as she let go her hold on her husband and stepped between the two men. “Keep an eye on the preacher, you guys.’’
He brought his right arm up and reached forward, dirt-grimed hand clawed to delve into the reddish-blonde hair and fasten a grip on the nape of her neck. For a moment, Norah seemed poised to resist him, remained rigid with her feet planted rock-steady on the ground as she shot a backward glance at her husband. And, through the tears of helplessness that clouded his vision, it seemed to Austin Loring that she showed him a fleeting smile. She swung her head to face the lusting younger man and allowed herself to be lurched submissively against him.
Ben vented another whistling breath, Barr emitted a shrill yell of encouragement, Frank spoke a low-toned obscenity and Red sent a globule of saliva into the flames beneath the cooking pot.
“Dear God and sweet Lord Jesus in Heaven!” Loring pleaded, and turned from the waist, thrusting his clawed hands high into the air like he was trying to reach out and touch the area of limestone eroded into the shape of a human face.
“It’s His will, my darling husband!” Norah shrieked. And twisted free of Ben’s grip just as he was about to encircle her with his free arm. “You must not break the Commandments and neither will I!”
“Shit!” Frank screamed.
“Goddamit!” Red bellowed.
&nb
sp; “Red, she’s got my gun!”
“Stupid bastard!” Barr growled with enough vehemence to force the cigar free of his teeth and send it into the cooking pot.
Ben had instinctively thrust his arms into the air as he shrieked what everybody but Austin Loring had seen for himself. And part of a second later the men on the far side of the fire all reached for their holstered revolvers. Then, as the preacher again abandoned an entreaty to the impassive rock face to rake his tear-blurred eyes to the scene at ground level, Ben let his arms flop to his sides and the other three stayed their hands on the gun butts. And all five men stared in varying degrees of horror at the woman who became as composed as she had been moments before and spoke in the same even tone to say:
“We shalt not kill, my dear Austin.”
She closed her lips around the barrel of the Remington, pushed back the hammer with the thumb of her left hand and squeezed the trigger with the forefinger of her right. The sound of the gunshot was muffled within the soft flesh of Norah Loring’s mouth. She died instantly on her feet and toppled in a rigid attitude, the big hat falling off her head to show the ugly stain of blood in her hair from the exit wound. Just a little run of blood spilled from the side of her mouth as she slammed against the hard ground, her legs straight and demurely together while her arms were flung out to the sides, the gun with the slickly smeared muzzle hurled clear of her open hand.
“Careless bastard!” Frank paraphrased Barr’s response.
“What a friggin’ waste of a good-lookin’ piece of tail,” Barr muttered.
“Goddammit, nobody else spotted she might do somethin’ like that!” Ben excused.
“That’s right, buddy,” Red allowed, moving his again weary-eyed gaze from the corpse of Norah Loring to where her husband stood, looking on the point of passing out—or maybe even dying. But then, as if by some magical transfer of inner strength from the dead body into the living one, Austin Henry Loring no longer looked drained and frail and much older than his years. Neither was he afraid of nor any more filled with hatred for the men he now surveyed with much the same brand of equanimity as his wife had shown during the final few seconds of her life. He came rigidly erect after curtailing the initial impulse to drop to his knees beside the corpse of Norah, and there was a glint of something akin to contemptuous pride in his sunken eyes as he gazed through the distorting smoke-and-heat shimmer above the fire and invited evenly:
The Godforsaken Page 2