Overhead, the storm seemed to be reaching its peak, and the building vibrated to each new crash of thunder, and the lightning was almost continuous, making it easy for all three men to see each other the whole time.
‘You ain’t going to run? Nor fight?’ Yates couldn’t believe that it was going to be this easy, and sounded almost disappointed.
Goldsmith smiled gently at him. ‘No. I shall return to Tucson with you and I shall simply tell the truth. And throw myself on the mercy of the twelve good men and true.’
Herne finally saw it. With both women dead, then the evidence would be at best sketchy. And with two of the killers already dead, it might be hard to prove anything against much a pious man of God. He knew the folk of Tucson, and they might not be all that enthusiastic to see a minister swinging from the gallows in the town square.
Yates might not be all that bright, but he could spot a rat wriggling free from the trap as fast as most men.
‘Wait a damned minute! You don’t quite get the message that clear, Reverend.’
‘What do you mean, my son? And how, if I may ask, sir, are you aware of the existence of my housekeeper’s real name? Did she tell you where I was?’
‘Yes. Eliza and I knew each other way back. It was like a chance meeting of old friends.’
Goldsmith smiled again, his gleaming teeth flashing in the lightning. ‘That is well. You did her no hurt? Nor the children?’
‘No.’
‘That too is well. As ye have been grievously sinned against, so shall the Lord thy God make his face to shine the more upon you that you spared so many of his innocents, and turned not the edge of thy blades against them. And Al? I trust that you did him no hurt either, poor soul that he is? He was not in any suffering when you left?’
Again that smile. A smile that grated more and more with Jed. It was a dishonest smile, stuck up there simply to deceive them.
Yates bellowed out with laughter at Goldsmith’s question.
‘Why now Reverend! You are so right! I can say with my hand on my heart that when we left poor Al he wasn’t suffering in any way. He was past all that.’
The minister’s eyes flashed angrily, and Herne sensed steel beneath the glossy velvet. ‘You killed him! You killed my brother!’
‘Yep. And, what’s more, we’re goin’ to kill you too. None of this takin’ you back for a fair trial crap, so you can slip the noose off your soft bitchin’ neck.’
‘Nooooo! !’ The Reverend Goldsmith leaped forward, followed by Yates.
The cry rang out round the small church, louder now that the storm was passing, leaving only an occasional slash of light and a distant sullen rumbling of thunder.
‘Get him, Bill,’ called Herne, drawing fast, but unable to fire while Yates was in his way.
Goldsmith moved with the frantic speed of desperation, swinging his arm out to knock over the oil-lamp, sending it spinning to the wooden floor. Its fluted green shade smashed into a thousand glittering shards, and the brass base rolled round and round, clattering like a child’s top. Its wick still glowed red and oil poured from it, spilling and bubbling across the aisle.
The minister dived for cover behind the front row of pews, scuttling into the instant darkness like a fat beetle. The moment he’d disappeared, Yates fired twice in the direction of the movement, but there was only the noise of splintering wood, and a soft chuckle from the black coolness.
‘Just in case of trouble with the town rowdies, I long ago hooked a scattergun beneath this row of seats. So, my brethren, the first of you who comes near me will receive a belly of prime lead-shot. And then the Lord will have no mercy at all on your souls.’
There was another laugh, like gas bubbling through honey, and the quite unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. The twin hammers clicking back.
Yates and Herne both crouched under cover, waiting and watching. Behind Goldsmith, near the altar, the oil-lamp had started a small fire, the flames licking hungrily at the dry wood, edging along cracks in the floorboards, reaching out or the faded curtains that hung from the walls.
‘Whole place’ll go,’ hissed Yates from the left, over near the harmonium.
‘And you with it, unless you try for that door,’ called the Reverend. ‘I, on the other hand, have a small exit ready for me, well-covered by furniture. The bullet or the fire, my brethren. Which shalt thou choose?’
Herne lay flat on his face, the smoke already stinging his nostrils, when an idea came to him. An idea that would mean the end of Goldsmith. But it had to be fast, and there wasn’t going to be room for any error.
‘Go left on my shout, Bill !’
‘Ready!’
‘Now!’
Firing from the hip, Yates dodged across to duck behind the harmonium. Silhouetted for a moment against the rising flames, he presented a fleeting target for the crouching minister. The scatter-gun boomed, sending its splintering load of death starring out across the burning church. There was a macabre shriek from the harmonium as the lead shot ripped into it, tearing strips of white wood from its front and shattering its keys. The Vox Jubilante gave one last bubbling groan, then the organ subsided into silence.
But Herne didn’t have time to notice things like that. He was already moving. The Reverend Goldsmith would be expecting Yates’s move to be a decoy to the left. Which would mean that Herne was going to come in at him from the right.
That’s the way he would be looking.
And that was where the movement came.
Laughing at the simplicity of his enemies, Goldsmith blasted off his other barrel at the noise. Hitting the object that made the noise.
But it was only a large and well-padded hassock that Herne had thrown out of the blackness. Jed himself didn’t go right or left. He just came in straight over the top, Colt ready in his fist, looming over the cowering figure of the minister.
Goldsmith realized that he’d been tricked and was frantically trying to reload the gun, fumbling with a handful of cartridges. Moaning to himself.
‘Drop the gun, Reverend. Come on out, Bill. It’s nearly over.’
The flames were beginning to roar, devouring the wood, biting at the front of the pews, getting near the altar. The white pages of the open Bible began to rear and flutter in the scorching heat, as though phantom fingers were feebly trying to turn them.
Hands raised above his shoulders, Goldsmith stood up, mouth working, sweat streaming off his forehead.
‘Please. I beg you. I’m a man of the cloth, and I have my children and my flock . . . ’
‘Right, Reverend. And your sheep are going to have to get along without a shepherd for a little time now.’
Yates appeared, running his hand along the damaged front of the harmonium, grinning satanically at the yellow flames as they billowed higher. ‘Make a nice funeral pyre for you, Reverend. Why don’t we just shoot his legs off and leave him to burn, Jed?’
‘No. Go on out front and get to the horses. I’ll finish off what needs doing here.’
At that moment the front door opened, the draught, fanning the flames to a roaring inferno, and they heard a man’s voice calling out.
‘Jesus! Reverend Goldsmith! You in there? We saw smoke and . . . ’
Yates turned and snapped off a quick shot, aiming high so that the bullet smacked into the wood above the open door. There was a shout and the door shut again. Goldsmith used that momentary interruption to make a last desperate bid for his life; pushing clumsily at Herne, trying to get through the flames to the small back door.
He didn’t make it.
Not by a long way. Herne recovered his balance and pumped four bullets into the minister’s back, seeing the body jerk forwards as each shot hit home at point-blank range. Darker patches of blood appeared on the back of the immaculate suit, and Goldsmith spun round, eyes staring with pain and shock, blood also pouring from his chest where the heavy caliber bullets had exited.
He stood for a moment, like a toppling tree, the flames lic
king at the cuffs of his trousers, running quickly up his legs. His mouth opened as though he wanted to speak, but the damage was too terminal; his heart shattered, the blood flow to his brain cut off. Dying on his feet, the Reverend Chester Goldsmith turned at the very last to face the altar of his church, almost buried in a sea of flames.
His hands went out to the Bible, and he stumbled a few paces, clutching at the open book, tearing out a handful of pages in his clawing fingers, finally crashing down on his back among the flames.
‘Come on, Jed!’ called Yates impatiently. ‘They’ll be blocking that door and we’re goin’ to have to blast our way out.’
‘Go the back way. Through there. Move it. And get the horses. I’ll follow you and hold the front in case they try and get through.’
Without a backward glance, Yates dived through the flames and vanished out of the partly-hidden door. Herne fired a single shot in the direction of the front of the church, wincing at the heat that sprang out from the curtains. Even the rafters were catching and he knew that the building was completely doomed. On the way out he paused for a second, looking down at the body of the minister, shouldering in the fierce heat.
He still clutched a page of the Bible, stained with blood in his hand. On impulse Herne bent down to see what it was. The page was darkening with the fire but he could just read the top of it. A single verse.
It was from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Fifteen. Verse Twenty-Six. It simply said: ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’
Herne turned away and ran safely from the blazing church.
Chapter Nine
It began to rain as Jed Herne ran from the burning church in Fort Yuma, and it continued to rain for most of their journey eastwards back to their spreads in Tucson.
Yates had the horses ready and they galloped in silence through the driving wall of water, not even stopping to put on their slickers.
It was April 25th when they finally got close to Tucson, coming in from the south, through Robles Pass, skirting the Roskruge and Tucson Mountains on their left. The deluge had finally cleared up on the twenty-third, and the sun now baked the ground hard again. Flash floods on the way had led to detours, but there had been no sign of Apaches.
On the way Yates had asked Herne to at least stick with him until they· got back to their homes. The next man they had intended to go for was the dude from Memphis, Barton Duquesne. But first they had other things to do. Both had agreed that it was senseless to try and keep their spreads going. Herne intended to leave anyway, now that Louise was no longer there to provide him with a reason for sticking down roots and Yates was finding that life wasn’t all that hard for him without Rachel. They’d always intended to move westwards, and they had a fair amount of money salted away. That money was being fast whittled down by Yates’s life-style. Cards and women had already more than cut it in half. But there was still enough to live it up on, and selling the spread should make a little more.
They both had friends in Tucson who would arrange for the two properties to be sold. Prime land close to the railroad should fetch a good price, particularly as they had signed a document agreeing to sell the two parcels together, and that way make more money.
Then there was Becky. Despite Jed’s pressing, Wild Bill had refused to send any kind of message to his daughter, claiming that she was in good hands with Rosie, that there was nothing at all to worry about.
It was near evening when they got to the outskirts of the in town, the sunset behind them throwing the jagged mountains into red-tipped silhouettes. Yates spat out a stream of tobacco juice, wiping his hand over his stubbled chin. He’d drained the last bottle of whisky dry a day and a half back and his temper was beginning to fray.
‘Hell! It’ll be full dark when we get back. Maybe those cowboys’ll hear us coming and reckon we’re rustlers and blast us out of the saddle.’
‘There won’t be no sheriff poking around. That’s to the good. We don’t know what’s been going on here after we wiped out that Nolan boy. Maybe his Pa’s got men after us.’
‘I don’t give a sweet damn about that. I just want to get me home. Get things moving to sell out, then head after this Duquesne.’
‘A thousand miles, Bill. That’s a mighty long trail. Maybe you should spend some time with your daughter first. I stand by what I said back in Yuma. As far as the revenge is concerned, you and I are through. I’m not going on with you. I know the names, like you do, and I’m going to be riding after them. If’n you get there first, then that’s fine with me. I just want to see all of the bastards dead. The way I do it and the way you’ll try it are a long way apart. For me it’s the dying I want. For you it’s everything that comes first. So we go alone. After we’re through here — maybe on the morrow, then we part.’
Waiting until it was dark, they rode easily round the edges of Tucson, avoiding the lights and the noise, though Yates figured there’d be no charge laid against them.
‘Town’ll be behind us, Jed. Stands to reason that they will.’
‘I seen enough of human nature to doubt that. If this Senator Nolan’s as powerful as they say, then he’ll be doing a whole lot of work to get us hung.’
‘That ain’t justice,’ complained Yates, spurring Cleo to a canter up the long ridge towards their spreads.
‘Come on now, Bill. Since when was justice something that depended on pointless little things like right and wrong? You know as well as me that there’s some folks that robs you with a six-gun and there’s others that’ll rob you with a pen. A lawyer’s the sort of man who performs best when he’s got a bag of gold jammed in his pocket.’
Yates sniffed, and they rode on in silence.
They finally reached their homes around nine o’clock, waiting up on the ridge to make sure the houses weren’t being watched. Their ramrods were eating together in the Herne cabin, and they seemed to have been making a fair job of managing the small spreads for them. But they also had two pieces of news.
One of the pieces of news that they gave the two men was bad.
The other was very bad.
First came the bad news.
There was a telegraph form that one of the cowboys had picked up in Tucson the day previous. It was from Phoenix, and it was addressed to Yates.
It read: ‘Regret your wife’s sister, Rosemary, passed away yesterday. She was in no pain. Funeral is tomorrow. Telegraph instructions regarding your daughter Rebecca.’ It was signed: ‘Mrs. Diane Pearson.’
‘That’s the lady lives with her. Fine-looking woman. On her own since her husband, Frazer, got poisoned in a Chinese restaurant ten years back in Frisco. She’ll be just dandy looking after Becky.’
And as far as Yates was concerned, that seemed the end of the matter. But Herne stood up and walked over to the chair where he was sitting, helping the cowboys demolish two bottles of cheap whisky.
‘Damn it, Bill. She’s not a damned pet that you can leave here and there when it suits you. She’s your daughter. Your only child. Now Rachel’s gone, she’s your responsibility. You can’t leave her with some kind neighbor and walk away from it.’
‘Well . . . Look, Jed, if’n we’re carrying on with this feud, then I can’t be having a brat trailing on my coat-tails all the time, now can I?’
It was a fair point. But the key word was if.
‘But that’s the whole point of what I’ve been trying to drive into your thick skull since we left Yuma. I’m the one who’s going on with the trail. You can do what you like. Move from here and go west. Set up a little ranch with what you got left and take the girl. Start a whole new life. I mean it, Bill. You are not coming with me.’
It took time for the idea to soak into Yate’s befuddled mind, but it finally penetrated, and he agreed with extreme reluctance to telegraph the good Mrs. Pearson in the morning telling her that he would be out to Phoenix on the first train to pick up his daughter.
But there was a condition. Herne was ge
nuinely fond of Becky Yates and he was concerned as to the sort of life she would face with her father. Time was that Wild Bill Yates was as good a neighbor as a man could wish, but that one night had changed him. Turned him along a downhill path, well-lined with violence and debauchery.
Herne finally agreed that he would at least travel to Phoenix with Yates to pick up Becky, but that he would then set off after Barton Duquesne.
The worse news came idly, in passing. Almost as an afterthought from the older of the two men they’d left behind to watch over their property. Spitting casually out of the open door across the porch, he looked up at the white trails of cloud blowing in shreds across the face of the new moon.
‘Hey. All that whiteness up there done reminded me. You recall that fellow, Charlie?’
Charlie nodded. ‘The tall skinny one. Sat that horse like he was sewn into it. Sure.’
Strangers were few and far between. The spreads lay off the main trails, and were closest to the railroad. Herne looked up with interest.
‘What stranger? What did he want?’
‘Well. We told you ’bout the sheriff coming out here? Saying that as far as he was thinkin’ he was glad you done what you done, but that he was getting leaned on from somewhere further up the line ?’
‘Yes. That was what we figured all along. That’s why we decided to sell up now. Those letters I gave you will take care of all that. But if the sheriff and the marshal are both letting it go less we go and spit on their badges, then who else is there? Not vigilantes? His voice was disbelieving.
‘Folks round here all liked Louise and Rachel!’
‘Not exactly vigilantes. Sort of bounty-hunters, I guess. Only not the common bounty.’
Herne banged on the table, feeling the prickling round the back of his neck that spoke of big trouble. Getting close. Closer. ‘Come on! What the Hell did he want and who was he?’
‘Seems that the Pa of that rich kid you gunned down in the Doc’s is out to have you both a’dancin’ on the air. He’s hired some guns to get after you.’
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