“I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Keyes.”
“Thank you, Bethia.” Keyes turned his attention to Caleb Hobbs standing nearby. “I haven’t any idea of how long we were out there. Lost all track of time.”
“The important thing is that you’re both here now . . . and safe.”
“Thanks to you. Kept moving as long as we could . . . but never seemed to get anywhere.”
“The desert all looks the same.”
“The mountains appeared never to get closer.”
“You must’ve taken a wrong turn. It’s happened before, but with worse results . . . much worse.”
“If you hadn’t . . .”
“Don’t even think about that, Reverend.”
“How did you know,” there was a quizzical look on Keyes’s face, “that I am a minister?”
“Your watch, it had fallen from your pocket. The inscription . . .”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Hobbs . . . something else . . . I seem to remember . . .”
“Now, m’boy, you mustn’t strain yourself. We’ll have time to talk about all of it as Mrs. Keyes recovers.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Hobbs, and you’re right . . . as of now I’m not really sure . . .”
“You can be certain of one thing, but first of all I’m not Mister Hobbs. Please call me Caleb, and we only did what . . .”
“You said ‘we’ . . . I do seem to remember . . .”
But before Keyes went on, his attention was drawn to the sound of the doorknob turning as the cat bolted from the foot of the bed and stood in front of the opening door. Deliverance entered without speaking.
She stood not as in the dream, but dressed as she had been in the desert, except her flaxen hair now flowed onto her shoulders, still as chimeric, with those silver-blue eyes directed at Keyes, who rose from the chair, looked at her, and brought his fingers to his lips in remembrance of her touch as he lay in the wasteland.
Caleb Hobbs took a step closer to the minister.
“You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Reverend. You see Deliverance has . . . an affliction.”
Keyes’s eyes remained on Deliverance. Whatever the “affliction,” it certainly was not evident.
“She can’t speak,” Caleb continued. “But she can hear and understands everything we say. However, she is unable to speak.”
Deliverance’s long expressive fingers moved in a rhythmic pattern as she looked at her father, who nodded in response.
“Very good, my dear.” Caleb smiled at Keyes to interpret her message. “I sent Joseph and some of the other men. They’ve brought back your wagon.”
“Oh, I’d . . . I’d like to thank them.”
“You’re still weak. It might be better if you wait.”
“I’m all right. I’d like to.”
“Very well.”
As the two men spoke, Deliverance had moved toward the bed near Bethia, but looked down at Lorna, then at her father, as once again her hands and fingers sent a silent communication.
“Well, Deliverance,” Caleb smiled, “it appears that Mrs. Keyes is going to be all right, but she’ll need some time to recover.”
Deliverance nodded.
“Thank you for your concern,” Keyes said to Deliverance. “My wife and I are grateful to all of you for saving our lives and for all you’ve done.”
Deliverance acknowledged with a slight nod and smile.
“Well, Mr. Hobbs . . . Caleb, shall we go to see Joseph?”
“Certainly.” Caleb touched Keyes’s shoulder and led the way toward the open bedroom doorway.
Deliverance watched them leave and looked toward Bethia—then to Lorna—and then to the cat, who was already looking at her.
CHAPTER 6
The street with its buildings looked nothing like what Keyes had seen since he and Lorna had started on their journey through the West, nor did its citizens.
The buildings were scrubbed and freshly painted, constructed in a New England style, and the people, young and old, were dressed more like pilgrims debarked from the Mayflower or some other vessel newly arrived from abroad. The citizens carried no weapons, and Keyes noted the absence of any sign of a saloon that inevitably adorned other western streets.
But before he could take it all in, he saw a faintly familiar figure standing beside the battered Conestoga with several other men nearby.
“Reverend,” Caleb said, “do you remember Joseph? He was with Deliverance and me when we found you.”
“Yes, yes, I do . . . now.”
Keyes extended his hand.
“Joseph, we are beholden to you and to these other gentlemen.”
“You’ll get to know the others later,” Caleb said as Keyes and Joseph shook hands while the other men nodded and walked away. “They’ll take the wagon over to Sam Hawkins’s stable. He’s a blacksmith who can fix anything.”
“Happy to help you, Reverend.” Joseph smiled. “Like the Book says, ‘Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.’”
“Yes,” Keyes said. “And if you hadn’t gathered up my wife and me and brought us to . . .” He realized he didn’t know where he was.
“San Melas.” Caleb smiled as Keyes took further note of the surroundings.
“San Melas,” Keyes repeated. “We’ve passed through many a western town, but . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Caleb motioned. “Things here are a little . . . different and so are we. We’re from New England. Connecticut. Some of the buildings we’ve constructed, our dress, even our speech . . . it’s hard to break old ties.”
“It’s charming,” Keyes said. And as his glance swept the street a young boy of seven or eight years, on crutches, hobbled toward them accompanied by his mother and father. In spite of his handicap, the youth’s face had a happy aspect.
“Hello, Mr. Hobbs,” the young boy greeted. “How are you today, sir?”
“Just fine, Ethan. And you?”
“Never better, sir.” Ethan smiled as his parents drew closer.
“Oh, Reverend Keyes, this is the Bryant family. Pricilla and William. William is in charge of our grocery-hardware store.”
The Bryants were a handsome couple, both in their thirties.
“Good day, Reverend.” Mr. Bryant nodded. “We heard what happened. Welcome to our little community.” Bryant pointed to the Conestoga. “If you need anything please come and see me. Just across the street.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. You’ve all been very kind. A pleasure meeting you . . . and you, too, Ethan.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ethan replied as he made his way just ahead of his parents.
“Poor lad.” Caleb shrugged at Keyes. “Injured by a runaway wagon. He’ll never be able to walk without those crutches . . . only one of a series of misfortunes that’s lately struck our village.”
“Misfortunes?” Keyes repeated.
“There’s no need to trouble you, Reverend.”
“I’d like you to tell me.”
“Well, as I told you, our doctor moved away . . . and then there’s the mine . . .”
“What sort of mine?”
“Gold. We worked a shaft near here. Oh, not the richest by far, but it helped sustain the town. Now it’s played out. Doesn’t pay to work it anymore.”
“Tell the Reverend about the church, Caleb,” Joseph added. “Tell him.”
“Yes, please do.”
Caleb hesitated, but it was evident that Keyes wanted to hear.
“Some time ago, our church burned down and unfortunately our minister, Reverend Courtney Joyner, perished while trying to save it.”
“Like the Book says, Reverend,” Joseph’s voice quavered, “‘We have suffered many things in vain.’”
“The Good Book, also, says, ‘this too shall pass.’” Keyes’s voice was calm and confident.
“That’s true, Joseph,” Caleb affirmed, “we must look on the brighter side. And Reverend, when we found you in the desert . . . a minister . . . we
did hope you might stay with us and . . .”
But before Caleb could go on, one of the townspeople ran toward them. There was fear in his eyes and shrill alarm in his voice.
“Caleb! He’s coming!”
“What is it, Jacob? Who . . .”
“It’s Moon! Moon’s coming . . .”
“All right, Jacob.” Caleb Hobbs took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I’ll go to him.”
Jacob Brahmwell wiped at his mouth as Caleb took a step.
“What do you think he’ll do? What . . .”
“I don’t know. Now, please, try to stay calm. Tell the others to do the same.”
Jacob Brahmwell was anything but calm as he pointed.
“There he is!”
“Yes, I see. Excuse me, Mr. Keyes. This may well be the worst of our misfortunes.”
As he started to walk ahead, Joseph followed.
“I’m going with you, Caleb.”
The two men moved, and Jon Keyes stood with a perplexed expression on his face, looking at the approaching rider.
Reverend Jon Keyes had never seen anyone or anything like the man to whom the terrified citizens of San Melas had reacted . . . from the sound of his name to the sight of his approach.
Keyes had read the exaggerated tales of fabled gunfighters in penny-dreadful periodicals, men who killed without conscience or compunction, of gunmen for hire, immune to emotion—men whose only law was the gun, men with no place in the corner or crevice of their mind or body for any feeling of friendship, tenderness, sorrow, or sympathy.
But these were, for the most part, fictional, manufactured in the mind of some wildly imaginative writer while in the comfort of his eastern home or office—with blood dripping from his pen, to stimulate some reader in the safety of his overstuffed chair or lantern-lit bedroom.
However, this was real. Not a fiction of the mind—but a living danger.
A man called Moon, riding slowly into town, dressed in foreboding black garb, astride an imposing black stallion.
His saddle glinted with gold ornaments. His hatband decorated with gold moons. His belt buckle a golden half-moon. The handles of both his revolvers plated in gold with carved moons.
Moon’s mask-like face was dark, with a full mustache curved downward past deep creases—a face that was handsome, yet repellent. His eyes, cold-steel blue.
The townspeople, cowed in terror, watched from what they hoped was a safe distance. It was evident that they had earlier known the effect of Moon’s presence.
Caleb Hobbs walked to the center of the street followed by Joseph. They stood in stiff anticipation as Moon approached. His horse stopped without either verbal or physical command from its rider.
Moon looked down at Caleb but said nothing.
After a strained silence, Hobbs had mustered all his art and did his best to appear calm. He removed a leather pouch from his pocket that he had readied in anticipation of the confrontation and extended it toward Moon, who looked at it a moment . . . then reached down slowly and took it.
Moon let the pouch weigh in his palm as he looked down at the two men. His stark eyes conveyed a negative message. Not enough.
“There’s no more gold,” Caleb said. “We’re shutting down the mine.”
Moon said nothing.
“That’s the last of your share.” There was a tremor in Caleb’s voice.
Still Moon was silent.
Caleb lifted both his empty palms toward Moon.
“I’m sorry . . . there isn’t any more.”
Moon spoke for the first time with a voice sibilant, but harsh, almost a hiss.
“There better be.”
Keyes’s eyes were fixed on Moon’s face. He had seen ominous, forewarning, sullen faces in the war, laden with hate, but never had he seen, or felt the presence of evil incarnate, as etched on the face of the man called Moon. And seldom had he had such a feeling of helplessness as Caleb implored the dark rider.
“Moon . . . it’s no use . . .”
Moon spoke just above a whisper; still everyone on the street could hear.
“I’ll be back.”
“But,” Caleb pleaded, “we haven’t anything to give you!”
Moon looked to his left across the street, looked at Deliverance standing in front of a doorway. By far she was the most desirable figure in sight. Slim, but radiant in the sunlight. Her face impassive, calm, her eyes, catlike, enigmatic.
There was a slight trace of a smile across Moon’s tight lips, but sinister, as he repeated.
“I’ll be back.”
Again without overt command, Moon’s stallion backed a couple of steps and Caleb pressed forward in desperation.
“Moon, please! Let us be . . . we’ve done everything you’ve asked. Leave us alone!”
In response, Moon’s right hand, with a single, swift, dazzling motion, lifted the gold plated revolver and fired into a post, close, too close, to where Deliverance stood.
The post was ornamented by decorative knobs. Three shots smashed into three knobs shattering them and sending some of the debris flying across Deliverance’s face.
She did not move or react.
Keyes did, involuntarily taking a step forward.
But Moon holstered the revolver.
Joseph paced out from Caleb’s side.
“Moon,” Joseph said, “‘Wickedness proceedeth from the wicked. But our hand shall not be upon thee, for in heaven . . . ’”
He never finished. Moon’s foot slammed against Joseph, catching him in the shoulder and sending him sprawling onto the street.
Keyes ran toward the fallen man as Moon looked down, and Caleb lifted both arms in a plea.
“Moon. He’s an old man. He meant no harm . . . he’s just an old man.”
By then Keyes was at Joseph’s side helping to lift the dazed man to his feet.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Joseph uttered. “Thank you, kindly.”
“Reverend?!” Moon noted. “So . . . we got a preacher among us. Well, what do you know about that?!”
Moon’s lariat was off the saddle horn. He swirled it and threw a loop around Joseph, pulling him off his feet.
Moon’s horse backed away, slowly at first, dragging Joseph along the ground.
Moon smiled. The horse backed faster.
Keyes grabbed hold of the rope, and he, too, was pulled along, stumbling but still standing.
“No!” Keyes shouted. “Let him go!”
“Sure, Preacher Man.” Moon laughed. “When I’m ready.”
“Turn him loose!” Keyes hollered out. “You’ll kill him!”
Moon stopped laughing, but his eyes were yet fierce. He gave the rope a wicked jerk. The stallion accelerated.
Keyes lost his balance and fell to the ground, still managing a grip on the rope as the two men were being dragged along through the dirt at a pace that mounted faster and faster.
In vain Keyes exerted all his strength against the taut rope stretching through his grip while their two bodies twisted and whirled against the dusty street. He could hear the tormented voice of Joseph.
“Deliver us, oh Lord, from our enemy in our time of need, we beseech thee . . .”
And suddenly the rope slackened its tug, and both he and Joseph came to rest on the ground.
Keyes looked up at Moon and was about to voice thanks that their ordeal was over, but it wasn’t. Moon was still smiling that malevolent smile as once again the stallion bolted ahead, propelling its human cargo even farther through the coarse ground.
Keyes’s strength was spent. He was about to let loose, when once again the rope slackened and both he and Joseph lay twisted, panting for breath.
The rope was slack, but Moon was not quite through.
He snapped the rope in a whiplike motion and it larruped across Keyes’s face.
Moon’s eyes swept around the crowd on the street and anchored on Keyes.
“I’ll be back . . . Preacher Man.”
Moon dropped the
rope and rode off.
Even before he was out of sight, Caleb, Deliverance, and a dozen others rushed to the fallen men as most of the townsfolk stood nearby, still stunned by what they had witnessed.
Caleb and Deliverance helped Keyes to his feet while Jacob and William Bryant tended Joseph.
“Reverend,” Caleb’s voice was little more than a harsh whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Keyes placed a palm on Joseph’s shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
For a man of his age and condition, Joseph seemed more than all right, but he staggered a bit to maintain his balance.
“I’ll make it, Reverend. Thanks be to you.”
“I’m sorry, Jon.” Caleb shook his head in concern. “We didn’t mean for you to get involved in this . . . you . . .”
“. . . did what I had to do.”
“More than that, my friend, much more. We’re grateful.”
Caleb turned his attention to his fellow citizens.
“We all knew something like this might happen, but . . . there’s nothing more we can do here and now. Please, go back to your homes and tasks. We’ll call a meeting later and see what we can come up with to cope with . . . with our situation. May the Lord be with us all.”
As Keyes turned to leave he found Deliverance standing close to him. She paused a moment, reached up, and gently touched his face, then looked at the blood smeared on her tapered fingers.
Her lips were silent.
But her eyes said it all.
CHAPTER 7
Jon Keyes, for most of his adult life, had not been a man of the cloth.
The decision and transformation took place in the course of the war between North and South—and was completed on his return to Monroe, Michigan—and Lorna.
Monroe, for over a century, had been a quiet, little more than a village-like settlement, ever since the Red Man moved out of the area because the White Man had moved in—by force of arms. Divided by the banks of the Raisin River, and situated between Detroit, Michigan, and Toledo, Ohio—Monroe had a reputation for nothing in particular until what was called the “Civil War” by the North and the “War for the Confederacy” by the South.
During that unpleasantness, headlines and stories abounded in northern newspapers with mention of Monroe. Not because any remembered battles were fought in, or around the town, but because of the exploits of one of its young citizens—who was no longer just a citizen.
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