“Oh, Zacharias,” Bron urged, “don’t you see? God made men to live together—and that means we have to have law! Otherwise we’re just animals!”
“That’s what Helm and the others like him are,” Zack countered. “They’ll kill with no more mercy than a lobo wolf.”
“And are you different if you kill them?” she responded. “You’ll hunt him down and kill him; then they’ll try to kill you—and there’ll be no end to it!”
He knew she was trying to tell him something, but the rage that had settled in him from the moment he’d seen Nolan’s body at the cabin would not leave. “What do you want me to do? Let him get away with it? No! Let the people have their committees and organizations—I’m going to make sure Nolan’s killer pays the price!”
He saw her fright and clamped his lips, trying to curb his emotions. “Bron,” he said, “don’t you understand? I’ve got to do it. Why, if it was you that had been killed, do you think I’d let them get by with it? I love you more than—” He stopped abruptly. He hadn’t meant to say that.
Startled, her lips opened as his words hung in the air. “You love me?” she whispered. Even as she spoke, she was faced with her own true feelings. For months she’d refused the little nudgings that wanted to surface, afraid to think of such a possibility. He’d been so distant. Furthermore, she thought he was in love with Jeanne.
Now she realized that her feelings for him were as deep, though different in many ways, than the love she’d felt for Owen. Even as she stood there, she knew that many things separated them—most important, he didn’t know God.
“Do you really love me, Zacharias?” she asked again.
“Yes, I love you,” he said slowly, even reluctantly. Then a wry smile touched his lips. “It’ll never come to anything, Bron—but I want you to know you’ve done something I never thought could happen: made me trust another woman. You’ve shown me how wrong I was. You’re the finest girl I’ve ever known.”
“Zack,” she pleaded, “don’t go after Helm. If you love me, do this one thing for me—and it’s not Boone Helm I’m asking it for, but you. You don’t know how hatred makes you hard—but I saw it when you went after Yeager and Ives. You’ll destroy yourself unless you learn to show mercy. It’ll be Helm now, then the next time somebody crosses you, it’ll be easier. Finally you’ll wind up just like them—hard, cruel, merciless!”
Zack admired the softness in her—but he wouldn’t budge. “Bron, I’m going after him. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”
He waited for her to speak; instead, she threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and pressed her lips to his. The action was instinctive, propelled by the fear that he would be destroyed. Her body trembled, and when she drew back, her eyes were filled with tears.
“Zacharias, I can’t love a man who won’t join with others. You came out here to hide from the world—but you took us all in. That’s what made me first begin to favor you—because you showed love and compassion to me, and Jeanne, and Buck.” She shook her head and said fiercely, “You’ve got such a heart for love—but it’s all tied up! This—this may be your last chance! Please—go find the others. Help them! They’ll follow you!”
Her kiss had surged through him, and he knew he’d never find another woman like Bronwen Morgan. But the stubbornness that had entrenched itself would not allow him to do the one thing he yearned for: to give in, to love her, to do as she asked.
“Bron, I’ve got to do it!”
Her lips firmed, and she said slowly, “If you kill Helm, I can’t think of you as—as a man I might love, Zacharias.”
He stared at her, then said briefly, “Wait here for me.”
“I won’t be here if you go. I can’t love a man who thinks he’s bigger than the law.”
Zack dropped his head, letting her words hang in the silence. Then he said quietly, “I’m sorry,” and wheeled, striding out the door.
Unaware of the cutting wind, he headed straight for Helm’s livery stable, but the hostler said, “He ain’t here.” Zack turned and half ran back down the street into the first saloon—Del Timrod’s place. He was told Boone was not there, but Zack lifted his voice and called out, “I’m looking for a skunk named Boone Helm!”
“Well, he ain’t here, Winslow,” Timrod replied, his words guarded.
“If you see him, tell him I’m lookin’ for him. Tell him to bring his gun.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him.”
Zack made the same statement in three more saloons, and noticed as he emerged from the last one that a man was scurrying up the street. “Gone to warn Helm, I bet,” he muttered, touching his gun as his coat whipped back in the wind.
Word of trouble traveled fast in Virginia City, and in house after house doors were flung open. Faces pressed against windowpanes. Men emerged to follow Winslow’s progress along the cold street. Up ahead, Zack saw a figure step out of the Silver Moon—Boone Helm! His mind raced ahead, and as he approached the spot, he saw Hayes Lyons far over to the left of Helm, and Snake Walker, a tough half-breed, to the right. Both men turned to face Zack as he stopped thirty feet from Helm, who called out, “Hear you’re lookin’ for me, Winslow.”
Zack’s eyes caught a flash on the roof of the Silver Moon, like the sun striking a shiny object. Man with a rifle up there, he thought. “Boone, we buried a good man today.”
Another man slithered out from an alley to Helm’s left. Helm looked quickly, reassured, and flexed his shoulders cockily. “Too bad, but it’s got nothin’ to do with me.”
The man in the alley had disappeared, but Zack threw caution aside and challenged, “You’re a liar, Helm!—a yellow dog!”
Helm’s jaw tightened and he yelled, “Nobody calls me that!”
He clapped his hand on the butt of his gun, threw one quick glance toward Hayes Lyons to give a signal, then stopped. James Miller was standing face-to-face with Lyons, forcing him out of the play. Beidler had followed suit with Snake Walker, and A. J. Oliver and several other merchants stood like cocked guns, watching Helm carefully.
Helm made a half turn, his bravado fading fast, and lifted his hand from the gun. “You got nothin’ on me, Winslow! I never—”
A movement to his left shattered his nerves and he uttered a cry, thinking Miller was gunning him down. He yanked his gun out and shot. The figure dropped.
Zack shot simultaneously, sending a bullet into Helm’s temple, killing him instantly. Winslow wheeled and ran to the person Helm had downed. “Bron!” he cried as he gathered the bleeding woman into his arms. At the same moment, the man on the roof aimed his gun at Zack’s back. Suddenly the gunman flew backward as Beidler’s shotgun pellets tore into him. He plunged to his death below.
Oblivious to Pfouts, who had come with Bron, and the gunfire around him, Zack raced toward Doc Steele’s office—praying as he ran, his shirt stained with Bron’s blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE TRIAL OF GEORGE IVES
Jeanne waited in Doc Steele’s office for his report. Worry creased her wan face as she fidgeted. She had been there off and on the past few days, hoping for good news as the wounded woman fought for her life. She and the children had found a place to stay for the time being.
“She’s better today,” he said as he came out of Bron’s room. “Fever stayed down all night, and her breathing is less ragged.” He scratched his head and sighed. “If she’d just wake up and eat something, she’d get some strength.”
“I will try to feed her a little.”
“You might try to get Winslow to eat, too,” Steele suggested. “I don’t think he’s eaten enough to keep a cat alive since he brought her here.”
“I will try—but he feels that it is his fault.”
“I know—and I guess it was, in a way. But most men don’t just stop living like he’s done—even if what’s happened is their fault.” He moved to the door, saying, “I’ll be back this afternoon.”
After he left, Jeanne went
into Bron’s room and stood beside the bed. She grasped Bron’s hand, willing her to respond, to wake up. But she only moaned. Zack sat nearby, watching. His unshaven face and grief-stricken red-rimmed eyes showed the agony of the past three days. Not only did he refuse to sleep, he couldn’t even think of food because of the weight of his guilty conscience. Jeanne turned to him. “She is better,” she said. “You go down and get something to eat. Rest awhile.”
He got up and stretched his aching muscles. Coming over to the bedside, he looked down at Bron, studying her. “I can’t see she’s any different.” With all his heart he wanted to believe Jeanne, but there had not been even a minute change that he could see.
“But the fever’s gone and she’s sleeping normally.” Jeanne hesitated, then said, “You’re not to blame, Zack. There was no way you could have known Bron was going to be there.” She saw the words meant nothing to him, and gave an angry snort. “If you want to blame someone, blame Parris! He was the one who let her drag him down there!” The words fell on deaf ears, so she shrugged. “Well, I’ve got to give her a bath. Go get some sleep, Zack.”
“Jeanne,” he said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His eyes were filled with confusion, and he rubbed his hand over his face, then looked down at Bron. “I can’t do anything—that’s what makes it so bad. If I could just—just—!”
“Just what?” Jeanne interrupted, grabbing his arm. “Maybe it’s the first time you ever got caught up in a thing you can’t handle, Zack. You’ve been strong enough to stand against any situation because you could do something—even if that something was only running away from the problem. Now you can’t run away—because you love her. Isn’t that what it is?”
He nodded. “I guess so, Jeanne. It’ll never amount to anything—but you’re right. I’ve been here for three days, and it’s like being in a deep, dark hole with no way out. I’m not a doctor, and I’m not a praying man—and I can’t . . . don’t want to . . . run off and leave her,” he said, his eyes dropping to the still form. Her fiery hair garlanded the pillow, her long dark lashes lay against her velvety cheeks. Oh, God! Oh, God! his heart cried. Aloud he said, “What does a man do at a time like this?”
Pity touched Jeanne’s dark eyes. “Every one of us comes to that, Zack, sooner or later. Death reaches its fingers out to one we love, or what we want most is wrenched from us. And we cry or we curse—and we blame God, or ourselves. But it’s always the same, I think. We all bump up against something that we can’t handle.”
His eyes opened wider. “Why, that’s the way it is, Jeanne! How did you know?”
Turning away from him, she replied quietly, “Because I’ve been there.”
With a nod, he stumbled from the room and down the stairs. The snow had begun to fall, dusting the muddy street with a white coat. Exhausted, Zack shuffled his way to the cafe. There were only three miners at a table across the room from where he sat down. One of them asked respectfully, “How’s Miss Morgan, Winslow?”
“Doc says she had a good night. Fever’s gone.”
“Good. She’s going to make it! We can’t lose our Alder Gulch Angel, can we, fellows?”
Zack ate a little, forcing each mouthful. He was interrupted several times by men who inquired about Bron. Their concern was genuine, for to these rough miners, the woman they called the Alder Gulch Angel was a symbol of something they missed. In the lawlessness and infamy of the camp, she stood for the purity and virtue they longed to see in something.
He got a room at the hotel, fell into bed, and slept all day, getting up just as darkness was beginning to fall. The snow was almost two inches deep as he made his way back to the cafe. Beidler waved a hand at him as he entered, so he made his way through the packed room, joining the stocky Dutchman who shared a table with Colonel Simpson and Tod Cramer. “I just left Steele’s office,” Simpson informed him. “Miss Morgan woke up this afternoon and sipped a little broth. Doc’s very optimistic about her.”
Relief washed over Zack and he bowed his head, staring at the tablecloth. His action silenced the others. Finally Dutch cleared his throat. “Well, one thing came out right, anyway.”
Zack pulled his shoulders back and said, “Got any pie, Blackie?”
“Apple and peach.”
“I’ll have the peach—and some coffee.”
He ate the pie, listening as the three men talked, taking no part. He felt Simpson’s disapproval, and knew it was because he had not been willing to join the common effort to clean up the Gulch. He regretted Simpson’s reaction, for Zack admired the man.
He finished his pie, and sat watching the snow fall. Just as Simpson said “I’ve got to get home—” James Miller pushed through the door. His eyes swept the saloon until he spotted the four men. He rushed over, his eyes blazing. “Mike Ameche just brought Nick Tybalt in with a bullet in his head. Mike found him in the brush.”
“Nick?” Dutch asked, getting to his feet. “Where’d Mike find him?”
“Out near the shack where Charley Hildebrand and Long John Frank live.”
Everybody in the cafe had heard Miller’s words, and the angry sound of voices rose. Nick was one of the best young men in the camp, well liked by everyone. Somebody shouted, “It’s time we stopped this thing!”
The miners were angry, but they had no leader. Simpson knew he didn’t have what it took to make men follow. He got to his feet wearily, saying, “I guess we’ll have to bury him tomorrow.”
Miller looked at Zack, a question in his eyes, but seemed to have little hope, so he headed for the door.
“Wait a minute, James,” Zack called.
Every eye was riveted on Zack as he rose to his feet. He hadn’t shaved, and looked rough, but the vehemence they had seen the day he shot Yeager, or when he had gone after Ives, was gone. Now there was a set, determined look as he said, “There’s enough of us to do the job.” Immediately a yell split the air as the men leaped to their feet, anxious to hear what he would say.
Zack looked at the miners and knew that Bron had been right—that Pfouts and Simpson and Miller had been right. “I’m ready to go—but we all go together. Simpson,” he turned to the older man and asked, “what’s the best plan?”
Simpson was astonished, but delighted. “A posse, first, to catch the men who did this. Then we organize into the Alder Gulch Vigilantes. Zack, you and Miller go bring the men in, and by the time you get back, we’ll be ready to hang them!”
“You’re the boss,” Zack said. “Come on, Miller.” Loud cheers bounced against the walls as the men hurried out.
Simpson searched the faces of the others and said, “Remember, if we start this thing, there’s no turning back. Some of us may not make it—we might even have to lay our hands on men we’ve never dreamed were in with the toughs. Don’t start if you’re not going to finish!” Simpson’s silhouette against the falling snow made him look even taller and stronger as he waited for their response. The voices diminished for a minute as each man thought about the consequences, then raised as one cry of assent.
Simpson searched their faces again, grateful for the support. “All right, get your horses and be sure you have plenty of ammunition. We’ll head out in thirty minutes.”
At the time appointed, eight of them left Virginia City, riding steadily until two o’clock in the freezing darkness. They had set out with vigor and enthusiasm, but the bitter cold seeped into the very marrow of their bones, slowing their reactions and chilling their ardor. One man started to complain, and Miller said bluntly, “Shut your mouth, Whitey! We’re going to finish this job if we freeze our ears off doing it!”
At three o’clock, Miller called a halt. “I’m going to see what’s at Frank’s cabin. Wait till I get back.” The men piled off their horses and stomped their feet to get the circulation going. Zack’s hands were stiff, and he beat them together, saying to Dutch Beidler, “They may have skipped by now.”
But when Miller returned a half hour later, he was excited. “There’s a pac
k of horses outside the cabin. Must be a meeting. Let’s close in.”
“Better wait for a little light, James,” Zack murmured. “We could start shooting each other in the dark.”
“Sure,” Miller nodded. “We’ll wait awhile.”
They stood there in the snow waiting until just before dawn. Finally Zack said, “Let’s take ’em, James.”
“All right.” Miller motioned them forward, and they crept stealthily up to the cabin, taking strategic positions. When they were all in place, Miller moved around the front corner, raised his gun and yelled, “Frank! Come out here!”
There was a momentary silence; then somebody inside cursed. “Who’s out there?”
“Get out here—all of you!”
The door opened and Zack recognized Long John Frank. “What’s goin’ on?” Frank asked.
“You come with me,” Miller told him, holding his gun on him. “Winslow, you and Beidler come too. The rest of you get the others—be sure and take their guns,” he said as he prodded Frank around the corner of the shack.
Seventy feet away, he stopped and said, “Nick Tybalt was found out here with a bullet in his brain.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about it,” Frank said nervously.
“He was laid out in plain sight, but you didn’t bring his body in,” Miller charged. Something in his face frightened Frank.
“I didn’t kill him, Miller!”
“I think you did. You’ll hang for it, Frank!”
“No! It wasn’t me!” Sweat popped out on Long John’s brow despite the cold, and he began to tremble.
Zack saw the fear and said, “I guess we can do the job here, Miller. No sense taking him back to town. It’s his cabin, and he had to be in on it.”
Frank held up his trembling hands. “Wait! I swear it wasn’t me.” He sighted the rope ahead, and threw all caution to the wind. “It was George Ives who killed him! He shot Tybalt for his money and his mules.”
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