“Well, you scared the hell out of me,” Sedley said. “Another minute and I’d have plugged you for sure.”
“Perfect,” Shawn said, grinning. “The very model of a model witch-finder general if ever I saw one.”
Wolfden stepped to the fire and Sedley decided to play critic.
“The clothes let you down, and can you keep yourself hunched over like that all day?”
“I’m an actor,” Wolfden said. “I don’t know about all day, but I’ve played the hunchbacked prince for hours at a time.”
He looked down at his black frockcoat, pants of the same color and the scuffed toes of his boots. “But I agree with you about the duds.”
“Cobb won’t remember what you wore,” Shawn said. “You’ll need to lose the gun belt, of course.”
“Wait, I have an idea,” Sally said.
She stepped to the carpetbag that she’d insisted on taking from the hotel and rummaged inside. “Let me have your hat, Mr. Wolfden,” she said.
“The name’s Jasper, remember?” Wolfden said, smiling as he said it.
“No. You are Mr. Wolfden,” the girl said. “Now let me have the hat.”
Sally folded up the brim until it lay flat against the crown, and then she pinned it in place with a brooch she’d taken from the bag.
“It was my mother’s, a cameo of nymphs dancing in a glade,” she said. “But it looks like something a witch-finder might wear in his hat. At least, I think it does.”
“Naked nymphs, Sally,” Sedley said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“No, they’re witches,” Sally said. “That’s what the witch-finder will tell anyone who asks.”
“It makes me look kind of weird,” Wolfden said, settling the hat on his head.
“That’s the general idea, general,” Shawn said. “Now do something about the iron.”
Wolfden’s coat was cut baggy in the fashion of the time and his revolver disappeared into an inside pocket.
“Fine,” Shawn said, standing back to admire him. “You look just fine. You could fool your own mother.”
“I don’t know about that,” Wolfden said. “Hell, this isn’t going to end well. I can feel it in my water.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Shawn said. “I’ll raise such hell in the damned town that half the time no one will notice you.”
“What kind of hell?” Wolfden said.
“Once I’ve figured that out, you’ll be the first to know, Jasper.” He shoved the pole at the man. “Here, take this. It’s your official badge of office.”
“It’s a pine branch,” Wolfden said.
“Well, it isn’t quite finished yet,” Shawn said. “Now, let’s be on our way. You’ll ride double with me.”
“What’s wrong with my own horse?” Wolfden said.
Shawn shook his head. “Jasper, Jasper, Jasper. Cobb may not remember your duds, but he’ll sure as hell recollect a white stud that goes seventeen hands high and has a mean disposition.”
“Then I’ll take—”
“No, you walk into Holy Rood,” Shawn said. “Witch-finders don’t ride horses.”
“Who says?”
“I do. Now let’s hit the trail. Time’s a-wasting.”
“What about the rabbits?” Wolfden said.
“They’re nowhere near done yet,” Shawn said. “We’ll save you some.”
Riding double, Shawn and Wolfden dropped out of the trees and onto the wagon road, and then swung south toward Holy Rood.
The high mountain land around him lay still and silent, drowsy from the growing heat of the day. Only the distant Harmony Mountains to the north looked cool, purple peaks against a cloudless sky that shaded from blue to the color of mint.
For fifteen minutes, Shawn and Wolfden rode in silence, the only sounds the soft plod of the horse and the creak of saddle leather.
Then Shawn said, “The first of them coming up, Jasper.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Wolfden said.
Shawn turned his head in the saddle and grinned.
“You’ll look great,” he said. “Like a witch-finder should look.”
“Yeah, if the people in Holy Rood are stupid enough to believe it.”
“They’re stupid enough.”
Shawn drew rein and studied the skull on the post nearest him.
“Well?” Wolfden said.
“Not quite right,” Shawn said. “It’s a bit too weathered.” He nodded to the other side of the road. “Same with that one. Real brown instead of yellow.”
Wolfden looked over Shawn’s shoulder. “Lord, these damned skulls go on forever,” he said.
Shawn’s far-seeing eyes scanned the road, a dusty vee that disappeared into shimmering distance. Somewhere beyond the heat shimmer was Holy Rood.
“I’d say close to fifty, twenty-five a side,” he said. “It looks like Cobb was busy for a spell when he and his boys first rode into town. Who were these people?”
Wolfden stared at the brown skull and said, “Whores, gamblers, goldbrick artists, dancehall loungers, drunks and vagrants. Alas, the poor Yoricks, I knew them all.”
Wolfden leaned over in the saddle and pointed into a patch of scrub at the side of the trail. “See that rotten wood in there?” he said.
Shawn allowed that he did.
“It had a name on it once—Dawson’s Draw, the name of the settlement when it was a town like any other. Hank Cobb changed the name when the killing started.”
Shawn kneed his horse forward. “And you tried to stop him.”
“Yeah, I did. Then he killed me.”
“Or so he thought.”
“Yeah, Shawn, something like that.”
Holy Rood had emerged through the shifting landscape when Shawn found a skull that suited him. It was a white, fine-boned example that looked female, and it still had all its teeth.
Trying hard not to speculate too much about the skull’s previous owner, Shawn took it from the post and said, “Right, Jasper, from now on you walk.”
Wolfden jumped off the horse and then Shawn swung out of the saddle.
“What the hell are you going to do with that head?” Wolfden said.
“Let me have your staff of office,” Shawn said.
“You mean this dry stick?”
“Yes, and remember to bear it with pride, my man,” Shawn said.
Using the creeper vine, as tough as rawhide, Shawn lashed the skull to the pine branch.
The weight of the skull bent the pole over at the top, an effect Shawn declared was, “Crackerjack!”
“Jasper, carry the staff over your shoulder and walk into Holy Rood like you owned the place,” he said. “Remember, you’re the official witch-finder general and everybody’s afraid of you.”
“We’ll soon see if that’s the case,” Wolfden said. “Cobb is a piece of dirt, but he’s hard to fool.”
“I know,” Shawn said. All the good humor drained from his face, and was replaced by concern. “Jasper, you’re putting your life on the line and what you’re about to do is dangerous. Just . . . just be careful.”
“I’ll pin Cobb in town for as long as I can,” Wolfden said. “The rest is up to you.”
“You see the skulls around you,” Shawn said. “A town that sanctions that isn’t fit to exist. I’ve declared war on Holy Rood, Jasper, and I’ll finish what I start.”
Wolfden smiled. “I pegged you for a rich man’s son, but never a town tamer.”
“Me neither,” Shawn said, “but I guess that’s what I’ve become.”
The road lay ahead of Wolfden and Holy Rood shimmered white in the noon sun.
“I best be on my way,” he said. He grinned. “Maybe I’ll get something to eat, on account of how I’m missing my last six meals.”
“Wait,” Shawn said.
He reached into his pocket. “This is a rosary. My father gave it to me when I left home for England. It will help protect you.”
Wolfden smiled. “Sounds like popery to
me.”
“It sounds like it because it is,” Shawn said.
He removed Wolfden’s hat and hung the coral rosary beads around his neck. Then he replaced the hat again.
“My gun-fighting brother, Jacob, carries one, and he’s about as good a Catholic as a Cheyenne dog soldier. Same goes for Luther Ironside, only he’s even worse.”
“I guess if a fast gun like Jacob O’Brien doesn’t mind the beads, then neither do I.” Wolfden smiled. “Shawn, thanks. I won’t let you down.”
“And I won’t let you down either,” Shawn said.
Shawn watched Wolfden leave, the white, grinning skull over his shoulder bobbing behind him.
The day was as bright as a newly minted coin, the land around Shawn rippling with heat, yet he felt a chill, as though the cold winds of Dartmoor were once again blowing on him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jason McCord talked loud above the clamor of the church bell.
“He died screaming like a pig,” he said. “Hooper took a machete to him.”
“Save a bullet that way,” Hank Cobb said.
“Hey, that’s what Hooper said.”
“Waters have a gun on him?” Cobb said.
McCord pulled the Smith & Wesson from his belt and laid it on the desk.
“I reckon if a man carries a belly gun, he’s got to be good with it,” he said.
“Did he get off a shot?” Cobb said.
“Nah. He didn’t even get his piece drawed afore Hooper done for him.”
Cobb picked up the revolver and stepped to the sheriff’s office window.
The surrey was parked outside in the street under guard and a curious crowd had already gathered.
“Well, I’ll go talk to them,” Cobb said. “Put their minds at rest.”
“When are we pulling out of here, boss?” McCord said.
“Soon. Maybe tonight,” Cobb said. “Before we quit this burg I plan to burn it around their stupid ears.”
He motioned to the people outside. “Listen to them babble to each other about their precious bank money. A bunch of sheep waiting to be fleeced.”
“Know the old feller who owns the livery?” McCord said.
“Yeah. What’s his name . . . Rhodes, isn’t it? Matt Rhodes. He’s as mean as a caged rattler, that one. But he’s good with horses so I let him be.”
“He was with Sherman in Georgia, damn his eyes,” McCord said.
Cobb smiled. “And you want to put a bullet into him before we leave?”
“That’s my intention.”
“Then be my guest,” Cobb said. “I don’t give a damn what happens to these people. I may gun a few of them myself before this day is over.”
Cobb adjusted his monk’s robe, hating the feel of the rough wool against his throat, and opened the office door.
When he appeared, Waters’s .38 in hand, the crowd fell silent.
“And then, as though the theft of the town’s money was not a heinous enough crime, Reuben Waters drew this . . . murderous revolver . . . and attempted to shoot the apprehending brothers,” Cobb said.
He paused and his eyes swept the crowd, gauging their mood.
Reuben Waters was not liked, but he was a pillar of the town and most faces showed a mix of surprise and apprehension.
“My friends, only a buzzard preys on his own kind, but Waters’s end was swift and richly deserved,” Cobb said. “With admirable speed and dexterity, our very own brothers McCord and Hooper returned fire.”
Cobb paused again. This time for effect.
“The robber, Reuben Waters, died weltering in his blood!”
That last drew a ragged cheer and a relieved Cobb struck while the iron was hot.
“The money will be returned to the bank and placed under guard,” he said. “When the tithing is complete, you may then reclaim your deposits and hold on to them until a new banker is appointed.”
“When will we be able to get our money?” a voice from the crowd asked.
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Cobb said, lying smoothly.
“Hell, the money’s right there in the wagon,” the man said. “Why not divvy it up right now?”
This drew murmurs of agreement that Cobb quickly squelched.
“Do you have your bankbook, brother? Your proof of deposit?” he said.
“No, but I can get it right quick,” the man said.
“No. We’ll do this legally,” Cobb said.
The irony was not lost on Shel Shannon, who watched from the office window and grinned.
“Yes, I said legally,” Cobb said. “The bank will open for business at seven tomorrow morning. Those with money to collect, come with bankbook in hand.”
There may have been further discussion, but the crowd’s attention was caught and held by the strange apparition walking down Main Street.
Wolfden played his role to the hilt.
“Make way for the federally appointed witch-finder general,” he yelled in a strange, hollow voice. “I have come to rid this benighted town of witches, sorceresses, enchantresses, magicians, spell-casters, warlocks, crones, hags, she-devils, ogresses . . .”—Wolfden ran out of names—“and all such hellish creatures and entities.”
Hank Cobb stood on the boardwalk and looked stunned.
The crowd was shocked into silence, and Wolfden was well aware that his fate—and life—hung in the balance.
As an actor he’d learned how to please an audience—and he tried desperately to please one now.
Wolfden raised his arms, the skull dangling above his head, and roared in a powerful voice that had once carried all the way to “the gods,” a theater’s upper balcony where the poorest of the poor were seated.
“Soon ye’ll find who among ye consorts with the powers of evil and ye’ll chase them from your midst,” he said.
Hank Cobb recovered his wits and his anger flared.
He stepped down from the boardwalk, pushed people aside and stood in front of Wolfden. “I don’t know what your game is, mister,” he said. “But you git right now or I’ll take your damned head off.”
“No, let him speak,” a man said. “He looks like a witch-finder, sure enough.”
Using what he called his Richard the Third voice, a rusty, grating rasp, Wolfden shook his staff so the skull danced and spat at Cobb, “Back I say, back! Ye wear a holy robe but you might be a warlock yourself. Aye, or even a demon in disguise.”
At that moment, Cobb badly wanted to gun the man who claimed to be a witch-finder. He had not yet seen through Wolfden’s disguise, but something about the man troubled Cobb, as though he’d met him before.
He did know that the moment for shooting had passed. The crowd had slipped away from him and was now intently staring at the stranger. Worse, the women had moved to the front for a better view . . . always a bad sign.
“How did you find us, Mr. Witch-finder?” one of them asked.
“Your plight is well known, even in the halls of Washington,” Wolfden said. “It has long been rumored that Holy Rood is beset with witches and I was ordered by President Grover Cleveland1 himself to put an end to it.”
“We don’t need your help,” Cobb said. His face was iron hard and slick with sweat. “We’ll rid ourselves of our own witches.”
Wolfden shook his staff again and roared, “Ye will, will ye? Look at the people gathered here, a hundred strong, I’ll be bound, and among them I already can sniff out a baker’s dozen of the devil’s brood.”
The crowd gasped and instinctively shrank from one another and somewhere among them a child shrieked in fear.
“My name is Stanley Starlight of Salem town. Will ye put your faith in me or those who have already led you to the very brink of hell?” Wolfden yelled.
He knew he had the crowd and it didn’t disappoint.
“You speak the truth, witch-finder. Tell us what to do,” a pretty brunette woman cried out, hugging her crying child close to her skirts.
Wolfden stole a glance at Cobb’s fa
ce.
The gunman was beyond anger. He was in an impotent, killing rage, exactly where Wolfden wanted him.
“What burdens this surrey?” Wolfden said, guessing that the burlap sacks were full of money.
“It is the deposits from the bank,” the brunette said. “The banker tried to steal it, but Brother Matthias’s men stopped him.”
“He’s dead, missing his damned head,” Hank Cobb said, his voice flat. It sounded like a threat and it was.
An errant wind lifted dust from the street and the tin rooster weathervane atop the livery stable screeched as it moved this way and that and frantically tried to pin down the direction of the breeze.
“Well, now I am very concerned,” Wolfden said.
Getting into his role, he made his eyes both shifty and shrewd.
“I smell treachery here,” he said. “Treachery spawned in the deepest pits of Hades.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cobb said.
The gunman’s mind was working overtime.
Was this ugly hunchback really who he claimed to be? And what was it about the man that made him seem familiar?
Cobb had no time to ponder those questions, because Wolfden spoke again.
“This is the town’s money, is it not?” he said.
“Every last penny of it, except for some bank bonds held in trust for others,” a man said.
“Then it must be made safe ere it be used to fund the devil’s work,” Wolfden said.
“It will be returned to the bank and kept there under guard,” Cobb said. “I already told these people that.”
Wolfden shook his head and then his staff. The skull bobbed and grinned.
“No,” he said. “That will not do. I will take the money in charge, using the emergency powers granted me by the government of the United States.”
Cobb grinned in triumph.
“There, brothers and sisters, you heard it from his own lips,” he yelled. “This is no witch-finder, but a common thief who aims to steal your money.”
That last brought a hostile murmur from the crowd, and Wolfden knew he had to talk fast or he’d lose them.
“Did ye not hear me talk of treachery?” he yelled. “I trust no one in this town until my investigation is over and that is why your money must be guarded.”
Shawn O'Brien Town Tamer # 1 Page 11