His reasoning satisfied the townsfolk enough to grant him a moment of peace. He claimed an empty table close to the fire, throwing his hat on top. His chair complained when he reclined on its two legs and stretched. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Miss Sheppard coming his way.
“Great,” he grumbled.
Tiberius waved a lazy hand to an empty seat, but she remained on her feet, as starchy as the collar of her dress.
“What can I do for you, Miss Sheppard?”
“I demand to speak with Deputy Westshore.” Her voice pitched on the first syllable—dee-mand.
“Be my guest.”
She looked around the saloon like a hound sniffing the air. “Well, where is he?”
“Cozy in a cell with Bisby. Those two were in cahoots. They’ve been pulling a stupid swindle to claim rewards for wanted men.”
Miss Sheppard crunched the beads of her rosary. “Deceitful as the snake slithering around the branches of the Science Tree.”
He shrugged. “They’re just a pair of scamps that bit off more than they could chew. They’ll sit tight until I decide what to do next. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
“I trust you know best,” she replied tersely.
“I heard you spent the night at Miss Chipman’s.”
“I did. She’s the most gracious host. A true Christian woman.”
“You might need to keep her company for a while. Roads are—”
Miss Sheppard harrumphed. She tightened her shawl. “I heard.”
A roaring voice reached them from the back of the room. “Hell on Earth!”
Reverend Conn stood on the stage of the saloon, arms up to the sky. He traipsed too close to the edge, like a reluctant funambulist. “Look around. Death and chaos. Mistrust and sin. Our doomsday is not coming in brimstone and fire, but in ice and blood. Still, our Lord loves you all.”
He pointed erratically to the swaying audience. “He loves you, and you, and you…”
His eyes stopped on Fanny, who pranced around the drinking men filling any glass she found empty. “He loves you the most, my child.”
A man whose cheeks gleamed as red as the reverend’s raised his glass. “Amen!”
His friends laughed and slapped his back, spilling their drinks on the floor.
Miss Sheppard lunged for the stage. Reverend Conn clasped his hands in prayer. “They mock me, my Lord. But I’m just a humble servant of your love.”
He closed his eyes, lost balance, and wobbled backwards. Miss Sheppard caught his fall. All the bystanders shook with mirth.
The reverend welcomed her with an awkward hug. “My dear companion. Light of my days. My own shining diamond.”
“You’re exhausted, Reverend. Let me take you to your room,” she replied, deadpan.
A gruff voice cut through the crowd. “She wants all of that preacher’s love for ’erself.”
Miss Sheppard glowered at the guffawing crowd. “Shame on you.”
She took Reverend Conn off the stage. The men booed and complained. A frowzy drunkard grabbed her arm as she passed by. “Let the preacher stay, ma’am. We’re all having fun here.”
She shook him off. “Get your filthy paws off me.” Her voice had changed. It sounded no longer shrill, but penetrating, smoky.
“Who are you calling filthy, lady?”
Tiberius slammed his table to call for attention. He waited until everybody quieted. “I had a long day. You better not make me leave my seat, Masterson.”
The man unhanded Miss Sheppard. He mumbled an apology. The rest of the drinkers scattered throughout the saloon. Miss Sheppard expressed her gratitude toward the sheriff with a crisp nod then guided the careening reverend between the people, tables, and chairs, to the back hallway behind the staircase.
Ray Wilson joined Tiberius holding two shots of whisky, chugged one, and slid the other across the tabletop. Tiberius caught the glass on the fly but didn’t drink.
“Seems the good minister can’t hold his bug juice,” Ray said. “I wonder if that’s why those two are on the run.”
Tiberius raised an eyebrow.
“They’d only been in Silverton for a couple of nights before I picked ’em up,” Ray continued. “The innkeeper told me.”
“You don’t say.”
The West was a lonely place. It brought together pairs of odd bedfellows, figuratively or literally. Miss Sheppard and Reverend Conn, Willoughby and Pleasant... Maxwell and Iris.
Ray motioned his head to the wide hearth. Miss Gray dozed in her rocking chair, her head on her right shoulder, her silver braid running down her left. “Look at her. How can anyone sleep through this racket?”
Tiberius felt a pang of envy. If only he could grasp that same calmness. “What’s her story?”
“I think she’s been traveling for a while, all the way from San Francisco.”
“No wonder she’s so tired.”
Tiberius yawned. Exhaustion crept over his body. He should go back to his quarters, to his cold room on top of his colder office. To his soulless bed and musky sheets. He glanced out the windows of the Silver Moon. The snow had returned with a vengeance. He could wait. He had no reason to wander out during the peak of the snowstorm even if his home was but a few buildings down the street. No reason to rush to the emptiness of his lonely nights.
Silas Rowland dashed through the double doors like a spooked stallion. His gaze fluttered around the bar until he found Tiberius. He ran to the sheriff’s table, heaving, eyes almost bursting out of their sockets. He trembled so violently Tiberius feared he’d collapse. “I can’t find Bennett. I can’t find my son.”
Tiberius offered him his untouched drink. “Calm down.”
Silas took a quick sip, hands shaking. “I can’t lose another child, Tiberius. I’d rather die.”
“That’s not happening. You haven’t seen your kid since the morning?”
“No. I’ve been out all day looking for him. Nothing.”
Tiberius stood up. He placed a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “Bennett was upset. He’s probably making himself scarce.”
Silas breathed in faltering sobs. He shook his head, wincing. “It’s all my fault. He’s just a boy.”
“Go home, Silas. I bet he’ll come-a-knocking when he gets hungry or tired. I’ll keep looking for him in the meantime.”
Silas kept quiet, head down.
“I’ll find him. But you need to go home now,” Tiberius insisted.
The desperate father dragged his feet to the exit. The drinkers followed his slow walk with hazy but sympathetic eyes.
Ray cleared his throat. “If that kid gets caught out in the snowstorm, he’s as good as—”
Tiberius shut him up with a sharp glance. “I’ll get the Chief. No one knows Souls Well better than him. And get plenty of coffee to go.”
He watched the swirling snowflakes hitting the windows of the Silver Moon, like tiny, blind birds. “It will be a long, long night.”
12
Dawn broke as Tiberius crossed the wooden archway that marked the beginning of his town. Snow stuck to parts of the lettering on the welcome sign: Welcome to Souls Well.
Come, souls.
“What souls would come here but the lost ones,” Tiberius thought. Snow piled on his hat and both his shoulders, but he didn’t bother dusting it off. He adjusted the scarf around his neck and face. Its wool was rough, but his skin was so numb by the cold he hardly felt the usual itch.
A horse neighed in the distance. Father Darley galloped to the wooden archway. The priest hardly ever rode, but he seemed to rejuvenate by scores of years when he did, guiding his gray horse with the talent and speed of a Pony Express rider. He neared the waiting sheriff and held his mount with a loud whoa that broke the sacred silence of the early hours.
He gazed at Tiberius with an ashen face. “No trace of Bennett from here to the blue fir forest. He’s not hiding in my church nor in the cemetery.”
Minutes later, the Chief appeared at
the side of the road. He came from a nearby glade. He gave them a weary shake of the head.
Tiberius looked at the tree line against the water-colored horizon. “Bennett’s a smart chap. Something tells me he never left town. He’s just staying out of sight.”
He realized he was talking to himself, not to Father Darley or the Chief. He was trying to erase the image of Henry’s frozen corpse from his retinas and shake off the daunting possibility of Bennett Rowland sharing his same end.
“Do me a favor, padre. Go tell Silas to fetch as many volunteers as he can for a search party. I’ll join as soon as I can.”
Father Darley nodded and spurred his horse. He rode away while the Chief and Tiberius followed his trail on foot. They walked the empty Main Street in silence, like two monks in deep reflection.
Tiberius tipped his hat when they reached his porch. “Thanks for your help. Get some rest, Chief.”
“You rest too,” the Chief replied, as commanding as a doctor talking to a stubborn patient.
“I will. Soon.”
The Chief gave him a doubtful glance and left. Tiberius entered his office. Jesse Valentine sat on a stool in front of the cell, a rifle on his lap.
“Hope our guests behaved,” he told the bartender-turned-warden.
Jesse stood up and stretched. His bearish back cracked. “That one kept me up. He has some stories to tell.”
“I bet.”
“Top of the morning,” Pleasant greeted from inside his cell. He sat with his back against the wall. Will slept soundly on the cot to his right, wrapped in a frayed blanket like a burrito.
Jesse leaned the rifle against Tiberius’ desk. “Did you find the Rowland kid?”
“Afraid not.”
“Is that the boy in the street?” Pleasant asked.
“If you mean the boy you almost ran over, then yes.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Jesse picked up a tray with two bowls showing dry traces of rice and beans and an empty pitcher. “Should I bring them some breakfast?”
Pleasant stood up. “Quail eggs, boar sausages, English pastries, and your finest tea should suffice.”
Tiberius pointed to the circles under his eyes. “Do I seem in the mood for jokes?”
“Do you ever?”
Jesse chuckled but tried to hide it.
Tiberius moved closer to the cell. “You enjoy walking on thin ice, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Ice cracks. Sooner or later.”
“I always watch my step.”
A quick smile crossed Tiberius’ face. “You have a quick tongue.”
Pleasant answered with a sly smirk.
“But a quick tongue might not win you breakfast this morning. We shall see.”
Tiberius exited his office with Jesse. He locked the door behind them, bolting it twice. Every step he took toward the Silver Moon reminded him of how exhausted he really was. He hoped for a quiet corner in the saloon where he could enjoy a cup of coffee. His desire vanished when he crossed the double doors. Three irate men waved their fists at Madame Valentine by the bar.
“Go fetch your girls right now, or I’ll do it myself. I’ll bash their doors in if I have to!” Luke Masterson shouted.
Luke the woodsman lived in a small cabin in the outskirts by the westernmost pine forest. The wild path to his cottage became too difficult to clear come the first large snowfall, so he always sheltered in the town’s boarding house until the spring. He also turned into a seasonal regular of the saloon next door. Luke, often jolly and carefree, displayed an unusual amount of anger.
Madame Valentine crossed her arms over her bosom. “You will do nothing. I’ll talk to my girls only if I choose to.”
Luke slammed his calloused hands on the counter. “You’re protecting a filthy thief.”
Jesse stepped between his mother and the enraged man. “Watch your mouth, Masterson.”
Oscar Landon pushed Luke away, breaking the standoff. “We mean no trouble, Jesse. But we were all here last night, and we’re all missing something from our pockets today.”
Madam Valentine kept her tone civil but severe. “I keep a strict code about thievery. All of my girls know better than to break my rules. They’re well aware of the consequences.”
Oscar clicked his tongue. The furrows on his forehead deepened. “If you won’t listen to our demands, ma’am, you’re forcing us to act in our behalf.” The two other men flanked him, like wolves about to strike their prey.
Tiberius strolled to the bar. He cut through the flustered bunch and sat on a stool. “Mornin’.”
The men silenced at once, receding from him and the Valentines with careful steps. Jesse crouched under the counter. He reached for a steaming carafe and poured it into a tin mug then handed the mug to the sheriff.
Tiberius smelled the coffee. “Much obliged.” He took a sip. “It’s too early for making such a racket, what?”
“We want to report a robbery, Sheriff.” Oscar said, leering at Madame Valentine.
“All three of you?”
The men nodded.
Luke Masterson leaned in. He breathed in heavy puffs, red cheeks showing under his brown beard like two setting suns. “We all drank here last night. And we all found our pockets empty in the morning.”
The third man in the group stepped forward. He was a shorter, stockier version of Luke. “Losing money is bad enough, but I also carried a small silver chain. A farewell gift my dear wife gave me when I moved west.”
Tiberius looked the man up and down. “Who are you again?”
“Louis Masterson, sir. Luke’s cousin. We met when I first got here the past fall.”
Tiberius took another sip of his coffee. “Let me get the story straight, Masterson-the-cousin-I-met-the-past-fall. Did you spend the night at the Silver Moon?”
Louis scratched his neck, uncomfortable. “I’m a married man.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Luke took over. “We stayed until late, but all three went back to the boarding house together.”
“I see. So why are you so sure you got robbed here and not there? Or anywhere else? Boozed up men are an easy target.”
Oscar pushed his way to the front. “I consider the men at the boarding house my own kin. There are no thieves among us.”
Tiberius circled his sore neck. It cracked a little. “That’s not reason enough to enter someone else’s home and start pointing fingers, now is it?”
Madame Valentine moved closer to the standing men. “If I may.”
“Please.”
“I understand these gentlemen’s distress. This is my establishment. What happens here is my sole responsibility. But I won’t tolerate any hollow accusations. I shall talk to my girls, but will handle the matter on my own terms before anything else. If that’s fine with you, Sheriff Tibbetts?”
Tiberius shrugged. “Works for me. We solve things civilly in Souls Well, don’t we?”
He eyed the three men. They stared at the floorboards.
“Yes, Sheriff,” they answered in unison.
“That’s what I like to hear. I trust Madame will handle things on her end. If I were you, Landon, I’d ask around the boarding house. Believe me, people you think you know best usually surprise you for the worst.”
Oscar, Luke, and Louis tipped their hats and withdrew, sour-faced and reluctant. Tiberius spun on his stool to face Madame Valentine. “I threw you a bone. I hope I won’t regret it.”
She bowed her head. “I appreciate it. I still stand by what I said. My girls are no thieves.”
Fanny rushed into the room from the corridor behind the stairs, shrieking like a woman in labor. She waved her arms over her head spasmodically. Her auburn curls bounced in disarray over her white shoulders. She crossed the floor barefoot, stomping on the creaking planks, and threw herself into Madame Valentine’s arms with deep, guttural sobs.
Madame Valentine caressed the back of her head. “There, there. What is it,
child?”
“It’s horrible! He… He…” Fanny gulped. “He’s dead.”
Tiberius sprang from his stool as if it’d turned into a hot plate. He strode to the corridor Fanny had pointed to. His heart raced. A row of doors stood on each side of the narrow hallway, three on the left and two on the right. Twin ornate oil lamps with glass screens added a faint glimmer to the dim aisle, but the maroon wallpaper seemed to bring the walls closer together. A cold draft blew past him. Snowflakes flew through the open window at the far end between a pair of waving drapes.
The farthest door on the right creaked. Ray Wilson’s drowsy face appeared down the hall. He wore nothing but a sheet wrapped around his waist. “What’s with all the screaming? Some of us need our beauty rest.”
“Go back inside,” Tiberius ordered somberly.
Ray obeyed but left his door ajar.
The coldness of the empty hallway clung to one’s skin as if Death had left her touch behind. Tiberius followed a trail of water from the windowsill to the second door on the left. It meandered under the threshold. He drew his gun and pushed the door open.
The trail ended inside the windowless bedroom. It spread below the gilded bedframe that occupied its center in a puddle of red slush. The bedframe had round legs, swirly sides, and a headboard in the shape of a peacock’s tail. It had lost its coating in several places. Blood dripped down the sides of the tall mattress on top, feeding the puddle on the floor. On the mattress lay a naked man, resting on a crimson pool.
The man’s eyes were fogged. His mouth frozen into a grotesque scream. His body slaughtered and cut open from the waist up.
There, as a vivid image of a hellish torment, lay the mutilated body of Reverend Elmer Conn.
13
The reverend’s face held the same mask of primal terror Tiberius had seen on Henry Albers’. Patches of skin around the cheeks, lips, chin, and neck were swollen. Their color, a gradient of blue and purple that faded into black in some tender areas: frostbite. A gruesome wound cut open the upper body, but there were no other lacerations from the waist down nor on the arms. The ripped skin and flesh zigzagged around the preacher’s broken ribcage. Tiberius held his breath and forced himself to study the insides of the victim, knowing what he was looking for would not be there. The heart, just like the carpenter’s, was missing. In its place, there was a red hollow. A small piece of paper floated within the coagulated blood.
Ice and Blood Page 6