Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

  He didn’t get the chance in any case, because they were confronted by an older man leading a heavily laden mule downstream. He was half blond and half gray, and he looked older than his years. He met Barret’s inquisitive stare unashamedly.

  “So long, Hull.”

  “Where you going, Ulrik?” Hull frowned, glanced skyward. “Kind of late to be going into town.”

  “I bane not goin’ into that damned town. I yust goin’. Gettin’ out while I still can.”

  Hull pulled back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. The old Swede led his mule around the obstacle. “Gettin’ out?” Hull repeated. “Where the hell to?”

  “Don’t matter. Someplace where I bane not goin’ get ruined day after day. Some place where I can sleep nights. Can’t fight no more, Hull. I bane not the only one, neither.”

  Hull had to turn to look back at the departing miner. “Aw, Ulrik. You know what they say. ‘It’s bound to get better ’cause it can’t get any worse.’ ”

  The old man nodded knowingly. “Man that said that hain’t been livin’ in Carbon Canyon. Goodbye and good luck, Hull Barret. You’ll quit too, if you’re smart.”

  Hull watched until man and mule had passed beyond earshot. Shaking his head in silent disappointment, he turned forward again and urged the mare onward.

  “What was that all about?” the stranger inquired mildly.

  The other man’s expression was set, his voice low. “Remember that feud I told you about? Ulrik’s leavin’ has to do with it. I’ll explain later. Doesn’t concern you in any case.” So saying, he risked a quick glance in the stranger’s direction. If he was expecting a follow-up query or an expression of more than casual interest, he was disappointed. The tall rider was staring straight ahead, apparently having accepted Hull’s declaration at face value.

  Hull shrugged. He had supplies to distribute and he wanted to be done with that before dark.

  The stranger surveyed the cabin. Two separate rooms, as its owner had claimed. Facilities out back. But it was clean and neat and in much better condition than the average miner’s abode. This was no knocked-together lean-to meant to be abandoned each winter. It was a permanent, year-round dwelling, put together with care and expertise and not a few hard-won dollars. There was glass in the windows and linen on the beds. Hull Barret took pride in his little cabin, and it showed.

  Just as it showed in the man, the stranger mused to himself.

  He moved into the back room and set out his kit, paid a quick visit to the one-holer out back, then returned and considered what to do next. Hull was right about him having ridden a long ways, and he was more than a little tired, but there were going to be ladies at supper. He rubbed at the thick stubble that covered his face. Proper thing to do was to clean up some.

  In the front room he found a big washbasin full of water that had been allowed to sit in a south-facing window all day. As a result, the water in both the basin and its accompanying pitcher was almost hot. A brief search turned up soap and a razor. The soap was not homemade lye, as he expected. It was bar soap and it smelled of lilac. Imported by someone like Blankenship all the way from San Francisco, no doubt. He eyed the precious bar approvingly. Blankenship wouldn’t sell luxury goods on credit. There had to be some gold in this canyon, then.

  He stripped off his mackinaw and shirt, then pulled the undershirt over his head and laid it out neatly on the nearby cot. There were no noticeable scars on his chest, but the ones on his back would have caught the eye of the most indifferent observer. There were five of them. Each was a half inch in diameter and evenly spaced from its neighbor. They formed a neat circle. Though long since healed over, their origin was unmistakeable.

  They were bullet holes.

  Evening sunlight poured through the window above the washbasin, illuminating the stranger’s face as he gazed at himself in the unframed mirror and plied the razor with long, sure strokes, removing lather and whiskers. The unmuted light highlighted the angles and planes of his face, throwing unsuspected ravines and depressions into sharp relief. Once shorn of its whiskers, it was a face whose topography most closely resembled that of the rugged mountains that comprised the Sierra crest.

  A voice made him pause. The voice came from outside and was unmistakably feminine. Turning from the mirror, be bent to squint out the window, finding a clear space between the bubbles in the cheap glass. Two women, moving past Hull’s cabin toward another. His fiancée and her daughter, he decided. They were hauling a black iron kettle between them, unaware they were being watched.

  The stranger allowed his gaze to linger briefly on the two figures until they disappeared into another shanty nearby. They had looked so out of place amidst this harsh wilderness of tree and rock. By their very presence they helped to soften and civilize it. If he didn’t get a move on, he told himself, he’d be late.

  He turned back to the mirror and prepared to finish shaving. What he saw made him hesitate, the razor hovering an inch from his neck. There was something in the eyes that stared back at him, something distant and sad, and a touch of longing for something lost long ago. There was one other thing, more immediate and not nearly as pleasant.

  He’d look mighty funny showing up at the table with his face half shaved, he decided. The razor moved.

  Megan arranged the forks and plates just so around the edge of the split-board table. Then she stepped back to examine her handiwork with a critical eye. Evidently dissatisfied, she rearranged the entire table setting for the third time.

  Her mother was hard at work at the big cast-iron woodstove behind the table, stirring the simmering contents of the big kettle with a heavy wooden spoon. From time to time she glanced to her right, but the door to the back room remained closed.

  It would’ve been much easier to have served supper in their own cabin, but Hull insisted the food be moved to his own, the better to accommodate his “guest.” She worked the spoon around the inside of the kettle, trying hard to hold her temper. Guest indeed! But there was no swaying Hull. A good man, Hull Barret, but with no taste in companions. Still, having agreed to this supper, there was little she could do now except go through with it.

  Hull was pacing back and forth between table and stove, unable to keep from talking but keeping his voice low.

  “It was the damndest thing you ever saw, Sarah. There I was, lying on the ground with those three SOB’s of Lahood’s on top of me, and suddenly they’re not there anymore. One two three bam! Just like that, they’re gone. Then I see that they’re rolling around in the mud hollerin’ and moanin’, and this big guy’s just standing there over ’em real quiet like, lookin’ like he’s bored with the whole thing.” He shook his head at the remembrance.

  “The way he waded into McGill and his men, you should’ve seen him. I was kind of groggy at the time, but I could see he wasn’t even breathing hard. He might as well have been smashing roaches out back.”

  Sarah kept her attention and her gaze on the steaming kettle. So far she had steadfastly refused to share in Hull’s misplaced enthusiasm.

  “He sounds no different from McGill or Tyson, or any of Lahood’s roughnecks.” Lifting the kettle off the iron, she set it on the table and began ladling stew into bowls.

  Hull halted. “At least he wasn’t afraid of them. He rode on out of town with his back toward ’em, as though he couldn’t care less what they might do about it. That’s what we need up here. Someone they can’t scare.”

  Finally satisfied with the table arrangements, Megan Wheeler peered thoughtfully at her mother’s friend. She liked Hull Barret, though she was too shy to ever say so. He was her friend, too, and had been ever since . . .

  She swallowed. “Are you scared of them, Hull? I didn’t think you were seared of anything.”

  “He should be,” Sarah snapped before he could reply, “but he’s too all-fired stubborn.”

  “But I was scared. That’s the point, Sarah. I ain’t ashamed to admit it. There were three of ’em, and all bigger
than me, and I had the supplies to worry about, too. They had me scared and they knew it. It wasn’t them, though. It’s Lahood who’s done that to us. Got us all scared.” He turned and walked over to a window to peer out at the canyon. Beautiful it was in the last light of day. A few die-hards still worked their claims but for the most part the camp was silent. Off to the left and downslope he could just make out the twang of Skinny Smith’s battered banjo. It was clean and peaceful, the canyon was.

  If only Lahood would leave them alone.

  “Something else. On my way back from town I passed Ulrik Lindquist. He was ridin’ out. Had his mule with him and looked like everything else, too. He didn’t even know where he was going. ‘Just goin’, he said. I remember when he first came up here, he didn’t talk like that. All he could talk about was how much gold he was going to pan out of the creek and how he was going to spend it in Frisco. To see him ride out like that—you should’ve seen his eyes, Sarah. It was plumb pitiful, and worst of it was I didn’t know what to say to try and stop him.”

  “What could you have said?” Sarah sounded resigned. “The colony’s beaten, Hull. It’s everyone, not just poor Ulrik. The only one who doesn’t know it is you.”

  “And me.” Megan stared defiantly at the creek outside. “They’re not driving me away. I’m not leaving until Lahood and his men are whipped. Every last one of them.”

  “Hush, Megan!” Sarah threw Hull an accusatory look. “See what you’re doing, Hull Barret? Such language. She talks more like your daughter than mine. I didn’t raise her up to go thinking such thoughts. Tell her it’s nonsense, this business of fighting Lahood.”

  Hull tried to affect an air of innocence, but didn’t succeed very well. “Who said anything about fighting?”

  “You did, talking about this, this stranger.” She waved the spoon in the direction of the back bedroom door. “What is he, a gunslinger? Or worse?”

  Exasperated but unable to bring himself to shout back at the woman he loved, Hull found some solace in the bottle of whiskey he kept on the top kitchen shelf. It was real whiskey, brought in by train all the way from Sacramento, and it was considerably more precious and expensive than his store-bought soap. Much as he adored Sarah, he found that there were times when the whiskey was of equal comfort. Oddly enough, many of those times seemed to be when he and Sarah were together.

  He poured golden liquid into a pair of shot glasses, taking care not to spill any.

  “I half hope he is,” he said defiantly. “I’d sure as hell chip in an ounce of dust for a little protection. Then maybe we could get through a week without having to spend half our time putting our lives back together again courtesy of Lahood’s riders.”

  Sarah sniffed disapprovingly. “Protection? You expect protection from a hired killer?”

  Hull whirled, trying to follow this leap of logic. “How do you know that’s what he is?”

  “How do you know that’s what he isn’t?” Having made what was obviously the definitive statement on the subject, she turned to her daughter. “Come on, Megan. We’re going home.” Furiously, she began dumping the bowls of stew back into the kettle. Hull set the bottle and untouched whiskey aside and put both arms around her in what he hoped would be interpreted as a conciliatory gesture.

  “Sarah, I never said that he—”

  “Then get rid of him! Maybe we have to deal with his kind when Lahood sends them riding through the canyon, but at least we don’t have to live with that kind of trash. Get rid of him.”

  “I will. I promise, I—”

  “Today!”

  “Sure, right after supper. I’ll—”

  “No, not after supper. Now!”

  “Sarah.” Hull tried to reason with her. “He saved me from McGill and his men. If it weren’t for him I’d be lying in Blankenship’s back room right now with Curley the barber tryin’ to fix broken bones. I invited him up here. I can’t just up and kick him out into the cold.”

  “I won’t break bread with that kind of man, Hull Barret. I don’t care what he did for you, and I don’t wonder that he did it for reasons of his own. You go and tell him that—”

  The door to the back room swung wide. The stranger stood there in the portal, minus his mackinaw and veiled in shadow. When he spoke he sounded mildly amused.

  “Hope I’m not the cause of all the excitement here.”

  He stepped out into the front room, filling it with his bulk. No one said anything. They just stood and stared. Spotting the twin glasses full of fine whiskey that reposed on the table, he walked over to it and nodded his thanks.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Lifting one shot glass, he drained the contents at a gulp. Neat and clean, and without wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

  By the expressions on the faces of the cabin’s other occupants, you would’ve thought a bear had just come wandering into the cabin. Hull was as dumbfounded as Sarah and Megan. Come to think of it, an intruding bear he would have known how to react to, but this—this was as unexpected as the stranger’s first appearance back in town.

  The half-expected Colt did not hang from his belt. There wasn’t even a knife. What he wore instead was a dark wool shirt surmounted by the bright white starched collar of a minister.

  The silence in the room persisted until he spoke again. “Nothing like a shot of whiskey to whet a man’s appetite. Going to be cold out tonight, too. Winter’s coming.” He indicated the steaming kettle. “Fine-looking fricassee you’ve cooked up there, ma’am. Don’t want to let it get cold.”

  Sarah Wheeler couldn’t move. She was paralyzed by her recent outburst and the certain knowledge that he must surely have overheard. Somehow she pulled free of Hull’s embrace and stood there fighting to regain her composure.

  “I apologize. For what I said. If you heard, I mean, I guess I—I didn’t realize that—”

  “I’ll be damned,” Hull muttered tersely. Then he realized what he’d said and who he’d said it to and coughed, trying to smother the sudden blasphemy. He had as much reason as Sarah to be embarrassed by the visitor’s unexpected revelation, if only for the thoughts he’d been entertaining with regard to the man’s profession.

  It seemed that the only one capable of movement was Megan. She almost fell over herself in her eagerness to pick up the wooden ladle. Hastily she began spooning the thick stew back into the four bowls. She conveyed the largest of these to the Preacher, moving with all the speed of an Untouchable in the service of a raj. Her lips were working almost as fast as her hands.

  “There—and here’s some biscuits,” she said rapidly as she flew around the kitchen area, “and salt, and honey for the biscuits, and—you want anything else?” She stepped to one side, pausing to catch her breath while eyeing the visitor with praise-hungry eyes.

  He rewarded her with a wide grin that illuminated the room, almost as effectively as the setting sun. “Well, maybe some company. Been a month since I shared my supper with anything but a horse.” He glanced mischievously over at Hull and Sarah. “You folks join us?”

  Megan continued adding items to the table as they occurred to her. “Ma? Hull?” Condiments and biscuits continued piling up around the Preacher, who had yet to begin eating.

  “Why, of course.” As the shock wore off, Sarah struggled to conceal her nervousness. It had been such a long time since she’d had dinner with, well, with anyone besides a miner, and she was desperately afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  But then, she told herself as she felt herself flush, she’d done that already, hadn’t she?

  “How do you do? And thank you for your help on Hull’s behalf today. I should’ve thanked you before this. It’s inexcusable. I’m Sarah Wheeler. My daughter, Megan.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies.”

  If Sarah was embarrassed, Hull was both embarrassed and confused.

  “Guess I kind of got carried away, there. With what I was thinkin’, and all. The way you handled those men in town
, I never would’ve thought you’d be a—”

  Megan interrupted him, smiling at their guest. “Will you say Grace?” She sat down next to him and bowed her head, pressing her fingers together. The Preacher looked inquiringly at Sarah and Hull, who settled into the remaining chairs and lowered their eyes respectfully.

  “Father, we thank Thee for these good friends, and for the bounty of the rich earth which Thee hast bestowed on us. We thank Thee for Thy many blessings; for the bountiful game and the fruits of the soil, for the good water and the long summer. For what we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful.” He concluded the prayer without noticing the way Megan was looking at him. Her eyes were shining as he reached for his spoon.

  “A-men,” she said firmly.

  Maybe her mother was embarrassed, and maybe Hull was disappointed, but not Megan. She knew a miracle when she met one.

  IV

  A cannon that spat water instead of fire was not a sign, as one might think, that the world had been turned topsy-turvy. For one thing, its blast was just as destructive as any weapon in the army’s arsenal, and considerably more consistent.

  Mounted atop its wooden platform, the water cannon (also known as a monitor) utilized the diverted flow of the devastated canyon’s stream to literally shake the earth loose from its banks. Above the monitor’s reach all was serene and unchanged where the creek flowed rough and undisturbed over a rocky bottom. Spruces and pines lined the shore, interspersed with smaller growth like ironwood and live oak.

  Below the platform, where the monitor had been doing its work for weeks, the canyon might as well have been on the eastern side of the moon instead of the golden gate. Where the powerful stream of water had ripped the canyon’s flanks to shreds nothing remained but bare rock. Every living thing, every shrub and flower, down to the last ounce of topsoil, had been torn loose and flushed downstream.

  The operators of the monitor were not interested in living things. They wanted to see only the gold-bearing gravel that lined the creek. Two dozen sweating, muscular workers, many stripped to the waist, labored endlessly to shovel the dislodged stone into the upper end of a forty-foot-long iron sluice. Not all the water was taken from the creek to power the monitor. Some was used to wash the gravel down the long iron ramp, where it was kicked and tumbled over metal grids of diminishing size.