Sarah could only stare at him in disbelief, stunned by this unexpected development. “But why? Where to?”
Hull closed the door behind him. “I don’t know,” he told her dully. “He didn’t say anything to me about it. Not a word. Nor to anyone else, near as I can find out. Nobody saw him ride out, either. He must’ve left before sun-up.”
Megan Wheeler had nothing to add to the conversation. She sat motionless and stared guiltily at her steaming breakfast. Suddenly her mother’s eggs and beans didn’t seem as appetizing as usual. Occasionally she would sneak a glance at the adults, but she needn’t have worried about her expression giving her away. Hull and her mother were much too concerned with the tragedy-in-the-making to pay any attention to her.
Nor was she the only one in the room experiencing feelings of guilt. Similar emotions were stirring inside her mother.
“Well, he—he probably went to tell Lahood how the vote went last night.”
“With his bedroll and coat?”
Sarah had no immediate response to that, and finally she muttered, “I can’t believe he just—left. I mean, it’s not—not like him. We were his friends. He said so. After all he’s gone and done for us, for him to just pick up and disappear—I can’t believe that. If he was leaving he’d have told us something. He’d have . . .” Her voice trailed off helplessly.
Because no matter how she wished to believe otherwise, it remained that they didn’t know what the Preacher was really like, any more than they had the slightest notion of what motivated him. He’d ridden in on them unannounced, had said as little as possible about himself, and now he’d decided to ride on. What was so strange about that? In its owe unpleasant way it made perfect sense.
But she still refused to believe it.
Hull took a seat at the table and stared at his food. The world that had seemed so promising last night was beginning to contract around him, to strangle him.
“I expect we’ll survive,” he mumbled. “Somehow.” There was little conviction in his tone.
“All that talk of fighting,” Sarah’s voice was brittle. “No wonder he left.”
“What?” Hull frowned darkly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sat down opposite him. “Lahood and Marshal Stockburn be damned. Isn’t that what you decided last night? He knew this Stockburn. He knew of his reputation, at least. And you all decide to fight instead of accepting Lahood’s offer, and that next morning he’s disappeared. Isn’t it obvious?”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I told you how he handled McGill and the other two.”
“McGill isn’t a Marshal, and two of Lahood’s animals aren’t deputies.”
Hull refused to concede her point. “I can’t believe that’s why he left.”
“Why not? I can’t believe he left at all. And it would’ve been so simple if you hadn’t convinced everyone to stay and fight.”
Hull forced himself to maintain a civil tone. “I spoke my mind, if that’s what you mean.”
“You got the rest of them to vote your way, didn’t you? They wanted to take the money, to accept Lahood’s offer, pull up stakes, and start over again someplace else where people can live without being shot at. But you had to go and talk them out of it, Hull Barret.”
“They voted their conscience. If you think I was the only one who wanted to stay and fight from the start, you’re wrong.”
“Oh sure,” she said sarcastically. “There was you, and there was that crazy old fool Spider Conway. What does it matter to him if he gets killed? He’s lived his life and he knows he isn’t going to strike it rich, so why not go out in a blaze of glorious gunfire like a character from a ten-penny novel? Him and his war stories!”
“Every man voted the way he felt, Sarah.”
“They voted to fight after you talked them into it! Against a bunch of professional killers!”
“If that’s what it should come down to, you’re damn right they did!” Hull replied hotly. He was getting tired of being polite for no good reason.
Sarah’s voice rose to match his in intensity. “You think they’d have voted that way before the Preacher came? You think they’d have voted that way if they’d known he wasn’t going to be here for the fight?”
“They voted to stick together! Like we always have.”
She laughed bitterly. “Sure! Like Ulrik Lindquist and the rest who had the sense to leave ‘stuck together.’ The Preacher was holding them together, and that’s all. They knew how he helped you in town. They watched him whip that—that animal that Lahood brought out here. They were counting on him to whip Lahood himself! All of you have been counting on that.”
“I reckon I did all right by us before he came, didn’t I?” Hull said stiffly as he rose from his chair. Sarah rose to confront him. She didn’t get the chance.
The explosion rattled the windows and shook the cabin to its fragile foundation. Echoes of it rumbled down the canyon, bouncing off the reflective walls of granite before they faded away into the distance. But not before both Hull and Sarah grasped its significance.
The miner bolted from his place and threw the door aside in his hurry to get out onto the porch. Sarah and Megan crowded out behind him. The explosion had come from the upper end of the canyon. All eyes were turned in that direction. They were not alone. From the other shanties and shelters and cabins the other inhabitants of Carbon Canyon emerged to stare fearfully in the direction of the massive blast.
A huge cloud of dust rose from somewhere far upstream. Dogs and children were running in panic: the children to their homes, the dogs for the nearest hidey-hole. Megan saw them and thought of Linsey. The dust fanned out and began to settle.
The one person who probably knew better than anyone else in the canyon what the explosion portended was Spider Conway. His was the first gaze to drop from the distant reaches of the canyon to the creekbed where he’d been working. Sure enough, the strong current was already ebbing. The water level fell as he stared. In less time than a greenhorn would’ve thought possible, the rush of cold water had fallen to a listless trickle.
No water in the creek meant no way to placer mine; no panning, no sluicing, no washing of gravel. A man couldn’t work a placer claim by walking along and picking out the minuscule flecks with his eyes. In its own way the presence of water was as vital as the presence of gold.
Spider directed a glob of tobacco juice into the inch-deep water. ‘‘Damned if that don’t cut it,” he muttered resignedly.
Hull Barret came to the same conclusion a moment later. “That’s it.” There was a great tiredness in his voice. “It’s all over, it’s finished. Lahood’s gone and damned up the creek, maybe even diverted it down that little side canyon east of here a half a mile upstream. Ain’t a damn thing we can do about it either, because we’ve got no claim to the land above the Gossage diggings.”
“Why can’t you and Ev and everyone else just go up there and dig through the dirt?” Megan wanted to know.
He tried to smile at her, but failed dismally. “We could—if we didn’t have to work under Lahood’s guns. Remember, he has as much right to be up there as we do. We wouldn’t have the protection of the law on our side if it came to a gunfight over headwater rights to the creek. Lahood didn’t go to the trouble of diverting it so we could walk up there and get our water back.
“Oh sure, the Mining Commission down in Sacramento might side with us, but it’d take ’em weeks, months to make up their minds and come to a decision on it—if Lahood didn’t buy ’em off first. He doesn’t really have to worry about that, though, and he knows it. Because ain’t none of us can last that long without a few sacks of dust to buy beans and flour. Leastwise, none of the families can. Once they give up and leave, Lahood’ll be able to push out or buy out any that stay behind. Oh, he’s got it all figured out, the sonofabitch!”
Sarah’s eyes were glistening with tears. She stared up at him accusingly. “If you’d accepted his offer this wouldn’t have happened. W
e’d all be clear of it now and with some real money in our pockets. How much do you think Lahood’s going to offer for our claims now!” Unable to control her sobs any longer, she whirled and ran back inside. Megan followed, her eyes unable to meet Hull’s, her expression blank.
Abandoned, Hull turned his attention back to the creek. There was hardly enough water running down it now to mirror the fear, doubt, and confusion in his face.
It was a bank of substance. You could tell that by the oiled walnut paneling that surrounded the tellers’ cages, from the polished brass rails that offered surcease to tired feet, and by the imported cut and beveled glass cases that displayed works of art for the enjoyment and edification of waiting patrons. It was a bank that had been founded on gold and was now supported by farming and ranching, more mundane but equally profitable enterprises. It was not a bank for everyone.
The teller’s appearance was a reflection of his status. His suit was freshly laundered and pressed, his white shirt spotless, both loops of the bowtie that secured his collar of equal length. At the moment he was methodically counting out greenbacks for the elegantly dressed matron standing before him. It was no small measure of the confidence its customers had in this bank that they agreed to accept their money in paper instead of coin.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Thank you, Mrs. Green, and I do hope your mother is feeling better. Please give her my regards.”
“I shall certainly do that, Mr. Wrather.”
He checked his drawer, said automatically, “Next, please,” and tried to conceal his surprise when he finally looked up at the figure standing patiently before him. He noted the thin line of a mouth, the oddly unsettling eyes, and the reassuring white collar.
“Afternoon, Reverend. What can I do for you?”
Wordlessly, the tall man slid his hand under the grille. When it withdrew there was a key on the smooth hardwood in front of the clerk. The younger man nodded briskly.
“If you’ll follow me, Reverend. It’s around—”
“I know the way,” the customer said quietly.
The clerk smiled. “Yes, of course.” He led the keyholder around the line of teller windows, past the vice-president’s desk, to meet him at the swinging doors. A single nod in the direction of the guard granted them entrance to the gaping vault.
The teller ran his finger down the fourth in a seemingly endless parade of safe deposit boxes until he located the one that matched up with the key he’d been given. “Here we are.”
He inserted the key into the left-hand keyhole, then placed his own master key into the matching receptacle on the right and twisted both keys simultaneously. The door clicked open. He pocketed the master and returned the other key to its owner.
The black metal box slid out easily and he immediately turned it over to the customer. “Here you are, Reverend.”
Accepting the box, the Preacher turned to enter a small curtained booth. The teller watched him for a moment. It was his experience that the vast run of reverends was more voluble than the average customer, whereas this speciman of that particular breed bordered on the mute. Not that it was any of his business. He shrugged and began hunting through his pockets for a toothpick while keeping an eye on the entrance to the vault in the event that Mr. Higgins or one of his other superiors should chance to enter. He was enjoying the respite from his telling duties at the window (a little bank humor there) and in any event he doubted that whatever the minister had to do in his private cubicle would take very long.
In this he was quite correct, but if he’d been permitted to observe the nature of what was transpiring behind the black privacy curtain, it’s doubtful he would ever have forgotten it.
The Preacher set the safe deposit box down on the bench in front of him. Fingers deftly unfastened the single latch that secured the lid.
Inside was a chamois-wrapped bundle. Carefully the Preacher set to unwrapping it. Beneath the protective cloth was a well-worn .44 with a staghorn grip. He picked the weapon up. The handle was cold against his palm. The vault was not heated at night and it was still early. He studied the oiled steel and prised lightly at the trigger.
Then he put it down on the bench while he fumbled with his shirt. The chamois went back into the box. There was nothing to wrap in it. The white collar he added to the otherwise empty container fit neatly into a corner.
Not everyone felt the need to personally inspect the trickle that had recently been the fast-flowing mountain stream called Carbon. Hull Barret was one of them, though. Standing next to him as they walked through the exposed creek bed was Spider Conway. Behind them came a pair of ancient sourdoughs named Bossy and Biggs. Having already committed himself to the defense of his claim (perhaps a bit more vociferously than now seemed prudent), Ev Gossage joined them as well. So did Jake Henderson.
They had vowed to stand and fight Coy Lahood, but their adversary had slyly confronted them with a virtual fait accompli. No water meant no placer mining. Lahood had beaten them without having to fire a shot.
“Shit,” Bossy muttered as he gazed despairingly at the dried-up creekbed. Having given up the thought of striking it big six years ago when he’d first come to the Sierras, he would have been more than satisfied to eke out an existence in Carbon Canyon. Now it appeared even that was to be denied him. Rotten bad luck he’d always had, and still he’d managed to retain his optimism toward life and enthusiasm for mining. But this latest catastrophe threatened to push him over into the dour ranks of the doomsayers.
Henderson was no less discouraged. “Well, I reckon it’s time to pack up the missus and light out.”
Gossage readily agreed with him. “It sure don’t seem we got much choice. Near as I can figure it, we’re licked. I warn’t sure Lahood was too tough for us, but I’m about convinced he’s too smart for us.” He looked to the man standing silently in front of him. Spider Conway nodded once, then spoke to the same quiet figure.
“What about you, Barret? Any ideas?”
A dull expression on his face, Hull shook his head while continuing to gaze in silence at the stream. Conway looked past him, upslope in the direction of his fellow miner’s cabin.
“Where’s the Preacher? He’ll know what to do. Bet it don’t come out of the good book, neither.” He forced a chuckle as he looked back at Hull. “If he’s still restin’ up at your place, let’s go and see what he’s got to say about this. He’s probably been lyin’ up there thinkin’ on it and waitin’ for us to come and ask him.” The old miner started uphill. The movement, more than anything he’d said, snapped Hull out of his silent reverie.
“Save your legs, Spider. He ain’t up there.”
Conway halted, his boots sinking into exposed river sand. “Well then, where? He go into town? I didn’t see him go into town.” He surveyed the others. “Any of you boys see the Preacher leave this morning?” There were negative headshakes all around.
“He didn’t go into town,” Hull informed them. “Leastwise, I don’t think he did.”
“Well then, where is he?” Conway demanded to know.
Hull shot him a discouraged look. “He ain’t here.”
Ev Gossage finally unraveled what Hull was trying, but unable, to say. “You mean he’s gone?”
“Well, I ain’t sure—I mean, not exactly.” Conscious that all eyes were on him again, Hull thought fast. “I expect he, uh, went in to tell Lahood that we turned him down.”
Gossage and Henderson exchanged a glance while Biggs looked confused, as though he’d heard what Hull had said but couldn’t quite square it with what he knew to be reasonable. But none of them called Hull’s bluff. There was no reason to challenge the other man’s assumption. After all, wasn’t he the Preacher’s closest friend, and wouldn’t he be the one most likely to know what the Preacher was likely to do?
“Well, that makes sense—I guess,” Henderson murmured.
“Sure,” agreed Bossy. “Somebody had to tell Lahood. I’m just glad nobody nominated me.”
His confidence boosted by the lack of a challenge, Hull decided to play out his string a little further. “But before he left, he said that if anything happened while he was away, we should try and do like he’d do if he was still here.”
“Shit.” Bossy’s vocabulary being somewhat limited, the old sourdough relied more on shifts in inflection to convey his feelings instead of a change of expletives.
Ev Gossage looked suddenly thoughtful, as if marginally inspired by Hull’s ambiguous reassurance that the Preacher would return soon. “I don’t know. Suppose we could dry-pan for a couple of days, come to think of it.”
“Why not?” Henderson indicated the feeble remnant of the creek. “Somebody might get lucky and find some color in the rocks. You can’t pan in water that’s over your belt. This is our chance to find out what’s been swept into the middle of the creekbed.”
“That’s it!” Hull said with mock enthusiasm. “I know he’d hate to see us quit without we gave it our best.”
“I dunno.” Biggs was older than the rest of them, and therefore not nearly as hopeful. “Dry-panning’s awful hard work. I never knew a man made the price o’ a sack of flour doin’ it.”
“Aw, come on, Biggs,” Henderson urged him, “let’s play her out for a couple of days. What can we lose? And the Preacher’ll figure something out when he gets back.”
“Sure . . . that’s right . . .the Preacher’ll know what to do . . .” the men murmured encouragingly to each other.
“Won’t he, Hull?” Gossage asked the older man with the benign naïveté of ever hopeful youth.
“Sure he will, Ev,” Hull replied blandly.
“One nugget.” Spider was already scanning the sand and rocks with new intensity. “Like to find me one big nugget. I’d shove it so far up Coy Lahood’s ass it’d wink at him when he washed his teeth.”
Gossage let out a whoop. “You tell ’em, Spider! Come on, Jake!” He led Henderson in a dash up the hill toward their cabins to break the news to the womenfolk that the situation was well if temporarily in hand. Their lives would go on as usual—at least for a few more days. Stability and a sense of immediate purpose lent the younger men courage.
Pale Rider Page 13
