Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

At the same time Hull Barret was circling the main tool-shed. He tossed a stick of dynamite against the base of the building, then put one hand on his hat to hold it in place as he rode like hell for somewheres else. The Preacher had cut the fuses breathtakingly short and there was no time to hang around and enjoy the show.

  The echo of the explosion mixed with those the Preacher had already set off. Multiple reverberations caromed through one another as they bounced off the flanks of the canyon. The toolshed came apart like a matchbox, sending nails and picks and bits of shattered lumber flying in all directions.

  The bunkhouse door was slammed open. Club stood there, clad in mangy oversized longjohns. He had barely enough time to take in the ruined monitor platform, the devastated sluice, and the concrete slab that had once formed a foundation for the toolshed before his eyes widened in horror at the specter that stood not ten yards in front of him.

  It was the Preacher. He sat easily astride his horse, holding a fulminating stick of dynamite in one hand. He did not move to throw it. Instead he just held it firmly, as though the fast-shrinking fuse was of no concern to him, and stared significantly back at the giant.

  Club was neither an intellectual nor an idiot, and he grasped the import of the Preacher’s position instantly. He ducked back inside the bunkhouse to shout a warning. In seconds the door was filled with half-naked, half-asleep roughnecks scrambling for cover.

  As soon as the last man was out the Preacher tossed the dynamite inside. There was less than half an inch of fuse left. Turning his mount quickly, he sent it sprinting down the canyon. As he rode past Club’s position he found time to proffer a casual salute. The giant grinned back at him and returned the gesture. Then he joined the rest of the miners in an exercise known as digging for gold without pick or shovel.

  Seconds later there was dirt in his mouth and heat on his back as the bunkhouse erupted, throwing skyward a mass of wood, clothing, and assorted personal possessions. Something bounced off the giant’s back and came to rest in front of his face. A broken shaving mug. He eyed it thoughtfully from his prone position. Somehow he didn’t think it would be prudent to rise and expose himself just yet.

  In this Club demonstrated unsuspected wisdom, because Hull and the Preacher had not yet concluded their visit. They continued to ride through the camp, seeking out suitable subjects for attention until they had expended the last of the dynamite. Explosion upon explosion rent the air, until not a single structure remained standing. The canyon was filled with dust that would be a long time in settling.

  Under this cover the two men made their escape, climbing an old trail into the woods that lined the south ridge. There they paused to survey their handiwork. Flames danced within the ruins of the bunkhouse, and there would be no breakfast served in the cookhouse this morning, or any morning soon after. They could make out the more intrepid among the roughnecks beginning to pick their way through the camp, trying to salvage what they could. There was no sign of anyone attempting to mount a counterattack. Nor was there likely to be any. Among the casualties of the ride-through was the camp’s corral, whose four-legged occupants, spurred to ragged flight by the repeated explosions, should be halfway to Sacramento by now.

  Still, there was one stick of dynamite left. The Preacher lit it, watched it sputter, and drew back his hand to let fly this final farewell in the direction of the camp below—only to have the hissing charge slip from his grasp. It rolled right under Hull’s mare.

  “Uh-oh,” the tall man murmured.

  Eyes wide, Hull vaulted from his saddle, picked up the stick, and hurled it over the side of the ridge. The resultant explosion sent the shell-shocked miners below racing frantically for their cover as dirt and brush fountained skyward.

  Even as the explosive went off, the Preacher was leaning over to smack the riderless mare sharply on her rump. She immediately bolted up the hill. Barret whirled to gaze up at his friend in surprise.

  “What the hell?”

  The tall horseman grinned down at him even as he spurred his own mount forward. “You’re a good man, Barret. I envy you your future. Take care of Sarah and the girl.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, you can’t—!”

  But of course he could, because he was already riding for the far slope, leaving Hull staring helplessly after him. Hull considered his own position. Eventually his own horse would stop running (on the other side of the ridge, most likely) and would halt to crop the fresh mountain grass, wondering why it had been aimlessly charging through the woods in the first place. But by that time it would be afternoon, and by the time he could get into town it would be too late to help with anything.

  He had been well and truly (if fondly) snookered, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His first reaction was anger. That changed when he had time to think, when he realized what had been done to him and why. He raised a hand to wave as the distant horseman topped the far ridge.

  “So long—Preacher.” Then he turned and started off in the direction his wayward mount had taken.

  The sun was bright and warm on the front of the cabin. It was almost comfortable inside when Megan emerged from her bedroom. She was fully dressed and running a brush through her hair. She’d washed it four times this morning, but she still didn’t feel completely clean.

  Her mother was working over the stove, finalizing preparations for breakfast. It took a moment before she noted her daughter’s presence. When she did, there was a hint of surprise in her voice.

  “I thought you were still asleep.” She inspected her daughter’s attire. “Very pretty. That’s not like you unless you’re going someplace.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Megan replied softly. She turned to look out the window, still running the boar bristles through her long hair. “The Preacher’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Taken aback, Sarah turned her attention back to the bacon and eggs that were sizzling in the cast-iron skillet. “Yes. Last night.”

  Megan pivoted to stare unswervingly at her mother. “Did you tell him you loved him?”

  Sarah hesitated momentarily while she searched for a reply that would be safe as well as truthful. “He knows we both love him.”

  The younger woman considered this, then nodded approvingly. “I understand. Did you say goodbye to him?”

  “Yes.”

  Another nod. Then Megan turned back to the door. Her expression was solemn, and very grown-up. “I didn’t. I’m sorry for that.”

  She opened the door and went out onto the porch. Her mother gazed after her for a long minute. Then she turned away. It was a new morning and she didn’t want to burn their breakfast.

  Idly she wondered where Hull had got himself to. It wasn’t like him to miss breakfast.

  XII

  It was a fine day, bright and sunny, and all was right with the world as far as Lahood’s foreman was concerned. McGill was relaxing in one of the chairs that sat on the porch fronting the Lahood building. Jagou and Tyson were there with him, along with a couple of the other boys. The troubles of the past week were history now. There was nothing more to worry about. Not since Stockburn and his men had come aboard.

  McGill had been assured that by the end of the week they would be moving equipment and supplies from Cobalt Canyon over to Carbon. Then the profits and concommitant bonuses would really begin to flow, according to the Boss.

  A few townies were walking up and down the boardwalks, intent on their own business. It was late in the morning and the streets were largely deserted. Most of the men in this part of the world were already hard at work. McGill and his men would be joining them soon, running a wagonload of supplies up to the camp.

  He squinted suddenly, then wiped at his eyes. The sun was playing tricks with him, sucking up illusions out of the dust and dirt. Except that it was too precise, too sharp to be an illusion.

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He kicked forward, rising from the chair. His men eyed him apprehensively, wondering at the unexpectedly abrupt m
ovement, until one by one they also saw what he was staring at.

  McGill was gazing at the far end of Main Street. A single horseman had rounded the corner and was approaching. His animal’s pace was measured and unhurried.

  The barber saw him next. He gaped out the window as the tall stranger trotted past. Then he quickly drew his curtains. The postmistress also noted the stranger’s passage and rushed to bolt the post office door. Anyone wanting to purchase stamps was in for a long wait.

  Only the town’s mortician appeared unaffected, though he took care to fasten the shutters that protected his windows. Stained glass was expensive and difficult to come by in Gold Rush country, and men about to engage in serious discussion historically had little regard for private property.

  Lahood received the message quietly, dismissed the man who’d brought it. Then he rose from his desk, turned, and walked over to the window that looked out onto the street. The Marshal accompanied him. Lahood held the curtain aside and together they observed the approach of the solitary horseman.

  “That’s him,” Lahood muttered. “That’s the one they call the Preacher, all right.”

  Stockburn was less than fascinated, though he stared intently at the tall rider. “Uh-huh.”

  “Ever see him before?”

  The Marshal bent low, but the rider’s face remained hidden by the broad brim of his hat. “Can’t see too well from here.”

  They continued to stare as the rider brought his horse to a halt outside Blankenship’s emporium. Casually the stranger dismounted and tethered his animal. Then he strolled inside. He hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the five hostile men who were eyeing him from across the street.

  The Preacher surveyed the interior of the store, assuring himself no other customers were present. Then he strode toward the small dining area, passing the place where the proprietor was hard at work on his ledgers.

  “Morning, Blankenship.” The greeting was offered in passing and he did not look at the owner when he spoke, but he was the recipient of a long stare by way of reply.

  The merchant knew who his visitor was. He remembered the first time he’d come into the store several days previous. A lot had happened in the county since then, most of it revolving in one way or another around this man. Blankenship wondered what was going to happen next.

  The Preacher slipped onto a stool opposite the lunch counter and smiled warmly at the woman on the other side. She turned from her pots and casseroles to serve him.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  “Morning, son. Coffee?” He nodded, and she poured a steaming cupful from the pot that had been simmering on the stove.

  “Thanks.” He hefted the cup and sipped at the steaming brew. It was good and hot, and it felt just right as it burned his throat and settled in his gut. He glanced over the top of the cup toward the street outside, set the half-emptied cup back down on the counter.

  “Nice day,” said Mrs. Blankenship conversationally. When he didn’t reply, she let her own gaze drift toward the window, and she saw the five men chatting animatedly on the porch of the Lahood building. Occasionally one would pause to point across the street. Then two or three hard stares would echo the gesture. There was concern in her voice when she spoke again.

  “Hate to see so nice a day spoiled before it’s had a chance to get started.”

  “Sometimes it can’t be helped.”

  She nodded somberly. “More coffee?”

  He held out the cup. “Thanks.” He sipped at it, eyeing her over the porcelain rim. “Since it’s such a nice day, it might be a good idea if you and your husband took a little walk.”

  She nodded again, then turned from him to wipe her hands. As he worked on the rest of his coffee she began putting her cookware and crockery in order with more than usual speed.

  One of the five men broke away from the others to scuttle across the street. He ran low and hunched over, bobbing and weaving, while his companions anxiously followed his progress. Reaching the far side, Jagou rose slowly until he could just see into the general store. What he saw made his eyes go wide.

  Ducking down again, he retraced his circuitous course back across the street to rejoin his cronies.

  “Well, what’s he doin’?” McGill demanded to know.

  “Yeah, where’s he at?” added a concerned Tyson.

  Jagou replied in a baffled whisper. “Damndest thing you ever saw. The big sonofabitch is just sittin’ there drinking coffee. Even got his back to the door.”

  The five exchanged looks. McGill licked his lips thoughtfully as he eyed the store opposite. “Well, what do you think? What about it?”

  “Boss’d sure be grateful,” Tyson ventured.

  “Yeah,” said one of the other men. “Bet he’d give us a week off in Sacramento.”

  “Maybe two.” Jagou’s eyes were shining now. “With pay.”

  “Then what the hell are we sittin’ here for?” Tyson wondered. “McGill?”

  The foreman considered. There was still no sign of movement from the store across the street, but he knew the Preacher wouldn’t sit there drinking coffee forever. Everything about the bonuses and the time off the men had been talking about was reasonable. Lahood could be a hard driver, but he never failed to reward a man for a job well done.

  Hadn’t he once told McGill personally that the most successful men used their own initiative?

  The temptation was too great, the potential rewards too near, for anyone to pass up. “Well, I reckon the five of us don’t need the Marshal, do we?”

  Ready agreement came from his men. Chairs were shoved aside. Hands dropped to make certain of the location of pistols.

  They crossed the street one at a time so as not to draw attention to themselves. Each man moved fast and stayed low. Already they could feel the gold that Lahood was going to lavish on them. They regrouped outside Blankenship’s, guns drawn. McGill checked to make sure each man was ready. Then he brought his raised arm down sharply.

  They burst through the doorway with every gun firing. Candy jars exploded along with their colorful contents as shells ripped through the transparent cylinders. Mrs. Blankenship’s kitchen was laid waste as milk, soup, and coffee splattered the walls. Pots and utensils were riddled with holes, mugs and dishes blown to shards. Even the pickle barrel came apart as its staves were sliced by flying slugs. Brine and pickles flooded the floor of the emporium in a green tidal wave,

  Stockburn and Lahood had rushed back to the window at the first sound of the attack. They stared across the street as the fusillade continued without let-up. Lahood looked relieved.

  “Well, Marshal, it appears you won’t have to bother yourself with the Preacher. Frankly I didn’t give McGill credit for that much forethought. I guess he decided he and his boys could handle this themselves. You’ll still receive the agreed-upon contingency fee, of course.”

  Stockburn’s expression had not changed, nor did he appear to be paying much attention to the magnate’s words. He continued to peer through the window at the street outside.

  “We’ll see,” he finally murmured. “It isn’t over yet.”

  Lahood smiled condescendingly. “McGill isn’t too bright, but he’s thorough. That’s why I made him my foreman. I like a man who’s sure of his work and doesn’t take chances.”

  Stockburn had nothing more to say.

  Within the emporium, McGill and his men were running out of targets and shells. It was impossible to see anything through the boiling cloud of gunsmoke. Without having to be ordered to, the men finally stopped shooting. Through the slowly dispersing smoke it became possible to pick out the ruins of the store, now decorated with broken glass and cartons. Underfoot was a slippery, slimy blend of varicolored liquids.

  They could see everything, in fact, except a body.

  Tyson and Jagou looked bewildered as they waved away the clinging smoke. McGill moved forward, trying to peer behind the counter without exposing any more of himself than was absolutely necess
ary. He was here somewhere, lying behind something, riddled with their bullets. The slugs had just knocked him backward somewhere out of sight, that was all. They’d find him in a minute or so.

  He was right about the last.

  “Looking for someone?” a calm voice inquired.

  They turned in unison, eyes widening in fear, their legs turning to jelly. Guns started to swing up and around.

  Lahood and Stockburn listened intently as the gunfire inside the store was suddenly and unexpectedly resumed. It didn’t last half as long as the first exchange, nor did it fade away gradually as it had previously. A last shot rang out, then—silence..

  Several minutes passed. A single figure emerged from the front of the store. It looked briefly up at the Lahood building, then turned up the boardwalk. The tall man moved at a leisurely pace with long, unhurried strides.

  A good deal of Lahood’s carefully cultivated air of savoir faire vanished. His jaw dropped as he followed the tall man’s progress.

  “Jesus! What the hell’s he doing now?”

  As they stared, the Preacher suddenly stepped out into the street. At first Lahood thought he was going to cross over. Instead, he stopped in the center of the avenue, turned south, and began reloading his pistol.

  Stockburn’s expression was set. He straightened and let the curtain fall back into place. “He’s inviting us to join him.”

  “He’s insane.” Lahood was unable to believe what he was seeing, just as he was unable to accept the Marshal’s explanation. “The man is plumb loco. Isn’t he? Stockburn?” He turned from the window.

  The Marshal was gone. The door to the office stood open. After a moment’s thought, Lahood closed it, then returned to resume his vigil at the window. There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Stockburn and his men would finish this and he could get back to business.

  But if he wasn’t worried, then why was he suddenly perspiring so heavily? Crazy—that damn fool McGill! That man didn’t have enough upstairs. He’d been a willing enough worker, but then so was a good dog. Went in without a plan, without checking out the lay of the land. Too bad for him, then. He should’ve held off and let the professionals do the job. That’s what came of letting amateurs strike out on their own.