The dumb Peacock’s mouth moved again.
“What’s in the tent?” his brother said.
“Nothing!” Harcourt said.
Too quickly.
The Peacock brothers stared at him and Deacon Santee gave Harcourt a surprised look that quickly turned hard and measuring.
Harcourt tried to cover up his gaffe. “I’ve got private papers in there is all.”
“We won’t touch your private papers,” said a brother who had been silent until then. “Only the man who calls himself Mash Lake is of interest to us.”
He kneed his horse forward to the tent, leaned out of the saddle, opened the flap, and looked inside.
After a few moments he swung his horse around and said, “Lake isn’t there.”
Harcourt exhaled his relief. Tension drained out of his belly like a beer-drinking man taking a piss.
It seemed the Peacocks were intent on the man called Lake. Nothing else, including the sight of a naked woman on a cot, mattered to them.
Emboldened now, Harcourt said, “There’s a ghost town to the south of here. Seems a likely place for a man to hole up for a spell.”
The brothers said nothing. They swung their horses, trotted away, and didn’t look back.
After they’d gone, Harcourt felt the air thick and hard to breathe, as though the Peacocks had polluted it by their very presence.
Chapter 28
From his perch on the rise, Pace watched the Peacock brothers leave. Beside him Lake was unusually quiet, his breath coming in short, quick gasps.
Was the old man frightened?
That seemed unlikely. He’d stood his ground and got in his work during the fight with the Santee boys and there had been no backup in him.
He said the deacon scared him, but then the deacon scared everybody, Pace included.
It had been the sudden appearance of the Peacock brothers that had tipped the scales and weighed the old man down.
Pace searched his brain for something reassuring to say, found nothing, and settled for “That Peacock you shot, did he look like them fellers down there?”
“Spittin’ image,” Lake said. “He had a skull for a face and green eyes that looked right through a man.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “The feller needed killin’ all right, but why the hell did I have to be the one that done it?”
“Because you was there, Mash.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve been someplace else, just as easy.”
“Hell, he drawed down on you.”
“Nah, he didn’t. He had his hog leg in his hand and was shoving it into my face, like, cussin’ me out fer being a loco old coot. Well, by and by I got tired o’ hearin’ that and I drawed and gunned him. Surprised the hell out of the Peacock feller. He figured I was scared shitless and he wasn’t expectin’ nothin’.”
“Then his brothers came after you.”
“Right. And the Peacock boys don’t come at you one at a time. They hunt and kill in a pack, like wolves. Hell, I heard they even howl at the moon like wolves and eat their meat raw.”
Pace’s eyes were following Harcourt’s movement as he and the deacon walked toward the wagons.
“A man hears a lot of things from other men,” he said.
“Some of them even true,” Lake said, without a hint of a smile.
A few minutes passed. Among the wild oaks the jays were too hot to quarrel, but crickets sawed love songs in the long grass and a rustling breeze added a descant.
There was a gray tinge to the sky that could signal a weather change, but the sun burned strong and there were no clouds.
After a silence, Pace said finally, “Jess ain’t in the tent, so that means she ain’t here. Unless she’s in one of the deacon’s wagons.”
Down on the flat, Harcourt was talking to Santee and there was a woman with them—not Jess, but one of the deacon’s wives.
Even at a distance, Pace thought Santee seemed tense. His body posture was stiff and his hand movements were quick and jerky.
Could it be that his killing of the Harcourt drover was troubling him?
Pace doubted it. If all the talk was true, the man had killed so often in the past, the death of a nameless, faceless cowboy would hardly disturb him.
Then it had to be the Peacock brothers. But why would the deacon care?
Lake gave Pace no more time to ponder the question.
“Lookee,” he said. “The tent.”
Pace moved his gaze to the tent. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“Canvas moved. There’s somebody in there.”
“One of them Peacock boys looked and saw nothing.”
“He didn’t see what he wanted to see,” Lake said. “A feller by the name of Mash Lake. The woman didn’t interest him.”
“Jess?”
“My bet.”
A minute ticked by, and then Jess Leslie made her run.
The tent flap triangled open, and the woman stepped outside.
She glanced quickly at Harcourt and the deacon, then hitched up her skirts and bolted for the shelter of the trees.
“Hey! Stop!” Harcourt yelled.
He drew his gun and fired.
Pace saw an exclamation mark of dirt spurt near Jess’s feet.
She kept on running. Still with a hundred yards of open, broken ground to cover.
“Well, shit!” Pace said. “Now the hog fat’s in the fire.”
He pulled his Colt and fired at Harcourt, scaring the man badly enough that he dived for the cover of a clump of brush. Beside him the deacon did the same.
Now Lake was shooting.
The range was too great for accurate revolver work, but he and Pace bought Jess precious time.
The woman was almost at the trees.
Pace thumbed off a couple of quick shots, then ducked as a bullet racketed through a low-hanging oak branch inches above his head.
Lake was firing steadily, not scoring hits, but keeping Harcourt’s and the deacon’s heads down when it mattered.
He turned to Pace, his face revealing concern. “Let’s git the hell out of here, Sam. The shot that near took your head off was the deacon’s. He’s getting the range, damn him.”
A quick glance told Pace that Jess had reached the trees. Needing no more urging from Lake, he bellied down the slope a couple of yards, then got to his feet and ran.
He and Lake reached the hollow where they’d left the horses, and mounted. They galloped away from the ridge and bullets followed them.
Pace turned and saw the deacon on the rise, two-handing his revolver at eye level. The man was screaming obscenities, dancing a mad little jig, but he made no hits, though a couple of his shots split the air close to Pace’s head.
“Sam,” Lake said when the danger had passed, “don’t let’s ever do that again.”
“Suits me just fine,” Pace said.
He thought about the deacon.
Even at long revolver range, he’d come mighty close. In a spitting-distance gunfight, he’d be deadly.
It was the kind of worry guaranteed to keep a man awake o’ nights.
Chapter 29
Deacon Santee was in a killing rage.
Beau Harcourt had kidnapped his woman, he’d been shot at, and when he’d dived for cover he’d landed belly first in a steaming pile of cow shit.
Harcourt realized the danger he was in and desperately tried to rewrite the history of the last few minutes.
“Hell, Deacon,” he said, “I was saving her for you.”
“Humping her for me, you mean?”
Santee looked small and narrow and his eyes were ugly.
“I swear I didn’t touch her,” Harcourt said. “I was saving her for you, Deacon. I figured when we got paid for the herd, I’d loose her to you, as a celebration, like.”
Santee’s eyes glowed with blue fire, and Harcourt knew he was now walking the edge.
“I can’t trust you anymo
re, Harcourt,” the deacon said. “Verily the traitor shall perish in the flames and the demon ravens will peck out his lying eyes.”
“I didn’t taste her, I swear,” Harcourt said. He bowed his head in mock humility. “All I did was try to please you, Deacon.”
“Where are my sons?”
Santee’s question took Harcourt by surprise.
“Why . . . why, they’re with the herd.”
“My other sons, Jeptha and Enoch. You had the woman here, so their search for her was in vain. My boys should be back by now. Where are they?”
Harcourt shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Did you have them murdered to get to the woman?”
“No, Deacon. I found the woman in the ghost town.”
“Did you kill my boys, Harcourt?”
“No, no. I swear on the Bible I didn’t.”
“I hope you’re telling the truth. If my sons have been killed, better that their murderer had never been born. Better he tie a millstone around his neck and cast himself into the depths of the sea.”
The oiled blue metal and yellowed ivory of the deacon’s guns caught and held Harcourt’s attention.
How fast was he? Hell, Harcourt had seen his draw.
He was faster than anyone could imagine.
He’d answered his own question.
But he consoled himself with one thought: A bullet in the back was the ultimate equalizer.
Santee turned and called out to the young woman who’d been bathing earlier. He peeled off his reeking frock coat and vest and threw them at her. “Wash those.”
The girl wrinkled her nose and held the clothes at arm’s length with a forefinger and thumb.
“Oooh, they stink,” she said.
The deacon’s anger flared. “Do as I say or I’ll take a crop to you.”
The girl sniffed and flounced toward the creek, still holding the deacon’s coat and vest at arm’s length.
He watched her go, grunted at Harcourt, then pulled his right-hand Smith & Wesson, broke it open, and punched out the spent shells. He reloaded with rounds from his pocket and did the same for his second revolver.
Santee holstered his guns and smiled at Harcourt.
The rancher’s handsome face creased as he returned the smile. It seemed that, despite everything, the deacon had forgiven him.
Santee drew and fired.
The bullet took off Harcourt’s left thumb at the base, ranged downward after striking bone, and severed his forefinger at the second joint.
Harcourt screamed and clutched his wrist, staring in horror at his mutilated hand.
The deacon smiled. “That’s your comeuppance for deceiving me, Beau. For hiding my woman from me.”
“You bastard!” Harcourt shrieked. “You piece of motherless scum.”
Harcourt’s right hand dropped to his gun, but the deacon’s voice stopped him.
“I’ll take the other one off at the wrist, Beau.”
Harcourt very much wanted to live, an instinct stronger than his urge to kill.
He held his wrist again, his lips tight, grimacing against the pain.
Women tumbled out of the wagons and watched the scene in numb fascination. The cook and Harcourt’s remaining puncher came running, then stopped when the deacon swung his icy eyes on them.
The puncher, a tall drink of water wearing batwing chaps and a worried expression, stepped beside Harcourt and said, “You all right, boss?”
Harcourt held up his bleeding hand. “What the hell do you think?”
The puncher glanced at Santee, looked away, and said, “How do I play this, Mr. Harcourt?”
“You don’t, boy,” the deacon said. “Not if you want to go on living.”
The cowboy was young and there was a recklessness in him.
“You don’t scare me none, mister,” he said.
The almost benign expression on the deacon’s face didn’t change.
“I should,” he said.
Harcourt kicked out at the puncher’s leg. “Damn it, don’t stand there trying to prove how brave you are. Tear up a shirt or something and bind my hand before I bleed to death.”
The cowboy walked away and the deacon smiled. “I’d say that young man likes to live dangerously. What do you think, Beau?”
“Go to hell,” Harcourt said, wincing against the pain.
“That won’t happen, Beau. My destiny is to enter paradise and sit in a golden throne on the right hand of God. Such is the reward for piety and a life of prayer.”
Chapter 30
Beau Harcourt sulked in his tent, drinking whiskey to dull the pain of the wound and the greater pain of his humiliation.
He’d folded after the deacon drew down on him. He hadn’t even tried to make a play.
The raw whiskey burned Harcourt’s throat. He watched a white moth flutter around the oil lamp, playing with fire.
His gun hand hadn’t been injured.
Damn it, he should’ve tried.
Then he remembered.
“I’ll take the other one off at the wrist, Beau.”
Harcourt watched the moth and his eyes glazed. Growling like an animal, he tore the deacon apart, limb by limb . . . but only in his pain-tangled mind.
A vaquero rode into camp just before midnight.
Harcourt watched the Mexican trot to the deacon’s wagons and step from the saddle.
Santee tumbled from the back of a wagon, yanking up his pants. An angry woman stuck her head out of the canvas and yelled something at him that Harcourt couldn’t hear.
But she was mad as hell.
“The army wasn’t at the river, señor,” the vaquero said.
The deacon’s anger flared. “What the hell do you mean?”
“No army. No money.”
The man was silent for a while, then said, “Plenty of Apache sign in the hills, though. Maybe twenty, thirty bucks, no women or children.”
“What do Gideon and Zedock say?”
The vaquero shrugged. “What the rest of us say, señor. The Apaches have broken out and the army is chasing them. They won’t be buying beef anytime soon.”
“Where is the herd?”
“On the Rio Puerco. The water is not good to drink and the graze is thin on both banks, señor. If we don’t move the herd soon, we’ll have big losses.”
“Harcourt’s men still alive?”
The vaquero nodded. “Sí, ellos todavia viven.”
“Speak American, damn your papist eyes.”
“They still live.” Then he felt the need to explain. “A big fight over no money is a useless thing.”
The deacon saw his thirty thousand dollars rapidly slip through his fingers.
Damn the Apaches and damn the damned army.
The Mexican pushed it as far as he dared. “Patrón, we must move the herd.”
“Give me time to think, damn you,” the deacon said.
South. He’d move south and take a chance that the Texas Rangers hadn’t followed him this far.
“We’ll bring the herd back here,” he said. “We’ll pick up Harcourt’s thousand head and push south.”
“To where?”
“Due south to Fort Apache. We need army money and that’s where it’s at.”
The vaquero was appalled. “Señor, the fort is nearly thirty miles south of the Rim, across high country. We can’t drive a herd due south over mountains.”
“Then we’ll keep to the valleys,” the deacon said. “It’ll only add five, six days to the drive if we push it.”
“But many of the cows are already dying on their feet. We’ll lose half of them.”
“So? There will be enough of them left to make a profit. We take the money and keep on going into Old Mexico.”
“The Apaches are out,” the vaquero said. “We may have a big fight.”
But the deacon was all through talking. “We’ll do as I say. Do you hear me?”
He pulled the Mexican closer to him by his shirtfront. “Will you
stick?”
The man nodded. “I ride for the brand, señor.”
Deacon Santee smiled. “Good. Now listen well because we’ve got some killing to do.”
Chapter 31
The wind had lain low all day, but now as night fell it gathered its strength and prowled restlessly around Requiem, its wandering path delineated by creaking timbers, the dry rustle of fallen leaves, and the thud-thud of unlatched doors.
Down by the graveyard the wild oaks tossed their branches and whispered ghostly stories to the attentive, bending pines.
The moon sailed high in the sky, scudding through billows of cloud, and small, timid things scurried among the buildings and added their hushed voices to the darkness.
Sam Pace stood at the window of his office and looked outside.
“A night for dead men to walk,” he said.
Lake took a long time before he said anything, then said, “You goin’ all loco on me again, boy?”
“I saw them, old man. Out there in the street.”
“You saw them in a dream, Sam.”
Without turning, Pace said, “Was it a dream? Or was I awake?”
“Dead men don’t walk down Requiem’s street.”
“They do if they’re hungry.”
“Dead men don’t get hungry. They don’t get anything, except deader.”
A quiet fell between the two men. Lake broke it.
“Sam, you don’t go crazy in the head until you’re back in this town,” he said. “It’s time you left and never came near the place again.”
Pace turned and looked at the older man. “The people will return, Mash. They’ll drive right down the street in wagons and after that, all the dead people will be gone.”
Lake shook his head. “It’s the town fer sure, making you crazy.”
“You’ll see,” Pace said. “They’ll come.”
Lake had cleaned his and Pace’s revolvers and now he began to reassemble the oiled parts lying on the desk in front of him.
He watched Pace lock the office door, then move to the window again.
The town was evil, Lake decided, or at the very least it exerted an evil spell over Sam Pace.
Ralph Compton the Ghost of Apache Creek (9781101545560) Page 9
