“Damn the Apaches, and damn this bad-luck town,” Pace said.
“Now you sound almost sane, boy,” Lake said. “And that’s surely an encouragement to all of us.”
The church had been a hurried afterthought by a few of the more pious residents of Requiem, but it had still not attracted a preacher before the cholera epidemic hit.
It was a rickety timber structure, shoddily and quickly built as the town sought instant respectability.
During its twelve months of existence, it had been pushed into service as a dance hall, a storage place for winter ice and beer barrels, and latterly a makeshift morgue for the cholera dead.
The top of the bell tower was accessed by a ladder that ascended to an open rectangle about four feet wide on all sides. Much of the space was taken up by a rusty iron bell that hung from an oak beam, and a wooden railing, as high as a man’s waist, enclosed the area.
The tower was cramped, smelled of rotten wood, and was known to sway alarmingly in a high wind, but on a clear day it gave a good view of the town and the surrounding area.
But all Pace could see as he moodily stared into the distance was a gray lake of fog that stretched in all directions.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “We could up be here for quite a spell.”
Lake sounded grumpy. “Hey, suppose I have to take a piss?”
“Over the side, Mash,” Jess said.
“And what about you?” Lake said.
“Over the side.”
“Hell, I’d like to see that.”
“If we’re here long enough, you will,” Jess said.
“We don’t have enough water stored up here for that to be a problem,” Pace said.
Chapter 39
Deacon Santee was lost in the fog, and that annoyed the hell out of him.
But worse, he’d seen the tracks of shod and unshod horses all heading west and that could only mean raiding Apaches making off with their plunder.
His herd and wagons were in that direction. The women he could replace, but the cattle and wagons were too valuable to be taken by thieving Indians.
The deacon was worried. If he didn’t find the damned ghost town soon, he might be forced to return to camp to protect his property.
He had prayed for God to show him the way of course, but the deity must have been preoccupied with weightier matters elsewhere because he was even more lost now than he’d been before.
He led his horse through a thicket of oak and pine, wading into mist so thick he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
The sun was up, but did nothing to penetrate the tree canopy, and he stumbled around like a man in a pitch-dark room.
Santee stopped and lit a cigar and stood thinking.
He must be close to the ghost town.
The vaquero had given him directions, but neither of them had accounted for fog. He felt like a lost soul condemned to wander forever in a milk-white hell.
Then he caught the stink.
The rotting dead smell sweet, a cloying stench that immediately assaults the nose and curdles the stomach. It stays with a man. If he comes across a corrupting body before breakfast, its sickening rankness will be his companion at supper.
And a horse is no friend to the dead.
The deacon’s mount tried to back away. It tugged on the reins, head high, white arcs of fright in its eyes.
Santee cursed the animal and dragged it forward through the murk.
He followed his nose.
The corpses lay together, faces blue, postmortem gasses swelling bellies tight against their shirts, threatening to burst and hiss vile foulness into the fog.
The faces of Enoch and Jeptha were almost unrecognizable, but Deacon Santee knew his own.
He did not kneel, or pray (he reserved his prayers only for himself), but he threw back his head and shrieked his anger at a trembling heaven.
He called curses down on the one who had murdered his sons. He demanded of the vengeful God of his own creation that the man’s get be damned until the end of time, seed, breed, and generation.
Even in his more placid moments, Deacon Santee was a cold-blooded, vicious killer. Now, in his blind rage, he was dangerous beyond all measure.
He raised his hands above his head in supplication and demanded that the fog lift.
“There is killing to be done,” he yelled, cigar clamped between his teeth. “All the powers of heaven and hell, disperse ye now this damnable mist.”
The deacon removed his top hat and fetched his back against a tree.
The stench of death in his nostrils . . . he waited.
An hour later, the fog began to lift and gaps appeared in the solid grayness like rips in a curtain.
Below Santee, deep in a shelving valley, the curtain finally parted, revealing a town.
The deacon swung into the saddle and rode down the rise, bringing hell with him.
Chapter 40
After the fog hitched up its skirts and fled, the sun rose in the sky and laid a heavy hand on the wide land.
The day was hot, without a breath of wind, and the deacon sweated under his heavy broadcloth.
He dismounted at the far end of town, tied his horse to the hitch rail outside a barbershop, and looked around.
A single row of gray-faced stores, most of them with false fronts, led the way toward a ramshackle church that had seen better days, a sight that made the deacon cluck in disapproval.
The least the folks here should’ve done before they left was to tear it down. That would’ve been right and proper. It was a grievous sin to let a house of worship rot in the sun like an unwanted corpse.
Before he left he would set the church on fire and let it be consumed by purifying flames.
After a last glance at the church, the deacon drew his guns and stepped into the barbershop.
Thick dust lay everywhere, cobwebs triangled the corners and a pack rat had built its untidy nest on the seat of the chair. A bench placed against the wall was littered with sheets of yellowed newspaper, and unswept clippings of hair still covered the floor.
Santee strolled to a shelf behind the chair, picked up a dark blue bottle, and dusted it off. Lavender water. His favorite. He pulled the cork, sniffed to make sure the scent was still potent, then took off his top hat and poured the stuff over his bald head.
He nodded his approval, then tossed the empty bottle through the shop window. As shattered glass chimed around him, he smiled.
A man should smell good.
The heat of the day slamming him, the deacon began a systematic search of the town buildings. He found an unopened bottle of bourbon in the saloon, drank deeply, then carried it with him during the rest of his search.
A gun in one hand, the bottle in the other, Santee reached the marshal’s office.
He was sweating like a pig and his skin itched. He decided this was the hottest day of the summer so far, what they called a “scorcher” back east, and the bourbon was making him thirsty.
He threw away the half-empty bottle and then kicked in the door of the marshal’s office.
His gun up and ready in front of him, he followed the revolver inside, then stopped in his tracks.
Someone had been there—and recently.
And he smelled a woman.
Jessamine! It had to be. She had been here and not so long ago.
There were three cups on the table, evidence of meals, cigarette butts, and the coffeepot was still warm. The railroad clock on the wall was ticking, so it had been wound recently.
The room told its story to Santee.
After fleeing Harcourt his woman had found refuge here, and her companions were probably male. Two of them. They could be the sons of bitches who had murdered his sons.
The deacon checked the cell at the rear of the office, found nothing of interest, and stepped back into the street.
He still had a few other buildings to search, including the church. If he found no trace of Jess and the men with
her, he’d scout the brush and mesquite country around the town.
Damn it, they were here recently and they must be close.
But where?
The hammering sun used Requiem as an anvil, beating the town into fiery submission. Such breeze as there was felt like a draft from a blast furnace and the air was thick and hard to breathe.
As the deacon paced down the middle of the street, a dust devil spun around his feet and lifted the tails of his frock coat. He stumbled, and then walked on. The devil spun behind him, then collapsed in a puff of dust.
Santee reached into a pocket of his frock coat, found a large red bandanna, and mopped sweat from his head and face. He squinted against the glare of the sun and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, tasting salt.
Just ahead of him was a well, hopefully still with water, and he walked toward it.
Above him, buzzards flew lazy triangles in the sky and the hazed sun smoked like a white-hot coin. Sunlight reflected from store windows, adding more heat to the blazing day, and nothing moved or made a sound. Even the crickets had quit fiddling.
The deacon removed his coat, folded it neatly, and laid it on the ground beside the well. He unbuckled his guns and placed them on top of the coat.
A wooden bucket had been untied from the pulley rope and thrown aside. Santee reattached the bucket and lowered it into the well. He was gratified to hear a splash when it hit bottom.
He waited, then worked the pulley handle. The bucket reappeared, crystal-clear water cascading over its rim.
A rusty dipper lay nearby on the well’s limestone wall. The deacon wiped it off with his fingers, filled the dipper from the bucket, and drank deeply.
The water was cool and sweet and he refilled the dipper and drank again.
Deacon Santee had no way of knowing that he’d just tasted death a second time.
Chapter 41
“The deacon is drinking from the well,” Sam Pace said.
“Will it kill him?” Jess said.
Pace kept his eye to the railing, staring through a chink between a pair of warped boards.
“I don’t know.” He turned and smiled at Jess. “You sound hopeful.”
“I am,” the woman said. “Hell, how long does the cholera poison a well? Months? Years?”
“I don’t know that either. But Harcourt’s boys stirred the water up when they gave me a bath. If there’s still cholera in the well, I’d say they wakened it up for sure.”
“How does it kill a man?” Lake said.
“If he’s took sick in the morning, most times he’ll be dead by sundown.”
“If the deacon did drink poisoned water, how long before he gets sick?” Jess said.
“It’s mighty sudden. Three, maybe four hours.”
“Then what happens, Sammy?”
“Everything that’s inside you comes out both ends,” Pace said, “and it keeps on a-coming. Your legs cramp up and you can’t walk and you get a raging fever. If you have the strength, you’ll scream for a while, but pretty soon you die.” He smiled. “One of the good Lord’s tender mercies.”
“I wouldn’t wish a death like that on anyone,” Lake said. He looked at Pace. “My God, Sam, you saw a whole town die like that, including your own wife and wee babby? How could you stand it?”
Pace said nothing, his eyes unfocused, looking back into a different place and time.
“No wonder you’re tetched in the head, boy,” Lake said finally, a sense of wonder in his voice.
“Sammy,” Jess said, “your wife. Was she pretty?”
It was a female question and Pace accepted it with a tolerant smile.
“Yes, very pretty. She had . . . she had this yellow hair and the sun would get all tangled in it and turn it gold. And she had gray eyes, like a summer mist, only sometimes they looked blue.” His head turned to the side as he remembered. “In the dark, or by lamplight, that’s when they were blue. Dark, kinda like the night sky.”
“You loved her very much, didn’t you, Sammy?” Jess said.
“Yeah. I did. I loved her very much. I still do.”
“I didn’t want to drive you crazy again, Sammy,” Jess said.
“You didn’t. The death of his wife leaves a heartache in a man that no one can heal.” Pace smiled. “But the way he loved her, well, that’s a memory no one can ever steal from him.”
“Will you ever be able to love another woman?” Jess said.
Pace grinned, his teeth white under his mustache. “Are you volunteering, Jess?”
“Men don’t fall in love with whores, Sammy,” Jess said.
“You’re not a whore now,” Pace said.
Lake coughed. “What’s the deacon doing now, Sam?” he said.
Pace left the place where he’d been and returned to the present. “Still drinking. He must have a powerful thirst.”
“Hell, so do I,” Lake said. “But not for that well water.”
“You can drink from the canteen soon, Mash. I don’t want you filling up with water, then pissing all over the place like you said you would.”
The bell tower was open to the sun, and the small platform built up heat. Pace and the others were soaked with sweat, and even the slightest movement became an intolerable chore.
Jess moved slightly, and the back of her neck brushed the iron bell. She yelped and jerked away.
“The bell’s red-hot,” she said.
“Did the deacon hear that yip, Sam?” Lake asked, alarmed. “Is he looking this way?”
“I don’t think so,” Pace said. “He doesn’t seem to be interested in the tower.”
He turned to Jess. “Don’t do that again.”
“Do you think I did it on purpose, Sammy?”
“No, I don’t. But don’t do it again just the same.”
“Now what’s he doin’?” Lake said.
“Nothing. Just standing there.”
“He’s got to be doin’ something.”
“Nope, he’s just standing there.”
Pace’s shoulders stiffened. “Wait. He’s buckling on his guns. Now he’s putting on his hat. Now his frock coat. He’s tying a wet bandanna around his neck.”
“Hell,” Jess said, “this is exciting stuff.”
“Now what?” Lake said.
Pace rubbed his eyes. “I reckon the only place he’s got left to search in Requiem is the church. He’ll probably head straight for here.”
“And that’s right where we’re at,” Lake said.
“I’m glad you told us, Mash,” Jess said. “We wouldn’t have known.”
The oldster smiled. “Young lady, someday I’ll put you over my knee and tan the seat of your britches with a willow switch.”
“Bring an army with you, Mash Lake. You’ll need it.”
“Hey, quit bickering, you two,” Pace said. “Something’s happening.”
“What’s he doin’, Sam? Coming our way?” Lake said.
“No. He’s staring at something.”
“Where?”
“To the east of town.”
“What’s he see?” Lake said.
“Hell, I don’t know what he sees.”
But then Pace did know.
And with that knowledge death brushed past him like a cold breeze.
Chapter 42
“Well, now,” the deacon said aloud to himself, as was his habit. “What the hell have we here?”
Four riders came down off the ridge and onto the flat.
For a few moments the shimmering heat haze elongated both men and horses so they looked gaunt, emaciated, like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in a stained glass window.
The Peacock brothers rode closer, resumed their mortal size, and headed in the deacon’s direction.
Santee, a careful man, drew his revolvers and set them on the flat parapet of the well.
When the riders were close enough, he smiled and said, “Howdy, boys. Good to see you again. You catch up with that feller you was hunting?”
&nb
sp; The younger Peacock’s mouth moved, no sound coming out.
“Is the water good to drink?” his brother said for him.
The deacon nodded. “It’s cool and sweet. He’p yourself, boys.”
The young Peacock’s mouth moved again, his blue, staring eyes fixed on the deacon.
His brother said, “We know where the man called Mash Lake is. He is here, in this place, and here we will destroy him.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, boys, but where?” Santee said. “I’ve been all over the damned town.” He holstered his guns, a movement that tensed the Peacocks. “I reckon he’s one of the murdering scum who killed my sons.”
The dumb Peacock spoke again without words.
“There are three of them,” his brother said for him. “Two men and a woman.”
“Where?”
“In the church bell tower.”
“Hell, how do you know that? I ain’t seen nobody. Of course, I haven’t searched the church yet.”
The wordless Peacock’s lips moved.
“Nonetheless, that is where they are,” his brother said, his words exactly matching the lip movements. “I can smell their sweat and their fear.”
“Then let’s go get them,” the deacon said.
The Peacocks didn’t react to Santee’s suggestion.
They dismounted and passed around the dipper and, like the deacon, drank deeply, for the day was hot and the air as dry as bone.
“Did you see coal oil in any of the stores?” one of the brothers asked.
“Yes, I think I did.” The deacon turned and pointed. “Over there, to the general store.”
“Then we will use it,” the silent Peacock said.
Talking to a mute who could only speak through his brother spooked Santee, and if there weren’t four of the Peacocks he would have shot the dumb son of a bitch for the sake of his own peace of mind.
One of the brothers who hadn’t spoken before said, “Gather up the coal oil and bring it to the saloon.”
He said this to the deacon, who immediately took offense. He wasn’t a lackey to be bossed around like a common laborer.
Ralph Compton the Ghost of Apache Creek (9781101545560) Page 12
