The Stranger from Medina (West Texas Sunrise Book #3): A Novel

by Paul Bagdon

  The storm’s back was broken. The wind continued to swirl snow around, obscuring vision, but there was less of it falling. The tone of the wind had lost its stridency, and the lapses between the gusts were more frequent and lasted longer.

  Night had fallen by the time Ben heard the report of a rifle. He grabbed his rifle and fired three times into the air as quickly as he could work the lever. An answering shot came clearly, almost undistorted by the now-faltering wind.

  “Wrap Henry as best you can,” Ben shouted to the preacher. “The wagon’ll be here in a few minutes.” He stood staring out into the glacial panorama, stunned by the beauty of it, even at a time of peril. The snow was sculpted into smooth, graceful peaks and valleys, and it seemed as if each individual flake was catching and reflecting the light of the moon and stars.

  After a moment, he felt the preacher’s hand on his shoulder. “Did you bundle up the boy? The—”

  “There’s no reason to hurry now,” Warner interrupted. “Henry died a minute ago. He’d lost too much blood. But he died easy. Never opened his eyes and never spoke again—just stopped breathing.”

  The squeaking of the snow under the wagon wheels washed over the two men, one with his hands clasped in front of him, the other holding a rifle loosely at his side. Ben heard his horse’s familiar long snort, and then Carlos rode in with Lee, on Slick, at his side. They both swung down from their horses.

  “Henry’s gone,” the preacher said.

  “Oh, no!” Lee exclaimed, taking a step forward, her arms reaching out.

  Who is she reaching out to? Ben couldn’t help but wonder. He kept his eyes locked on her.

  Lee suddenly lowered her arms. “He was so young.”

  Carlos nodded his head. “Ees sad,” he said. “But Ben, we ’ave a herd of shopkeepers who’re ’most frozen to death. If we go back thees night, we must start now.”

  The wagon pulled in and stopped behind Snorty and Slick. There were several horses tied to the back gate of the covered freighter. A half dozen men on horseback reined in and looked at Ben and the preacher with flat, emotionless eyes that seemed bright only because of the gray pallor of their faces.

  Ben approached them. “You boys all right?”

  It seemed like a full minute before one of the riders spoke. “We lost Zeke, Marshall. When the storm was real bad—jist ’fore we stopped—his horse dumped him an’ took off. Zeke, he musta hit the ground hard. He busted his neck.”

  “Is his body in the wagon?”

  The rider broke eye contact with him. “Nossir, it ain’t. We had to leave him be, right where he was. We couldn’t lift him, Marshall. Our hands was like boards, an’ we didn’t have no control over ’em. I fell straight down when I clumb off my horse, ’cause my legs an’ feet are froze. Had a real hard time mountin’ up again. I was scairt the boys was gonna leave me behind too.”

  Ben walked back to Carlos. “I don’t see any sense in headin’ back tonight. We’ve got fire an’ water here, an’ there’s food and blankets in the wagon. Some of these fellas are going to lose toes—maybe fingers too. Another few hours in the saddle and it’s a sure bet all of them will be frostbit. We can leave at first light tomorrow.”

  The preacher spoke up. “Marshall, you can’t ask these people to spend the night in a cave with a dead body! I suggest we—”

  Ben turned to face Warner. “It was another one of your suggestions that led to this, Rev. You might just be quiet an’ follow orders this time around an’ maybe we’ll get past your little search party idea without no one else getting killed.”

  “Ben!” Lee gasped. “Duncan is a man of God! You can’t speak to him like that!”

  “He’s a man of God, all right, and he’s a fool too. It’s a wonder there aren’t more of you out there under a yard of snow.”

  Carlos eased his hand onto Ben’s shoulder. “You say the truth, mi amigo. But now’s not the time for it. We mus’ get everybody inside an’ beeld up the fire. We make coffee, Ben, muy caliente an’ strong to melt a nail.”

  Ben hesitated for a moment and then forced a smile. “Very hot an’ strong coffee is exactly what I need, Carlos. Let’s get these folks inside. We’ll put Henry in the wagon for the night. The cold won’t bother him now.”

  The coffee was even better than Ben had anticipated. He sat with his back against the cavern wall with his second steaming mugful. Most of the stock of wood had been fed to the fire, and it roared high, casting light throughout the cavern and providing the lifesaving heat that was rapidly inducing the group to shed layers of clothing. More coffee was brewing, and its heady odor permeated the air, mixed with the scents of wet wool, wood smoke, and fresh hay.

  The saddle horses and the pair from the wagon were twenty feet away, just inside the mouth of the cavern, pulling at the two bales of hay that had been scattered in front of them. Rabbit was carrying his weight on all four legs, moving normally and naturally as he shifted about. The search party had been forced back by the intensity of the fire, but they remained as close to the source of heat as they comfortably could, sitting with numb feet and toes extended toward the flames. A basket of bread, salted and smoked ham, jerky, and dried apples, almost full twenty minutes ago, was now down to scraps and bits.

  Carlos hunkered down next to Ben. “The smoke,” he observed, “it flew straight up an’ out.”

  Ben sipped coffee. “Flew? Oh—flue. Yeah. There’s a vent right above it that must go to the surface. We’d be choking like fish outta water if the smoke didn’t have an escape.”

  “Ees good place for the night. But there still ees a problema though.”

  Ben nodded. “A big one. Who killed Henry?”

  “Could be renegades. Pistoleros. Who can know?”

  “Well, the boy couldn’t have had much worth stealing. That ol’ horse of his is gone and his saddle an’ bridle too. But what bothers me is why the killer left into the teeth of the storm when he had a perfect hideout like this to wait out the weather. And why kill the kid? I doubt that Henry would’ve resisted much for that scruffy horse an’ some broken down, secondhand tack.”

  “Those men, they don’ need no reason to keel.” Carlos paused. “You gonna talk with the preacher?”

  “As soon as I can. I had no right to jump on him like I did, insult him to his face with everyone within hearin’. Him being a preacher makes me even more wrong. I feel like a coyote for doing that.”

  “The search party—it was wrong. Zeke, he be alive if the preacher din’t push heem an’ the others to go out.”

  “Of course he would—but that ain’t the point. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Marshall? A moment, please?”

  Rev Warner stood in front of Ben and Carlos, Lee at his side. “I need to apologize,” he said, “and I wanted Lee and Carlos to hear my apology. My search party was a fool’s plan, just as you said it was. I should have listened to you right from the start.” His voice carried a texture of remorse, and it impressed Ben that he spoke at a normal volume level, not whispering to save himself embarrassment. Ben’s glance flicked to the group gathered near the fire. Conversation had died. Every pair of eyes was focused on him and the preacher.

  Ben pushed himself up to his feet. “I’m the one who owes the apology here,” he said. “You did what you believed God wanted you to do, and no one should ever be faulted for that.”

  Lee’s eyes found Ben’s, and there was a warmth in her gaze that seemed to have been absent in the past month. Ben looked back at the preacher and extended his hand. Warner shook it and let it go. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence until the preacher turned away and walked toward the fire, Lee with him.

  Carlos, who hadn’t stood, said, “Ees better, no?” “Sure,” Ben replied as he sat back down.

  “Mi amigo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “His eyes, they don’ apologize none.”

  “I noticed.”

  * * *

  8

  * * *

  The
funerals for Zeke and Henry were held together. Neither had family in Burnt Rock, but there were plenty of mourners on hand for the joint service at the church. Rev Warner spoke the eulogies in a somber and hushed voice. Many of the ladies sniffled and used their handkerchiefs during the preacher’s address. The men sat stone faced and stoic, refusing to vent the sadness and guilt many of them were feeling. Rev Warner’s search party was widely recognized now for the mistake it had been.

  At the conclusion of the funeral service, Rev Warner again approached the pulpit. He faced the congregation for a long moment before speaking. “I feel directly responsible for the untimely death of Zeke Konrick,” he finally said. “It is as if I threw him from his horse and then heaped snow and ice upon his dead body.” There was a murmur in the pews, and the preacher waited it out. “I came to Burnt Rock with a joyous heart, burning with ambition, filled to overflowing with love for God and for those I’d serve here.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, as if going on would cause him physical pain. “I’ve accomplished nothing here, beyond alienating the fine citizens of this town—a place I’ve come to love. I’ve brought justifiable wrath to our lawman, and I’ve led my friends and church members into a life-and-death situation in which they should never have found themselves. For that I’m deeply sorry.”

  The buzz from the congregation was louder this time, and it lasted longer. Again the preacher waited for silence. “This will be the last time I speak to you from behind this pulpit. I’ve shamed not only myself, but my calling and the work I’ve attempted to do here. Ladies and gentlemen—friends—I’m officially resigning my post as pastor of this fine church, effective immediately. I plan to move on tomorrow, and I pray that one day I arrive at a place where I can do God’s work without my sinful nature interfering with—”

  Missy Joplin was on her feet. “You’ll do no such thing!” she bellowed. “We won’t allow it!”

  Others began standing, shouting out words of praise, of caring, of gratitude for the preacher. Lee stood. All the members of the search party stood. In a moment, the entire congregation was standing.

  “Let’s vote to refuse Rev’s resignation,” Missy yelled over the noise of the crowd. “Those who want our preacher to stay right here in Burnt Rock, shout out!”

  It was the loudest blast of voices the small church had yet heard.

  “An’ now those who want Rev to move on, shout out now!”

  The silence was that of a sepulcher.

  The preacher looked over the group, meeting the eyes of many. He lowered his head for a moment. Then he raised it and looked over the people gathered in front of him. “Thank you,” he said quietly. After a moment, he added, “I have work to do. Shall we adjourn to the cemetery to lay these two souls to rest?”

  The day smiled upon the mourners. The sun, large and benevolent, turned the snow to trickles and freshets of icy water. Patches of buffalo grass were visible around the cemetery, and the snow that was loaded onto the boughs of the oaks and desert pines thudded to the ground as the heat released its bond to the branches. The sky was sweetly blue, much like the blue of an early June morning.

  The open wagon carrying the two simple pine caskets was drawn by a matched set of black geldings owned by Uriah Root, the town undertaker. Most of the time, Uriah was probably the jolliest man in Burnt Rock. But on funeral days, his face was every bit as somber and bereaved as the deceased’s closest relatives. He dressed completely in black, and the trappings and reins of his team were of black, highly polished leather.

  A dozen men—three on each side of each coffin—lowered the boxes into the earth with stout lengths of rope. The handfuls of soil Rev Warner crumbled on the tops of the coffins made a lonely sound.

  When the mourners had dispersed and Uriah’s employees had begun filling in the graves, the undertaker approached Ben.

  “I got a bit of a strange thing, Marshall,” he said. “What’s that, Uriah?”

  “Well, the thing is, when I was gettin’ Henry ready for his coffin, I found four gold eagles sewed right into the lining of his coat. Seemed kind of funny. The boy never had no money, yet here he was carryin’ eighty dollars an’ wearin’ a pair of boots that was worn clean through. Seems like he woulda bought himself some boots an’ maybe better clothes. His wasn’t far from rags.”

  “That’s odd, all right,” Ben agreed. He took up the slack in Snorty’s girth and turned back to the undertaker. “Doesn’t seem likely that Henry would be carryin’ around that kind of money.”

  “Nossir. It sure don’t. ’Course, some say Henry had fingers that was kinda sticky at times, but that’s a lot of money. If he stole it, I think we woulda heard about it.”

  “Probably so. No one in town would lose eighty dollars an’ not report it to me.”

  “Sure enough. I kinda thought I’d donate the money to the church without sayin’ where it come from—maybe drop it into the poor box.”

  Ben considered this for a moment. “That’d be a right good gesture, Uriah. I . . . well . . . never mind. You go on ahead an’ do what your heart tells you.”

  “You got maybe a better idea, Marshall?”

  “Not better, I guess, but different.”

  “Well, out with it, then.”

  Ben moved a half step closer to Uriah, beginning a smile. “I was talkin’ to Doc yesterday. You know how he treats for free folks who can’t pay, right?”

  “’Course I do. Everybody knows that.”

  “Well, the supply house in Chicago where Doc buys all his stuff—medicines an’ so forth—has cut off his credit. He can’t order from them without cash up front. I’d say that Doc’s a man with a real need for that money.”

  “I’d say that too—and that’s right where the money’s goin’. I’ll just give it unanimously, so’s Doc don’t know where it come from.”

  “Unanimously?”

  “Sure. Mean’s you don’t know who done somethin’.” “I see,” Ben said, trying not to grin. “Unanimous or not, I think you’re doing the right thing, Uriah.”

  Deep winter settled on Burnt Rock and its environs like a washed-out blanket that had lost all its color during many trips to the boiling, lye-saturated water and the angry, crushing wringer that followed. Gray was the predominant color of the sky, and it was a flat, lifeless gray that seemed to paint the faces of the people in the same listless hue.

  Ranchers sat in their kitchens, drinking coffee and pestering their wives. Their herds had been sold months ago, their barns and outbuildings were repaired, and their barbed-wire fences were stretched as tight as the string on a renegade’s bow. A few hands stayed on to look after the herd of calves, but God had designed longhorns well. They flourished in conditions that would kill a horse and drain the life from a buffalo.

  Farmers too sat in their kitchens, pestering their wives. Their plows were sharpened after the final turning of their acres, and spring seed had been ordered from the Montgomery Ward catalog. Draft animals grew fat and lazy from lack of use. Mules grew cantankerous and began tearing mouthfuls of hide out of one another in battles started by an accidental or purposeful nudge—or by nothing at all. When separated, the mules called back and forth to one another with voices so raucous and irritating that many farmers let their stock fight it out rather than listen to their caterwauling.

  O’Keefe’s Café did its best business of the year during the winter months. Bored men met there to drink coffee, discuss the weather, and play checkers. On the other hand, the Drovers’ Inn languished, opening and closing many days without serving more than a half dozen drinkers. Gambling was on respite; the cardsharps and riverboat types found warmer places to practice their dishonest craft. And there were no incoming herds to fill the saloon with drunken, free-spending cowboys.

  The celebration of Christmas provided the sole high spot of the winter. The Christmas service at the church was joyous and warm, and the children’s traditional play was its usual success. But afterward, winter seemed to stretch into infinity
.

  Marshall Flood spent too many hours of his time sitting in his office, boot heels on his desk, staring at the wanted posters tacked to the wall. His paperwork was completely up to date, the cells clean, the office immaculate, and the floors scrubbed. He told himself that the daily rides on Snorty had the purpose of keeping the horse’s strength up and his muscles tight. In actuality, Ben simply loved to ride. He was like a horse-crazy kid who’d saddle up his favorite mount and poke around for hours with no destination in mind.

  On this day, the grayness was more pervasive than usual. There wasn’t one spot of color anywhere Ben looked. The snow had gotten slushy due to a slight rise in temperature, and the sky appeared listless. Snorty, however, was happy to be out of his enclosure and argued with Ben for enough rein to allow a headlong run. Ben held his horse at a fast walk for a mile, feeling Snorty’s muscles tensing under the saddle, and waited for the outburst of energy he knew would come. A long, head-shaking snort usually preceded such an explosion, just as it did this time. Snorty launched himself at the sky in a gigantic crowhop, bringing all four of his hooves a couple of feet off the ground.

  Ben sat out the leap as if he were on a rocking chair in front of a comfortable fire, keeping the reins tight. Snorty hit the frozen, slush-encrusted dirt with all the grace of a dumped load of bricks, but Ben let his lower legs and feet absorb the thump. He snatched off his Stetson and whacked Snorty on the rump with it, and the horse responded with a series of angry crowhops that caused Ben to laugh out loud.

  He hauled Snorty’s head around, straightened him, and gave him all the rein he wanted. It took a heartbeat for the horse to realize that he was no longer held in check, then he threw himself forward, running for the simple pleasure of raw speed.

  When the snow deepened as they galloped out of the protected side of a long valley, Ben eased Snorty down to a slow lope. The burst of speed and release of energy had been good for both horse and man. Ben felt much better—it was as if the rushing wind and exuberance of a fine horse had washed away the cobwebs and detritus of boredom.