The black-clad Moon, eyes of lust, thin lips twisted into a silent jeer.
He turned away but was compelled to turn back, this time to see the prior reflection of the man, bruised, bloodied, and burned, now even more severely than the first time—a desperate plea in his hollow, tortured eyes. Both arms were outstretched to his sides as if affixed to an invisible cross.
Keyes’s hands tilted the mirror sharply upward on its hinges until he could no longer see any reflection at all.
Deliverance was at her workbench, a sublime look on her face as she manipulated the wax figure of Lorna, distorting the image with an uneven pressure of her fingers.
Keyes was at the bedside. He leaned closer to kiss Lorna’s forehead. But she bolted up, her eyes wide in pain and horror, almost crashing into her husband’s face.
“Lorna!”
“Oh, Jon! I . . .” She trembled and wiped at her eyes. “That pain . . . in my brain . . . as if it was being split with an . . .”
“Lorna, it was a dream . . .”
“The pain was no dream . . . it was real . . . worse than the sun in the . . .”
“Lorna. I’m here now. We’re together.”
“Yes . . . and it is subsiding . . . the pain . . . but, Jonathon, there’s something about this place . . . these people . . .”
“It’s your imagination . . .”
“No! It’s real . . . don’t you feel it, too . . . something?”
He looked toward the tilted mirror now reflecting the moon in the sky.
“No, Lorna . . .”
“Jonathon, as soon as the wagon is fixed . . . let’s get away from this place.”
“Yes,” he nodded, “I’ll see to it tomorrow.”
“It’ll be better for both of us.”
Deliverance covered the wax image of Lorna Keyes with a damp cloth, blew out the candle, rose, and walked toward the door of the shed . . . followed in the darkness by the purring cat.
CHAPTER 22
The next morning the dresser mirror remained tilted upward.
While Lorna still slept he had dressed himself with no intention of looking into the mirror, even though the alien reflections had occurred only at night.
Before leaving the room Keyes walked back to the bed and looked down at his wife. Lorna had grown up as one of the most beautiful young ladies in Monroe, with only Libbie Bacon, now Mrs. Custer, as attractive. But, here, more than a little of that beauty seemed to have drained from her features. Even closed her eyes seemed sunken, her cheeks depressed, and her face uneasy.
As he moved toward the door he took note of the rifle, showing the effects of sun and sand, leaning against the wall. He wondered if the rifle was in operative condition, then went downstairs.
Keyes joined Caleb, Deliverance, and Joseph, who were about to begin breakfast.
“You’re just in time, Jon,” Caleb greeted, “We’ve just finished breakfast prayer, and we’re ready for a hearty morning meal. Sit down,” he pointed to the empty chair next to Deliverance, “and join us.”
“Thank you,” Keyes nodded, “and good morning.”
“It is a good morning.” Joseph nodded, “The Lord had made his face to shine upon us.”
Deliverance handed Keyes a napkin from the table as he sat.
“Thank you, Deliverance. You look absolutely radiant this morning.”
“I don’t know how she does it,” Caleb smiled, “works till all hours every night and rises with the sun fresh as a morning flower.”
“Yes,” Keyes agreed.
Bethia entered from the kitchen carrying a tray and moved toward the stairs.
“I thought I’d take the missus some breakfast.”
“She’s fast asleep,” Keyes said.
“Well, she’ll have to wake up sometime . . . and need some nourishment.” Bethia was already on the stairway.
“Is Mrs. Keyes making progress toward her recovery?” Caleb asked as he sipped his tea.
“Not as much as I had hoped,” Keyes said, “but she’s anxious to start toward Saguaro. She asked about the wagon. I told her I’d go down this morning and see what shape it’s in. Have you heard, Caleb?”
“No. But I’ll be glad to go with you and find out.”
“Mind if I go along?” Joseph asked.
“Of course not,” Keyes said.
“After breakfast,” Joseph added and forked another mouthful of scrambled eggs.
The Conestoga’s back end rested on the floor of the repair shop with only the front suspended by wheels.
“I’m sorry,” Sam Hawkins shrugged, “I thought the rear axle could be repaired, but it can’t, not well enough to make it across that desert. I’ll have to fashion a new one . . .”
“You’re sure?” a disappointed Keyes asked.
“Very sure. I couldn’t in good conscience let you even try. I’m working on a new axle,” Hawkins pointed to his workbench, “as you can see.”
“How long will it take you, Mr. Hawkins?”
“I’ll do it as fast as possible . . . a few days.”
“I appreciate that.”
“After all you’ve done, Mr. Keyes, it’s the least I can do.”
Keyes thought for a moment.
“Caleb, is there another wagon in town that could make the journey? I’d be glad to pay the difference, if . . .”
“No. I’m sorry, m’boy.”
“But you must have gotten here, all the way from Connecticut with sturdy wagons?”
“We did. But when we decided to stay in San Melas, we dismantled all of them, so no one would get a notion to abandon the community. We took a vote and decided to use the wagon wood and parts to help build what you see out there.”
“‘The Lord helps those who help themselves,’” Joseph said.
“Yes, well thanks again, Mr. Hawkins, I’ll check back with you from time to time.”
“Fine, Reverend. You do that.”
As the three men walked back along the main street they heard a familiar voice.
“Good morning, Reverend . . . Mr. Hobbs, Joseph. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Ethan,” the three responded.
The young boy walked toward them.
“Well, Ethan, m’lad,” Caleb said, “I see you’re up and at ’em already.”
“Yes, sir. Going to give my dad a hand today . . . thanks once more to Reverend Keyes. Thank you, sir.”
Keyes nodded and smiled as the boy started across the street and the men moved on.
After a short silence, Caleb took the pipe from his pocket, but instead of lighting it, looked at Keyes, hesitated, then spoke.
“Reverend, this morning, before you came down . . . Deliverance told me, in her own way, that you were a great comfort to her last night.”
“I didn’t do much . . .”
“She’s so concerned . . . worried about Moon.”
“There’s not much I can do . . . if anything.”
Keyes stopped and looked down the street where Moon had ridden in.
“I know what you’re thinking. Yes, he’ll come back,” Caleb said.
“Maybe . . .”
“There is no maybe. He’ll come back just as sure as the earth turns. Have you forgotten what he did to Joseph . . . and you . . . that he dragged you down this same street? Have you forgotten the look on his face when he stared at Deliverance? Have you forgotten that he’s evil?”
Keyes made no answer.
“Reverend, you said that you made a vow regarding the use of guns . . . of weapons. Was it something to do with the war?”
“Yes. That I would not kill any man again . . . unless my life depended on it.”
“Or your wife’s . . . or someone you love?”
Still Keyes did not answer.
CHAPTER 23
All that day Lorna had not touched anything on Bethia’s breakfast tray.
Several times Keyes had looked in, once or twice thought about waking and urging her to take some nourishment, but t
hought that sleep would be a better balm for her condition.
He, himself, had noon meal and supper with Caleb and Joseph. Both times Deliverance was not at the table.
During the noon meal, he mentioned her absence to Caleb.
“It’s not unusual for her to be at work out there all day long, as well as at night. She makes candles for our people in the village, and before it burned down, for our church.”
“Without having anything to eat?”
“Oh, Bethia takes good care of her in that department. Don’t you, Bethia?”
“Yes, sir,” Bethia nodded on her way to the kitchen. “But lately, the poor dear hasn’t had much of an appetite.”
When Bethia left the room, Caleb leaned closer to Keyes. “Not since that last visit from him.”
“Moon?”
Caleb nodded.
“‘Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labor I took under the sun,’” Joseph quoted.
That afternoon Keyes did catch a glimpse of Deliverance walking in the nearby woods as she held the cat in her arms. Her face, what he could see of it, meditative, her eyes distant but frightened.
Was she thinking of what would happen when Moon returned? Keyes wondered.
He thought of approaching her, started to move toward her, but she turned, saw him, smiled a forced smile, then proceeded back toward the shed.
That evening Keyes had brought up a bowl of broth and entered the bedroom. In spite of a long sleep, Lorna had not improved; if anything, it was just the opposite. She seemed lethargic, enervated, indifferent, somewhat confused, and silent, with more than a glint of suspicion in her voice when she did speak.
“Well, what did you do today, Jonathon?”
“I’ll tell you all about it as soon as you finish this broth.” He sat on the bed beside her and spoon-fed the soup to his wife until the bowl was empty.
After that, her spirit seemed to rise somewhat.
“Well, the first thing I did was to see about the wagon. Caleb and Joseph went with me.”
“And Deliverance?”
“And Deliverance, what?”
“Go with you?”
“No. Just Caleb and Joseph.”
“Then you didn’t see her today?”
“Only at breakfast,” Keyes said, without mentioning that afternoon by the woods.
“How was she?”
“Just like she always is.”
“Beautiful.”
“Well, yes . . . and a little . . . plaintive.”
“Being unable to speak?”
“Yes.”
“But she has other ways to . . . communicate.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same . . . still an affliction.”
“In some ways.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Lorna.”
“What about the wagon?” Lorna changed the subject. “When can we start for Saguaro? Is it ready?”
“No, it’s not, not yet. Mr. Hawkins says he has to make a new axle.”
“How long will that take Mr. Hawkins?”
“Not very long.”
“You told him we were anxious to leave?”
“Yes, Lorna. I told everybody.”
“Everybody?”
“Lorna, you seem . . .”
She pressed her hand against her forehead. “I just feel . . . Jonathon, I think I’ll close my eyes for a little bit . . . I think that broth made me . . . drowsy.”
“You do that, Lorna. You’ll feel better.”
Deliverance, her eyes now bright by candlelight, her supple fingers at the wax image of Lorna, pressed against the forehead.
Keyes sat at a chair near the half-empty trunk. He reached in, searching for a moment or two, then lifted the object of his search.
The red scarf.
The red scarf he had worn around his neck, streaked with sweat and faded from rack of sun and rain, stained with dried-out blood long ago turned brown against the once bright crimson cloth that had been each trooper’s flowing guidon in General George Armstrong Custer’s charging Wolverine Brigade in the Shenandoah Valley, at Fort Royal, Winchester, Waynesboro, Falls Church, and Yellow Tavern.
Yellow Tavern. Keyes gripped the red scarf, looked at the rifle leaning against the wall, and thought of that evening before the charge at Yellow Tavern . . . with Keyes in Custer’s tent.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Yes. Sit down Jon. I just wanted to tell you that no matter what happens tomorrow, you’ve been a good soldier. The best. I appreciate all you’ve done for the brigade . . . and me. I’ve written your fiancée about you, and to Libbie, of course . . . and in truth, about someone we’re going to meet tomorrow . . .”
“Jeb Stuart.”
Custer nodded and said nothing.
“You’ve beaten him before. At Brandy Station and Gettysburg. No one else has.”
“But this has to be the last time for both of us. He’s a good man—a good friend—and a great general.”
“So are you, sir.”
“We were on the same side at Harper’s Ferry—saved one another’s lives . . . we both raced to capture Brown.”
“The way I heard it, sir, it was you who saved his life when one of Brown’s men aimed a pistol at Stuart, point-blank, but you shot first.”
“Jeb and I were together at Brown’s hanging. I’ll never forget what he said. ‘I, John Brown, am now quite convinced that the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away except with blood.’ I’ve faced officers and friends from West Point before, but at Yellow Tavern, it’ll be my best friend—and I’ve got a feeling it’ll be the last time for one of us.”
“Sir, you’ve come far being what you were meant to be. You mustn’t change—any time or place—including Yellow Tavern.”
“I know that, Jon. But I’m glad we had this talk . . .”
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Reverend James Mason entered the tent holding his Bible.
“I’ve just come from the others, and I wanted to give both of you a blessing for what you’re doing for our country.”
Minutes later, just outside Custer’s tent Keyes spoke to Reverand Mason.
“Reverend, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course. What is it, my son?”
“At this same time do you think that there is someone like you giving a blessing to the soldiers on the other side?”
“I hope so.” The minister said.
Deliverance smiled, then relieved the pressure from the forehead of the wax image of Lorna, looked at the wax figure, and then at the cat hunched on the workbench. She reached for the damp cloth.
Keyes looked at the red scarf still in his hand, then at the rifle against the wall. He started to rise and heard her voice.
“Jonathan . . .”
“Yes, Lorna, what is it?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . if earlier I seemed somewhat. . . abrupt . . .”
“Not at all.”
“I woke up thinking about something we talked about before leaving Monroe . . . I wonder if you remember?”
“We talked about a lot of things.” He smiled.
“Including having a family, a baby. Remember that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you still want . . . ?”
“More than anything. As soon as we’re settled in Saguaro.”
“Thank you, Jonathon. That makes me feel much better.”
“Go to sleep, my dear.”
“I will, now.”
Keyes walked to the dresser, stood for a moment, and started to adjust the mirror from its upturned position, then hesitated. He looked at the Bible on top of the dresser.
Then moved away without touching the mirror.
CHAPTER 24
The next day was the most pleasant since their arrival in San Melas.
At least it began that way.
Both Lorna and he slept peaceably through the night.
In the morning, Bethia brought up brea
kfast enough for both of them, and they partook together and even recalled good times in Monroe before the war—including the first occasion they spent time together.
It began with the Fourth of July shooting contest.
Five of the most attractive—and eligible young ladies had prepared picnic baskets. Libbie Bacon had excused herself since she was unofficially engaged to George Custer, who was away at West Point.
Mayor Claude Markham made the announcement concerning the contest.
“A dozen contestants with their rifles will compete against each other—and the best five shooters will take their pick of the five beautiful ladies and their baskets—in the order that the shooters finish.”
Reggie Harris, the richest and most favored of the contestants, sidled up to Lorna Benton, smiled, patted the barrel of his rifle, and whispered, “Lorna, looks like you and I are going to picnic together.”
And throughout most of the contest, it did look that way.
It came down to a tie for first place between Harris and Jon Keyes.
Each had one last shot at the target.
Harris shot first and made a direct bull’s eye.
“Seems like Mr. Harris is the winner,” the Mayor proclaimed, “but go ahead and shoot, Mr. Keyes.”
Jon Keyes took aim and fired.
It looked like he missed the target altogether.
“Sorry, Mr. Keyes,” the Mayor said, “but it appears you’re in second place.”
“Take another look, sir.” Keyes said.
They did.
Keyes’s shot had split Harris’s lead right down the middle.
He walked directly to Lorna Benton.
“May I have the pleasure of picnicking with you, Miss Benton?”
“You may indeed, Mr. Keyes.”
They managed to find an isolated, shady spot along the Raisin River.
“You’re a good cook, Miss Benton.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the chicken, Jon, and please call me Lorna.”
“It wasn’t because of the chicken that I chose you . . . Lorna.”
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