Jones caught Howie’s eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you? Here, see how she feels.”
Howie was astonished. Pleased that he could hold such a weapon in his hand, and surprised that Ritcher Jones would let him do it. Even if a weapon wasn’t loaded, you didn’t hand it over to a man you hardly knew. Not if you had good sense.
“I never seen anything like it,” Howie said, hefting the gun in his hand. In spite of the length of the barrel, the weight was centered firmly in his palm, the way it ought to be.
“It looks to be brand-new,” Howie said. “It sure ain’t from long ago. Not still lookin’ like this.”
“It’s new, all right,” Jones said. “Your standard .45 caliber revolver, but it’s stronger and lighter than the poor weapons folks are making now. And maybe better than the ones from ancient times.”
The gun was fine-looking, but Howie doubted that. “You mind me asking where you get a gun like this? If you don’t want to say …”
“California,” Jones said. He showed Howie a broad grin. “And I don’t mind saying, because it’s my Order makes ’em, and I’m proud to tell you that.”
Jones caught Howie’s look. “I can tell what you’re thinking. That men of God don’t have any business making instruments of death. Some might see it that way, folks that won’t think a thing through. A rock or a branch off a tree can kill a man as well as a gun, and those are God’s creations, not the devil’s. A man with a weapon might do foul murder, or defend his wife and child—it’s his heart tells him which he’s going to do. The heart and the mind perform good or evil deeds, not the weapon you hold in your hand.”
“Yes, sir. I guess so,” Howie said. If you asked Jones which way was east, Howie thought, you’d likely get some preaching in return. He studied the etched design on the gun. There were oak leaves and acorns, and even flying birds. Just above the grip, he found a picture different from the rest, a thick-boled tree, its roots growing out of a stylized heart,
“Does this mean something?” Howie asked, pointing at the curious design.
“Why, it surely does,” Jones said, He took the pistol from Howie. “That’s the symbol of our Order and what it is. The Tree of Life ascends straight up from the heart of Man, where God Himself dwells. And that, son, is the meaning of life itself; the whole story’s right there. At High Sequoia there’s a verse we like to quote that makes it clear. ‘If a man’s heart is—’ ” Jones stopped, and looked at Howie with concern. “Something troubling you? The color’s plain gone from your face.”
“Nothing,” Howie said. He tried to look somewhere else. “I—guess my foot’s actin’ up.”
“No, sir. That’s not it at all.” The preacher leaned in close, and squeezed one eye nearly shut. “I don’t think I’ve got to ask. I figure I can tell you what it is. You’re thinking that you’ve heard some bad things about this High Sequoia place. That’s it for sure. I’ve seen that look of yours once or twice before.”
Howie looked at his hands. “I guess I might’ve heard a couple of things.”
“You know anybody who’s ever been to High Sequoia?”
“No,” Howie lied. “I just heard, that’s all.”
Ritcher Jones straightened up with a sigh. “Well, you heard right, then. And likely all you heard was true.” Howie looked surprised.
“Was,” Jones said, and held up a finger to make his point. “Satan prevailed at High Sequoia, that’s a fact. It wasn’t a Holy Order then at all. Far from it, I’d say. It was a place where evil men of all sorts practiced thievery and lust. A den of larceny and greed. That was all before Lawrence came along.”
Who’s that?”
Jones smiled and half closed his eyes, as if his thoughts were off somewhere else. “Lawrence is Lawrence,” he said.
Howie frowned. “That don’t say a whole lot.”
“Son, I don’t mean to hide my words behind mystery and that kind of thing, the way some of your religions are wont to do. But there’s nothing I can say to help you see. Lawrence is Lawrence, and High Sequoia’s where God-fearing people work to see peace restored to this sorely troubled country of ours. Brothers and Sisters who follow the Light.”
Jones tapped the long-barreled gun. “It isn’t this weapon keeps me safe in this wilderness of sin. Yes, sir, I know you’ve been thinking on that. It’s the Light that watches over Ritcher Jones. The same Light that watches over you.”
Jones laid the weapon on his pack. “If you don’t mind, boy, I’m accustomed to taking a little rest at this time. You might do the same. Sleep heals a man’s wounds and mends his troubled soul.” He smiled and gave Howie a wink. “I reckon you’ve heard me say that before.”
Ritcher Jones turned over and settled into the grass. In a moment, Howie knew he was asleep. He kept looking at the preacher’s sleeping form, at the bright silver gun. Lord God, Jones bringing up High Sequoia had taken him by surprise. A man would be a fool if he didn’t see that, and whatever Jones was, he sure wasn’t any fool.
High Sequoia. The name brought a vivid, painful picture to Howie’s mind. Kari Ann, tall and lean as a sapling, skin fine as silk, and perfect little breasts tipped with amber. He could see her sitting right there now, cross-legged on his bed, filing a piece of metal, working in quick short strokes. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and she likely knew more about guns than anyone alive. She could take a weapon apart, fix it, and put it back together again. Why, she might’ve made the weapon he was looking at now.
Howie realized he’d been holding his breath and let it out. Just thinking about Kari did that. He had ached so much to have her he’d wanted to die, but there wasn’t a man alive could touch Kari. Something had happened— and whatever that was, it had happened at High Sequoia. That’s where Kari had been before he knew her. They had taken something away from Kari there, something that left her cold and empty inside. She was everything a man could dream about, but dreaming was all you’d ever do.
Howie looked at Ritcher Jones again. The man had to be a preacher like he said. Nobody else would leave a gun and a horse and a pack of good food out loose and go to sleep. Howie leaned back and looked at the sky through the trees. Whoever this Lawrence fellow was, he must’ve worked a fair-sized miracle out West. High Sequoia sure didn’t sound like the place Kari was, not anything like it at all.
CHAPTER SIX
Howie tried to follow Jones’s advice, but sleep wouldn’t come. His foot was aching bad, and there was too much going through his head. Kari was part of that; his memories of her now were both as vivid and as elusive as Kari herself. It pained him to remember how she was, to think of her at all, yet she wouldn’t go away. She was there, all mixed up with things he liked to recall, and a lot more he’d just as soon forget.
There were sounds in the forest, but nothing that didn’t belong. Birds flew overhead now and then, and a light swept through the trees. Still, Howie found it hard to rest easy. Shots brought trouble; as sure as something dead brought buzzards to the scene, men would come too if they heard. Someone had to win every fight, and someone else had to lose. There might be good pickings left, you couldn’t tell—a hat or a fine pair of boots. Or if a man was quiet and smart, he might trail the winner and take away his prize.
None of this seemed to bother Ritcher Jones, but Howie couldn’t get it off his mind. They’d left the river far behind, but that wouldn’t stop a good tracker—not if he knew there was a horse up ahead. A man would follow that trail till hell froze over.
Ritcher Jones woke, sat up and scratched. “Well now, that was a fine nap indeed,” he told Howie. “It’s God Himself grants a man rest, and watches over him while he sleeps. That’s a fact.”
“I reckon so,” Howie muttered to himself.
Damn, the man was a pure aggravation! Howie was worn to a nub, and Jones looked fresh as new grass. Howie couldn’t say how God had been spending the afternoon, but he’d been awake keeping watch, for sure. Jones hadn’t bothered to mention that.
The pr
eacher stood and ran his hands through his thinning hair, squinted at the woods as if he weren’t sure they’d been there before, then bent down again and started gathering up his things.
“Still some good afternoon light,” Jones said, folding up his pack. “Time to make a few miles before dark.” He turned and looked at Howie. “Which way you headed, son?”
“Uh, north,” Howie said, the first direction that came into his head. “I got a bunch of things to do.” He hadn’t thought about where he’d go next, or what exactly lay ahead. All he was doing was going away from where he’d been.
“I sure wish you well,” Jones said. “I’ll pray that you walk in the Light.” Something seemed to occur to the preacher, and he laughed. “We’ve known each other for a spell and I never got your name. He stuck his hand out to Howie. “I clean forgot to ask.”
“Cory,” Howie said, remembering the name of a friend who was dead. “Well then, Cory,” Jones grasped Howie’s hand. “We didn’t get to know each other well, but I figure men who’ve fought Satan’s minions and shared a meal, why that’s a good enough start to being friends.”
“I guess it is,” Howie said, and had to smile. “I’m sure grateful for what you done.–
“No, no, just glad the Lord put me there to help.”
“You going west or what?”
“California,” Jones said. “I’ve been gone too long from the promised land. It’ll be a pure blessing to return.”
Howie thought about that. He had driven a meat herd west, and fought clear up against the high Rockies. That was one hell of a trek, but it still wasn’t as far as California.
“You got some ride ahead,” Howie said. “Even on a horse it’s goin’ to take you quite a spell.”
The preacher looked puzzled, then laughed aloud. “Oh dear no, may the Lord spare me that. It’s a boat for me, Cory. I do not intend to sit this beast through the heat and awful dangers of the West.”
“You going on a boat?” Howie tried not to show his surprise.
“Out of Alabama Port,” Jones said. “About—what? A hundred and fifty miles straight west. Got boats leaving all the time.”
“Won’t that take a while?”
“For certain it will. But it beats horseback, I’ll say that. Ever been to Alabama Port, Cory?”
“I guess not.”
“It is something to see. It surely is.” Jones frowned and shook his head. “Sin’s on a rampage there, that’s a fact. They could use about two hundred preachers, and I doubt they got three.”
As far as Howie was concerned, the whole thing didn’t make a lot of sense. Geography was somewhat muddled in his head, but he recalled Mexico and a lot more than that was in the way. He thought about the boat he had rowed along the swampy coast and to the keys, and tried to picture Jones doing that all the way to California.
Howie followed Jones into the woods, helping carry all his packs. The trees marched down a steep slope, and the horse was there peacefully chewing grass.
Howie had kept the thought at the edge of his mind. It had been there since the two men had attacked him on the river, since Jones had showed up to save his hide. He was thankful for what Jones had done. It was clear the man meant him no harm—hell, he had saved his life, then fed him a fine meal, and you couldn’t ask a lot more than that. Still, the thought prayed on his mind, and even if Jones didn’t like it, Howie had to ask.
“I got to say this,” he said, before he could change his mind. “Maybe you’ll figure that I ain’t got the right. But I got to know, mister. You showing up like that, I mean—them fellows ridin’ down on me by the river, and you there right on hand to help … Howie felt his face color. Jones sat his horse, and his expression didn’t change. “Damn it all, it’s a peculiar thing to happen. You got to say it is.”
For a moment, the preacher’s eyes clouded. Then the slight touch of anger Howie saw turned to sorrow and regret.
“Son, have I transgressed upon you in any way? Have I now? Answer me that.”
“No, sir, you sure haven’t. I just—”
Jones held up a hand. “Walk along with me a ways,” he said gently, and slowly turned his mount down the draw.
Howie followed, more puzzled than ever now. The preacher hadn’t answered his question, but he had managed to make Howie feel ashamed. He figured he was in for a sermon. If he was, why he’d just have to sit still and listen. There wasn’t any way he could—
Howie stared. The trees ahead thinned, and opened into a small clearing. There was a high stand of grass and a patch of bright sun—and there were three more horses, beautiful mounts with strong backs and shiny flanks.
“God A’mighty!” Howie said aloud. He gazed at the fine beasts in wonder, then looked up at Jones.
“You never asked why those other two were there,” the preacher said solemnly. “Appears that you wondered about me and not them.” He nodded toward the mounts. “That’s what they were after, Cory. They weren’t looking for you. You just happened along and got in the way. That pair tailed me all the way from Tallahassee. ’Course, we were all on foot at the time. I knew they were there but I couldn’t shake ’em off. So I kept cutting back, trying to lose them before I picked up the mounts where I’d hid them.” Jones showed Howie a weary smile. “I know once they saw what I had, they’d track me till I had to smite ’em down. I surely didn’t want to do that.”
Howie looked at his hands. “I—reckon I owe you regrets.”
“Yes, sir. I expect that you do.”
“Well, you got it.” Howie hesitated, then looked at the horses again. “I don’t know why a man’d be real surprised he didn’t have every thief in the South on his trail. Mister, that’s a damn fool trick, leadin’ four horses around in bad times like these!”
“You might be right at that,” Jones said. “Yes sir, I expect you’ve got a point.” He studied Howie a long time, then suddenly smiled, as if he were greatly pleased with himself. “Cory, you bound and determined to go north? If you’re not, l’d be obliged if you’d ride along with me for a spell. Two guns are better than one, if you happen on sinners again. I can offer three good meals a day, and it wouldn’t take a lot of your time. Give you a chance to rest up that foot.”
Howie gazed at the preacher. “You want me around? After what I went and said?”
Jones waved him off. “A man’s entitled to his suspicions, Cory. Even if he turns out wrong. Like you said, these are hard times.”
Howie glanced at the fine-looking mounts. “I—guess I could put off my business. Isn’t nothing that won’t wait.” The idea of riding instead of walking sounded good. And maybe he owed Jones the help.
“Well, fine,” the preacher said. He tossed the rifle he had taken from one of the thieves to Howie. “I suggest you take the black mare. She’s fast, and isn’t near as dumb as the rest. Which isn’t saying much, I’ll grant you that. It’s clear to me the Lord intended horses for riding. He sure didn’t bother to give ’em brains.”
Ritcher Jones led them south, out of the heavily wooded country, to the flat coastal lands near the Gulf. At first, Howie didn’t feel this was a good idea; anyone who was near could spot them a mile away. Still, he could see what the preacher was thinking. You didn’t have to worry about the water, so there was only one direction to watch. And they could see someone approaching as quick as that someone could see them. You couldn’t say that about the woods—if trouble found you there, you had about half a second to face it, and maybe not that.
The riding was easy, and they made good time. Howie hadn’t seen this part of the coast before. Walking back from Mexico, he had traveled farther north after crossing the Big Muddy. He thought he likely knew the river that flowed into Alabama Port, but he didn’t tell Ritcher Jones that.
And that was a curious thing. When he left Tallahassee going south, he was gone a long time. Jones never asked him where he’d been. Maybe he didn’t think it was any of his concern, and Howie was grateful for that. On the other hand, the pr
eacher was not at all reluctant to talk about himself. He explained how Lawrence sent the Brothers and Sisters of High Sequoia across the land, to gather in souls for the Lord. No easy task these days, Jones said. Still, there were true believers everywhere, and this is how the horses had come into his hands. One of the faithful who lived a few days north of Tallahassee had hidden his mounts from the army. He simply refused to give them up. If the army had found him out, they would have hung him on the spot. When the man knew he was dying, he gave the horses to Ritcher Jones. “To do with as the Lord sees fit,” as Jones said.
“I guess the Lord knows what He’s doing,” Jones said.
He sighed. “I surely don’t question that, though these poor beasts have near cost me my life.”
“I think I’d’ve let ’em go,” Howie said. “Take one and leave the rest of them behind.”
Jones seemed surprised at that. “Cory, you don’t shun God’s gifts. That’s a sin in itself.”
“Well, so its gettin’ yourself killed.”
“You have a point,” Jones admitted. “Yes, you surely do.” He squinted at the sun. “I would have taken leave of Tallahassee a lot sooner if I could. I assure you of that. But after the trouble there, the countryside was swarming with men. It would not have been the wise thing to do.”
“What kind of trouble’s that?”
Jones looked curiously at Howie. “Ah, well, of course. You couldn’t know. Happened just after you were gone. Terrible, terrible thing. They found a body buried in the woods. Throat cut from ear to ear. Anson Slade, the man’s name.” Jones nodded at Howie. “I believe you saw the man one night in the tavern, Cory. Of course you did. Asked me who he was, as a fact.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Howie said. He didn’t dare look at Jones. He found a burr in the horse’s mane, and busied himself with that.
“Uh, what happened to this—Slade?”
“Rebels, most likely,” Jones said. He flicked the reins of his mount. A flock of gulls took flight, screaming as if in mortal pain. “The same bunch that struck Silver Island, no doubt. I expect Mason will be most relieved he went to California, when he hears.”
Neal Barrett Jr. Page 5
