The moon was well clear of the hills before James nodded at his henchman, then started towards the lights of Trail Street.
Whitey Cassidy straightened and followed in his lazy slouch, hips thrust forward, thumbs hooked in his shell belt. Not looking at the taller man’s powerful back, he said suddenly:
“They done it like you reckoned, didn’t they, Deacon?”
“Yes.”
Whitey spat. “Why don’t we just kill ’em and be done with it?”
The word “kill” rolled off Whitey Cassidy’s tongue smoothly. His hand brushed his gun butt and a smile flashed on his pale face. James glanced over his shoulder. Whitey had been grinning just like that the first night he’d met him ... grinning ear-to-ear as he’d triggered that big gun and men had fallen before him like sheaves of wheat ...
It had happened in Texas a year ago, and James, the man of the gun, had never seen men slain with such nonchalance. Cassidy was insane, of course; James had sensed that just from the way he had been able to shoot down four men at a card table, merely because one had made a remark about his appearance. The man’s blistering gun-speed had intrigued the Deacon, and upon discovering that Cassidy was a religious fanatic, he’d roped him in with rhetoric and thereby secured the most efficient and loyal segundo any man could have.
The team had been successful from the start. Arizona was in need of spiritual guidance and fast guns, and Deacon James and his white-haired follower had been able to offer both. Many thought it strange that men of God should hire their guns, but invariably James was able to justify even their bloodiest sorties by reasoning that they were merely doing the Creator’s work in eliminating the ungodly of the West. And because the Deacon was said to be one of the fastest guns in the West and Cassidy was in the same class, Arizona law had never succeeded in bringing either to book. In return for their consideration, James had often offered up prayers for the badge packers, always including the hope that in time they might acquire the nerve to stand up for their country and God with their guns instead of hiding behind words.
It had been a successful and lucrative partnership, so much so that their last assignment had earned them two thousand dollars which had been split in the usual way; ninety per cent to the Deacon and ten to Cassidy whose needs were simple.
But there was no fee for the undertaking that had brought them hundreds of miles to this rich Utah valley. This was a labor of love and hate, and because Whitey Cassidy had never experienced either emotion as keenly as his guide and mentor, he didn’t understand why it couldn’t be done quickly. They had hanged the Deacon’s brother, and he and the Deacon could in turn kill all those connected with the execution—sheriff, prosecuting attorney, and judge. If needs be, Whitey was ready to start picking off the jurymen. He didn’t give much of a damn how many they killed, just so they got on with it. It was the loafing about that got on Whitey’s nerves.
Patiently, like a parent explaining something difficult to a dim child, James again spelled it out as they turned and walked west along the main street. There would be a limit to how many they could kill before the law got them, even if they were to follow Cassidy’s reckless suggestion. The idea of a limit didn’t suit Deacon James. In his twisted mind, he held all of Rawhide responsible for his brother’s death. And he already had a half-formed plan in mind that might produce enough corpses to satisfy even Whitey’s taste for blood—a sweeping scythe of vengeance with minimal risk to themselves.
“How?” Whitey wanted to know.
“Set them to killing each other, of course.”
“Don’t see how you can get ’em to do that.”
James compressed his lips. Luckily these cocky moods of Cassidy’s were few and far between. James knew that within a few hours the albino butcher would be kneeling at his feet begging forgiveness for his insolence and pleading with him to lay hands on him and drive out the demons in his head. But right now Whitey had to be humored, treated almost as if he were as sane as the next man.
“There are always ways, Whitey,” James said, revealing none of his annoyance. “In any town there is always a place where a man can drive a wedge, providing he will take the time to search for the weak spot.” James made a gesture. “You drive in your wedge and you turn one side against the other. Then you stand back and let them go for each other’s throats. Simple, Whitey, simple.”
“Where you gonna drive the wedge here?” Whitey’s voice was dreamy. He was looking at the ankles of a pretty woman ahead of them.
“As I say, I’m not certain of my plan of action as yet. But I believe the wedge shall go between the cattlemen and the loggers.”
“Uh huh.” Cassidy didn’t sound much interested even though he normally hung onto the Deacon’s every word. He halted as the woman vanished inside a doorway, then he stared across the streets at the lights of the Red Dog Saloon. “Will we have a drink, Deacon?”
A drink was about the last thing James wanted. He had things to do and plans to make. But because Cassidy had to be kept under watch as long as these moods lasted, he decided to wait it out in a saloon.
The Red Dog was small, seedy and crowded. The arrival of the towering figure in funereal black and the slim-hipped albino sent a ripple of interest through the barroom. But after James and Cassidy took their buttermilk to a back table and sat down quietly, the Red Dog’s customers returned to their own affairs—with one exception, a barfly named Barney Cole. Little Barney didn’t have anything in particular against preachers—he simply had a big mouth and an ingrained belief that all such types were fair game for sharp saloon wits such as himself. And Barney felt very witty indeed as he staggered to the table with exaggerated eye-rolling and threw up his hands.
“I got the devils,” he yelled. “They’re inside me eatin’ at me mortal soul like boll weevils. Help me, Reverend, afore they git through me soul and start on me long Johns.”
It wasn’t a bad effort by the Red Dog’s standards, and it drew a few laughs. Encouraged, Barney dropped to his knees and held up both hands in mock supplication.
“Preacher, how’m I gonna git out of this here hell of mine? Gawd put a fence right around hell so a sinner can’t climb out. A sinner can’t dig underneath—too deep. A sinner can’t crawl between and he can’t climb over on account of there’s barbed wire atop. Oh, tell me, Preacher, how’m I gonna make it?”
James stared at the man coldly as snickers ran through the watching crowd.
“The Lord made you a fool, son,” he said in his deep voice. “But you don’t have to go out of your way to help nature, you know—”
That brought a flurry of guffaws and Barney Cole’s whisky-blotched face turned darker. His face contorted as he searched for a suitable rejoinder, and when he failed to, he got to his feet. But he slipped on a wet patch on the floor and bumped against Whitey’s chair. Until then, the gunman had been seated slumped at the table, paying little attention to what was going on. But at the slight bump that spilled no more than a drop of his buttermilk, Cassidy exploded to his feet, smashed an elbow into the drunk’s face, then kicked him in the crotch.
Cole fell in a heap, writhing in the sawdust with his legs lifting and falling in slow, agonized sweeps against his belly. The Deacon lunged to grab Cassidy, but the albino was as fast as a striking jaguar. He kicked Cole in the face twice before James’ powerful arms went around him and dragged him back.
“It’s all right, brothers!” he called, forcing Cassidy back into his chair. “The rumdum was playing with fire and so he’s been burned!”
“Who are you callin’ a rumdum?”
The speaker was a ham-fisted blacksmith’s striker who was one of the first to recover from the shock of Cassidy’s whirlwind attack. Indignation showing in his every inch, Seth Parker stared down at Cole’s bloodied face, then faced James belligerently.
“There was no call for that, Bible-basher, or whatever you reckon you are Why did that white idjut there tear into him like that?”
Whitey’s hand fla
shed towards his gun butt. James seized his arm and bent it away. “No, Whitey,” he said. “I’ll handle this my way.”
Cassidy blinked up at him as if not sure of what was going on, and James could see that his brief period of rationality was gone. “What’s the matter, Deacon?” he panted. He stared around at the faces. “What’s goin’ on?”
“It’s all right,” James said soothingly, then he turned to Parker. “There is no call for further trouble, brother.”
“Mebbe not if you apologize for what happened to Barney, there ain’t,” Seth shot back. He was one of the biggest men in Rawhide, a some-time drinking companion of Barney Cole’s and not a man to be intimidated by preacher men.
“I can’t apologize,” James said.
“Why not?”
“Because your friend lying there in the filth received no more than he deserved.”
The smithy flexed his arms. “Barney’s an old pard of mine, pilgrim.”
“I don’t doubt that.” James’ tone was laced with irony. “And the title is Deacon.”
“So they tell me. But do you know somethin’, pilgrim? I never put much store by holy Joes. In particular I never liked the kind that think they stand higher than ordinary folks. You get what I mean?”
“Oh, you’re perfectly obvious,” James replied. “You have a good audience and you have given yourself the role of defender of the weak. That much is clear. What perhaps is not clear to you is the danger you are in.”
“Huh? What danger?”
“The very real danger of ending up with your so-called friend if you don’t display the respect I consider my due.”
“You’re callin’ me?”
“I’m calling a spade a spade, sir. Or more correctly, a drink-ruined fool for what he is,” James said sharply. “You are out of your depth, brother. I suggest that you back water before you drown.”
To Parker’s credit he was not bluffed. He glowered, took a handful of seconds to make certain that he was in fact being challenged, then spat on his hands and advanced on the towering figure of James with a purposeful step.
James met him halfway with a long step and a smashing right to the jaw. The ape-armed ’smith staggered, cursed, then threw a haymaker that didn’t connect. A bony fist erupted against his chin. As his heavy legs buckled, another chopping blow caught him on the side of the neck. He fell to the floor.
The Red Dog clientele was impressed, but the cheering that washed from the windows attracted a citizen who was not. The crowd began to quieten as Sheriff Clint Wheeler made his red-faced way through the throng to where Barney Cole and Seth Parker lay side by side in the sawdust and cigar butts. He looked at the blood on Cole’s face, at the ’smith’s glassy eyes rolling in their sockets, then he lifted angry eyes to James.
“You responsible for this, mister?”
“Peace, brother, peace.”
“Huh?”
James’ broad smile was a benediction. He stepped over the sprawled figures at his feet to throw a strong and brotherly arm around the bewildered lawman’s shoulders.
“My dear brother,” he intoned, “it is a storm in a tea cup, nothing more. You are a man of the world, Sheriff Wheeler. You know that preachers are often subjected to derision and harassment in the course of their work. I know it too, but unlike many of the bloodless and gutless ones who profess to be bearers of the Word, I believe in standing up for myself and what I believe in—”
James gestured at the pair on the floor, neither of whom looked to be even close to recovering sufficiently to get to his feet.
“An eye for an eye ... a blow for a blow, Sheriff. Surely this is fair and just?”
Phlegmatic Clint Walker blinked. “Well,” he said uncertainly, “if these fellers was ribbin’ you and your friend—”
He broke off when he saw Cassidy staring at him from the table. He ran a finger around his collar, cleared his throat, but before he could continue, James said quietly:
“A storm in a teacup, Sheriff.” Then he lowered his voice and said confidentially, “I’ll concede I was perhaps a little over-vigorous, Sheriff Wheeler, but my methods shall pay off in the long run. As I said, men of my persuasion are considered fair game to a certain element, and an incident like this can often nip more trouble in the bud.” James squeezed the lawman’s shoulder “Let me buy you a drink, sheriff. I am a foe of the demon drink, but I understand the salubrious effect it can have on a troubled breast.” He gestured at the bar. “Rum perhaps, or whisky?”
Clint Wheeler folded, as many before him had under the impact of the Deacon’s charm. It was almost impossible not to like a preacher man who acted like a man first and a preacher second. Besides, it was the sheriff’s opinion that Seth Parker had been overdue for a good smack in the mouth for a long time.
“Whisky, I reckon, Deacon,” he said finally. Then he nodded to the bystanders. “Better throw a bucket of water over that pair.”
James was the essence of friendliness as they repaired to a quieter alcove in the back of the saloon to sip buttermilk and rye whisky. James had proven a point to the mob, and now he could afford to be the softly spoken newcomer anxious to offset any unfavorable impression his vigor may have given the law.
By the time he lined up behind his third whisky, the sheriff had begun to relax. He was curious about Deacon James, and James was happy to talk about himself at length, with emphasis on his efforts in the Lord’s name in other regions, and not a hint at all about the dead men who had earned him the title of the Black Deacon in Arizona. Eventually James steered the conversation back to Rawhide and the recent cattlemen-lumbermen struggle along the Ray River. Though obviously reluctant to discuss the matter, Wheeler did concede that it had been the violence that erupted, rather than the influence of the law office, that had finally closed the battle with honors going to the cattlemen.
“Tell me, Sheriff,” James said thoughtfully, “do lumbermen have the legal right to take timber, where and when they choose in this county? I must confess I have a limited knowledge of such things, but I do know that the matter of rights, such as for mining, timber-cutting and the like, can vary from region to region. What is the position here?”
“You mind tellin’ me how come you’re so interested, Deacon?”
“Not at all. I have already been candid with your deputy, and I will be no less with you. I have my own concept of how a pastor should manage his affairs, Sheriff. I don’t believe in the popular idea of begging and depending on charity for sustenance. I believe a churchman should be self-supporting, and I have always been fortunate enough to have been able to do that in the past. I have money, Sheriff, plus business experience. I am considering the possibility of entering the lumber business in this county.”
“Judas priest, Deacon, you—”
“Modify your language, Sheriff,” James chopped him off. Then he smiled to take the sting out of his rebuke. “If you don’t mind.”
“Sorry. But that there idea of your’n, it sure ain’t so good, Deacon. Timber’s poison hereabouts. This is cattle country and I just finished tellin’ you what happened the last time the loggers tried to get a toehold. If you’re bound and determined to invest in somethin’ hereabouts, timber is the one thing I’d steer clear of.”
“I’m sure you mean your advice kindly, Sheriff. But just say a man was interested in such a venture? What should his first step be?”
“Deacon, I—”
“We’re only speaking in the abstract, Sheriff. What if a newcomer were to want to go ahead ...?”
“Well, I suppose the first thing to do would be to clear up whether he had a legal right to cut timber on other men’s land. That was never decided before and—”
“Obviously, then, one would require the services of an attorney. I believe a Mr. Lanning is the name of your local legal practitioner?”
“That’s right, Deacon. Only Mr. Lannin’ ain’t here right now. Headed out for the mountains yesterday to do a little huntin’.”
Jame
s frowned. “His office is closed then?”
“Uh-huh. There’s a friend of Lanning’s runnin’ things for him while he’s away. Pilgrim by the name of Benedict.”
“Benedict, you say?”
“That’s right, Deacon. Duke Benedict—”
It was late in the afternoon when the secretary came into Benedict’s office to tell him there were two men to see him.
“Send them in, Miss Clanton,” Benedict said. The afternoon had been slow and any diversion, no matter how mundane, would be welcome.
Mundane it most definitely was not, for a minute later a somewhat puzzled Duke Benedict found himself shaking hands with one Brent Jerome, logging contractor, and one Deacon James, a preacher man.
Successfully suppressing his surprise at finding such a strangely matched couple on his doorstep, Benedict had his visitors take chairs, then he excused himself and hurried through to the front office.
His purpose in going to the desk was to ask the secretary for a lightning rundown on both men. If they were clients of Lanning’s, he wanted to know about it.
Another surprise awaited him in the front office. Whitey Cassidy sat near the window looking half asleep with one leg hooked over his knee and his hand wrapped lazily around the walnut butt of his six-gun.
Benedict had been feeling a little sluggish just minutes earlier as the afternoon sidled on towards five o’clock and bourbon time. But he was never more wide awake than now as he stared at the pale vision by the window. To a less experienced eye, Whitey Cassidy may have looked like just another strange one. But Benedict prided himself on his ability to judge men at a glance, and he felt that this white-haired young man with the pink eyes had the cut of a gunman about him, as indeed had the towering, fierce-eyed man who called himself Deacon James.
“Mr. Benedict, Mr. Cassidy,” the secretary said. Miss Clanton tried to sound brisk and businesslike, but Benedict could see that the bleached-out presence across the room had shaken her.
Benedict and Brazos 24 Page 5
