Crane smelled rain in the wind, as though nature were preparing to wash clean the town of Rawhide Flat and conceal the evidence of a senseless slaughter.
As his boots thudded along the boardwalk, a nun glanced at him, hurriedly made the sign of the cross on her chest, then looked away.
The marshal saw and hurt from the gesture, but with the whispers of his conscience echoing within him, he laid no blame on the nun.
The results, the ramifications, the guilt of this night would lie heavily on him for the rest of his life. Perhaps a stronger man could deal with it . . . tomorrow, the next day, the day after . . . but Crane, imprisoned within the wings of a dark angel, knew he never would.
Motionless dim light filmed a few of the mission windows and the rope of the school bell swayed in the wind. The brass bell chimed with a soft clink . . . clink . . . clink. . . .
The front door was ajar and Crane stopped outside, sensing danger. Suddenly the air became hard to breathe and his heart quickened.
He drew his Colt, opened the loading gate and thumbed a cartridge into the empty chamber that had been under the hammer.
The open door tempted with an invitation to step inside, like the entrance to the witch’s house disguised as the portal to a gingerbread cottage.
Gun in hand, the marshal backed away.
He stepped to the rear of the mission and found yet another open door. A feeling of unease raking him like spurs, he glanced over at the livery stable. The wagon he’d brought in was parked alongside the wall facing him.
The strings of instinct controlling him like a puppet before his mind caught up, Crane crossed the bottle-littered patch of open ground and looked into the wagon bed.
All the barrels of gunpowder were still there. Or were they? He couldn’t be sure.
His jaw tightening, Crane studied the mission. Was that where Reuben Stark was hiding out?
The marshal did not have a good feeling about this entire situation. Maybe he should go back for more men. As soon as that idea came to him he dismissed it. As did he, everyone in town must have had a bellyful of killing and he would not impose on them further.
He was the law and he had it to do.
Crane crossed the open ground again and stepped through the mission’s back door. He stopped at the entrance to the hallway, listening into the quiet.
A woman’s voice, soft but broken up by alarm, was followed by the crack of a hand meeting flesh, then a man’s harsh rebuke.
The voice was Reuben Stark’s.
As quietly as he could—a tall, heavy man in Texas boots doesn’t move like a wraith—Crane made his way along the hall.
Stark’s voice had come from a door on his left, the entrance to the chapel.
His gun up and ready, Crane put his hand on the doorknob, turned and pushed. The door creaked open and he stepped inside.
The chapel was dimly lit by half a dozen oil lamps suspended from a rough, wooden chandelier, and candles in red, blown-glass votives glowed on each side of the altar.
But most of the illumination came from the flaring, smoking torch held aloft by Stark. The crook of his left arm was around Sister Theresa Campion’s neck like a vice and at his feet was an open barrel of gunpowder.
For a reason known only to the sick, tormented mind of the old man, he had stripped the little nun naked, leaving only her veil.
But for an angry red welt on her cheek, Theresa Campion’s face was pale but composed, as though she’d accepted that what had happened to her was God’s will and she would not question it.
Not so the stiff, frightened face of Sister Marie Celeste and the three young children who huddled next to her on the pew. One of them, a little girl, was whimpering softly, the others, boys, were trying to look brave and failing badly.
Somebody, maybe Masterson, had told Crane that the nuns had taken in orphans. These three must be them.
Stark saw Marshal Crane step inside, and his eyes filled with an unholy light, a tangled weave of hatred and calculation.
“Come in, Marshal,” Stark said. His voice sounded like a snake’s hiss. “You’re just in time to join the party.”
Crane weighed his chances. He was only ten paces from Stark, but he had pulled the nun in front of him and taking a shot would be an uncertain thing.
Reading the marshal’s eyes, Stark dropped the flaming torch closer to the gunpowder.
“Don’t even think about it, Crane, or, by Christ, I’ll blow us all to kingdom come.”
The marshal hesitated, the gun in his hand wavering.
“Drop it,” Stark said. “I mean it. If you don’t, I’ll kill all of you.”
Crane was buffaloed and he knew it. He dropped the Colt.
“Now kick it toward me.”
The marshal did as he was ordered. The revolver skated across the wood floor and thudded into a carpeted ledge in front of the communion rail.
“What do you want, Stark?” Crane asked.
There was a smear of blood on the old man’s shirt just visible under his coat. It looked like Paul Masterson’s bullet had only grazed him.
Stark let go of Theresa Campion. “You stay right beside me where you’re at, woman,” he said. “I’m taking you with me.”
He transferred the torch to his left hand, then drew a long-barreled Colt from under his coat. “I want the money, Crane. Masterson was in tight with these nuns, maybe taking his pick every night. I think they know where the money is hid.”
“You’ve lost your sons because of the money, Stark,” the marshal said. “Let it go.”
“Damn you, Crane, I’ve got the hammer”—he elbowed Theresa Campion closer to him—“and the anvil to make more sons. I want the money.” His eyes revealed his greed as his voice rose almost to a scream. “The money, the money, the money!”
“Stark, if you set off the gunpowder, you’ll die with the rest of us,” the marshal yelled above the racket of the man’s voice.
“No!” Stark pointed to a plaster statue of the Archangel Michael scowling from an alcove in the wall. “He will protect me from the terrible blast and vanquish all my foes.”
“Old man, you’re mad and you’ve started to believe your own lies. There are fifty dead men outside who could testify that you’re a damned liar, and now you’re even lying to yourself.”
“No lies, murderer! I believe, nay I know, the angel of the Lord will save me.”
Stark thrust the torch close to the barrel again. “Now, I want my money!”
Marie Celeste was staring intently at Crane and their eyes met.
“Get him the money, Sister.” Seeing a look of surprise on the nun’s face, the marshal said, “Paul Masterson told me.”
For a few moments Marie Celeste sat where she was as though deep in thought. Her eyes moved to Sister Theresa Campion, naked and silent in the power of a madman. Then she rose to her feet.
“Not you,” Stark said. “Tell the kid next to you where the money is hid. Then send him over to me.”
The nun’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and her obsidian eyes glittered. She nodded to Stark, almost graciously, then whispered into the boy’s ear.
The youngster listened intently, the emotion on his face changing word to word, from fear, to interest, to amazement.
“Do you understand, Matthew?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Good boy. Then go do as I told you.”
Matthew rose and stepped out of the pew. Stark’s voice stopped him.
“You bring the money right back, boy, or I’ll gut you like a hog. You hear me?”
The child nodded. He looked scared.
“I know what to do with boys,” Stark said. “A boy might think he’s all safe and warm, tucked up in his bed, but I can find him. And when I does, I cut his liver out and eat it afore his very eyes. You hear what I’m telling you?”
Matthew swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, go get the money where the sister told you it could be found.”
After the boy left, Crane said, “Stark, you don’t think I’m going to let you leave here alive?”
The old man grimaced. “Big talk, murderer, coming from a man without a gun. But see, afore I leave I mean to kill you all, except this little whore here. I’d a done it already, except I’m savoring the moment, like.”
Shaking with anger, Crane took a step forward.
Stark’s gun swung on him.
Chapter 44
“Stay right where you’re at, Crane,” Stark said, grinning like a death’s-head. “No need to die right now. I’ll give you a couple in the belly soon enough.”
The marshal figured the odds. Nine, maybe ten paces lay between him and Stark. The old man was a shootist and he’d get off at least four rounds.
Crane’s shoulders slumped. With that much lead in him he’d die before he reached the altar.
“Wise decision,” Stark said. Then, as though he could read minds, he added, “I’d have dropped you before you covered half the distance.”
Long moments stretched between Crane and the old man, and the torch in his left hand sputtered, dropping sparks into the gloom.
Beside him, covering her nakedness as best she could with her arms and hands, Sister Theresa Campion looked like a demure Renaissance statue in white marble. Her head was bowed, her face hidden within her falling veil.
The boy called Matthew returned, walking backward as he dragged a heavy burlap sack into the chapel.
“Over here, boy,” Stark said. “Right here in front of me.”
His eyes lifted to Crane. “Soon,” he said, a world of menace in that one, quiet word.
Crane raised his head; he smelled smoke. Had the kid set the mission on fire?
Then Matthew made a sudden diving movement. It was the last thing the marshal expected and he made a mess of it.
The boy reached into the sack and with a fluid movement he’d probably learned playing stickball, he threw a gun underhand to Crane.
Taken by surprise, the marshal made no attempt to catch the Colt, which flew over his head and clattered among the benches behind him.
Knowing he was going to take a hit, Crane went after it. He dived into a pew, frantically hunting cover, but Stark’s bullet crashed into his left shoulder. A second chipped wood from the top of a bench, driving splinters into his cheek as Crane hit the floor.
Where was the gun?
To his relief, the Colt was lying on top of the bench next to him, but several feet way. He crawled to the gun as Stark shot again, firing blind.
Grabbing the gun, Crane sprang to his feet.
He fired at Stark, just as the old man was dragging Theresa Campion in front of him. The little nun took the bullet and suddenly a bloodred rose blossomed between her small breasts.
The nun fell and Stark, no longer able to support her deadweight, let her drop to the floor.
Beyond rage, looking at Stark through a tunnel of blackness, Crane fired, then fired again.
Hit twice, Stark staggered back a step. He shrieked his own demented fury and tried to plunge his flaming torch into the gunpowder barrel.
Quickly, Crane raised the Colt to eye level and shot again. The bullet crashed into Stark’s open mouth and blew out the back of his skull in a grotesque halo of blood, brain and bone.
Stark’s eyeballs rolled up in his head. He staggered back and he went down hard. He didn’t move.
Like a man walking through a thick fog, Crane stumbled to the altar. He stomped out the torch, then stepped to where Marie Celeste kneeled beside the dead nun.
The smell of smoke was thick in the air. Outside, men were running, shouting at the top of their lungs, and a frantically clanging bell told Crane that the volunteer firemen had rolled out their hand-pump fire engine.
He didn’t care.
He looked down at Theresa Campion, her face calm and beautiful in death.
Marie Celeste was sobbing, hands joined in prayer. The children, too frightened to come closer, stood at a distance, fidgeting, unsure of what was expected of them.
Crane ushered them out into the hallway, then told them to fetch a blanket.
After the children were gone, he returned to the chapel and said, “That night on the train, she told me I would kill her, and I did.”
Marie Celeste nodded, her head bowed. She did not answer.
Suddenly aware of the Colt in his hand, Crane let it drop to the floor.
Surprised by the noise, the nun turned, the expression on her tear-stained face unreadable. Finally she said, “The fault was not yours, Marshal.” She pointed in the direction of Stark’s sprawled body. “It was his.”
“There’s plenty of blame to spread around, Sister,” Crane said. “I reckon I’m due my share of it.”
“Marshal, you must have faith that Sister Theresa Campion’s death was God’s will. She saved us all by dying for us. You must believe that you were the instrument of our Savior’s will.”
“Faith, Sister? I don’t even have faith in myself.”
A child handed Crane the blanket and he spread it over the dead nun’s body.
Outside the uproar was growing, the smoke smell stronger.
He picked up his Colt from the floor and looked at it for a long time before he shoved it back in the holster.
“Take the other one, Marshal. I don’t want it here,” Marie Celeste said.
Crane picked up the gun. “Paul Masterson?”
“Yes, when he gave us the money he said we might need it. I told him nuns are armed with prayer, not revolvers, but he insisted.”
“By rights, a thousand dollars of the money is yours.”
The nun shook her head. “It’s tainted by blood, Marshal. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
Crane picked up the money sack. He searched his mind, but found he had nothing else to say. Somehow “I’m sorry” wasn’t even close to adequate.
He turned and began to walk out of the chapel. Behind him, Sister Marie Celeste called out, “Marshal Crane, I will pray for you.”
He stopped, his head bowed. “Thank you, Sister. But I don’t think that will help none.”
Crane walked out of the mission and into an inferno.
Fire was a constant hazard in the tinder-dry wooden towns of the West, and Rawhide Flat, its timber buildings jammed close together, was proving to be no exception.
Oil lamps had been lit all over the volatile and vulnerable town to greet Stark and his men, and now Rawhide Flat was paying the price.
A lamp or lantern may have been tipped over or smashed in the fight, spilling coal oil. Anything could have started the blaze, a carelessly tossed cigar butt or a burning match. No matter, the cause would never be known.
But the result was obvious—Rawhide Flat was doomed.
Panic rose in Crane. Sarah was at the hotel.
Weak from loss of blood, he pushed his way through the crowd of men and women thronging the street, seeking an escape from the flames.
Buildings on both sides of the street were ablaze. Crane saw sparks and leaping flames from a burning store jump to the roof of the Last Chance Saloon at the end of the street, then to Samuel Reed’s rod and gun store next to it. As he watched, both buildings caught fire, the heat intense, and cartridges in the gun store began to go off with a sharp pop! pop! pop!
The hotel was close to the saloon and Crane quickened his pace.
Suddenly flames found stacked barrels of gunpowder in Reed’s store. With a tremendous roar, the roof of the gun shop lifted clean off. The blast leveled the walls and sent fiery, splintered timbers flying across the street.
More buildings surrendered to the passionate embrace of the flames, the surging wind creating a roaring, crackling firestorm that cartwheeled in a scarlet ball through the town.
The sky, no longer holding the promise of rain, shaded from purple to cherry red, barred by dozens of slender columns of smoke.
Crane pushed through a jostling, frightened tide of humanity. Their sooty fa
ces were carved from black marble, only their panicked eyes showing white as they fled their burning town, carrying what few possessions they could salvage from their homes.
The Texas Belle was on fire and Dr. Preston, the nuns and a few volunteers were dragging out the wounded. The dead would be left to burn.
Mayor Reddy was in the street, supervising the men operating the pump engine. A thin stream of water jetted from a hose into a blazing store, about as effective as a man pissing into a forest fire.
The money sack tight in his fist, the marshal tried to reach Reddy, but he was swept along by the crowd and he gave it up for now. He continued toward the hotel, trusting that the building had been evacuated before the fire took hold and that Sarah would be waiting for him.
But, apart from a few people running toward the open ground between the town and the railroad station, this part of the street was empty.
Around Crane buildings were collapsing, groaning loud in pain as fire gutted them. The town was a scorching furnace and scarlet sparks danced in the air like a firestorm in hell.
A man tried to dodge past Crane, but the marshal grabbed his arm and stopped him. The man’s face was wild, beyond fear, beyond sanity.
“Where are the hotel guests?” Crane yelled above the roar of the flames.
The man wrenched his arm away. “I don’t know!” Then, as he started to run, he said, “Everybody’s dead in there.”
The first floor of the hotel was a raging torrent of fire, but only a dull red glow showed in the upstairs windows.
Sarah was up there!
Calling the girl’s name, Crane ran into the hotel . . . and gleefully the ferocious flames welcomed him.
Chapter 45
“Sarah!”
The fire cracked and bellowed, mocking Crane’s puny shout.
Flames licked at him like the hungry tongues of the gigantic hellhounds who roam the realms of the ancient Celtic dead. Fire blackened his shirt and sought out the raw bullet wound in his shoulder, probing, branding, tormenting.
The stairway was a rippling inferno of scarlet, yellow and orange that barred his way. Heedless of his own safety, Crane plunged into the morass, his lungs burning from the dry, hot air he was forced to breathe.
Rawhide Flat Page 23
