Slocum cautiously stepped away from the funeral parlor, then froze when he heard two men joking with each other—and coming toward him from the direction of Julian’s camp. The only spot he could see to take cover was in a shallow ditch. He eased himself down into the muck and lay quietly as the men trod along the path he had intended to follow.
“The boss said to escort them back when they was done.”
“With a woman what looks like her, I’d be all night and half into tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah, you? You’d be done in ten seconds. What’d you do the rest of the night? Play checkers?”
“I’d jump her bones, that’s for sure.”
“Not her bones I want. Did you see the hitch in her git-along when she walked on up to the altar? That warn’t no bustle under her wedding dress. That was the real thing.”
The two went to the woods but did not enter as Hawkins, Miranda, and her stalker had. They positioned themselves on either side of the trail, settling down and shutting up a few yards apart. After a few minutes, Slocum spied a tiny orange coal glowing in the night. One had built himself a smoke. It was close to five minutes before the cigarette smoke reached where Slocum lay, still wary of others joining the two guards. The still night became increasingly oppressive with its heat and heavy air.
Realizing he had to move, Slocum began inching backward in the ditch. Mud sucked obscenely as he pried himself loose. The sounds were muffled by his body and never reached the two guards at the edge of the woods. He got to the dry patch around the funeral home and then pressed his back against the wall, alert for anyone from Julian’s camp spotting him. Only when he was satisfied that he was not seen did he stand and walk slowly to the front and then down the street to where he had left his horse.
Too much had gone on for him to make sense of it. All he knew was that Leonard Hawkins had robbed him and then had him buried alive. Whether Hawkins had had his hand on the spade shoveling the dirt onto the coffin or he’d left that to his henchmen didn’t matter. He had to pay for that and so much more to the people in and around Espero.
Slocum had never seen himself as a crusader. Let the law handle what it could, but Hawkins had done more than could ever be punished by even a noose. He took the reins and walked his horse rather than riding to keep from getting mud all over his saddle. The horse looked at him sideways, grateful not to be drenched by the river of muck Slocum shed as he walked along.
Julian still hunted for him and the Nevilles. With Polly and her pa safely hidden somewhere far away, that meant a few of the gang would be occupied for a good, long time on a fruitless search. Whatever reduced the number of guns he faced suited Slocum. Too many for him to fight openly remained camped. He had to figure out a way to get to Hawkins in spite of his bodyguards. In his present condition, Slocum was distracted by itchy clothing and bugs that wanted to dine on his flesh.
He found a bathhouse and broke in. Slocum started water heating on a stove and stripped off his clothes. It took the better part of an hour for him to get clean, then wash his clothing in the bathwater. He wrung out his clothing and put it close to the hot stove to dry. In the humid air it took forever before the jeans were dry enough to put on, but Slocum wasn’t in any hurry. Sitting naked beside the stove, thinking hard about what to do, let his tensed muscles relax.
By the time he dressed and had dropped a silver dollar on the stool next to the galvanized bathtub, the sun was poking up over the rolling hills to the east. It was going to be another sultry day. And from the ringing bell, one that would be longer than usual for many of the town’s residents.
Slocum watched a steady stream of men and women dressed in mourning clothes make their way toward Hawkins’s funeral parlor. He joined the procession, trying to blend in. He felt as if he stood out like a sore thumb, but cleaning the mud off had given him that small amount of camouflage. Everyone around him wore stored clothing that smelled of cedar to keep the moths away. The people wore more than their Sunday finery on this day of mourning.
The women wore widow’s weeds, and the men trudged along in solemn silence.
Slocum stopped when the knot of people around him did. He stared. A steady procession of wagons rattled from the funeral parlor along the road leading to the town cemetery. As he waited, he saw six wagons. Each one carried a small banner with the name of the deceased. As people identified their loved ones, they broke off from the crowd and walked beside the casket-laden wagon.
How Hawkins had rustled up so many wagons and had hammered together so many coffins in such a short time would have shown devotion to his trade. For Slocum it seemed more like an eagerness to put people six feet under.
He edged forward, then slipped off to the mortuary as Miranda came out the front door, looking haggard and defeated. What her first two nights as a married woman had been like wasn’t something Slocum wanted to think on too long. She went to the bell cord on the tower between the funeral parlor and the street and began tolling slowly, not doing the measured one ring every thirty seconds she had the day before. This was a general calling to service, not an honor for each of the dead.
He waved to catch her eye, but she kept her eyes downcast. Seldom had Slocum seen a woman so beaten in spirit. Hawkins had done it in only a few days after meeting her for the first time.
Search the crowd as he might, Slocum couldn’t locate the woman’s stalker. He wanted to ask about the poison in the food, but there was no chance. From her look, Miranda hadn’t eaten breakfast. If she stayed away from meals until Slocum stopped the man, she would be all right. And he couldn’t have cared less if Hawkins gobbled up everything on the plate. As much as he wanted the satisfaction of taking out Hawkins himself, if another did it, he wasn’t going to complain overly.
One wagon returned from the cemetery. Slocum watched as four of Julian’s men hefted another coffin and loaded it into the wagon, complaining as they did so. Robbing banks was more to their liking than physical labor. One opined how he enjoyed that because it felt good shooting people and getting paid for it.
Slocum had shot his share of men during the war and after, and he had never cottoned much to it. For Leonard Hawkins, he would make an exception, and that was more like cleansing the world of a terrible canker. He wasn’t going to enjoy the killing for the sake of taking another man’s life.
But the notion of robbing a bank . . .
He had done his share of that, too, mostly to get money to eat. Guilt never intruded when he did something illegal. If it had, he would be cowering in a corner, gibbering like a fool. Life had been harsh, and he met it on its own terms. So far he had won, though he knew someday death would lay down the royal flush and beat any possible hand he might hold. This wasn’t that day, and Hawkins had to be removed before he gave in to death.
Besides, memories of Polly kept poking into his head. She knew just the right things to say and do to keep him interested in living to see another dawn. While he intended to kill Hawkins for his own revenge, the undertaker’s death would give the woman some relief. It might even be enough to soothe the powerful hurt her pa had taken unto himself trying to kill Hawkins. Slocum wished he could have stopped the elder Neville from killing so many of his fellow townspeople, but the way Neville acted showed he had gone plumb loco. When he recovered from his wounds, he might never be right in the head again. The deaths of his wife and son were part of that, but being buried alive beside his precious Marie might be enough to keep him out of his head until the day he died.
Slocum reflected on how different people dealt with grief. Those around him watching the coffin-filled wagons roll to the cemetery were proof. Some openly wept, both men and women. Others had a haggard, drawn expression. A small number had hardened emotionally to the world and its pitiless ways. Slocum wasn’t sure which was best. All he knew was that shedding tears had been impossible for him over the years.
Getting even provided the most comfort.
Approaching Miranda as she bent her back into ringing the bell to mark the passing of so many people would gain him nothing but trouble. Too many of Julian’s men milled about, some working to load coffins, others driving the wagons. From inside the funeral parlor came sawing and hammering sounds as more coffins were hastily built.
As he edged forward with a small segment of the crowd, he drifted farther to the edge until he finally stood by the ditch where he had taken refuge the night before. No sign of guards at the edge of the woods sent his heart pounding. He walked slowly and purposefully along the muddy track to the spot where he had seen the one bodyguard smoking the night before. Traces of gray ash on a leaf of a tall butterfly bush showed where the smoker had carelessly flicked his cigarette. Mingled with the purple petals from the bush that had fallen to the ground Slocum saw a piece of unburnt rolling paper.
He pushed deeper into woods, following the trail. How many boots had trod this path before him, he couldn’t tell, but grasses tried to overgrow the trail, telling him it wasn’t as frequently traveled as it had been in the past. Pushing low-hanging branches away, he kept walking until he came to a muddy spot devoid of all weeds and grass, where many feet had recently trampled. He couldn’t help staring at the white marble structure, almost five feet tall and as wide, that had been built so that the trees sheltered it from casual discovery.
On closer investigation he saw this was only the top of a set of marble steps going down fully ten feet. Shoulders brushing against the walls on either side of the staircase, he descended and found a teakwood door standing partially open. He used the toe of his boot to push the door open as he drew his six-shooter. The interior yielded up only absolute darkness. Using senses other than his eyes, he listened hard and heard nothing inside. The odors coming from the chamber made his nose wrinkle. He might have blundered into a brothel.
Edging forward, he saw a kerosene lamp on a low table just inside the door. Laying his six-gun on the table, he pulled the chimney off to expose the wick. He used a lucifer to light the lamp, replaced the glass mantle, and adjusted the light so a soft yellow glow filled the small chamber. He quickly snatched up his six-shooter when movement at the edge of his vision warned him.
Slocum relaxed a mite. He was too keyed up. He had been reduced to jumping at shadows. Worse than that, it was his own shadow cast across a section of strangely decorated wall. He began his investigation of the room, starting with the most obvious feature.
In the middle of the eight-by-ten room was a bed barely wide enough for two people.
“I doubt you enjoyed lying here in spite of the finery, Miranda,” Slocum said softly, touching the rumpled, stained sheets. They were finely woven, expensive, almost like butter flowing under his fingers. The image of Hawkins on top of Miranda pumping away caused Slocum to pull back.
As he did, he looked around and saw the frescoes on the walls that had startled him earlier. He took a closer look at the figures. An artist had worked long hours creating the scene that circled the room. Slocum had seen a book of mythology once and recognized some of the creatures and their erotic tendencies, but others damned near made him blush. It took him some time to circle the room and return to the doorway. He tried to imagine what it had been like, in a fine bed with Miranda Madison, looking at the raunchy pictures as he made love to her. His imagination failed. Why would any man need more than the beautiful raven-haired woman in his arms?
Slocum backed away, then frowned when he saw how the bed had been constructed. It bore a striking resemblance to an oversized coffin. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine. He extinguished the lamp and hurried up the steps into the close, hot forest air. Being in the crypt had brought back terrible memories of being buried alive.
If anything, seeing Hawkins’s love nest hardened his determination to put the undertaker six feet under. Slocum would even consider sealing the undertaker in his love vault, as long as he never escaped. Somehow that notion appealed to Slocum, just a little. Then he realized Hawkins would enjoy the paintings until the light burned out. He gave up on this idea because it allowed Hawkins a tiny bit of enjoyment before the suffocating death in the dark.
He started back toward the funeral parlor, then saw another branching path that had been used recently. He looked around, saw no hint that Julian or his men patrolled the area, then set off to explore. The path curled into the deepest part of the woods. Trees here grew only a few feet apart, and off the path bramble bushes grew so thick that getting through them would require a big knife like Slocum had seen a Mexican carrying when he had drifted into Sonora. A machete, the man had called it. He used it to cut up dogs and threaten men afraid of big knives.
Slocum had never been afraid of a knife, no matter the size. He wished he had picked up the machete after his fight with the arrogant fool. It would have been useful now.
He came to a small clearing where another crypt had been built. The one appeared to be above ground and not sunk ten feet into the ground like Hawkins’s love nest. Slocum circled and found only one door into the crypt. He turned to go when he saw a double rut leading to the door as if someone had been dragged inside.
Considering the heavy summer rains, whoever had been put into the crypt had been laid to rest recently. The heavy toll Liam Neville had taken among the townspeople trying to blow up Hawkins made an interment distressingly ordinary. But who deserved such a fancy sepulcher? Slocum examined the exterior but found no name chiseled anywhere. And why did it look as if someone had been dragged inside rather than carried in?
Slocum went cold inside. Hawkins had buried someone else alive. It might have been a fancy marble vault but above ground or below made no difference. The dark. The suffocation.
He tugged on the door, but it refused to open. Slocum looked around and found a sturdy limb that had fallen off a lightning-struck tree nearby. Wedging the end into a small crack, he applied increasing pressure until he thought his back would break. The memory of the grave added strength and determination to his assault on the door.
Inch by inch the door opened until Slocum got his fingers around the edge and gave a huge pull. He stumbled back, recovered, and returned to peer inside the crypt. Sunlight penetrated only a foot or so. Slocum struck another lucifer and held it up as it flared.
He felt as if he had stepped off a cliff and plunged downward.
Crucified on the back wall hung Liam Neville.