The ranch stood in a wide valley that was bisected almost exactly by a straight-running creek with high banks. Cottonwoods grew along the creek, and the prairie land all around was gently rolling, mountains framing the scene. The house was typical of Montana Territory ranches, made of logs, one story high, long and rather sprawling because it was, in fact, three cabins built side-by-side and joined. Nearby were sheds and corrals, a large garden, and a big barn. It was the barn that had caught Gunnison’s eye above all the rest, because it was at the moment well-lighted, and seemingly full of people.
He walked through the dark toward the barn, keeping in the center of the wagon road and deliberately making noise so that his arrival would surprise no one. He’d heard stories about Montana people’s tendency toward vigilantism, and just in case something of that sort was going on here, he wanted nothing he did to look in any way sneaky or surreptitious.
As he drew near enough to the barn to hear some of what was going on inside, though, he realized that this was no vigilante meeting. Far from it: what he was hearing was a man praying, very loudly.
There were thirty or so people in the barn, all crowded together and seated on benches improvised from lumber set on kegs, boxes, logs, and other such items.
The praying man said his amen about the time Gunnison entered. Heads lifted, turned, looked back at him.
“Welcome, young man,” said the leader. “Come and join us…come and pray.”
“Thank you…but the truth was, I’m just looking for someone to sell me a horse…if I can find one affordable.”
“There’s horses to be had, but now is the time for praying, young fellow. Do come join us. There may not be much time left for any of us in this old world.”
Gunnison looked around. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about turning our lives straight and averting the wrath of God, young man. If you wish to join with us, you may, but if not, we won’t be kept from our own prayers.” With that, the man turned away, dropped to his knees, and began to pray aloud again.
Gunnison, uncomfortable here, turned to the door and slipped out into the night. He considered going elsewhere to look for a horse, but decided not to. The man had said horses were available. He’d wait out the meeting and hope to buy one afterward, and maybe also to find some place he could spend the night. It was growing late and he was tired of traveling for today.
Gunnison walked around the side of the barn, listening to the muffled voices from inside. He paused and looked across the distance toward the dim glow that was the burning top of Gomorrah Mountain.
He heard footsteps behind him, and turned. A boy of about ten, whom he’d noticed at the rear fringes of the group in the prayer meeting, had followed him out and around the barn.
“Howdy,” the boy said.
“Hello, there,” Gunnison replied.
“My name’s Rory Wilson.” The boy put out his hand.
Gunnison shook it. “Alex Gunnison. Pleased to know you.”
“Why didn’t you stay to pray?” Rory asked.
“Well…I didn’t feel quite comfortable with it, being a stranger. Just what’s going on in there, anyway?”
“Kind of a revival service. Folks here have really got revived in their religion all at once. Because of that up yonder.” The boy looked past Gunnison toward the burning mountain. “You can still see it a-burning. The fire fell, then went out, and now it’s back again. Goes to show you can’t quench the fire of God, my pap says.”
“Well, something’s certainly sparked the fire up again.” Gunnison thought about telling the boy that he’d actually been up on Gomorrah Mountain not long before. It would surely impress him. But Kenton had taught Gunnison that more was to be learned from letting others speak than from speaking oneself, so he kept quiet.
“It was the fire starting back again that got everybody to gather and pray here tonight. They figured the wrath had come down on Gomorrah another time.”
“The wrath?”
“Why, sure! The wrath of God! Gomorrah was a wicked town, and God has smit it for its sins. That’s what my pap believes.”
“Is he the one leading the meeting in there?”
“No. That’s Jim Spradley, who owns this here ranch. We got a spread of our own, starting on the other side of the creek yonder way. Our house—it ain’t as big as Mr. Spradley’s over there, but it will be once Pap expands it—stands about two mile away from here.”
“Does Mr. Spradley sell horses?”
“When he’s got them to sell. He’s got some now. But you won’t get him out of that prayer meeting for a good while. The first prayer meeting he had like this lasted a good four hours straight.”
“When did he have that meeting?”
“Right after the fire fell.”
“What do you know about that firefall?”
The boy straightened his shoulders and looked proud. “I seen it happen. From a long ways off, like we are now, but I seen it.”
“So you’re an eyewitness.”
“Yep. I was outside when it happened, turned in the direction I am now, so I could see the line of the mountains against the sky. There was a big light in the sky, like a flame shooting across, heading toward the mountain. Then it just burst, all flaming and bright, and after that, Gomorrah and all the mountaintop was burning. You could see it just like you can now, but brighter.”
“Lightning, you think?”
“Oh, Lord no. Not lightning. There ain’t never been no lightning like what I saw.”
“So what do you think it was?”
“Fire and brimstone! What else? Fire and brimstone from heaven. When you name a town after a wicked city like Gomorrah, you see, a city that was destroyed by God, well, you’re what they call tempting God. Like double-daring Him to do it again.”
“Why do you think the mountain is burning now, considering that the fire went out before?”
“I don’t know. Maybe God decided to smite it one more time.”
Gunnison scanned the sky, so vast in Montana, and felt very small. The stars twinkled in the blackness, looking very far away. “You really do believe that God struck that town with His own hand?”
“That’s what my pap says. He’s generally right about things. Besides, what else would it have been?”
Gunnison continued to examine the sky. “I think something fell from up there and caught the town afire.”
Rory snorted. “Just fell, all by itself? You’re a disbeliever, then. You ain’t giving God credit for what He done. Besides, what just falls from the sky?”
In one of those rare moments in life when an unplannable event happens at just the right time, Gunnison saw a streak of light fire across the sky to the north. The quick turning of Rory’s head told Gunnison that the boy had seen it, too. “Those fall from the sky.”
“Shooting stars? Well, sure they do, but you don’t never see one strike. They just glow and go out.”
“Sometimes they do strike. Or come very close to the ground before they burn out…or explode from their own heat.”
“You’re a disbeliever! You’re trying to say it ain’t God who caused the fire to fall!”
“Why would you say that? If God wanted to smite a town, He could use a shooting star as easily as anything else, couldn’t He?”
The boy mulled that over. “Reckon He could. I never thought of it like that.”
“But I won’t lie to you: I’m not yet persuaded that what happened at Gomorrah was an outright divine punishment. I know it was a wicked town, but surely no more so than many other mining towns. And Gomorrah was small as mining towns go.”
“Well, I know it was God’s punishment. The prophet himself told us so.”
The significance of that comment took a moment to settle on Gunnison. “The prophet? The man who predicted the firefall?”
“You’ve heard of him, I see! Yep, the same one. He came down from Gomorrah Mountain and preached to us all, right there in this same barn. His name’s Peabody. Parson Peabody.”
“Is he still here?” Gunnison asked.
“No. He’s moved on.”
“Tell me all you can about him: who was with him. What he said, where they went. It’s important.”
“Well, he and them with him just sort of showed up here. He had another couple of men with him, and there was a woman. One of the two men, a fellow named Gib Rankin, did most of the talking. He’s a gambler who got converted up in Gomorrah after the fire came down. Mr. Rankin asked my pap to call all the folks together from hereabouts that he could, said the prophet had something to say to them. Pap already knew about the fire falling—he’d seen it happen, like I did. And even before the prophet got here, we knew about him. We’d heard about him from a man who came down from Gomorrah right after the firefall. He was burned and scared half to death, talking about the fire and the preacher who’d predicted it.”
“What did Peabody say in his sermon?”
“He said that what happened up at Gomorrah was just the start of God judging wicked folks across this nation. He said that the fire would fall on us, too, just like on Gomorrah, if we didn’t repent from our sins.”
“And let me guess: Rankin then took up an offering.”
“Yes. He told them that giving was a sign of their repentance, and that if they gave, maybe God would spare them from having the fire and brimstone fall on them.”
Gunnison nodded. This was beginning to make sense. “Tell me something, Rory. When Peabody preached, what was his manner? Did he seem forceful, bold, that kind of thing?”
Rory thought that one through before he answered. “No…he seemed serious about it, but kind of timid and nervous…kind of hollow and scared. He talked real soft. It made him hard to hear. But it made what he said seem more real and scary, too.”
“What about Gib Rankin’s manner?”
“Oh, he was different. He was kind of in charge of things. He talked loud and pretty much ran the show.”
“I see. Any chance, you think, that he’d told Peabody what he should say?”
The boy stared coldly at him. “I think you are a disbeliever.”
“Not a disbeliever in God, or even in judgment, Rory. But maybe a disbeliever in Gib Rankin.”
“You’d believe if you heard Parson Peabody speak.”
“Maybe I would. I hope I can hear him speak. I’m trying to find him, as a matter of fact, and Mr. Rankin, too.”
“How come?”
“I’m a writer. A journalist for Gunnison’s Illustrated American. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course I have! That’s Brady Kenton’s magazine, ain’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Brady Kenton?” The boy spoke excitedly, and Gunnison was struck anew by the extent of Kenton’s celebrity. Here was a mere boy, maybe not even literate, out on a ranch in the wilds of the Montana Territory, yet who knew the name and reputation of Brady Kenton.
“I do know Brady Kenton,” Gunnison said, smiling to try to stave off the gush of sadness that rose inside him. “He’s my partner, in fact.” He realized he was speaking in the present tense, but didn’t have the will to correct it. It was going to take a long time to get used to thinking of Brady Kenton as part of the past.
“Is he coming here?”
“No…no.” Deciding to spare the sad details, Gunnison said, “But I’m looking for Rankin and Parson Peabody on his behalf. Can you or anyone else here tell me where they went after they left here?”
“My pap knows, I think.”
The sound of the prayer meeting was still coming through the barn wall; there was no sign the gathering was going to break up anytime soon. “I’ll ask him when he’s through. In the meantime, maybe I can look at his horses for sale. Can you show me where they are?”
Rory nodded. “Follow me.”