Peter Wilson, who after the prayer meeting sold a good horse at a good price to Gunnison, bore a strong physical resemblance to his son, Rory, but lacked the boy’s ebullient personality. As he sat sipping coffee from a cracked cup and nibbling on the last biscuit left from supper, Wilson looked back at Alex Gunnison in a way that at first made Gunnison wonder if he looked like a criminal. After a time, though, he began to realize that this was just Wilson’s ordinary look. He flashed that same suspicious look at his son, his wife, his two plump daughters, both of whom were flashing very different kinds of looks at Gunnison. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t accepted the invitation to spend the night here.
Gunnison, uncomfortable under the hungry gaze of the two girls, shifted his posture in his chair and laid his left hand across his knee to make sure that his wedding ring was visible. He glanced at one of the daughters, ignored the smile she flashed him, and continued the conversation he was carrying on with Wilson.
“Rory tells me that the preacher himself had a troubled manner about him as he spoke,” Gunnison said.
Wilson swallowed the last of the biscuit. “Yes, it struck me that way, too. He seemed a man under a great burden…maybe scared by his own message.”
“Did he strike you as sincere?”
“Oh, yes. He believed what he was saying. But he had little spirit about him. I figure I’d be much the same, if the Lord had laid such a terrible message on my heart.”
“You really do believe that Peabody is speaking a word from God?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He spoke about judgment, about God’s wrath against sin…it was frightening. The kind of thing to bring you to your knees in prayer. I won’t shy away from telling you I did just that.”
“Did he say that there would be more fire from heaven?”
“He said that Gomorrah had gone across a line of sin that could not be crossed again. Its judgment was inescapable. But for others, for us, it wasn’t too late to repent. And if we would, the fire might not fall.”
“So you repented.”
“We did.”
“That’s a good thing, I’m sure.”
“Yes.”
Gunnison cleared his throat uncomfortably. He glanced once more at the staring daughters. “Rory told me there was an offering taken for Peabody.”
“There was. I didn’t begrudge it. Even a prophet has to live.”
“Did the preacher say, directly or indirectly, that giving his offering was an essential part of the repenting process?”
As Gunnison had feared, Wilson seemed offended by the question. “Listen, young man, if you’re implying that I, or the other people around here, are gullible fools who emptied their pockets for no reason, then I think you should rethink your thinking, right fast!”
“Sir, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to offend.”
“There was an offering took, yes. But the preacher said nothing about it, asked not a penny.”
“But the man with him, Rankin…”
“Well, yes. That’s who it was who took the offering, with the help of another fellow.”
“Did Rankin equate giving to the offering with repenting?”
“Look, the Bible itself says the worker is worthy of his hire. It says the servants of the Lord should be supported.”
Gunnison needed to hear no more; Wilson’s defensive, evasive answer was tantamount to an affirmative.
“Yes,” Gunnison said. “It does teach that.”
Wilson stood and went for his pipe on the mantelpiece. He took down a tobacco bag that hung from a rack of antlers attached decoratively to the wall above the fireplace. As he filled his pipe, he asked, “Do you have a family, Mr. Gunnison?”
“I’ve got a wife,” Gunnison said, raising his voice a little to make sure the Wilson daughters heard him clearly.
“Then you picture yourself in the kind of situation I was. You look up in the sky one night and you see fire flash across the darkness. You see a mountaintop go into flames. Then, not long after, you see people who’ve come down from that mountain, burned and hurting and scared to death, telling that a preacher prophesied it all, and by gum if it didn’t happen just like he said. Then that same preacher shows up and tells you that the same blasted thing could happen to you and your family…you think you’d take chances with your own safety and that of your own? Would you?”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“You’d pray to God, you’d turn from your wicked ways, you’d pay whatever offering was asked; that’s what you’d do. You wouldn’t risk the safety of yourself and your own loved ones. And if some slick-dressed little news scribbler came around asking you a bunch of questions to imply you’re a fool, you’d not be very pleased about it.”
“Obviously I’ve hurt your feelings. I do apologize.”
The daughters smiled at Gunnison, and quietly sighed in unison. Apparently he had a very appealing way of apologizing.
Wilson shrugged and chewed on his pipestem. “Don’t worry about it. Didn’t mean to say so much.”
“Mr. Wilson, you’re right that I didn’t witness these things myself, and indeed I might have reacted just like you did if I had seen them. But you and I both know that people are capable of cheating and lying, especially if there’s money to be made. Maybe Rankin has sincerely changed his ways…or maybe he’s using this prophet fellow as a way of gouging money out of sincerely frightened people.”
Wilson exhaled slowly. “I know. And down inside, I’ve wondered.” He looked at Gunnison. “Rory says you believe it was some kind of shooting star that might have caused the fire.”
“I don’t really know what it was. It’s just a guess.”
“Tell me why you’re so interested in all this. Are you trying to write a story about it?”
“I’m trying to find Rankin for the sake of a friend of mine. Rankin maybe has some information he needs. About my friend’s wife.”
“I see. Well, too bad you didn’t come sooner. He’s long gone now.”
“Yes. Any idea where?”
“Wherever there’s people. The preacher said he was going to travel from town to town, giving warning about the fire from heaven. Getting people to repent.”
“With Rankin collecting money at every place.”
“Reckon so.”
“Any idea which town he was heading to next?”
“They headed in the direction of Paxton.”
Gunnison nodded. He’d heard of Paxton. Just another little mining town in the Montana mountains.
“That’s where I’ll look, then.”
“Listen, if you’re Brady Kenton’s partner, then where is he?”
Gunnison didn’t want to answer, but he did. “Brady Kenton is dead. He was killed in the fire at Gomorrah.”
“Lord…I’m sorry.”
“I am, too, Mr. Wilson. I haven’t yet found it in myself to truly believe he is dead.”
The Confederate Ridge compound, revealed to Kenton as he followed Jones and Milo out of the cabin, was bigger than he would have expected, had he had opportunity to develop any specific expectations. Kenton walked into a broad, packed-dirt central area and watched the people of the compound gathering around a well in the dead center of the enclosure, which was lighted by three bonfires. There was a small platform around the well; Pernell Jones stepped upon it, his expression solemn.
Kenton took a quick look around. The stockade stood about twelve feet high on all sides, with numerous cabins like the one he’d just left built all around. There were other buildings, all made of logs, scattered around the enclosure as well, but farther inside, not against the walls. There were a couple of small barns, a few sheds and privies, a sizeable stockpen in which cattle meandered, and a corral well stocked with horses. He counted no less than three gardens. He spotted one cabin with a cross mounted atop it: obviously a church building. Beside it was a small, enclosed graveyard with a few smaller crosses stuck in it. All in all, the whole thing reminded Kenton of typical stockades from the earlier days of what was now the East. It was neat, well-kept, and more impressive than Kenton had expected. Confederate Ridge was not some mere mountain hideout. This was a true community, maintained well and having about it the feeling of a small, peaceful village that just happened to be enclosed behind walls.
Kenton felt the familiar tug of his journalistic impulse. This was a surprising place, an unusual place, a place that deserved to be written about. This was a town that was on no map, a dwelling place of people who considered themselves not Americans but independent entities. He wished he had his sketch pad. All he had, though, were a few scraps of paper Milo had handed him, and a couple of stubby pencils. He could do a bit of note-taking, but that was about all.
Kenton spoke to Milo. “I didn’t realize there were so many here. Especially so many women and children.”
“We’ve established a fine place here,” Milo answered. “Many of us here have married and brought wives here, raised children. Now some of the children have grown and married one another to start whole new families.”
“I think you’re about to outgrow this place.”
“I don’t think it’s going to matter after tonight,” Milo said.
Kenton might have asked how it was that such a community could be maintained without the support of commerce, with the outside world. Self-sufficiency, in his experience, could only take people so far, and his impression was that Confederate Ridge had moved beyond that point. He wondered if there was some outside source of supply or subsidy…maybe some network of underground commerce, or some benefactor, who was helping keep this community alive. He’d try to find out later.
Kenton drew quite a few curious, hard stares as he neared the crowd. He suspected that it was rare indeed that a strange face appeared among this little population.