Their horses cropped contentedly in the shade of the trees looking up with no more than a passing interest as the two men returned to them. Herne and Yates had walked back in silence from the Goldsmith house, leaving Eliza Barrell weeping over the hideously battered body of Al, brother of the Reverend.
Jed had tried to explain to her. To apologies to her, but it had happened, and the wheel had turned too many times ever to be brought back. Behind them, they could still hear the children playing happily down by the stream.
Yates hadn’t spoken once after the revelation that he had been trying to get information from a deaf-mute and had beaten and kicked the man to death in his ignorance and anger. Only when they were cantering back towards Yuma did he speak.
‘How the Hell was I to know?’
Herne didn’t answer, riding on thin—lipped and viciously cold. Yates heeled his horse ahead of Herne, then reined it in, swinging across the path, forcing Jed to pull up.
‘Damn it, Jed! We ain’t playing some kind of baby, kiss-your-hand game! My wife was killed and your wife done killed herself. And we gotta get the dogs that done it!’
‘I’m not forgetting that, Bill.’ Herne’s voice was deceptively calm. ‘But I reckon that killing that fellow there makes you as bad — maybe worse — than the men we’re chasing. So I’m doing what I said last night. If’n you want, then come along with me while we do what we got to do with the Reverend, then we’ll go our own ways. I aim to get the rest of them, and maybe you feel the same. Well, I’m sorry.’
Yates swung Cleo back on the path, muttering angrily to himself. Loud enough for Herne to hear it. ‘Finds some two-bit whore he once screwed, and gets all soft. Damned if he ain’t turning yellow.’
‘Get down.’
‘What?’
‘I said for you to get down.’
Yates shivered despite the heat of the day at the icy menace in his partner’s voice. He turned in the saddle, trying to get a grin in place, but finding that it didn’t hold on top of all that fear.
‘Now, Jed. I didn’t mean nothing by that. I was just funning a mite and . . . ’
‘If you don’t get down and face me, Yates, then I’ll shoot you in the back like the dog you are. And that’s the only kind of death you merit.’
There was a sudden flash of heat lightning, far away to the south, followed several seconds later by the distant rumbling of thunder. Both horses shied, rearing up, fighting for freedom. It took Yates and Herne a minute or so to get then back under control, and by then the tension had eased away.
‘Jed. Jed? I’m right sorry for saying that. I reckon that it’s better if we stick together. At least till this whole thing’s over. Then . . . well, maybe we’ll see. What do you think, Jed? Well?’
Herne set his horse’s face towards town again, keeping one eye on the dark thunderclouds toppling blackly over each other to their right. ‘Right. One more word like that, and I’ll gun you down, Bill. Think on that. The days when I was just a good neighbor are gone. Maybe gone forever. That one night back on the spread done changed all that. I’m not the man I was once, and don’t you forget it. I think I’m going back to the way I was when I was younger. Maybe not so nice, but I don’t have a Hell of a lot of choice. When we get to Yuma., then we do things my way. Quick clean. Right?’
‘Right.’
They didn’t exchange another word all the way into to each deep with his own thoughts.
They tethered their horses again outside a saloon on the very edge of town, ready for a quick getaway if it turned out to be necessary. And walked, side by side, through Yuma until they reached the small church, with the minister’s name on a board outside, neatly picked out in gold on a black background. And a hand-lettered text: ‘Come Unto Me All Ye Who Are Heavy-Laden And I Shall Give Ye Rest.’
It was getting dark, the thunder crumbling the still air about them, and an occasional Hash of lightning rending the day apart.
‘Look at that big black cloud a’ comin’ on down,’ said Yates. ‘And us going in to church. I ain’t been in since we had Becky christened. All this makes me feel like I’m knockin’ right on heaven’s door.’
‘I hope they let you in,’ said Herne, turning the heavy handle and walking into the church.
Inside it was cool, with that odd, damp darkness that so many churches have. The light had faded so fast with the impending storm that someone had lit an oil-lamp and placed it on the altar. A large Bible, open and with a red velvet cord marking the place, stood next to the lamp.
‘Reverend Goldsmith? called Herne, finding that he instinctively lowered his voice.
A rumbling from outside drowned any sound of movement, but they both saw a figure edge from behind the small harmonium near the window.
‘Yes? What can I do for you? I’m expecting a couple in here in a few minutes to discuss their marriage ceremony, so unless it’s important, then I’d be most grateful if you could call back in about an hour.’
The two men walked forward through the dusty stillness, the jingling of their spurs sounding surprisingly loud. Goldsmith stood still by the organ, resting a hand on the ivory keyboard. ‘D. W. Karn & Co., Woodstock, Canada’ said the maker’s name, emblazoned on the dark wood in ornate gold lettering.
‘Pretty instrument, Reverend,’ commented Yates, positioning himself ready to block of the avenue of escape to the main door.
‘Yes. My late wife played it for me, until she passed on some years back.’
Herne looked at the minister, trying to imagine him laying with Louise. Straining in the dim light of the single oil lamp to see the man’s face. A great flash of lightning made them all jump, seeming to come right on top of the church, followed by a peal of thunder that seemed to shake the foundations of the building. It actually set the small bell in the tower over the front entrance to jingling softly in protest at the noise and vibration.
Goldsmith’s face was clearly illuminated in that great sheet of silver light and Herne recognized the signs of everything they had been told about him. A soft face, pink-cheeked. A halo of silvery hair, and long sideburns, neatly trimmed. Dark suit, expensively-cut. At first glance the image that any town would be glad to see in its minister. But even that bright Hash, etching the details into Herne’s memory, was enough to show the other, darker side of the coin.
Weak eyes that blinked and shifted too much. Thick lips, constantly moistened by a large, pink tongue. Jaw line spreading and sagging. The face of a good man that had somehow been touched by corruption.
‘Doesn’t Miss Barrell play at all?’
‘Who?’
‘Eliza! The lady the town calls Mrs. Fazackerley. Eliza Barrell, Reverend?
Yates laughed. A course, rasping sound that was at odds with the shadowy church. ‘Yeah. I figure that little lady has played on a whole heap of organs in her time. What you say, Jed?’
Herne didn’t answer, watching the man they had to kill, as he stood quite still in front of them, fingers tugging at a loose button on his waistcoat.
When Goldsmith finally spoke, they had to strain to hear his quiet words. ‘I think that you must have come from Tucson. Am I right?’
‘Damn right!’ Yates took a step forward, his lip curling with anger, fist clenching, but Herne held him back.
‘I . . . I have been expecting you I . . . shall we sit down, I fear my legs do not seem able to support me?’ Together the three men walked slowly across the aisle and sat down in the front row of the carved wooden pews.
The Reverend buried his face in his hands, as though was at prayer. When he spoke his voice came from immense distance, and it was the voice of a tired and beaten man.
‘I did expect you. There is little that I feel able to say. I was there while it went on. I was drunk, as most of them were. I even . . . I did it, as the others did. But I was outside when the killing was done. I think it was one of the Stanwyck boys, but I don’t know. They are a most Godless couple.’
‘You don’t seem all that close to God yourself, Reverend said Herne quietly.
‘No. Yet I shall walk with him and all the Saints in that blessed peace that comes with true repentance, I have sinned most grievously, and I do repent of it with all my heart.’ His voice grew stronger, filling out as though he was preaching a sermon to a packed congregation, instead of talking to the men come to kill him.
Overhead, the storm seemed to be reaching its peak, and the building vibrated to each new crash of thunder, and the lightning was almost continuous, making it easy for all three men to see each other the whole time.
‘You ain’t going to run? Nor fight?’ Yates couldn’t believe that it was going to be this easy, and sounded almost disappointed.
Goldsmith smiled gently at him. ‘No. I shall return to Tucson with you and I shall simply tell the truth. And throw myself on the mercy of the twelve good men and true.’
Herne finally saw it. With both women dead, then the evidence would be at best sketchy. And with two of the killers already dead, it might be hard to prove anything against much a pious man of God. He knew the folk of Tucson, and they might not be all that enthusiastic to see a minister swinging from the gallows in the town square.
Yates might not be all that bright, but he could spot a rat wriggling free from the trap as fast as most men.
‘Wait a damned minute! You don’t quite get the message that clear, Reverend.’
‘What do you mean, my son? And how, if I may ask, sir, are you aware of the existence of my housekeeper’s real name? Did she tell you where I was?’
‘Yes. Eliza and I knew each other way back. It was like a chance meeting of old friends.’
Goldsmith smiled again, his gleaming teeth flashing in the lightning. ‘That is well. You did her no hurt? Nor the children?’
‘No.’
‘That too is well. As ye have been grievously sinned against, so shall the Lord thy God make his face to shine the more upon you that you spared so many of his innocents, and turned not the edge of thy blades against them. And Al? I trust that you did him no hurt either, poor soul that he is? He was not in any suffering when you left?’
Again that smile. A smile that grated more and more with Jed. It was a dishonest smile, stuck up there simply to deceive them.
Yates bellowed out with laughter at Goldsmith’s question.
‘Why now Reverend! You are so right! I can say with my hand on my heart that when we left poor Al he wasn’t suffering in any way. He was past all that.’
The minister’s eyes flashed angrily, and Herne sensed steel beneath the glossy velvet. ‘You killed him! You killed my brother!’
‘Yep. And, what’s more, we’re goin’ to kill you too. None of this takin’ you back for a fair trial crap, so you can slip the noose off your soft bitchin’ neck.’
‘Nooooo! !’ The Reverend Goldsmith leaped forward, followed by Yates.
The cry rang out round the small church, louder now that the storm was passing, leaving only an occasional slash of light and a distant sullen rumbling of thunder.
‘Get him, Bill,’ called Herne, drawing fast, but unable to fire while Yates was in his way.
Goldsmith moved with the frantic speed of desperation, swinging his arm out to knock over the oil-lamp, sending it spinning to the wooden floor. Its fluted green shade smashed into a thousand glittering shards, and the brass base rolled round and round, clattering like a child’s top. Its wick still glowed red and oil poured from it, spilling and bubbling across the aisle.
The minister dived for cover behind the front row of pews, scuttling into the instant darkness like a fat beetle. The moment he’d disappeared, Yates fired twice in the direction of the movement, but there was only the noise of splintering wood, and a soft chuckle from the black coolness.
‘Just in case of trouble with the town rowdies, I long ago hooked a scattergun beneath this row of seats. So, my brethren, the first of you who comes near me will receive a belly of prime lead-shot. And then the Lord will have no mercy at all on your souls.’
There was another laugh, like gas bubbling through honey, and the quite unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. The twin hammers clicking back.
Yates and Herne both crouched under cover, waiting and watching. Behind Goldsmith, near the altar, the oil-lamp had started a small fire, the flames licking hungrily at the dry wood, edging along cracks in the floorboards, reaching out or the faded curtains that hung from the walls.
‘Whole place’ll go,’ hissed Yates from the left, over near the harmonium.
‘And you with it, unless you try for that door,’ called the Reverend. ‘I, on the other hand, have a small exit ready for me, well-covered by furniture. The bullet or the fire, my brethren. Which shalt thou choose?’
Herne lay flat on his face, the smoke already stinging his nostrils, when an idea came to him. An idea that would mean the end of Goldsmith. But it had to be fast, and there wasn’t going to be room for any error.
‘Go left on my shout, Bill !’
‘Ready!’
‘Now!’
Firing from the hip, Yates dodged across to duck behind the harmonium. Silhouetted for a moment against the rising flames, he presented a fleeting target for the crouching minister. The scatter-gun boomed, sending its splintering load of death starring out across the burning church. There was a macabre shriek from the harmonium as the lead shot ripped into it, tearing strips of white wood from its front and shattering its keys. The Vox Jubilante gave one last bubbling groan, then the organ subsided into silence.
But Herne didn’t have time to notice things like that. He was already moving. The Reverend Goldsmith would be expecting Yates’s move to be a decoy to the left. Which would mean that Herne was going to come in at him from the right.
That’s the way he would be looking.
And that was where the movement came.
Laughing at the simplicity of his enemies, Goldsmith blasted off his other barrel at the noise. Hitting the object that made the noise.
But it was only a large and well-padded hassock that Herne had thrown out of the blackness. Jed himself didn’t go right or left. He just came in straight over the top, Colt ready in his fist, looming over the cowering figure of the minister.
Goldsmith realized that he’d been tricked and was frantically trying to reload the gun, fumbling with a handful of cartridges. Moaning to himself.
‘Drop the gun, Reverend. Come on out, Bill. It’s nearly over.’
The flames were beginning to roar, devouring the wood, biting at the front of the pews, getting near the altar. The white pages of the open Bible began to rear and flutter in the scorching heat, as though phantom fingers were feebly trying to turn them.
Hands raised above his shoulders, Goldsmith stood up, mouth working, sweat streaming off his forehead.
‘Please. I beg you. I’m a man of the cloth, and I have my children and my flock . . . ’
‘Right, Reverend. And your sheep are going to have to get along without a shepherd for a little time now.’
Yates appeared, running his hand along the damaged front of the harmonium, grinning satanically at the yellow flames as they billowed higher. ‘Make a nice funeral pyre for you, Reverend. Why don’t we just shoot his legs off and leave him to burn, Jed?’
‘No. Go on out front and get to the horses. I’ll finish off what needs doing here.’
At that moment the front door opened, the draught, fanning the flames to a roaring inferno, and they heard a man’s voice calling out.
‘Jesus! Reverend Goldsmith! You in there? We saw smoke and . . . ’
Yates turned and snapped off a quick shot, aiming high so that the bullet smacked into the wood above the open door. There was a shout and the door shut again. Goldsmith used that momentary interruption to make a last desperate bid for his life; pushing clumsily at Herne, trying to get through the flames to the small back door.
He didn’t make it.
Not by a long way. Herne recovered his balance and pumped four bullets into the minister’s back, seeing the body jerk forwards as each shot hit home at point-blank range. Darker patches of blood appeared on the back of the immaculate suit, and Goldsmith spun round, eyes staring with pain and shock, blood also pouring from his chest where the heavy caliber bullets had exited.
He stood for a moment, like a toppling tree, the flames licking at the cuffs of his trousers, running quickly up his legs. His mouth opened as though he wanted to speak, but the damage was too terminal; his heart shattered, the blood flow to his brain cut off. Dying on his feet, the Reverend Chester Goldsmith turned at the very last to face the altar of his church, almost buried in a sea of flames.
His hands went out to the Bible, and he stumbled a few paces, clutching at the open book, tearing out a handful of pages in his clawing fingers, finally crashing down on his back among the flames.
‘Come on, Jed!’ called Yates impatiently. ‘They’ll be blocking that door and we’re goin’ to have to blast our way out.’
‘Go the back way. Through there. Move it. And get the horses. I’ll follow you and hold the front in case they try and get through.’
Without a backward glance, Yates dived through the flames and vanished out of the partly-hidden door. Herne fired a single shot in the direction of the front of the church, wincing at the heat that sprang out from the curtains. Even the rafters were catching and he knew that the building was completely doomed. On the way out he paused for a second, looking down at the body of the minister, shouldering in the fierce heat.
He still clutched a page of the Bible, stained with blood in his hand. On impulse Herne bent down to see what it was. The page was darkening with the fire but he could just read the top of it. A single verse.
It was from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians. Chapter Fifteen. Verse Twenty-Six. It simply said: ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’
Herne turned away and ran safely from the blazing church.