Sixteen

Dee Hassard slung his blanket into the pine branches and tripped across a body in the dark. “Wake up!” he shouted.

A dream snapped in Clarence Philbrick’s mind, and he sat up without thinking, his hand falling on the breech of his Remington.

“She came back!” Hassard was shouting. He stumbled shoulder-first into a bank of orange embers, rolling quickly away, regaining his feet. “Praise God, she spoke to me again!”

Elder Hopewell stirred with the pilgrims, annoyed at the disturbance of his much-needed rest. Yesterday they had crossed the Great Divide in a freezing rain by a mountain pass that stood above the timberline. His first look at the West Slope had been a frightening one, for he could see only bare rock below him in the storm. They had since descended into a deep valley of verdant grandeur, waterfalls plunging from rocky places in ribbons of froth. Hassard had pushed the party hard—too hard, Hopewell thought.

They had built a log ferry to cross the swollen Blue River, not even pausing to rest on the west bank. They had marched right through the new mining town of Frisco—the last settlement they would see. They had passed beaver ponds where the elder had hoped they might linger. Hassard had driven them relentlessly through a winding and sheltered valley that looked to Hopewell like a good place to settle. But the new prophet of the Church of the Weeping Virgin seemed to think of nothing but his pilgrimage to the Mount of the Snowy Cross.

The trek had been exhausting. And now this—to be woken from a sound sleep in the chilly night. Hopewell gathered his gangling legs under him and willed his eyes to focus in the dim moonlight, catching sight of the hysterical Deacon Dee stumbling across the congregation.

“I know what to do now,” Hassard cried. “She told me!”

“Whoa, Deacon, whoa,” Hopewell said, as if calming a skittish horse. He reached a long thin arm far across the camp as Hassard stumbled near him and grabbed the man firmly by the collar. “You’re unsettlin’ the people like that.”

“Hopewell!” Hassard said, seemingly startled to find the elder there. “The Virgin came back! Where’s the money?”

Clarence felt his coat for coins. Yes, it was still laden with gold, pressing heavily down on him as he got to his feet.

“Now get ahold of yourself,” Hopewell said. “You’re not making sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Hassard said, gripping the elder’s arm. “It’s just like Paster Wyckoff wrote in the The Wisdom of Ages! The faithful have to renounce everything that pretends to take power from God. That includes government, all those other false religions, and—money!”

“We have renounced all that,” Hopewell said. “That’s why we came out here, away from government power. Away from those other denominations. And we’ve given our money to the church.”

Clarence stepped around the dazed pilgrims and stopped with the rifle stock on his hip. He looked back for May, remembering where she had bedded down on the spruce boughs he had cut for her. He saw her rising in the moonlight, as fine a sight as he had ever seen.

“And now it’s time for the church to renounce that money!” Hassard yelled, raising his arms and laughing. “We’re finally to be free of that ‘evil mammon’—that’s what Pastor Wyckoff called it. The Virgin came to me again tonight, Hopewell. Just now. And she told me why we’re to make our pilgrimage to the Mount of the Snowy Cross. We’re to sacrifice that money to God, there on the mountain. We’re to give it up and trust in his will to get us by!”

“Wait a minute,” Clarence said, stepping forward. “When you had these people sell all their wagons and things, you told them the money would be used to file on homesteads or buy government land.”

“That was before the revelation!” Hassard hissed, waving his hand at the Vermonter. “Now I know better. What do you need money for? The wilderness will provide us everything. Now, where’s the money, Elder Hopewell?”

“Hold on,” Clarence said. “I see where you’re entitled to a certain amount of authority as guide of this party, but that money belongs to these people. It’s up to them to decide what to do with it.”

“But it’s not up to them,” Hassard said. “It’s not up to me, and it’s not up to you. It’s up to God, and God has sent his angel, the Virgin Mother of his only son, to tell Pastor Wyckoff, and now me, what the faithful are to do to save mankind!”

“But legally—” Clarence began.

“Legally?” Hassard stomped toward the Vermonter. “Brother Clarence, you haven’t embraced what this church is all about. There is no law but God’s law!” He seethed with a rage almost real in its vehemence.

Clarence remained unmoved. “If it were your money, you could do whatever you wanted with it. But…”

“Look,” Hassard said, tromping off toward his saddle on the ground. “I understand your reservations. You haven’t seen the Virgin weeping in your dreams.” He fumbled excitedly with the flap of his saddlebags. “But maybe this will convince you.”

Clarence scarcely saw the articles Hassard lifted from the saddlebags in the moonlight, but he could tell by the way the man handled them that they carried considerable weight for their size.

“I’ve got almost two thousand dollars’ worth of gold dust here from my mine in Tarryall,” Hassard said, carrying the two leather pouches to Elder Hopewell. “I didn’t mention it before, because I was greedy. Thought you might want some for your church. But now I’m willing to give it all up!” He placed the two bags of dust in Elder Hopewell’s hands.

“What do you want me to do with it?” Hopewell said.

“Add it to the church coffers.” He took the roll of bills from his coat pocket and handed it to Hopewell. “Put this with it. And when the time comes, I hope you’ll see fit to dedicating it to the Lord.”

“Just what do you mean by ‘dedicating’ it?” Clarence asked.

“I am to find this mountain—the Mount of the Snowy Cross. I am to lead the faithful there. And we are to leave all our evil mammon at the place where we first catch sight of the cross. Those are my instructions from the Weeping Virgin. That is dedication, Brother Clarence. That is the dedication of the faithful!”

“That’s throwin’ money away on a mountaintop if you ask me.”

A look of suspicion swept Hassard’s face. “Maybe you’d like to have your share of the money back,” he said. “Is that it, Brother Clarence?”

“No, that’s not it, because I never put any money in there. I’m just against throwing money away when it might be put to some kind of good use.”

Hassard put his hands on his hips. “Have you read The Wisdom of Ages?”

“Not all of it,” Clarence admitted.

“How much have you read?”

“I only got through the first chapter.”

“Brother Clarence, how do expect to become a member of this church if you don’t read Pastor Wyckoff’s book?”

“I never said I intended to become a member of this church—no offense to any of these folks. You just hired me on as a hunter for this trip.”

“So you’re here to make money, not to dedicate it. You seem to be struggling with inner greed, Brother Clarence.”

“No,” May said, the heads turning to look at her. “Clarence was real generous to me. He bought me supper in Denver when I was hungry and didn’t have a place to stay.”

In the sparse light, Hassard saw the eyes of the pilgrims shift from May to Clarence and knew he needed to add nothing to their suspicions. “I don’t doubt he did. But he’s said he doesn’t intend to join the congregation of the Church of the Weeping Virgin, he’s offered no money to the church coffers, he’s failed to read past the first chapter of The Wisdom of Ages, and yet he thinks he has the authority to tell these people what to do with their money?”

“You’re the one who’s trying to tell them what to do with the church money. I’m saying it’s up to them, not you.”

Hassard took a few steps toward Clarence. “I’ll tell you one thing I have the authority for. That’s gettin’ these good people safe to their promised land. To do that, I have to keep them fed, and I haven’t seen you bringin’ in any meat.”

Clarence shifted the rifle in his hand. “Game’s been scarce. Prospectors must have spooked everything out.”

The deacon snorted. “You’ve got tomorrow to bring some meat in, or you’re fired. Now, I’m goin’ into the woods to pray. I’ll say a special one for you, Brother Clarence. You need it.” He walked through the throng, which parted to let him pass into the trees.

When he had skulked far enough into the timber, he stopped to urinate on a tree trunk, then grinned as he buttoned his trousers back. That Clarence from Vermont really thought he was something. He almost hoped that smart-mouthed kid did kill some meat tomorrow. Pulling this thing off would be a lot easier without him around, but it would definitely be more interesting with him.

He found a log on the ground and knelt beside it, lying across the top of it. He would sleep there, and someone would come to wake him before dawn and find him as if he had fallen asleep in prayer.

Oh, young Clarence was full of himself. But Dee Hassard had made fools of brighter men than him. If he couldn’t get rid of the damn nuisance, he would just have to put a ring in the Vermonter’s nose and break him to lead. And if that didn’t work, there was always the rust-pitted Smith & Wesson or the fine blue Colt taken from the corpse of Frank Moncrief.