Twenty-three

The sun had dropped behind Notch Mountain when Dee Hassard approached the place called Tigiwon. There were still hours of daylight left but it was cool, shadowy, like the brink of nightfall in flatter regions—a high-country phenomenon he had never gotten used to. It made him feel that time was growing short, like daylight slipping away.

Maybe it wasn’t the mountain’s shadow making him feel that way. Maybe it was the fact that Carrol Moncrief had to be getting closer to him by the minute.

The confidence man had ridden a big red mule a few miles up the valley, hobbled the beast there, and walked back. He had hoped to overtake that white-haired prospector he had met in the meadow, get some more details about the climb to the cross. But the old man hadn’t even left any tracks. No matter. He would find the way.

It was almost as good as done now. Hassard had his escape route planned: up the trail to Tennessee Pass on the big red mule, down into the valley of the Arkansas, to Buena Vista and points beyond. Everything was in place.

Everything but Clarence Philbrick. Hassard knew one thing for certain. Tomorrow, when he announced that he would take the gold up to the Snowy Cross for the dedication, Philbrick was going to insist on going along. The Vermonter had appointed himself watchdog of the church coffers.

What was he going to do about Philbrick? An accident tonight? Too obvious. That would only arouse more suspicion. He didn’t want to have to sacrifice Brother Clarence to the Snowy Cross tomorrow. He hated that sort of thing. Killing always made somebody hound him harder. And besides, it was sloppy—unprofessional.

He thought back to his education under the East Coast masters. They would say to keep Clarence in view. Know at all times where he was, what he was doing. Yes, the thing to do at dawn tomorrow was to invite Clarence to come along before he could insist on it. That might lower the young fool’s suspicions.

Then, maybe … Just maybe the best plan was to leave all that money up there on the divide, like he had been promising to do all along. Yes, dedicate it! Really leave it there and come back to the town site. That would probably convince even Clarence. Nobody was going to bother the money up there.

Then, in the middle of the night, when Clarence and all the other doubters were asleep, Hassard would sneak back up to retrieve his wages. It just might work. He would have several hours’ head start on them. He would come down the mountain where he had left the big red mule, and ride for Buena Vista. What a slick haul that would be!

“That you, Deacon?” The voice came from the trail to Tigiwon.

“Yes,” Hassard said. “Just me.”

The guard stepped into the open path, a burly youth with a single-shot squirrel gun.

“Good job,” Hassard said, grasping the guard by the shoulder. “We must all stay alert, even in this wilderness, Brother…”

“James. James O’Rourke.”

He patted the muscled shoulder. “I don’t expect we’ll have anybody bothering us a way out here, but you know what Pastor Wyckoff used to say: ‘Prepare! For the devil lurks in the guise of Godliness!’”

“Yes,” Brother James said. “What happened to your mule?”

Hassard began to laugh. “I was trotting up the trail, beholding the beauty of God’s creations all around me, when that blessed creature ran me right under a tree limb. I landed on my rear end, and Ol’ Red just kept trotting away. But, what did God give me legs for?”

“You want me to go catch the mule?”

“You have a more important job here. Don’t worry about Ol’ Red. He’ll wander back to Tigiwon in a day or two.” He smiled at the young guard and strode on toward the town site. “Hone your eyesight,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight in Tigiwon.”

He loved that name. He loved the way these people looked up to him. This could be infectious. When he thought about it, Wyckoff’s scam seemed to be one that actually benefited the victims. These people were like sheep. Hell, they begged to be swindled. He hoped he would find plenty just like them in Australia. But then, there was no need to worry about that. There were fools like this everywhere.

*   *   *

“You should have known Pastor Wyckoff in the old days,” Hopewell said. He paused just long enough to straighten, sop the sweat from his eyebrows, and to glance at the beauty of the long-shadowed mountain slope.

Clarence and May helped him roll the log they were peeling for the new church.

“That character sure had a way with words,” Clarence said, “judging from his book.” The construction of this church was a ridiculous thing to him, but he was helping in order to stay close to May. Hunting had gone well since he killed that first buck, and he had some time to burn before the evening hunt.

“Oh, you should have heard Pastor Wyckoff preach,” Hopewell replied. “He could hold a group breathless—I mean really breathless, to where they wouldn’t even risk making a sound to breathe for fear they might miss him whisper. Then he’d roar something at them, and they’d bolt up like lightning struck them.”

“Fast talk and leadership don’t always amount to the same thing.”

“You’re skeptical,” Hopewell said. “That’s understandable. I was, too, even after I heard Pastor Wyckoff speak. Then I went through the initiation. That’s when I realized that the Church of the Weeping Virgin was going to be God’s salvation to the world. Give us a fair chance, Clarence. Consider joining the church.”

Clarence snorted. “I’m not interested.”

“Why not?”

“This initiation. Nobody in your congregation will tell me anything about it. They all act as if they know something I don’t. Like they’re flaunting it; proud of it; selfish with it. It’s all too secretive and elitist for me. Everything I ever learned about faith is based on truth, light. Not darkness.”

Hopewell shook his head. “I know it’s hard to understand if you haven’t experienced it. I wish you could talk to Pastor Wyckoff. He could convince you. We had true leadership when he was alive.”

“What about you?” May said quickly. She could feel the religious conflict deepening between Hopewell and Clarence and didn’t like the thought of them being at odds with each other. “You got the church from Arkansas to Denver after Wyckoff was lynched.” She flaked a large piece of bark off with her draw knife and moved on down the log. “You could lead them as well as anybody.”

The tall man straightened again, rising to his full height. He was standing above them on the slope, and he looked like one of the straight trees the pilgrims were felling in the forest, tall and slender, his white hair and whiskers like bundles of moss. “I’m no match for the likes of Pastor Wyckoff. I don’t have his use of words.”

“This rabble would be better off with you leading them than Dee Hassard,” Clarence said.

“He’s got a way of whipping people in behind him,” Hopewell replied. “He’s not as good with speech as Pastor Wyckoff was, but he’s handy at it. He’s got me worried. I can’t say just why, but I think it has something to do with the money.”

“You mean throwin’ it away up on that mountain?” May said.

The elder nodded. “Pastor Wyckoff never had any objection to the church making or keeping money. To him, money was like this ax.” He held the broad iron blade in front of him, a long arm’s length away. “It can be a good tool, if you use it properly, the way it is intended. It can also be used to crush somebody’s skull. It has nothing to do with any amount of holiness or evil in the instrument itself, but in the user. Same with money.”

Clarence nodded. “I agree.” He looked toward his jacket, which was lying within his grasp under his Remington rifle. “Same with guns. They can be used for protection or aggression. But if the aggressor’s got one, the protector had better have one, too.”

“A sad truth,” Hopewell said. “One we have learned.”

They worked the log in silence for a few moments, hearing the cadence of axes in the forest above them.

“What about Hassard’s guns?” May said. “Have you noticed? That little pistol he wears tucked under his belt looks like it’s been lying out somewhere in the weather. Then he’s got that big pistol in that holster, all shiny and polished, and the gun belt has a new hole poked in it because whoever owned it before Hassard was bigger around than him.”

Clarence contemplated, impressed by what she had said. He didn’t know what it meant any more than May did, but there was something wrong with the deacon’s whole getup. “Everything about him is suspect. Who is he, anyway? He says Reverend Moncrief sent him, but how are we to know?” He paused, looked up toward Notch Mountain. “I’m going with him when he takes the party to find the cross.”

“I intend to go, too,” Hopewell said. “But we’d better be careful. We’d better watch him every second.”

“Clarence,” May said. “What if there really is a cross up there?”

The Vermonter smiled. “The cross exists.”

Elder Hopewell stopped with his ax above one shoulder and looked at the hunter.

Clarence nodded. “I’ve seen a photograph of it, taken last summer by a photographer for the U.S. geological survey. I don’t know how Hassard found out about it, but it is just as he described it.”

Hopewell lowered the ax. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Clarence searched the ground, as if for reason. “I’m not sure. I felt there was some kind of advantage to my keeping quiet about it.

“There’s something strange about all this. From the moment I saw that photograph, I knew I would climb Notch Mountain someday to see that cross. It was one of the final things that made me know I had to come west. I had planned to get situated in New Mexico first. It was only by chance that I met May, and we fell in with the Church of the Weeping Virgin. It’s almost as if I were destined to come here—drawn here like some beast on a migratory journey.” The Vermonter was virtually reciting the entry he would make in his diary that night.

A rifle blast suddenly ripped the wide-open air above the meadow. Axes fell silent, the rush of the river and the echo of the gunshot the only remaining strains. Clarence picked up his Remington, swung an arm into his jacket sleeve, and trotted toward the sound of the shot, on the trail that led north down the river valley. He ran into the timber flanking the trail below Tigiwon and soon saw a guard matching toward the town site—a lanky, rawboned man stalking angrily in front of him, his hands in the air.

“What’s this?” Clarence asked.

The guard was named Dan Feather, a Kickapoo who had joined the church in Indian Territory. He had the stranger’s gun belt slung across one shoulder. “He no stop,” Dan said, “so I shoot.”

“Who are you?” Clarence said to the man.

“Charlie Holt. I come for my wife.”

“Your wife?”

Dan Feather scowled. “He want Sister May.”