Twenty-six

Hassard rose from the log where he had eaten his breakfast of venison steak and saw the eyes of several hopeful pilgrims following him as he reached for the coffeepot over the fire. They had risen to breakfast with him under the stars, in hopes that he might choose them to accompany him up the mountain.

He was getting anxious now. The time was near when he would have to deal with Brother Clarence.

He had Philbrick figured: Over educated and over confident. Morally responsible and physically formidable. A simpleton in terms of practical experience. His ideas of fair play would prove his downfall. He really had no inkling how far Dee Hassard would go. It might have been possible to dupe young Clarence before last night. But the Charlie Holt affair had taught him something. The boy had instincts that he was just too educated to know how to use yet. He would probably never get the chance.

Less than twenty-four hours from now, Hassard was going to leave this camp and head back up the mountain to retrieve the loot that he would leave there today. Philbrick would probably be watching him, waiting for him, and he would have to make silent work of the young Vermonter. This was the reason that Hassard now carried Charlie Holt’s dagger. He disliked using knives, but it would have to be done. He would kill Clarence if he had to, get the money from the divide, locate the hobbled mule he had left up the valley, and ride for Buena Vista a half day ahead of Carrol Moncrief.

Carrol Moncrief: Dangerous. Vengeful. Possessed with affecting the capture or death of Dee Hassard. Weakness: Religious scruples. Yet, Moncrief had seen this side of the law. He might easily revert. It was imperative to stay beyond the big preacher’s reach. The man was already mounted and riding by this time in the morning and would be at Tigiwon by noon tomorrow, no sooner. It was time to wrap this thing up.

He looked across the camp at the faces of the congregation. They were watching him so expectantly. Oh, glory, what a life to lead! To think that these wretched pilgrims would resign themselves to hard labor and prayer. He hated them. They were small, stupid, and gullible. They would only get what they deserved.

“I had another dream last night,” he said, low and thoughtfully, warming his cup of coffee with a splash from the pot. “A visitation.”

“From the Weeping Virgin?” someone asked.

Hassard nodded. “She gave me specific instructions to follow today, and I am afraid they will disappoint many of you. I don’t understand why I am to do this, I only know I must.”

“Do what?” Clarence asked. He was wearing the Colt revolver of the late Charlie Holt.

“I am forbidden to touch the money that we are to dedicate to the Snowy Cross today. Instead, I am to take a small party of faithful with me to carry the stuff and accompany me to the cross.”

A murmur swept around the fire as the pilgrims shuffled uncomfortably.

“In days to come, you will all see it,” Hassard insisted reassuringly. “I’m sure we’ll make regular pilgrimages to it. It’s the personal experience for each of you that counts, not who gets to go first. But today, I am to take only a few.”

“How many?” James O’Rourke asked. He was certain that Hassard would include him, now that they were personally acquainted after yesterday’s trouble.

“Three. The first is Elder Hopewell. The second is Sister Mary Whitepath. The third, Brother Clarence.”

O’Rourke sprang to his feet. “What about me? I joined the church in Baltimore, before any of them, except Elder Hopewell!”

“I can’t explain why these have been chosen,” Hassard said. “I can’t even explain why I have been chosen. I, too, joined the church after you, Brother James, only as recently as Denver. I only know what the Weeping Virgin has told me.” He shrugged apologetically. “Try to remember what Pastor Wyckoff has written about personal sacrifice. Perhaps this is yours.”

O’Rourke sat sullenly down against a tree trunk.

Dee Hassard picked up a hatchet and felt its edge with his thumb. “Elder Hopewell. The money.”

“It’s here,” the elder said, lifting a heavily laden saddlebag. In it were all the monies Pastor Wyckoff had collected since the pilgrimage began, plus Dee Hassard’s take from the diamond field fraud, and even a bag of gold dust recovered from the body of the outlaw Charlie Holt. No one had bothered to add it all up.

“Let’s go,” Hassard said, rapping his coffee cup upside down on a rock to knock the dregs out. “We’ve got several miles to climb.”

In the dark, Clarence brushed by May as he turned up the trail. He squeezed her cool neck gently in his hand as he passed. And she touched him, too—her open palm pressing against the back of his hand, where she knew he would feel it, her fingers slipping away as he walked on.

“I’ll carry the heavy stuff,” Clarence said to Hopewell.

The elder handed the saddlebags to Clarence, then picked up a coil of rope and looped it over his head and one shoulder.

Mary Whitepath fell in behind them, her moccasins treading silently on supple blades of grass.

“Deacon Dee!”

The con man turned to look at James O’Rourke.

“God go with you,” the youth said.

Dee smiled. “Bless you, James.” With his hatchet he chopped a slash mark on an aspen tree—the first in a long line that would lead him back to the gold after today’s sunset.

*   *   *

Sister Petra could look down and see last night’s camp far below, the light of dawn showing the wisp of smoke rising through the pines. The sun hadn’t even risen above the mountains to the east and already she had climbed a half mile. Her muscles were warm, the stiffness from the bed of spruce boughs gone.

Ramon was on her heels. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“Just looking down on the camp. We must not start too fast. We will have a long way to climb today.” She smiled, for it was a joy to see him this excited about reaching the cross.

“We must not go too slow, either,” he argued. “We don’t know what we might run into.”

They had found a game trail not far above their camp, but it had played out quickly, and now they were simply clawing their way up the steep slope, crawling under low limbs, over deadfalls and boulders. They couldn’t see Notch Mountain for the trees, but knew it loomed over them, reaching high above the timber.

They worked upward for an hour, finally arriving at a minor ridge that branched off the main divide like a rib from a backbone. Working their way along the top of the ridge, they could move with relative ease among the trees, until they came to the broad flank of the mountain, where they had to negotiate steep grades again.

“Which way should we go?” Ramon asked.

Petra put her hands on her hips and saw her breath form a cloud in front of her. It was a wonderful day, sunny and warming. “The old man yesterday said to cross the Notch Mountain divide south of its summit. I think if we turn northward here and work our way gradually up the mountain as we go, we should come out above timber in about the right place.”

Ramon nodded, took the lead. He didn’t know why, but he felt like climbing today. His legs almost ached to be used. “Come on,” he said.

Coming around a forested bluff some time later, Ramon stopped and could only stare as Petra came to his side. An avalanche had swept down the mountainside in front of him, carrying trees and rocks downward in what must have been an incredible spectacle as it occurred. Now it was nothing more than an ugly scar to cross, the footing treacherous for some sixty yards.

“I suppose we could climb and go over it,” Petra said.

Ramon looked up the old avalanche. It was a long way in the wrong direction. “Look,” he said pointing to a place not far above. “There’s a path that some mountain sheep or something has been using.”

Petra sounded nervous. “Yes, but could we?” One misplaced step could send either of them sliding hundreds of feet down the loose slope.

“One step at a time,” Ramon said.

He climbed to the path the wild sheep had made and stepped onto it, testing every footfall for security. Stride by stride, he began crossing the landslide, pausing only once in the middle as a flash of something below caught his eye. He looked far downward and saw the sun reflecting in a beaver pond maybe two miles away. The avalanche had cleared a swath down through the timber, opening an incredible vista.

“Gracias a Dios,” he muttered, taking in the eagle’s view. Turning, he saw a look of wild terror in Sister Petra’s eyes and knew he had better not ask her to look down. He moved steadily across the rest of the landslide, waiting for her on safe ground, offering his hand.

They spoke nothing, but moved on, ever upward, across the steep forested face of the mountain. Coming around another huge wrinkle in the topography, they heard water rushing not far away. As they got nearer, it grew to a roar, and soon they found the stream thundering over a precipice in a white froth.

They had to climb to get to the top of the waterfall, where slick stepping stones led them across the torrent of snowmelt. Ramon went first, leaping from one rock to the next with perfect balance. When he turned, he saw Petra still waiting across the stream.

“Come on!” he cried.

She answered, but the sound of the cascade swallowed her words. Uncertainly, she started, looking long at each successive step, gathering herself for the long stride repeatedly before chancing it. On the fifth stone, her foot slipped. The water was knee deep, cold, and swift enough to take her foot out from under her.

Ramon was in the stream in an instant, splashing toward the little nun, even though the current lacked the force to sweep her far toward the brink of the waterfall. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her across the stream.

“I’m all right,” she said. She sat down at the water’s edge and caught her breath. “I didn’t know it would be this hard. We’ve crossed nothing like this.” Her eyes, for the first time since leaving Guajolote, showed her doubts.

Ramon rose and stepped back, aghast. “Oiga,” he ordered. “Listen to me, Sister Petra. Day after day I have followed you north looking for this cross. Now we are only a couple of miles away, and you are losing your nerve?”

“I haven’t lost my nerve,” she snapped. “I just didn’t know it would get this dangerous. “I’m afraid one of us is going to fall off this mountain.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me,” he said. “I’m going to find that cross. I’m going to see something that only a handful of people have ever seen. Do you want me to tell you about it, or do you want to come with me?”

Petra gritted her teeth as she rose. Something had come over this boy. How much he had changed since Guajolote. Giving orders now! “Listo,” she said. “I am ready,” and the determination in her eyes convinced Ramon.

They trudged on at a steady grind, their legs falling into a slow rhythm. Taking a severe angle up the mountain, they covered ground more slowly, but gained altitude faster. Patches of snow began to appear in shady places, the patches growing larger as they ascended. It took thousands of wordless steps, their path wending among many obstacles of stone and wood, before they reached the timberline.

It came suddenly, the bright openness glaring down at them after the shadows of the forest. Petra looked for a path, but, of course, there was none. Ahead lay fields of snow, ancient rock slides.

“Is this Notch Mountain?” Ramon said. “Where is the notch?”

“We can’t see it from here. We are too close to it. It all looks different when you are upon it.”

It was cooler up here, but the sun was shining brightly, and the climb had kept them warm.

“It should be easier now,” Ramon suggested. “No more dead trees to climb over.”

“Yes,” she answered. “But there will be more snow. We are going to have to go through it in some places. We still have a mile to climb, maybe two.”

He took some dried meat from his coat pocket and began to chew on it as he led the way up the slippery alpine tundra. He stepped in a mushy spot where melted snow had seeped and felt the cold water almost immediately on his toes. His boots were worn out from the long journey. Petra’s were in better shape, and they were high-topped lace-up boots. Ramon’s were low, wide-mouthed boots. They would not serve him well if he had to cross fields of snow.

Petra looked northward and saw white clouds on some far-distant range. “I hope the clouds don’t gather here. It would obscure the cross.”

“You worry too much. We are almost there. What could happen now?” But Ramon was worried, too. Not about whether they would find the cross, but about what would happen then. Did she really think they would find money lying around on the rocks? This trip was meant to save Guajolote. Did she remember that? How was this Snowy Cross going to save a tiny village hundreds of miles away? Petra was in for a disappointment. That was all there was to it. And she was going to be hell to live with all the way home.