CHAPTER NINETEEN
Shawn O’Brien returned to camp carrying a long, straight tree branch that was wide at its base but slimmer at the top so it would bend like a fishing rod under any kind of weight.
Hamp Sedley was unimpressed.
“That’s it?” he said. “It ain’t much of a badge of office.”
“It’s not quite done yet,” Shawn said.
He held up a roll of trimmed creeper vine that was stronger than twine.
“For the finishing touch,” he said.
“And what’s that?” Sedley said.
“All in due time, Hamp. All in due time.”
But Sedley paid no attention. He looked beyond and behind Shawn, then jumped to his feet, his gun coming up.
“Hold up right there, mister,” he yelled. “Or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
“Hell, Sedley, on your best day you couldn’t hit me at this distance.”
It was Wolfden’s voice, but it came from a small, hunchbacked man with the pinched, intolerant face of a Spanish Inquisition torturer.
The man had sunken cheeks and great black shadows under eyes that glowed with a fanatical fire. His pallor was ashen and lank, dirty hair hung about his face. The mouth was thin, pinched, cruel, merciless.
“Well, what do you boys think?” Wolfden said. “I always carry my stage makeup. Never know when I might need it.”
“Well, you scared the hell out of me,” Sedley said. “Another minute and I’d have plugged you for sure.”
“Perfect,” Shawn said, grinning. “The very model of a model witch-finder general if ever I saw one.”
Wolfden stepped to the fire and Sedley decided to play critic.
“The clothes let you down, and can you keep yourself hunched over like that all day?”
“I’m an actor,” Wolfden said. “I don’t know about all day, but I’ve played the hunchbacked prince for hours at a time.”
He looked down at his black frockcoat, pants of the same color and the scuffed toes of his boots. “But I agree with you about the duds.”
“Cobb won’t remember what you wore,” Shawn said. “You’ll need to lose the gun belt, of course.”
“Wait, I have an idea,” Sally said.
She stepped to the carpetbag that she’d insisted on taking from the hotel and rummaged inside. “Let me have your hat, Mr. Wolfden,” she said.
“The name’s Jasper, remember?” Wolfden said, smiling as he said it.
“No. You are Mr. Wolfden,” the girl said. “Now let me have the hat.”
Sally folded up the brim until it lay flat against the crown, and then she pinned it in place with a brooch she’d taken from the bag.
“It was my mother’s, a cameo of nymphs dancing in a glade,” she said. “But it looks like something a witch-finder might wear in his hat. At least, I think it does.”
“Naked nymphs, Sally,” Sedley said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“No, they’re witches,” Sally said. “That’s what the witch-finder will tell anyone who asks.”
“It makes me look kind of weird,” Wolfden said, settling the hat on his head.
“That’s the general idea, general,” Shawn said. “Now do something about the iron.”
Wolfden’s coat was cut baggy in the fashion of the time and his revolver disappeared into an inside pocket.
“Fine,” Shawn said, standing back to admire him. “You look just fine. You could fool your own mother.”
“I don’t know about that,” Wolfden said. “Hell, this isn’t going to end well. I can feel it in my water.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Shawn said. “I’ll raise such hell in the damned town that half the time no one will notice you.”
“What kind of hell?” Wolfden said.
“Once I’ve figured that out, you’ll be the first to know, Jasper.” He shoved the pole at the man. “Here, take this. It’s your official badge of office.”
“It’s a pine branch,” Wolfden said.
“Well, it isn’t quite finished yet,” Shawn said. “Now, let’s be on our way. You’ll ride double with me.”
“What’s wrong with my own horse?” Wolfden said.
Shawn shook his head. “Jasper, Jasper, Jasper. Cobb may not remember your duds, but he’ll sure as hell recollect a white stud that goes seventeen hands high and has a mean disposition.”
“Then I’ll take—”
“No, you walk into Holy Rood,” Shawn said. “Witch-finders don’t ride horses.”
“Who says?”
“I do. Now let’s hit the trail. Time’s a-wasting.”
“What about the rabbits?” Wolfden said.
“They’re nowhere near done yet,” Shawn said. “We’ll save you some.”
Riding double, Shawn and Wolfden dropped out of the trees and onto the wagon road, and then swung south toward Holy Rood.
The high mountain land around him lay still and silent, drowsy from the growing heat of the day. Only the distant Harmony Mountains to the north looked cool, purple peaks against a cloudless sky that shaded from blue to the color of mint.
For fifteen minutes, Shawn and Wolfden rode in silence, the only sounds the soft plod of the horse and the creak of saddle leather.
Then Shawn said, “The first of them coming up, Jasper.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Wolfden said.
Shawn turned his head in the saddle and grinned.
“You’ll look great,” he said. “Like a witch-finder should look.”
“Yeah, if the people in Holy Rood are stupid enough to believe it.”
“They’re stupid enough.”
Shawn drew rein and studied the skull on the post nearest him.
“Well?” Wolfden said.
“Not quite right,” Shawn said. “It’s a bit too weathered.” He nodded to the other side of the road. “Same with that one. Real brown instead of yellow.”
Wolfden looked over Shawn’s shoulder. “Lord, these damned skulls go on forever,” he said.
Shawn’s far-seeing eyes scanned the road, a dusty vee that disappeared into shimmering distance. Somewhere beyond the heat shimmer was Holy Rood.
“I’d say close to fifty, twenty-five a side,” he said. “It looks like Cobb was busy for a spell when he and his boys first rode into town. Who were these people?”
Wolfden stared at the brown skull and said, “Whores, gamblers, goldbrick artists, dancehall loungers, drunks and vagrants. Alas, the poor Yoricks, I knew them all.”
Wolfden leaned over in the saddle and pointed into a patch of scrub at the side of the trail. “See that rotten wood in there?” he said.
Shawn allowed that he did.
“It had a name on it once—Dawson’s Draw, the name of the settlement when it was a town like any other. Hank Cobb changed the name when the killing started.”
Shawn kneed his horse forward. “And you tried to stop him.”
“Yeah, I did. Then he killed me.”
“Or so he thought.”
“Yeah, Shawn, something like that.”
Holy Rood had emerged through the shifting landscape when Shawn found a skull that suited him. It was a white, fine-boned example that looked female, and it still had all its teeth.
Trying hard not to speculate too much about the skull’s previous owner, Shawn took it from the post and said, “Right, Jasper, from now on you walk.”
Wolfden jumped off the horse and then Shawn swung out of the saddle.
“What the hell are you going to do with that head?” Wolfden said.
“Let me have your staff of office,” Shawn said.
“You mean this dry stick?”
“Yes, and remember to bear it with pride, my man,” Shawn said.
Using the creeper vine, as tough as rawhide, Shawn lashed the skull to the pine branch.
The weight of the skull bent the pole over at the top, an effect Shawn declared was, “Crackerjack!”
“Jasper, carry the staff over your shoulder and walk into Holy Rood like you owned the place,” he said. “Remember, you’re the official witch-finder general and everybody’s afraid of you.”
“We’ll soon see if that’s the case,” Wolfden said. “Cobb is a piece of dirt, but he’s hard to fool.”
“I know,” Shawn said. All the good humor drained from his face, and was replaced by concern. “Jasper, you’re putting your life on the line and what you’re about to do is dangerous. Just . . . just be careful.”
“I’ll pin Cobb in town for as long as I can,” Wolfden said. “The rest is up to you.”
“You see the skulls around you,” Shawn said. “A town that sanctions that isn’t fit to exist. I’ve declared war on Holy Rood, Jasper, and I’ll finish what I start.”
Wolfden smiled. “I pegged you for a rich man’s son, but never a town tamer.”
“Me neither,” Shawn said, “but I guess that’s what I’ve become.”
The road lay ahead of Wolfden and Holy Rood shimmered white in the noon sun.
“I best be on my way,” he said. He grinned. “Maybe I’ll get something to eat, on account of how I’m missing my last six meals.”
“Wait,” Shawn said.
He reached into his pocket. “This is a rosary. My father gave it to me when I left home for England. It will help protect you.”
Wolfden smiled. “Sounds like popery to me.”
“It sounds like it because it is,” Shawn said.
He removed Wolfden’s hat and hung the coral rosary beads around his neck. Then he replaced the hat again.
“My gun-fighting brother, Jacob, carries one, and he’s about as good a Catholic as a Cheyenne dog soldier. Same goes for Luther Ironside, only he’s even worse.”
“I guess if a fast gun like Jacob O’Brien doesn’t mind the beads, then neither do I.” Wolfden smiled. “Shawn, thanks. I won’t let you down.”
“And I won’t let you down either,” Shawn said.
Shawn watched Wolfden leave, the white, grinning skull over his shoulder bobbing behind him.
The day was as bright as a newly minted coin, the land around Shawn rippling with heat, yet he felt a chill, as though the cold winds of Dartmoor were once again blowing on him.