CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The moon hung high in the sky and, staring at it, Jasper Wolfden felt an ancient stirring, as old as mankind itself, to strip off his clothes and go hunting with the wolves.
He smiled to himself.
How wonderful that would be, to run through a pine forest misty with moonlight and howl with the pack, the musky scent of deer strong, like incense in his nostrils.
But there was no need for that . . . plenty of wolves right here in Holy Rood.
Two watched him now, predators more cold and deadly than the most ravenous lobo.
Despite their monk robes, Wolfden recognized them both. Tom Hooper, a mental case who enjoyed killing for killing’s sake, and Jason McCord, a Texas hard-ass of reputation.
Wolfden pegged the gunmen in his mind as the Deadly Duo, and the alliteration pleased him.
Both of them had been present when Hank Cobb buried him alive.
The men sat about twenty feet apart from Wolfden, close enough that a skilled revolver fighter like McCord could get his work in, but far enough away to discourage any gun or knife play the witch-finder might make.
Wolfden commented on it.
“You boys don’t trust me, huh?” he said. “Sceered I’ll bring the lightning down on you.”
Hooper, who’d been honing the edge of his machete with a whetstone, sneered and said, “You don’t scare us, mister.”
“And why not?” Wolfden said. “Though I have no intention of scaring either of you.”
“Because there ain’t no such things as witches. And if there ain’t no witches, there ain’t no witch-finders.”
“Hank Cobb doesn’t think so,” Wolfden said. “That’s why you and McCord are here.”
“We’re here because of the money,” Hooper said. “Hank hasn’t figured out your angle yet, hunchback. But he will.”
“And then?”
“And then he’ll kill you. Or we will.” He turned to McCord. “Pass the damned whiskey, will you? You been hoggin’ it all night.”
McCord surrendered the bottle, and then said, “Your name is Starlight, ain’t it?”
“As ever was, man and boy,” Wolfden lied smoothly.
“Then why don’t you make it easy on yourself, Mr. Starlight?” McCord said. “Admit to Cobb in the presence of the townspeople that you came here to steal the bank’s money and he’ll go easy on you.”
“Hell, he might cut you in for a share,” Hooper said. “The boss is a generous man.”
“Shut your trap, Tom,” McCord said. Then to Wolfden, “You know you’re not leaving this burg alive unless Cobb says so.”
“I have a job to do,” Wolfden said.
“There ain’t witches in Holy Rood, mister,” McCord said. “I already told you that.”
Wolfden smiled. “I know. But there’s a bunch of killers and outlaws here. And they’re just as evil as witches.”
“Listen, hunchback, are you some kind of law?” Hooper said.
Wolfden shook his head. “No. I’m a witch-finder.”
Hooper hissed his frustration and held up the machete so the moonlight gleamed on its edge.
“You know why I’m sharpening this knife?” he said. “Because I blunted it on a feller’s skull this morning. I damn near cut his fool head off. Now I’m thinking about doing the same to you. Maybe cut that hump off’n your back.”
“He isn’t joking, Mr. Starlight.” McCord grinned. “Good ol’ Tom’s a demon with that there machete.”
Wolfden had been sitting on a rock. Now he rose to his feet and his back straightened.
Surprise showed on the faces of the two gunmen as they all at once beheld a tall, straight man, not a hunchback.
“Good ol’ Tom, try to hit me with the big knife and I’ll kill you before you cover three paces,” Wolfden said. “You really feel like wading through a half dozen bullets to get to me?”
Hooper was not a smart man, and he might have gone for it.
But the sudden clangor of the church bell froze him in place, as it did McCord.
The Texan recovered first. “What the hell?” he said.
He ran to the rim of the ridge and stared at the moonlit church, then ducked as shots rang out.
“Is it Cobb?” Hooper yelled above the din.
“Hell, I don’t know,” McCord said. “I can’t see a thing.”
“We’d better get down there,” Hooper said.
“No. You boys stay right where you’re at.”
The heads of both men swiveled in Wolfden’s direction. He stood tall and terrible in the darkness, Colt in hand.
“Damn it,” McCord said. “I should’ve pegged you for a gun.”
Wolfden shook his head. “No, you should’ve pegged me for who I am, Jason.”
McCord peered hard at Wolfden and the scales fell from his eyes.
“Jasper Wolfden, by God,” he said. “I helped bury you.”
“Not deep enough,” Wolfden said.
“Damn you, then this time I’ll make it stick.”
McCord drew.
And died.
The Texan was fast, but drawing from the leather against a man who already had his own gun out and knew how to shoot it was a doomed play.
McCord went down with two bullets in his chest that clipped half-moons from the tag of the tobacco sack that dangled from his shirt pocket under the monk’s robe.
Hooper watched McCord fall. He screamed in rage and charged Wolfden, the machete raised for a killing downward stroke.
Wolfden had earlier prophesized what would happen.
Three bullets tracked upward, following the recoil of the Colt.
Hooper stumbled a few steps with a .45 in his belly, chest and throat.
He died with his eyes wide open, horrified at the time and manner of his death.
The demanding bell dinged into silence, its sound replaced by random shots, pounding feet and the hoarse yells of angry men.
Wolfden smiled.
Shawn O’Brien was sure playing hob.
Now it was his turn.
The idea had come to him out of the blue. To be sure, it was a grandstand play, but he considered it crackerjack. Best of all, it would take the pressure off Shawn, who might even now be fighting for his life.
Wolfden pried the machete out of Hooper’s dead hand and stepped to the ridge. The unblinking moon rode high, surrounded by a halo of pale blue and red.
People were flooding into the bone-white street and he thought he heard Hank Cobb yelling orders.
Wolfden turned his head into the wind. There was a good breeze, sufficient for his purpose.
Grinning, he set to work.
He opened the sacks of paper money and shook them into the wind. The bills fluttered off the ridge and scattered like a flock of released pigeons.
Now for the coin.
The keen-edged machete easily slashed the burlap sacks open and Wolfden emptied them into the bottom and the seat of the surrey.
When every sack was empty, he stepped to the edge of the ridge.
“Hey, you down there!” he yelled, throwing his actor’s voice.
Blurred white faces turned in Wolfden’s direction and one of Cobb’s men took a pot at him.
The bullet went wild and Wolfden laughed and yelled, “Watch this, pilgrims!”
A strong man, he put his brawny arms to the surrey.
The carriage tipped and then teetered perilously on two wheels.
Wolfden put his back into it and the surrey toppled over the edge.
He stood and listened to the tinny tinkle of coins chime over the rocks, and then a ragged crash as the surrey hit the flat and shattered apart.
Stepping to the edge of the rim again, Wolfden yelled, “Hey, Hank! You just lost your money!”
He was answered by loud curses and shots slapped across the night.
A few of them were close. Too close.
Standing on the rim, Wolfden realized he was like a duck in a shooting gallery.
He faded back into the darkness, looking for a way out.
As far as he could tell, there was none.