Bloodstone (19 page)

“You won’t find out till you make a choice,” she said without a change of expression. “We got steak. We got chicken. We got ham.”

“I’ll have steak and eggs. So will he. Medium rare.”

“Er, I prefer mine well done,” said Nestor.

“He’s young, but he’ll learn,” put in Clem. “Make it two, medium rare.”

“We got local wine. We got beer. We got Baker’s. Make your choice.”

“How good is the wine?” She raised one eyebrow. “Forget I asked. We’ll take the beer.”

As she walked away, Nestor leaned forward. “What kind of a town is this?” he asked Clem. “Did you see what they were doing in that tavern? Gambling and consorting with … with …” The young man stumbled to a halt.

Clem chuckled. “You mean the women? Ah, Nestor, you’ve got a lot to learn, boy.”

“But it’s against the Deacon’s laws.”

“There are some things you can’t legislate against,” said
Clem, his smile fading. “Most men need the company of a woman from time to time. In a mining community, where men outnumber women maybe twenty to one, there’s not enough to go around. That sort of situation leads to trouble, Nestor. A good whore can help keep the peace.”

“Your friend is a wise man,” said the Crusader, easing back his chair and wandering over to their table. He was tall and stoop-shouldered with a drooping mustache. “Welcome to Purity, boys,” he said. “I’m Seth Wheeler, local captain of the Crusaders.”

“Those are the first pleasant words we’ve heard,” said Clem, offering his hand.

Wheeler shook it and pulled up a chair. “Just visiting?” he asked.

“Passing through,” Clem said, before Nestor could speak.

Wheeler nodded. “Don’t judge us too harshly, young man,” he told Nestor. “Your friend is right. Once the silver mines opened up, we got every kind of villain here and some four thousand miners. Hard men. At first we tried to uphold the laws regarding gambling and the like, but it went on just the same. Tricksters and con men fleeced the workers. That led to killings. So we opened up the gambling houses and tried to keep them fair. It ain’t perfect, but we do our best to keep the peace. It ain’t easy.”

“But what about the law?” said Nestor.

Wheeler gave a weary smile. “I could make a law that says a man can only breathe on a Sunday. You think it would be obeyed? The only laws men will follow are those that they agree with or that can be enforced by men like me. I can make the miners and the rogues stay away from the decent folk here. I can do that. But Unity needs silver, and this is the richest strike ever. So we got special dispensation from the Apostle Saul to operate our … places.” It was obvious that Wheeler did not like the situation, and he struck Clem as a decent man. “So where you heading?” he asked Nestor.

“We’re looking for someone,” replied the youngster.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Yes, sir. The Preacher from Pilgrim’s Valley.”

“Jon Cade? I heard he was killed after his church was burned down.”

“You knew him?” asked Clem.

“Never seen him, but word spread that he was friendly to Wolvers—even had them in his church. No wonder it got blazed. He’s alive, then, you reckon?”

“Yes, sir, we think so,” said Nestor. “He killed some of the raiders, but he was wounded bad.”

“Well, he’s not been here, Son. I can assure you of that. Still, give me a description and I’ll see it’s circulated.”

“He’s around six feet two, dark hair, a little gray at the temples. And he was wearing a black coat and a white shirt, black trousers and shoes. He’s sort of thin in the face, with deep-set eyes, and he don’t smile much. I’d say he was around thirty-five, maybe a little older.”

“This wound he took,” said Wheeler softly. “Was it in the temple … here?” he added, tapping the right side of his head.

“Yes, sir, I believe so. Someone seen him riding out, said he was bleeding from the head.”

“How would you know that if you haven’t seen him?” put in Clem.

“Oh, I’ve seen a man who answers that description. What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s a quiet man,” said Nestor, “and he doesn’t like violence.”

“You don’t say? Well, for a man who doesn’t like it he’s mighty partial to it. He shot our Oath Taker to death. Right there in the church. I have to admit that Crane—the dead man—was an odious little runt, but that ain’t hardly the point. He was also involved in an earlier gun battle when Crane and some other men attacked a group of Wanderers. Several men—and a woman—were killed. I think the wound must have scrambled your preacher’s brains, Son. You wouldn’t believe who he’s claiming to be.”

“Who?” asked Nestor.

“The Jerusalem Man.”

Nestor’s mouth dropped open, and he swung a quick glance to Clem. The older man’s face was expressionless. Wheeler
leaned back in his chair. “Don’t seem to have surprised you none, friend.”

Clem shrugged. “Head wounds can be very tricky,” he said. “I take it you didn’t catch him.”

“Nope. To be honest, I hope we don’t. That’s a very sick man. And he was provoked. I’ll tell you this, though: he can surely handle a pistol. That’s a surprising gift for a preacher who don’t like violence.”

“He’s a surprising man,” said Clem.

Jacob Moon was thinking of other, more weighty matters as the mortally wounded man crawled painfully across the yard, trying to reach the fallen pistol. He was considering his prospects. The Apostle Saul had treated him fairly, giving him back his youth and supplying a plentiful share of wealth and women. But Saul’s day was passing.

Saul might think he could take the Deacon’s place, but Moon knew it would not happen. For all his bluster and his willingness to kill for power, there was a weakness in Saul. Others had not apparently noticed it. But then, they were blinded by the brilliance of the Deacon and failed to see the flaws in the man who stood beside him. Let’s face it, thought Moon, Saul casts a mighty thin shadow.

The wounded man groaned. He was close to the pistol now; Moon waited until his hand closed over the butt, then shot him twice in the back. The last shot severed the spine just above the hip, and the man’s legs were useless. Moon’s victim, the pistol in his hand, was trying to roll over to aim at his assailant. He could not. The legs were dead weight now.

Moon moved to the right. “Over here, Kovac,” he said. “Try this side.”

Gamely, the injured Bull Kovac pushed against the ground, his powerful arms finally twisting him far enough to be able to see the tall assassin. With trembling fingers Bull eased back the hammer of his pistol. Moon drew and fired, the bullet entering Kovac’s head just above the bridge of the nose.

“By God, he was game,” said one of the two Jerusalem Riders accompanying Moon.

“Game doesn’t get it done,” said Moon. “You boys get back to Pilgrim’s Valley and report the attack on Kovac’s farm. You can say that I’m out hunting the killers. If you need me, I’ll be in Domango. And Jed,” he called as the riders turned their mounts.

“Yes sir, Jacob?”

“I haven’t the time to deal with the storekeeper. You handle it.”

“When?”

“In two days,” Moon told him. “The night before the Oath Taking.”

As the men rode away, Moon stepped across the corpse and strolled into the house. The log walls were well crafted and neatly fitted, the dirt floor hard-packed and well swept. Bull Kovac had traced a series of motifs into it, making it more homey. There were no pictures on the wall, and all the furniture was handmade. Moon pulled up a chair and sat down. A jug of Baker’s was still sitting on the old iron stove, gently steaming. Reaching out, he filled a mug, his mind returning to the problem of Saul.

The Apostle was right. Land was the key to wealth. But why share it? Most of what they had gathered was already in Moon’s name. With Saul dead I will be doubly rich, he thought.

A small black and white cat moved out of the shadows and rubbed against Moon’s leg. It jumped to his lap and began to purr. Moon stroked its head, and the animal gratefully curled up, its purrs increasing.

When to kill him was the question now.

Stroking the cat, Moon found his inner tension subsiding, and he remembered a line from the Old Testament, something about for every thing there is a season, a time to plant, a time to reap, a time to live, a time to die. That sounded right.

It was not the season on Saul just yet …

First there was the Jerusalem Man. Then the woman, Beth McAdam.

Moon finished his mug of Baker’s and stood, the cat dropping
to all fours on the floor. As he strode from the building, the cat followed and stood in the doorway meowing.

Moon turned and fired in one flowing motion. Then, reloading his pistol, he mounted his horse and set off for Domango.

7

J
OSIAH BROOME PUT
aside his Bible. He had never been a believer, not in the fullest sense, but he valued the sections of the New Testament that dealt with love and forgiveness. It always amazed him how people could be so quick to hate and so slow to love. But then, he reasoned, the first seemed so much easier.

Else was out for the evening at the Bible study group held every Friday at Frey Bailey’s home on the outskirts of town, just beyond the meeting hall, and Josiah Broome was enjoying the unnatural silence. Friday night produced an oasis of calm in his tidy home. Replacing the Bible on the bookshelf, he moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. One mug of Baker’s before retiring, heavily sweetened with honey, was his one luxury on a Friday night. He would carry it out onto the porch and sip it while watching the distant stars.

Tomorrow he would give Oath for Beth McAdam, and Else would scold him for the entire evening. But tonight he would enjoy the silence. The kettle began to vibrate. Taking a cloth from a peg on the wall, he wrapped it around the handle and lifted the kettle from the range. Filling the mug, he added the powdered Baker’s brew and three heaping spoonfuls of honey. As he was stirring it, he heard a tapping at the front door. Annoyed by the interruption, he carried the drink
through the kitchen and across the main room. “Come in!” he called, for the door was never locked.

Daniel Cade eased his way inside, leaning heavily on his sticks, his face red from exertion. Josiah Broome hurried to his side, taking hold of the Prophet’s arm and guiding him to a deep chair. Cade sank down gratefully, laying his sticks on the floor.

Leaning his head back, the Prophet took several deep breaths. Broome laid the mug of Baker’s on a table to his visitor’s right. “Drink that, sir,” he said. “It will help restore your strength.” Hurrying back to the kitchen, he made a second mug and returned to the fireside. Cade’s breathing had eased, but the old man looked tired and worn out, with dark circles beneath his eyes and an unhealthy pallor replacing the fiery red of his cheeks.

“I’m about all done in, Son,” he wheezed.

“What brings you to my home, sir … not that you are unwelcome, you understand!”

Cade smiled. Lifting the Baker’s with a trembling hand, he sipped the brew. “By God, that is sweet!” he said.

“I could make you another,” offered Broome.

Cade shook his head. “It will do, Son. I came to talk, not to drink. Have you been noticing the new arrivals?”

Broome nodded. More than a score of riders had come into Pilgrim’s Valley during the past week, all of them tough men, heavily armed. “Jerusalem Riders,” he said. “They serve the Deacon.”

Cade grunted. “Saul, more like. I don’t like it, Broome. I know their kind. God’s blood,
I am their kind.
Brigands, take my word for it. I don’t know what game Saul is playing, but I don’t like it, Broome.”

“I understand that Jacob Moon called them in after the murder of poor Bull Kovac,” said Broome.

Cade’s pale eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said softly. “The man you and Beth were to stand Oath for. Now two of those same Jerusalem Riders have moved into Bull’s house. There’s something very wrong here, but no one else can see it.”

“What do you mean?”