A Congregation of Jackals (32 page)

T.W. saw Smiler, standing alone in a sea of strangers. No grin creased his beard: the sixty-three-year-old marshal simply stared in disbelief at the pile of rubble that had been the church. The sheriff had to look away.

“Let me help you.”

T.W. turned around. Oswell Danford stood in front of him. Stones and splinters jutted from his bleeding left cheek; the ear on that side looked as if it had been chewed by a wolf. His hands were still bound behind his back.

The sheriff punched the man across the jaw; the bone cracked. The rancher spat blood into the dirt.

“Please let me help,” Oswell said.

T.W.’s fist throbbed from the blow, which only made him angrier.

“They got my daughter!”

T.W. punched Oswell in the stomach, doubling him over. The rancher stood there, gasping and coughing.

“If something happens to my Beatrice . . . if something happens to her . . .” This was not a sentence T.W. was able to complete.

“I can help you. I rode with Quinlan and have some idea how this’ll go. And he wants me dead, so you might be able to use me for barter.”

T.W. knew that there was truth in what the rancher said.

Oswell continued, “You can hang me afterward—all I want to do is stop him. You heard his threats.” In a
quiet voice that sounded almost like a child’s, he said, “He’s going after my wife. My kids. He’s going after them. My family. They don’t even know what I did all those years ago.”

T.W. said, “You do what I say, without argument. And I will hang you afterward.”

“Okay.”

“Turn around.”

Oswell faced his back to the sheriff. T.W. untied the knot that bound the rancher’s wrists and had turned the man’s hands purple. The cord slid off. Oswell rubbed his palms together, restoring circulation; he could not yet move his fingers.

Richard Sterling, a handkerchief red with blood hanging from his mouth, walked toward the sheriff. He had a revolver in his left hand, pointed at the ground.

“Drop that weapon, Richard Sterling,” T.W. said.

The New Yorker set the gun upon the ground and continued forward.

“You want to help us get Quinlan’s crew before I hang you?”

Richard nodded. He winced; the motion apparently caused him internal pain.

“You can ride like that?’

Richard Sterling nodded.

“He’s a good shot. And fast on the draw,” Oswell added.

T.W. said, “You’ll follow my lead.” For the exact same reasons the sheriff had allowed the rancher to join, he accepted Richard’s help.

“Deputy John,” T.W. called across the plain. The man, twelve yards off, kissed his mother’s cheek and walked past a score of stunned and grieving people before he reached the sheriff.

“You are in charge until we get back.”

“I want to go after them,” the young man said.

“You stay here. We need some law in this town.”

Kenneth John did not argue, which was atypical. It was clear to T.W. that the day’s events had straightened the wayward man.

“You put guards on the telegraph station here. A few on the bank and post office too. Get volunteers and arm them.”

“I will.”

“You and your father made a big difference.” T.W. pointed to the smoking mountain of tinder and broken rock that had been the church. “We could’ve all been in there. You did good.”

“Thank you,” Kenneth John said. He went back to his mother, hugged her, walked her over to Big Abe’s wife for companionship, climbed onto his horse and spurred it into action.

Deputy Goodstead, atop a white mare tethered to four other horses, rode past Kenneth John toward the church grounds; he stared at the dusty heap that had replaced the holy edifice since he departed. The beasts behind him were strong, fresh steeds.

Roland Taylor walked toward the sheriff.

“You can have my horses, but I want to come.”

“Stay here with your family.” The sheriff doubted that Roland had ever fired a gun at a living creature, much less a man.

“They took Tara. I have a right to come,” he bristled.

“You’ve never been in a gunfight in your life. This isn’t the time to learn how it goes.”

Roland pointed at Oswell and Richard, smoldered, and said, “You’re taking them? Those outlaws?”

“They know how to shoot. And if they get killed, nobody’ll care. You should be with your son and your wife.”

The belligerence in the man’s face was replaced by fear when he said, “I haven’t seen Jack since the explosion. I . . . I didn’t see him get out of there.” The man’s eyes filled with tears.

T.W. could not watch the man break and so said, more brusquely than he meant to, “Go to Vanessa. Now.” In a softer voice he added, “She needs you.”

Roland, his mouth trembling, turned away from the sheriff and walked back to his wife.

Smiler walked up to T.W. and proclaimed, “I’m comin’.” The man was older than T.W. by six years, but he would not panic in a showdown, and he was a good shot. Additionally, he was a lawman and had no family, two facts that made him a preferable choice over most Trailspur townsfolk.

“I’m comin’ and you can’t never talk me out of it neither. They got Smith. I’m comin’.”

“You’re the last one. I’m only taking five on this.”

“You can’t talk me out of it,” Smiler said, refuting a comment he had anticipated but not heard.

Goodstead reined his horse beside T.W.; the four tethered steeds halted behind him.

“Get on a horse,” T.W. said to Oswell, Richard and Smiler.

The Texan observed the chosen men and said, “Is this the posse?”

“It is,” T.W. said, limping to a black mare.

Goodstead looked at Oswell and Richard and said, “Nice to have a couple of guys to duck behind when the shootin’ starts.”

The deputy rode up to T.W., leaned down and helped hoist him onto the black mare. The horse whickered. The pain in the sheriff’s left hip made his thigh muscles twitch and burn.

“You got guns?” Smiler asked Goodstead.

“Yup. Bullets too.”

T.W. looked at Goodstead, Smiler, Oswell and Richard, all of whom were mounted; it was clear that the New Yorker was weakened from his blood loss, but he held himself in the saddle capably.

The sheriff snapped reins; his black mare surged forward. The other four riders followed.

As they tore off, Goodstead called out to the Yardley girl, “Annie!”

“Yes?”

“Tell Lilith Ford I’m takin’ her to dinner when I get back!”

“She got killed.”

Goodstead had no ready reply.

Beatrice, wearing a brown dress and beige boots, her hair pulled back in two neat braids, sat on her father’s living-room couch, where a little more than one year ago Jim had spilled tea on her the night before they were to be married. She took the
Philadelphia Chronicler
and the
New York Observing Eye
from the table beside her and set the newspapers in her lap. Both prestigious publications had been running her serialized article for the past three months: the bride’s detailed, first-person account of the harrowing event known to the people of America as the Trailspur Wedding Massacre. The conclusion of the series was printed in these issues, pressed on the one-year anniversary of the actual
event. Beatrice had delivered the final installment two weeks before it was due, satisfied with her work . . . and very, very relieved that the painful and cathartic experience of detailing the tragedy was over
.

She opened the
Chronicler—
she preferred the thicker type that the Philly paper used—and began to read the article
.

“Did they make any mistakes?” her father asked, using his cane as he came down the stairs, wearing a plaid robe and weathered slippers that scuffed the steps noisily
.

“I just now sat down with the papers.” She lifted the
New York Observing Eye
from her lap and proffered it to her father
.

“You know I won’t read it.” He had supported her decision to write about the event, but he had never once read an episode in the series
.

“This is the one where you save me. It is entitled, ‘Theodore William Jeffries, My Father, My Other Savior
.’ ”

Her father grinned at the title, entered the den and said, “I’m sure you exaggerate things.” He shuffled toward her, his slippers scuffing the wood. His hair was fully white; his face was drawn, far thinner than it was a year ago
.

“There is no need to exaggerate,” she said
.

“I can’t read about it,” he said. “Don’t make me.” He looked nervous
.

“I shall not.” She put the
New York Observing Eye
down
.

There was a knock on the door. Beatrice folded up the
Chronicler
and began to rise from her seat
.

“Let me get it. It’s just Goodstead.” He turned toward the door and, leaning on the cane in his left hand, moved slowly toward it
.

Prior to the tragedy, the blank-faced Texan would have simply walked in and joined whatever conversation or meal the Jeffries were having, but now they kept the door locked . . .
as did most people in Trailspur. She could not remember whether she or her father had first employed the bolt
.

The fifty-eight-year-old man shuffled toward the door; the bottoms of his slippers scuffed the wood like sandpaper. The scraping sound grew louder in Beatrice’s ears; her heart began to race. She swallowed dryly
.

Her father stopped, undid the bolt and pulled the handle; the door groaned horribly upon its hinges. He peered outside, blue light ghastly upon his old face
.

“Father? Who is there . . . ?”

“It’s your mother
.”

Beatrice felt a terrible fear blossom within her and asked, “What do you mean? My mother died when I was born
.”

“She’s coming.” Her father peered into the blue dusk, squinted, nodded his head and added, “And I’m pretty sure I see James walking up the hill too
.”

Beatrice realized she was dreaming and woke up. She opened her eyes, but all she could see were the golden curls of her own hair, brilliantly lit by the sun. Something cold and hard slid across the top of her head, following the contour of her skull. She was jostled to the left and then forward and knew that she was in a stagecoach. Beatrice attempted to wipe the hair from her face, but her arms did not move—they were tied behind her back. She was shivering.

The cold hard thing scraped across her scalp again. The top of her head felt cool and damp. Her golden hair fell away from her eyes and upon her bare legs. She looked at the curly blonde locks in her lap and saw that she had been stripped nude.

Alphonse walked directly in front of her, a straight razor in his left hand. She tried to scream, but the cloth stuffed into her mouth strangled the cry.

On the stagecoach bench behind the little Frenchman
sat the Indian with the wolf-skin vest; the native held a blood-soaked rag to his neck. Beside him sat one of the twins; his prickly beard was sticky, agleam with blood; his respirations were wet. To the right of the wheezing man sat Quinlan, his mottled face pale and dusty. She did not know who drove the stagecoach, but saw three black boots through the slat in the front wall.

Beatrice looked to her left and saw Tara on the bench beside her. The woman was completely nude; her hands were bound behind her back; her head had been shaved bald. All of the woman’s long red hair had been bundled together and shoved into her mouth, from where it depended like a horse’s tail. A purple bruise shone upon her right cheek; her burst lips were caked with blood; a line of crimson ran from the side of her right breast, down her torso and right hip, onto the leather bench. The woman was awake, yet silent and immobile; she stared forward, hollow with shock.

Tears filled Beatrice’s eyes.

The Frenchman set the razor to the side of her head; she jerked away from the hard, cold steel.

“If you move you get cut.”

Beatrice held as still as she could, barely able to inhale enough air through her nostrils to fill her lungs. The Frenchman set the razor to the right side of her head and dragged the blade forward; the metal sizzled through the thousands of fine blonde strands that sprouted there. The newly exposed skin atop her right ear tingled. He slid the razor across the other side of her head; she felt her freed hair fall upon her left shoulder and thigh.

Alphonse set the razor to her nape and slid it parallel to her tendons; the stagecoach lurched; he hastily withdrew the blade. The vehicle stabilized; he applied
the razor again and slid it up her neck to the rear of her skull. The myriad minute clicks of the shearing crawled along her spine. Her skin became gooseflesh.

The Frenchman collected her shorn curls with his free hand and set them with the remainder of her hair, previously arranged in a neat row on the bench to her right.

He placed a hand upon her head and rubbed her bare scalp as if it were a globe. His small eyes surveyed the skin for errant hairs.

“She looks ready,” the Indian said, adjusting the bloody rag he held to his neck.

“Oui
.”

The stagecoach lurched. Quinlan grunted and then grimaced.

Alphonse looked at the Irishman and asked, “Want me to examine?”

Quinlan nodded. Alphonse folded his straight razor, slid it into his burgundy vest pocket and turned away from Beatrice. Her bare head tingled; she began to shiver.

The Indian slid down the bench, closer to the gurgling twin. The Frenchman sat in the nascent space, beside his boss. Quinlan extended his left arm; Alphonse carefully undid a buckle at the bottom of the gauntlet’s cuff. When it snapped open, the Irishman gritted his teeth, pained.

“You want me do this later?” the Frenchman asked.

“No. Keep going.”

Alphonse unfastened the second buckle. It snapped like a firecracker.

“Dammit,” Quinlan said.

“I take off?”

The Irishman nodded. Alphonse put both of his
small hands on the large bronze gauntlet and pulled. Quinlan gritted his teeth. The segmented metal glove slid off to reveal a long slender hand, white as milk and covered with scars; none of the fingertips had fingernails. The pinky and ring fingers dangled limply, swaying with the vacillations of the stagecoach.