Hallowed Ground (4 page)

"How can I make amends for this rather inauspicious beginning to our –
friendship
?"

"Suppose you start by telling me why you're here?
 
If I knew that, I'd know what to tell you."

"Blunt and to the point; I admire clarity in a man," the Deacon said. "We travel, reaching out to communities in need of the Lord's Word, and the Lord's Touch." The Deacon's hand moved instinctively, as though to form the cruciform across his chest, but lingered in the center, over his heart.

"Tell me, I heard the tolling of a bell?
 
It is a sound to place a chill in the heart for it seldom augers good when it is rung in the middle of the morning.
 
This is no hour for a service."

"We have no services.
 
Our preacher passed on over a year back."

"There is no one to spread the Word?
 
To tend to the spiritual well being of the flock?
 
That is a tragedy in its own right.
 
And yet, still the bell tolled.
 
Has someone passed on?"

"So it would seem." Creed replied. "I rode out early this morning; if they found someone dead, it happened since then."

"Tragic," The Deacon said, lowering his eyes and shaking his head.
 
Creed couldn't tell if he'd lowered that gaze in deference to a higher power, or to hide his expression.

"I think it must be a sign," The Deacon continued, raising his gaze to meet Creed's once more.
 
"Last night, the rooks arose, and I should have seen it then.
 
Someone has been taken on to the next world.
 
There must be a service.
 
God's word must be heard."

"We've survived just fine without a preacher," Creed said flatly.

"It was not chance that found me at your door, Provender Creed," the Deacon said, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder.
 
"It was divine provenance."

It wasn't until they were halfway back to town that Creed realized he had not told the man his name.

The church had been closed since the death of Goodman James, the stunted barrel of a preacher who'd tended the spiritual needs of Rookwood for decades.
 
James had fallen to the croup a year back, and after that, attendance on Sunday fell to nothing.
 
Services had been sketchy, at best, and James' propensity toward drunkenness and cursing often failed to convince his 'flock' that he had their eternal well-being in mind.
 
His sermons turned far too often to the collection plate, and his messages were aimed directly at those who he found particularly sinful, while ignoring those who dropped by the rectory with a bottle, or a fresh pie.
 
The red vines on his ruddy cheeks declared his preference for all to see.

No one had taken up residence in either rectory or church.
 
They were afraid, at first, that they'd catch whatever the preacher died of.
 
After that, they were afraid whoever moved in would be expected to preach.
 
For whatever reason, the only time the doors of the church were open and the floors swept was for a funeral.

When Creed rode back into town, The Deacon and two of his followers trailing slowly behind, he headed straight for Boone's.
 
As they passed a young barefoot boy in clothing so ragged it looked ready to rot off his flesh, Creed called out to him.

"Go fetch Sheriff Brady. Tell him to meet us over at the saloon."

The boy stared past Creed at the strangers.
 
He seemed rooted in place, and it wasn't until Creed dug his heels into his horse's sides and charged that the youth reacted.
 
He leaped up onto the wooden boardwalk, took a last glance at The Deacon, then turned and raced off down the street.
 
Creed led the way to Boone's, dismounted, and tied off his horse.

The Deacon remained in the saddle a few moments longer.
 
He raised his eyes to the heavens, and Creed was sure he saw the man sniffing, like some kind of animal on a scent.
 
When The Deacon lowered his gaze, it settled on Ma
Kutter's
place, and he frowned.
 
Creed followed that gaze, but he saw nothing.
 
Ma's door was wide open, but that wasn't strange during the day.
 
No one in Rookwood bothered to lock their doors, other than Boone and the sheriff.
 
None of them had anything worth stealing – at least not worth stealing and dying over.

The Deacon dismounted and stood beside Creed.
 
Folks had started to gather up and down the street, staring.
 
They didn't get much traffic through Rookwood, and they weren't fond of strangers.
 
There was only so much of anything to be had – if someone new came along, they were likely to want a share.
 
Creed turned and entered the saloon, and The Deacon followed, his two companions falling in behind him like a couple of puppies.
 
The two hadn't said a word since they'd left The Deacon's camp, and it grated on Creed's nerves.

It didn't take long for the Sherriff to show.
 
Very little happened in Rookwood that Brady wasn't elbow deep and muddy in.
 
He probably knew Creed was bringing in strangers before they crested the ridge.
 
Moonshine never hurried.
 
He didn't think fast, talk fast, or act fast.
 
In fact, the only time Creed had seen the man challenge a snail was with his gun.
 
In that one thing Brady was gifted.
 
He could make lightning look like molasses if the moment called for it.
 
It was a mighty fine skill for a lawman to have, for sure.

The door opened and the sheriff entered.
 
He stood still, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer interior light.
 
Creed kept his eye on the bar, where Silas Boone had slid a full shot glass of rye in front of him.
 
He didn't care much what Brady thought, and he'd just as soon not be tied to the visitors either.
 
Best to wait and see how things rolled out.

The Deacon wasn't a patient man, it seemed.
 
He stepped away from the bar, where he'd ignored Silas' offer of a drink, and held out a hand to Sheriff Brady.
 
To his credit, by Creed's way of thinking, Brady didn't take it right off.
 
He met The Deacon's gaze steadily, and then, very slowly, he raised his hand and shook.

"Welcome, neighbor," Brady said.
 
His voice was laid back and slow, like everything else about him.
 
Neighbor, not stranger.
 
Brady spoke like that all the time.
 
Creed perked up a bit.
 
The man's voice was like the weaving, hypnotic head of a rattle snake when he brought it to bear, and just then, in those few words, it sounded deadly.

"I thank you for the welcome," The Deacon replied smoothly.
 
"It sounds as though my arrival might be more fortuitous than I'd imagined."

"How's that?" Brady asked.
 
"And, before we get too far into the howdy-dos, maybe you'd do me the honor of an introduction?"

Creed turned slowly and pulled off his hat.
 
He caught Brady's eye and waved the hat in a slow arc toward the strangers.

"Sheriff Brady," he said, "Meet 'The Deacon.'
 
Deacon, Sheriff Brady.
 
Deacon here's got him a camp out past the gulch, tents and wagons far as the eye can see.
 
I thought you might want to make his acquaintance."

Brady stared at Creed for a moment – longer than he had to – and Creed wondered if he'd made a mistake stepping back into the mix.
 
Then the sheriff turned back to The Deacon.

"That right?" he asked. "You folks set up a camp?"

The Deacon nodded.
 
"We've been on the road a while now.
 
There was a need for rest, and I felt the call.
 
When that happens, I put down roots.
 
I hope it won't be an imposition."

"No one owns that land," Brady replied, rubbing at his jaw.
 
"Still, we don't take much to strangers here in Rookwood.
 
There's a scarcity of just about everything a man needs to survive.
 
We're off the main supply trail, and we're pretty close with our socializing."

Brady hesitated, then went on.

"I guess what I'm sayin' is, you're welcome to rest out there, and you're welcome to visit the town while you're here, but don't assume too much, and don't expect to be welcomed by folks with open arms.
 
If I were you, I reckon I'd be looking to be back on the road soon.
 
It's best for all concerned if you take my meaning?"

"I understand," The Deacon replied. "And let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff.
 
We've got everything we need in camp, and some to spare, if it comes down to it.
 
We're a peaceful folk.
 
One thing we are not is parasites.
 
We keep to ourselves, and when we get the chance we spread the word of the Lord."

"You're a preacher, then, and not just a deacon?" Brady asked.

This caught the stranger by surprise.
 
Just for a moment his eyes flashed and his jaw stiffened.
 
Brady caught it.
 
Creed caught it too.
 
He'd turned with his back to the bar, watching the exchange.
 
It passed like lightning.

"You've had a death," The Deacon said, shifting topics smoothly.
 
"Mr. Creed here tells me you've no man of God.
 
I'd be honored to perform the ceremony.
 
No one should go to meet the Maker without a proper burial."

"We've gotten along well enough without God for some time now," Brady replied.
 
"I reckon if Ma Kutter makes her way to the Pearly Gates, they're going to lock them and hide."

The Deacon stood and waited in silence.

Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly.
 
"Fine.
 
If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way.
 
I won't have it here in town, though.
 
The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell.
 
I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head.
 
One death's more than enough for a small town, wouldn't you agree?"

The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.

"Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us.
 
Do I have your permission to spread the word?"

"Spread it all you want on the way out of town," Brady replied coolly. "I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening.
 
Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself."

"Then I'll be heading back to camp," The Deacon replied, "and I'll consider us well met."

Brady didn't nod this time.
 
He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.

Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink.
 
He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp.
 
He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper's camp he'd set out to find earlier.
 
With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see.
 
He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.

The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares.
 
John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands.
 
Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker.
 
His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge.
 
He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables.
 
He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.

John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one.
 
Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace.
 
This funeral marked the first he'd attended in his Sunday best.
 
His suit was as dark as the night sky.
 
He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height.
 
A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders.
 
He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.