Pale Rider (27 page)

Closing the cylinder, he holstered the gun, pivoted, and strode across the now silent street toward his horse.

An ashen-faced Lahood stared out the second-story window, following the tall man’s movements. In his right hand he held a long-barreled blue-black derringer. He raised the muzzle purposefully.

The Preacher put a foot in the stirrup and hesitated. Turning, he lifted his eyes to a particular window. The curtains behind it moved slightly. The report of the single shot was muffled by distance and glass. From his position the Preacher could not hear the thump of the body as it struck the thick Persian rug. He did not have to hear it.

Lahood had begun this day’s work, and Lahood had finished it.

It was over.

Slipping smoothly into the saddle, the Preacher flicked the reins.

The buckboard came pounding into town, the slim figure seated on the bench refusing to ease back on the reins until it careened to a stop outside the bank. Some of Lahood’s citizens spared it a passing glance. For the most part their attention was drawn to the numerous dead bodies that pimpled the street.

Megan jumped down from the buckboard. She had also seen the bodies and had scanned them anxiously. All were unknown to her. She altered her gaze to stare into the benumbed faces of the townsfolk. No one stared back at her.

“Where is he?”

No one had a reply. The shock of the morning’s activities was wearing off, but slowly. Even the mortician appeared too stunned to begin his chores.

She moved from figure to figure, confronting each and receiving only the same blank stares. Eventually she encountered the stout, familiar face of Jed Blankenship.

She grabbed him by his coat and demanded a response. “Where
is
he?”

The merchant blinked at her, then came out of the daze that had afflicted the rest of the citizenry. “Where is who, child?”

“The Preacher!”

“Ah. The Preacher.” He looked down the main street and nodded. “He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

Blankenship shrugged, “Who knows?”

Distraught, Megan turned away from him. Her eyes raked the street. It was full of citizens and corpses, but there was no sign of the tall figure she sought. Lips tight, she scrambled back aboard the wagon.

“Child!” Blankenship hurried after her, waving a restraining hand. She paused to gaze down at him. “Look at your horse, all lathered up like that. You ride her any more, you’ll kill her. She needs rest. We all need a rest. The Preacher’s gone, child,”

He bestowed a fatherly smile on her, then turned purposefully back toward his emporium. Toting up the damage was going to take a lot of time and work, but he didn’t mind. He was rid of his main competitor. When this day’s accounting was amortized over the rest of the year, Jed Blankenship knew he’d be coming out far ahead.

He left Megan with the backboard, feeling betrayed and near tears. After awhile she grew aware that the bodies filling the street no longer occupied everyone’s attention. A few people had begun to stare at her.

She straightened, fighting back the tears. She was a Wheeler. Blankenship’s words clung to her. “Gone?”

“No he’s not,” she murmured aloud. “Not really.”

She unharnessed the mare, which was still breathing hard, and began to walk it back up the street. Halfway to the stable she stopped. Her eyes rose to the distant Sierra crest.

“Preacher!” she shouted. No more tears now, not ever. That was how it ought to be. It felt right. “I’m setting you free, Preacher! You hear me?”

A few of the townsfolk turned to eye her curiously. She had no trouble ignoring them. They didn’t even exist. Only she existed, and the mountains.

“I’m setting you free!” Her voice fell slightly. “I love you, Preacher! Goodbye!” She patted the mare reassuringly on its neck. “He’ll come back,” she whispered to herself. “If I pray for him, he
will
come back. If I ever need him again, I’ll just pray for a miracle.”