Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (20 page)

Barcinder smiled and drew on his cigar.

“I'm glad the two of you happened in here this evening,” he said. “Some big changes are about to take place. I can use the help of a couple of gunmen like yourselves.” He picked up a wooden engraved cigar box from atop his desk, opened it and held it out to them.

Each man took a cigar and looked up at Barcinder as he set the box back on his desk.

“Does this have anything to do with the relay rider who passed us on the way here?” Kerr asked. “Is there a posse headed here you need our help with?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Barcinder, “although the rider did come to tell me they've caught the Ranger who killed some of your men.”

“Oh?” said Kerr. “So you want us to kill the Ranger?”

As Kerr spoke, Bannis just sat studying Barcinder, listening closely.

“No,” Barcinder said, “he's small potatoes.” He brushed aside the idea of killing the Ranger. “Besides, Dad wants to take care of the Ranger himself for killing Young Ezekiel.”

“The Ranger killed Young Ezekiel?” Kerr said. He shook his head and said, “Well, if it was the Ranger you wanted killed, I'd kill him straight up,
for free—”

“Morton, shut up,” said Bannis without taking his eyes off Barcinder. “He told you it's not the Ranger. I've got a feeling it's somebody much more important.”

“I always said you're a smart man, Frank,” Barcinder said. Grinning, he struck a large match and held it out to Bannis' cigar.

“Nice of you to say so, Elder Barcinder,” Bannis replied. He drew on the cigar until the tip glowed red. “Just tell us when you'd like this killing to take place and how much you're paying us when we get it done.” He paused, then asked, “What about Uncle Henry? Is he going to be a problem?”

“On the contrary,” Barcinder said, “Jumpe is with me on this all the way.”

Kerr looked dumbfounded.

“Who is it we're killing anyway?” he asked.

“He's wanting us to kill Dad Orwick,” Bannis said in a lowered tone. “Now shut up, Morton. Let's hear what the good
churchman
here has in mind.”

Chapter 20

When Barcinders' two wives escorted Mattie from the house, they walked flanking her like guards until they were on the trail leading downhill from the large house to where they lived in one of the long plank buildings on the valley floor. One of the women carried a small oil lantern to light their way. Walking down the dark trail, Mattie looked back toward the house.

“What about my horse?” she asked.

“Don't worry, Isabelle,” said Stowie, a tall, thin woman whose hair hung in a single long braid down her back. “Someone will take the horse to the common barn down here where we're going.”

As the three walked on, Anna sidled up close to Mattie and looked all around as if to make sure she wouldn't be overheard.

“If you're unhappy about being unbound and replaced, don't feel alone, dear. So are we,” she said almost in a whisper.

“There are seven of us Barcinder wives, and we're every one being replaced as soon as Elder Barcinder brings his new wives down from the territories,” Anna said in the same guarded tone. “From what we're able to gather, all the saints' wives are as upset as we are.”

Mattie looked both women up and down.

“If everybody is so upset, why doesn't anybody do anything about it?” she asked, even though she knew the question was meaningless.

“You know why, Isabelle,” said Stowie. “These are our husbands. The Lord says we have to obey them.”

Keep quiet,
Mattie warned herself. Nothing had changed here, not in all the ten years since she'd made her getaway.

“One good thing about all of us being replaced,” Anna offered, “is that since we've been in Mexico, we've sometimes had a chance to talk to other wives when no one is watching. We've gotten to share information about our children, where they've gone, what wonderful people they've become.”

Mattie clenched her jaw as they walked on. She wasn't going to ask anyone anything, not until after she'd killed Dad Orwick. If there was time afterward, she would ask about her children. But not now. For now, killing Dad was foremost on her mind.

“It's terrible that all of us have lived so close together over the years, yet we've never been allowed to visit and keep in close touch with each other,” said Stowie.

“I wouldn't say we haven't been allowed,” Anna offered. “Perhaps
not been encouraged
is a better way of putting it.” She smiled in the circling glow of lantern light.

Mattie kept her thoughts to herself. These were women who did not realize how much had been taken from them over the course of their lives. If they did, she wouldn't have to tell them to do something about it; they would have done so on their own, the way she'd had to do those many years ago.

When they reached the bottom of the hill a few minutes later and turned off the trail toward a long, plain building, the two women stopped and turned to Mattie.

“We know we shouldn't do this, Isabelle, but would you like to see Dad's new wives?” Anna whispered.

“Yes, I would,” Mattie replied. “Are they nearby?”

Anna pointed at another building standing thirty yards away in the pale moonlight.

“They're staying there until the bonding ceremony,” Anna whispered. “Stowie, put out the lantern,” she said.

In the pale moonlight, the three crept forward hand in hand to the rear of the building and up to a dusty rear window. Looking inside, Mattie made out a long, sparsely furnished room. Small army-style cots lined the wall, a large potbellied stove stood in a far corner, a few small bundles of clothes and personal items were arranged on the floor. Then Mattie looked closer at the five young women gathered around a small table in a corner, two of them sewing, one brushing another's hair.

“My God, they're only babies,” she whispered to Stowie and Anna. She became so stricken by the sight of the young women who looked barely in their teens that she turned around and leaned against the building for support.

“Maybe so,” Anna whispered, leaning beside her, “but they're the right age to start bringing new babies into the world.”

“They're no younger than we were,” Stowie whispered. “Dad and his saints like to start them breeding young. Anyway,” she sighed softly, “that's the new wives, soon to be bound in spirit to Dad.”

“They've replaced you, just as other young women are on their way to replace us,” Anna whispered, giving a quiet little giggle. “I can't say I'm sorry.”

“Neither can I,” said Stowie.

Mattie felt her stomach churn, seeing the young girls inside the building, a building no different from an army barracks or a prison dormitory.

“I want to go on,” she said, pushing away from the building.

The two women looked at each other.

“This way,” Stowie whispered.

Carrying the blackened lantern, she led the way to their own building. But she and Anna both stopped outside and turned to Mattie.

“The others are looking forward to seeing you, Isabelle,” said Stowie, “but before we go in, we want to tell you how much it meant to us, what your sister, Mattie, did years ago, getting away.”

Mattie only stared at them. She knew Isabelle must've taken some harsh comments and cold stares from the men—Dad's handpicked
saints.

Anna cut in, saying, “We know she violated the rules and even broke the sacred covenant our people have with God. But in spite of that, when she ran away, most of us always felt like a little piece of ourselves went with her.”

“Of course we couldn't come out and say it,” said Stowie. “We even made ill remarks ourselves, just to look right in Dad's eyes.” She squeezed Mattie's forearm affectionately. “But wasn't there something grand and joyous in her gaining her freedom?”

“Wherever she is, do you suppose she would feel good knowing that?” Anna asked.

Mattie felt her eyes well up with tears. She held them back as best she could.

“Oh my goodness, yes, gals,” she whispered. “I just know she would.” In spite of her effort, she felt a single tear spill down her cheek

“Gals . . . ?” Stowie smiled. “Gracious me, Isabelle, I don't believe I've been called a
gal
since as far back as I can remember.”

“Well, you are
gals,
” Mattie said, collecting herself. “We all are. We've had a lot of things taken from us—but we're still all
gals
at heart.”

“Old
gals
now,” Stowie said with a tired smile.

“It's too bad we haven't talked like this over the years,” Anna said.

“They would never have allowed it,” Mattie said with a bitter twist to her voice. Then she asked, “Do you have any idea where you'll go when the new wives are bounded?”

The two looked at each other.

“No.” Anna shrugged. “I once overheard Elder Barcinder tell another of the saints that it is a shame the women are not treated as well as their ridging stock and field beasts. He said the animals were dealt with more humanely than we.”

“At least Elder Barcinder has our best interests in mind,” Stowie said.

“Yes, he's all heart,” Mattie said wryly.

“What will you do, Isabelle?” Anna asked.

Mattie remained silent for a moment, but finally couldn't help herself.

“I'm leaving the first chance I get,” she said.

“You mean going to where Brother Phillip sends you?” Anna asked.

“No,” Mattie said, “I'm leaving on my own. You're welcome to join me if you like. Only keep quiet about it. Meanwhile I need to look around the compound some without you saying anything. Can I count on you?”

“We're not supposed to keep secrets from our husband, Isabelle. You know that,” Stowie said, on the verge of chastising her.

“He won't be our husband much longer, Stowie,” Anna said. She looked at Mattie and saw the apprehension in her eyes. “Don't worry. We won't say anything about your comings and goings. But I don't think we can just up and leave with you.”

“Why not?” Mattie asked. “There'll be nothing to hold you here. All you'll have to do is slip away and go.”

“You make it sound easy,” Anna said, “but it's not.”

“Not unless someone tells us it's all right,” said Stowie.

Mattie just took a deep breath and nodded, understanding their thinking on the matter.

“If you decide to change your mind, you better do so quickly,” she said. “When it's time to go, I'm gone.”

The two turned with her toward the door to the building.

“Now you sound like your sister, Matilda, all those years ago,” Anna said. “Had we gone with her back then, God forbid, there's no telling where we'd be today.”

—

In the middle of the night, the wagon rolled into the center of the torchlit compound with armed churchmen surrounding it. From the edge of the darkness, Frank Bannis and Morton Kerr stepped forward and watched as Uncle Henry Jumpe and two of his men dragged the Ranger to the rear of the wagon and threw him to the ground. One of the men—a large fellow with a red-gray beard, two purpling swollen eyes and a red swollen nose—saw the Ranger land on the hard ground with a grunt.

“There, lawman,” he said, “that serves you right for laying hands on one of us.”

The Ranger wobbled to his feet and stood with his hands tied in front of him. His left eye was puffed and red. Once standing, he steadied himself and looked all around, like a man who had no plans for staying there long. He looked on as a churchman unhitched his copper dun from behind the wagon and led the spirited horse away toward a long common barn.

“The Ranger must've nailed the big fellow in the nose before they tied his hands,” Kerr offered to Bannis, who stood beside him.

“Not so,” said a young outlaw named Riley Dart, overhearing him. Dart had met the churchmen and Uncle Henry along the trail. “His hands were tied when he got him,” he said in a lowered voice. “The big fellow backhanded him for no reason, but the Ranger was having none of it. He grabbed the big fellow by both ears and head-butted him three times hard as he could before the other
brethren
pulled him away.”

“Jesus,” said Kerr, “that had to hurt.”

“Yep, I bet it did,” said Dart. He grinned. “But it was fun as hell to watch.”

“What are you doing here, Dart?” Bannis asked.

“I came looking for you, Bannis,” Dart said, “like you said I should if I needed work.”

“You're about three weeks late, Dart,” Bannis said.

“Funny, that's exactly how long I was stuck in jail over in Sonora,” Dart said with a smile. “I guess if everything's all done here, I'll just ride on and see what's past the next hill line.”

Bannis and Kerr looked at each other.

“Stick around, Dart,” Bannis said. “We might have something you'll want to help us out with. I can't imagine you'd mind shooting holes in somebody, would you? For pay, that is?”

“I'm up for shooting holes in somebody, pay or not, Frank,” the young outlaw said, “as long as I don't have to answer to these religious sons a' bitches.”

Bannis grinned at Kerr knowingly.

“No problem there,” he said to Dart.

As the churchmen stepped down and dragged the Ranger off toward a small timber and ironclad building, Bannis gave Kerr and Riley Dart a nod and the three outlaws followed along behind them.

From back in the shadows, Elder Barcinder stood watching as Uncle Henry Jumpe walked over, his peg leg thumping with each step, and stopped in front of him.

“There's the Ranger, signed, sealed and delivered to you,” Jumpe said, a thick hand resting on the big pistol holstered and tied down on his hip. “It looks like everything's starting to go our way on this thing.”

“Indeed it does,” said Barcinder.

“Are you going to tell Dad we caught him tonight?” Jumpe asked, glancing up toward the largest house on the dark hillside, where a trimmed lantern was glowing low in a second-story window.

“Tonight?” said Barcinder. “Oh no, I don't think so tonight.” He gave a thin, twisted little smile and held his hands folded behind his back. “Dad left orders not to be disturbed.”

“I see,” said Uncle Henry. “Then I take it he must be busy breaking in one of his new wives tonight?” He glanced again up toward the large house.

“The Lord's work must go on,” Elder Barcinder said with the same twisted smile. In a lowered tone he added, “He has several new wives to choose from—each one of them as sweet as a handful of peaches.”

Jumpe shook his head slowly and wiped a hand across his brow just envisioning the scene.

“Whew,”
he said. “Times like these, I'd say the Lord's work is plumb enviable.”

“Yes, it is,” said Barcinder. He stepped forward, closer to Uncle Henry. “But keep in mind, the Lord helps those who help themselves. Once we do what God has commanded me to do and take this ministry over, you'll be ordained as one of my saints, and be required to take on wives of your own.” He stared into Jumpe's eyes. “Can you live with that?”

“I can, Elder Barcinder,” Jumpe said. “I can also live with taking charge of these outlaws and keeping them in line when we set out to raise money to support ourselves.” He paused, then added, “That is, if you don't mind me taking over that responsibility.”

“Mind?” said Barcinder. “No, Uncle Henry. I won't mind. In fact, if I never have to lay eyes on another of these robbing, murdering heathens, it will suit me fine.”