Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) (23 page)

Feeling Mattie's hand on her cheek, the young girl dutifully held the blanket open a little for her and said, “Are we supposed to . . . you know?”

Mattie took her hand from the girl's cheek and eased the blanket back in place.

“No, dear, we're not supposed to do anything,” Mattie whispered.

“Then what?” the girl asked.

“You get yourself dressed, child,” Mattie said. “When you hear a commotion across the house, you slip out of here and go.”

“Go where?” the girl asked in a whisper.

“Anywhere,” Mattie said. “You'll be free to do whatever suits you.”

“In that case, can I stay?” the girl asked.

“Stay?”
Mattie just looked at her. “You want to stay here?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “I'm bound to Dad as of tonight. I'm now one of his wives. I don't want to leave.”

“What about your freedom?” Mattie asked. “Do you want to give that up?”

“Oh, goodness, yes,” the girl said. “Dad's scouts found me and bought me from an orphan train four months ago. I've been fed and groomed and given clothes, and even shoes!” Her eyes glistened; she shook her head. “So, no, ma'am, I've seen all the freedom I ever want to see.”

Mattie felt her eyes well up a little at the girl's words.

“You can't mean that, child,” she whispered. “Look what he's done to you.” She thought of the whip scars on her back, and what she would have given for this same opportunity had someone offered it to her years ago.

“Oh, but I do mean it,” the girl said, childlike. “Dad has done nothing new to me. I've had men, both heathen and religious, do the same thing to me since I was ten. It always hurt, and I was always sick afterward. With Dad it's different.” Her expression softened.

Mattie only stared and shook her head slowly. She felt a tightness crawl in the scar tissue on her back.

“It still hurts some,” said the girl, “but at least Dad has bound me to his spirit, for eternity, in heaven. Think about that. . . .” She appeared to drift off to a peaceful place for a moment. “I'm bound not only to him, but to all of his wives—a nice big family, all my own. Don't you see?”

Mattie felt herself start to raise the rifle slowly, with the same dread of purpose she'd sensed in the Ranger when she'd watched him put the lame horse out of its suffering. Yet she stopped herself and took her right hand off the stock, lest she carry out some misplaced act of self-determined pity before she could stop herself.

“Yes, I see,” she said. She let the rifle slump in her hand and backed away toward the door. “Lie there quietly awhile, dear. Somebody will come and look after you.”

Chapter 23

A guard ushered the two riflemen, Uncle Henry Jumpe and the Ranger into the large house and closed the front door behind them, shutting out the other armed churchmen. Standing in a candlelit foyer, Sam looked all around while the riflemen flanked him. Jumpe pulled a gold watch from his pocket, checked the time and put the watch away.

“Interrupting a man who's bonding himself a new wife this time of night, Ranger, you'll be lucky if hanging is all you get.” Uncle Henry ended his words with a cruel smirk.

“Bonding is not something to make jokes about, Uncle Henry,” one of the rifle guards reprimanded.

Jumpe's dark grin vanished, replaced by an ugly scowl.

“For your information,
Brother
Shelby, that was no joke. I take this religion as serious as the rest of you.” He lifted his chin. “As a matter of fact, I'm becoming a bound brother myself. My spirit will be as
bound
as the rest of you.”

“Oh, really?” said the other rifleman.

“Yes, really,” said Jumpe. “So you might want to start watching your mouth regarding me. I don't plan on remaining one of you knotheads at the low end of the trough.”

“You'll be a convert,” Brother Shelby said, “whereas I was born to it.”

“So?” said Jumpe. “All that means is you're more apt to be an inbreed. Us converts bring in new blood to this bunch.”

Shelby withered under Jumpe's fierce stare. Sam looked down at the floor, noting the round indentation Jumpe's peg leg left in the plush red carpet.

“Look sharp now, Brethren,” Jumpe said at the sound of a door opening and closing at the end of a deep stone-tiled hallway. Sam looked down the hallway, seeing how it stepped down, one terraced level to the next, into the steep hillside wed to the rear of the house.

“Where's the woman who rode here ahead of me?” Sam asked, hoping someone would answer without thinking first.

“You mean Isabelle?” said Brother Shelby, doing just as Sam hoped he would. “She went to stay with Barcinder's wives, last I heard—”

“Shut up, Brother Shelby,” Jumpe said, cutting him off. “Now you're even sounding like one of the inbreeds we're trying to weed out.”

“I am
not
one of the inbreeds, Uncle Henry,” Brother Shelby said with a sullen look. “And if I were I'd be proud of it. God has a plan and purpose for in-breeds too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I've heard all that
everybody's
-
good-for-something
malarkey before,” Jumpe said. Under his breath he murmured, “Good for panther food and sandbagging a dam.” He dismissed the matter as the echo of Barcinder's footsteps barked along the stone hallway tiles.

Sam had heard what he'd wanted to hear. Somewhere around the compound Mattie Rourke was still on her mission. Between her and DeShay, there was a chance he might yet ride out of here alive. A slim chance, he thought, but slim was better than none at all.

“I hope that's not arguing I hear,” Elder Barcinder said, walking up and stopping, his hands on his hips. He carried a long-barreled Remington revolver stuck down in a red waist sash.

“Not really, Elder,” said Jumpe, “just the good Brother Shelby here trying to convince me he has as much
purpose
in life as an inbreed as anybody else does.”

“I did
not
say that,” Shelby cut in with a harsh snap. “I am
not
an inbreed.”

“Words to that effect,” Jumpe said gruffly, with a shrug.

“No, they weren't,” Shelby insisted, not letting it go. “Dad knows I'm not an inbreed. He knows who fathered me.”

“Quiet, Brother.” Barcinder settled the unstrung rifleman with a raised hand. “Dad has quite enough on his mind this night without us adding to his aggravation.”

Peculiar,
Sam thought, recounting the conversation he'd just heard. He studied the floor and shook his head slowly.

“You there, Ranger. Look at me,” Barcinder demanded, staring at Sam coldly. “I hope you're prepared to meet the very saint whose righteous kingdom you've sought to destroy.”

Righteous kingdom?

Sam only returned Barcinder's scorching stare. There was no arguing or reasoning with these people. He wasn't going to waste his breath—he would need it to get away from them, and get away from them he would, he assured himself, eyeing the big Remington at Barcinder's waist.

Odds were against him right now, but once they were all inside the room at the end of the hall where Dad Orwick would be within his reach, he would find a way to turn this into
his
game. In a room of men where gun handles stuck up from waist sashes and holsters, and rifles were as plentiful as walking canes among the infirmed, if he couldn't get his hands on some kind of shooting gear, well . . . that would be his own fault.

Seeing that the Ranger was not going to offer a reply to Barcinder, Uncle Henry Jumpe let out a dark little chuckle and gave a tug on the rope looped around Sam's abdomen.

“Let's go, Ranger,” he said.

Leading Sam on the rope, Jumpe and the two riflemen followed Elder Barcinder down the long terraced hallway to a thick wooden door. On either side of the door, the hallway split and moved away in opposite directions deeper into the hillside. Flickering torches lined the chiseled stone walls.

When the door opened, the Ranger followed Jumpe across a room with walls of chiseled stone. Facing a smaller black-shadowed grotto, Jumpe pressed the Ranger down into a tall wooden chair.

“Mind your manners, Ranger,” he warned. As he spoke, the two guards took position, one on either side of the tall wooden chair.

“I'll try,” Sam said. He glanced back and forth at the two riflemen. Then he turned straight ahead.

Looking into the black chiseled-out cavern facing him like the locked jaw of some yawning giant, Sam saw Barcinder step into the blackness with a burning candle and set the candle tin on a wide table. Only as the candle flame sliced into the darkness did Sam see the shadowed figure standing in a hooded robe, looking out at him. On the edge of the table sat a large canvas bank bag. The money stolen from Goble's bank, Sam deduced.

“Ranger Burrack, I won't waste words,” said the hooded figure. “You killed my son. Now it's time I wield the wrath of the Lord upon you.”

“I didn't kill your son, Dad,” Sam said. “If you're talking about the boy lying dead above the water hole, you killed him when you sent him off robbing and murdering with your outlaw mercenaries. You should have kept him home, where he could have learned to hide behind all the women and children, like the rest of your
saints.”

Dad Orwick ignored the insult. Sam felt the riflemen on either side of him stiffen at his remark.

“I sent him off, only for a while, to learn the ways of the heathen's world, and how to support the Lord's work here in
our
world. Before I could bring him back to me, you slew him, shot him down as if he were a maddened dog.”

“No, I didn't shoot him, Dad,” Sam said coolly. “I found him dead and dragged him off the trail into the rocks. I thought for a while that the person riding with me shot him.” He paused and looked around at Barcinder, then Jumpe, and continued. “But now I know I was wrong. I can prove who killed your son. It was someone right here in this room.”

“He's lying, Dad,” Jumpe cut in. “Say the word, we'll hang him tonight, this minute! Or I can put a bullet in his head!”

Orwick stared out at Jumpe, his face shadowed by the hood.

“We didn't bring you in here to prove anything, Ranger,” Orwick said, overlooking Jumpe. “We know the truth. You killed him. We didn't bring you here to hear your side of anything. We brought you here to charge and punish you. We don't live by your laws or your reasoning, or your principles. God provides our moral reasoning and our law as He sees fit. We only follow.”

“Then I've got nothing for you, Dad,” Sam said. “I won't waste time saying how you've taken your own twisted morals and laws and justified them by calling them God's.” He had already laid out his plan for what move to make when the time was right. For now he wanted to play this out.

“If you've gone so far that you no longer even have the human
curiosity
for the truth, let alone the spiritual need for it, then have your fool move this rope up around my neck and let's get on with it. You can wax righteous the rest of your life, but you'll die never knowing who pulled that trigger.”

The cavern fell silent; Dad Orwick stared into the candle's flame.

“Yes,” he finally said in a whisper, “raise the rope around his neck, and let's get on with it.”

Sam braced himself, ready to make his strike, first to his left, then his right, then straight ahead.

Here goes,
he thought, seeing Jumpe step up in front of him, ready to loosen the rope and raise it to his neck.

“Wait,” Dad Orwick said, just as Sam started to lift his left foot from the stone floor.

Sam stopped. He managed to check himself down and take a deep breath.

Easy,
he told himself.
This situation's getting better every minute.
He glanced back and forth, seeing the boot toes of the riflemen on either side of him. Then he tried to look up at Dad Orwick's face, still hidden inside his hood. Behind Orwick he saw a broad-shouldered trail duster draped on the tall chairback. In the center of the chairback he saw a wide-brimmed hat. Yet something about Dad Orwick didn't seem right. He wasn't sure what. . . .

“Wait?”
said Uncle Henry, speaking to Barcinder in a lowered voice, not about to speak that way to Dad himself.

Elder Barcinder raised a hand to calm Jumpe, Barcinder himself not worried about a thing. After all, he had gunmen poised to do his bidding. He gave Jumpe a secretive nod. Everything was all right. He folded his hands behind his back and gazed up at Orwick.

“Dad,” he said quietly, “would you like us to take the Ranger back to the stockade building for now, perhaps bring him back later?”

“No,” said Orwick, “I want to hear what he has to say. If I don't like it, I can have his tongue cut out and nailed to the outhouse door.” He looked from Barcinder to the Ranger. “Share this truth you have with me, Ranger. Who in this room killed my son, and what proof do you have?”

Sam had Orwick's attention. He was certain Uncle Henry Jumpe had killed the young man, but he would have to time this conversation just right in order to prove it. With his forearms held to his sides by the rope, he pointed at Jumpe.

“There's the man who killed your son, Dad,” the Ranger said. “I saw him ride away while your son's body was still warm.”

“That's a lie!” shouted Jumpe, who had stepped away from Sam a moment earlier. Now he moved back in close, his hand wrapped around the revolver holstered on his hip. He fumed, “You, Ranger, are a blackguard, a liar and a poltroon!”

“I saw you there,” the Ranger insisted, lying.

“You never saw me there. I was never there!” Jumpe bellowed. He started to draw the gun.

“Take your hand off that gun, Uncle Henry,” Orwick said in a firm tone. He saw something unsettling in the way Jumpe was reacting to the Ranger's calm allegation. “Better yet, bring the gun up here and give it to me,” he added.

“Dad!” said Jumpe. “You can't believe this man! I was not there, nowhere near there!”

“Take the gun from him, Elder Barcinder,” Orwick said.

Barcinder stepped over quickly and jerked the revolver from Jumpe's holster. Jumpe stood with a look of disbelief on his face.

“Dad, please!” said Jumpe, as Barcinder stepped over and laid the gun on the table beside the burning candle.

“Shut up, Uncle Henry,” Orwick demanded. He looked back at Sam and said, “Go on, Ranger . . . tell me more of your
truth.
Keep in mind you're still the enemy here, no matter what.”

Sam stared at him, his hands gripping the chair arms.

“The truth is, I was lying, Dad,” he said. “I didn't see him there.”

“You see!” said Jumpe. “He
was
lying! Let me kill him, Dad. Put a stop to all this!”

“I had to lie to get to the truth. I had to tell you he was there to get him to deny it,” Sam said. “Now that he's denied it, I'll prove he
was
there. Once I prove he was there, he can't deny it again.”

“Ha, you're crazy as hell, Ranger,” said Jumpe. “I was not there, and you
cannot
prove otherwise.”

“Don't use that language here in this place, Uncle Henry!” shouted Orwick. “Or it will be
your
tongue nailed to an outhouse door.”

“I'm sorry, Dad. Please forgive me,” said Jumpe, trying to calm himself. “This blasted Ranger has me at my boiling point.”

You haven't heard anything yet. . . .

The Ranger reached out slowly, loosened the rope with both hands and lifted it over his shoulders. It fell to the floor at his feet.

“I saw his peg leg print all over the ground,” Sam said as he reached inside his vest pocket. “But I know telling you that is a waste of time without you seeing proof for yourself.”

Orwick, Barcinder and Jumpe watched intently.

From his vest pocket, Sam fished out the small silver wheel with broken remnants of the horsehair watch fob attached to it. He pitched it up toward Dad Orwick. It landed on the table and started to roll, but Orwick clamped a hand down in it. Then he raised his hand and looked at it closely, recognizing it right away. He lifted his head and stared at Jumpe from inside the dark hood. Jumpe fidgeted in place.

“I found
this
near your son's body,” Sam said, “lying in the dirt where it fell. That
is
the truth, so help me God.”

“It's yours, Jumpe,” said Orwick in a flat, dry tone. “I've seen it thousands of times.” He picked up the big revolver and cocked it adamantly.