A Congregation of Jackals (26 page)

The New Yorker knew that he needed to lance a leg if he wanted to knock a horse down, but such a shot
was very unlikely at this distance. Down the sighting of his long-range rifle, the horse’s limbs were currently invisible.

Dicky waited for the stampede to come into range.

When the steeds were five hundred yards off, he pointed his rifle at the middle one, aimed at the space beneath its bulk and squeezed the trigger; the muzzle cracked; the cartridge whistled across the plain; the horse tumbled forward, its hindquarters flipped into the air and the beast slammed onto its jaw, twisting its neck horribly. In a moment, the felled animal was obscured by the dust the others pulled over it like high tide.

Dicky pulled back the bolt, plucked out the warm shell and slid in a new cartridge. He aimed below the bulk of one of the four remaining horses, inhaled to steady his grip and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle cracked; the lead projectile whistled across the plain. The horse bucked—the shot had likely struck its chest—but the animal continued forward.

The New Yorker raised his binoculars to his face and looked at the pack. Two more steeds had emerged from the dust wave to replace the one that had fallen; they were both covered with grime and almost completely invisible, even through the binoculars. Like the other four, they pulled blunt objects through the soil and expanded the veil.

Dicky felt a cool wind against his forehead; his stomach sank for the second time in five minutes. He pounded his fist upon the balustrade in fury.

“No,” he remarked to the breeze that blew westward, directly at him.

The wind carried the storm of dust over the hindquarters of the six steeds, up their sides and over their nostrils: it looked as if they were slowly falling into a
pond of murky water. They disappeared; the gray wall advanced.

The New Yorker had not relished the execrable (and unlikely) feat of trying to put down all six horses (and however many more emerged from the dust), but now he had no choice but to sit and wait for their arrival . . . as well as those they escorted.

Dicky set his weapon down and grabbed the lever-action rifle Oswell had given him. The firearm was not accurate beyond three hundred yards, yet it could fire seven shots instead of just one . . . which was preferable, since the New Yorker was fairly certain that this showdown would not be engaged at a distance.

With the fingers of his right hand, Dicky threw the trigger guard forward; the loading mechanism clacked and pulled a cartridge from the magazine into the chamber. He sat on the gazebo bench and watched dust fill the eastern horizon. The edge of the wave was four hundred yards from the gazebo; from it emerged the noises of hooves and neighing and metal clanking upon stones.

Dicky picked up his binoculars and glanced back at Oswell and Godfrey, both standing outside the church, watching the column advance. The plump Danford’s mouth was agape like a surprised child’s.

The New Yorker knelt behind the waist-high wall of the gazebo (which would not withstand the rounds of a high-caliber rifle at close range, but was thick enough to stop weaker munitions) and watched the dust storm engulf the plain and swallow the sky.

Grit flew into his eyes; his long lashes fluttered up and down like butterfly wings. He inhaled some motes and sneezed thrice, unable to stifle the reflex. Dicky spat, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and laboriously sucked clean air through the fabric into his lungs.

The storm of dust consumed the gazebo, isolating the structure and the lone sharpshooter within it. Dicky looked back toward the church and saw only a deluge of dirt. Looking through eyes bleary with tears, the New Yorker surveyed the environs with the perspicacity of a myopic old man at latest dusk.

He heard hooves to his right and pointed the tip of his rifle in that direction. A pocket in the maelstrom opened, revealing the dark silhouette of a horse upon which a rider clung, hunched forward, face pressed to the saddle. Dicky squeezed the trigger, flung the lever forward and fired again at the dark shape. The second bullet sped through the cylinder in the dust sliced by the first, into the rider’s back. The man cried out and fell from his horse. Before the pocket in the maelstrom closed, the New Yorker saw a hoof land upon the fallen rider’s right shin and snap it.

A faint creaking of wood sounded behind Dicky; he spun to it. A dust-obfuscated man had his hands clasped to the balustrade—he was pulling himself up to the platform. The New Yorker pointed the tip of his gun at the climber and threw his trigger-guard forward. The metallic clack alerted the man; he reached for his hip; Dicky squeezed off a shot that splattered crimson upon the dust behind the foe’s head. The agglutination of grit and blood fell like gumdrops to the ground; the man toppled a moment later.

A pocket in the dust revealed two horses carrying hunched riders toward the church. Dicky aimed his gun; dust abruptly swirled in the gap and precluded his shot.

The muzzle of a revolver pressed into Dicky’s nape. Only after he felt the cold contact of the weapon did he notice that the floorboards of the gazebo had sunk an eighth of an inch.

The owner of the weapon said, “Drop it.”

Dicky hesitated.

A fist pounded the right side of the New Yorker’s head; his right ear rang and burned; his cheek swelled with an instantaneous bruise. Dicky gasped and then coughed the handkerchief from his mouth.

“Drop it,” the man commanded.

In that moment, Dicky contemplated spinning around and firing at his assailant, an act that would likely end his foe’s life and certainly call his own to a close, simply and swiftly.

Instead, the great seducer dropped his rifle; it clattered upon the gazebo planks. He did not know if this act was the result of cowardice or optimism. Clearly some part of him felt that he had a chance against Quinlan . . . or at least a chance to somehow escape this showdown alive.

The captor snatched the revolver Dicky had secreted beneath his belt and flung it to the platform, where it bounced twice.

The New Yorker glanced behind him and saw a person he did not recognize. The man was an Indian about his age with a scarf drawn across his nostrils and mouth, and spectacle lenses pulled against his eyes by a rag with two holes in it. He wore a vest made from the skins of wolves.

“Turn around,” the Indian said. The New Yorker complied.

The captor pressed his gun into Dicky’s back and urged him toward the steps with a sharp jab and the word “walk.” The New Yorker strode slowly across the planks, his hands in the air. When he reached the stairs, he intended to fall down them and lunge to the right . . . and hope that the dust obscured him well enough to provide an opportunity for escape.

The fickle wind languished for a moment and then blew south.

Standing outside the gazebo were three more men; all of them had guns pointed at Dicky. The New Yorker recognized none of them, but they all recognized him through the owlish lenses pressed to their eyes.

“Bind him,” the Indian said just before he shoved Dicky from the gazebo. The ground slammed into the most handsome man within the Trailspur city limits. The wind burst from his lungs; when he gasped, he inhaled a small sharp rock.

T.W. walked his daughter up the blue carpet that delineated the two filled halves of the church. Wilfreda enthusiastically played the hymn Beatrice had selected, an ornate composition called “He Observes His Children with Love,” written by an English composer a century earlier. James stood on the podium, his hands clasped together to keep his fingers from fidgeting. In the sheriff’s estimation, the groom’s anxiousness had dissipated during the last hour. Perhaps the threat that worried James and his friends would not disturb this sacred day after all.

Minister Orton walked to the edge of the dais, stopped, put his hands behind his back and looked at the congregation; a toothy grin creased the beard that surged like a waterfall from his face. T.W. walked
Beatrice to the holy man; the minister delicately took her left hand and led her to James. The sheriff walked away from the dais and sat in the aisle seat of the front right pew, beneath which he had earlier secreted the box containing the shawl and revolver.

Meredith took his hand, squeezed it and kissed his cheek; the affections helped dull the unexpectedly sharp pangs of melancholy that the act of handing over his daughter had engendered. Wilfreda’s hands wove a difficult counterpoint upon the piano; for a moment, T.W. thought he heard a dim rumble beneath the music, but the elusive noise was covered over by the minister’s explosive laughter.

“Isn’t this a handsome couple,” the holy man said, surveying the bride and groom. “Are you two ready to make yourselves one in the eyes of the Christ?”

“Sure am,” James said.

“I know he likes the look of you two together,” the minister said and clapped his hands.

Beatrice, less interested in the man’s patois, nodded and said, “Thank you. Please begin the ceremony, Minister Orton.”

“First I want to show you something I brung. Just the bride. It’s something I only take out on special occasions like this. Follow me.”

Beatrice, surprised by Minister Orton’s request, walked away from James and strode alongside the holy man.

When they stood beside the lectern, the minister said to the assemblage in a cold and unfriendly voice, “I want you fools to pay attention to this.”

T.W. felt a chill crawl up his spine; he rose from his chair, as did Goodstead one pew behind him. James stared at the minister, mouth open.

With his steely left hand, Minister Orton grabbed
the back of Beatrice’s head and slammed her face into the lectern, where the cartilage of her nose snapped. She cried out in surprise and pain.

T.W., James and Goodstead ran at the minister.

The holy man withdrew a revolver from a hollowed-out Bible and pressed the wide barrel to the back of Beatrice’s head. He thumbed the hammer; the metal clicked.

T.W., James and Goodstead stopped.

The sheriff looked at his daughter; her face was pressed flat to the hard surface of the lectern; her shoulders shook; a thin moan escaped her lips that made him want to die.

The minister leaned his left elbow on Beatrice’s nape and tapped the back of her skull with the butt of his revolver.

“Back off fellas.” The three men withdrew.

“Leave off of my wife,” James said.

“You didn’t get married. And you shouldn’t lie about your vows in God’s house unless you want something bad to happen.”

“What do you want?” T.W. said, unable to look at his convulsive daughter, his hands balled up into hard fists.

“There’s still some more guests coming. All we’ve gotta do is wait for them to show. Quiet now.”

The shocked congregation was silent. The sound that T.W. had barely discerned during Wilfreda’s playing became audible to the entire congregation—it was the rumbling tattoo of hooves.

A gunshot echoed in the distant plains, followed by another and then another.

“That’s them,” the minister said.

Oswell and Godfrey unhitched Tim Halders’s carriage; the freed brace of horses fled from the oncoming dust storm. The Danfords pulled the coach in front of the main church doors, dug their fingers beneath the lower planks and heaved; the vehicle tipped onto its side, upraised wheels spinning.

Godfrey reached his hand into the dirt, found the coil of rope buried there and yanked hard. The trunk opened, revealing the three lever-action rifles they had earlier secreted there. He grabbed the guns by the barrels.

Oswell yanked the rope from the trunk lid, hurried to the church entrance and wound the cord tightly around the bronze doorknobs to discourage anyone within from poking his or her curious head out into the middle of a gunfight.

Godfrey stacked the loaded magazines beside the rifles on the bulge of the overturned carriage.

Oswell snatched the pair of binoculars from the trunk and shut it. The rancher looked east: the gazebo and everything beyond it was obliterated by the dust storm, now only two hundreds yards off.

Godfrey said, “I hope Dicky got some of them.”

“I recognized the sound of the lever-action. He got some shots off.”

“He didn’t run out on us.”

“He didn’t.”

The Danfords, all but their heads shielded by the tipped-over carriage, watched the oncoming storm and waited.

“I didn’t expect anything like this,” Godfrey said. “I can’t believe he did all this just to get back at us.”

“He might have more than just revenge on his mind.”

Godfrey ruminated for a moment and said, “Maybe we were fools to think we could outsmart a fellow like Quinlan at his own setup.”

“We didn’t have choice. We couldn’t leave this mess to Lingham.”

“Yeah.”

The brothers looked at each other for a moment, then looked back at the dust storm one hundred yards off.

Godfrey said, “If you make it and I don’t, will you bury me next to Ma? I said I never wanted to go back to Pineville, but I can’t think of another place for you to put me.”

“I’ll bury you there.”

“Thanks.”

They watched the maelstrom inhale the sky and the ground, a filthy eclipse.

The Danford brothers pulled handkerchiefs from their pockets and tied them over their noses and mouths. They fastened the leather cords of their hats securely beneath their chins.

The brothers snatched up their rifles and trained them upon the center of the column, pressing the stocks of their rifles deeply into their armpits. Less than fifty yards separated them from the roiling grit. Oswell felt the rumble of hooves in his stomach.

The prow of the dust storm struck the Danfords. They tilted their heads down, using the brims of their hats and the butts of their guns to shield their aiming eyes. A dark horizontal shape flickered by.

“No rider,” Godfrey said.

The Danfords withheld their fire.

The silhouette of a low-flying bird floated across the haze, the air’s usurpation by soil leaving it befuddled. A gunshot cracked; the shadow flinched and then sank from the sky, flapping only its right wing.