Pale Rider Read online

  Megan was on the verge of blacking out, but her mind somehow held together beneath the force of those obscene guffaws and leering faces. She was pounding very weakly at Josh Lahood’s chest now, her tiny fists like gusts of wind on his shirt. He was using his weight to hold her in place while he worked on her with his hands. Once she’d thought of those hands as graceful. Now they were claws, ripping and tearing at her.

  One hand tore her blouse from collar to waist, to the appreciative roar of the mob. All she could think of was how angry her mother was going to be at the sight of the damage. Her brain was on the verge of responding the only way it knew how: by removing her from what was taking place. She was dangerously close to going catatonic.

  Something heavy and cold between her knees: Lahood’s thigh, forcing her legs apart. She turned her face away. The young man was no longer handsome. His face had metamorphosed into a mask of pure evil. Better to fill her eyes with dirt than to have to stare into that mask.

  Impossibly then, a sound louder than that of the fountaining monitor. The echo followed Lahood’s hat as it flew off his scalp. Then the weight left her legs and belly as her assailant all but leaped to his feet. Lahood whirled, gawking first at his hat before searching out the source of the shot.

  The Preacher’s horse was approaching slowly, unhurriedly. The tall man astride the saddle wore his shirt open now. Of the familiar white collar there was no sign. His hat was pulled low, shading his face and hiding his eyes. Otherwise he was unchanged from the last time Lahood had seen him. He wore the same boots, mackinaw, and black shirt.

  Only the empty holster that rode at his hip was new. That, and the gun in his right hand.

  With the unanimous presence of mind, the circle of miners abruptly scattered in all directions like roaches at the bottom of a cracker barrel.

  “Preacher!” Megan screamed. She put every ounce of strength that remained in her into the single forlorn cry. It tore her throat, but it was unnecessary. He knew what was happening.

  Startled and cheated of his pleasure, Josh Lahood’s face twisted into a rictus of hate. He watched his nemesis approach warily, like a cougar that had been backed into a corner by a pack of hunting dogs. For the third time in their brief, mutually antagonistic acquaintance, the younger man’s hand dropped toward his gun. Not slowly this time, not thoughtfully, but with a speed born of instinct and long practice.

  He’d barely started to clear leather when something sharp struck his hand with the force of a sledge. Four quick shots followed on the heels of the first, so close upon one another that they sounded like a single impossibly long burst. It was impossible. Even if a hammer could be fanned like that, a pistol’s cylinder couldn’t spin that fast.

  But it happened. Before it hit the ground, Lahood’s pistol was struck and sent spinning, sent spinning a second time. The third time it was hit it blew up, sending metal fragments flying over the chewed-up earth. Then a fifth and last shot.

  Lahood’s gaze dropped to his gun hand. A round red hole had appeared in the center of it. The red stain began to spread and drip earthward. He gaped at his palm, unable to blink, shocked into silence by what had happened to him and how fast it had happened. Club stood not far away, his expression solemn. He hadn’t fled along with the others, but neither did he move to intervene. He’d seen what had happened to Lahood’s gun.

  Now he stood there like a piece of mountain come loose, and stared thoughtfully at the intruder. There was no anger in his expression anymore. Only curiosity.

  Megan struggled to her feet. She made a couple of useless, desultory wipes at her filthy dress, then reached up with both arms, heedless of her half nudity. The Preacher leaned down from his saddle and swept her up with one arm, setting her down in front of him.

  She pressed her mud-streaked face against him. Then the trembling started, and the tears came in coughing, spasming fits. He said nothing, but kept one arm tightly around her.

  Then he turned his horse and they rode away, through the cloud of spray from the fountaining water cannon.

  Behind them, it was very quiet for a long time.

  X

  “Have another one, Spider.” The bartender poured the whiskey into the shot glass and looked on approvingly as the old miner drained it in two swallows. Other townsfolk crowded around the bar, casting envious glances at the nugget-filled chunk of milky quartz that rested on the hardwood and admiring ones at its inebriated but happy owner.

  “Would you look at that!” one farmer was muttering.

  “I wonder how many thousands it’s worth?” said another.

  “Over ten,” ventured a self-proclaimed expert appraiser.

  “Maybe twenty,” argued the thin gentleman standing next to him.

  Conway turned from the bar to grin at all of them. “Damn right. Twenty years o’ digging pyrite out of other men’s claims. Three years in that damn canyon. And I found it, me, Spider Aloyusius Conway.”

  He grabbed for the bottle, having to make a couple of passes at it before his fingers contacted glass. Then he straightened against the bar as he surveyed his audience. With his free hand he picked up the aggregate and then staggered forward. A rusty Patterson Colt protruded from the holster at his hip.

  He nearly fell twice as he lurched out onto the main street. Despite the fog that had appeared before his face, he knew where he was heading. He’d been waiting, praying for this day for a long time and by heaven, he was going to enjoy it to the fullest.

  “Hey, Spider,” said a casual friend worriedly, “don’t you think maybe you ought to . . .?”

  Conway didn’t hear him. He heard only the voices inside his head, the ones that drove him into the middle of the street and kept him gloriously upright.

  Then he was standing and staring up at the noble if spartan edifice that bore the legend LAHOOD AND SON, MINING AND SMELTING.

  “Lahood! It’s old Spider. Spider Conway! You remember me? You ought to, you son-of-a-bitch! Come out and tip a bottle with an honest man, you offspring of a bastard polecat! Let’s see if you can stomach some square-bought whiskey.”

  He leaned back and tipped the bottle to his lips, letting the fiery liquid flow down his throat. It seared his belly and added to the wonderful warmth reposing there. Every drop was a delight, as much for what it represented as for how it made him feel. He was an ancient warrior and, having conquered, he was drinking the blood of his enemies.

  He did not pay any special attention to the seven horses that were tied to the hitching rail in front of him.

  The rest of his body might be aging rapidly, but there was nothing wrong with his lungs. His repeated shouts had drawn the attention of the two men who occupied the office on the second-floor of the Lahood building.

  Coy Lahood frowned as he set his glass of Scotch aside. The man seated on the other side of the desk rose and sauntered over to the nearest window. He looked outside for a moment, then glanced back toward the desk.

  “He’s calling your name, Mister Lahood.”

  “I know that.” The magnate wore a disgusted expression, as he rose and joined Stockburn in staring out the window. Together they looked down at the street and the single unsteady, taunting figure that was dancing and raving in the center of it.

  “Is he one of them?” Stockburn’s voice was soft and unctuous, eager to please but in no way condescending.

  Lahood stared at the old sourdough cavorting drunkenly below. “Yeah. Piece of trash named Conway.”

  Stockburn eyed his employer curiously. “He seems to know you more than casually.”

  Lahood made a face. “I’ve had occasion to cross paths with him now and again. Aren’t really that many old-timers still around. Most of ’em got smart, got religion, and got out of the way when the easy placer claims played out and the big companies started moving in. They went into carpentering or ranching and such. But there’s always a few who don’t know when their time is up.” He nodded toward the street.

  “He’s one of ’em. It’
s too bad, you know.”

  “What’s too bad, Mister Lahood?”

  “For awhile there, I had ’em buffaloed. They were running around scared out of their boots. Couldn’t wait to pack up and move out. Conway too, maybe.” He shrugged.

  “Well, maybe not Conway. We might’ve had to deal with him even if the others had left. He’s too old and too stubborn to know what’s good for him anymore. Not that he would’ve been as much trouble as gnat piss by himself. Not with all the others gone.” He shook his head, saddened by all the trouble he’d been forced to go to for no good reason. “Then this damn Preacher comes along and shoots ’em full of sass.”

  Stockburn’s brows drew together as he looked at his employer in disbelief. “A preacher?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous but yes, a preacher. No telling what kind of idiocy he’s been stuffing those tin-pans’ heads with. Whatever it was he told them, he went and got them good and riled. I told you that they turned down my offer. A thousand dollars a claim.” The way he said it made it sound as though he still couldn’t believe it.

  “Seems to me, Mister Lahood, that you’ve gone and done just about everything a man in your position could do. Seems to me you’ve gone out of your way to be fair with these people. A man in your position can only do so much. You’ve got your reputation to think of, as well as your business.”

  “Yes, that’s what I told myself. Sometimes I’m too kind-hearted for my own good. So now they’ve gone and made me look like a fool, in addition to costing me time and money.” He looked sharply at Stockburn. “This Preacher. You take care of him along with the rest. He’s made me look bad in front of my men. That’s not good for business. Whipped three of ’em, too.”

  Stockburn continued to eye him skeptically. “A preacher did that? All by his lonesome?”

  Lahood nodded curtly. “Damned right he did. Think my men would’ve confessed to it if it hadn’t happened?”

  Stockburn considered this bit of information, then asked suspiciously, “What’s this ‘preacher’ look like?”

  Lahood regarded his audience. During the converstion six other men had come into the office: Stockburn’s deputies. They rarely exchanged a word even among themselves, though they responded with alacrity to the Marshal’s slightest utterance. All six of them were big. None wore what could be described as a pleasant countenance. Although they were in Lahood’s employ, they still made him nervous. Partly that was due to their silence, partly to the way they responded to the Marshal.

  He would not have cared to encounter them without Stockburn by his side.

  “To tell the truth,” he finally said in response to the Marshal’s question, “I never much noticed. He’s tall, I guess. Six-three, maybe four. Lean but not thin. Moves smooth for a man that size. Make a good miner, though I don’t think he’s so inclined.” He hesitated, remembering. “Something else. His eyes. For some reason I keep seeing his eyes. There’s something strange about them.”

  Stockburn took it all in quietly. With each of Lahood’s words he appeared to stand a little less at ease, to grow a bit more tense. Lahood noticed the change.

  “This all mean anything to you?”

  Stockburn shrugged slightly. “Maybe. Sounds like a description of a man I once knew.”

  “Might be. He recognized your name.”

  It was silent in the opulent office with only the muted soliloquy of Spider Conway to fill their ears. Lahood had heard about enough from the street. His ears were beginning to burn, and he wondered at Stockburn’s hesitation.

  Eventually the Marshal looked back over at him. His voice was so low that Lahood had to strain to make out the words. “Couldn’t be him. The man I’m thinking about is dead.” Saying it seemed to revitalize him. He turned and strode toward the doorway. Wordlessly, his deputies filed out behind him.

  Drunk as a lord, Spider Conway continued to stand in the middle of the street and bellow enthusiastically at the building in front of him. “I know you’re in there, Coy!” He spat toward the building, and shook the lump of gleaming aggregate in its direction. “I got somethin’ t’show ye. Come on out and have a drink, y’old sow-bellied bloat!”

  Abruptly the front door was slammed open. Three of Lahood’s men came out fast, as if in a hurry to escape something close on their heels. They were followed at a more decorous pace by Stockburn’s deputies. The six lined up on the covered porch, three to each side of the entrance. None of them said anything to the old man in the center of the street.

  Conway tried to sort out the faces through his alcohol-induced haze. He didn’t recognize a one of them, though he had encountered most of Lahood’s employees at one time or another. But even his whiskey-soaked brain could tell there was something different about this bunch, something different and dangerous. There was coldness in their faces that chilled him despite the liquor sloshing around in his gut.

  As he stared and tried to maintain his balance, a seventh figure emerged and walked to the edge of the porch. About forty-five, Conway decided, though it was hard to tell, and not just because his senses were dulled by the whiskey. The stranger stood at the edge of the steps leading down into the street, staring back at the miner. His fingers were in constant motion, flexing and twisting.

  Compared to the man standing in front of them, the six flanking the entrance were as pure as cherubim and seraphim, Conway suddenly decided. He recoiled as if from a noxious vapor, and took a couple of uncertain steps backward.

  “Where’s Lahood?” The boldness the booze had given him was rapidly draining away.

  “Inside,” Stockburn told him. His voice was smooth, almost cloying. “Do you have a problem, old man?”

  Realization finally penetrated the golden miasma that had enveloped Conway. He pointed a shaky finger at the Marshal. “I know you. You’re Stockburn.”

  The other man laughed. “Yes, I’m Stockburn. And these,” he indicated the silent men ranked behind him, “are my deputies. Maybe you’ve heard of them, too. Gentlemen, let’s not be impolite. Say hello to Mister Conway.”

  Not a word came from any of the six, though one or two permitted themselves a half smile.

  Spider tried to sort out his feelings, which were growing more and more confused. To help, he took another pull from the bottle. “I got no beef with you, Stockburn, or with your men. It’s Coy I want to talk to.”

  Stockburn grinned, then spoke softly. “Well go ahead, Mister Conway.” He nodded tersely toward the second-floor window. “He’s right up there. He can hear you just fine.”

  Conway hesitated, then steeled himself and again shouted in the direction of the half-open window. “Lahood, you creepy-legged lizard, get yourself out here so’s we can . . .”

  His voice trailed off. His attention was drawn back to Stockburn’s fingers. They still hovered at the Marshal’s sides, curling and contorting in an unpredictable, snakelike dance. Conway found himself mesmerized by them.

  He blinked, tottered slightly, and straightened himself. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was alone in the street. There were no horses, no wagons. Even the boardwalks were deserted. He was alone. The bottle he clutched and the Dutch courage it supplied no longer seemed as reassuring as they had earlier.

  Within Blankenship’s Emporium, Jed Blankenship glanced up from the ledger he’d been reviewing. He listened hard for a moment, then looked over at the old miner’s sons. They were staring enraptured at a pair of factory-made slingshots imported from Philadelphia.

  He listened to the continued silence for another minute, then addressed himself to the younger Conways. “Sounds like your daddy’s running out of steam, boys. Better take him home now, huh? Don’t want some rancher to run him over in the street.”

  “Aw, don’t worry, Mister Blankenship,” Eddy replied. “We only get to town once a year. Daddy’s okay. He can outdrink any man this side of Placerville, he can.”

  “Yeah,” Teddy added, “he’ll be all right. He said when he was finished celebratin
’ he’d come get us and we’d all go over to the assay office together to get the gold out of his rock.”

  Blankenship shrugged and returned his attention to the ledger. It was none of his business how Conway comported himself. All he could do was suggest, and that he’d done.

  Out in the street, Conway’s fears were beginning to gain control over his liquor-induced bravado. The soberer he felt, the more uncomfortable he became. He was starting to see the man confronting him with greater clarity and as he did so, he was growing genuinely frightened. He swallowed nervously and looked around. There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. He was all alone except for his bottle and his fortune.

  Evidently Stockburn found the sourdough’s transformation amusing. “I don’t think Mister Lahood wants to talk to you, tin-pan. Not when you’re being drunk and abusive. But maybe he’d like to watch you dance a little, hmm? Sure. That might even make up a little for some of the nasty things you’ve been saying about him. I think that’d be fair. Don’t you, boys?” A backward glance was rewarded with continuing silence from the line of deputies.

  This nonresponse appeared to satisfy Stockburn, however. As for Conway, he knew well enough what the Marshal was talking about. A sullen gleam asserted itself in his rheumy eyes and he shook his head jerkily.

  “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “What?” Stockburn looked astonished. “An old-timer like you gone all his life without learning how to dance? Why, that’s plumb unbelievable.”

  Before the last word was out of his mouth and in a single motion so fast as to deceive the eye, the Marshal’s pistol seemed to leap into his hand of its own volition, and to fire. The slug kicked up a cloud of dust where it struck the ground two inches to the left of Conway’s right boot. The old man’s jump was pure reflex.

  The deputies looked on impassively.

  The dust settled. Conway stood there, shaking now, watching the man confronting him the way a bird watches a snake.