Abandon, стр. 59
“Don’t draw the hammer back ’til you’re ready to shoot it.”
Peering through snow-clad branches, she saw the mule skinner emerge from an empty cabin across the canyon.
“See him?” Stephen asked.
“That man’s sold his saddle like Miss Madsen?”
“He’s even more sick in the head. You wanna help him, don’t you? Send him up to God with everyone else?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You keep the gun inside your cloak until you get close. I don’t want you trying to shoot him until he’s as near to you as that fir tree.”
“Will it hurt him?”
“No. Like Molly, he’s already in great pain. You’re making it go away. After the first shot, he’ll fall down. You be real careful, and you pull that hammer back again, and you walk up to him and shoot him in the head.”
The sick mule skinner shouted, “Anyone here?”—his voice so faint and lonesome, rising like a prayer from the canyon floor.
“I don’t wanna.”
“I know, but it’s time.”
“I’m scared.”
“Nothing to be scared of, Harriet.”
“You do it.” She handed him the gun, but he shoved it back.
“God told me this chore falls to you, that you’re His little angel of darkness, and He allowed me to save you for this very purpose. Do you see the perfection of His grand design? Please, Harriet. Go end that poor man’s suffering.”
“If I do good, you’ll dope me with a sinker and some raspberry jam?”
“I promise.”
“Mr. Cole, is God gonna give me new ones?”
“New what, honey?”
“Daddy and Mama.”
Stephen stared down into Harriet’s dark eyes. “I’ll be caring for you.”
“Bethany’s daddy was the best I ever saw. She called him Papa.”
Stephen blushed. “Well, I suppose that would probably be all right if you wanted to um . . . you know . . . call me that.”
Harriet smiled. “Okay, Papa.”
The little girl pushed through the trees and stepped out from the motte of firs. He watched her through the branches, webbing downhill, hands concealed in her cloak, just like he’d told her.
He looked over Abandon—the empty, smokeless cabins, the cribs, silent dance hall, his dark chapel on the opposite slope—and he couldn’t stop the thoughts, remembering that first day he’d arrived here by stage, the town pure energy and motion, the new-sawn yellow boards of the buildings and the smell of fresh-cut wood, streets a soup of mud and shit and garbage, crowded with horses, buggies, pack trains, sidewalks jammed with miners, packers, whores, gamblers, con men, everyone trying to fill their wallets, eyes electric with a peculiar mix of misery, lust, and manic greed.
Who are you?
Stephen Cole.
No, who are you?
God’s
No,
faithful
you murdered
servant.
an entire town.
A gunshot rolled through the canyon.
Thinking, I am Your faithful servant I am Your faithful servant I am Your faithful servant I am Your faithful servant I am Your faithful servant I am faithful faithful faithful
His head fractured with molten pain, and he fell unconscious before the second shot rang out.
SEVENTY-THREE
I
t was a twenty-one burro pack train, the first six animals loaded down with burlap sacks holding three quarters of a ton of Packer’s gold, the next fifteen bearing stiff riders, all fastened to their mounts with one long mecate—Ezekiel Curtice, skin a plum shade of scarlet, burned from the cold and high-altitude sun, frozen straight through, an eviscerated Bart Packer, his four servants, Russell Ilg, Molly Madsen, the albumen print of her husband shoved down the front of her corset, Billy McCabe, a faceless Oatha Wallace, the still-warm mule skinner; and the four other men the preacher had murdered in the day hole on Christmas night.
It was dusk, the snow falling in big, patient flakes.
The preacher sipped from the tincture of arnica and prayed for the fifth time in the last hour that God might ease the awful pain in his head.
From his vantage, he could see the soft glow of his cabin across the canyon, where Harriet slept.
He slapped the rear haunches of the last burro. The animal brayed, and the pack train shuffled on into the mine.
Stephen dropped the shadowgees on the floor of the tunnel and pulled the key out of his pocket.
As he worked it into the padlock, the hair on his neck stood erect. It’s been three days, he thought. They must be dead by now. He dropped the crossbar on the rock, lifted the lever, the bolt retracting, pushed the iron door open with the toe of his arctic.
When the noise of the rusty hinges died away, he listened.
Silence.
He knelt and lighted the rest of the shadowgees, carried them inside three at a time, setting the lamps on the rock around the door. Then he walked back up the tunnel to the end of the pack train and quirted them on.
The donkeys hesitated, reluctant to enter the mine. He slapped their bony rumps with the reata’s braided rawhide. “Get on, now!”
They inched forward, carrying their cargo, the tunnel resonant with the clack of hooves on rock.
He drove the burros through the iron door and followed them into the mine. They bunched up near the entrance, huddled together and braying nervously.
Stephen went to work cutting loose the burlap sacks and hauling the gold bricks into a nearby alcove. Then he severed the horse hair rope that attached the dead to the burros and shooed the pack train out of the mine and back up the day hole. It is finished.
“There!” he shouted into the cavern. “All yours! For all time!”
He reached down to lift a shadowgee.
Fingers touched his arctic.
He shrieked, tripped, and fell as he moved for the door.
What crawled toward him in the firelight seemed neither man or woman, and barely human. Lipless and toothless, a dried-out shell of a person, it whispered words undecipherable, its inflated tongue lolling out of its mouth like a piece of jerky.
Stephen raised the lamp, and in that trembling firelight, he saw the throng of Abandon in the cavern, most dead, a dozen or so dragging themselves in his direction, beggars searching for crumbs of light. The one who’d touched his boot reached out for him, bulging, lidless eyes desperate for an end to their living death. Stephen wept as he backed into the tunnel and pulled the door shut.
He stood there for a moment, listening to a weak fist pound the iron on the other side.
Please, God, end their suffering. How does that glorify—
It stopped him mid-prayer—framed in that oval of charcoal light at the far end of the tunnel, a silhouette too tall to be a child.
SEVENTY-FOUR
M
ain Street lay empty, wind chimes gossiping in the doorway of the mercantile, where Lana barged inside, unsheathed Joss’s bowie, and stabbed the blade into the first sack she could get her hands on.
The burlap split.
Flour poured onto the board floor.
She brought a cupped handful to her mouth, and despite the feeling that she was yamping from Jessup, the merc’s owner, nothing had ever tasted better.
On her third mouthful, she spotted the jar of elk jerky sitting on the counter, made a break for it, using the knife to carve bite-size pieces, devouring five strips before her stomach offered the first rumble of satisfaction.
Lana stared at the fresh set of tracks through town, which looked too orderly to have been left by a herd of passing deer. She stood listening for any sound beyond the scrape of snowflakes collecting on her cape, cold and sore, having hiked all day since climbing out of the cave, through zero visibility and ungodly deep snow, just to make it back to Abandon.