Bloodstone (3 page)

The old mare almost stumbled on the scree slope. Jerked from his thoughts, Nestor steered her down the incline.

The fantasies loomed back into his mind. He was no longer Nestor Garrity, the fearless Crusader, but Jon Shannow, the famed Jerusalem Man, seeking the fabled city and with no time for women, much as they adored him. Nestor narrowed his eyes and lifted his hat from where it hung at his back. Settling it into place, he turned up the collar of his coat and sat straighter in the saddle.

Jon Shannow would never slouch. He pictured two brigands riding from behind the boulders. In his mind’s eye he could see the fear on their faces. They went for their guns. Nestor’s hand snapped down. The pistol sight caught on the tip of his holster, twisting the weapon from his hands. It fell to the scree. Carefully Nestor dismounted and retrieved the weapon.

The mare, pleased to be relieved of the boy’s weight, walked on. “Hey, wait!” called Nestor, scrambling toward her. But she ambled on, and the dejected youngster followed her all the way to the bottom, where she stopped to crop the dry grass. Then Nestor remounted.

One day I’ll be a Crusader, he thought. I’ll serve the Deacon and the Lord. He rode on.

Where was the Preacher? It should not take this long to find him. The tracks were easy to follow to the Gap. But where was he going? Why did he ride out in the first place? Nestor liked the Preacher. He was a quiet man and throughout Nestor’s youth he had treated him with kindness and understanding. Especially when Nestor’s parents had been killed that summer ten years earlier, drowned in a flash flood. Nestor shivered at the memory. Seven years old—and an orphan. Frey McAdam had come to him then, the Preacher with her. He had sat at the bedside and taken Nestor’s hand.

“Why did they die?” the bewildered child had asked. “Why did they leave me?”

“I guess it was their time, only they didn’t know it.”

“I want to be dead, too,” the seven-year-old had wailed.

The Preacher had sat with him then, quietly talking about the boy’s parents, of their goodness and their lives. Just for a while the anguish and the numbing sense of loneliness had left Nestor, and he had fallen asleep.

The previous night the Preacher had escaped from the church despite the flames and the bullets. And he had run away to hide. Nestor would find him, tell him that everything was all right now and it was safe to come home.

Then he saw the bodies, the flies buzzing around the terrible wounds. Nestor forced himself to dismount and approach
them. Sweat broke out on his face, and the desert breeze felt cold on his skin. He could not look directly at them, so he studied the ground for tracks.

One horse had headed back toward Pilgrim’s Valley, then had turned and walked out into the wild lands. Nestor risked a swift, stomach-churning glance at the dead men. He knew none of them. More important, none of them was the Preacher.

Remounting, he set off after the lone horseman.

People were moving on the main street of Pilgrim’s Valley as Nestor Garrity rode in, leading the black stallion. It was almost noon, and the children were leaving the two school buildings and heading out into the fields to eat the lunches their mothers had packed for them. The stores and the town’s three restaurants were open, and the sun was shining down from a clear sky.

But a half mile to the north smoke still spiraled lazily into the blue. Nestor could see Beth McAdam standing amid the blackened timbers as the undertakers moved around the debris, gathering the charred bodies of the Wolvers. Nestor did not relish facing Beth with the news. She had been the headmistress of the lower school when Nestor was a boy, and no one had ever enjoyed the thought of being sent to her study. He grinned, remembering the day he had fought with Charlie Wills. They had been dragged apart and then taken to Mrs. McAdam; she had stood in front of her desk, tapping her fingers with the three-foot bamboo cane.

“How many should you receive, Nestor?” she had asked him.

“I didn’t start the fight,” the boy had replied.

“That is no answer to my question.”

Nestor had thought about it for a moment. “Four,” he had said.

“Why four?”

“Fighting in the yard is four strokes,” he had told her. “That’s the rule.”

“But did you not also take a swing at Mr. Carstairs when he dragged you off the hapless Charlie?”

“That was a mistake,” Nestor had said.

“Such mistakes are costly, boy. It shall be six for you and four for Charlie. Does that sound fair?”

“Nothing is fair when you’re thirteen,” Nestor had said, but he had accepted the six strokes, three on each hand, and had made no sound.

He rode slowly toward the charred remains of the little church, the stallion meekly following his bay mare. Beth McAdam was standing with her hands on her ample hips, staring out toward the wall. Her blond hair was braided at the back, but part of the braid had come loose and was fluttering in the wind at her cheek. She turned at the sound of the approaching horse and gazed up at Nestor, her face expressionless. He dismounted and removed his hat.

“I found the raiders,” he said. “They was all dead.”

“I expected that,” she said. “Where is the Preacher?”

“No sign of him. His horse headed east, and I caught up with it; there was blood on the saddle. I backtracked and found signs of wolves and bears, but I couldn’t find him.”

“He is not dead, Nestor,” she said. “I would know. I would feel it here,” she told him, hitting her chest with a clenched fist.

“How did he manage to kill five men? They were all armed. All killers. I mean, I never saw the Preacher ever carry a gun.”

“Five men, you say?” she replied, ignoring the question. “There were more than twenty surrounding the church, according to those who saw the massacre. But then, I expect there were some from our own … loving … community.”

Nestor had no wish to become involved in the dispute. Wolvers in a church was hardly decent, anyhow, and it was no surprise to the youngster that tempers had flared. Even so, if the Crusaders had not been called out to a brigand raid on Shem Jackson’s farm, there would have been no violence.

“Anything more you want me to do, Mrs. McAdam?”

She shook her head. “It was plain murder,” she said. “Nothing short.”

“You can’t murder Wolvers,” Nestor said, without thinking. “I mean, they ain’t human, are they? They’re animals.”

Anger shone in Beth’s eyes, but she merely sniffed and
turned aside. “Thank you, Nestor, for your help. But I expect you have chores to do, and I’ll not keep you from them.”

Relieved, he turned away and remounted. “What do you want me to do with this stallion?” he called.

“Give it to the Crusaders. It wasn’t ours, and I don’t want it.”

Nestor rode away to the stone-built barracks at the south end of town, dismounting and hitching both horses to the rail outside. The door was open, and Captain Leon Evans was sitting at a roughly built desk.

“Good morning, sir,” said Nestor.

Evans looked up and grinned. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile. “Still looking to sign up, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Been reading your Bible?”

“I have, sir. Every day.”

“I’ll put you in for the test on the first of next month. If you pass, I’ll make you a cadet.”

“I’ll pass, sir. I promise.”

“You’re a good lad, Nestor. I see you found the stallion. Any sign of the Preacher?”

“No, sir. But he killed five of the raiders.”

The smile faded from Captain Evans’s face. “Did he, by God?” He shook his head. “As they say, you can’t judge a man by the coat he wears. Did you recognize any of the dead men?”

“Not a one, sir. But three of them had their faces shot away. Looks like he just rode down the hill and blasted ’em to hell and gone. Five men!”

“Six,” said the captain. “I was checking the church this morning; there was a corpse there. It looks like when the fire was at its worst, the Preacher managed to smash his way out at the rear. There was a man waiting. The Preacher must have surprised him, there was a fight, and the Preacher managed to get the man’s gun. Then he killed him and took his horse. Jack Shale says he saw the Preacher riding from town, said his coat and hair were ablaze.”

Nestor shivered. “Who’d have thought it?” he said. “All his
sermons were about God’s love and forgiveness. Then he guns down six raiders. Who’d have thought it?”

“I would, boy,” came a voice from the doorway, and Nestor turned to see the old prophet making his slow way inside. Leaning on two sticks, his long white beard hanging to his chest, Daniel Cade inched his way to a seat by the wall. He was breathing heavily as he sank to the chair.

Captain Evans stood and filled a mug with water, passing it to the prophet. Cade thanked the man.

Nestor faded back to the far wall, but his eyes remained fixed to the ancient legend sipping the water. Daniel Cade, the former brigand turned prophet, who had fought off the Hellborn in the Great War. Everyone knew that God spoke to the old man, and Nestor’s parents had been two of the many people saved when Cade’s brigands had taken on the might of the Hellborn army.

“Who burned the church?” asked Cade, the voice still strong and firm, oddly in contrast to the arthritic and frail body.

“They were raiders from outside Pilgrim’s Valley,” the captain told him.

“Not all of them,” said Cade. “There were townsfolk among the crowd. Shem Jackson was seen. Now, that disturbs me, for isn’t that why the Crusaders were not here to protect the church? Weren’t you called to Jackson’s farm?”

“Aye, we were,” said the captain. “Brigands stole some of his stock, and he rode in to alert us.”

“And then stayed on to watch the murders. Curious.”

“I do not condone the burning of the church, sir,” said the captain. “But it must be remembered that the Preacher was told—repeatedly—that Wolvers were not welcome in Pilgrim’s Valley. They are not creatures of God, not made in his image, nor true creations. They are
things
of the Devil. They have no place in a church or in any habitat of decent folk. The Preacher ignored all warnings. It was inevitable that some … tragedy … would befall. I can only hope that the Preacher is still alive. It would be sad … if a good man—though misguided—were to die.”

“Oh, I reckon he’s alive,” said Cade. “So you’ll be taking no action against the townspeople who helped the raiders?”

“I don’t believe anyone
helped
them. They merely observed them.”

Cade nodded. “Does it not strike you as strange that men from outside Pilgrim’s Valley should choose to ride in to lance our boil?”

“The work of God is often mysterious,” said Evans, “as you yourself well know, sir. But tell me, why were you not surprised that the Preacher should tackle—and destroy—six armed men? He shares your name, and it is said he is your nephew or was once one of your men in the Hellborn War. If the latter is true, he must have been very young indeed.”

Cade did not smile, but Nestor saw the humor in his eyes. “He is older than he looks, Captain, and no, he was never one of my men. Nor is he my nephew—despite his name.” With a grunt the prophet pushed himself to his feet. Captain Evans took his arm, and Nestor ran forward to gather his sticks.

“I’m all right. Don’t fuss about me!”

Slowly and with great dignity the old man left the room and climbed to the driving seat of a small wagon. Evans and Nestor watched as Cade flicked the reins.

“A great man,” said Evans. “A legend. He knew the Jerusalem Man. Rode with him, some say.”

“I heard he
was
the Jerusalem Man,” said Nestor.

Evans shook his head. “I heard that, too. But it is not true. My father knew a man who fought alongside Cade. He was a brigand, a killer. But God shone the great light upon him.”

The Deacon stood on the wide balcony, his silver-white beard rippling in the morning breeze. From that high vantage point he gazed affectionately out over the high walls and down on the busy streets of Unity. Overhead a biplane lumbered across the blue sky, heading east toward the mining settlements, carrying letters and possibly the new Barta notes that were slowly replacing the large silver coins used to pay the miners.

The city was prospering. Crime was low, and women could walk without risk, even at night, along the well-lit thoroughfares.

“I’ve done the best I could,” whispered the old man.

“What’s that, Deacon?” asked a slender, round-shouldered man with wispy white hair.

“Talking to myself, Geoffrey. Not a good sign.” Turning from the balcony, he reentered the study. “Where were we?”

The thin man lifted a sheet of paper and peered at it. “There is a petition here asking for mercy for Cameron Sikes. You may recall he’s the man who found his wife in bed with a neighbor. He shot them both to death. He is due to hang tomorrow.”

The old man shook his head. “I feel for him, Geoffrey, but you cannot make exceptions. Those who murder must die. What else?”

“The Apostle Saul would like to see you before setting off for Pilgrim’s Valley.”

“Am I free this afternoon?”

Geoffrey consulted a black leather-bound diary. “Four-thirty to five is clear. Shall I arrange it?”

“Yes. I still don’t know why he asked for that assignment. Perhaps he is tired of the city. Or perhaps the city is tired of him. What else?”

For half an hour the two men worked through the details of the day, until finally the Deacon called a halt and strolled through to the vast library beyond the study. There were armed guards at the doors, and the Deacon remembered with sadness the young man who had hidden there two years before. The shot had sounded like thunder within the domed building, striking the Deacon just above the right hip and spinning him to the floor. The assailant had screamed and charged across the huge room, firing as he ran. Bullets had ricocheted from the stone floor. The Deacon had rolled over and drawn the small, two-shot pistol from his pocket. As the young man had come closer, the old man had fired, the bullet striking the assassin just above the bridge of the nose. The youngster had stood for a moment, his own pistol dropping to the floor. Then he had fallen to his knees and toppled onto his face.