Pemberley Ranch (21 page)

A cart arrived and a furious Reverend Tilney leapt from it. “Don’t just stand there—cut him down! Cut that poor man down!” He seized the sheriff. “Come on, man! We can’t leave him up there! And the rest of you!” He pointed at the burning cross. “Put that… that damnable thing out! It’s an abomination!”

“With what?” Jones said stupidly.

“I don’t know!” Tilney cried. “With your hands, if necessary!”

Sheriff Lucas roused himself to think. “Look around, boys. There must be a shovel or an ax about.” He walked over to the tree with the preacher. A flash of his knife and the tree was empty of its burden. Lucas stared at the bodies huddled close to the roots, his blade held loosely in his hand. Tilney, kneeling down by the victims, ignored the rain falling in his face to look back up at the lawman.

“The boy,” Lucas said. “They killed the little boy, too?” It wasn’t really a question.

Tilney bent his head. “Go see if you can find some blankets in the house, Sheriff. They deserve at least that.”

Lucas nodded and walked towards the front door of the little house, glad to be doing something. The loss of light and the hissing sound behind him as he opened the door told Lucas that the others had felled the
thing
outside. He welcomed the darkness as he began to search the place for whatever little comfort he could offer the Washingtons now.

Now that it was too late for anything else.

I
N HER FAMILY
’
S PEW
in the Rosings Baptist Church, Beth kept her head as still as possible as Reverend Tilney read a passage from the New Testament while her eyes took in those assembled. To either side of her was her family. To her left were her father, looking grim, and her mother, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. To her right were Kathy and Lily, both unusually quiet. Next to them were Charles and Jane, little Susan resting quietly in her mother’s arms.

Beth could not see behind her, but she had seen Sheriff Lucas and Charlotte before the beginning of the service and knew they were in attendance, as were George Whitehead and Billy Collins. Mary was at the church organ. Except for a few others, no one else was present.

It was embarrassing for a congregation that normally filled the church to stay away from the funeral for some of their own. Beth knew the reasons—some sensible, some appalling—and a bit of her old disgust for the South burned dimly in her breast. Beth was ashamed that the church was mostly empty.

Mostly, but not quite empty. Beth’s eyes kept returning to the row of pews on the opposite side of the aisle. The seats that usually held the Burroughs family were instead occupied by William Darcy, his sister, Gaby, and two others. She did not know the short man in the black robe, but she assumed it was the Darcys’ priest. It was shocking enough that a Catholic priest would attend a service in a Baptist Church, but even more amazing was that the Darcys’ cook, Mrs. Reynolds, sat next to them. Beth also knew that two Darcy wranglers stood in the back near the front door of the church.

It would have been a wondrous occurrence were it not for the sorrowful nature of the gathering. She returned her attention to the wooden objects before the sanctuary—three coffins, two about six feet long flanking a much smaller one in the middle. Beth would have cried again over the fate of the Washingtons if she were not aware of one other jarring, frightening fact.

Every man in the church, except for the clergy and Collins, was armed—even Charles.

With a final blessing, the funeral service for the Washington family was complete. The women quietly filed out of the church into the noonday sun, Beth taking Gaby by the hand. They stood outside, close to a flatbed wagon with the back unlatched.

Within moments, the pallbearers began their grim duty. Apparently, an agreement had taken place inside the church. The first coffin that emerged was that of Mrs. Washington, borne by Mr. Bennet and the undertaker’s helpers, assisted by Whitehead and Collins. William, Charles, and the Pemberley hands followed with Mr. Washington. They, too, carefully lifted their macabre burden onto the bed of the wagon, the undertaker directing the securing of the coffins. Finally, the
last, small wooden box was carried out with infinite tenderness by Henry Tilney and Father Joseph. Both had tears in their eyes, as did most of the ladies assembled. A moment later, the wagon was ready.

The assemblage milled about, preparing to begin the procession. Gaby joined her brother and the Pemberley group. To Beth’s displeasure, Whitehead and Collins approached the Bennets and Bingleys.

“It’s a sad day, isn’t it, Thomas?” Whitehead remarked.

Mr. Bennet was interrupted by Charles. “Tom, Fanny, I’m goin’ to take Jane an’ Susan back to the house. Y’all come by afterwards, all right?” With one sharp glare for Whitehead, the Bingleys walked toward their house, Beth still unnerved by the extraordinary sight of a pistol on Charles’s hip.

Whitehead seemed to take no notice of the doctor. “Well, we’ve got to get back to work, eh, Billy? Tom, you going up to the burial?”

Told that the Bennet family would join the procession, Whitehead displayed an odd look that appeared to Beth as if he wished to dispose of a troublesome insect. The expression disappeared in an instant; Beth blinked, and Whitehead was his usually implacable self again. The chill that ran down Beth’s spine was her only proof that she had not imagined the moment. With a smile, Whitehead took his leave of the Bennets, Collins trailing behind. Beth was relieved at Whitehead’s departure, because she had disturbing thoughts about a person she once considered a friend and now feared and mistrusted.

With a word from Henry Tilney, the rest took their positions. The wagon driver flicked the reins, and the horses moved down the street, Henry sitting next to him. In the wagon with the
coffins were the undertaker and his men. Following on foot were the remaining attendees. The Darcys were first, Gaby and Father Joseph next to William, while Mrs. Reynolds walked directly behind her employer. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were next, their daughters trailing, Beth and Mary holding hands. The sheriff and Charlotte, along with the Pemberley hands, brought up the rear.

The streets of Rosings, usually bustling at midday, were practically deserted. A sense of fear was omnipresent. Beth glanced around her, catching a curtain move at Zimmerman’s store. The blacksmith’s shop was silent. The only sound was the tolling of the church bell and the creak of the wagon’s wheels.

The story around town was that a roving band of the Ku Klux Klan had descended on the Washington homestead, and outsiders were to blame for the lynching. Beth was surprised and troubled at the rumors, for in the years she had lived in Rosings, there was not even the hint that the feared, masked terrorists were in the area. In fact, all the newspapers had said that the Klan was on its last legs, put down by the power of the army and the federal government. But if the Klan was riding the range killing former slaves, where had they come from? Why hadn’t they heard about such outrages before? It didn’t make sense to Beth.

Another thing that didn’t make sense was the nonattendance of Richard Fitzwilliam. Beth was witness to the horror on the foreman’s face when he learned the fate of the Washington family. With the Darcys present for the funeral, why was Fitz not? Was he needed at the ranch, or had Beth misjudged the man? She glanced behind her at Charlotte. Beth had known for several weeks of her friend’s feelings for the Pemberley foreman, and she wondered how Charlotte felt about Fitz’s absence.

The procession continued in silence to the major crossroads
of the town, passing Younge’s Saloon before turning onto the North Road. Outside the barroom lounged two men, whispering to each other. Beth recognized one of them as Kid Denny, which set off another series of questions in her head. If Fitz was needed at Pemberley to keep things running, why was Denny absent from the B&R? She saw William look hard at the man, which drew a laugh from the gunfighter as he leaned back against the wall, a nasty smirk on his face.

The incident alarmed and angered Beth. Seeing Whitehead’s cohort mock the funeral procession reinforced the nagging feeling she had that George knew more about the outrage than he was letting on.
I can forgive Will for having fought for the Confederacy,
she thought,
but I certainly won’t pardon Denny! I can see why Denny is friends with Whitehead—two bad men found each other
.

Soon, the wagon reached the northern outskirts of town and began the ascent up the slight hill to the cemetery. The party had gone halfway up the narrow lane when four men on horseback appeared and blocked the way to the graveyard’s gate. Beth recognized one of them as Wilkerson, the B&R hand who had driven her to the Burroughses’ house back in July.

Henry called from his perch on the wagon, “Make way, gentlemen.”

The man next to Wilkerson appeared to be the leader. “Not so fast, Preacher. You mean to plant them slaves in this here cemetery?”

Henry was enraged. “What business is it of yours, Nathan Thorpe? Stand aside!”

“You ain’t puttin’ no slaves in a white man’s cemetery,” the man identified as Thorpe repeated. He pointed out at the open
range. “If you gotta stick ’em in the ground, there’s plenty of room out there—not in here.” His companions nodded, and one carried a rifle.

“Or maybe that Papist place across th’ river,” suggested Wilkerson with a sneer. “I heard they’d take anybody.”

Beth thought that William would be angry at the insult from Wilkerson, but the tall rancher stood calmly in front of Gaby, shielding her, his face showing no expression.

It was Sheriff Lucas who responded. “That’s enough of that!” he thundered. “You’ve got no right to stop these people, Thorpe.”

Thorpe patted his holstered revolver. “Stay outta this if’n you know what’s good for ya, Sheriff.”

Beth’s anger turned to fear. She grasped Mary’s hand as Mr. Bennet jumped in front of her mother—

And then there was the unmistakable sound of numerous rifles being cocked.

“Stand easy, Thorpe. You’re surrounded,” drawled a familiar voice. Beth didn’t need Charlotte’s gasp of relief to know it was Richard Fitzwilliam.

Thorpe, Wilkerson, and the other gunmen looked around them in shock. Peeking out from behind trees and headstones were armed men, their rifles steady on their targets.

“Not too smart, Thorpe, scarin’ off the gravediggers an’ failing to reconnoiter the area properly,” Fitz mocked the man. “Now, drop them gun belts!” A moment later, the four horsemen disarmed themselves.

William spoke for the first time. “Good work, Fitz.”

Lucas turned to the rancher. “You knew this was gonna happen?”

William shrugged his shoulders. The implications of that
gesture astonished and delighted Beth—Will had foreseen what was going to happen and sent his best man to prevent any trouble.

“No violence!” cried Henry. “Thorpe, let us pass.”

“Yeah,” added Lucas, “you can pick up your guns at the jail later.”

“Not so fast, Lucas,” Fitz said, keeping his rifle armed at Thorpe. “You may want to ask these fellas about their whereabouts a few nights ago. Thorpe an’ Wilkerson rode with Quantrill’s outlaws, if I remember rightly.”

“Outlaw? I was a soldier, same as you!” Thorpe insisted.

“I don’t call what happened in Lawrence the work of a soldier, bushwhacker. Tell me—how many boys did you kill?”

Beth gasped; she had heard about William Quantrill’s famous raid on Lawrence, Kansas, where up to two hundred men and boys had been slaughtered and the town burned to the ground in retaliation for Jayhawk attacks in Missouri. If these men had been members of Quantrill’s Raiders, then Mrs. Burroughs had very dangerous people working for her.
⁶

“I wasn’t there,” claimed Thorpe.

“Sure, you weren’t. Like I’d trust your word.”

Sheriff Lucas spoke up, “Thorpe, get your people outta here. Now—git!” The four riders took off down the hill, heading for town.

An annoyed Fitz walked up to the lawman. “Lucas, why did you let ’em go? I’m sure they had somethin’ to do with—”

The sheriff cut him off. “Now’s not the time, Fitz! We’ve got a funeral to finish. Let me do my job at my own pace.”

“And when’s that time gonna be?” Fitz shouted back. Beth could see that Charlotte was distressed over the argument.

William took Fitz by the arm. “That’s enough,” he told his foreman, staring him in the eye. Fitz grunted and William turned to Tilney. “Henry? Can we go on?”

Henry patted the driver on the shoulder, and the wagon rolled into the cemetery.

The last strains of “Shall We Gather at the River” had long since floated across the plains when the people left the cemetery to the sounds of the gravediggers completing their task. By the time Darcy helped Gaby into the carriage that had been brought up from town, the Bennets and the others were already halfway down the road. Darcy wished he could have taken his
leave of Beth, and disappointed, he took out his frustration with Fitzwilliam.

“What the hell do you think you were doing, challenging Sheriff Lucas like that? What did you hope to accomplish?”

Fitz was taken aback at his employer’s anger. “I was just pointin’ out to that old fool that he ain’t doin’ his job. You’re not defending him, are you?”

Darcy took a moment to compose himself. “Look, I’m not saying that Lucas is the best sheriff we’ve ever had, but he’s got an almost impossible job. It’s one thing to suspect something, but it’s a whole other thing to be able to prove something in court. Will you look around at what’s going on?” He lowered his voice. “I suspect the same things as you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucas was of the same mind. But he’s got to have evidence, and even then, he’s got to convince a judge. Who is that judge, Fitz?”