A Congregation of Jackals Read online

  “No ma’am,” Oswell replied. “We can all read.”

  She put her hands on her hips, prompting them to order.

  Oswell said, “I’d like the pork chops and scrambled eggs. And some potatoes and dark toast. And coffee too.” The woman did not write the order down, but instead nodded that she had memorized it.

  “That’s what I want too,” Godfrey said. The woman nodded.

  Dicky said, “I would like a stack of pancakes, some syrup, pork chops, and eggs over easy, if your cook is capable.”

  “Buzzy is deft,” she said.

  “I would also like a steak, medium rare—New York strip if you have it—and some sausages. Coffee would also be appreciated.”

  The woman looked at him incredulously and then nodded. Godfrey, despite the day that loomed before him, laughed; Oswell warmed at the familiar sound of his brother’s cachinnations.

  “I suppose we don’t have to ask what you were doing last night,” Godfrey said. “It’s good you can walk, at least.”

  “I am Harry,” the woman announced and then departed. She walked over to Buzzy to relay the order; he nodded when she had told him everything. The five-foot-tall colored man stood on a crate with a long metal spatula in each hand, expertly wielding the pair as if they were metallic extensions of his own limbs. He grabbed the flour bag and flipped meat and cracked and scrambled eggs without ever once putting the tools down. Oswell could tell that he enjoyed his work.

  Buzzy cooked. The smears of light, flashes of fire, clicks, cracks, clinks and sizzles mesmerized Oswell and drew him out of his weathered body and away from his worries into an incorporeal and thoughtless limbo. He wondered if this was what death was like and then abruptly returned to himself.

  Harry placed the food before the three of them; Dicky’s order was so large it overhung the edges of the counter and crowded into Godfrey’s space. They ate their meals. Even though he knew that he consumed very flavorful victuals, Oswell was unable to taste anything; he chewed and swallowed with no more relish than if he were chopping wood for tinder.

  Dicky treated them and left a tip equal to the cost of the entire meal (a gesture that Harry seemed to find evidence of stupidity rather than generosity, judging by the irritated look upon her face when she counted the bills). The Danfords thanked the New Yorker and stood from their seats.

  The three men walked out and were struck by sunlight. They lowered the brims of their hats and walked east, toward the church.

  Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky, three yards’ distance between each man, traversed the main avenue into a rural section of town. They walked past nineteen houses, four farms, three cattle ranches and a vast fenced property adorned with six signs reading TAYLOR’S HORSE CORRAL: RUSTLERS WILL BE SHOT DEAD.

  In threescore strides, the lush grass of the plain was replaced by wild weeds. A silhouetted cross, wavering in the brilliance of the rising sun, sat in the swell of land ahead of the trio. The men continued forward; two more crosses and the body of the church rose from the ground. The gazebo, four hundred yards east of God’s house and fifty to the south, was the only other anomaly on the wide horizon, the last remaining tooth in an old man’s jaw.

  “Your special rifle can cover that gap?” Oswell asked.

  “It is a shallow-groove, lead-bullet rifle made for long-range shooting. I have won competitions with it at twice that distance.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked past the church (at which no one was present) and over to the gazebo, in which Dicky had hidden his weapons. The trio climbed the five wooden steps into the octagonal shelter.

  The New Yorker took his ten-shooter from his waist, set it beneath the bench, lifted up a loose plank, looked at the oblong bundle in the dirt below, withdrew a pair of binoculars, replaced the plank, sat down, took off his black hat, fanned himself with it and yawned.

  Oswell asked, “You goin’ to set up the special gun now?”

  “It is assembled and loaded, as is the lever-action rifle you gave me.”

  “I suppose you shouldn’t have it out while people are getting to the church,” Godfrey said.

  “If someone comes directly at me, I will use my revolver—it is far quieter than either rifle. Once those church doors are shut, I will get to this.” He thumped the heel of his boot upon the loose plank. “Presently, I will survey these fine Montana landscapes for rogues and jackals,” he said, raising his binoculars from his lap. He spoke jauntily, but Oswell could hear tension in his voice.

  “You remember the old signals?”

  Dicky withdrew a lady’s hand mirror from his jacket pocket and redirected the sun into Oswell’s eyes for a brief, blinding moment that pulsed painfully in the center of his skull.

  “One flash for all clear; two flashes for a warning; three for an engagement,” Oswell said.

  “I remember.”

  Oswell looked for a moment at Dicky. He had no idea what else to say to him. He tipped the brim of his hat to the New Yorker, turned around and descended the gazebo steps, the sun and his brother at his back as he walked west and north toward the church over four hundred yards off.

  “I intend to see the Danford brothers at the banquet tonight,” Dicky said.

  “I hope so,” Godfrey said.

  “Yeah,” Oswell contributed.

  The gazebo shrank behind the Danfords and the church swelled in front of them. Their strides synchronized—the tattoo was that of a lone man walking across the dirt. They reached the facade of God’s house.

  “Give me a five-shooter,” Oswell said.

  Godfrey withdrew and handed his brother one of the large-caliber revolvers. Oswell raised his right pant leg, slid the gun into his boot and dropped the cuff down over it.

  “That can’t be comfortable,” Godfrey remarked.

  “It isn’t—but if that sheriff sees guns on us, I’m not sure what he’ll do. He’s got suspicions already, and we need to be here no matter what.”

  “You may be able to stand at the door with that, but I can’t walk the patrol with a gun in my boot,” Godfrey said. “I’ll stash the other two in places where I can get at them—in case I can’t get to the rifles we buried in time.”

  “Do that.”

  Godfrey took the valise and headed to the side of the church.

  Oswell looked at his own shadow, stretched like black taffy across the dirt, weeds and stones to his right. He wondered what Elinore’s face would look like when she read the letter he had written; he shook his head to clear the visage he saw.

  The forty-seven-year-old rancher leaned his back against the white church he had traveled across the country to stand in front of on this day. He looked to the east: the plains were open for many, many miles before they surged and narrowed into mountaintops, from behind which the sun shone like a brilliant accusation upon his face. Oswell scanned the flat plains; he wondered what would rise up from the dirt and try to pull him and his posse down.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Biggest Day

  T.W. stood in front of the polished metal mirror he had inherited from his mother two decades prior and checked for the third time that he did not look like a fool. Tails dripped like a runny nose from the rear of his navy blue jacket, the shirt’s high collar poked his jaw, the double-breasted checkered vest looked like a chessboard and the frilly cravat made him feel as if he were a clown. Though he preferred the simple plaid two-piece he had worn last evening, his daughter informed him that this suit was his most—and only—fashionable attire. T.W.’s opinion on fashion was that it was a way to persuade people to wear things that were ridiculous and spend too much money in acquiring them, but this was Beatrice’s day and he would wear whatever she requested without (verbal) complaint. The tailor had adjusted the suit to accommodate the extra two inches his waist had acquired since he last wore it, and looking at his reflection, he supposed that he was not an embarrassment to the Jeffries lineage.

  “The circus is in town?”

  T.W. turned
to face the newly arrived deputy. The Texan wore a striped black and brown two-piece suit and a silk tie as thin as a shoelace; he sipped coffee.

  “Don’t fling any remarks at this in front of Beatrice,” T.W. said as he adjusted his cravat and wiped lint from his left shoulder. “She bought it for my fiftieth birthday.”

  “I’m lookin’ forward to what happens at sixty.”

  “She says it’s fashionable.” T.W. lifted and then dropped one of the tails.

  “I don’t recall you wearin’ it. And I like to laugh.”

  T.W. turned sideways, sucked in his stomach and said, “I wore it to Lester O’Connell’s funeral.”

  “You couldn’t toss it in the coffin?”

  “Do you intend to hurl insults at me throughout my daughter’s wedding day?”

  “I’m focused on the suit right now.”

  “Be polite. Today is a big day for me.”

  “The biggest. You need anything?”

  “Beatrice said she wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t cook, but that coffee and toast sure smell good.”

  Goodstead handed the wooden mug to T.W. and then the thick, butter-soaked toast, from which not one bite had been taken.

  “Brought ‘em up for you, though I had a sip of the coffee. I’ll go down and get some more.” He paused in the doorway and said, “With Beatrice leaving, I suppose I need to familiarize myself with the particulars of your kitchen. Took me a while to find the sugar.”

  “I apologize for the disarray.”

  “My time is valuable.”

  “There’s another option, you know,” T.W. intimated.

  “Does it involve my kitchen?”

  “It might.”

  “I’m not gonna tell you to shut your damn mouth on your daughter’s weddin’ day. I refuse to do it.”

  Goodstead left the room; T.W. turned to face the mirror again. He wondered what Meredith would think of this absurd clothing.

  “You look very handsome.”

  T.W. turned to face his daughter. Beatrice’s blonde hair was pulled into two braids that circled her head like a tiara; her blue wedding gown shone with iridescent splendor, whorls of lace and white silk filigree clinging to the curves of her form. Cream-colored button-up high-top boots with two-inch heels poked out from beneath the hem of her dress, spotless and delicate. She looked as stunning in that dress as her mother had on her own wedding day.

  “You look beautiful, Bea. Absolutely beautiful.” He walked over to his daughter and set a kiss upon her cheek; a luminous smile burgeoned across her face like sunrise.

  “If James messes up, you’ll have plenty of fellows ready to do it right,” Goodstead said, returning with another piece of toast and a steaming coffee. “Would you like something to eat or some coffee?”

  “I am too nervous,” she said.

  Goodstead bit into his toast and chewed. There was a knock on the door downstairs.

  Beatrice and Goodstead, both surprised, looked into the hall.

  T.W. grinned and said, “That is Tim Halders.”

  Beatrice’s eyes widened; she looked at her father and said, “You hired on a carriage? It is only a ten-minute walk to the church.”

  “I could not risk bad weather or a dust devil tarnishing such perfection.”

  Beatrice threw her arms around her father (Goodstead snatched the coffee cup from his right hand) and kissed him thrice upon the cheek.

  “You spoil me,” she said.

  “Nothing in the whole world gives me greater pleasure.”

  The driver knocked again; T.W. looked at Goodstead (who set the extra coffee atop the armoire) and said, “Please escort Beatrice down. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  “Come on,” Goodstead said. “Let me put you in that carriage.”

  Beatrice followed the deputy into the hall. When T.W. heard their feet impact the stairs he walked over to the table by his bedside and opened the top drawer. He withdrew a small metal case no larger than a playing card and opened it. Within lay a daguerreotype of him, thirty-one years younger, standing beside the woman he had buried the day after his daughter was born.

  “She’s getting married today. In your dress.”

  Lucinda’s merry eyes stared up at him from the silver image in such a lifelike manner that he found it hard to return their gaze. He kissed her face (no larger than a thumbnail in the picture), closed the frame and replaced it in the table. He took special care to shut the drawer quietly, though he did this for no reason that he fully understood.

  T.W. looked in the mirror, assessed that he did not look any more ridiculous than the last three times he had surveyed himself, straightened his cravat and walked to the door. He may look silly, but it did not matter overmuch to him: this day belonged to Beatrice and James.

  He thought of the carpenter who would soon be his son and then his mind turned to the titan’s friends. Their faces flashed into his mind. They made him uneasy, they were unsettled themselves and he made them uncomfortable. He paused.

  T.W. looked at the open armoire atop which sat the steaming cup of coffee and within which hung several frock coats, several sets of suspenders, six shirts, four pairs of trousers and the holster with his six-shooter. He hated that he even contemplated bringing a weapon into the house of God, but T.W. had learned to trust his instincts over the years.

  “You havin’ trouble with the stairs, old man?” Goodstead asked from below.

  “Give me a minute. I misplaced your muzzle.”

  “You can’t silence this wisdom.”

  The sheriff decided to bring the revolver, yet knew that he could not wear it openly in church. He surveyed the room for some subterfuge until an idea came to him. He knelt beside his bed as if in prayer and reached his free hand into the darkness below.

  T.W. exited his house, a shoe box tucked underneath his left arm. Within it was Lucinda’s shawl, an heirloom he had intended to pass along to Beatrice. Beneath the fabric was his gun and a strap with six extra rounds.

  The Texan opened the carriage door for T.W.; a dagger of pain shot through the sheriff’s left hip as he climbed the step into the vehicle, but he did not verbally acknowledge the pain. Goodstead entered the vehicle behind him and shut the door. Outside, the driver snapped his reins and called out. The horses cantered forward.

  Beatrice leaned her head against her father’s left shoulder.

  Goodstead looked at the shoe box in T.W.’s hands and said, “You bringing pets?”

  “No.”

  “More shoes in case the ones you got on start to itch?”

  “No.”

  “A very small addition for James’s house?”

  “No.”

  “I’m running out of clever guesses.”

  “This is something I want to give Beatrice at the banquet.”

  “Stop spoilin’ her—she don’t like it. I could use some spoilin’. I’m completely ready for it.”

  “Lilith Ford might like to spoil you,” Beatrice said.

  Goodstead’s blank face froze for a moment; he looked over at the bride in blue.

  “She noticed you at the shindy,” Beatrice added.

  “My red suit got her attention?”

  Beatrice did not respond to the inquiry.

  Goodstead watched six houses glide past the carriage window, nodded his head and said, “She looked very comely, grazin’ on that funnel cake.”

  “When you speak to her, I recommend that you refrain from making bovine comparisons.”

  “But cows are pretty. Nice to pet.”

  T.W. watched the houses depart from the window, replaced by farms, cattle ranges and then the Taylors’ corral.

  The carriage wheels rolled from lush grass onto rougher terrain; stones impacted the wooden tires, clacking and snapping.

  “Grab something,” Tim Halders said from the driver’s bench.

  The carriage lurched, jostling the passengers. The revolver hidden within the shoe box slid forward; T.W. tightened his grip on the package to keep
it upright and closed.

  The driver slowed the horses for the rugged landscape; the church was not far off. T.W. took his daughter’s hand and squeezed it; she squeezed back.

  “I hope you invited Meredith,” she said.

  “She’ll be there.”

  “I like her.”

  “So do I.”

  His heart quickened when he thought of the long, melting embrace he and Meredith had shared on her doorstop the night before, the sound of her breath and the taste of rum upon her lips. It had been six years since he last kissed a woman.

  Open plains and northern mountains were visible on T.W.’s left, presently obscured by the white facade of the church as it slid into view. The sheriff saw Oswell Danford and his brother standing before the edifice’s main entrance. The duo stood watching the carriage from beneath the shadows of brown cowboy hats; they waved.

  “It appears they didn’t set their watches to Mountain Railway Time,” Goodstead remarked.

  “They were supposed to arrive early. Jim wanted a book with all of the guests’ signatures, and he put Oswell in charge of it.”

  T.W. doubted that James had thought of such a sentimental thing on his own, but he did not remark upon it aloud. He would not worry his daughter with his suspicions.

  The carriage stopped a few yards from the church entrance; the Danfords stood against the facade like sentinels, looking into the dark interior of the carriage. T.W. wondered where Richard Sterling was.

  Oswell, walking toward the carriage, said, “Good morning Miss Jeffries, Sheriff Jeffries, Deputy Goodstead.”

  T.W. had not introduced Oswell to the deputy; the rancher had learned the Texan’s identity on his own.

  “Good morning Oswell. Good morning Godfrey,” Beatrice said.

  “Mornin’,” Goodstead said.

  T.W. leaned to the window and inquired of Oswell, “Did Minister Bachs open up yet?”

  “We’re the first ones here.”

  “Is the door locked?”

  “I didn’t try to open it.”

  “Can you see if it’s open? I don’t want my daughter standing outside with this dress on.”