A Congregation of Jackals Read online

  The brusque answer lit anger in the young woman’s eyes.

  “Why?” she demanded. “He danced with me all night.” The horses were three hundred yards off; Oswell needed to get the Taylors behind a closed door very quickly.

  To Tara, the rancher said, “Dicky called you fickle. And uncouth.”

  Oswell was ashamed of the hurt expression his remarks elicited from the young woman, but he had no time to humor her. The gallop of the oncoming horses filled his ears; the steeds were two hundred yards off.

  The rancher opened the door and motioned for the family to enter. Tara’s mother mumbled something about “Eastern folks,” glared at each Danford, put an arm around her stunned daughter’s shoulders and walked her inside.

  “That’s not a way to talk to my sister. Or any woman,” Tara’s brother Jack remarked to the Danfords.

  “You men need to learn some manners,” Roland added. The horses were one hundred yards off; in the gazebo, Dicky flashed his mirror two more times.

  “You want to go a round with us?” Oswell asked, leaning close to the father’s face.

  The porcine man stared back at him, but did not respond.

  In a calm voice full of menace, Oswell said, “I’m not causing a disturbance at this wedding. You want to brawl, let’s go behind the church right now. If not, get inside.”

  “I’ll get the son if he wants a taste,” Godfrey added.

  Jack Taylor, assessing the superior strength of Oswell and Godfrey, pulled his father toward the open door. Roland resisted.

  “Go with your son—he doesn’t want to see you get hurt,” Godfrey suggested.

  The horses were fifty yards from the church.

  Oswell began to unbutton his jacket; he said, “My first punch will shatter your jaw.”

  “It happens that way every time,” Godfrey added.

  The male Taylors withdrew into the church. Oswell shut the door and lifted the cuff of his right trouser leg so that he could see the butt of his five-shooter; Godfrey reached his right hand behind his back as if he were scratching an itch.

  The riders sat up tall and ungraciously yanked upon their reins to slow their steeds. Oswell recognized the man on the mottled mare as the mayor’s son, Kenneth John—the deputy who liked to drink. The other man—a skinny blond fellow just shy of forty with a mustache that extended beyond his face—the rancher did not know.

  “We didn’t miss it did we?” Kenneth asked. His voice warbled; he swayed in his saddle. “The wedding service.”

  “It hasn’t begun yet,” Oswell said, coolly.

  “Pleased to see you, Deputy,” Goodstead said, climbing from the carriage. The look upon Kenneth John’s face showed that he did not like the Texan.

  “Don’t pretend to be my pal.”

  “I’m not,” Goodstead replied. “But I like havin’ you around—you make me look real good.”

  “I don’t want to hear it from you today.”

  “Don’t get grumpy. I wanted to compliment you—gettin’ drunk before ten o’clock takes real ambition.”

  “It’s no business of yours whatsoever when I drink,” the red-faced, black-haired deputy said.

  “Who are you?” Oswell asked the blond, elaborately mustached man atop the other horse.

  “A friend of the deputy.”

  “Were you invited to the wedding?”

  The man hesitated, played with his long blond mustache and shrugged.

  “You tell me your name or I’m not letting you through that door,” Oswell said.

  “Who the hell are you to say that to my guest,” Kenneth John said to the rancher.

  Oswell did not respond to the inquiry.

  “He’s not invited,” Goodstead said to the Danfords. “The only invitations Turkey Bill gets are to jail cells and beatings.”

  “Don’t throw jibes at me,” the man warned.

  “I ain’t afraid of your turkeys.”

  “That’s ‘cause you don’t know. You don’t know what I trained ‘em to do!” Oswell could tell that the man was drunk as well.

  “Get back to your turkey farm before I shoot myself some Thanksgiving.”

  “You can’t talk to me that way—you ain’t the mayor.”

  “I ain’t. Still, I done it.”

  Turkey Bill smoldered.

  “Go tend to your poultry,” Goodstead advised. “They lonely.”

  Turkey Bill eyed the Texan and then Oswell and then Godfrey, dug his spurs cruelly into his horse’s haunches, eliciting a screech, and pulled hard on the reins. The white steed dug its hooves into the dirt and lunged forward, carrying its rider north. Turkey Bill pulled his reins hard right; he sped his horse in a wide circle around the church, grinding his spurs, provoking pained yells and blood. (Godfrey flashed his mirror once at the gazebo so that Dicky would not shoot the idiot.)

  “You gonna behave yourself if we let you in?” Goodstead asked Kenneth John.

  “Do not talk to me like I’m a child.”

  “That won’t happen—I like children.”

  Turkey Bill finished his second noisy orbit of the church and then sped his steed back toward town, yelling something Oswell could not discern that sounded like “Muckygobblerhead.”

  “Who are you and these others to stop me from going in? I was invited.” (Oswell checked the list: the drunken deputy was on it.)

  “I happen to know for a fact that the sober Kenneth John was the one they sent that invitation to,” Goodstead responded. “T.W. put me out here to make sure there isn’t a problem. You gonna behave if we let you in?”

  “I don’t have to answer to you—but you will have to explain to the mayor why you kept his son outside if you bar my entrance.”

  “I’m not worried. He is a reasonable man and knows you take too much sauce.”

  Kenneth John looked at Oswell and Godfrey almost as if in appeal.

  “Tell me that you’ll sit beside your ma and pa and behave yourself,” Goodstead demanded.

  The sullen man said, “Leave me alone.”

  “Promise you’ll behave and we’ll let you in.”

  Morosely petting the brindled mane of his horse, the cowed man said, “I’ll behave.”

  “Then go tie up that mare.”

  Kenneth urged his steed to the side of the church where a score of animals had been tied, his head slung low as if he had been struck on the back of the skull. He disappeared around the corner without another word.

  “Thanks for helping us sort those two fellas,” Oswell said to Goodstead.

  “I’m just a lawman trying to help honest folks like you two get your signatures.”

  Oswell looked at the deputy, yet could not divine from the man’s blank features whether or not the remark had been a facetious one.

  “We appreciate the support,” Godfrey said.

  Oswell saw a green canvas carriage emerge from the southeast part of town; it was drawn by a brace of four horses.

  “Do you know who’s in that carriage?” Oswell asked the Texan.

  “The Sallys. Their pa is in a wheelchair, so that’s how they bring him around.”

  Oswell looked at Godfrey with a gaze that told his sibling to stay close in case the passengers were not who they were supposed to be.

  Goodstead remarked, “Got somethin’ against cripples? Do they put ‘em down back East?”

  The carriage drew nearer; the horse hooves kicked up a wake of dirt that partially obscured the vehicle behind them.

  “We just don’t want anybody trying to get in who doesn’t belong,” Godfrey explained.

  “That’s how me and T.W. feel about Trailspur.” Though the man’s face was inexpressive, Oswell could not interpret the remark kindly. The Texan walked back to the carriage, climbed inside and dealt cards to Tim Halders, who instantly cursed his bad luck.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Anomalous Horizon

  Dicky raised binoculars to his eyes and looked westwards over the waist-high wall of the gazebo. Urge
d by the crop of a squat driver, a brace of four horses pulled a green canvas carriage across the plain toward the church. The gazebo’s location south and west of the holy edifice afforded him a view of the right side of the vehicle, traveling northeast from the center of town. In its window he saw the face of a woman and a very old person whose gender was hard to determine. Dicky knew that he never wanted to be that old.

  He looked back at the Danfords, both of whom stood at the main entrance in the rear church, awaiting the newest arrival. The situation seemed mundane, though Dicky knew that a carriage was a likely place for villains to hide themselves; he raised his hand mirror, tilted it to catch the sun and flashed his concern to the Danfords.

  The carriage stopped ten yards from the church facade; Oswell waved his right hand at the new arrivals, said something and looked over at his brother. Two women descended from the carriage; each was birdlike and silver haired. They said eight words to Oswell; a moment later, he and Godfrey walked to the vehicle and removed a wooden wheelchair. The Danfords then extricated the (one-legged) old man (or woman) from the vehicle and set him (or her) gently upon the high-backed rolling seat. The silver-haired women pushed the elder toward the door. (Dicky presumed that this rugose individual was their father [or mother], though it was possible that he [or she] was a grandparent.)

  Oswell asked the family a question, and each person responded by opening his or her mouth a few times. He then presented his pen (itself invisible to Dicky at this distance) to the elder, who had some difficulty writing his (or her) name down. The silver-haired women set the spine of the open ledger upon the oldster’s head (as if the elder were a desk) and scribbled their signatures. Oswell thanked them and opened the door. The ladies pushed the infirm individual into the church.

  Dicky set down his binoculars, withdrew his watch, pressed the open button and looked at the time: it was fourteen minutes to ten o’clock. The service was supposed to begin on the hour, though Lingham had told him that they would wait until a quarter after to start. Two couples neared the entrance, laughing and talking as they strode. Dicky flashed his mirror once, indicating that he thought they were not likely to prove a threat.

  For the next twenty minutes, the New Yorker observed the remainder of the guests arrive, sign in and enter the church. At the end of this period, he watched Oswell lean beside the closed door and say something to Godfrey, who had just completed his nineteenth orbit of the building. The plump Danford shook his head—a negative response.

  The main doors to the church opened up from within; the sheriff stood in the portal and called out to the parked carriage. The blank-faced deputy and the driver emerged from the vehicle and went inside. The sheriff said something to Oswell and then shut the door. Dicky looked at his watch: the service was about to begin.

  A sound like a cast stone striking a cliff wall garnered the New Yorker’s attention. The noise might have been an avalanche twenty miles off, a falling tree or a gunshot.

  Dicky looked across the open plains, which seventy miles east rose up into cyclopean peaks that gnawed at the bottom of the rising sun. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and faced the open horizon.

  The flat line of the plains he had surveyed two dozen times that morning remained undisturbed. He heard another distant crack; Dicky was almost certain that it was a gunshot.

  He turned back to the church and flashed his mirror twice in warning; Godfrey returned the signal. Dicky set his long-range rifle upon the balustrade that encircled the structure and then checked its chamber—it was clean and loaded. He set the lever-action rifle Oswell had given him upon the floor and placed all of the seven-shot magazines beside it.

  The New Yorker tucked his six-shooter beneath his belt and raised binoculars to his eyes. Upon the eastern horizon, black against the blue and gray mountains, stood five flecks that had not previously existed. He could not discern whether the anomalies were men or horses, though they were definitely ambulatory beings.

  Dicky flashed his mirror at the Danfords and then looked back toward the eastern horizon through his high-powered binoculars. The flecks had grown to the size of fleas; even at this great distance, he knew that they were approaching very quickly. One of the dots elongated horizontally as it veered to the right, establishing it and the other similarly-sized flecks as quadrupeds. At this distance—over three miles—Dicky could not tell if the horses were mounted.

  There was another distant, barely audible gunshot; one of the flecks elongated vertically (rearing up on its hind legs, Dicky surmised). If that steed had a rider, the man had most likely been thrown. The horse shrank to its normal height and galloped alongside its brethren; the sound of the charging animals did not carry across the plains.

  Two more muted reports cracked on the horizon. The flecks fanned out, yet still galloped directly toward the church. The dust and dirt that the horses kicked up cut Dicky’s visibility dramatically: he could no longer see the landscape behind the animals. The New Yorker realized that this was likely the purpose of their gun-motivated stampede, and his stomach sank.

  Dicky flashed his mirror three times at the Danfords; he looked back at the eastern horizon.

  The distant beasts pulled a gray wake of airborne grit across the plains, toward the church. The New Yorker’s heart hammered in his chest; he did not doubt for a moment that Quinlan was the conjuror behind that veil of dust.

  The horses stampeded across the two miles of land that separated them from the gazebo; none of them carried riders or wore saddles. Through his binoculars, Dicky saw that the beasts trailed ropes that dragged heavy objects through the soil, churning up more detritus than their hooves yielded—an ersatz (and enormous) plow.

  The wave of filth that the steeds produced was a half mile wide and rose into the sky, obfuscating the plains and mountains. Dust stuck to the animals—they became less visible as they drew nearer the gazebo. The sun intermittently flashed through the expanding veil, a lecherous old man winking at a naive girl.

  Dicky set down his binoculars, picked up his long-range rifle and aimed at the central horse. He waited for the dusty beast to enter the one-thousand-yard range within which his rifle had some accuracy. He lined the distant dot in his sights, inhaled, exhaled and gently squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled in his grip; the shot blazed across the plains, whistling, accompanied by the echo of the report. The middle horse reared, but then resumed its gallop. He had shot it in the chest, a wound that would irritate the animal yet not immediately halt its gallop.

  The New Yorker knew that he needed to lance a leg if he wanted to knock a horse down, but such a shot was very unlikely at this distance. Down the sighting of his long-range rifle, the horse’s limbs were currently invisible.

  Dicky waited for the stampede to come into range.

  When the steeds were five hundred yards off, he pointed his rifle at the middle one, aimed at the space beneath its bulk and squeezed the trigger; the muzzle cracked; the cartridge whistled across the plain; the horse tumbled forward, its hindquarters flipped into the air and the beast slammed onto its jaw, twisting its neck horribly. In a moment, the felled animal was obscured by the dust the others pulled over it like high tide.

  Dicky pulled back the bolt, plucked out the warm shell and slid in a new cartridge. He aimed below the bulk of one of the four remaining horses, inhaled to steady his grip and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle cracked; the lead projectile whistled across the plain. The horse bucked—the shot had likely struck its chest—but the animal continued forward.

  The New Yorker raised his binoculars to his face and looked at the pack. Two more steeds had emerged from the dust wave to replace the one that had fallen; they were both covered with grime and almost completely invisible, even through the binoculars. Like the other four, they pulled blunt objects through the soil and expanded the veil.

  Dicky felt a cool wind against his forehead; his stomach sank for the second time in five minutes. He pounded his fist upon the balustrade in fury.

/>   “No,” he remarked to the breeze that blew westward, directly at him.

  The wind carried the storm of dust over the hindquarters of the six steeds, up their sides and over their nostrils: it looked as if they were slowly falling into a pond of murky water. They disappeared; the gray wall advanced.

  The New Yorker had not relished the execrable (and unlikely) feat of trying to put down all six horses (and however many more emerged from the dust), but now he had no choice but to sit and wait for their arrival . . . as well as those they escorted.

  Dicky set his weapon down and grabbed the lever-action rifle Oswell had given him. The firearm was not accurate beyond three hundred yards, yet it could fire seven shots instead of just one . . . which was preferable, since the New Yorker was fairly certain that this showdown would not be engaged at a distance.

  With the fingers of his right hand, Dicky threw the trigger guard forward; the loading mechanism clacked and pulled a cartridge from the magazine into the chamber. He sat on the gazebo bench and watched dust fill the eastern horizon. The edge of the wave was four hundred yards from the gazebo; from it emerged the noises of hooves and neighing and metal clanking upon stones.

  Dicky picked up his binoculars and glanced back at Oswell and Godfrey, both standing outside the church, watching the column advance. The plump Danford’s mouth was agape like a surprised child’s.

  The New Yorker knelt behind the waist-high wall of the gazebo (which would not withstand the rounds of a high-caliber rifle at close range, but was thick enough to stop weaker munitions) and watched the dust storm engulf the plain and swallow the sky.

  Grit flew into his eyes; his long lashes fluttered up and down like butterfly wings. He inhaled some motes and sneezed thrice, unable to stifle the reflex. Dicky spat, stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth and laboriously sucked clean air through the fabric into his lungs.

  The storm of dust consumed the gazebo, isolating the structure and the lone sharpshooter within it. Dicky looked back toward the church and saw only a deluge of dirt. Looking through eyes bleary with tears, the New Yorker surveyed the environs with the perspicacity of a myopic old man at latest dusk.