A Congregation of Jackals Read online

  They all knew who was inside.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Wedding Toasts

  Beatrice could not feel her face. A dagger of fire throbbed where her nose once sat, but the remainder of her visage was numb, as if emptied of blood or frozen. The taste in her mouth was of mucus, copper and the chalky grit of a broken tooth. Minister Orton’s elbow lifted from her nape.

  He pressed his revolver barrel to her neck, and said “Stand up. Show ’em how pretty you are.”

  For the first time since the minister had usurped the wedding, Beatrice raised her head from the lectern and faced the guests. Mouths opened and eyes widened; gasps and several cries issued from the assemblage. Most of the assembly looked away from her. Blood pounded through the tissue beneath her clay skin.

  She looked at her father, seated in the first pew; tears poured down his face. He did not make a sound, but simply stared into her eyes. Meredith held and patted his left hand with both of hers. Beatrice turned her watery gaze to her groom. Jim sat on the far edge of the dais, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” he said. He looked at Minister Orton and pleaded, “Please don’t. Please don’t hurt her no more.”

  “We’re just playing.”

  Something cracked against the back of her skull and the entire church tilted as if it were a canoe about to capsize.

  Unable to control himself, Jim ran the minister. The holy man thumbed the hammer of his revolver and jammed it to her temple.

  Her father cried, “No, no, no,” lunged from the pews and slammed into James, knocking the titan sideways, off of his feet, farther back on the dais. The groom lay upon the floor; the sheriff doubled over and pressed his hands to his hurt hip.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said to Jim. “He’ll shoot.”

  “I can’t watch him hurt her.”

  “This isn’t any easier for me!”

  Beatrice had never heard him speak with that much vitriol in her entire life. She spat a fragment of a tooth into her palm and set it upon the lectern. It was the tip of her lower right canine.

  There was a knock at the door; the congregation turned to look at the entrance.

  “Everybody stay put,” Minister Orton ordered. “Sheriff Jeffries?”

  Her father looked at the bearded man who stood beside her and said, “Yes.”

  “Walk up to that door and knock on it four times. Do it slow so they can count it out clear.”

  Her father nodded; he looked at Jim and said, “Stay calm.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get to it,” the minister prompted.

  Her father limped across the dais, down two steps and up the aisle; he gritted his teeth in pain.

  “Sheriff,” the minister said. “Looks like you’ve got some discomfort.”

  Her father ignored the remark, reached the door, stumbled forward and placed his palm to the wood to steady himself.

  Big Abe stood up from his seat to help him.

  “Sit down big man or things’ll get rough,” the minister warned. Big Abe glared at the holy man but wordlessly returned to the large gap his absence from the pew had created. Beatrice looked over at her father. He leaned heavily on the hand he had pressed to the door, panting.

  “You’ve gotta make a fist to knock correctly,” the minister said.

  The sheriff stood upright, clenched his left hand and rapped upon the door. His shifting, unsteady posture told Beatrice how much pain he was in. He waited for a moment and knocked again upon the wood; he paused and repeated the action two more times as instructed.

  “Go on back to your seat now.” Her father limped back toward the front of the church, holding his hip; his face was bright red with agony; he ground his teeth.

  Beatrice wiped the fluid that dripped from her chin; she delicately touched her fingertips to her nose; the throbbing pain flared into a searing fire that squeezed tears from her eyes and a yell from her mouth. The congregation looked at her.

  “Don’t fiddle with it—it’ll get worse,” the minister said.

  The doors to the church swung open. In the portal stood Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky, all with their hands behind their backs. The three men were covered with dust and battered.

  A voice from behind the bound men said, “Get inside, you heroes.”

  Jim’s beaten friends walked the blue aisle, where only twenty minutes ago her father had escorted her on what was to be the happiest day of her life.

  Behind the captives stood two men who looked like identical twins.

  “Not them,” Jim muttered. “Not them.”

  Each twin wore a dust-covered black coat and a matching hat from which their long dusty hair hung like worms. They pointed four large revolvers at the captives.

  Oswell, Godfrey and Dicky neared the dais steps, followed by the twins. The captor on the right planted the heel of his boot into Oswell’s back and shoved him. The rancher stumbled forward, struck his shins on the dais stairs and landed on his chest and chin.

  “Be careful,” the assailant said. Oswell rolled onto his side, rose to his knees and then stood up. “I s’pose Jesus ain’t watchin out for you. Or maybe he just isn’t so powerful.”

  “No need to blaspheme,” Minister Orton said.

  “Sorry, Uncle.”

  Godfrey and Dicky joined Oswell on the dais. They glanced at Beatrice and looked away guiltily the moment they recognized her.

  The other twin pointed a gun at Jim; Beatrice’s stomach dropped.

  “I seen him, Arthur.” To Jim, the talkative twin said, “Get up here with the rest of your posse.” The groom walked up and stood next to Oswell.

  “Put your hands behind your back.” Her titan put his huge hands behind his back.

  Arthur holstered his guns, pulled a cord from beneath his coat and wound it tightly around Jim’s wrists.

  “Now we got four of a kind,” the talker remarked. “That’s a pretty good hand in poker.”

  The minister grabbed Beatrice’s left arm and walked her to the side of the dais where Wilfreda sat at her piano, staring at the keys as if in quiet conspiracy.

  The minister tapped the ancient woman’s ear with the barrel of his gun and said, “Sit somewhere else.”

  “I play the piano,” Wilfreda said.

  With his free hand, Orton grabbed the lid that overhung the keys and said, “Play something pretty.”

  Beatrice said to Wilfreda, “Go before he hurts you.”

  The ancient woman nodded, eyed the minister evilly, rose from the bench and descended from the dais. She stopped, turned around and folded her arms, monitoring the piano as if any moment she would reclaim it.

  Minister Orton shoved Beatrice onto the bench and then sat beside her.

  The talkative twin said, “Mule, Ralphy. Show these people your shotguns.”

  Tension eddied through the wedding guests. Two of the dusty men at the door walked to the head of the aisle and faced the congregation. They holstered their revolvers, grabbed the sawed-off shotguns that hung from straps on the shoulders and aimed the huge-gauge weapons at each side of the church. Two other men remained in the doorway, revolvers out.

  “Would somebody like to make a speech?” the minister asked. The congregation was confused by the inquiry.

  Mayor Warren John, face red with rage, stood up from his seat, but his frail wife pulled him back down, quietly muttering, “Please don’t. Please, Warren.”

  The talker raised the pistol in his right hand and said, “I s’pose I gotta do the speeches since Arthur ain’t got his tongue no more.” He walked past the four bound men, eyeing each one, and stood behind the lectern. His twin stood on the dais steps, guns out.

  “I would like to say somethin’ to all of you here today about the groom. He might be a nice fellow now, maybe he’s good at carpentry and knitting and spouting Jesus nonsense—”

  “No need to blaspheme, nephew.”

  “Sorry. But when I met James Lingham, he rode with the
se other three men you see standing alongside him. They were outlaws, they were bank robbers and they were killers.”

  Beatrice’s insides went cold.

  “Jim is not a killer,” she protested.

  “And considering the bride’s statement, I’d add liar to the catalog.”

  Terror hammered in Beatrice’s heart; an inaudible scream rang in her mind, louder than the pain of her smashed nose, bruised face and broken tooth.

  “Jim,” she said.

  He did not raise his head.

  “Jim,” she said again, her voice weak and wavering.

  The talker looked at the groom and said, “Well? You gonna fib in God’s house? You gonna deny that you fellas are the Tall Boxer Gang? That you robbed banks and shot up people? Any of you fellas want to deny that accusation?”

  Jim looked over at Beatrice and said, “It was a long time ago.”

  “Dear Jesus,” Beatrice said; it felt as if her entire life had just melted. Tears rolled down her bloodied face; pink drops dripped from her chin onto her trembling white hands. Nausea filled her like a bad smell.

  The congregation was silent. Beatrice looked at her father: He stared with dire loathing at Jim.

  The minister put his left arm around her back, patted her shoulder and said, “It’ll be okay, darlin’.” She faced the holy man and saw that his remark had not been a facetious one, but an earnest condolence—evidence of true psychosis.

  The talker said to her father, “I can see you heard of the Tall Boxer Gang.”

  Her father nodded, but did not remove his baleful glare from Jim.

  Oswell asked the talker, “You goin’ to shoot us?”

  “Don’t rush me.” He returned his gaze to the congregation. “There are two things happenin’ in this church today, but—even though you’re dressed up fancy and all—neither’s a weddin’. Sorry.

  “You all need to listen close and do what I say. I want to see you nod that you understand—every single one of you. Go and do it.”

  Her father, Meredith, her father’s cousin Robert, the Albens, the Johns, the Yardleys, the Taylors, the tailor, Morton the hatmaker, Big Abe, his wife, Lilith Ford, Judy O’Connell, Judge Higgins, Wilfreda, the barmaid Rita, Greg the clerk, Smith and Smiler, the Sallys, Snappy Fa, Paps and the remainder nodded. Everyone in the church heeded the mandate . . . except Goodstead.

  Arthur pointed his gun at the deputy’s head.

  “I seen him abstain,” the talker remarked. To Goodstead he said, “Stand up.”

  The Texan stood.

  “Your neck broken, Deputy?”

  “It’s a bit stiff,” he said, his eyes fixed on the one who spoke rather than the one who pointed the gun at him.

  “You the kind of fellow who likes to make smart?”

  “I’m wise.”

  “You’re one smart remark away from gettin’ your head blowed off, is what you are.”

  Arthur thumbed the hammer on his six-shooter; the click reverberated loudly in the silent church. Even with the gun pointed at his head, Goodstead’s face remained blank.

  “Why don’t you take me for hostage instead of that lady you’ve been beatin’ on?”

  “I want to know that you’re gonna do what I tell you. You nod or my brother shoots you. Go on and do it now—nod.”

  The people seated on the pews adjacent to the standing deputy ducked their heads down. Goodstead looked from the talker over to Beatrice; she mouthed the word “please.”

  He nodded.

  “My brother thinks you took too long.”

  Arthur walked up the pew and slapped Goodstead’s face. The Texan did not react, but stared back at the talker, his cheek glowing brightly.

  “Sit down and don’t try to save nobody else. Doin’ what we say is the only way anyone is goin’ to stay alive. Does everyone understand that? Go on and nod.”

  The congregation nodded.

  “Two things are happenin’ here. The first thing is the only part that involves you directly. We are robbin’ you—me and my crew, not the Tall Boxer Gang who used to do this sort of thing but now go to church and have families. This is how it’s gonna proceed. The church is set up in two halves. This is side one.” He pointed his pistol to his left. “And this is side two.” He indicated to the pews to his right. “I was gonna use left and right, but that might confuse you whether it’s my left or your left, and I want this to be clear at all times.

  “Side one”—again he pointed his pistol—“leaves the church. You all go home and get your valuables. All the good stuff. We want gold, we want silver, we want jewels, we want timepieces, we want paper money. Bring all of it here.

  “If somebody on side one does not return, we execute somebody on side two. If ten people from side one run off, we’ll execute ten people on side two. James. Oswell. Will I carry out this threat?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said.

  “With relish,” the rancher remarked.

  “You all heard ’em. The minister counted you up, so we know exactly how many you are. If you think your valuables are more important than somebody’s life, I don’t know what kind of person you are anyways.”

  “Not a Christian,” the minister remarked.

  “Let me warn you about this. Bring us all of the valuables we asked for; don’t hold out on us none. If you keep some baubles for yourself, we’ll find out. We got some guys on the outside checking your houses after you leave, and if they find stuff you hid or left behind, I will execute you for doing so. This is not the time to bluff—this ain’t a poker game.

  “One other thing: you come back with a gun or some extra folks with brave notions like this dumb deputy, we will slaughter you by the dozen, grab a few as hostages and win our freedom. We’ve done that play before and we are all still here, alive to do it again.

  “After side one gets back, side two goes and does the same thing. Same rules apply. Somebody skips, I execute someone in side one; somebody withholds, they get executed.”

  The talker surveyed the stunned crowd and said, “Is anybody confused by anything? Raise your hand if you are.”

  Mr. Alben raised his hand and said, “I am in from Colorado and do not have much to offer.”

  “Get what you brought. All of the good stuff.”

  Big Abe raised his hand, “How much time does each group have?”

  “Thirty minutes. If you walked here and live a ways off, take a horse from the second side. They won’t mind none.” To the men at the door, the talker said, “Let’s get those up here!”

  The sentries dragged two huge wooden trunks to the podium. They opened the vessels and walked back to their posts.

  The talker pointed his pistol at the empty trunks and said, “That’s where you put your stuff. Alphonse!”

  The scraping sound of something being dragged through the dirt came through the doors before its source was visible. Beatrice’s apprehensions grew.

  A diminutive man with black hair, a thin black mustache, a burgundy suit and matching bowler cap walked into the church. In his left hand he clutched the handle of a small black valise; with his right hand, he dragged a fifteen-foot-tall folding ladder.

  Beatrice and the congregation watched the little fellow pull the ladder up the aisle; it left tracks in the blue carpet like dirty skis. He did not look at anyone, though Beatrice did not think it was out of fear, but rather disinterest. This was the Frenchman her father had described.

  The ladder clattered as he pulled it up the stairs toward the back of the dais.

  Beatrice heard a strange metallic sound at the doorway and looked over. A very tall, oddly-shaped man dressed in a gray suit walked through the portal. The people nearest him shuddered and looked away.

  “That’s the boss,” the talker said.

  The man’s left leg was made of wood and iron; the hand on the same side was covered over by a bronze gauntlet. His spine was curved—it bent him in a permanent bow. The right side of his forehead had an impression in it that looked like a crater
and the eye on that side was lower than its mate and a mere slit. His bald scalp was crisscrossed with raised scars; a mass of white hair sprouted from the back of his head.

  “They turned Quinlan into a grotesque,” Jim said to Oswell.

  “Yeah.”

  The boss walked up the aisle, deftly maneuvering the crutch wedged beneath his left armpit and the wooden leg that had both an ankle and a knee hinge. His blue and green eyes did not leave the Tall Boxer Gang once. He was the least human man Beatrice had ever seen: he terrified and repulsed her. Something heavy was slung over his shoulder, but she could not yet tell what it was.

  Alphonse erected and then opened the ladder.

  Quinlan reached the dais and walked over to the Tall Boxer Gang. He pulled the burden from his back and flung it to the floor in front of the four captives.

  Upon the dais laid four nooses.

  The Tall Boxer Gang said nothing.

  Tears poured down Beatrice’s numb face and she knew that despite what he had done, she still had some compassion for Jim. Part of him was still the man she loved.

  The talker pointed to the nooses. “That’s the second event. Hang the scoundrels who betrayed us.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A Jew’s Dilemma

  The hatmaker Morton Steinman watched the talkative twin raise a golden timepiece; it swung pendulously from the chain pinched between his thumb and index finger. The congregation observed the smears of light it left in the air.

  The talker grabbed the watch, clicked the release button, looked at its face and said, “Side one—get goin’. Be back by eleven thirty.”

  Morton Steinman was a member of side one and rose immediately with them. The slender, finely bearded, five-foot-six, thirty-eight-year-old shuffled along the pew behind the Welt family.

  The Jewish man had been to church more than a few times during the nine years that he had made and sold hats in Trailspur; he had attended five confirmations, one funeral and eight weddings. Consequently, the exacting Semite knew precisely how long the journey was—twelve minutes. A round-trip home and back would take twice that. The remainder—six minutes—was all the time he had to gather his valuables from the apartment he inhabited above Steinman’s Hats.