REDEMPTION: Chapter One
Walk with me through the long black night
We keep the unholy out of sight
I get the Sacrament from your lips
I get redemption at your fingertips
In the blackest night shines the brightest star
In the darkest fear beats the bravest heart
In the cry of a child is the power of us all
Who will answer when you hear the call?
King Swamp: Sacrament
CHAPTER ONE
It was getting hard to track the wagon’s path. As the rocks and scrub became more prominent, the rain-deficient soil proved unwilling to sustain the previously clear sign of the preacher’s path. The encroaching darkness only further complicated the prospects of the three riders.
The trio had been shadowing the Conestoga for the past day and a half, ever since leaving the city limits of Fletcher Falls. It was there that they began following the preacher after he stocked up on supplies. And while those supplies alone might have proved worth their trouble, their instructions had nothing to do with robbery. Of course, that didn’t mean they couldn’t help themselves to whatever grabbed their collective fancy once they completed the task with which they had been charged. After all, such were the many perks available when fulfilling their contracts for this particular benefactor.
“I guess we should make a cold camp and start back on it in the morning,” said Cal Tipton, the youngest of the three. “Don’t seem to make much sense risking a broke leg when we ain’t got no fresh horses.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice to his right, as if to put leader-like emphasis on his statement. The brown juice made it only partway out of his mouth, the majority of it spilling down his chin, further staining his thin, rusty beard and robbing him of the intended impact of the action.
“We stop when I say we stop, unless you’ve gone and decided you’re ready to take me on and lead this gang yourself.”
Cal stared hard into the back of Eugene Hardcastle’s balding head, waiting for him to turn and escalate the confrontation. But the big man just sat there, the bay slowing to a canter, his broad shoulders still fixed as he crossed his hands and leaned forward on his saddle horn.
“Well, boy?”
Cal looked over expectantly at his big brother, Arthur, four years his senior, who glanced sideways, but then turned away, having made up his mind that he wouldn’t be wading in as mediator into any altercation that might erupt.
“No, Gene, I was just thinking that…”
“Well, there you go. Since when have I needed your help in the brains department? We done been paid half up front to take care of this business and we should’ve caught up with that preacher before nightfall. And we would’ve if you hadn’t decided to fill your canteen back at that stream. I told you that water weren’t fit to drink and was only gonna give you the runs. Now we’ve lost half a day to you having to squat behind every bush between that creek and here.” Hardcastle rubbed the back of his thick neck. “We’ll keep moving.”
Cal looked once more over at Arthur, who finally turned and held a finger up to his pursed but silent lips. They broke eye contact and spurred their mounts in unison to keep up with Hardcastle as he resumed his pace, head bent low to observe any sign of the wagon’s passing.
“I smell smoke.”
Hardcastle reined his bay, and for the first time in several hours turned to face his companions, his features all but completely masked by the darkness in spite of the ever-brightening moonlight. He lifted his head and sniffed.
“I think you’re right. Smells like he’s found himself some cottonwood. Means there’s water ahead, too, then.” The big man shifted in his saddle and twisted his neck around until it popped loudly. “Looks like we may be able to enjoy a nice campfire after all tonight. Once we take care of business, that is.” He spit this last remark out while cutting his glare over to Cal, who quickly looked away.
Cal had regretted his allegiance to Arthur and, in turn, Hardcastle, soon after being allowed to join up with the group. He’d badgered Arthur constantly whenever his older brother came back around their widowed mother’s hardscrabble farm, full of stories of daring exploits with Hardcastle’s crew. It had seemed an impossibly romantic life of adventure, these tales of robberies, hairbreadth escapes, and ecstasies in the arms of willing women. Granted, the robberies were in reality violent affairs in which innocent men, women, and children suffered horribly, the escapes were terrifying episodic nightmares that lasted sometimes for days on end, and the women turned out to be weary prostitutes, bought and paid for like common dry goods.
Still, when Arthur showed up one night saying that two of their gang had been caught after passing out in a saloon in some backwater town whose name he couldn’t recall, Cal had immediately packed his bedroll and joined up that same night. For a while everything had been all right. Then, with a suddenness that shocked young Cal to his core, he’d seen firsthand what kind of man Hardcastle really was. He’d watched with a paralyzed fascination as he’d whipped a young father to death in Topeka in front of his bride and child. He had yet to get over what had been done to those poor witnesses before ensuring they could tell no one what they had seen. Deep down, Cal knew that Arthur was also sickened, but, like himself now, there was no way to leave Hardcastle’s side with their full knowledge of the depth of the big man’s sins.
“Let’s work our way around to the right over here and come up downwind so we don’t spook the animals,” said Hardcastle as he started off in the indicated direction. Cal and Arthur followed, falling behind a bit as they navigated the terrain in the near total darkness. Cal let himself drift into a tail position, keeping focused on the bobbing, moon-illuminated crest of his brother’s derby hat. He pulled his floppy sombrero tighter around his own head, wishing he were anywhere but on another trip with Hardcastle at the behest of the mysterious Mr. Tyre.
He had never personally met their client; all communication was conducted via telegram to Hardcastle through Tyre’s personal assistant, a Mr. Asmodeus Finch-Smythe, an Englishman, so he’d been told. All Cal knew was that so far Tyre had sent them on two previous violence-laden goose chases – one to retrieve a big book from an old Chinese lady in Reno, and one to pick up a rolled-up rug from a crazed Indian medicine man in Red Bluff. A rug, of all things! In each case Tyre had paid them a generous fee up front and both times, after completing the transaction, Hardcastle had killed the other party. In the case of the medicine man he’d killed two young women who were with him as well. Sure, there had been plenty of loot for them to line their saddlebags, but neither Cal nor Arthur had been made aware of any planned violence beforehand. He now knew better and expected this type of bloodlust whenever they ventured out together.
Cal wondered whether this was part of the instructions from Finch-Smythe, or simply a spur-of-the-moment whim for a man that he’d realized far too late had a genuine appetite for easy death.
As they reached the level plain and started across the expanse to the preacher’s camp, Cal reflected on the fact that this trip was the first time that Hardcastle had told them they were being paid to kill someone. While every robbery and errand thus far had been accompanied by death, this was apparently an ambush for the sole purpose of killing a man. As far as Cal was aware, none of them knew the reason behind it. Clearly Tyre was a man of means and influence. And why a traveling preacher would present any threat to him was beyond Cal’s ability to comprehend.
This time, however, Finch-Smythe had done something completely unique. He had actually arrived personally via private coach to meet with Hardcastle about this newest assignment, though Cal and Arthur had not been afforded an opportunity to meet with Tyre’s emissary. Hardcastle had been summoned by Finch-Smythe’s coach driver and told to pay a late call to the nicest hotel Fletcher Falls had to offer. That was certainly out of the ordinary, and gave the whole venture a thick air of mystery and import. It made no sense to Cal. Yet, here they were, Hardcastle in the lead, as their mounts ticked off with each step the minutes this preacher had left on the earth.
“Hello the camp!”
The sudden boom of Hardcastle’s voice startled both of the brothers, who jumped in their saddles. They had each been expecting a stealthy approach followed by a sudden attack, guns blazing.
“Hello the camp!”
The only sound that greeted them in reply was a whinny from the horse and a snort from one of the mules. Hardcastle slowed up, allowing the other two to come alongside.
“Maybe he’s out gathering more wood for the fire,” ventured Cal, immediately regretting that he’d allowed his edginess to loosen his tongue in the silence.
“Naw,” drawled Arthur in a hushed tone, “He’s got a pile of limbs from that blowed-over cottonwood right there. Maybe he’s asleep in the wagon?”
Hardcastle reined his bay to a stop. He studied the small camp quietly, and then gigged his horse forward into a slow walk. Cal and Arthur reluctantly followed a few feet behind. The light from the fire cast everything in view into sharp relief of contrast, causing the shadows to block up into impenetrable splotches of black. Hardcastle reached the edge of the camp and, after giving it a cautious survey, dismounted, reins in hand, as he walked the perimeter. The two brothers stayed where they were, having learned from experience not to presume their role in whatever plan of action Hardcastle had concocted.
As Hardcastle walked the perimeter of the camp, Cal began to catalog everything he saw. There was an unfurled bedroll laid out under the branches of a low-hanging cottonwood limb, within range of the fire. A piping hot pot of coffee sat on a grate raised up on a few rocks to one side. The mules and the horse had calmed down but still snorted occasionally as the smell of the newcomers reached their sensitive nostrils.
The wagon was simple, yet sturdy, a typical prairie schooner, save for the letters elaborately painted on its canvas side: Holy Spirit of the Living God Revival and Tent Meeting.
“Hey Arthur, what’s that say?” whispered Cal, who had never been taught to read like his big brother.
“It says this man is sure enough a preacher – now hush!”
Hardcastle reached the back of the wagon and began to look through it, studying its contents. After a few more minutes he returned and waved the brothers off of their horses. “Ain’t no reason not to take advantage of a good fire and a pot of coffee. I also found a skillet and some bacon. Let’s fix something to eat while we wait for this preacher to get back from wherever he went.”
“But where is he, Gene? This don’t make no sense,” said Arthur as he stepped down from his saddle and stretched. Cal on the other hand was unsure of dismounting his horse. Something about this situation was making him very apprehensive and he hesitated giving up the assurance of a speedy getaway that the horse embodied.
“C’mon, Cal, you heard Gene!” Arthur left his horse and walked toward the back of the wagon and joined Hardcastle who was already gathering together the bacon and skillet, along with a bag of sugar for the coffee. The wind kicked up stronger and began to stir the dust up. Cal squeezed his eyes together and searched the distance in all directions before resigning himself to the fact that the longer he sat in his saddle the more likely Hardcastle would light into him. He stepped down and, grabbing the reins to Arthur’s horse as well, entered the meager campsite.
Hardcastle splashed coffee into a tin that stood next to the pot, poured a generous amount of sugar in, and took a seat by the fire. Cal looked around before asking, “Where’s a cup for me and Arthur?”
“Don’t know,” said Hardcastle as he pulled a plug of tobacco from his inside jacket pocket and began to cut it into a smaller piece. “Found me a cup and had a seat. You want a cup – you find one. And toss some more wood on that fire – don’t want it to die out on us before that preacher gets back.”
Cal did as he was instructed while Arthur rummaged through the back of the wagon for something that would hold coffee. He located two small bowls and brought them over. Cal had moved the coffee pot and was cutting some of the bacon into strips to place into the cast iron. Soon the fatty meat was popping and sizzling as they all slurped down the hot black coffee.
“So, what did this preacher do, Gene?” asked Arthur. “Why would anyone wanna kill a man of the cloth?”
“You ever been to church, Arthur?” Hardcastle laughed with a rattle that turned into a thick cough. “If you had you’d know that once any preacher gets fired up enough about sin and repentance, most folks would just as soon put a bullet in him as give him an ear. Makes a man feel like he’s cursed or something. No man likes to hear that kind of stuff.”
“But you don’t kill a man for telling people what’s in the Good Book.”
“I don’t know Tyre’s reasons for anything he does. I just know he pays us real good and I’m not gonna turn him down. We make more running these errands for him than we ever made in a single hold-up and you know it. Besides, he don’t ask any questions. We just do what he says and he pays us, cash on the barrelhead.”
“Well, this errand’s giving me the willies,” offered Cal as he used his knife to turn the bacon. "Something just don’t seem right about how the preacher left his camp all alone like this. You think he might be out there watching us?”
“I ain’t scared of no preacher!” said Hardcastle with clear disdain. “I just wish we had some whiskey to make this wait a bit more comfortable. You reckon there’s any stashed in that wagon somewhere?”
“Afraid not, brother.”
All three of the men jumped at the sudden voice. As one they turned, hands going instinctively to the pistols on their hips. How did we not hear him, thought Cal? Even their horses hadn’t stirred. But there he stood, like some kind of tall, sinewy statue just a dozen feet away.
He wore a long, dusty, black overcoat that whipped behind him in the breeze. A flat brim black hat sat firmly on his head, pulled low to just above his brow. It was difficult to place his age, which could have been anywhere from early forties to late fifties. Beneath a black vest, his white shirt appeared starched and clean, and was buttoned all the way up with a thin black string tie knotted neatly at his throat. Several days’ beard growth was evident on his sharp jaw, surrounding a mouth that was split into a warm smile. In one hand he held a massive hardbound book that was open, its pages slowly turning one after another as they were caught by the evening wind.
“Well, boys,” called out Hardcastle, “It appears our silent friend ain’t heeled. No need to be unaccommodating to our host.” With that, he drew his Colt and pointed it at the preacher. Cal and Arthur followed his lead as they all stood. “What you smilin’ at, preacher?”
“I smile to welcome you strangers as guests to my campfire.”
Hardcastle laughed, followed in turn by the brothers. This guy wasn't right in head. Here they stood, all three of them drawing down on an unarmed man from within his own camp, and the man was offering them a cheerful welcome.
“Didn’t nobody ever teach you that you should beware of strangers, preacher?”
“This tells me otherwise,” said the newcomer as he closed the book and laid his free hand atop its cracked leather cover. His smile returned. “Scripture teaches ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”
“Is that what you think we are—angels?” Hardcastle broke into a coughing fit of laughter, pausing long enough to turn and spit his plug of tobacco into the fire. Cal and Arthur joined in the laughter, but with far less enthusiasm. “Put those guns away, boys, and pull that bacon off the fire. We’re gonna get us a Bible lesson from this preacher before we do what we came here for. You best step on over here and have a seat. I may not be an angel – in fact I may be the devil – but I like to have my fun on a full belly.”
Hardcastle motioned the preacher over toward the fire with his Colt. “Have yourself a seat right there, Reverend. And then let me have a look at that Good Book of yours.” He reached over and lifted the Bible from the seated preacher’s hands. It almost slipped and fell to the ground. While the book was old and large, he never expected it be as heavy as it was; it pulled on his hand like a bag of bricks. With effort, he lifted it and placed it on top of the woodpile. He opened the cover and turned a couple of pages before stopping. The Bible had been carefully inscribed with a name in precise and uniform letters like a child might write in school.
“Well, well, what do we have here? I do believe we are the welcomed guests of the right Reverend Jedidiah Matthew Cross. Do I have that right?”
“No, that was my father’s name. I got that Bible from him when he died. My name is Eli Cross.”
“A preacher named Cross! Now that is rich, my friend! The right Reverend Cross!
“I’m just a humble servant trying my best to spread the Good News.”
“How so?” asked Hardcastle as he paced around before Cross. “With this here wagon and tent meetings? Revivals?”
“A true servant presents the truth wherever he goes. But yes, I am an itinerant man of God, traveling from town to town and holding services.”
“That must be a nice little racket. Fleece one town after another by passing the plate around. Do a little praying and shouting to scare the good folks about the final destination of their immortal souls? Give them a chance to buy their way into heaven through a donation to your traveling sideshow? You might as well be selling snake oil! Cal, hand me some of that bacon.”
As Hardcastle choked down mouthfuls of the hot pork, grease sliding down his chin, Cross reached up and attempted to retrieve the Bible from the woodpile. Suddenly Hardcastle spun around and hit him across the cheek with the Colt, opening up a gash underneath his left eye that immediately welled up with blood. Hardcastle lifted the gun, measuring the need for another swing, but instead the preacher simply sat back down as he had been before. He now cradled the leather-bound book in his arms.
“What’s the matter, preacher? God won’t let you fight back? Hey, boys, ever seen such a thing?” Cal and Arthur quickly shook their heads and then took a step back. They’d seen this enough before to know that Hardcastle’s passion for violence was just getting stoked. They had now once again become observers to the big man’s spectacle.
“I guess you take to heart what your book says about turning the other cheek, too, eh?” He whipped the pistol the other direction, this time laying a red welt across the preacher’s right temple. The seated man wavered, clearly stunned by the blow, but he did not crumple or collapse. He slowly lifted his head and stared passively into his attacker’s eyes.
Hardcastle unbuckled his holster and turning his back, tossed it to the ground. He then reached into his boot well and removed a large hunting knife. "Time for the fun to start,” he said as he turned back to face the preacher, who was suddenly on his feet.
Before he could react, his vision was filled with nothing but the cover of the enormous Bible as it slammed into his face with such force that he was lifted off the ground. He landed hard on his heels and lost his balance, careening backward until he landed with a solid thud on his back beside the wagon’s wheel. Cross was still in the same arc of motion as he whirled in a wide spin, the book gripped firmly in his hands, and connected with the side of Arthur’s head, snapping it instantly to the side and sending the big man’s limp body crashing into Cal, who had yet to comprehend the significance of the dark blur in front of his eyes. Both of them crashed to the ground, Arthur falling partially into the campfire.
Cross leaned over and grabbed Arthur by his belt and slung him out of the flames, his shoulder and upper arm trailing sparks and smoke. Cal started to get back up, but thought better of it, scrambling instead over to his brother’s unconscious form to pat out the man’s smoldering shirt. He looked up quickly, like a cornered cat, and watched in shock as the tall preacher grabbed a gnarled limb from the woodpile and leapt around the fire to face Hardcastle, who had now regained his feet. Twin rivers of blood ran from the enraged man’s nostrils, the nose itself now flattened sideways across his wide pug face. He stumbled toward Cross, his eyes wild and unfocused, body trembling with unspent rage.
“I’ll kill you!” he screamed, spraying red snot and ropes of spit like a rabid dog. He lunged at Cross, the knife in his beefy hand cutting a wide swath toward the preacher’s midsection. The preacher deftly sidestepped the blade and brought the limb around as the attacker’s momentum carried him forward. The cottonwood branch cracked against the back of Hardcastle’s skull, sending him stumbling to his knees. However, the big man recovered quickly and sliced his arm backward, the blade grazing lightly along the preacher’s inner thigh. Cross twisted his hips, dropped to one knee, and immediately spun in place, driving the wooden wedge up under Hardcastle’s armpit. Then, using the limb as a fulcrum, he placed his forearm against the other man’s forearm and dropped his full weight down, pinning and then snapping the shoulder from collarbone.
Hardcastle inhaled sharply, then screamed as the pain overtook his senses and he collapsed into trembling unconsciousness. Cross staggered to his feet and, lifting the big cottonwood limb above his head, turned toward the two brothers. Cal threw himself on top of his brother’s still form and cowered.
“No! Please, don’t hurt me! I won’t do nothing— take my gun! I ain’t fighting you, mister!” Tears ran down the younger man’s cheeks as he held up his hands in a show of submission. It was then that Cross realized he was facing more of a boy than a man. He lowered the branch.
“How’s your friend?”
"You knocked him cold when you hit him, but I think he'll be okay. He's my brother. Name's Arthur." Cal kept his eyes down rather than face the tall preacher. “Mister, you’d better go ahead and kill that one over there while you can. When he wakes up he’ll make sure there’s hell to pay for what you done. I know. I’ve seen it before.”
Cross looked back toward where Hardcastle lay in a heap. He walked over and kicked the knife away and then picked up the holster, wrapping the belt around the Colt and placing it on the wagon seat. He then dragged the body over to the wagon and rummaged around until he located a coil of hemp rope.
He quickly tied the man’s hands behind his back and then bound the ankles, running the rope back up through the earlier knots and securing its end to the base of the wagon wheel. After tugging on it a few times to test its strength, Cross retrieved a small bucket and went to the creek where he lowered his battered face into the brisk stream, gently washing the blood from under his eye and allowing the cool water to soothe the knot on the side of his head. He filled the bucket and walked heavily back into the camp.
"Here, use this to tend to your brother. Take your shirt and gently wipe his face with the water. It should wake him up, but he’s liable to have quite a headache.” He handed the bucket to Cal. “And I’ll take both of your sidearms and holsters.” He held his hand out and waited until the young man had obliged then walked over to the outlaw’s horses and stripped them of everything from guns to bedrolls and rifle boots. All of these, save for the bedrolls, he wrapped in a Mexican blanket that he secured with some large leather straps and packed it away in the wagon. He then led the horses over to where he had his own horse hobbled and did the same to them.
By the time he returned to the dwindling fire, Arthur was groggily rubbing his jaw, not quite aware of just what had happened. Cal was hurriedly whispering in his ear, though his words didn’t appear to be registering.
“Hey Cross!”
The preacher looked over to see that Hardcastle was now conscious, though in obvious pain where he sat tied to the big wooden schooner’s wheel. “What kind of preacher are you, anyway? I thought you turned the other cheek,” he groaned through a wince of pain.
“I did,” replied Cross. “But once I’d turned that second cheek I figured it was your turn to do the same. Seems fair doesn’t it?” A grin spread across the tall preacher’s swelling face.
“So, tell me, what you gonna do now? You can’t ride herd on all three of us. First time you slip up, one of us will cut you down.”
“You let me worry about that. I think come morning that shoulder’s gonna have you weak as a kitten. And besides, it looks like the rest of your gang is being mighty cooperative. I suggest you do the same or it could get a lot worse for you.”
“Worse? How you figure that, preacher?” Hardcastle fought to keep from showing the blinding pain he was suffering.
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