Stephen shook his head and embraced her. “Zeke is with our Lord now,” he whispered. “With your little boy. Be dreadnought.”
Her knees failed. As Gloria collapsed, wailing on the floor, her anguish masked another sound that emanated from the nearby passage—loud but brief, a sharp cry of pain.
Stephen carried a shadowgee, an old Colt single-action Army, and a shotgun up the tunnel. When he stepped out onto the ledge, he extinguished the flame and sat down on the rock. It was a good, protected rincon. The sun had gone away and bled the clouds into a deepening blue that cast the mountains in a gray-metal twilight.
He gazed down on Abandon situated in the gloom of the canyon floor, lifeless and dark, wondering how those six men fared who’d ridden up to the pass.
He wasn’t afraid, enwrapped instead in the clutches of the most peculiar detachment he’d ever known, as if he existed somewhere above himself, watching everything unfold apart from the fear and the anticipation.
Still, a part of him kept listening for gunshots, unsure if the crack of their reports could carry this far from the pass.
Soon it was full-on night. He grew cold, his head exploding now.
Down in the canyon, specks of firelight winked on.
He returned to himself. His hands shook.
As the procession of lights moved through the empty town, Stephen took two shells from the pocket of his greatcoat and broke the breech of the double-barreled shotgun, whispering as he slid them home, “Wilt Thou shew wonders to the dead? Shall the dead arise and praise Thee? Shall Thy loving-kindness be declared in the grave? Or Thy faithfulness in destruction? Shall Thy wonders be known in the dark?”
The scalp hunters were already to the north end of Abandon, and Stephen watched them turn their mounts toward the chapel, following the tracks of the fleeing townspeople. His lips moved again in the dark, “Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass.”
Joss emerged from the passage and took a seat on the outskirts of the cavern, her hands hidden under her serape, blackened and sticky with blood. If a saloon regular saw her, they might puzzle at Al’s absence. A reasonable explanation would be required.
She’d just set about inventing that lie when the roar of a shotgun filled the passage outside the iron door.
Everyone made a collective gasp, children crying, Mason Stetler yelling for every able man with a weapon to come forward, almost two dozen springing up, crowding the iron door in a ragtag battalion.
They waited.
Joss counted five staccato shots from a revolver. Three shotgun blasts. Then silence.
Stephen dropped two shells into the shotgun and reloaded the revolver from his cartridge belt.
Two heathens dead in the tunnel behind him. Two on the brink.
He was unscathed, but his heart beat so fast, he couldn’t think.
More lights approached, already to the chapel several hundred feet below. He could hear their horses snorting, the sound of hooves breaking through powder.
He took several steps back into the tunnel, his whole body quaking. He closed his eyes, tried to still himself.
The riders closed in on the rimrock.
He exhaled when he saw Oatha Wallace and Billy McCabe dismount. They waded through the snow and climbed up onto the ledge, stood just outside the entrance to the mine.
Oatha’s claybank eyed the preacher warily, and as had happened on more than one occasion in the last week, Stephen saw the horse’s brown teeth lengthen and sharpen in the firelight.
Oatha hawked his plug of tobacco into the snow. His lantern hung down at the level of his knees, his face and Billy’s all gone to shadow and grotesque patterns of light, eyes shining, breath vapors clouding. Oatha wiped the tobacco juice from his chin with the back of his glove.
“You know somethin, Preach,” he said. “I’m feelin a little red-eyed toward you.”
“Why’s that, Mr. Wallace?”
“Weren’t no injerns up at the Sawblade. We rode around for—”
Movement in the tunnel drew Oatha’s eye.
He raised the lantern, peered around Stephen, the firelight falling upon one of his fellow miners, John Hurwitz, dragging himself off a pile of bodies, whimpering, his blood running out ahead of him down into the mine.
“The fuck’s goin—”
At close range, the buckshot excavated most of Oatha’s face.
His knees locked, and he pitched backward over the ledge.
Billy had caught only a few pellets in the right shoulder, but as he reached for his Walker, the preacher blew a ragged, gaping hole in the boy’s chest.
Billy sat down on the ledge. He cupped his gloves to catch the steaming handfuls that fell out of him, looking up at the preacher, struggling to breathe, eyes asquint with profound aggrievement.
Stephen threw down the shotgun and pulled the revolver.
“God save your soul,” he said, and shot the boy between the eyes.
2009
FIFTY-SEVEN
A
bigail patted June’s back. “Feel better now?”
June shook her head and spit onto the rock.
Lawrence jogged over from the alcove, asked, “What happened?”
“She threw up.”
“I didn’t even think about the air. It might be bad. Abby, do you feel strange or woozy?”
June stood upright, wiped the sweat from her face, said in a voice that bordered on defiance, “It’s not the air.” She moved away from them, into the darkness, her headlamp flickering across the walls, the ceiling. From twenty feet back, Abigail could barely see her in the fading light of her lamp—just her legs and the illuminated rock around her boots.
June suddenly sank down onto the floor and convulsed violently, legs bouncing up and down on the rock, arms flailing as if in the throes of electrocution.
Abigail ran to her, dropped to her knees, tried to steady June’s limbs, whispering, “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. June, look at me.”
June went still, her eyes open and glassy and staring straight up at the ceiling, mouth agape, chest heaving up and down.
“Talk to me,” Abigail pleaded. “Please say something. I need to know you can hear me.”
As Abigail reached out to hold June’s hand, the beam of her headlamp struck on something. She froze. The blood in her veins and arteries and the oxygen in her lungs seemed to congeal. She made an involuntary sound, something like a mewl.
The hand of an infant had caught her eye, less than five feet from where she knelt, the bones clearly visible—brown and tiny and perfect, clasping the phalanges of a larger hand. She turned her headlamp away, but it passed over another skeleton, this one adorned with strands of long blond hair that had matted to the skull, and still boasting jewelry—a gold wedding band on the long, brittle phalange of the ring finger and a necklace dangling from one of the upper vertebra into the rib cage.
Lawrence said, “Quinn, you need to come see this!”
June and Abigail got up. They stood in the center of a large cavern teeming with the bones of Abandon—at least a hundred skeletons, most still intact, their clothes having long since disintegrated in the cold storage of the cave, moist enough to support the growth of a hairy white fungus that over-spread portions of the rock like a network of capillaries. The skeletons were of every size and scattered throughout the chamber in a vast array of death poses, the scene reminding Abigail of some morbid sculpture exhibit. Her stomach was churning, and she wanted to shut her eyes to it, but she knew that would make little difference. This mine and its occupants would stay with her for the rest of her life, in waking moments, in dreams.
They drifted wordlessly through the crypt. Most of the skeletons were sprawled across the floor, as if they had lain down en masse to die. Abigail saw one curled up in the fetal position in a corner. Another lay beside a small boulder, its skull cracked, pieces of it on the rock floor, pigmented in proximity with the deepest burgundy shade of ancient blood. A pair of skeletons lay along the wall, their humerus and radius bones intertwined, having perished in each other’s arms.