When he jumped clear of the wagon he saw the man and woman whispering together in conspiratorial motioning of their head towards the wagon as she ladled stew into bowls he held. They came guiltily upright at the sound of his approach. She looked at Joe with petulance, the man shook his head in mute disapproval.
“I don’t aim to steal your show, reverend,” Joe said. “Just your clothes.”
“It is a grave sin to impersonate a man of the cloth, sir,” came the reply. “The Lord will surely punish you for it.”
“I’ve got a feeling screwing your sister is a worse sin,” Joe came back, taking a bowl of stew from the man’s hand, relishing the great hunks of meat in the thick brown gravy.
“I ain’t his sister,” the woman snapped, squatting down with her plate, snatching a spoon from the ground and wiping it on her dress.
“Nor his wife either,” Joe put in, getting the only other spoon, retreating a few yards before he began to eat, discovering the food tasted as good as it smelled and looked. “And I’m betting he ain’t even an ordained minister of the church.”
Without a spoon, the man was squatting and picking up the meat with his fingers, raising the bowl to his lips to suck at the gravy.
“You are condemning yourself with every word you mutter, sir,” the man said and now his tone was truly that of an evangelical Bible-puncher. “The Lord is taking note of all you do and all you say and I, His humble servant, an prepared to allow Him to act on my behalf when the time is nigh. I will not …”
“Shut your damn mouth, you old fake,” the woman slung at him with deep-seated anger. “You are not impressing him and I know you are the biggest sinner east of California.”
Her words froze the man into shock, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring in disbelief. The woman, unconcerned with the reaction she had produced, stood and moved to the pot, began to ladle a second helping of stew on to her bowl.
“More?” she asked of Joe.
He nodded and stood, moved towards the fire, experiencing a stirring in his loins at the sight of the woman bent over the pot, the thin material of her dress clung by sweat to the lines of her body. Then she made her play, in a blur of lightening movement, throwing forward the bowl of scalding stew, its steaming contents streaming towards Joe’s face.
He went sideways, falling, hurling his own bowl clear as his hand snaked under the cassock to the knife at his back. It came out with a fluid movement and streaked from his hand, all as part of one continuous reflex action. But the woman dived low, under it, in a desperate attempt to reach the Henry on the ground. The man screamed in terror and pain and it could have been this sound, or the sight of the Remington in Joe’s other hand that turned the woman to stone.
Joe backed up quickly, snatched his rifle from the ground and looked at the man, saw him still squatting in front of the fire, clutching his bowl, the handle of the knife protruding beneath his left cheek, the point and an inch of blade gleaming out from the right, a trickle of blood running down on each side.
“Holy Mother of God,” the woman said hoarsely as the man’s eyes grew wide, then snapped closed before he toppled forward, the fire sending up a shower of wood as his head fell into the seat of the flames.
He screamed once as the intense heat brought him out of the faint and made one feeble attempt to drag himself clear before he died, and the sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air. The woman started to scream, writhing her body across the ground, her dress riding up over her thighs and stomach as she went into convulsions of hysteria, the power of her horror causing the veins to stand out starkly in her throat, her eyes widening to an incredible degree, foam bubbling in her mouth and then spilling over to run down her jaw.
Joe ignored her and bent to the man, drew him clear of the flames just as the blanket caught. He glanced momentarily and without emotion at the darkened, mutilated flesh which moments ago had been a face, then pulled his knife clear, wiping it clean of blood and soot on the blanket.
“I guess your time came, Reverend,” he muttered to the corpse against the backdrop of the woman’s screams. “And hell can’t be hotter than that.”
He moved to where the woman was reaching the climax of her fit of apoplexy and watched idly for a moment to see if it would end. When it didn’t he reversed rifle and swung it in a short arc. The stock caught her squarely on the jaw and her final scream ended in a whimper, as her body was suddenly limp. He did not even look to see if he had killed her, but moved back to the fire, retrieved his bowl and spoon and helped himself to more stew. He went to sit on the wagon tailgate to eat it, then rolled a cigarette and smoked it leisurely, all out of sight of the Reverend Elias Speed and the woman called Virtue.
Not until he had finished, and strode across the campsite to reach his horse, drinking from the rushing stream, did he glance at the woman, now visibly breathing, and realize it was the first time he had ever so much as raised a hand in anger to a woman. And that now, as he mounted, returning the Henry to its boot, he felt not a shred of remorse. The killing of his kid brother had drained Josiah Hedges of everything that is good and decent in the human spirit.
He was now a killer of the worse kind.
A man alone.
CHAPTER FIVE
NIGHT was beginning to cool the heat of the day as Joe crossed the Smoky Hill River and his mount stumbled twice, almost pitching the rider into the fast moving water. The animal was a brave hearted beast, and had willingly kept up the fast pace Joe had demanded throughout the afternoon and evening, as if sensing the desire for quick vengeance. But it was not sympathy for his horse that caused Joe to call a halt on the south bank of the river. The animal had a limit and to push her beyond this would render her useless. It was a long walk from western Kansas to the Arizona Territory.
Mounted, Joe had felt confident he could have ridden through the night without tiring, but as soon as his feet touched the ground fatigue hit him like an invisible blow, weakening his legs and dragging down his eyelids. He followed the example of his horse, going to the edge of the river and sucking in the cool, refreshing water, immediately felt revitalized as its iciness filled his throat and stomach. Some yards from the river’s edge was a small stand of trees with a patch of lush green grass beneath their branches and he tethered the horse, there, unsaddled her and collected the makings of a fire. He set a pot of river water on the flames and while it was boiling stripped off his preacher’s cassock, his weapons and underwear and made a naked dash for the river, stubbed his toe on a submerged rock and fell headlong into the water’s freezing grip. The coldness knocked the wind from him and he surfaced fighting for breath as his teeth chattered and cramp threatened his right leg. He waded quickly out to find a deep patch of water, then launched himself into a smooth, well-practiced crawl stroke, the exertion pumping blood through his veins, providing his body with a warm defense against the river’s low temperature.
When he returned to dry land a sky full of stars and a three-quarter moon made the droplets of water gleam like jewels against the even brown of his skin with, at the right hip, close to the left shoulder blade and at a halfway point on his left thigh patches of milky whiteness that were the scars of wartime bullet wounds which refused to heal to the old color.
As he sat before the fire to let its heat dry him, drinking a mug of strong coffee and watching the split peas boiling in the remainder of the water, Joe felt the last remnants of the bone deep fatigue drained out him, to be replaced by a soft, pleasant sensation of tiredness that he knew from experience would give him a deep, restful sleep of five hours and leave him completely fresh when he awoke.