‘‘Sad, when you think about it,’’ McBride said.
Remorse lit his cigarette. ‘‘Some towns deserve to die. This was one of them.’’
With agonizing slowness, the long day shaded into evening. Bartenders with slicked-down hair and brocaded vests lit lamps outside the saloons. They knew nobody would come, but the routine of years died hard. The lamps cast pools of light on empty boardwalks that seemed to silently echo the thud of booted feet. The rain sought out all the quiet places where it hissed with a sound of dragons, and somewhere a clock chimed five, announcing a time that no one heard.
Remorse rose to his feet and stepped into the nearest saloon, his empty chair still rocking behind him. He returned a couple of minutes later with a glass in each hand. He gave one to McBride. ‘‘Brandy,’’ he said. ‘‘It will help.’’
‘‘My nerves?’’ McBride asked, smiling, hoping to convince Remorse that there was no fear in him.
The reverend took his seat again. ‘‘It will just help.’’ He laid his glass on the boardwalk beside him and began to build a cigarette. ‘‘Harlan’s draw will be quick, real sudden,’’ he said, not looking at McBride, concentrating on tobacco and paper. ‘‘If he tries too hard, his first shot will not be real accurate. If you can take the hit and keep standing, maybe you can outshoot him.’’
‘‘Maybe I can?’’
‘‘He’s good, John, real good.’’ Now Remorse turned his head. ‘‘I should be there.’’
‘‘It’s Harlan and me, Saul. That’s how it’s going to happen.’’ McBride tried his drink. ‘‘It’s good,’’ he said.
Remorse nodded. ‘‘Hennessey. When outlaws are in the money they can afford the best.’’ He lit his cigarette. ‘‘Check your gun now, John, and load the sixth chamber. You’ll need all the bullets you can get.’’ He waved a hand, the cigarette in his fingers curling blue smoke. ‘‘Now, I can probably get you a shotgun from Harlan’s office. Shove that in his belly and the fight will go out of him.’’
McBride had checked his Colt and slid a round into the empty chamber. ‘‘I want Thad Harlan to make his fight,’’ he said, shoving the revolver back in his waistband. ‘‘I aim to kill him tonight and rid the earth of his shadow.’’
Remorse flicked his cigarette butt into the muddy street. ‘‘It’s time, John,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s there, standing among the trees where the dead men hung. He’s waiting for you.’’
McBride no longer asked the reverend how he knew such things. All he could do was accept the man’s word for it and act accordingly. He drained his glass and rose to his feet. ‘‘Saul,’’ he said, ‘‘if I don’t come back, get in touch with Inspector Byrnes. He knows how to contact my young Chinese wards.’’
Remorse looked up at McBride. White hair drifted across his face like falling snow. ‘‘I’ll take care of it, John.’’
A silence stretched between them; then McBride touched his hat and said, ‘‘I’ll be seeing you, Reverend.’’
The man nodded, his eyes on the street as McBride walked away. ‘‘Take the hits, shoot straight.’’
Without looking back McBride waved, and out in the darkness the coyotes were howling a requiem for a dead thing.
Chapter 34
The thunderstorm had come from the southwest, born among the volcanic pinnacles of the White Mountains, sired by cool rain and tremendous up-drafts of hot desert air. Massive parapets of cloud that shaded quickly from gray to black rolled off the peaks and followed the old wagon road to Fort Stanton. The storm then prowled restlessly to the north . . . and vented its rage on the town of Rest and Be Thankful.
Thunder clashed and lightning lanced from the hidden sky as John McBride walked into the cottonwoods by the creek. He made no attempt to seek cover. Thad Harlan knew he was coming and he would wait.
The bodies of the bounty hunters and the Mexican boy had been cut down and only frayed strands of rope stirred in the wind. Rain fell in sheets and McBride’s boots squelched in mud. He stopped, his ears straining to hear above the clangor of the storm. Around him the night was a wall of darkness. He could see nothing except in those brief moments when lightning shimmered like white fire among the trees.
McBride was keeping his gun hand dry inside his slicker, but sweat was doing what the rain could not. He wiped his palm on his shirt, more scared than he could ever remember.
‘‘Is that you, John? Over here!’’
The rasp of Harlan’s voice coming from his left.
He groped his way in that direction, his heart pounding in his ears. After making his way around cottonwoods he stepped into a small, grassy clearing. Close by, he heard the rush of tumbling water in the creek.
‘‘Harlan, where are you?’’
His only answer was the fall of the rain and the wind stirring the trees. Then: ‘‘Over this way, John.’’
Harlan was now to his right. McBride heard the man’s mocking laugh.
‘‘Damn it, Harlan, show yourself!’’ he yelled.
The voice was behind him! ‘‘Soon, John, when I’m good and ready.’’
McBride spun, drawing the Colt as he turned. He triggered a shot into the darkness.
Harlan’s jeering laugh rang through the trees. Then silence.
Thunder roared followed by a flame of lightning. McBride left the clearing and stepped into the trees again. He pushed his back against the trunk of a cottonwood and waited.
A minute ticked past. . . .
The roar of a gun. Three bullets thudded into the tree an inch above McBride’s head. He dove for the ground, rolled and ended up flat on his belly in thin brush. He wiped rain from his eyes with the back of his gun hand, his scared gaze searching the dark. He saw nothing but a confining stockade of blackness.
‘‘That was just a friendly warning, John.’’ Harlan’s voice, behind him again. ‘‘Don’t go getting uppity on me and start shooting again.’’
‘‘Harlan,’’ McBride hollered, ‘‘I’m going to kill you for what you did to Clare O’Neil and the Mexican boy.’’
Harlan laughed. He was changing position again, somewhere to McBride’s right.
‘‘You can’t kill me, John.’’ The man was moving silently through the trees. ‘‘First you, then the preacher and then I’ll take what I want.’’
Where was he?
McBride tried to keep Harlan talking, trying to get a fix on him. ‘‘You won’t get the mine, Harlan. It belongs to Clare O’Neil’s son.’’
McBride opened and closed his fingers on his gun butt. Talk, Harlan, talk!
‘‘I’ll get it—’’
McBride rose to one knee, fired at the sound of the man’s voice. Fired again.
‘‘Once I kill the brat and the Mexican girl, who’s to stop me claiming the mine as my own?’’
It was as though nothing had happened! Harlan’s tone had not changed. He sounded relaxed, a man enjoying himself.
‘‘I’ll be so rich, with so many sharp lawyers, that no one will dare to dispute my claim to the mine. Do you understand that, John?’’