interior light. Creed kept his eye on the bar, where Silas Boone had slid a full shot glass of rye in front of him. He didn't care much what Brady thought, and he'd just as soon not be tied to the visitors either. Best to wait and see how things rolled out.
The Deacon wasn't a patient man, it seemed. He stepped away from the bar, where he'd ignored Silas' offer of a drink, and held out a hand to Sheriff Brady. To his credit, by Creed's way of thinking, Brady didn't take it right off. He met The Deacon's gaze steadily, and then, very slowly, he raised his hand and shook.
'Welcome, neighbor,' Brady said. His voice was laid back and slow, like everything else about him. Neighbor, not stranger. Brady spoke like that all the time. Creed perked up a bit. The man's voice was like the weaving, hypnotic head of a rattle snake when he brought it to bear, and just then, in those few words, it sounded deadly.
'I thank you for the welcome,' The Deacon replied smoothly. 'It sounds as though my arrival might be more fortuitous than I'd imagined.'
'How's that?' Brady asked. 'And, before we get too far into the howdy-dos, maybe you'd do me the honor of an introduction?'
Creed turned slowly and pulled off his hat. He caught Brady's eye and waved the hat in a slow arc toward the strangers.
'Sheriff Brady,' he said, 'Meet 'The Deacon.' Deacon, Sheriff Brady. Deacon here's got him a camp out past the gulch, tents and wagons far as the eye can see. I thought you might want to make his acquaintance.'
Brady stared at Creed for a moment – longer than he had to – and Creed wondered if he'd made a mistake stepping back into the mix. Then the sheriff turned back to The Deacon.
'That right?' he asked. 'You folks set up a camp?'
The Deacon nodded. 'We've been on the road a while now. There was a need for rest, and I felt the call. When that happens, I put down roots. I hope it won't be an imposition.'
'No one owns that land,' Brady replied, rubbing at his jaw. 'Still, we don't take much to strangers here in Rookwood. There's a scarcity of just about everything a man needs to survive. We're off the main supply trail, and we're pretty close with our socializing.'
Brady hesitated, then went on.
'I guess what I'm sayin' is, you're welcome to rest out there, and you're welcome to visit the town while you're here, but don't assume too much, and don’t expect to be welcomed by folks with open arms. If I were you, I reckon I'd be looking to be back on the road soon. It's best for all concerned if you take my meaning?'
'I understand,' The Deacon replied. 'And let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff. We've got everything we need in camp, and some to spare, if it comes down to it. We're a peaceful folk. One thing we are not is parasites. We keep to ourselves, and when we get the chance we spread the word of the Lord.'
'You're a preacher, then, and not just a deacon?' Brady asked.
This caught the stranger by surprise. Just for a moment his eyes flashed and his jaw stiffened. Brady caught it. Creed caught it too. He'd turned with his back to the bar, watching the exchange. It passed like lightning.
'You've had a death,' The Deacon said, shifting topics smoothly. 'Mr. Creed here tells me you've no man of God. I'd be honored to perform the ceremony. No one should go to meet the Maker without a proper burial.'
'We've gotten along well enough without God for some time now,' Brady replied. 'I reckon if Ma Kutter makes her way to the Pearly Gates, they're going to lock them and hide.'
The Deacon stood and waited in silence.
Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly. 'Fine. If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way. I won't have it here in town, though. The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell. I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head. One death’s more than enough for a small town, wouldn’t you agree?'
The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.
'Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us. Do I have your permission to spread the word?'
'Spread it all you want on the way out of town,' Brady replied coolly. 'I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening. Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself.'
'Then I'll be heading back to camp,' The Deacon replied, 'and I'll consider us well met.'
Brady didn't nod this time. He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.
Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink. He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp. He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper’s camp he'd set out to find earlier. With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see. He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.
Chapter Seven
The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares. John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands. Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker. His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge. He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables. He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.
John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one. Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace. This funeral marked the first he’d attended in his Sunday best. His suit was as dark as the night sky. He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height. A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders. He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.
Most of Rookwood had turned out for the event. While it was sure to be a dreary affair filled with proclamations to a Lord they seldom paid more than quick lip service to, it was also the only thing to provoke even mild interest from the people of Rookwood in a month of Sundays.
Colleen and Mae, dressed in uncharacteristically austere gowns, walked beside the horses. The townsfolk fell in behind, shuffling along on the anvil of the sun. Silas was there, and at the rear, riding slowly with his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode Sheriff Brady. Provender Creed was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly a surprise. Creed was a lone wolf, happier out away from people, and hardly the most religious man in town. Bender chuckled, rather inappropriately given the circumstances, but the notion of Creed crossing the threshold of a church was about as likely as Ma Kutter rising and taking her leave.
It took a long time to reach the camp, and even though they'd started in the early afternoon, the moon was rising above The Deacon's tents by the time they came into sight. Torches had been lined up to create a luminous trail into the camp, and Bender steered the wagon down the center aisle. There was something unnerving about that last, short part of the ride; it felt holy, like a ritual passage or crossing over, but that wasn’t it. Curious faces watched him every slow foot of the way. He tried to dismiss the mild discomfort, putting it down to the scrutiny of strangers and the business they were about, but that wasn’t it either. Bender pulled the cart up just to the right of the door to the main tent. The others filed past him and into the shadowed interior, finding seats where they could, making quiet, whispered introductions to the Deacon's flock.
Four strapping men stepped from the tent to stand behind the wagon. Bender introduced himself, but they didn't speak. He held out his hand in greeting. One of the men held his out as well, and they shook. It was a reluctant gesture at best. Bender wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know his part in the ceremony, to find out what was expected, but when the second man held out the mutilated, gnarled thing that had been his hand,
